Chapter 2

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THE TRANSGRESSOR.

I was walking painfully along a lonely road towing my three-thousand-guinea ten-cylinder twelve-seater. According to Regulation 777 X, both brakes were on. My overcoat collar was turned up to protect my sensitive skin from a blasting easterly gale, and through the twilight I was able to see but a few yards ahead. I had a blister on my heel. Somewhere, many miles to the eastward, lay my destination. Suddenly two gigantic forms emerged from the hedgerow and laid each a gigantic paw upon my shoulders. A gruff voice barked accusingly in my ear.

"You are the owner of a motorcar?"

Was it any use denying the fact? I thought not.

"Yes," I replied humbly, "I am."

"Have you the permit which allows you to possess this?" He waved towards the stagnant 'bus.

"I have."

"Have you the licence which allows you to take it upon the high road?"

With frozen fingers I held it out to him. He moved to the back of the car, unscrewed the entrance to the petrol tank and applied his nose to the aperture. After three official sniffs he turned upon me aggressively.

"There is an undeniable odour of petroleum. How do you account for that?"

"Sir," I replied, "last week my little son had his knockabout suit dry-cleaned in Perthshire by the petrol-substitute process. This morning he climbed upon the back of the car to see whether his Silver Campine had laid an egg in the hood."

He glared at me.

"Ah! Have you the necessary extension which allows you to use a motorcar as a habitation for hens?"

I gave it to him.

Then, frustrated with fury, he thundered at me successively: "Have you a towing permit? Have you a dog licence? Can you produce a boot and shoe grant? Do you hold any rubber shares? Have you been inoculated for premature decay? What did you do in the Great War?"

I gave him the necessary documents in perfect order. For a moment he was nonplussed. Then he asked with sly intention, "Have you the champagne and chicken sandwich ration which is apportioned to super-inspectors?"

I handed it to him with a table-napkin (unused) and a pair of wire-cutters thrown in. For some minutes he remained silent, except in the gustatory sense, then he turned upon me and, handing back an empty bottle, said triumphantly, "You must now produce, under Clause 5005 Gerrard, framed this morning at 11-30 o'clock, one pint of old ale and six ounces of bread and cheese for the sustentation of the sub-inspector."

I regarded him stonily and leant against the cold, cold bonnet of the car. Alas! I had it not.

"Sir," I pleaded, "I did not know ... give me time. The next inn is but a few miles. If you and your companion will take a seat I will bring you to the inn door and all will be well."

He laughed in my face.

"Algernon Brocklebank Smith," he said sternly, "you have betrayed yourself into our hands." He turned to his myrmidon: "Get a move on you, Herbert; it's a bit parky standing about here."

After all he was but a coarse fellow.

Herbert, galvanised into action, produced a small oblong object from his pocket, lighted the end of it with the glowing butt of one of my Corona Coronas, and placed it underneath the car. In a few moments all that remained of my three-thousand-guinea ten--cylinder twelve-seater was one small nut, which was immediately impounded.

I raised the collar of my overcoat (second reef), shifted my face to the eastward, and, notwithstanding the blister on my heel, turned my steps towards my destination.

I uttered no plaint. I had transgressed against the immutable law.

* * * * *

IS THE RACE LOSING ITS NERVE?

"A sensation has been caused by the announcement that Miss Teddie Gerard is leaving 'Bubbly' to play the leading part in 'Cheep' at the Vaudeville Theatre."--_Daily Mirror_.

* * * * *

THE "WAR LEADER" AND TWO SENSITIVE SOULS.

BUT

IF

PROVIDED

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* * * * *

NEW MEN AND OLD FACES.

[According to a writer in _The Daily Chronicle_, Lord Morley's face "in conformation gets more and more like Goethe's."]

VISCOUNT, better known as plain JOHN MORLEY, As I gather from a chatty screed, Ever daily grows exteriorly (Pray forgive a rhymer's urgent need) More like GOETHE--please pronounce it "Gertie"-- Who expired soon after eighteen-thirty.

But this instance is not isolated, As a survey of our statesmen shows; WINSTON now suggests a long post-dated DAN O'CONNELL in his mouth and nose; NORTHCLIFFE's growing more Napoleonic Than the Corsican, though less laconic.

In the noble lineaments of BILLING Shrewd observers (like myself) can trace Wonderful, inspiring, vivid, thrilling Memories of JULIUS CAESAR'S face, With a hint of something far more regal, More suggestive of the soaring eagle.

