Chapter 3

The basket was solemnly unlashed amid the _amah's_ shrill expostulations, and the contents soon flowed out upon the floor of the examination-hut. There was the usual conglomeration: Two pairs working trousers (blue cotton), two ditto jackets to match, one suit silk brocade for high days and holidays, two white aprons, three pairs Chinese shoes, three and a half pairs of Mississy's silk stockings, several mysterious under garments (from the same source); one cigarette tin containing sewing materials, buttons of all sorts and sizes nine empty cotton-reels, three spools from a sewing-machine, one pair nail-scissors (broken); one cigar-box containing several yards of tape (varying widths), cuttings of many different materials, one button-hook, one tin-opener and corkscrew combined, one silver thimble, one ditto (horn), one Chinese pipe; one packet of tea, one ditto sugar, one tin condensed milk (unopened), half a loaf of bread (very stale), two empty medicine bottles--but no opium!

Little Willie was nearly delirious by this time, and tried to get into the basket, which was now all but empty. The search continued, and two rolls of material were lifted out: five and a quarter yards of white calico and three yards of pink silk. This exposed the bottom of the basket, where lay a tin! Ah, the opium at last. Philip stepped forward and prised off the lid triumphantly.

The contents consisted solely of Punter's "Freak" biscuits.

Little Willie has been dismissed from his position as Opium Sleuth-hound.

* * * * *

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"For Sale, owing to ill-health, Pedigree Flemish Stock."--_Daily Paper_.

* * * * *

THE EXODUS.

Like the last rose of Summer I'm left quite alone; All my blooming companions To Paris are flown-- Three daughters, two brothers, Two sons and a niece Have all gone to Paris To speed up the Peace.

'Tis just the same story Wherever I go, There's hardly a soul left For running the show-- Five thousand officials, Not counting police, Have all gone to Paris To speed up the Peace.

There's calm in the City, A hush in Whitehall-- A thousand fair typists Have answered the call. Henceforward their clicking In London will cease-- They've all gone to Paris To speed up the Peace.

P.S. An expert accountant. Has worked out the cost Of the keep of officials Who've recently crossed. It must be Three Millions; Mayhap 'twill increase If the delegates dally In speeding up Peace.

* * * * *

"THE THAMES RISING.

"LONDON MILK SUPPLY THREATENED."--_Pall Mall Gazette_.

A surprising change of affairs.

* * * * *

"Sprats in South London are 2½ lb. a lb."--_Continental Daily Mail_.

This may explain why our fishmonger's price is 2½ shillings a shillingsworth.

* * * * *

"The story of an ingenious robbery by three young boys was told to the Stockport magistrates to-day.

"The magistrates ordered them to receive the birch, usual way.--Reuter."--_Provincial Paper_.

It was kind of Reuter to add this detail.

* * * * *

"It is understood an order has been issued for the demobilisation of men called to the Colours under the last Military Service Act after they had attained the age of 441."--_Provincial Paper_.

There can't be very many of them; still it is good to know that the authorities have made a beginning.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOW TO DINE WISELY--BUT NOT TOO WELL.

We are exceedingly pleased to note that our contemporary, _The Pall Mall Gazette_, preaches frugality in the most practical manner by providing a daily _menu_ card, with helpful comments on the preparation of the viands. The time for an unrestricted dietary is still far off, and it is a work of national importance to encourage the thrifty use of what our contemporary calls "left-overs." Herein we are only following ancient and honourable precedent, one of the earliest lyrics in the language informing us that

"What they did not eat that day The Queen next morning fried."

Our only fault with the _P.M.G._'s _chef_ is that he is inclined to err on the side of generosity. The dinner for January 6th, for instance, is composed of no fewer than four dishes, of which only one is a "left-over." The bill of fare opens with "Kipper meat on toast"; it proceeds with a fine _crescendo_ to "Beef _á la jardinière_," followed by "Fried macaroni," and declining gracefully on "Cabinet pudding."

