Chapter 3

"A Verey brilliant one, Sir," asserted the Sub., giving a sample.

"This sort of slacker," said the Senior Captain bitterly, as with infinite toil he scraped the last of the glaze from the inside of the marmalade pot, "is the sort that doesn't realise that there's a war on."

"Don't you make any mistake," said the Major, "_he_ knows, poor devil! I'm going to write to him and say, 'When I think of the incessant strain of the trench warfare carried on with inadequate support by you civilians of military age against the repeated brutal attacks of tribunals, I marvel at the indomitable pluck you display. In your place I should simply jack it up, plead ill-health and get into the Army."

"I've got an idea," said the Junior Sub., joyously.

"Consolidate it quickly," said the Adjutant, "and prepare to receive counter-attacks. Yes?"

"I've never yet been allowed to explain _my_ side of that confounded affair of the revetments. I'll tell it all to Cuthbert. _He_'ll sympathise with me. I'll tell him all that the C.O. said and all that I should have _liked_ to say to the C.O. To pour out one's troubles into a travelled literary bosom--what a relief!"

"That's rather an idea," said the Senior Captain. "I nurse a private grief of my own beneath a camouflage of--of persiflage. I think I shall ask Cuthbert's opinion, as an artist, of a brother artist who himself does perfectly unrecognisable sketches of farm-yards"--he waved a golden-syrup spoon towards the Colonel and the manure-heap--"and yet demands a finnicking and altogether contemptible realism in the matter of trench maps. Pass the honey, please."

"It seems to me," said the Major reflectively as he rose from table, "that 'Artist, 33, literary, travelled, mentally isolated' (one) is going to be buried beneath the weight of the world's grievances--or the grievances of this battalion, at any rate."

"It's the same thing," observed the Senior Captain gloomily. "Isn't there any preserved ginger? Lord, what a Mess!"

Weary Williams, a time-expired Second Lieutenant--a ticket-of-leave man, as it were, without a ticket-of-leave--who had once commanded the remnants of two companies with honour but not with acknowledgment, poised a fountain-pen, inquiring casually, "_What_ was it the C.O. said about the destruction of Ypres? Ah, yes" (and he began to write), "_a Brobdingnagian act of brachycephalic brutality_...."

* * * * *

At breakfast about a week later the Colonel seemed to be enjoying his immense pile of correspondence so heartily that many of the Mess, comparatively letterless as they were, directed glances of injured interest towards him--of rather deeper interest than was warranted by military discipline or civilian breeding (which are, of course, the same virtue in different forms).

Then, presently, as he put down one letter and opened another, the Major was seen to stiffen and the Junior Sub. to wilt. The attention of the table became as fixed and frigid as that of the midnight sentry at a loophole. The Colonel toyed happily with another letter (while the Senior Captain made a careful census of the grounds at the bottom of his coffee-cup), took the range of the manure-heap outside the window from the angles of the table-legs, rose, and departed with his correspondence, summoning Williams to follow him.

Outside the Weary One waited respectfully for the Colonel to speak.

"So you saw through my camouflage?" said the latter thoughtfully.

"Yes, Sir."

"How did you do it?"

"Well, Sir, to mention only the internal evidence--an 'Artist'"--Williams waved his hand expressively towards the manure-heap; "'thirty-three'--one of the youngest C.O.'s in the Army, I believe?" He bowed politely.

"Ha!" said the Colonel.

"'Literary'--I remember your stopping Captain Jones's leave for a split infinitive in a ration return. 'Travelled'--you have travelled in Turkey, I think, Sir?"

The Colonel, who had been blown out of a trench at Krithia, nodded shortly.

"'Mentally isolated'--I'm afraid, Sir, our Mess doesn't afford very much for a mind like yours to bite on. I'm afraid, too, that such correspondence as--as mine, for instance--can hardly be called either brilliant or interesting."

"I don't know," said the Colonel. "That was a very good bit about the destruction of Ypres. What was it?--Ha, yes--_A Brobdingnagian act_--"

"--_of brachycephalic brutality_, Sir. But that was not original."

