Chapter 3

"Keep the home fires burning!" I said to my wife on entering. "If need be, burn the banisters and the bills and my boot-trees and everything else beginning with a 'b.' Keep us thawed and unburst, or Fitz-Jones will feel he has scored a moral victory; he will strut cross-gartered, with yellow stockings, for the rest of his days."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Evangeline, "but Christabel and I" (Christabel is our general-in-command) "have been cosseting those pipes all day. Been giving them glasses of hot water and dressing them up in all our clothes. The bath-pipe is wearing my new furs and your pyjamas, and I've put your golf stockings on the geyser-pipe. I expect they'll all blow up. Come and look at the hot-water cistern."

The cistern looked dressy in Evangeline's fur coat. I added my silk hat to the geyser's cosy costume and a pair of boots on the bath-taps. But I was told not to be silly, so took them off again.

I suggested that the geyser should go to a fancy-dress ball as "The Winter of our Discontent," but was again told not to be silly.

Two days elapsed. The frost held. Then something happened. Fitz-Jones's lady-help came round at 7.30 A.M. to borrow a drop of water, as they were frozen up.

We lent them several drops, and I breathed again, and continued to breathe, with snorts of derision.

Three days later the thaw came.

As I passed Fitz-Jones's house I was grieved to hear a splashing sound. A cascade of water was spouting from his bathroom window. Fitz-Jones himself was running round and round the house like a madman, flourishing a water-key and trying to find the tap to the main.

I begged him to be calm, to control himself for his wife's sake, for all our sakes. I was most graceful and sympathetic about it.

But with the thaw Fitz-Jones had frozen again.

* * * * *

"Civil Servant requires house."--_Local Paper_.

On the other hand, many houses just now require a civil servant.

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* * * * *

PAST AND PRESENT.

(_AFTER_ T. HOOD.)

I remember, I remember. The line where I was borne, The little platform where the train Came rushing in at morn; I used to take a little seat Upon the little train, But now before I get at it It rushes out again.

I remember, I remember The 'buses red and white, The corner where they used to stop And take me home at night; They never gave a wink at me And shouted, "Full to-day," But now I often wish that one Would carry me away.

I remember, I remember The cabs we used to get, The growler from the "Adam Arms" (The horse is living yet); My spirit was impatient then, That is so meek to-day, And now I often think that that Would be the quickest way.

I remember, I remember The lights against the sky; I used to think that London would Be closer by-and-by; It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther from the Strand Than when I was a boy.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

CUE TYPES.

At the present moment, when the billiard professionals are contesting the palm and Mr. S.H. FRY has re-captured the title of amateur champion seven-and-twenty years after he first won it, there is such interest in the game that a kind of _Guide to Billiard Types_ cannot but be of value. Hence the following classification of players who are to be met with in clubs, country-houses or saloons by any ordinary wielders of the cue. Any reader who has ever endeavoured to master what may be called (by way of inversion) the Three Balls Art has power to add to their number.

The player who, as he drops behind in the game, says so often that it is months since h" touched a cue that your success is robbed of all savour.

The player who is funny and calls the red the Cherry, the Robin, the Cardinal or the Lobster.

The player who comes to the game as to a solemn ritual and neither smiles nor speaks.

The player who keeps on changing his cue and blames each one in turn for his own ineptitude.

The player who can use his left hand as well as his right: a man to be avoided.

The player who whistles while he plays. This is a very deadly companion.

The player who never has a good word for his opponent's efforts.

The player who congratulates you on every stroke: a charming antagonist.

The player who is always jolly whatever buffets he receives from fortune.

The player who talks about every one of his strokes.

The player who swears at most of them.

The player who doubts the accuracy of your scoring. Avoid this one.

The player who hits everything too hard. This is a very exasperating man to meet because fortune usually favours him. Either he flukes immoderately or he does not leave well. He is usually a hearty fellow with no sense of shame. Perhaps he says "Sorry;" but he adds, "It must have been on."

The player who hits everything too gently: the lamb as compared with the previous type, who is a lion. The lamb is good to play with if you prefer winning to a real contest.

The player who groans loudly when you make a fluke.

The player who is accustomed to play on a much faster table than this.

The player who calls the game Pills.

The player who calls it Tuskers.

The player who counts your breaks for you, but whether from interest or suspicion you are not sure.

The player who pots the white when he should and says nothing about it.

The player who pots the white when he should, with a thousand apologies.

The player who pots the white when he shouldn't, with a thousand apologies.

The player who is snappy with the marker.

The player who drops cigar ash on the cloth.

The player who hates to lose.