"Left-over meat," as our contemporary remarks, "is more of a problem nowadays than ever before, for, being generally imported, it is not so tender as the pre-war home-grown meat to begin with, and the small amounts that can be saved from the rationed joint rarely seem sufficient for another meal." An excellent plan, therefore, would be to provide all the members of the family with magnifying-glasses. It is easy to believe a thing to be large when it looks large. Also there is great virtue in calling a thing by a nutritious name. "Kipper on toast" is not nearly so rich in carbohydrates, calories and aplanatic amygdaloids as "Kipper _meat_." As for the preparation of "left-overs" in such a way as to render them both appetising and palatable, "all that need be done is to add a few vegetables and cook them over again." And herein, as our instructor most luminously observes, "lies one solution of the problem of quantity, for the amount of vegetables used, if not the meat, can be measured by the size of the family appetite." Once more the wisdom of the ancients comes to our help, for, as it has been said, "the less you eat the hungrier you are, and the hungrier you are the more you eat. Therefore the less you eat the more you eat." The instructions for the preparation of a sauce for the "Beef _á la jardinière_" seem to us rather lavish. It is suggested that we should give the whole a good brown colour by dissolving in it "a teaspoonful of any beef extract." Walnut juice is just as effective. If the "left-over" is made of "silver-side," the silver should be carefully extracted and sent to the Mint. The choice of the vegetables must of course depend on the idiosyncrasies of the family. In the best families the prejudice against parsnips is sometimes ineradicable. But if chopped up with kitten meat and onions their intrinsic savour is largely disguised. Fried macaroni, as the _P.M.G. chef_ remarks in an inspired passage, is delicious if properly prepared with hot milk and quickly fried in hot fat. But, on the other hand, if treated with spermaceti or train-oil it loses much of its peninsular charm.

Cabinet pudding, if a "left-over," should perhaps be called "reconstruction pudding." Here again the amount of egg and sugar used must vary in a direct ratio with the size of the family appetite. Prepared to suit that of the family of the late Dr. TANNER, such a dinner as the above is not merely inexpensive, it costs nothing at all.

* * * * *

"All mules attached to the American Army in France have little khaki bags containing gas masks fastened to the collars of their harness. In the event of a gas attack these are slipped over their pleading noses."--_Daily Paper_.

This, we understand, is not what the drivers call them.

* * * * *

_LÈSE-MAJESTÉ._

Our triumphal march into Germany having been arrested just west of the Meuse, Sir DOUGLAS HAIG (through the usual channels) gave me ten days' leave to visit the historic town of St. Omer. As I only asked for seven-days and he gave me ten I knew there was a catch somewhere. It appeared that the ten days was worked out on the idea that it would take me five days to get there and five to get back. Needless to say I ignored trains, which are a snare and delusion in these days. I lorry-hopped. Most people would think many times before lorry-hopping from Charleroi to Lille _viâ_ Brussels and Tournai, but there is nothing that a man with a leave warrant in his pocket will not do--except perhaps save money.

It was during this leave that I barged right into GEORGE, "George" being our very own King, besides being Emperor of India.

To bridge the apparent gap between my arrival and the perturbing catastrophe referred to, it is only necessary to add that if you enter from the main route from Hazebrouck you will find just off the road a convoy of some sixty dear things seeing as much life as can be beheld while groping into the insides of the Red Cross motor ambulance which it is their job to feed, wash, coax and drive.

I have the _entrée_ here (except when the relentless Miss Commanding Officer chases me out for breaking the two-and-a-half rules which govern the place), and when I admitted incautiously that the only place on the Front that I had not seen or been frightened at was Passchendaele, they smiled pityingly and promised to take me there on Sunday for a joy ride. Shades of 1917! What whirligigs of circumstance time and the armistice have brought us! It was in the joy ride we nearly upset a dynasty.

