Chapter 3

I can conjugate the modern verb "to wangle," And, if required, translate it into Greek; I can even tell a wurzel from a mangel; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I still can march eight furlongs at the double, Although I shall be seventy next week; I can separate a bubble from a bubble; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I know a catfish differs from a seamew; I don't expect Bellaggio at Belleek; I know a cassowary from an emu; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I'm acquainted with the works of HENRY PURZELL (My mastery of spelling is unique); I repeat, I know a mangel from a wurzel; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I'm proficient both in jotting and in tittling; I know a certain cure for boots that creak; I can see through Mr. KEYNES and _Mr. Britling_; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I can always tell a _hari_ from a _kari_ ("_Harakiri_" is a silly pedant's freak); I can tell the style of CAINE from that of MARIE; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I never take a DEELEY for a DOOLEY; I never take a putter for a cleek; I never talk of HEALY, meaning HOOLEY; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I understand the sense of "oils are spotty"; I know the height of Siniolchum's peak; I know that some may think my ditty dotty; But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

P.S.

I know the market price of eggs in Surrey, The acreage of maize in Mozambique-- And now at last, thanks to immortal "MURRAY," I've learned to tell a bubble from a squeak.

* * * * *

THE CONSERVATISM OF THE LIBERAL PARTY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I know you take no sides in party politics, but I still think you would like to hear why it is that I have gone over to the Independent Liberals. No, it has nothing to do with Mr. ASQUITH'S triumphal procession and still less with the NORTHCLIFFE Press. The fact is that till quite recently I belonged to the true blue Tory school--was indeed probably the last survivor of the Old Guard--and I found myself out of touch with the progressive tendencies of modern Toryism, its deplorable way of moving with the times, its hopeless habit of discarding what it would call the old shibboleths when it wrongly imagined them to be outworn. My decision to leave a party that has long ceased to deserve its honoured name was immediately due to a Liberal Paper which editorially ridiculed the Liberty League, formed for the defeat of Bolshevist propaganda, and pooh-poohed the idea of the existence of dangerous Bolshevist elements in the country. This attitude attracted me enormously; for I recalled the standpoint of the same paper in the days before the War--how it ridiculed the alleged German menace and pooh-poohed the idea of the existence of hostile German elements in our midst. Here, I said, is the party for me; here is your authentic Bourbon spirit--the type that learns nothing and forgets nothing; that in the midst of a changing world remains immovable as a rock. Yes, Sir, for a Tory of the old school there is no place to-day except in the ranks of Liberalism.

Yours faithfully, SEMPER EADEM.

* * * * *

* * * * *

RATES OF EXCHANGE.

Jones was reading his morning paper in the opposite corner seat with unusual attention, and he disregarded my greeting.

"Why this absorption?" I inquired. "Usually you come to the station with a piece of toast behind one ear, fastening your boots as you run, and wake us all up with your first fine morning rapture."

"I was just taking a look at the exchanges," he replied. "The mark's about the same price as fly-paper, and, judging by the news from New York, your chewing-gum is going to cost you more shortly. Do you know anything about the money market?"

"I occasionally see it stated that 'money is plentiful' in it," I returned. "I should think it must be an ideal place."

"The most gorgeous thing in the world is to make a bit on exchange," he said. "There's such a splendid feeling of not having earned it, you know."

"I understand exactly," I replied. "Cox once credited me with an extra month's pay by mistake. But I didn't realise that you ever had to think about money matters after having run our Mess in France."

He appeared to take no offence. His capacity for being insulted in that direction had probably been exhausted during the period in point.

"I know quite a lot about exchange," he remarked with a reminiscent smile. "You remember that when I got pipped in France in '15, they sent me out next time to Salonica. I hadn't been there very long before the question of exchange cropped up. In the early days most of us had English money only, and the villagers used to rook us frightfully changing it. I remember sending my batman, MacGusgogh, to a place for eggs, and he came back with the change for my Bradbury in nickel. I had a good look at it, and on each coin was the mystic inscription, 'DIHAP,' which is pronounced 'dinar.'

"'MacGusgogh,' I said, 'you pretend to be a Scotsman and yet you've been diddled. This is Serbian money, and not worth a bean.'

"'Oh the deceitfu' deevils,' said he, 'there's neither truth nor honesty in the leein' buddies, Sir. But here's your Bradbury, an', at onny rate, we hae the eggs, Sir, for I paid for them wi' a label off yin o' they Japaneesy beer bottles. It seemed an awfu' waste to spend guid siller on folk that dinna ken when they see it.'"

I began to see the possibilities of the money market.

"I was round about there till the Armistice," Jones went on, "then I drifted by stages to South Russia. All the Eastern countries live by exchange. Practically the only trade they have is playing tennis with each others' currency, and the headquarters of the industry in 1918 was South Russia. I thought I'd seen the limit of low finance when I'd experienced the franc, lira, drachma, dinar, lev and piastre; but they were all child's play to the rouble in 1918."

