Chapter 3

_Stockholm, April 21st._ (From the Special Correspondent of _The Daily Thrill_.)--An extraordinary incident has come to light here. While the baggage of Mlle. Orloff, the famous _danseuse_, was being unloaded at the pier a heavy trunk dropped from the sling and crashed on to the wharf. Rendered suspicious by the lady's unaccountable agitation, Customs officers searched the trunk and found at the bottom of it six hundred million pounds in bank-notes and a Russian named Oilivitch, who at first claimed to be a scenic artist, but finally admitted that he had been appointed by Lenin ambassador to the Netherlands. Communication with Scotland Yard has now established the astounding fact that he is the Abram Oilivitch who in 1914 kept a fish-and-chips shop in Lower Tittlebat Street, Houndsditch. Oilivitch first came under suspicion when it was discovered that Litvinoff had been seen to purchase a haddock at his shop. He was also known to have contributed eighteen-pence to the funds of the Union of Democratic Control, but afterwards recovered the sum, claiming that he had paid it under the erroneous belief that the Union of Democratic Control was an institution for extending philanthropy to decaying fishmongers. After disappearing from sight for a while Oilivitch was next heard of in the Censor's Department, from which he was removed for suppressing a number of postal orders, but afterwards reinstated and transferred to the Foreign Office. He left the Foreign Office in June, 1918, as the result of ill-health, and was given a passport to Russia, where his medical adviser resided.

_Later_.--It now transpires that Oilivitch was also employed at the Admiralty, the War Office and the National Liberal Club. It has also been established that he was born in Düsseldorf and that his real name is Gustaf Schnapps. He is being detained on suspicion.

_Moscow, April 23rd._ (By special cable to _The Daily Blues_.)--The situation here, thanks to the preposterous conduct of the Allies, is desperate. Food is unobtainable and Trotsky has only one pair of trousers. Unless something is done the Soviet Committee will disintegrate and chaos ensue. Already grave unrest is manifesting itself in various parts of the country. Hackoff, the able Minister of Justice and Sociology, tells me that he has already raised the weekly executions of bourgeoisie from six to ten thousand, in a desperate endeavour to prevent disorder on the part of the populace. It is not too late for the Peace Conference to act. Trotsky admitted to me yesterday that, on receipt of fifty thousand pounds and a new pair of trousers as a guarantee of good faith, he would allow the Big Four to present their case to him. He is firm on the subject of an indemnity and the execution of Mr. Bottomley. Otherwise he is moderation itself. But the Allies must act at once. To-morrow will be too late.

ALGOL.

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* * * * *

INTELLIGENT ANTICIPATION.

"If births can be arranged would not mind taking charge of children in lieu of passage."

_Advt. in "Statesman." (Calcutta)._

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"It is unsafe even to curry favour with the French just to spite your own Prim Minister."

_Sunday Paper_.

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE has been called a lot of things in his time, but--prim!

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From a concert programme:--

"Recitatif et Grand air D'oedipe à Cologne."

It was after the long march to the Rhine, no doubt, that the hero acquired the nickname of "Swellfoot."

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THE DREAM TELEPHONE.

I go to bed at half-past six And Nurse says, "No more funny tricks;" She takes the light and goes away And all alone up there I stay.

And, as I lie there all alone, Sometimes I hear the telephone; I hear them say, "Yes, that's all right," Then, "Buzz, buzz, buzz," and then "Good-night."

And sometimes as I lie it seems That people come into my dreams; I hear a bell ring far away, And then I hear the people say:

"Have you a little girl up there, The room that's by the Nursery stair? We are the people that she knew Before she came to live with you.

"Tell her we know she bruised her knee In falling from the apple-tree; Tell her that we'll come very soon And find the missing tea-set spoon.

"She knows we often come and peep And kiss her when she's fast asleep; We think you'll suit her soon all right." Then, "Buzz, buzz, buzz," and then, "Good-night."

* * * * *

ANOTHER KNOCK FOR "THE TIMES."