To accomplish the journey in greater comfort, Vee and her hut companion Sadie got hold of a perfectly good Colonel man who had a perfectly good car and had, moreover, a perfectly good excuse to go to Passchendaele (he was really going to Boulogne), but wanted to get a good flying start, and we set off. We were a perfectly organised unit, consisting of four sections (including two No. 2 Brownie Sections), A.S.C. complement (one lunch basket), Aid Post (bandage and thermometer, carried as a matter of course by Sadie, who thinks of these things), a Scotch dog (mascot) and a flask of similar nationality (medical comforts for the troops).

On our arrival at Ypres the traffic man held up his hand. That in itself would not have been important, for we have it on great authority that the blind eye may be employed on really special occasions, but the fellow stood determinedly in the middle of the road, and even traffic men, we have always insisted, should not be run over except on great provocation.

"All traffic stopped between 12 and 2," he said; "the KING is passing by."

We looked blankly at one another. I have an extraordinary respect for HIS MAJESTY, but I did wish that he did more of his work by aeroplane at times.

We ate sandwiches, selected and sited positions for sniping the royal progress with our No. 2 Brownies and photographed everything we saw, including an American cooker, the historic "Goldfish Chateau," and a Belgian leading a little pig, with the inscription, "The only good Bosch in the country"; but on the whole Ypres on a Sunday afternoon is hardly more exciting than the "great commercial centre" of Scotland.

At intervals the Staff dashed up and spoke a word or two to the traffic man, but they departed again and nothing happened. We _all_ had a turn at that traffic man, and what we don't know about his home life, pre-war and probable post-war troubles, isn't worth putting on any demobilisation paper. And each time we tackled him we got a different idea of the KING'S movements--HIS MAJESTY must have had an extraordinarily complex journey that day.

Suddenly we were free! The KING was going to lunch near the Cloth Hall and would not be by till 2.30 P.M. Knowing that _any_ order emanating from a Staff is liable to instant cancellation we rushed back to the car and told the driver to "Go!" with the "G" hard, as in shell fire. Whether we went round or over the traffic man I don't know, but we slid with terrific speed into Ypres. Traffic was a little congested round the ruined cathedral, and we barged right up against a panting Ford, which had one lung completely gone and the other seemingly a little porous. A stream of traffic was coming down our side of the road; no matter, we must get on. Urged on by our advice the driver pulled out from behind the dying Ford and tried to pass. It was fearfully exciting. Some Staff on the bank began to wave to us. Thinking perhaps they knew some of us, or thought the girls looked nice, I smiled and nodded back. More Staff waved more arms. We were awfully pleased with our reception. Still three abreast on the road, the Ford having flickered up before death, we reached the crossroads as a large car with a flag on it came round the corner. The car stopped dead. So did we. The two cars glared at each other. The Ford writhed forward hideously in its death agony. I thought I felt funny, and when Vee whispered something about "the Royal Standard" I knew why. Royal Standard? Good Lord! I had visions of three laboriously acquired pips being torn from my sleeves by outraged authorities. The air was rent by my wild yell to our driver to go on--_go on_ and carry the Ford with us on our bonnet if necessary.

What happened next is not very clear in my memory. I have a hazy picture of purple A.P.M.'s, of our GEORGE sitting calmly in a Rolls Royce, of irrepressible woman poking a No. 2 Brownie against the window of our car and trying to find a perfectly good king in a small viewfinder; of the Colonel on my right saluting, with a fearful waggle of the hand, without his hat on, that article having been simply swept off by my own tremendous "circular-motion-thumb-close-to-the-forefinger-touching-the-peak-of-the-cap, etc., etc." Through the haze I saw HIS MAJESTY graciously return our salute and I seem to recollect Vee taking his salute as a personal compliment to the feminine element in the car, and smiling back delightedly in return.

The next thing I remember was that the car had passed, the traffic man was gazing reproachfully at us, the Ford had expired and our chauffeur had stopped his engine. I don't know what Sadie did all this time, but since, from her position, she must have seen the whole thing in better perspective, I don't wonder the girl looked white.

Returning to consciousness I heard Vee utter a tremendous sigh of intense satisfaction.

"I _sniped_ him," she said, and cuddled the No. 2 Brownie affectionately.

"Did you turn it round after the last one?" I asked suddenly.