"I thought Russian money was all dud before that," I remarked.

"Not a bit of it," said Jones. "You see, it's not as if there were one breed, so to speak, of rouble. There were KERENSKY roubles, and Duma roubles, and NICHOLAS roubles, and every little town had a rouble-works which was turning out local notes as hard as they, could go. I missed a fortune there by inches."

"Tell me," I said, in response to his anecdotal eye.

"I had a job there which consisted of going backwards and forwards on the railway between Otwiski and Triadropoldir in the Caucasus, a six days' trip. The possibilities of the situation never struck me till one day I, asked a shopman in Triadropoldir to give me my change in Otwiski roubles--both towns had their own currency, of course. He gave me five Otwiski roubles for one of his own town. I thought a bit about that, and when I got back to Otwiski I tried the same thing, and found I could get three Triadropoldir roubles there for one Otwiski."

"I see," I remarked, as the beauty of this arrangement dawned upon me.

"All I had to do therefore was to change my money in Otwiski for three times as much Triadropoldir currency, and then go up the line to the other place and change it back again, making fifteen hundred per cent, on the round trip. Of course you couldn't always change the full amount, but in a couple of months I had sixty thousand roubles--my valise was crammed with them--and I was only waiting to get down to the Field Cashier to change out and make my fortune."

"And did you?" I asked.

"No, I didn't. One morning the Reds arrived in Triadropoldir, and my servant and I only just got away with the valise on one of those inspection cars which you propel by pulling a handle backwards and forwards. A section of Red Cavalry came after us, and we took it in turns to work the handle."

"Your servant won't ever be short of a job," I commented. "He ought to take to film-acting after that like a duck to water."

"We soon finished my servant's ammunition and they were closing in on us fast. My hair had appreciably lifted my tin hat when I had a brain-wave and threw out a double handful of rouble notes. It worked like a charm; they all stopped to collect the money, and we had gone quite a distance before they caught us up again, I threw out more notes at intervals, and the last thousand roubles went just as we came in sight of DENIKIN'S outposts fifteen miles down the line. We were saved, but I had lost my fortune, for there was no chance of repeating the operation."

I sighed. Then, without any regard for the conclusions of my fellow-passengers, I silently raised both my hands above my head.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"She had her hair cut short, and claimed to be a member of a tilted family."--_Provincial Paper_.

One with a bend sinister, we presume.

* * * * *

A leader of fashion at Ely Whose clothes were a bit down-at-heely Was quite overcome When he found he'd the sum That would buy him a Mallaby-Deeley.

* * * * *

"BLACK CATS' STRIKE THREAT."

_Heading in a Sunday Paper of a report of a demand made by Viennese clerks for doubled salaries._

For "CATS'," read "COATS'." _O_ the diff! as WORDSWORTH said.

* * * * *

"Retriever Wanted; steady good worker: retrieve feather or fur, land or water."--_Provincial Paper_.

The exile of Amerongen could do with one of this breed.

* * * * *

"The act of the donor suggests the lines:

"'How far doth that little candle throw its beams On like a good deed in a naughty world.'" _Daily Graphic_.

The author's name is not given, but we do not think he has improved much on SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

THE YEOMAN TRANSFORMED.

[In accordance with the new Territorial organisation some famous Yeomanry Regiments are to become Motor Machine-Gun Units.]

Can a horseman turn from his heart's desire at the stroke of a statesman's pen? Can we learn to fight from a motor-car--we who were mounted men? In a petrol-tank and a sparking-plug shall we strive to put our trust, And hang our spurs as a souvenir to gather reproachful rust?

Shall we never again ride knee to knee in the pomp of squadron line, With head-ropes white as a mountain drift and curb chains all a-shine? Will they dawn no more, those glorious days when the world seemed all our own, Who rode as scouts on an errant quest, alive, alert, alone?

Can a man be made by a motor-car as a man is made by a horse, With strength in his back and legs and arms, and a brain of swift resource? We cared for our mounts before ourselves, their thirst before our thirst; Shall we come to learn, with the same content, to think of an engine first?

Grousing enough. Though times have changed a man may be needed yet. Shall we stand aloof in an idle dream to nourish a vain regret? Whatever England may ask of us our service must be hers; And a horseman's quality 's in his heart and not in a pair of spurs.

W.K.H.

* * * * *

THE GREAT MUTTON CAMPAIGN.