The player who would much rather that you won. This type is a joy to play with, unless towards the end he too patently ceases to try.

The player who, after the stroke, tells you what you ought to have done.

The player who talks to the balls, particularly to the red. "Now then, red," he says, "don't go into baulk;" or, "Stop just by that pocket;" or "White, don't go down."

The player who has just come from a spectacular match and keeps on trying to reproduce that shot of STEVENSON's.

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* * * * *

"In a licensing prosecution at ---- yesterday it was stated that one shilling was charged for a 'drop' of whisky of about one-sixth of a gallon."--_Daily Paper_.

In the interests of temperance we have suppressed the name of the town at which this bargain was secured.

* * * * *

CONTRACTS.

It was shortly after the commencement of the March offensive that it was decided to open new munition works in Glenwhinnie, N.B. The contract for building was offered to the well-known firm of McTavish, McTurk & McThom, of Auchterinver.

They accepted. With thanks.

And so it came about that, early in April, Glenwhinnie, N.B. became the scene of great activity. Men bearing strange instruments came and took extensive measurements; large bodies of gentlemen in corduroys, armed with powerful implements indicative of toil, arrived and smoked clay pipes; a special light railway was rapidly constructed, and bore colossal cranes and more gentlemen with clay pipes to the scene of action. And Mr. McTurk went in person to open the proceedings.

In a speech pulsating with patriotism, Mr. McTurk exhorted his men to do their best for their King and country, and show everybody what the firm of McTavish, McTurk & McThom could do. He then departed, leaving things in the hands of a dozen subordinates well tried and true ...

And so by the early days of June the work began ...

Came November 11th ...

November 20th it was decided that the new works in Glenwhinnie, N.B., would not be necessary after all.

What was to be done?

A special committee decided that the buildings should be demolished, and the contract was offered to the well-known firm of McClusky, McCleery & McClumpha, of Auchtermuchty.

They accepted. With thanks.

And so it came about that a second army of occupation descended upon Glenwhinnie, N.B. Fresh bodies of gentlemen in corduroys and armed with a rather different set of powerful implements arrived, and smoked clay pipes. Another light railway was rapidly constructed, and Mr. McCleery went in person to open the proceedings. In a speech full of fervour ...

And so by early January the work commenced.

By this time Messrs. McTavish and Co. had got the buildings well in hand. What was to be done? Leave their work uncompleted? Never! As Mr. McThom pointed out with considerable emotion to his partners, a contract was a contract all the world over.

If it ever came to be said that any firm he was interested in had failed to fulfil a contract, he for one (Angus McThom) would never hold up his head. The contract must be completed. It was a sacred duty. Besides--a minor point--what about payment?

So Mr. McTurk was despatched to Glenwhinnie, N.B., where in a speech of great power he pointed out the path of duty.

Amid scenes of enthusiasm the work went on apace.

And at the other end the well-known firm of McClusky, McCleery & McClumpha tore down the buildings with equal enthusiasm.

And that is the state of affairs just now in Glenwhinnie, N.B. What will happen when--as they are bound to do--the wreckers overtake the builders is a matter for speculation. Mr. McTurk may make another speech. Possibly Mr. McCleery may also exhort. There is promise of a delicate situation.

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* * * * *

THE STOICS OF THE SERPENTINE.

I, for my part, admire The snug domestic fire, The comfortable hearth, the glowing coals, Nor in the least aspire To emulate those strong heroic souls Who get up while it's dark And haste to chill ablutions in Hyde Park.

It can't be very nice To break the solid ice And, like a walrus, plunge into the deep; Then jump out in a trice, Dissevering the icicles as you leap, Even though the after-glow Of virtue melts the circumjacent snow.

And we of milder mould, And we who're growing old, Wish they would wash, like other folk, elsewhere; It makes us feel quite cold To think of them refrigerating there; We shiver in our beds; Our pitying molars chatter in our heads.

* * * * *

"THE DOVER PATROL.

VINDICTIVE MEN AS PROGRAMME SELLERS."--_Times_.

After what men have suffered from the flag-day sex, no wonder they get vindictive when they have a chance of retaliation.

* * * * *

"The causes of the engineers' strike in London are a little obscure, but the stoppage of the ten minutes allowed for tea before the 47-hour day was introduced brought the men out from one motor works."--_Provincial Paper_.

The great objection to a day of this length is that it gives so little scope for overtime.

* * * * *

"The Association for the Betterment of the Highlands and Islands of the Free Church of Scotland have prepared and presented to the Secretary for Scotland a memorandum on the reconstruction of the Highlands."--_Scots Paper_.

We have always thought that judicious thinning of the more congested views would help the tourist.

