Chapter 3

I had intended to write the whole of this article in verse, of which the above is a shocking sample, but, on the whole, I think I will go on in prose. When you have committed yourself to double rhymes, prose is the easier medium. In verse it is more difficult to stick to your subject, and as the subject in this case is a very important one and deserves to be stuck to, I shall do the rest in prose.

Anyhow, the fact is that I have read a paragraph in one of the papers about a proposed revival of rowing. Rowing, like other sports, has, it seems, lain dormant for the past four years and a half. From the moment in 1914 when war was declared it suffered a land-change; shorts and zephyr and blazer and sweater were abandoned at once, and, for the oarsman as for everybody else, khaki became the only wear. Already trained by long discipline to obey, our oarsmen trooped to the colours, and wherever hard fighting was to be done their shining names are to be found on the muster-roll of fame. Some will return to us, but for others there waited the _eternum exitium cymbæ_--a very different craft from those to which they were accustomed, but they accepted it with pride and without a murmur.

Bearing these things in mind, I went to Henley last week to interview Father Thames. I found the veteran totally unchanged in his quarters on the Temple Island, and immediately began the interview.

"Dull?" he said. "I believe you, my boy. But they tell me there's talk of reviving the regatta. You tell them with my compliments not to be in too great a hurry about it. Think of what Henley meant to the lads who rowed. They hadn't learnt their skill in a day--no, nor in as many days as go to a year."

"Do you then," I said, "consider the regatta only from the oarsman's point of view?"

"Really," said the old gentleman, "there's no other. Not but what," he added with a chuckle, "it gave them more pleasure to row their races with lots of pretty faces to look on. Lor' bless you, I don't object to 'em. It's the prettiest scene in the world when the sun shines as it sometimes does. And that's enough talking for one afternoon." With that he plunged, and nothing I did could bring him to the surface again.

* * * * *

EARLY ONE MORNING.

Bound South from Japan to the port of Hong Kong We fell in with a little junk blowing along; We met her all bright at the breaking of day, And we gave her good-morning and passed on our way. She had stretched her red sails like the wings of a bat, And light, like a gull, on the water she sat; She had two big bright eyes for to keep a look-out; On her stern there were dragons cavorting about. And Mrs. Ah Fit by the kitchen did sit Preparing some breakfast for Mr. Ah Fit, The gentleman who, as we saw when we neared her, By waggling the tickle-stick skilfully, steered her. The little Fit men and the little Fit maids Were playing at tig round the brass carronades, And with all the delight of a juvenile Briton The littlest Ah Fitlet was plucking the kitten. With a "How do you do, Sir?" and "Hip, hip, hooray!" 'Twas so they blew by at the breaking of day.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BIVVIE.

"Not a bad possie," said George, looking round the village. "Let's rustle a bivvie before the crowd comes along."

All George's performances in the art of rustling bivvies rank as star. He permits no coarse and obvious gathering of an expectant horde about the opening door; no slacking of straps and bootlaces until the final "I will" is said on either side. He debouches in extended order on the doomed house; gets his range and has the barrage well in hand (the quantity and quality of Madame's gesticulations furnish the key to this) before Colin drifts off the horizon and shows a peaked face with haunting eyes over George's shoulder. Colin does not speak. That is not his _métier_. He is the star shell illuminating the position; and usually in about six minutes' time it is safe for John to put in an appearance with the kit.

This is the recognised procedure, and it has served us indifferently well up and down three years of war and a good deal of France and Flanders. Therefore John was not to blame when, after waiting the scheduled six minutes, he arrived to find the other two still in the thick of it. Either Colin was not haunting up to form (which was likely, as he had been over-fed lately) or George's French (which was never made in the place where they make marriages) had scandalised Madame.

She stood in the door like some historical personage, probably the Sphinx, and repeated a guttural kind of incantation while George stretched his ears until they stood out more than usual in a struggle to understand.

"Rotten patois some of these people speak," he said. "I believe she has a room, though something's biting her. Likely enough Fritz went off with all her furniture; but I've already explained twenty times that that doesn't matter. _Écoutez, Madame._ We only want a room. _Chambre-à-coucher._ We can furnish it. We have three beds. _Trois lits._ _Trois_ stretcher-beds sent over from _Angleterre_. _À la gare._ We've just seen them. _Trois lits nous avons._ Three beds."

"Beds!" Madame pounced on the word. "_C'est cela!_ No beds, _Monsieur_. _Je n'en ai pas._"

"Ah, now we know where we are." George looked round triumphantly. "_Écoutez, Madame._ We don't want beds. _Nous les desirons jamais._ We have them. _Trois lits._ We don't want them. We have beds. _Comprenez?_"

"No beds," explained Madame firmly.

