Chapter 2

I finished all I had to say and relapsed into an expectant silence. The Sister returned after a time, read the instrument and retired without a word. As she passed my bed I saw out of the corner of my eye that Ellis was watching feverishly. An inspiration seized me. I stopped her, and in a low voice asked if she had fed her rabbits. Sister isn't allowed to keep rabbits, but she does. As I hoped, she put a finger to her lips, nodded and walked away.

"Poor old man," I murmured vaguely to the ward in general. "A hundred-and-seven and still rising! Poor old Ellis!"

Ellis gave a little moan and collapsed under the bedclothes.

An hour later Burnett went his round. Burnett isn't the doctor, at least not the official one. I must tell you something about Burnett.

He is the grandfather of the ward. Though quite a young man he has grown fat through long lying in bed. He entered hospital, I understand, towards the end of 1914, suffering from influenza. Since then he has had a nibble at every imaginable disease, not to mention a number of imaginary ones as well. Regularly four times a day he would waddle round the ward in his dingy old dressing-gown, discussing symptoms with every cot. In exchange for your helping of pudding he would take your temperature and let you know the answer, and for a bunch of grapes he would tell you the probable course of your complaint and the odds against complete recovery. No one seemed to interfere with him. You see, Burnett was no longer a case; he was an institution.

He spent a long time by Ellis's bedside. I suspect Ellis wasn't feeling much like pudding at the moment. I couldn't hear very well what was going on, but Ellis was chattering as only Ellis can, and the comfortable Burnett was apparently soothing him with an occasional "All right, old man. I'll see what I can do for you."

At length the grapes were all consumed and the huge form of Burnett loomed above me.

"Why, Mr. L----," said the soothing voice, "I don't want to alarm you, but really--"

"Really what?" I cried, starting up in bed at the gravity of his tone.

"Well, you know--your colour; I perhaps--"

He fumbled in the folds of his voluminous gown and produced a small metal mirror. Then he seemed to change his mind and put it back again.

"I'd better not," he said softly to himself, and then louder to me, "Have you got a wife--or perhaps a mother?"

I am no coward, but I confess I was trembling by this time.

"Why?" I cried. "Do you think I ought to send for them?"

"Send for them?" he echoed. "_Send for them?_ And you in the grip of C.S.M.! It would be sheer madness--murder!"

The cold sweat stood out upon my brow but I kept my head.

"Have an apple, won't you, Mr. Burnett?"

He selected the largest and began to munch it in silence--silence, that is, as far as talking was concerned.

"Tell me," I stammered; "wh--what is C.S.M.? And may I have a look at myself?"

He cogitated. "Shall I?" he muttered. "Yes, I think he ought to know." Then quite quietly, accompanied by the core of the apple, there fell from his lips the fatal words "Cerebro-spinal meningitis."

At the same time he handed me the glass and selected the next best apple.

I looked at myself. My hair stood straight on end; my face was whitish-yellow, my eyes blazed with unmistakable fever. A three-days' beard enhanced the horrible effect.

"Have you any pain--there?" One of his large soft hands gripped my side and pinched it hard, the other selected the third best apple.

"Yes," I groaned, "I _had_ pain there."

"Ah!" he shook his head. "And there?" He sat down heavily on my right ankle. He is a ponderous man.

"Agony," I moaned.

"Ah! And something throbbing like a gong in the brain?" he inquired, tapping me on the head with the metal mirror.

I nodded dumbly. He rose, shrugging his shoulders.

"All the symptoms, I'm afraid. That's just how it took poor old Simpson. He had this very cot--let me see, back in '16, I suppose. I had it very slightly afterwards--it was touch and go; I was the only one they pulled through--but I only had it _very_ slightly, you understand--not like that. But cheer up, old man. I've been told that a fellow got through it in the next ward--of course he's an idiot now, but he didn't _die_. I don't suppose you'll be wanting the rest of these apples, will you? All right, don't mention it;" and he passed on to the next cot.

When the proper doctor came round a few minutes later (Burnett says) he found his own thermometer quite inadequate and had to borrow the one that registers the heat of the ward. When he took it out of my mouth it wasn't far short of boiling-point, and he wrote straight off to _The Lancet_ about it; also they had to get one of those lightning calculator chaps down to count my pulse.

Long before I came to, Ellis had been discharged, the ward had filled up with fresh cases (except Burnett, of course), and the armistice had been signed.

When I was well enough they handed me a letter which Ellis had left for me.

"DEAR L----" (it ran),--"Yes, the rabbits have had their food. The biggest of them swallowed it all most satisfactorily.

"Your loving ELLIS."

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* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE on not the least surprising of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S appointments:--

"How now, Woolsack? what mutter you?" _I. Henry IV._, ii. 4, 148.

