Chapter 2

Dear B.B.,--I hate to trouble you, but as I've heard nothing yet from the management about my comedy I am writing to ask if you can give me any idea of Sir J.B.'s intentions regarding it. Did he say anything that you dare repeat?

Yours, G.S.S.

_From Buskin Browne, in answer, a fortnight later._

Dear old Boy,--No chance as yet, as the chief has been away ill. But he comes back on Saturday, when I will mention the farce to him without fail.

Yours "while this machine is to him," BEE-BEE.

_From G. Sheridan Smith, to Sir James Benfield, a month later._

Dear Sir,--I was profoundly grieved to learn from a mutual friend that you had been so long on the sick list. Now, however, that you are at work again, and (I trust) fully restored to health, may I hope for a verdict upon my comedy, _Men and Munitions_, at your earliest convenience?

With warmest congratulations,

I am, Faithfully yours,

G. SHERIDAN SMITH.

_From Sir James Benfield's Secretary, in answer, a week later._

Dear Sir,--Sir James Benfield desires me to acknowledge your letter, and to inform you that he has been away ill, and unable to attend to any correspondence.

Faithfully yours,

BASIL VYNE-PETHERINGTON,

Secretary.

_From Buskin Browne to G. Sheridan Smith._

Dear old Man,--I heard unofficially last night that your farce has had a quite top-hole report from the reader, and might be put on almost at once. _Ça marche!_ Anything for me in it?

B.B.

_From Basil Vyne-Petherington to G. Sheridan Smith, by same post as above._

Dear Sir,--In answer to your inquiry we can trace no record of the receipt of any MS. from you. If you will kindly let me have particulars, name of play, date when forwarded, etc., the matter shall receive further attention.

Faithfully yours,

BASIL VYNE-PETHERINGTON,

Secretary.

_From G. Sheridan Smith, in answer. A telegram._

Men and munitions comedy fourteen weeks ago kindly wire reply paid.

_Reply to above. A telegram._

No trace comedy entitled fourteen weeks suggest inquire post-office.

_Reply to above_.

Name of comedy men and munitions reply paid urgent.

_Reply to above._

Your play returned last week.

_Reply to above._

Nothing arrived here please look again.

_From Basil Vyne-Petherington to G. Sheridan Smith._

Dear Sir,--In returning herewith your blank-verse tragedy, _Hadrian_, I am desired by Sir James Benfield to thank you for kindly allowing him the opportunity of reading it.

Faithfully yours,

BASIL VYNE-PETHERINGTON,

Secretary.

_From Buskin Browne to G. Sheridan Smith._

Dear old Boy,--The A.S.M. told me to-day that our backers won't look at farce, though the chief simply loves yours. So I'm afraid we can only say better luck next time.

Yours disappointed,

B.B.

_From Basil Vyne-Petherington to G. Sheridan Smith, five weeks later._

Dear Sir,--Sir James Benfield has been interested to learn that you have written a comedy of topical interest, called (he understands) _The Munitioneer_. Should you care to forward it for his consideration he would be pleased to read it, and, if suitable, to arrange for its production at this theatre.

Faithfully yours,

BASIL VYNE-PETHERINGTON,

Secretary.

_From G. Sheridan Smith, in reply. A telegram._

Where did you get a name like that?

_From Basil Vyne-Petherington, in final answer, a month later._

Sir,--I am requested by Sir James Benfield to state that he has been compelled to make a rule never to send his autograph to strangers.

Yours faithfully,

BASIL VYNE-PETHERINGTON,

Secretary.

* * * * *

WHITE MAGIC.

Blind folk see the fairies, Oh, better far than we, Who miss the shining of their wings Because our eyes are filled with things We do not wish to see. They need not seek enchantment From solemn printed books, For all about them as they go The fairies flutter to and fro With smiling, friendly looks.