"_WE_ ARE BACKING NORTHCLIFFE."

_Poster of "John Bull."_

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* * * * *

DOGS' DELIGHT.

SCENE.--_Interior of shop devoted to the sale of cutlery, leatherware and dogs' collars, leads, etc. Customers discovered lining the counter, others in background leading puzzled and suspicious dogs. The proprietor is endeavouring to serve ordinary purchasers, answer questions, punch holes in straps and give change simultaneously. A harried assistant in a white coat is dealing, as well as he can, with overwhelming demands for muzzles._

_Proprietor_. Yes, Sir, you'll find that razor-strop quite... Six holes wanted in that strap? (_To Assistant_) Right--leave it here and--Sorry, Madam, I can't attend to you just now.... Don't happen to have a _ten_-shilling note, do you, Sir? No? Well, I may be able to manage it for you.... If you'll speak to my assistant, Madam; _he_'s attending to the muzzling.

_The Owner of a subdued nondescript (calling Assistant)._ Will you ask this lady to kindly keep her dog from trying to kill mine, please?

_The Other Lady (whose dog, a powerful and truculent Airedale, seems to have conceived a sudden and violent dislike for the nondescript)._ Yours must have done _something_ to irritate him--he's generally such a good-tempered dog.

_Assistant (to the Airedale, which is barking furiously and straining at his lead)._ 'Ere, sherrup, will you? Allow me, Mum. I'll put 'im where he can 'ave 'is good temper out to 'imself. _(He hustles the Airedale to a small office, where he shuts him in--to his and his owner's intense disapproval. A fox-terrier in another customer's arms becomes hysterical with sympathy and utters ear-rending barks.)_ Oh, kindly get that dawg to sherrup, Mum, or we'll 'ave the lot of 'em orf; or could you look in some day when he's more collected?

_Another Lady_. I say, I want a muzzle for my dog.

_Assistant (sardonically)._ You surprise me, Mum! We're very near sold out, but if you'll let me 'ave a look at your dawg, p'r'aps--

_The Lady_. Oh, I haven't _brought_ him. Left him at Barnes.

_Assistant. 'Ave_ yer, Mum? Well, yer see, I can't run down to Barnes--not just now I can't.

_The Lady_. No, but I thought--he's rather a large dog, a Pekinese spaniel.

_Assistant_. Then I couldn't fit 'im if 'e was 'ere, cos 'e'd want a short muzzle and we've run out o' them.

_A Customer with a Pekinese_. Then will you find me a muzzle for _this_ one?

_Assistant (with resigned despair)._ You jest 'eard me say we 'ad no short muzzles, Mum. If you don't mind waiting 'ere an hour or two I'll send a man to the factory in a taxi to bring back a fresh stock--if they've got any, which I don't guarantee.

_The Customer with the Pekinese._ But I saw some leather muzzles in the window; one of those would do beautifully.

_Assistant._ I shall 'ave great pleasure in selling you one, Mum, on'y Gover'ment says they've got to be wire. 'Owever, it's _your_ risk, not mine. Well, since you ask me, I think you _'ad_ better wait.

_A Customer (carrying a large brown-and-white dog with lop ears and soulful eyes)._ I've been kept waiting here two hours, and I think it's high time--

_Assistant._ If you'll bring 'im along to the back shop, Mum, I _may_ have one left his size.

_A Lady with a lovely complexion and an unlovely griffon (to her companion)._ So fussy and tiresome of the Government bringing in muzzles again after all these years!

_Her Companion._ Oh, I don't _know_. We've had a mysterious dog running about snapping in our district for days.

_The Lady with the complexion._ Ah, but _this_ poor darling _never_ snaps, and, besides, he hasn't been used to muzzles in Belgium. You needn't _mention_ it, but I got a friend of mine to smuggle him over for me--such a _dear_ boy, he'll do anything I ask him to.

_Assistant (after attempting to fit the soulful-eyed dog with a muzzle and narrowly escaping being bitten)._ There, that's enough for _me_, Mum. Jest take that dawg out at once, please.