"But I've just told you--" George plunged again into the maelstrom, and a pretty girl appeared from the firelit room behind to stir him to his highest flights of eloquence. A smell of savoury cooking came also, and out in the street night shut down dark and chill and sinister, as it does in all the best novels. John let part of the kit down on the door-sill. It was his way of explaining that at the present moment there was a deeper, more intimate call than the Call of the Wild. Colin moved up a step and turned the haunting-stop full on. George redoubled his efforts, making them very clear indeed. We could understand almost every word he said.

Then Madame answered, and we could understand that too.

"No beds," she said.

The pretty girl smiled in a troubled way and murmured something in a soft voice.

"She says they haven't got any beds in the rooms. Fritz took them all," interpreted George. "_Écoutez, Mademoiselle_. We have beds. _Trois lits. Nous les avons. Tous les trois. Oui. À la gare. Absolument_."

Mademoiselle looked at Madame with a kink of her pretty brows. Madame rose like a balloon to the need.

"No beds," she said very distinctly, with a rounding of eyes and mouth. "No beds, Messieurs. No-o-o--_beds_."

Before George could recover John interfered. He makes a hobby of cutting Gordian knots.

"Oh, what's the earthly use of telling 'em we have beds when they can see for themselves that we haven't? They just think we can't understand. Let's go up and take the rooms if they're decent. Then we'll get the stretchers and put 'em up. That's the only sort of argument we can handle."

Manfully George went to work again. And reluctant, and yet obviously fascinated by his French, like a bird by a snake, Mademoiselle led up the narrow stairs and into a sizeable room, clean as a pin and as naked. On the threshold Madame washed her hands of hope.

"_Regardez!_ No beds. _C'est affreux!_"

George began again. He had courage. Whatever else Nature and luck denied him there was no question of that. For a little it looked as though he were in sight of the goal. Then Mademoiselle explained. They were _désolées_, but the _sales Boches_ had stolen all the beds, and Madame would not let the bare rooms to _Messieurs les Anglais_. It would not be _convenable_ when they had no beds.

"No beds!" Madame appealed to the skylight as witness, and we looked at each other. It was getting late and the others would have rustled all the best bivvies by now. John had another brain-wave.

"Let's pantomime it. They always understand pantomime. There's no use _saying_ we've got beds--not when George has to say it. We'll show them."

Earnestly we pantomimed stretcher beds--our own stretcher beds--and reposeful slumber thereon. "_Mon Dieu!_" cried Mademoiselle, retreating in haste. "No beds," repeated Madame, unconvinced and unafraid.

"She means that she doesn't want to have us," said John in cold despair.

"She'd be a fool if she did now," answered Colin grimly. "Let's get out of this."

And then John had a third brain-wave. He ordered George on guard, and descended with Colin in search of the concrete proof of our sanity. And Madame's voice, faint yet pursuing, followed us down.

"No beds," it said.

In ten minutes we were back triumphant with the three stretchers. It was a full six months since we had written to England for them, and they had come at last. Visions of rest went upstairs with us, and under the big eyes of Madame and Mademoiselle and several more Madames who had collected as unobtrusively as a silk hat collects dust we slashed at the coverings, ripped them off and disclosed--three deck-chairs.

We did not attempt to meet the situation. We left it to the devil--or Madame. And she, with the lofty serenity of one who through long and grievous misunderstanding has won home at last, was completely adequate.

"No beds," she said.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"ADOPTION.--Fine healthy boy, 3½ years; entire surrender to good home. reception. 5 bedrooms; £1,100."--_Provincial Paper_.

What an exacting young rascal!

* * * * *

"Liebknecht was the son of a father who opposed tyranny in earlier days, who sounded the toxin for liberty."--_Express and Star_ (_Wolverhampton_).

But, to do old LIEBKNECHT justice, it was the son, not the father, who spelt it that way.

* * * * *

THE WAR-DOG'S PARTY.

(_CONTINUED._)

I expected, of course, when I declared the resolution, "Dogs not Doormats," open for general discussion that there would be some pretty plain barking, but nothing calling for the intervention of the Chair. Britain's dogs are sound at heart, even if they do talk a bit wildly about the Tyranny of Man and Rabbitism and Abolishing the Biscuiteer. I don't agree with a lot of it myself--we Airedales have always been conservatively inclined; but I am bound to say that three years in the Army open one's eyes to a lot of things.