I admit GEORGE MOORE is not yet showing Marked resemblance to his namesake, TOM; But great CHESTERTON is hourly growing Almost indistinguishable from Dr. JOHNSON; daily grows more plain SHAKSPEARE'S facial forecast of HALL CAINE.

HALDANE and his spiritual brother, SCHOPENHAUER, that dyspeptic sage, Monthly grow so very like each other, As portrayed in MAXSE'S lurid page, That it passes MAXSE'S Christian charity To detect the least dissimilarity.

BELLOC is approximating closely To the massive mien of CHARLES JAMES FOX; BUCHAN plagiarizes very grossly From the rapt expression of JOHN KNOX; And the LAUREATE, if his hair grew scanty Or he shaved his beard, might look like DANTE.

CLARA BUTT, the eminent musician, Vividly resembles PERICLES; SARGENT and the late lamented TITIAN Are as like each other as two peas; LOREBURN, known to cronies as "Bob" Reid, Duplicates the Venerable BEDE.

But enough of this identifying Instances of the recurrent face; Rather let us foster an undying Resolution in the British race Evermore and evermore to shun Any imitation of the Hun.

* * * * *

A POSER FROM THE BENCH.

From the report of a collision case:--

"Mr. Justice ----: 'Which car hit the other first?' 'I cannot say.'"--_Freeman's Journal_.

* * * * *

"OUR SWEEP IN THE HOLY LAND."--_Daily News_.

_Ours_ is in Mesopotamia.

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* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, November 12th_.--An old Parliamentarian, when asked by a friend to what party the PRIME MINISTER now belonged, sententiously replied, "He used to be a Radical; he will some day be a Conservative; and at present he is the leader of the Improvisatories."

The latest example of his inventive capacity does not meet with unmitigated approval. Members were very curious to know exactly how the new Allied Council was going to work, and what would be the relations between the Council's Military advisers and the existing General Staffs of the countries concerned. Mr. BONAR LAW assured the House that the responsibility for strategy would remain where it is now, but did not altogether succeed in explaining why in that case the Council required other military advisers.

The SECRETARY FOR SCOTLAND is about the mildest-mannered man that ever sat upon the Treasury Bench. But even he can be "_très méchant_" at a pinch. When Mr. WATT renewed his complaint that sheriffs-principal in Scotland had very little to do for the high salaries they received, Mr. MUNRO replied that "it would just be as unsafe to measure the activities of the sheriff-principal by the number of appeals he hears as to measure the political activities of my hon. friend by the number of questions he puts."

The Pensions Department at Chelsea is to be reorganised. Mr. HODGE excused the delays by pointing out that an average of thirty-three thousand letters a day is despatched, but, as he added that there is a staff of four thousand five hundred persons to do it, it hardly looks as if they were overworked.

_Tuesday, November 13th_.--The House of Lords was to have discussed the state of Ireland, but, owing to the absence of its LEADER, fell back upon the less exciting but more practical topics of sugar-substitutes for jam, and barley for beer. It was cheering to learn from the Duke of MARLBOROUGH that the jam-manufacturers gave great care to exclude arsenic from their glucose, and from Lord RHONDDA that there would be plenty of barley for both cakes and ale.

Mr. WARDLE is the latest example of the poacher turned gamekeeper. A few months ago, as leader of the Labour Party, he was instant in criticism of the ineptitutes of Government officials. This afternoon, upon his old friend, Mr. TYSON WILSON, venturing to refer to the "stupid decisions" of the Board of Trade, Mr. WARDLE was down on him in a moment. With the air of one who had been born and brought up in Whitehall Gardens, he replied, "Stupid decisions are not made by the Board of Trade."

The Pacifists had rather a mixed day.

* * * * *

* * * * *

They were visibly relieved when Mr. BONAR LAW (supported by Mr. ASQUITH) declined to admit into the Bill for extending the life of this Parliament a provision enabling constituencies to get rid of Members who had ceased to represent them. But they did not like his contemptuous reference to their argumentative powers. Mr. TREVELYAN, who regards himself as the representative (by literary descent) of CHARLES JAMES FOX, was particularly annoyed.

* * * * *

* * * * *

As party-funds are rather under a cloud just now the Government thought they might justify their existence by drawing on them for the campaign against enemy propaganda. But their custodians thought otherwise. The Tory Whip was prepared to make a small contribution; the Liberal would give nothing, on the ground that the total required was extravagantly large. So the country will have to foot the bill.

_Wednesday, November 14th_.--The knowledge that Mr. ASQUITH was to "interpellate" the PRIME MINISTER regarding his recent speech in Paris, and the Allied War Council therein described, brought a crowd of Members to the House, and filled the Peers' Gallery with ex-Ministers scenting a first-class crisis.