The recent disclosures concerning the enormous stocks of frozen mutton held by the Ministry of Food--some of it killed two years ago--have put the Government on their mettle, and a vigorous campaign is now in preparation with the object of inducing the public to assist in the disposal of these overgrown supplies. Mr. Punch, being in touch with sources of information not accessible to the general Press, has been able to secure an advance copy of a popular appeal Which is about to be issued broadcast by the Government. It runs as follows:--

"Men, Women and Children of the United Kingdom!"

"The time has now arrived when each one of you is privileged to illumine these drab days of peace with a show of patriotism no less brilliant than that which lit up the dark years of war. The task that is demanded is a simple one, and no heavy price is exacted; all that is required is a single-minded concentration upon the one essential need of the moment.

"Your Government, solicitous as always for your welfare, has during the past two years accumulated a vast store of nutritious mutton to safeguard you against the peril of starvation. That danger being happily averted, it is now up to you to eat the stuff. This is not a problem that can be tackled by half-measures. If you desire to preserve the financial stability of the Empire, and if you do not wish to go on eating antiquated corpses of Australasian sheep for the rest of your lives, you must set your teeth in grim earnest, eating against time and chewing over time. You must consume mutton for breakfast, mutton for luncheon, mutton for tea and mutton for dinner. In fact, each one of you must in the interests of the State become a mutton glutton.

"Do you shrink from the task? Do you shirk the chop now that you know what is at stake? An army marches on its stomach; the nation's well-being hangs on yours. Henceforth, until the 'Cease Fire' sounds, you must fall upon the domestic enemy as our gallant soldiers fell upon the alien foe. No quarter must be given, no quarter, fore or hind, be permitted to escape. Beef must be banned and veal avoided as the plague; no Briton worthy of the name will claim a fowl.

"What are you going to do about it? Do you intend (to borrow a Trans-atlantic phrase) to give the frozen mitt to the frozen mutt? Or are you going to take it to your bosom and give it there, or thereabouts, the home for which it has so long been vainly seeking?

"Do it now and do it always. Let your daily motto be--'_Revenons à nos moutons_.'"

In addition to the foregoing, every British housewife is to be supplied with a valuable booklet containing a number of official recipes for dealing with mutton. Among the tasty dishes thus described may be mentioned Whitehall Hash, Ministerial Mince, Reconstruction Rissoles, Control Cutlets and Separation Stew.

Mr. Punch also learns that in honour of the campaign the Yeomen of the Guard are henceforth to be popularly known as the "Muttoneaters."

* * * * *

WHAT OF THE DUMPS?

["We repeat our question, therefore, and expect a 'Yes' or 'No' answer: _Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not_?"--_Daily Mail_.]

While wealth untold lies heaped in idleness We will not see the nation go to pot; We ask you (kindly answer "No" or "Yes"): _Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not_?

By many a shell-torn desolate chateau Stand monumental piles of martial store Reared up long since to stem a savage foe By labours of the Army Service Corps;

And day by day, in spite of our advice, They linger wastefully to rust and rot; We ask (and let your answer be concise): _Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not_?

No more may KELLAWAY in bland retort Disguise the truth with verbal circumstance; Our special correspondents still report: "Entrenching tools obscure the face of France.".

The case is plain; the issue is distinct; You either answer now or out you trot (And kindly make that answer quite succinct): _Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not_?

* * * * *

"WEDDING ROMANCE.

"The acquaintanceship soon developed into a house where Miss ---- was living."--_Daily Paper_.

The chief obstacle to matrimony being thus removed, there could, of course, be only one end to the story.

* * * * *

"The Committee has decided to call the contest the 'Golden Apple Challenge,' having in mind the legend of Paris giving a golden apple to Helen of Troy as the fairest of the three beautiful women who came to ask his judgment."--_Daily Mail_.

Personally we never attach much importance to these Paris legends.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

During the past few years the plays and stories, especially the stories, of ANTON TCHEHOV have so triumphantly captured English-speaking readers that there must be many who will welcome with eagerness the volume of his _Letters_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS). This happy chance we owe, of course, directly to Mrs. CONSTANCE GARNETT, who here proves once again that in her hands translation ranks as a fine art. Both the _Letters_ and the Biographical Sketch that precedes them are of extraordinary charm and interest. Because TCHEHOV'S stories are so conspicuously uncoloured by the personality of their writer (his method being, as it were, to lead the reader to a window of absolute transparency and bid him look for himself), it comes almost as a shock to find how vivid and many-hued that personality in fact was. Nor is it less astonishing to observe a nature so alive with sympathy expressing itself in an art so detached. More than once his letters to literary friends are concerned with a defence of this method: "Let the jury judge them; it's my job simply to show what sort of people they are." They are filled also with a thousand instances of the author's delight in nature, in country sights and scents, and of his love and understanding for animals (from which of the Tales is it that one recalls the dog being lifted into the cart "wearing a strained smile"?) Throughout too, if you have already read the eight little volumes that contain the stories--which I certainly advise as a preliminary--you will be continually experiencing the pleasure of recognising the inspiration for this or that remembered scene. In short, one of the most fascinating books that has come my way for a long time.