"No, didn't you?"

And of course we hadn't. And there, in the undeveloped spool lies HIS MAJESTY superimposed on the back of the Bosch piglet we had photographed outside Ypres. Isn't that just the hardest of luck?

I'm going to ask if I can develop the film without running the risk of losing my commission. After all it's not so very inappropriate, is it?

L.

* * * * *

"Extensive floods are reported in the Home Counties. Mr. Noah ---- had a narrow escape from drowning at ---- on Saturday."--_Scotch Paper_.

And yet people say, "What's in a name?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO A V.A.D. HALL-PORTERESS.

(_WITH APOLOGIES TO R.K._)

If you can keep your courage and your curls up When life a whirling chaos seems to be Of amorous swains who want to ring their girls up And get them through at once (as you for me); If you can calm the weary and the waxy, When no appeals, however nicely put, Can lure from rank or pub. the ticking taxi, And they, poor devils, have to go on foot;

If you can stem the rush of second-cousins, Who crowd to get a glimpse of darling Fred, When Father, Mother, Aunts and friends in dozens Already form a circle round his bed; If, in a word, you run a show amazing, With precious little help to see you through it, Yours is a temper far above all praising, And--here we reach the point--I've seen you do it.

* * * * *

"Annie ---- was fined £2 for failing to have the name attached to apples at a stall in ---- Market. Mr. ---- said the public were being wilfully kept in ignorance as to what they were buying."--_Provincial Paper_.

We think the Magistrate was rather pernickety. Most people know an apple when they see one, but the trouble in these days is to see one at all.

* * * * *

THE RULE OF THE ROAD.

I admire all poilus, and especially did I admire Pierre. Once only did I find him at fault. It was one of my functions on a hospital ship plying between ---- and ---- to wheel about the more fortunate of the patients. On the occasion on which I met Pierre he was journeying to his mother in London and was temporarily engaged in the same pursuit. I beheld him approaching with his charge and immediately ported my helm. He bore down on his, keeping to his right, and we collided.

"Keep to your left, you fool!" I cried as the crash came.

"_Mais non! le droit, M'sieur._"

Here was a deadlock indeed. It was an English ship, therefore the English rule of the road should be maintained. On the other hand, the fact that we were still in French waters was in his favour. But my stubborn British will would not give way, and Heaven knows how long we should have remained there had not one of the invalids grunted, "Caan't thee keep t' the rule o' the waater?" and I saw a dignified way out of the difficulty. I withdrew to the right, and we passed on with no animosity towards one another. Still, it was a near thing for the Entente.

* * * * *

"The unfortunate lady was examining an unloaded pistol when it went off and caused instantaneous death."--_Times of Ceylon_.

In the circumstances we trust we are justified in thinking this tragic intelligence to be the result of a false report.

* * * * *

THE NEW GAME.

If Hubbard were not my friend I should describe him as one of the most amiable and most muddle-headed of mankind. Under the influence of his mind things that are quite clear become confused and lose themselves in long vistas of statement and sub-statement and sub-sub-statement, and a plain tale is darkened until at the end nothing is left of what it originally was. If you don't believe me listen to what follows.

We were sitting in the drawing-room one evening recently; the various topics of the day having been more or less exhausted, somebody proposed a round game as a diversion. Hubbard saw his chance and dashed in. "Yes, by Jove," he said, "let's have the new game of 'Likenesses;' it's a perfectly ripping game. I played it the other day and never laughed so much in my life."

"How do you play it?" I said.

"Oh," said Hubbard, "it's one of the easiest games in the world. All you have to do is to keep your mind clear and remember what you are driving at."

"Right," I said. "But what are you driving at?"

"Well," said Hubbard, "one of us goes out or stops his ears and the rest choose somebody."

"There's nothing very new about that," I said; "I've played it a thousand times."

"Wait a bit," said Hubbard, "and don't be so ready to plunge. I tell you this is an entirely new and original game."

"Let him," said somebody else, "get on with it in his own way or we shall be here till past midnight. Go ahead, Hubbard."