_Owner of the dog (which, having gained its point, affects an air of innocent detachment)._ I shall do nothing of the kind. It was the brutal way you took hold of her. The _gentlest_ creature! Why, I've _had_ her three years!

_Assistant._ I don't care if you've 'ad her a century. They're all angels as come 'ere; but I ain't going to 'ave _my_ thumb bit by no angels, so will you kindly walk out?

_Owner._ Without a muzzle? Never!

_Assistant._ Then I shall 'ave to call in a constable to make you. I'm not bound to sell you nothing.

_Owner (with spirit). Call_ a constable then! _I_ don't care. Here I stay till I get that muzzle.

_Assistant (giving up his idea of calling a constable)._ Then I should advise you to take a chair, Mum, as we don't close till seven.

_Owner (retreating with dignity)._ All _I_ can say is that I call it perfectly disgraceful. I shall certainly report your conduct; and I only hope you won't sell a single other muzzle to-day!

_Assistant._ If I didn't I could bear up. _(To a lady with an elderly Blenheim)_ If it's a muzzle, Mum--

_The Owner of the Blenheim_. That's just what I want to know. _Must_ he have a muzzle? You see, he's got no teeth, so he couldn't possibly bite anyone--now, _could_ he?

_Assistant. I_ dunno, Mum. You take 'im to see the Board of Agriculture. _They'll_ give you an opinion on 'im. _(To Staff Officer who approaches)_ Sorry, Sir, but our stock of muzzles--

_Staff Officer._ All I want is a new leather band for this wrist-watch. Got one?

_Assistant (with joy)._ Thank 'eaven I _'ave_! Gaw bless the Army!

F.A.

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* * * * *

THE REVOLT.

There is a cupboard underneath the stair Where moth and rust hold undisputed sway, And here is hid my old civilian wear, And my wife sits and plays with it all day, Since Peace is imminent and, I'm advised, Even the bard may be demobilised.

She is a woman who was clearly born To be the monarch of a helpless male; And when she says, "This overcoat is torn," "These flannel trousers are beyond the pale," "You can't be seen in any of those shirts," I acquiesce, but, goodness, how it hurts.

For they are rich with memories of Peace, The soiled habiliments my lady loathes. I do not long for trousers with a crease; I _do not want_ another crowd of clothes-- Particularly as you have to pay Seventeen guineas for a suit to-day.

We are but worms, we husbands; yet 'tis said, When the sad worm lies broken and at bay, There comes a moment when the thing sees red, And one such moment has occurred to-day; "Look at this hat," I said, "this old top-hat; I will not wear another one like that.

"This is the hat I purchased in the High, Still crude and young and ignorant of sin; I wooed you in this hat--I don't know why; This is the hat that I was married in; In it I walked on Sunday through the parks, And even then the people made remarks.

"Now it is dead--the last of all its line-- Nothing like this shall mar the poet's Peace; What have the nations fought for, wet and fine, If not that ancient tyrannies should cease? What use the Crowns of Europe coming croppers If we are still to be the slaves of 'toppers'?

"It speaks to me of many an ancient sore-- Of calls and cards and Sunday afternoon; Of hideous wanderings from door to door And choking necks and patent-leather shoon; 'The War is won,' as Mr. ASQUITH said, And all these evils are or should be dead.

"It moves me not that other men with wives Have fall'n already in the old abyss, Have let their women ruin all their lives And ordered new atrocities like this. President WILSON will have missed success If other men determine how I dress.

"Yonder there hangs the helmet of a Hun, And I will hang this horror at its side; Twin symbols of an epoch which is done, These shall remind our children----" My wife sighed, "You'll have to get another one, I fear;" And all I said was, "Very well, my dear."

A.P.H.

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COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

Notice in a cobbler's window:--

"Will customers please bring their own paper for repairs?"

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"Miss Carnegie wore a gown of white satin and point appliqué lace, with a lace veil falling from a light brown coiffeur almost to the end of the train."--_Daily Mirror_.