Nothing of a really seditious character was said until the Borzoi commenced to address the meeting. I had always disliked the fellow and half suspected him of being an Anarchist or the president of some brotherhood or other. (It's funny how these rascals, whose one idea is to get something which belongs to somebody else without working for it, always call themselves a brotherhood.) But those Russian dogs have such a shifty slinking way with them that you can't always tell what they are driving at. This Borzoi chap had tried once or twice to interest me in what he called the Community of Bones doctrine, but I soon found out that his master was a conscientious objector and a vegetarian and that the doctrine really meant that he would do the communing and I would provide the bones.

The rogue began with some fulsome ingratiating remarks about how pleased he was to see so many fine representatives of the canine race prepared to maintain intact their sovereign doghood whatever the sacrifice might entail. This brought loud applause from the young hotheads; but I noticed traces of disgust along the backs of the older dogs. The time had passed, he continued, for speeches and resolutions and votes of censure. Dogs must act if Man, the enemy, was to be finally crushed. I intervened at this point and told the Borzoi he must moderate his language, upon which he began to bluster, shouting that he would not be put down by an arrogant hireling of effete Militarism. One learns to practise self-control in the trenches, so I was able to repress an inclination to assert my authority then and there. It was no use striking at man himself, he went on, for he had guns and whips and stones at his command. We must strike at him through his children.

Cries of dissent greeted this statement, and I really think the matter would have ended then and there only it so happened that none of those present were personally interested in children, except old Betty the bulldog, who belongs to four little girls who treat her sovereign doghood in a most disrespectful way. But old Betty had gone to sleep, and, anyway, she is rather deaf and has no teeth, so it's likely she would have confined herself to a formal snuffle of protest. "Yes," shouted the Borzoi, now thoroughly worked up, "let every dog take a solemn oath to bite every child on every possible occasion--at least when no one is looking--and Man, the oppressor, will soon come begging for mercy and make peace with us on our own terms. No false loyalty or ridiculous sense of chivalry must withhold us," he continued. "The baby in the pram to-day is the man with the whip of to-morrow and must be bitten with all the righteous fury of outraged doghood." Cries of "Shame!" greeted this remark. I decided that it was time to interpose. With all the severity at my command I bade the wretch be silent.

"Fellow dogs," I said, "it is clear that we must choose here and now, once and for all, between Britishism and Bolshevism. Tails up those who wish to remain British!" And of course every tail went up. "Tails up, the Bolshevists!" But the Borzoi's was down beyond recall and shivering between his legs. "That being your decision, ladies and gentlemen," I continued, "the meeting will constitute itself a Committee of Safety. Remarks have been passed about your Chairman and the canine forces of His Majesty that cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. All I ask is plenty of room and no favour."

All this time the Borzoi had been edging towards the door, and I really think he would have tried to make a dash for it, only at the last minute he caught the eye of the Irish wolfhound. It's no good running away from a dog like that, so Bolshy decided to stay and face the music. Well, as I said before, we war dogs are supposed to be as modest as we are brave, so I will confine myself to saying that down our way Bolshevism hasn't a leg to stand on. Of course Master, when he saw my ear, pretended to be angry, but he knows a war dog doesn't fight except for his country, and when the Borzoi's owner came round next day to complain Master told him he was a miserable Pacifist and had no _locus standi_. I told Master afterwards that the Borzoi had no _loci standi_ either, because I'd jolly well nearly chewed them off; and he laughed and gave me a whole cutlet with a lot of delicious meat on it, saying he wasn't hungry himself.

Of course we dogs met again and adopted the rest of our platform; and I don't mind saying I kept a pretty tight grip on the proceedings. In fact, several resolutions, such as those dealing with "Municipal Dog's-meat," "Rabbits in Regent's Park," "The Prosecution of Untruthful Parlourmaids," "Shorter Fur and Longer Legs," were carried without discussion. Naturally the meetings concluded with a vote of thanks to the Chair, to which I replied (they tell me) felicitously.

That is how the War Dogs' Party came into being; and to-morrow I shall tell that little terrier fellow from No. 10, Downing Street, that as long as his master remains faithful to the Dog-in-the-Street the War Dogs' Party will remain faithful to him.

ALGOL.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"'The little lass, and what worlds away,' one says to oneself on coming out of Mr. Rosing's recital."--_"Times'" Musical Critic_.

It's the worst of music that it makes one so love-sick and sentimental.

* * * * *

AN EXPENSIVE AMUSEMENT.

"As," says one of Mr. Punch's many and very welcome correspondents, "you will probably be writing for the benefit of your readers a short handbook on how to be demobilised, I enclose for your guidance my solicitor's bill. He was engaged from November 12th until I returned home on leave on December 30th and took a hand in the game myself. The chief work was tracing the various Government Departments to their hidden lairs in which they indulge in the pleasing habit of exchanging minutes.