"Well," said Hubbard, "you choose somebody to be a likeness. When your man comes in again he begins to ask questions."

"Vegetable, animal or mineral," said Butterfield, "I knew it was."

"No, it isn't," said Hubbard. "The man who has gone out and has come in says to you, What food does the person you've chosen remind you of? and you say tapioca pudding or beef-steak and kidney pie."

"But," I said, "there's nobody in the whole wide world who reminds me of either of those things."

"Well, you can choose your own food," said Hubbard. "If you don't like tapioca pudding you can answer scrambled eggs. Only scrambled eggs must remind you of the person you have in your mind. Then you go on to the next man, and you ask him what cloth he reminds you of, and he answers tweed or Irish frieze or best Angola."

"Can anybody," said Butterfield, "tell me what 'best Angola' means? I've seen it often in my tailor's bills; mostly, I think, as waistcoats, but I've never known what it really is. If I had to guess now I should say it is something composed in equal parts of fancy waistcoats, tapioca pudding and scrambled eggs."

"Well, you'd be wrong," said Hubbard; "it's nothing of the sort. When you have got as far as scrambled eggs your man ought to begin to have a faint glimmering--"

"But," I said, "there's the tapioca pudding. What are you going to do with that? You can't be allowed to play fast and loose with that."

"Don't you see," said Hubbard, "that that's a mere example and now done with? Do please remember that we have got on to Irish frieze. You must allow me to explain the game in my own way. Now your man tackles the next person in turn. What building, he asks, does he remind you of? and the answer is Cologne Cathedral or the Bank of England."

"It would be difficult to choose anyone who reminded me of either of those celebrated structures," I said, "but I'll take the Bank of England for choice."

"But," said Hubbard, "you don't _take_ either of them, you see it in a flash and it's gone."

"What do you see in a flash?" I said.

"The building that the man who has gone out and is asking questions in order to guess the person everybody is thinking of reminds you of," said Hubbard.

"Oh, yes. That makes it absolutely clear," said Butterfield. "Let's get to work. Personally I haven't got beyond scrambled eggs."

"And I am lost in tapioca," I said. "Let's get to bed." That's as far as Hubbard ever got with the explanation of his game. We left him struggling and went to bed.

* * * * *

THE TRUTHFUL TRAVELLER.

All my life I've been a rover; I have ranged the wide world over, And I've had the very devil of a time; I've philandered through Alsatia with the nautch-girl and the geisha; I have heard the bells of San Marino chime.

I've hobnobbed in Honolulu with the Zouave and the Zulu, I have fought against the Turks at Spion Kop; In a spirit of bravado I've accosted the MIKADO And familiarly addressed him as "Old Top."

I've been captured by banditti, kissed a squaw in Salt Lake City, Carved my name upon the tomb of LI HUNG CHANG, And been overcome by toddy where the turbid Irrawaddy Winds its way from Cincinnati to Penang.

I have crossed the far-famed ferry from Port Said to Pondicherry; In a droschky shot the rapids at Hongkong; I have pounded to a jelly dancing dervishes at Delhi, And I've chased the chimpanzee at Chittagong.

I've smoked baksheesh in pagodas, stood a Dago Scotch-and-sodas, Scaled the mighty Mississippi's snow-clad peaks, Galloped madly on a llama through lagoons at Yokohama And found rubies at Magillicuddy's Reeks.

Where the Tagus joins the Hooghly I have bowled the wily googly, I have heard the howdah's howl at Hyderabad; On a rickshaw I've gone sailing, with my boomerang impaling Hooded cobras on the ice-floes off Bagdad.

I have slain the beri-beri with a ball from my knobkerry; I have climbed the Pole and leapt across the Line; I've seen seals in Abyssinia and volcanoes in Virginia, And I've dived into the shark-infested Rhine.

From the pemmican's fierce claws and the tiffin's gaping jaws I have never shrunk in abject terror yet; In the jungle I have tracked them and attacked them and then hacked them Into mincemeat with my trusty calumet.