It doesn't say whether the light-brown coiffeur was a page or the best man.

* * * * *

From an account of the British sailors' reception in Paris:--

"Sous les clamations de la foule, les marins gagnent par les Champs-Elysées, la rue Royale et le boulevard Malesherbes, le Lycée Carnot, où M. Breakfast les attend."--_French Local Paper_.

Hospitality personified!

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AT THE PLAY.

"BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE."

The return of _Abe Potash_ and _Mawruss Perlmutter_ to London is not an event to be regarded indifferently. The light-hearted pair have evidently been through some anxious times. _Rosie Potash_ can never have been a very easy woman to live with. She has not improved. And now that she has infected _Ruth Perlmutter_ with her morbid jealousies the alert and as yet unbroken _Mawruss_ begins to know something of what his long-suffering, not to say occasionally abject, partner, _Abe_, has had to endure these many years.

It was bad enough in the dress business. But now they have gone into films it is indefinitely worse. Every reasonable person must know that you can't produce really moving pictures without an immense amount of late office hours, dining and supping out and that sort of thing, a fact which the _Rosies_ and _Ruths_ of this world can't be expected to appreciate. So that it would be as well, think the ingenuous _entrepreneurs_, if _The Fatal Murder_ were, so far as the ladies' parts are concerned, cast from members of the two households. Besides, what an excellent way of keeping the money in the family. However _The Fatal Murder_ is a dud; _Rosie_ and _Ruth_ are not the right shape; and film acting, with the necessary pep, is not a thing you can just acquire by wishing so.

What is wanted, says the voluble young hustler in the firm, who alone seems to know anything of the business, is real actresses as distinguished from members of the directors' families, and above all a good vampire. A vampire is the very immoral and under-dressed type of woman that wrecks hearts and homes, and without which no film with a high moral purpose is conceivable. You must have shadows to throw up the light. And on this principle all the uplift and moral instruction of that potent instrument of grace, the cinematograph, is based--a fact which will not have escaped the notice of cinema-goers.

When _Rita Sismondi_ appears in an evil Futurist black-and-white gown by Viola you can tell at once she is the goods. But naturally _Abe's_ first thought is, "What will _Rosie_ say?" His second, shared by _Mawruss_: "Hang _Rosie_! We shall both like this lady." Finances are not flourishing, but the crooked manager of the very unbusinesslike bank that is financing the P. and P. Film Co. harbours designs on the virtue of _Rita_, who has this commodity in a measure unusual with film vampires (or usual, I forget which), and is just a slightly adventurous prude out for a good time. He accordingly advances more money for _The Guilty Dollar_ on condition that _Rita_ be engaged, and yet more money on condition that she be not fired by any machinations of jealous wives.

_Rosie_, indeed, says a good deal when she turns up at a rehearsal and finds the vampire clad in the third of a gown hazardously suspended on her gracious shoulders by bead straps, and _Mawruss_ and _Abe_ demonstrating how in their opinion the kissing scenes should be conducted so as to make a really notable production. However, the vampire's film vices make the success of the company, and her private virtues bring all to a happy ending.

The story need hardly concern us. It is not plausible, which matters nothing at all. Mr. YORKE and Mr. LEONARD are the essential outfit, and it seems to me they are better than ever. One simply _has_ to laugh, louder and oftener than is seemly for a self-respecting Englishman. No doubt their authors, Messrs. GLASS and GOODMAN, give them plenty of good things to say, but it is the astonishing finish and precision of their technique which make their work so pleasant to watch. If it throws into awkward relief the amateurishness of some of their associates that can't be helped. Miss VERA GORDON'S _Rosie_ is a good performance, and Miss JULIA BRUNS, the vampire, seemed to me to make with considerable skill and subtlety a real character (within the limits allowed by the farcical nature of the scheme) out of what might easily have been uninvitingly crude.

T.

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OUR FRIEND THE FISH.