"Some day perhaps demobilisation will reach me. The sooner the better, for I can never settle this account on my Army pay."

So much for the preamble. Here, with the alteration only of certain names, is the document itself. Mr. Jones, it should be mentioned, is a member of the firm to which the Officer in question (whom we will call Mr. Lute) wishes to return:--

1918. £ s. d.

Nov. 12. Attending Mr. Jones on calling on the telephone as to Mr. Lute and advising him to make an application 6 8

" 27. Attending Demobilisation Office, Whitehall Gardens, when the place was too crowded to be seen to-day. Engaged nearly two hours. 13 4

Writing Mr. Lute I was putting through application. 3 6

" 28. Attending New Bridge Street when I interviewed Official and he handed me pivotal form after explaining circumstances. 18 4

" 29. Attending Mr. Jones on calling when Mrs. Lute was present, filling in form after discussing same. Engaged 3 to 3.50. 10 0

Copy to keep 1 0

" 30. Attending New Bridge Street, interviewing Official, and he referred Mr. Lute's case to Mr. Bedford Smith, 105a, Portman Square, Head Food Department for your district 13 4

Dec. 2. Attending Portman Square, interviewing Official, when he said I had got the wrong form and requested me to go to Whitehall Gardens and ask them about it.

Attending Demobilisation Office at Whitehall Gardens, interviewing Official when he wanted to know how I had got the form as I had no business to have it as the issue of them had been stopped, and I said it had been given to me, and he was unable to say what should be done with it, but in any event another form ought to be filled up, R.C.V., and he handed me such form. Engaged 10.30 to 1; 2 to 3.45 3 3 0

Dec. 3. Attending Portman Square office, when I said that I had been to the office at Whitehall Gardens and they wanted to know how I had got the pivotal form, but he took it in and said he would refer it to the local committee at once, and he gave me the name of the head man there and suggested we might push it if we went to him, and he had nothing to do with the R.C.V. form. 13 4

Attending Whitehall Gardens asking what they wanted done with R.C.V. form and they said if it was sent in there filled up it would receive attention in its turn. 10 0

Writing Mr. Jones to get in touch with Local Authority. 3 6

" 5. Attending Mr. Jones on telephone as to getting into touch with local representative, which he would do at once 3 4

" 6. Filling up same and writing them therewith 5 0

" 11. Attending Mr. Jones on telephone when he said Committee had recommended application last Friday evening 3 4

" 12. Attending Portman Square, interviewing Official and they had not received recommendation of local committee 13 4

" 13. Attending Mr. Jones, informing him thereof on telephone giving me reference No. and he would send on copy letter to him by local committee recommending application 3 4

" 16. Attending Portman Square when they had not heard from local committee, handing them copy of their letter and they would act on that 13 4

" 18. Writing Mr. Jones as to further form, sent in to him to sign 3 6

" 19. Attending Portman Square when application had gone forward 13 4

Telephoning to Mrs. Lute to that effect. Like Mr. Jones. 3 4

" 20. Writing Mr. Lute as to the matter 3 6

" 23. Attending Portman Square Official when application was on way to War Office and they said you would be demobilised shortly 13 4

" 31. Attending Mr. Lute, showing me correspondence and requesting me to see Demobilisation Department, Broad Street.

1919 Jan. 2. Attending Broad Street when they had removed to Hotel Windsor and obtaining two forms to fill up to extend your leave while your case went through if necessary and they knew nothing about your case 13 4

Attending at your office getting Secretary to sign form. 10 0

" 4. Attending Windsor Hotel when department disbanded and had gone to Lancaster Gate 13 4

Attending you reporting on telephone 3 4

" 6. Fare and expenses 15 0 -------- Total £14 5 0

* * * * *

THE DRINK OF THE GODS.

A PROHIBITIONIST'S CANTICLE.

Let meaner souls make merry O'er cups of ruby wine, With claret, port or sherry Their tunes incarnadine; Let little boys emphatic Become o'er ginger b. Myself I grow ecstatic About a drink called "Tea."

Tea elevates one's pecker, Rejuvenates the mind, Enriches the exchequer, Yet never makes men "blind"; When footsore and effete I'm From every ache set free, And not alone at tea-time I thank the Lord for "Tea."

It tells of balmy breezes That blow "o'er Ceylon's isle" (While HEBER mostly pleases His accent here is vile)-- Of some far-flung plantation Where Hindus bend the knee; And would my occupation Were prefixed (ah!) by "Tea"!

'Tis told in classic fable The nectar served to Zeus At his Olympic table Was just a vinous juice; That such is purely fiction I heartily agree, Having the sound conviction 'Twas nothing less than "Tea."

* * * * *

"PARIS, SATURDAY.