* * * * *

ANOTHER HEATHEN CHINEE.

We were discussing "slim" practices and the prevalence of the basic desire to get something for nothing.

"If honesty," said one of the company, "is truly the best policy, then there is a surfeit of the worst politician."

"Yes," said another, "and not only in the West. I assure you, speaking as the director of an insurance concern in Shanghai, that you have no monopoly in inventive chicanery. Insurance people must always be on their guard, but never more so than among the guileless Celestials. I can give you a case in point. Not long ago we received a visit from the wife of one of our policy-holders, saying that her husband was dead and claiming the money.

"'Certainly,' we said, 'the payment will be made, but only after the usual investigations,' and sent her back to her village. It is not that we were more suspicious of her than of anyone else, but such formalities are essential. In this case they turned out to be peculiarly necessary, for her husband was no more dead than you are.

"When she got back to him and explained that there is always 'a catch somewhere' in the insurance business, he took alarm. A prosecution might be awkward, and at any cost must be evaded. He therefore played a masterly card by writing the company a personal letter of explanation, which he pretended was despatched before his wife's return. The original is in Chinese, but I have an English translation in my pocket-book."

The pursuit of odd examples of the epistolary art being one of the principal occupations of my life, I secured a copy of the document, which in English runs thus:--

"_To the ---- Insurance Company_, _Shanghai_.

"DEAR SIR,--When I died of a disease that came on suddenly an intelligent doctor was at once asked for. He forced some fluid into my mouth and made some injection on my body. He thus succeeded in bringing me to life again.

"The beneficiary came to your place yesterday. What did she say? Everything will be discussed after her return.

"Kindly give me your valuable assistance and reply by post.

"Yours faithfully, TSIN KOH."

* * * * *

JOSHUA.

On July 1st, 1916, the regiment, in company with several other regiments and sundry pieces of ordnance, attacked the Hun in the neighbourhood of the river Somme. A fortnight later the officers of B Company found themselves in a dug-out in a certain wood. It is now time to introduce Joshua.

Joshua was at that time our junior subaltern, and we called him Joshua after Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, on account of his artistic attainments, though portraits by the hand of our Joshua tended rather more in the direction of caricature than those I have seen by his illustrious namesake. Upon the wall of that dug-out in that wood, for instance, was displayed a crude though unmistakable portrait of our revered Brigadier, a fact of which we were but too conscious when our revered Brigadier paid us one night an unexpected visit.

A short conversation ensued, during which the Brigadier gave rein to a reprehensible passion he had for inquiring into the _vie intime_ of junior officers. Just as he was leaving he turned to Joshua.

"Why do they call you 'Joshua'?" he asked. Joshua hesitated. His eyes rested for an infinitesimal moment on the portrait on the wall, then on the face of the Brigadier. He cursed me inwardly (as he told me afterwards) for having addressed him by this name in such strident tones just as the Brigadier was entering the dug-out; but for the credit of the British Officer I am happy to say that Joshua kept his head and showed that ready wit in an emergency which is the soldier's greatest virtue.

"Well, Sir," he said, "I--I think it's because JOSHUA was a great warrior."

"Ah, I hadn't thought of that," said the Brigadier as he took his departure, while I subsided in a fainting condition on to the floor of the dug-out and asked for brandy.

That night Joshua stopped a piece of shell with his head. We managed to get him back, but I did not like the look of him and I quite thought that his number was up. Before we pushed on next day I took down the portrait of the Brigadier and slipped it into my pocket-book. I had liked old Joshua well, and I thought I would keep this as a memento not only of his art but of his ability in spontaneous untruth.

That was, as I have said, in 1916. Much water had flowed between the banks of the river Somme before, in August, 1918, Joshua and I found ourselves in that neighbourhood once more.

But we did find ourselves there, for Joshua's head had proved tougher than we thought, and with an enthusiasm beyond praise he had recently wangled his return to the old regiment from a cushy Base job, and was helping to hasten what we hoped and firmly believed was Fritz's final "strategical retirement."

We had had three strenuous days, and now, while others carried on the good work, we were resting by chance in that very wood of which I have already spoken. I wandered forth at eventide over the familiar ground, which had lain for some time well within the German lines, and came suddenly upon the entrance to our old dug-out! I went down into it and found that, apart from a litter of empty ration-tins, it was unaltered. Then suddenly I bethought me of the caricature which still lay in my pocket-book. I had never told Joshua that I had kept it. It seemed a maudlin thing to have done and moreover might have given him an exaggerated idea of my opinion of his art. I took out the picture and looked at it. It had weathered two years of warfare fairly well. Then with an indelible pencil I scrawled below it--

"_Sehr gute Bilde. F. Biermeister, 3 Preuss. Gard,_"

a hazy recollection of school-German leading me to believe that "_Sehr gute Bilde_" meant "Very good picture." Then I pinned it up on the wall and went in search of Joshua.