Deaf folk hear the fairies However soft their song; 'Tis we who lose the honey sound Amid the clamour all around That beats the whole day long. But they with gentle faces Sit quietly apart; What room have they for sorrowing While fairy minstrels sit and sing Close to their listening heart?

R.F.

* * * * *

Extract from a French account of the tanks in action in the battle for Cambrai:--

"Les chars d'assaut curent aussi leur cri de guerre. Peu avant l'attaque, le long de leur ligne courut un message répétant, en le modifiant légèrement, celui de Nelson à Trafalgar:

"'L'Angleterre compte que chaque tank fera aujourd'hui son devoir sacré.'"--_Havas_.

We had often wondered what the French was for "Do your damnedest!" Now we know.

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TO MY BUTCHER.

O butcher, butcher of the bulbous eye, That in hoarse accents bidst me "buy, buy, buy!" Waving large hands suffused with brutish gore, Have I not found thee evil to the core? The greedy grocer grinds the face of me, The baker trades on my necessity, And from the milkman have I no surcease, But thou art Plunder's perfect masterpiece. These others are not always lost to shame; My grocer, now--last week he let me claim A pound of syrup--'twas a kindly deed To help a fellow-townsman in his need, Though harsh the price, and I was feign to crawl About his feet ere I might buy at all. But thou--although a myriad flocks may crop By Sussex gorse or Cheviot's grassy top, A myriad herds tumultuously snort From Palos Verdes eastward to Del Norte, Or where the fierce vaquero's bold bravado Resounds about the Llano Estacado; Though every abattoir works overtime And every stall in Smithfield groans with prime Cuts, from thy lips the ready lie falls pat, How thou art sold clean out of this and that, But will oblige me, just for old time's sake, With half a shin bone or some hard flank steak; Or (if with mutton I prefer to deck My festive board) the scraggy end of neck. And once, when goaded to a desperate stand, I wrung a sirloin from thy grudging hand, Did not thy boy, a cheeky little brute With shifty eyes, mislay the thing _en route_, Depositing at my address the bones Intended for the dog of Mr. Jones?

I sometimes think that never runs so thin The milk as when it leaves the milkman's tin; That every link the sausageman prepares Harbours some wandering Towser unawares. And Binns, the baker (whom a murrain seize!), Immune from fraud's accustomed penalties, Sells me a stuff compound of string and lead, And has the nerve to name the substance bread. But deafer far to the voice of conscience grown The type that cuts me off a pound of bone Wherefrom an ounce of fat forlornly drops, And calls the thing two shillings' worth of chops; More steeped in crime the heart that dares to fleece My purse of eighteen-pence for one small piece Of tripe, whereof, when times were not so hard, The price was fourpence for the running yard!

Wherefore I hate thee, butcher, and would pass Untempted of thy viands. But, alas! The spirit that essays in master flights To sip the honey from Parnassus' heights, That daily doth his Pegasus bestride And keeps the War from spoiling on the side, Fails to be fostered by the sensuous sprout Or with horse carrots blow its waistcoat out. So, though I loathe thee, butcher, I must buy The tokens of thy heartless usury. Yet oft I dream that in some life to come, Where no sharp pangs assail the poet's tum, Athwart high sunburnt plains I drive my plough, Untouched by earth's gross appetites, and thou, My ox, my beast, goest groaning at the tugs, And do I spare thy feelings? No, by jugs! With tireless lash I probe thy leaden feet, And beat and beat and beat and beat and beat.

ALGOL.

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* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, November 26th_.--Rather a jolly day in the House of Commons. It was pleasant to hear Lord WOLMER, ingenuous youth, explaining, on behalf of the War Trade Department, that there was no danger of an unusually large consignment of rubber bathing-caps finding their way from Switzerland to the heads of German Fraüleins. To Colonel YATE belongs the credit of pointing out that people do not bathe in Switzerland in the winter.