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"The men who had watched the daily search set up a cheer, ffi---- ----fl."--_Sunday Paper_.

We hope the cheer was more hearty than it appears at first sight.

* * * * *

A CONSULTATION.

_Persons of the dialogue_: Arthur Pillwell, M.D., _a fashionable physician;_ Henry Swallow, _a patient. The scene is laid in_ Dr. Pillwell's _consulting-room--a solid room, heavily furnished. A large writing-table occupies the centre of the scene. There are a few prints on the walls; two bookcases are solidly filled with medical books._ Dr. Pillwell _is seated at the writing-table. He rises to greet his patient._

_Dr. P._ Good morning, Mr. ---- (_He looks furtively at a notebook lying open on the table_) Mr.--ah--Swallow.

_Mr. S._ (_thinking to himself: Ought I to call this Johnnie "Doctor," or not? I'm told they're very particular about a thing like that. Like a fool, I never gave it a thought. Still, I can't go so very far wrong if I call him "Doctor." Besides, he's got to be called "Doctor" whether he likes it or not. Here goes._) (_Aloud_) Good morning, Dr. Pillwell. I've been troubled with some symptoms which I can't quite make out. I think I described them in my letter. (_To himself: They made several doctors Knights of the British Empire, and I'm almost certain Pillwell was one of them. Sir John Pillwell. Yes, it sounds all right; but I shan't call him "Sir John" because if he isn't a knight he might think I was trying to make fun of him and then he might retaliate by calling me "Sir Henry," and I should hate that_). (_Aloud_) The chief symptoms are a steady loss of appetite and a disinclination to work. I was recommended to consult you by my friend, Mr. Bolter, as I think I explained in my letter.

_Dr. P._ It's curious how prevalent these symptoms are at the present moment. I think, if you don't mind, I will begin by taking your temperature.

[_Produces clinical thermometer and gives it three good jerks._

_Mr. S._ (_to himself: There--I knew he'd want to put one of those infernal machines in my mouth. I simply loathe the feeling of them, and I'm always on the verge of crunching them up. Perhaps I ought to warn him._) (_Aloud_) I'm afraid I'm not much good as a thermometer man.

_Dr. P._ Oh, it's a mere trifle. All you've got to do is just to hold it under your tongue. There--it's in.

_Mr. S._ (_talking with difficulty_). Ish i' in 'e ri' plashe?

_Dr. P._ Yes. But don't try to talk while it's in your mouth. I've had patients who've bitten it in two. There--that's enough. (_Extracts it deftly from patient's mouth and examines it._) Hum, hum, yes. A point below normal. Nothing violently wrong _there_. (_He now performs the usual rites and mysteries._) I'll make you out a little prescription which ought to put you all right. And if you can spare a week, and spend it at Eastbourne, I don't think it will do you any harm.

_Mr. S._ (_To himself: I like this man. He doesn't waste any time. It's a curious coincidence that I should have been thinking this very morning of arranging a visit to the seaside. Now of course I've absolutely got to go. Can't disobey my new doctor, and wouldn't if I could. By Jove, I'd all but forgotten about the two guineas fee. Yes, the cheque's in my breast-pocket. Two guineas for the first visit. The rule is not to give it too openly, but to slip it on to a desk or table as if you were half ashamed of it. Where shall I put it so as to make sure he spots it out of the corner of his eye? Ha! on the blotting-pad, which I can just reach. Does it with his left hand, and feels a man once more._)

_Dr. P._ And here's your prescription.

_Mr. S._ Thank you a thousand times. (_To himself: He's edging up to the blotting-pad, and he'll have the cheque in another second._)

* * * * *

TO A CHINESE COOLIE.

O happy Chink! When I behold thy face, Illumined with the all-embracing smile Peculiar to thy celestial race, So full of mirth and yet so free from guile, I stand amazed and let my fancy roam, And ask myself by what mysterious lure Thou wert induced to leave thy flowery home For Flanders, where, alas! the flowers are fewer.

Oft have I marked thee on the Calais quay, Unloading ships of plum-and-apple jam, Or beef, or, three times weekly, M. and V., And sometimes bacon (very rarely ham); Or, where St. Quentin towers above the plain, Have seen thee scan the awful scene and sigh, Pick up a spade, then put it down again And wipe a furtive tear-drop from thine eye.

And many a Sabbath have I seen thee stride With stately step across the Merville Square, Beaming with pleasure, full of conscious pride, Breaking the hearts of all the _jeunes filles_ there; A bowler hat athwart thy stubborn locks And round thy neck a tie of brilliant blue, Thy legs in football shorts, thy feet in socks Of silken texture and vermilion hue.

