Chapter 2

I went into a shop to buy a trench-coat. The shopman came forward with an air which said quite plainly, "You are a second lieutenant. You have just obtained a commission from the ranks. You think you do not want a complete outfit. It is my business to show you that you are mistaken. You want a complete outfit. Your Sam Browne is second-hand. You picked your boots up from a Salvage Dump. You cap was used once in your bathroom at home as a sponge-bag. Your trench-coat is disgusting. The whole outfit would fail to deceive a man's maiden aunt, so obvious an attempt is it to mislead the unsophisticated into supposing that you have arrived here straight from the trenches. I know better. You have just obtained a commission in the motor-transport section of the Wessex Home Defence Corps. Gentlemen from the trenches always dress as if they'd come straight out of a shop like this ... And we don't take cheques."

That was what his manner said. What he actually said was noncommittal. He said, "Yes, Sir?"

I took off my trench-coat and let the glory of three whole stars dazzle him. He little knew that one of them was "acting," and his face fell.

"I do not at present," said I, "require a knife with indispensable cheese-scoop and marmalade-shredding attachment. My indispensable steel mirror with patent lanyard and powder puff for attachment to service revolver is in perfect working order. I already possess two pairs of marching boots with indispensable trapdoors in each heel containing complete pedicure set and French-Portuguese dictionaries. My indispensable fur waistcoats, Indian clubs, ponchos, collapsible Turkish baths, steel aprons and folding billiard tables have already brought the weight of my kit nearly up to the allotted thirty-five pounds. My indispensable cigar cabinet, camouflaged to look like a water-bottle; my patent and absolutely essential convertible gramophone which can be changed at a moment's notice into a tin hat; my caviare lozenges and shampoo tabloids--I have them all. I want a trench-coat and nothing else."

His face had fallen a little as I spoke. But it lit up again with a sort of cunning excitement when I said "trench-coat." I wondered why--then. Now I know. I thought that he was baffled and would say no more, but I had forgotten the developments of trench warfare.

"This way, Sir," said the shopman.

He led me to a room which combined the architectural style of the Crystal Palace and Waterloo Station with a touch of the dentist's waiting-room. There was a khaki tent in the midst of it, and he led me towards this with the air of a broody hen anticipating the number of her chickens.

"The Vadecumomnibus trench-coat," said he.

"But it's a tent," I protested.

"It has collapsible aluminium centre seam," he retorted rapidly, "which can be used as a tent pole in severe weather. On buttoning the top button this pole telescopes automatically and forms a bullet-proof spine protector. Each sleeve can be unscrewed and used in an emergency as a Lewis gun. This is indispensable--"

"Of course," I interrupted. "But I require something quite simple and straightforward. Just a trench-coat, you understand."

"We have here," he said immediately, "the Gadget coat. It possesses three hundred button-holes and three hundred buttons. Every single portion of the coat can be buttoned on to every other part at a moment's notice. The pockets are detachable and can be used as coffee cups or finger bowls. The coat itself, when stretched on our patent aluminium framework, makes an admirable hip-bath."

I played nervously in my pocket with the pin of a live Mills grenade (overlooked by the A.M.L.O.).

"A simple, straightforward trench-coat," I repeated.

"This," said the shopman, handing me something very like a slice of plum-pudding--"this is the cross-section of a piece of the cloth out of which our 'Stopablitey' trench-coat is manufactured. It shows the strata of the material, consisting of alternate layers of old motor tyres and reinforced concrete--the whole covered with alligator skin and proofed with our patent indispensable--"

It was then that I killed him and buried him under a pyramid of indispensable gadgets. It will be years before they find him.

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If TROTSKY is the Enver Pasha of Russia, ENVER PASHA may be described as the Turkey Trotzky.

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OUR POPULAR EDUCATORS.

A recent article in _The Daily Mail_ began, "Jerusalem, the famous city of the Bible..."

There is nothing like taking precautions not to talk over the heads of your readers. We offer a few suggestions on similar lines:--

"Germany, the powerful enemy against whom we are contending in the present War (1914 onwards)..."

"SHAKSPEARE, the immortal author of _Hamlet_ (the tragedy)..."

"'Blighty', the British soldier's name for England..."

"MOSES, the distinguished lawgiver and prophet..."

"The GERMAN CROWN PRINCE, eldest son of KAISER WILHELM II..."

"EVE, the heroine of the Garden of Eden story..."

"Economy, the virtue imposed on us by the present shortage of food..."

"_The Daily Mail_, a newspaper..."

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HELLO, GIRLS!