Where Russia is concerned Mr. BALFOUR declines to be included among the prophets; all he knows is that that unhappy country has not yet evolved a Government with which he can negotiate. He was more explicit regarding the German tale of a Privy Council in 1913, presided over by the KING, at which Mr. ASQUITH and Lord KITCHENER conspired with Sir EDWARD GREY and Lord MORLEY (whose "Reminiscences" are strangely silent on the subject) to declare war upon Germany. Who after this shall dare to say that the Germans have no imagination?

Mr. WILL THORNE considers that compulsory rationing ought to be postponed until the menus at the hotels and clubs are cut down to two courses. Somebody ought to invite Mr. THORNE, who from his appearance I should judge to have a healthy appetite, to partake of one of these (alleged) Gargantuan feasts and see what he thinks of it. His comment would probably be, "Can't we go and have a steak somewhere?"

When is a leaflet not a leaflet? "When it is an election address," says Sir GEORGE CAVE. At the same time he warned Mr. KING that if he thought to get round the new regulations by embodying his peculiar views in the form of electioneering literature he might still collide with "Dora." The warning was surely superfluous. The last thing any Pacifist M.P. wishes to do is to submit himself to the judgment of his constituents.

_Tuesday, November 27th_.--Mr. MACPHERSON'S statement that officers with the Expeditionary Force are supplied with whisky at prices varying from _3s. 6d_. to _6s_. a bottle may have horrified the teetotalers, but has intensified the patriotic desire of some of our Volunteers to share the hardships of these gallant fellows in the trenches.

There was another long-drawn-out duel between Mr. HOUSTON and Sir LEO CHIOZZA MONEY on the subject of shipping freights. The House always enjoys these encounters, although the opponents, like the toy "wrestlers" of our youth, never get much "forrader." The Member for West Toxteth has probably forgotten more about the shipping trade than his opponent ever knew. But for all that Sir LEO keeps his end up, though his assertion that the consumer would not benefit if the Government charged "Blue-book rates" for ordinary cargo does not convince everybody. But then everybody does not understand Blue-books.

_Wednesday, November 28th_.--The Peers were surprised to hear from Lord COURTNEY that he was not of the creed of the conscientious objector. They had been under the impression that his public career had been one long orgie of conscientious objection to everything that did not emanate from his own capacious brain. Even his hat and his waistcoat proclaim his defiance of conventional opinion.

For weeks past the House of Commons has been invited to believe that German "pill-boxes" were composed of British cement; and the case seemed clear when a British officer wrote from Flanders the other day that he had discovered in the German lines a label plainly marked "Artificial Portland." Members were relieved to learn that the label came from a Belgian factory taken over by the Germans. "If those pill-boxes had really been made of our cement," said a Medway representative, "we should be hammering at them still."

_Thursday, November 29th_.--Question-time would be much more amusing if Ministers and Members were more accomplished in the art of repartee. A few are quick enough. When Mr. LEES SMITH complained that one of his statements had been described by the FOREIGN SECRETARY as a mare's nest Lord ROBERT CECIL swiftly replied that he did not remember the incident, but had no doubt that if his right hon. friend used the term it was justified.

Under the Redistribution scheme as arranged by the Boundary Commissioners the name West Birmingham would have disappeared from the roll of constituencies. In graceful tribute to the memory of JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN the House unanimously agreed to its reinstatement. It also changed the name of the Woodstock division to the Banbury division; but the idea that this was done as a compliment to the junior Member for the City of London is, I am told, erroneous.

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"IN SUCH A QUESTIONABLE SHAPE."

"This, of course, brings up the almighty question--Who wrote Shapespeare?"--_Mr. George Moore in "The Observer_."

A short answer to this almighty question is--Either Mr. GEORGE MOORE or the writer who determined "to call a spade a spape."

* * * * *

"Cook-General, good (26), Wanted immediately, or by December 6th, for three months, in Exeter. Wages 50s. per mouth."--_Express and Echo (Exeter)_.

We confidently hope that she has only one.

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* * * * *

BELIEVE ME OR BELIEVE ME NOT.