The protagonists on entering the arena were loudly cheered by their respective adherents, but the expected duel did not come off. Mr. ASQUITH'S questions were searching enough, but not provocative. Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S reply was comprehensive and conciliatory, and ended with the promise of a day for discussion. Instead of a fight there was only an armistice, usually a preliminary to a definite peace.

A little disappointed, perhaps, the Peers betook themselves to their own Chamber, there to hear Lord PARMOOR discourse upon the woes of conscientious objectors. Many of them, he thought, had been vindictively punished for their peculiar opinions. Nobody, in a somewhat cloudy discussion, made it quite clear whether the Tribunals or the Army authorities or the Home Office were most at fault; and Lord CURZON'S suggestion that persons who refused not merely to fight but to render any kind of service to their country in its time of need were not wholly free from blame had almost the air of novelty.

The Air-Force Bill passed through Committee in one sitting. The credit for this achievement may be divided equally between Major BAIRD, who proved himself once more a skilful pilot, and Mr. BILLING, who spoke so often that other intending critics got little chance. Counting speeches and interruptions, I find from the official reports that he addressed the House exactly one hundred times; and it is therefore worth noticing that his last words were, "This is what you call muzzling the House of Commons."

_Thursday, November 15th_.--Lord WIMBORNE did his best to-night to defend the inaction of the Irish Executive in the face of the Sinn Fein menace. But he would have been wiser not to have adduced the argument that Ireland was a _terra incognita_. If there is one subject that the Peers think they know all about it is the sister-island. Lord CURZON thought it would be a mistake, by enforcing "a superficial quiet," to check the wholesome influences brought into being by the Convention. He did not go so far as to say that Mr. DE VALERA was one of them.

At last the Government have decided to take short order with the pernicious literature of the Pacifists. In future all such documents are to be submitted to the Press Bureau before publication. A howl of derisive laughter greeted the HOME SECRETARY'S announcement, but when Mr. SNOWDEN essayed to move the adjournment, although he and his friends were joined by some of the Scotch and Irish malcontents, the total muster was only thirty-three, and the motion accordingly came to earth with a thud.

By a large majority the House refused to reinstate the Livery franchise in the City of London. In any case this ancient privilege could not long have survived the curtailment of the Lord Mayor's Feast.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BOON FOR BUSY BRIDEGROOMS.

In these days of military hustle, when a soldier comes home, falls in love, gets engaged, marries, sets up a home, and returns to the Front in less than a week, there is little time for the ordinary courtesies of matrimonial procedure. It is felt, therefore, that the appended printed form of thanks for wedding presents--based on the model of the Field Service Postcard--will prove a great boon to all soldiers who meditate matrimony during short leave. It will be found sufficient merely to strike out inappropriate words in the printed form, which is as follows:--

"Captain and Mrs. ---- beg to return thanks for your _ Beautiful | Charming | Generous | Very generous | Useful | Gift Very Useful |- Cheque More than useful | Letter." Unexpected | Totally unexpected | Remarkable | Artistic | _|

_Examples_.--(1) To a rich and miserly uncle, who has come down with an astonishingly handsome sum--strike out everything except "Very generous--more than useful--totally unexpected cheque."

(2) To an eccentric former admirer of the bride, who has sent a forty-stanza poem, entitled "Sunset in the White-chapel Road: Thoughts Thereon"--strike out everything except "Remarkable gift."

(3) To an enormously wealthy female relative, who disapproves of the bride and has sent a second-hand plated sugar-sifter--strike out everything except "Gift."

(4) To anyone of whom much was expected, but who neither gave a present nor wrote--strike out everything on the postcard.

* * * * *

"Strange Story of a Wedding in the Divorce Court."--_Daily News_.

It seems a rather unfortunate choice of _locale_.

* * * * *

Extract from an Indian begging-letter:--

"My mother is a widow, poor chap, and has a postmortem son."

* * * * *

"AMATEUR GENT., experienced, wanted, for week at Xmas. All expenses paid." _Daily Telegraph_.

Why not have a professional one and do the thing handsomely?

* * * * *

ONCE UPON A TIME.

THE LETTER.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, an illustrious man of affairs--soldier and statesman too--visited our shores, and by his wise counsels so captured the imagination of his hearers and readers that one of the greatest of all compliments was paid to him, and anyone with a black cocker spaniel to name named it after him; and he had a name rather peculiarly adapted to such ends too.