"CIVIL SERVICE LADIES FOR LONDON TELEPHONE EXCHANGES, over 1 and under 30 years of age. Minimum height 5ft."--_Evening Paper_.

Many ladies of our acquaintance, although just over the minimum age, are not yet quite up to the required height.

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TO SANTA CLAUS.

Historic Santa! Seasonable Claus! Whose bulging sack is pregnant with delight; Who comest in the middle of the night To stuff distracting playthings in the maws Of stockings never built for infant shins, Suspended from the mantelpiece by pins.

Thou who on earth wast named Nicholas-- There be dull clods who doubt thy magic power To tour the sleeping world in half-an-hour, And pop down all the chimneys as you pass With woolly lambs and dolls of frabjous size For grubby hands and wonder-laden eyes.

Not so thy singer, who believes in thee Because he has a young and foolish spirit; Because the simple faith that bards inherit Of happiness is still the master key, Opening life's treasure-house to whoso clings To the dim beauty of imagined things.

Wherefore, good Kringle, do not pass me by, Who am too old, alas! for trains and blocks, But stuff the Love of Beauty in my socks And Childlike Faith to last me till I die; And there'll be room, I doubt not, in the toes For Magic Cap and Spectacles of Rose.

And not a song of beauty, sung of old, Or saga of the dead heroic days, And not a blossom laughing by the ways, Or wind of April blowing on the wold But in my heart shall have the power to stir The shy communion of the worshipper.

Hark! On the star-bright highways of the sky Light hoofs beat and the far-off sleigh-bell sounds! Is it old Santa on his gracious rounds Or one dead legend drifting sadly by? Not mine to say. And, though I long to peep, Santa shall always find me fast asleep.

ALGOL.

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"A clerk was at London Mansion House yesterday charged with stealing a blouse the property of the governor and directors of the Bank of England.

"She said she could not understand what made her take it, and, believing she acted from sudden temptation, the Lord Mayor bound her over."--_Daily Mail_.

We do not think the "Old Lady of Threadneedle Street" ought to wear such tempting garments in these times.

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"WITH THE ITALIAN ARMY.--The battle, which continues with unabated fury, is gradually extending along the front from the Brenta to the Piave, a line of over 11 miles, with its wings on the Col della Berretta and Monte Spinoncia, north-east of Grappa.

"I learn that for 24 hours the fighting was marked by a determination in counter-attacks which has never yet been exceeded. No fewer than four times Colonel della Berretta changed hands."--_Scots Paper_.

We hope the gallant officer is none the worse for his game of Hunt-the-Skipper.

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, December 17th._--On the whole the Lords gave a friendly reception to the Franchise Bill. They have learned a good deal since 1911. Even Lord SALISBURY forebore on this occasion his usual intention to die in the last ditch, and was ready to let the Bill pass, provided that Proportional Representation was included in it. The most vehement criticism came from Lord BRYCE, who viewed with alarm the addition of six million women to the electorate. Women, he declared, neither met nor talked--an assertion which surprised the more married peers. Lord BURNHAM supported "P.R." with the self-sacrificing argument that the Press would become too powerful if minorities had no way of expressing their views except in the newspapers. Perhaps he doesn't want another letter from Lord LANSDOWNE.

Mr. HOGGE is usually so assiduous in his attendance that I was surprised at his sudden departure just before Sir C. KINLOCH-COOKE put a question to the FOOD CONTROLLER. But when I found that the question related to "the political as well as the economic effect of the new regulation governing the sale of pigs" I recognised the delicacy of his action in withdrawing. Mr. CLYNES, however, had nothing to say on the political aspect of the question; and shortly afterwards Mr. HOGGE reappeared.

The Members whose interrogatory activities it is sought to curb are, for the most part, like the objects in a museum, more curious than exhilarating; but there are some, I am afraid, whose questions are intentionally mischievous, and by their mere appearance on the notice-paper give comfort and even information to our foes. Mr. BONAR LAW'S announcement that the Government would, during the Christmas holidays, consider how to mitigate the nuisance met with noisy objection from Mr. LYNCH, Mr. PRINGLE and other Members. The most original contribution to the discussion came from Mr. HOLT, who innocently inquired whether the Government would mind laying before the House a statement of the harmful questions which had been asked. Possibly he was thinking of the famous edition of MARTIAL in which all epigrams of doubtful propriety were excluded from the main text and collected in the appendix.

The SECRETARY for SCOTLAND, speaking at break-neck speed, managed to give the House within the space of ten minutes an outline of the Bill which he hopes will maintain for Scotland her primacy in education. The new MUNRO doctrine did not, however, appeal to everybody, and there were ominous cries of dissent when he announced his intention of disestablishing the School Boards and putting the denominational schools on the rates.