Although he had been rendered absolutely dumb by shell-shock the soldier was able to earn a little extra money by doing odd jobs. But nothing could get his speech back. It was a very stubborn and perplexing case. For eighteen months he had not succeeded in uttering a word, though understanding everything that was said to him. All the usual devices had failed; every kind of sudden surprise to startle him into articulation had been attempted; electricity had been passed through the muscles of the tongue and larynx; doctors had discussed him with a volubility only equalled by his own silence. But he remained dumb. It seemed hopeless.

Last week the mistress of the house where he was mostly employed sent him to the grocer's with, as usual, a slip of paper. The paper was addressed to the grocer, and it said, "Please do your utmost to give the bearer some sugar and tea. Even the smallest quantity will be gratefully welcomed."

Entering the shop the soldier laid the message on the counter, prepared to wait patiently for the harassed tradesman to attend to him. He had often been there before and knew what it meant; but on this occasion the grocer instantly advanced to meet him, took the paper smilingly and read it.

"Certainly," he replied. "I suppose four pounds of each would be enough to go on with?"

"Four pounds!" said the soldier. "Strike me pink, she'd think herself the Queen with four ounces!"

* * * * *

THINGS WE SHOULD LIKE TO SEE ILLUSTRATED.

From a recent novel:--

"... Then the gong went, and she followed it into the dining-room ..."

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"Class A (fit for general service) is subdivided as follows:--1--Men actually fit for general service in any theatre in all respects. 2--Recruits who should be fit for A1 as soon as trained. 3--Men who have previously served with an expeditionary force who should be fit for £1 as soon as 'hardened.'"--_Scots Paper_.

They must be well worth it, even in a soft state.

* * * * *

MORE WAR ECONOMY.

"BUTCHER.--Wanted, Second Hand."--_Manchester Evening News_.

* * * * *

"Southport. Mrs. ----, Homely Apts.; sea view; piano: mod."--_Daily Paper_.

We approve Mrs. ----'s candour about the piano, which accords with our own experience in seaside boarding-houses.

* * * * *

"Germany recently began calling up Class 19120."--_Western Mail_.

The end of the War may be in sight, but it still seems to be some distance off.

* * * * *

"In districts where a number of shops were serving the same people and streets, they would be asked to co-operate so that butcher, baker and grocer would use the same vans. Traders who refused to comply with the scheme would be dealt with."--_Evening Paper_.

But surely such unpatriotic shopkeepers should not be dealt with.

* * * * *

"Lost, on or about September 30 last, a Gold Bar Brooch, with chaste Scotch terrier in centre."--_Manchester Evening News_.

We are glad to see that at least one of our dumb friends has not been affected by the wave of bigamy that has been sweeping over the country.

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THE HUT.

As ordered, we marched the Battery to B 35d 45.25. Reader, have you ever lived in, or on, an unfurnished map-reference in Flanders? If not, permit me to inform you that this group of letters and numerals represented a mud-flat pocked with ancient shell-craters, through which loafed an unwholesome stream under a bilious-looking sky. The Junior Subaltern, fresh from home, asked where the billets were. We could but bless his happy innocence and remind him that as Army Field Artillery we were nobody's children, the orphan bravoes of the Western Front, and that for us a bunch of map co-ordinates was considered ample provision.

The horses, having with proper pride sneered at the stream, were silenced with their nosebags, and then we asked our cook what about it? That dauntless artist in bully-beef promptly brought our far-travelled mess-table into action in the open, and thus publicly we sat round it on our valises and drank Vichy water until the novelty palled. Then the rain began and the men once more united in wishing themselves in Tennessee.