It chanced that among the puppies thus made illustrious was one which a young soldier before leaving for France to win the War gave to his sister, and when writing to him, as, being a good girl, she regularly and abundantly did, she never omitted to give tidings as to how the little creature was developing; and I need hardly say that in the whole history of dogs, from TOBIT'S faithful trotting companion onwards, there never was a dog so packed with intelligence and fidelity as this. Most girls' dogs are perfect, but this one was more remarkable still.

Now it happened that the gallant brother, in the course of his duties as a war-winner, was moved from place to place so often that he gradually lost definition, as the photographers say, and the result was that one of her recent letters failed to catch up with him. That was a pity, because it was a better letter than usual. It gave all the news that he would most want to hear. It said what picture her father was working on at the moment, and told, without spoiling them, his two last jokes. It said whom her mother had called on and who had called on her mother and how something must be done to stop her smoking too many cigarettes. It said that their young brother, having sprained his ankle at hockey, had become a wolf for jig-saw puzzles. It said where their parents had dined recently and where they were going to dine and who was coming next week. It said what she had seen at the theatre last Saturday and what book she was reading. It said which of the other V.A.D.'s had become engaged. It said what an awful time they had had trying to buy some tea, and how scarce butter had become, and what a cold she had caught in the last raid, and how Uncle Jim had influenza and couldn't go on being a special, and how Aunt Sibyl had been introduced to one of the GEDDESES and talked to him as though it was the other, and how she herself had met Evelyn in the street the other day and Evelyn had asked "with suspicious interest after you"--and a thousand other things such as a good sister, even though busy at a hospital, finds time to write to a brother over there, all among the mud and the shells, winning the War. And not being in the habit of signing her name, when writing in this familiar way, she finished up with a reference to the darlingest of all dogs by sending its love at the very end: "Love from ----" and so forth.

Well, the letter, as I have said, could not be delivered. The postal people at the Front, and behind the Front, are astonishingly good, but they could not get in touch with the brother this time, and therefore they opened the letter and looked at the foot of it for the name of the writer and found that of the dog, and at the head of it for the street and town where the writer lived, and sent it back as "insufficiently addressed."

And that is why in a certain house in Chelsea a treasured possession is a returned letter for General SMUTS.

* * * * *

From an article entitled "Is it Safe for Cousins to marry?":--

"It is just as well, however, to pick out somebody besides your cousin for your wife." _The Family Doctor_.

Before acting on this advice, however, it might be safer to consult The Family Lawyer.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE VERY GLAD EYE.

Mother put down the key of the hen-house and took up the letters that lay beside her plate.

"If only Joan would write larger," she sighed, turning over an envelope across which an ant seemed to have walked and left an inky trail. "I've mislaid my glass too, and shan't be able to read a word. Where could I have put the miserable thing?" she asked, peering again at the ridiculous little script.

Father put down his paper and said these hunts for Aunt Matilda were getting monotonous. Only yesterday he had rescued her from some dried bulbs in the greenhouse, and didn't Mother think it time she saw a good oculist and had proper spectacles, instead of using the old lens in that carved gold bauble belonging once to his grandmother's aunt.

"Perhaps it's just a bad habit," she answered with a smile, "or my eyes are getting lazy. But really I can see _so_ well through it, and if they would print the newspapers better--"

"No one we know in this morning's list," said Father shortly, as he turned a sheet; "and we should be hearing from those rascals now that the push is over," he added, glancing at Mother who began to sip her coffee hurriedly.

"They might even get leave together," ventured Margery. "It's five months since Dick came home, and as for Christopher--"

"What swank for old Margots, now her hair is up," piped Archie. "Two brothers from the trenches to--"

"If you'd make a little less noise, my son," said Father in a strange voice, "I might be able to take in what I'm reading. There's something here about Christopher."

"What?" cried Mother, springing from her chair.

"Yes, it's Christopher plain enough," he repeated with shining eyes. "Christopher Charles Bentley, and--God bless my soul!--the boy has been splendid! It's all down here, and---

"Read, read!" we clamoured, as his voice grew husky and indistinct.

"Read!" again we shouted, as Mother came and took the paper gently from him.

"When you're all quiet, children," she began, devouring the words before her.

_Quiet!_ Even the canary held its breath while Mother read that wonderful paragraph.

It was a long one, and every word of it a tribute to our magnificent Chris, who had organised a small volunteer party, attacked a strong point, and captured fifteen of the enemy and a machine-gun, for which gallant act he had been awarded the M.C.

With lingering pride she went through it a second time, and only then did we see that she was staring at the paper, proudly and fiercely, through the handle of the hen-house key!

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THE MUSICAL CRITIC'S ORDEAL.