Lord RHONDDA listened from the Peers' Gallery to the debate on Food Control, and received a quantity of advice which should help him to mind his p's and q's, particularly the latter. His lieutenant, Mr. CLYNES, improved the reputation that he has already acquired at Question-time, and was able to bring a little personal experience to bear upon the most vexed question of the day. "Members of my own household," he said, "have stood in these queues, and I know something of their hardships." That is why, no doubt, he has urged upon his chief the formation of a Consumers' Council, to aid the Ministry in its deliberations. Mr. TILLETT seized the opportunity to make his maiden speech, and reminded the House that when they talked of queues at home they should not forget those other queues in the trenches. For the sake of the men who had lined up in our defence it was for us to see that their wives and children got their proper supply of food.

_Tuesday, December 18th._--It was curious to hear Mr. LEES-SMITH, that stickler for freedom of expression, complaining that a London paper had published an article attacking M. CAILLAUX; and the House was amused by Lord ROBERT CECIL'S suggestion that the hon. Member should furnish him with ideas for the more stringent control of newspapers.

Mr. PETO was alarmed by an alleged increase in the export of footwear to Switzerland, and particularly to villages on the German frontier. He yields to none in his desire to give the KAISER the boot, but not in any surreptitious manner. Lord WOLMER comforted him with the statement that the bulk of the exports consisted of women's and children's shoes, quite useless to the Germans until they get down to their 1930 class.

The HOME SECRETARY announced an increase in the War-bonus to the police from eight shillings to twelve shillings. With leather at its present price it was good to hear that the Government had been mindful of their extremities.

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THE YOUNGEST GENERATION.

"What shall he have that killed the deer?" someone asks somebody else in _As You Like It_. But there is a better question than that, and it is this--"What shall they have that preserve the little dears?" and the answer (if I can do anything to influence it) is--honour and support; for there can be no doubt that in these critical times, when the life of the best and bravest and strongest is so cheap, no duty is more important than the cherishing of infancy.

At a _Crêche_ in Notting Hill I watched, the other day, some of this cherishing in progress, and it was a pleasant and stimulating sight. The institution was in existence in a small way before the War, but it has recently been enlarged and made scientific, to meet the greater needs which the War has set up, and it is now able to act as foster mother to seventy mites, from the age of one month to four years, whose real mothers are for the most part engaged in war work. That is a good piece of citizenship, is it not? And to watch it in being is an education in those wonderful things to the eye of man--the solicitude and patience and capability of woman. The noise alone, whether of joy or of transitory grief, would drive most men frantic; but these devoted souls, knowing that it is all part of the game, proceed with an unearthly composure through it all--undressing their charges, dressing them, washing them, feeding them, beguiling them; in a word, tending them, from morning till evening.

The children begin to arrive, brought either by their mothers, their "Little Mothers" (I mean sisters) or their brothers, between 8 and 9--some in arms and some in perambulators and some in go-carts; and then they are immediately divested of their home clothes, popped into warm baths three or four at a time, and dressed in the clothes belonging to the _Crêche_. For the rest of the day they wear these clothes and sleep, eat, play and, when it amuses them more to do so, cry, until the time comes to be put back into their own garments and be taken away. By some strange instinct their relations, I am informed, know them again, and very few mistakes occur; and so gradually, in the neighbourhood of seven o'clock, peace descends on this corner of Notting Hill once more.

The place is sheer Lilliputia: for everything is on a reduced scale. Scores of little beds round the walls, with little pillows and little coverlets; scores of little chairs; a long table so low that it seems to be the footstool of a giant's wife, with little benches beside it for their little meals. In the centre of the room are two little pounds, with railings so close together as not to be crawled through, where the more adventurous ones can be kept out of mischief in the company of woolly toys; and outside is a loggia place with little cradles for the babies who want more air to sleep in.

Such is the Stoneleigh Street Crêche, and in order to realise what admirable and desirable functions it fulfils--principally by voluntary aid, for the capitation fee of half-a-crown a week is, of course, quite insufficient to maintain it--one has only to imagine what the lot of these helpless little creatures would be if they were left in their motherless homes. Not only would they be far less happy but far less healthy; and it is upon healthy babies that England's future must be founded. If any reader of _Punch_, then, should be in doubt as to what to do with a little surplus money, let the little requirements of these little people be remembered. The address to which donations should be sent is: The Secretary, Notting Hill Day Nursery, Stoneleigh Street, Notting Hill, W.