"Do you remember that dug-out we used two years ago?" I asked when I had found him.

"I do," said Joshua. "It was there that I told old Turnips I was called Joshua after the O.C. Israelites at Jericho."

"That's the place," said I. "It's somewhere round here." And I led him unostentatiously in the right direction.

"There it is," he cried. "It all comes back to me. Got a flash-lamp?"

He disappeared below and I sat down and waited--waited for sounds of astonishment and joy from the bowels of the earth. But I waited in vain. Silence reigned. Then Joshua's head was thrust upwards.

"Biermeister!" he called. "You, Biermeister of the 3rd Prussian Guard, come away below here! There is one, Sir Joshua Reynolds, an artist, would have a word with you."

I shook my head sadly. Another of my little jokes had proved a dud. But I did not go below. Joshua is so rough sometimes.

* * * * *

SICCIS OCULIS.

To weep for the fallen who saved us is meet, But it causes no kind of surprise That RAMSAY MacDONALD'S and SNOWDEN'S defeat Has dried many millions of eyes.

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THE WEARY TITAN.

Weary of the labours of war-winning-- Downing mandarins in Downing Street, Fixing brands of CAIN upon the sinning, Bingeing up the Army and the Fleet; Weary of dislodging Kings and Kaisers, Wearier of his friends than of his foes, Prompted by his medical advisers He has wandered South to seek repose.

There to ease his cranial distension He will lead the simple life, incog., Far from international dissension Or upheavals of the under-dog; Leaving all unread his weekly _Hansard_, Studying only novels at his meals, Leaving correspondence all unanswered, Deaf to FOCH'S passionate appeals.

There, no longer rashly overtasking Powers impaired by superhuman strain, But amid exotic foliage basking, He will rest his monumental brain, Till refreshed, dæmonic and defiant, Clad in dazzling amaranthine sheen, He emerges like a godlike giant Once again to dominate the scene.

There, recumbent in a chair with rockers, Oft will he indulge in forty winks, Or, attired in well-cut knickerbockers, Decorate the landscape on the links; Or, with arms upon his bosom folded, He will stand as motionless as bronze, While his features, classically moulded, Hourly grow more like NAPOLEON'S.

What the Conference will do without him Hardly can we venture to surmise; Delegates who would not dare to flout him Manifest their joy without disguise. Freed from his relentless catechizing WILSON goes out golfing all the day; Printers, save for common advertising, Sadly put their pica type away.

Still, although this act of self-seclusion May create irreparable schism, Whelm the Conference in dire confusion And produce a cosmic cataclysm; Let us, musing on his past achievement, Bear with calm our soul-consuming grief And condole in their supreme bereavement With his Staff, deserted by their Chief.

* * * * *

"COWS, PIGS, ETC.

"GIRL (15), leaving school, desires position in nice office or bank."--_Local Paper_.

Much virtue in "etc."

* * * * *

"Mrs. Wilson waved her bouquet of orchards in salutation."--_Local Paper._

So there is every reason to believe that the PRESIDENT'S visit was not fruitless.

* * * * *

"No one under 4ft. 9in. has any chance of securing admission to the London police."--_Cork Constitution_.

This will be a blow to some of our "bantams."

* * * * *

"Whether the rest of the journey be long or short, he would follow the same paths and continue to stand up for righteousness and liberty for the memocracy of this country."--_Scotsman_.

Is this another name for the woman's vote?

* * * * *

"The Telegraph Department notify that the delay in ordinary traffic to Madras is now normal."--_Indian Paper_.

In confirmation of the accuracy of the above statement an Indian correspondent writes that telegrams now reach their destination nearly as soon as letters.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A CONFESSION.

TO THE RESIDENTS OF CHISWICK MALL.

There is a race of gentle folk Who dwell in Chiswick, well content In houses agéd as the oak, But not unpleasing at the rent; They look across the sunny stream As Dr. JOHNSON used to look, And all their lives are one long dream, Though _none_ of them has got a cook, And there are whispers in the camp, "It's jolly, but it _is_ so damp."

But they are _not_ exciting. No; And you would find that Chiswick Mall At half-past nine at night or so Is far from being Bacchanal; For, though there come from Chiswick Eyot Soft sounds of something going on Where the wild herons congregate And revel madly with the swan, You might suppose the people dead. You mustn't; they have gone to bed.