The Captain was now driven from the bosom of the mess to find a Camp Commandant, and to tell him, with the Major's compliments, that even the personnel of Army Brigades were liable, in the words of the book, to deteriorate rapidly if unprotected from damp. The officer, whom he found lurking in a neighbouring Nissen hut, was tall and stately, but admitted, under pressure, that to him was entrusted the stewardship of our mud-flat and the adjacent camps, and that he could give us a mess. Through the insistent drizzle this person, smiling now very pleasantly, led us to a depressed wooden building that suggested a derelict Noah's Ark with a sinister look about the windows. The bad-tempered sky scowled between the planks of the roof; the querulous wind whined up through the floor; rats backed snarling into the corners on our entrance.

"This is the place," said the C.C. "You'll soon make yourselves very comfortable."

That night I dreamed I was a "U" boat, and started up, snorting, to find myself under a cascade, while the felt upon the roof banged and rasped and flapped. It sounded as if the ark were trying to fly, but found its wings rusty. At dawn we sent the Captain out, and refused him breakfast till by some resource of ingenuity or crime he obtained certain sausages of new felt. These our fearless batmen unrolled and nailed upon the roof. After his porridge we pushed him out again with a strong party under orders to carry the nearest R.E. dump by force or fraud, and secure large quantities of timber, nails, canvas and, if possible (the up-to-date R.E. dump secretes many unexpected commodities), Turkey carpets, wall-paper, sofa-cushions and bedroom-slippers.

The batmen were sent out with a limbered cart, some smoke shell and the total establishment of billhooks, and forbidden to return without sufficient material for bedsteads, window-shutters, bookshelves and chairs. By evening the place began to feel habitable, and the C.C., when he looked in to borrow a horse, endeared himself to us all by his obvious pleasure in our comparative comfort. We lent him the best horse in the battery.

The Major's batman devoted the following day to the construction of a species of retiring-room at one end of the hut, wherein the modest members of the mess might bathe and splash at ease. The remainder of the servants went out armed and returned with (1) a zinc bath, (2) a stove, (3) a cuckoo clock, (4) a large mirror, (5) a warming-pan. "Once let us make a home for ourselves," we said, "and our energies will be free to finish the War." We devoted every cunning worker in the battery to this great end. Drill was abandoned, stables forgotten. We installed bookshelves, bootjacks, a sideboard, hat racks, a dumb waiter, a stand for the gramophone and a roll-top desk for the Major. The walls were tapestried with canvas, hung with pictures, scalps, and the various decorations won by members of the mess. The original building, disreputable and hateful, was hidden and forgotten.

And then the C.C. called again, and, after a minute and admiring inspection of our abode, informed us that to his bitter sorrow he had to turn us out; umteen battalions of infantry were coming in and had to be accommodated--this being an infantry camp....

That night, as I walked about in the rain, I looked in at the open door of our lost home. Two N.C.O.'s were sitting over our stove, lost, lonely in the elongated emptiness; longing, I knew, to be with their comrades bellowing in an adjacent hut. And so I understood and knew at length how Camp Commandants manage the maintenance and improvement of their domain. I devote myself now to warning the simple-hearted gunner against unfurnished huts and the hospitality of Camp Commandants. And some day I hope to be in a position to lend that particular C.C. another horse.

* * * * *

PUNCH'S ROLL OF HONOUR.

We deeply regret to learn that Lieutenant GEORGE L. BROWN, Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, who contributed sketches to _Punch_ before the War, has died of wounds.

We are very glad to say that Captain A.W. LLOYD, Royal Fusiliers, is making a good recovery from the severe wound which he received in East Africa.

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MARGARINE.

A HOUSEKEEPER'S PALINODE.

MARGARINE--the prefix "oleo-" Latterly has been effaced, Though no doubt in many a folio Of the grocer's ledger traced--

Once I arrogantly rated You below the cheapest lard; Once your "g" enunciated, With pedantic rigour, hard.

How your elements were blended Naught I knew; but wild surmise Hinted horrors that offended Squeamish and fastidious eyes.

Now this view, unjust, unfounded, I recant with deep remorse, Knowing you are not compounded From the carcase of the horse.

Still with glances far from genial I beheld you, margarine, And restricted you to menial Services in my cuisine.