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INTERESTING EXAMPLE OF LONGEVITY?

"Richard ----, D.D., a member of the elder branch of the family, was a contemporary and friend of Ben Jonson, and his portrait in oils, by Romney, is now an heirloom."--_Provincial Paper_.

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"The stationmaster was then kidnipped--he is a married man."--_Standard_ (_Buenos Aires_).

Possibly henpecked as well.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS_.)

Those who like to read familiar letters--and I confess it is one of my favourite literary distractions--will find matter very much to their mind in _Some Hawarden Letters_ (NISBET), compiled by L. MARCH-PHILLIPS and BERTRAM CHRISTIAN. It is a collection of letters addressed to Miss MARY GLADSTONE before and after her marriage to Mr. DREW. Sitting at the centre she seems to have held together her circle by golden threads of confidence and intimacy. Here you will learn how RUSKIN was brought to visit Hawarden, and how he entirely altered his views on Mr. GLADSTONE, going so far as to suppress a number of _Fors Clavigera_ in which slighting allusion had been made to him. Here, too, you will find Lord ACTON, who deeply disapproved of Mr. GLADSTONE'S conduct in paying a memorial tribute of respect and eulogy to Lord BEACONSFIELD. ACTON'S list of the hundred best books (or, to be strictly accurate, of ninety-nine of them) is also given. It provides heavy reading for a hundred years at the very least. As a set-off to this ponderosity there are the letters of BURNE-JONES, fresh, amiable and delightful, as also those of Professor JAMES STUART, which are among the best in the collection. Mr. A.J. BALFOUR appears as the owner of four concertinas, on which he was willing "to play with anyone who would accompany him through any of the oratorios of Handel." RUSKIN writes to CARLYLE, addressing him as "Dearest Papa," and signing himself "Ever your faithful and loving son." The letters of GEORGE WYNDHAM are a charming collection, shining with hope and idealism yet never losing their touch of the firm earth. This book was nearly completed by the late Mr. MARCH PHILLIPS, and after his untimely death the task was brought to a conclusion by Mr. CHRISTIAN. On the whole the work has been done with great discretion, but there is a passage relating to GEORGE ELIOT on pp. 193, 194 which ought to have been omitted.

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Miss MILLS YOUNG tells us that _John Musgrave_, the middle-aged hero of _Coelebs_ (LANE), "was not a prig, but he came perilously near to being one at times." Well, if anyone ought to know, it is his creator, so I will accept her word for it, though for myself I should have called him a first-class prig. The little village in which he lived his bachelor existence was invaded by some up-to-date people who took the Hall, and proceeded to liven up things. _Mrs. Chadwick_ freely shocked the poor man; she smoked, was a reckless conversationalist and had modern ideas, all which disturbed the decorous manner of his life. Moreover, she had taken upon herself the heavy task of finding him a wife, and _John's_ phlegmatic heart began to flutter when he saw _Peggy_, her lady-gardener and niece, standing on a ladder, in blue trousers. He was incensed by such apparel, but he was also intrigued. From that moment his number, as they say, was up. Apart from a dog-incident, which is far too prolonged, and some rather cheap sarcasm at the expense of a wretched spinster, this tale of _John's_ conversion from something drier than dust to a human being is neatly told. All the same I prefer Miss YOUNG'S South African stories.

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My conjecture about _The Magic Gate_ (HUTCHINSON) is that its author, MAUD STEPNEY RAWSON, found herself with two stories to choose from, one of the Gate itself, and another of the romance of _Lydia_ and _John Wodrush_. In my opinion she chose the wrong one. The history of the _Wodrush_ elopement, compressed to a couple of pages, seems to me far more original and interesting than the present rather unwieldy tale. _The Magic Gate_ is a war-novel confessed, and I can only fancy that the thronging new sensations of the past three years have proved a little too much for Mrs. RAWSON'S sense of form. She is so anxious that her heroine and her readers shall miss nothing of it all that in the result the plot is lost in a maze of incidents that lead nowhere. The effect produced on a small country society by the early phases of the War is shown deftly enough. But perhaps posterity will find in such a record a more compelling interest than we can to whom it is still so familiar in every unforgettable detail. One other ground of complaint I have against the book is that its most original and attractive character, the American woman to whose generosity _Jennet_ owes her occupancy of Fullbrook Manor, is banished at an early page, and submarined just when I was looking for her reappearance. Hers is yet another story with which Mrs. RAWSON might have entertained me better than by this of _The Magic Gate_, which I found a trifle creaky on its hinges.

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