No extra forces of police Were needed here at Armistice; No little European Peace Could tamper with a peace like this. Yet on the Eve of this New Year A strange degrading thing occurred; A startled Chiswick woke to hear Such noise as she has never heard, The sound of dance and singing at About eleven. O my hat!

Yes, it was bad. But what is worse They know not yet who broke the code, And the dread Chiswick Fathers' curse Still hovers sadly, unbestowed Nay, there are wild false tales about And hideous accusations made; Men say old Piper led the rout With that young fellow from "The Glade," While old maids murmur with a tear, "I'm told it was the Rector, dear."

And since I would not see this shame Be fastened on to guiltless men, And hear that there are those who blame The Editor at Number 10, As having found the evil ones And harboured them in his abode And, after stimulants and buns, Dragooned them, shouting, down the road And carried on till two or three-- I say, O spare him; _it was ME!_

A.P.H.

* * * * *

"Lord Robert Cecil, who has been appointed to take charge of League of Notions questions at the peace conference."--_Provincial Paper_.

We don't like this cynicism.

* * * * *

"There is a 'suave qui peut' at the underground stations during the busiest hours."--_Provincial Paper_.

Personally we had not noticed it, being more struck (in the tenderer portions of our anatomy) by the "fortiter in re."

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"The ---- Mosquito Destroyer Coil. 1s. Perfectly Safe for mosquitoes."--_Advt. in Burmese Paper_.

* * * * *

"MORE LATE TRAINS. IMPROVED SERVICE ON G.E.R."--_Times_.

An aggrieved East Anglian writes to know how the trains can be made later than they are.

* * * * *

"WELCOME TO PRESIDENT WILSON, HONOURED CHIEF OF THE GREAT AMERICAN DEMOCRACY,

"To which we are attached by traditional lies."--_Headline in Italian Paper_.

Once more _tradditore_ has turned _traditore._

* * * * *

"At the doorway stood a Red Cross doctor, hypodermic needle in hand, ready to administer an injunction to relieve sufferers of their pain."--_Daily Paper_.

We thought it was only lawyers who believed in the tranquillizing effect of an injunction.

* * * * *

"FOR SALE.--A Chest C.B. Gelding. Aged 41/2 years. Height 14 feet 3 inches, Veterinary Certificate of soundness. Schooled since August. Very promising pony all round. Nice surefooted fencer. Price Rs. 650. Apply to Brigadier-General ----."--_Indian Paper_.

We gather that whatever he may have done in the past the gallant officer does not intend to "ride the high horse" any longer.

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* * * * *

THE OPIUM HOUND.

Philip is a solicitor whose solicitations are confined to Hongkong and the Far East generally. Just now he is also a special constable, for the duration. He is other things as well, but the above should serve as a general introduction.

In his capacity as special constable he keeps an eagle eye upon the departing river steamers and the passengers purposing to travel in them, his idea being to detect them in the act of attempting to export opium without a permit, one of the deadly sins.

A little while ago Philip came into the possession of a dog of doubtful ancestry and antecedents, but reputed to be intelligent. It was called "Little Willie" because of its marked tendency to the predatory habit. His other leading characteristic was an inordinate craving for Punter's "Freak" biscuits.

One day Philip had a brain-wave. "I will teach Little Willie," he said, "to smell out opium concealed in passengers' luggage, and I shall acquire merit and the Superintendent of Imports and Exports will acquire opium." So he borrowed some opium from that official and concealed it about the house and in his office, and by-and-by what was required of him seemed to dawn on Little Willie, and every time he found a _cache_ of the drug he was rewarded with a Punter's "Freak" biscuit.

At last his education was pronounced to be complete and Philip marched proudly down to the Canton wharf with the Opium Hound. There was a queue of passengers waiting to be allowed on board, and the ceremony of the examination of their baggage was going on. Little Willie was invited to take a hand, which he did in a rather perfunctory way, without any real interest in the proceedings. Indeed, his attention wandered to the doings of certain disreputable friends of his who had come down to the wharf in a spirit of curiosity, and Philip had to recall him to the matter in hand.

On a sudden a wonderful change came over the Opium Hound. A highly respectable old lady of the _amah_ or domestic servant class came confidently along, carrying the customary round lacquered wooden box, a neat bundle and a huge umbrella. She was followed by a ragged coolie bearing a plethoric basket, lashed with a stout rope, but bulging in all directions. Little Willie sniffed once at the basket and stiffened. "Good dog," said Philip; "is that opium you have found?" The hound's tail wagged furiously, and he scratched at the basket in a paroxysm of excitement. The coolie dropped it and ran away. The _amah_ waxed voluble and attacked Little Willie with the family umbrella. The hound grew more and more enthusiastic for the quest. Philip issued the fiat, "Open that basket, it contains opium," and struck an attitude.