"If you can't be original yourself," said the Colonel kindly, "the next best thing is to quote from those who can."

"That's what I thought, Sir."

"Ha! Well, of course the writers' anonymity must be observed--that's a point of honour. Still, I think, Williams--I have been asked to recommend an intelligent officer for a staff appointment--that if I were to name _you_ I should not go far wrong. And--er--if you are ever asked for an opinion of the destruction of Ypres--"

"I shall remember to give the reference, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

W.B.

* * * * *

A TROPICAL TRAGEDY.

On the tesselated slopes Of the Isle of Tapioca, Where the azure antelopes Haunt the valley of Avoca, Dwelt the maid Opoponax, Only child of Brex Koax, Far renowned in song and saga, Ruler of ten million blacks, Emperor of Larranaga.

She could play the loud jamboon With a fervour corybantic; She could hurl the macaroon Far into the mid-Atlantic; More self-helpful than a SMILES, She could ride on crocodiles, Catch the fleetest flying-fishes; She could cook, like EUSTACE MILES, Wondrous vegetarian dishes.

In the cool of eventide, Gracefully festooned with myrtle, In her sampan she would glide Forth to spear the snapping turtle; And her voice was blinding sweet, Piercing as the parrakeet, Fruity as old Manzanilla, With a _soupçon_ of the bleat Of the African gorilla.

Eligible swains in shoals, Victims to her fascination, Toasted her in flowing bowls Far beyond all computation; There was valorous Hupu, Xingalong and Timbalu, And the peerless Popocotl, Who had gained a triple blue For his prowess with the bottle.

But Opoponax, whose mind Soared above her native tutors, Imperturbably declined All these brave and dusky suitors. Finally she hailed a tramp And, contriving to decamp To the shores of Patagonia, Finding them too chill and damp, Perished of acute pneumonia.

In an even darker doom Tapioca's greatness ended, For her father to the tomb By swift leaps and bounds descended; Xingalong and Timbalu Both were slaughtered by Hupu, Who was slain by Popocotl, Who himself soon after slew With an empty whisky bottle.

Every tale, we often hear, Ought to have a wholesome moral; And this truth is just as clear In the land of palm and coral; For this tragedy in tones Louder than a megaphone's Warns us that two things are risky, If you dwell in torrid zones-- Change of climate, love of whisky.

* * * * *

WHAT TO DO WITH OUR SPARE TEETH.

From the window of an emporium of ivory articles:--

"CUSTOMERS' OWN TUSKS MOUNTED."

* * * * *

"Daily morning housework; wanted at once, temporarily respectable person."--_Middlesex County Times_.

Everything is temporary in war-time.

* * * * *

From a drapery firm's advertisement:--

"We are the hub-bub of the Universe."

A distinct infringement of the KAISER'S prerogative.

* * * * *

"The pilot of the Sopwith single-seater aeroplane dropped his bombs and made off safely through a hail of anti-aircraft shells, but not before his observer had been wounded in the arm."--_Daily Express_.

It is inferred that the observer, in default of other accommodation, was seated upon the pilot's knee.

* * * * *

"Many an Englishman who disliked hunting or shooting in July, 1914, would have cheerfully pressed a button if he could thereby kill 100,000 Germans of military age in July, 1915."--_The English Review_.

But then, of course, there is no close time for Germans.

* * * * *

"We were pleased to meet here lately Captain ----, R.E., who has been in France since near a couple of years and has seen considerable service in H.M. forces. He left last week en route for la belle Francaise. We wish the gallant officer all future military success."--_Scotch Paper_.

Our best wishes for the lady, too.

* * * * *

"We have sunk more German submarines than ever before. The Admiralty has begun to see its way to reduce the danger to proportions, normal and negotiable, like other dangers. If that is done within the next months the British flee will have gained the most memorable, though the least evident, victory in all its annals."--_Observer_.