"What is a sardine?" was a question much before the Courts some few years ago, not unprofitably for certain gentlemen wearing silk, and the correct solution I never heard; but I can supply, from personal observation, one answer to the query, and that is, "An essential ingredient in London humour." For without this small but sapid fish--whatever he may really be, whether denizen of the Sardinian sea, immature Cornish pilchard, or mere plebeian sprat well oiled--numbers of our fellow-men and fellow-women, with all the will in the world, might never raise a laugh. As it is, thanks to his habit of lying in excessive compression within his tin tabernacle, and the prevalence in these congested days of too many passengers on the Tubes, on the Underground and in the omnibuses, whoever would publicly remove gravity has but to set up the sardine comparison and be rewarded.

Why creatures so remote from man as fishes--cold-blooded inhabitants of an element in which man exists only so long as he keeps on the surface; mute, incredible and incapable of exchanging any intercourse with him--why these should provide the Cockney, the dweller in the citiest City of the world, with so much of the material of jocoseness is an odd problem. But they do. Herrings, when cured either by smoke or sun, notoriously contribute to the low comedian's success. The mere word "kipper" has every girl in the gallery in a tittering ecstasy. But outside the Halls it is the sardine that conquers.

In one day this week I witnessed the triumph of the sardine on three different occasions, and it was always hearty and complete.

The first time was in a lift at Chancery Lane. It is not normally a very busy station, but our attendant having, as is now the rule, talked too long with the attendant of a neighbouring lift, we were more than full before the descent began. We were also cross and impatient, the rumble, from below, of trains that we might just us well be in doing nothing to steady our nerves.

But help came--and came from that strange quarter the mighty ocean, from Chancery Lane so distant! "Might as well," said a burly labourer (or, for all I know, burly receiver of unemployment dole)--"might as well be sardines in a tin!"

Straightway we all laughed and viewed our lost time with more serenity.

Later I was in a 'bus in Victoria Street, on its way to the Strand. As many persons were inside, seated or standing on their own and on others' feet, as it should be permitted to hold, but still another two were let in by the harassed conductress.

"I say, Miss," said the inevitable wag, who was one of the standing passengers, "steady on. We're more than full up already, you know. Do you take us for sardines?"

And again mirth rocked us.

Finally, that night I was among the stream of humanity which pours down Villiers Street from the theatres for half-an-hour or so between 10.40 and 11.10, all in some mysterious way to be absorbed into the trains or the trams and conveyed home. After some desperate struggles on Charing Cross platform I found myself a suffering unit in yet another dense throng in a compartment going West; and again, amid delighted merriment, some one likened us to sardines.

It is not much of a joke, but you will notice that it so seldom fails that one wonders why any effort is ever made to invent a better.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_

_Madam Constantia_ (LONGMANS) is a war story, but of an earlier and more picturesque war. A simple tale, I am bound to call it, revolving entirely round a situation not altogether unknown to fiction, in which the hero and heroine, being of opposite sides, love and fight one another simultaneously. Actually the scene is set during the American struggle for independence, thus providing a sufficiency of pomp and circumstance in the way of fine uniforms and pretty frocks; and the protagonists are _Captain Carter_, of the British service, and _Constantia Wilmer_, daughter of the American who had captured him. Perhaps you may recall that the identical campaign has already provided a very similar position (reversed) in _Miss Elizabeth's Prisoner_. It is only a deserved tribute to the skill with which Mr. JEFFERSON CARTER has told this adventure of his namesake to admit that I am left with an uncertainty, not usual to the reviewing experience, whether it is in fact a true or an imagined affair. In any event its development follows a well-trodden path. We have the captive, jealous in honour, susceptible and exasperatingly Quixotic, doubly enchained by his word and the charms of his fair wardress; the lady's conspicuous ill-treatment of him at the first, a slight mystery, some escapes and counterplots, and on the appointed page the matrimonial finish that hardly the most pessimistic reader can ever have felt as other than assured. Fact or fiction, you may spend an agreeable hour in watching the course of _Captain Carter's_ courtship overcoming its rather obvious obstacles.

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