I needn't pretend that _Bed and Black_ (METHUEN), by GRACE S. RICHMOND, is what is known to the superior as a serious work of art or that the men (particularly) of her creating are what would be called likely. But there's a sincerity about the writing which one has to respect. Of her two heroes, _Red_ is _Redfield Pepper Burns_, the rude and rugged doctor, and _Black_ is the _Rev. Robert McPherson Black_, the perfect paragon of a padre in an American provincial town. The author's main thesis is that padres are made of the right stuff. _Black_, who was all for getting into the War from the beginning, rushes off to Europe as chaplain with the first American drafts, gets wounded, decorated and married. The conversion of _Red Pepper_, the doctor, and of _Jane Ray_, who became _Mrs. Black_, is a little too easily contrived to be very convincing. But this is a simple work for simple souls who like a wholesome tale with a distinct list to the side of the angels. Such untoward conduct as here appears is not put in for its own interesting sake, but merely to bring out the white-souled nobility of the principals.

* * * * *

If I had to select an author likely to win the long-distance dialogue race of the British Isles I should, after reading _Uncle Lionel_ (GRANT RICHARDS), unhesitatingly vote for Mr. S.P.B. MAIS. It is not however so much the verbosity as the gloom of Mr. MAIS'S characters that leaves me fretful. Nowadays, when a novel begins with a married hero and heroine, we should be sadly archaic if we expected the course of their conjugal love to run smoothly; but I protest that _Michael_ and _Patricia_ overdid their quarrels, or, at any rate, that we are told too many details about them. And when these people were nasty to each other they could be very horrid. All which would not trouble me half so much if I were not sure that Mr. MAIS, in his desire to he forceful and modern, is inflicting a quite unnecessary handicap upon himself. At present he is in peril of wrecking his craft upon some dangerous rocks which (though I know it's not the right name for rocks) I will call "The Doldrums." My advice to him is to cheer up. And the sooner the better, for all of us.

* * * * *

There be novelists so fertile in literary resource or so catholic in their choice of subject that the reader is never sure, when he picks up their latest masterpiece, whether he is to have a comedy of manners, a proletarian tragedy, a tale of Court intrigue or a satire on the follies of the age. To the steady-going devotee of fiction--the reader on the Clapham omnibus--this versatility is a source of annoyance rather than of attraction, and I accordingly take pleasure in stating that by those who like a light narrative, in which mystery and romance are pleasingly blended, the author of _The Pointing Man_ can be relied upon to rill the bill every time. Conformity to type is a strong point with this author as far as the mystery and romance are concerned, but within those limits he (or she) provides an admirable range of scene, character and plot. In _The Further Side of the Door_ (HUTCHINSON), the once handsome and popular hero emerges from a war-hospital badly disfigured and is promptly jilted by his fiancée and avoided, or so he thinks, by his acquaintances. Disgusted he buries himself in an old haunted house in the wilds of Ireland and abandons himself to the practice of magic. The result is highly successful, for he raises, not a spirit indeed, but something much more desirable to a lonely young man who has been contemplating suicide. So much for the romance. The mystery is provided by a villain, an enterprising young married woman, and the sinister denizens of a creepy boarding-house. I heartily recommend _Punch_ readers who like a mystery to buy the book and find out what happens.

* * * * *

The publishers of _Sir Limpidus_ (COLLINS) call it, in large print, a "new and amusing novel," but I am not confident about your subscription to the latter part of that statement; for Mr. MARMADUKE PICKTHALL'S irony is either so subtle or so heavy (I cannot be positive which) that one may well imagine a not too dull-witted reader going from end to end without discovering the hidden intent. The subject of the tale, which has no special plot, is a numbskull landowner, _Sir Limpidus_, son of _Sir Busticus_, lord of Clearfount Abbey, and type (according to Mr. PICKTHALL) of the landowning class that he evidently considers ripe for abolition. As propaganda to that end he conducts his hero through the usual career of the pre-war aristocrat, sending him to public school and Varsity (those sufficiently broad targets), giving him a marriage, strictly _de convenance_, with the daughter of a peer, and finishing him off as a member of the Government, alarmed at Socialist hecklers and welcoming the War as likely to give a new direction to forces that threaten to become too strong for his well-meaning incompetence. "It would rouse the ancient spirit of the people and dispel their madness.... Even defeat as a united nation would be better than ignoble peace with the anarchic mob supreme." Of course this may be highly amusing, but-- The fact is that, with a disappointment the greater from having genial memories of a former book of his, I have to confess myself one of the dullards for whom Mr. PICKTHALL'S satirical darts fall apparently pointless. I am sorry.

* * * * *