Good old insect! But what an odd way to spell it.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)

Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA, with the blushing honours of _Sonia_ still fresh upon him, has now turned his pen to a tale of farcical adventure, the result being _Ninety-Six Hours' Leave_ (METHUEN), and I could find it in my heart to regret it. Because, to speak frankly, the present volume will do little to add to the reputation so deservedly won by the other. It is a tangle of complications, which, since they have nothing solid to rest upon, begin by baffling, and end by boring, the reader who strives to keep pace with them. A young officer, wishful to dine at a smart hotel and having no appropriate clothes, is struck with the idea of pretending to be a foreign royalty, and thus incapable of sartorial indiscretion. And, as all sorts of assassins and undesirable aliens happened to be waiting about to kill the man whose style he borrowed, you can make a fair guess at the subsequent action. There is much dialogue, most of it sparkling, though even here I have to report criticism from a young friend to whom I introduced the story. He said, "People don't talk like that really." Which happens to be undeniably true. Thus, while giving Mr. McKENNA credit for an active invention and some really writty turns of phrase, I fear I must repeat my warning that as a _farceur_ he is below his best form.

* * * * *

The clever lady who elects to call herself "RICHARD DEHAN" has already secured a deserved reputation as a writer of short stories. Her new book, _Under the Hermes_ (HEINEMANN), gives us a further selection of tales of various lengths, from one that is not quite a novel to others that are as brief as ten pages. The themes and settings are equally varied; but all--or almost all--show the writer at her best in the vigorous, swift and exciting development of some dramatic situation. The exception, I may say at once, is the title-tale, to my mind a stilted and--in a double sense--obviously "studio piece," quite unworthy of its position at the opening of so attractive a volume, where indeed it might easily discourage a questing reader. "Mr. DEHAN" is far more fairly represented by such brilliant little miniatures of historical romance as (to select three at random) "A Speaking Likeness," "A Game of Faro" and "The Vengeance of the Cherry Stone"--slight sketches ranging from France of the Revolution to mediæval Bologna, but each most effective in its vivid colouring and well-handled climax. Since one of these has lingered for many years in my recollection from some else-forgotten magazine, I suspect that most of the tales in the volume may be making a second appearance. If so, it is in every way deserved.

* * * * *

_Trench Pictures from France_ (MELROSE) is by the late Major WILLIAM REDMOND, M.P., and _The Ways of War_ (CONSTABLE) is by the late Professor T.M. KETTLE, M.P. Both these books are memorials raised to their authors by the pious zeal of relations and friends who thought it shame that so much nobility of purpose and generous ardour should go unrecorded in a tribute more permanent than the fleeting memories of contemporary survivors. Both WILLIE REDMOND and TOM KETTLE were Irishmen and members of the Nationalist Party and were to that extent foes of the British Government; yet, when they were compelled to look the Prussian menace in the face, neither the older man nor the younger hesitated for a moment. Each, though there were many reasons that might have pleaded against such a course, "joined up" in an Irish regiment, each in due time went to France and each made the supreme sacrifice, falling with his face to the foe. Neither doubted for a moment that he was serving the cause of Ireland in fighting against Prussianism and all that it implies. Their enthusiastic approval of the justice of our cause should be to us a great assurance. I knew them both and can say with the most complete sincerity that I never knew two men better loved by all who had to do with them or more worthy of this universal affection. It is in every way right that they should be commemorated for future generations. WILLIE REDMOND'S book consists of a series of sketches of the War contributed by him to _The Daily Chronicle_. They are written with great charm and, even in the gloomiest surroundings, reflect the sunny nature of the man. There is a most appreciative biographical memoir by E.M. SMITH-DAMPIER, and in an appendix will be found the memorable and splendid speech delivered by WILLIE REDMOND in the House of Commons on March 7th of this year--a true salutation in view of death. KETTLE'S book is in the main a reprint of articles that reveal a brilliant and versatile mind. Mrs. KETTLE contributes a very interesting and sympathetic account of her gallant husband's life. It would have been impossible for such a man not to have hated the German tyranny.