Impassive Chu (or should I call thee "Chow"?), Say, what hast thou to do with all this fuss, The ceaseless hurry and the beastly row, The buzzing plane and roaring motor-bus, While far away the sullen Hwang-ho rolls His lazy waters to the Eastern Sea, And sleepy mandarins sit on bamboo poles Imbibing countless cups of China tea?

A year ago thou digged'st in feverish haste Against the whelming onset of the Hun A hundred miles of trench across the waste-- A year ago--and now the War is won; But thou remainest still with pick and spade, Celestial delver, patient son of toil! To fill the trenches thou thyself hast made And roll the twisted wire-in even coil.

But not for thee the glory and the praise, The medals or the fat gratuity; No man shall crown thee with a wreath of bays Or recommend thee for the O.B.E.; And thou, methinks, wouldst rather have it so, Provided that, without undue delay, They let thee take thy scanty wage and go Back to thy sunny home in Old Cathay;

Where never falls a shell nor bursts a bomb, Nor ever blows the slightest whiff of gas, Such as was not infrequent in the Somme, But on thy breast shall lean some slant-eyed lass; And she shall listen to thy converse ripe And search for souvenirs among thy kit, Pass thee thy slippers and thy opium pipe And make thee glad that thou hast done thy bit.

* * * * *

"SELF MADE MAN

Young widwep lady intelligent, wealthy wishing to remarie, wishes to make acquaintance in a Swiss Sportplace with a well situated english or american gentleman. Preference is given to a businessman, self made, with fine caracter aged 35-45 handsome as the lady is it too."--_Swiss Paper_.

We foresee a rush of profiteers to the Alps.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Finding _Midas and Son_ (METHUEN) described on the wrapper as a tale of "the struggle of a young man and his immense riches," I said to myself (rather like _Triplet_ in the play) that here was a struggle at which it would greatly hearten me to assist. As a fact, however, the conflict proved to be somewhat postponed; it took Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA more than two hundred pages to get the seconds out of the ring and leave his hero, _Deryk_, face to face with an income of something over a million a year. Before this happened the youth had become engaged to a girl, been thrown over by her, experienced the wiles of Circe and gone in more or less vaguely for journalism. Then came the income and the question what to do with it. Of course he didn't know how to use it to the best advantage; it is universal experience that other people never do. But _Deryk_ impressed me as more than commonly lacking in resource. All he could think of was to finance and share in an archæological venture (rather fun), and to purchase a Pall Mall club-house--apparently the R.A.C.--and do it up as a London abode for himself and his old furniture. Also for his wife, as fortune had now flung him again into the arms of his early love. But it is just here that the subtle and slightly cruel cleverness of Mr. McKENNA's scheme becomes manifest. The million-a-year had been at work on _Deryk_; it had slain his capacity for romance. In plain words, he found that he cared more for his furniture than for his _fiancée_, whose adoration soon bored him to shrieking point. So there you are. I shall not betray the author's solution of his own problem. I don't think he has proved his somewhat obvious point as to the peril of great possessions. _Deryk_ was hardly a quite normal subject, and _Idina_ (the girl) was a little fool who would have irritated a crossing-sweeper. But what he certainly has done is to provide some scenes of pre-war London not unworthy to be companion pictures to those in _Sonia_; and this, I fancy, will be good enough for most readers.

* * * * *

Its publishers call _The Pot Boils_ (CONSTABLE) a "provocative" book, and certainly the title at least deserves this epithet. But I decline to be drawn into the obvious retort. Besides, with all its faults, the story exhibits an almost flaunting disregard of those qualities that make the best seller. About the author I am prepared to wager, first, that "STORM JAMESON" is a disguise; secondly, that the personality behind it is feminine. I have hinted that the tale is hardly likely to gain universal popularity; let me add that certain persons, notably very young Socialists and experts in Labour journalism, may find it of absorbing interest. It is a young book, almost exclusively about young people, written (or I mistake) by a youthful hand. These striplings and maidens are all poor, mostly vain, and without exception fulfilled of a devastating verbosity. We meet them first at a "Northern University," talking, reforming the earth, kissing, and again talking--about the kisses. Thence they and the tale move to London, and the same process is repeated. It is all rather depressingly narrow in outlook; though within these limits there are interesting and even amusing scenes. Also the author displays now and again a happy dexterity of phrase (I remember one instance--about "web-footed Socialists ... dividing and sub-dividing into committees, like worms cut by a spade"), which encourages me to hope that she will do better things with a scheme of wider appeal. But to the general, especially the middle-aged general, the contents of her present _Pot_ will, I fear, be only caviare.

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