* * * * *

Mr. STACY AUMONIER takes for his theme the development of a clever neurotic, _Arthur Gaffyn_, who stands, in relation to normal life and normal feelings, _Just Outside_ (METHUEN)--a common modern type, perhaps a commoner type in all ages than the obvious records show. The author handles with real subtlety the phases of Arthur's marriage with a woman much older than himself, a marriage in which the hunger of the woman for love was a greater factor than the not deeply stirred passion of the man. Then, with the appearance of the destined mate, beauty and youth and desire carry the day against duty, but neither callously nor flippantly. The insight and sympathy displayed in the analysis of motive are remarkable. The author has a real gift for portraiture. In particular he touches in his minor folk with extraordinarily deft defining lines. Perhaps in general there is a little hesitancy in craftsmanship, a slight quavering between the fashionable modern realism and an older romanticism. But the seriousness of his artistic intention, the solidity of his work (which is by no means to say stodginess, quite the contrary) will commend Mr. AUMONIER to all who care to listen to people who have the one thing necessary, something to say; and the other thing desirable, a pleasant way of saying it.

* * * * *

In its quiet unobtrusive way _When Michael Came to Town_ (HUTCHINSON) is a most excellent specimen of Madame ALBANESI's art. No sound of war is to be heard in it, and when I think how completely some of our novelists have failed when trying to deal with contemporary events I cannot be too thankful that this novel is laid in a period before the Germans became an uncivilised nation. _Olive_, the heroine, a delightful girl, is the supposititious child of _Sir James Wenborough_, whose wife, in his absence and without his knowledge, secured her as a substitute for their own child, who died at its birth. The secret is disclosed by an unscrupulous minx, who uses the knowledge she has obtained to push her way into the _Wenborough_ household. Men are not Madame ALBANESI'S strongest points, but in _Roderick Guye_ and _Michael Wenborough_ we have well-contrasted characters, and the worst that can be said of them is that they belong to rather stock types. Altogether a book which many people will describe as "perfectly sweet;" but, because of its sympathetic qualities and sound workmanship, it deserves a more distinctive label.

* * * * *

When the lean brown hero with the hawk lip extends an arm of steel from the six-cylinder Rolls-Royce in which he is lounging and snatches the beautiful mannequin from between the very jaws of an omnibus, we realise that we are in the presence of Romance in its purest form. A spin in the Park and a cosy dinner in a Soho restaurant are quite sufficient to convince hero and heroine that they are each other's own. Some novelists would let it go at that, but not Mr. ARTHUR APPLIN, who has only got to chapter II, and wishes to give us value for our money. What's to come is, as SHAKSPEARE says, still unsure, but apparently the heroine, who has gone to break the happy news to a poor but respectable aunt in Devonshire, is met at the country station by a chauffeur, who calls her "Lady Alice" and waves her towards a large Limousine. She knows she isn't Lady Alice and has no car to meet her, but she hops in nevertheless. She doesn't know where she is going, but she is on her way. There is a smash, and when the heroine comes to she is being called Lady Alice in an ancestral castle. Everything has been obliterated from her memory, including her own identity and that of the hero, and the author can now make a fresh start. If you wish to know how it all ends you must get _The Woman Who Was Not_ (WARD, LOCK), but there is no compelling reason why you should.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AIR-RAID FASHIONS AT MANCHESTER.

"Monday commences the final week of Sir Thomas Beecham's SEASON OF NIGHTY PROMENADE CONCERTS".--_Manchester City Press_.

* * * * *

"WENSLEYDALE BLUE-FACED SHEEP-BREEDERS' SHOW."

_Yorkshire Post_.

We cannot conceive why these breeders should look blue with prices at their present height.

* * * * *

WAR-TIME FRUGALITY.

"Before an interested and applauding public on the verandah of the Club-house Mrs. MacDonald, who had also provided tea, distributed the cups and other insignia of victory to the successful competitors."--_Standard (Buenos Aires)_.