Chapter 2

Again, the lonely bungalow episode is pretty cheerless for the heroine. She accepts an apparently harmless invitation to spend a week-end with friends in the country. When she arrives at the station there is no one to meet her. After a course of desert islands this ought to arouse her suspicions, but she never seems to benefit by experience. At the bungalow, reached in a hired fly and a blinding snowstorm, she finds the whole household away. The four other week-end guests, her host and hostess and their five children, the invalid aunt who resides with the family, the three female servants and the boot-boy who lives in--all have completely vanished. The only sign of life for miles is the hero standing on the doorstep looking bewildered and troubled, as well he might, for he knows that he must spend the night in a snowstorm to avoid compromising the heroine.

And when the family return next morning and explain that they went out to look at the sunset, but were held up at a neighbour's by the weather, nobody seems to think the excuse a little thin.

The heroine can never hope for a tranquil existence like other people. I read of one only recently who, just because she strongly objected to the man her parents wanted her to marry, was flung with him on an iceberg that had only seating capacity for two. And when the iceberg began to melt-- writers must at times manipulate the elements--it meant that she must either watch the man drown or share the same seat with him. The rescue party held off, of course, until the harassed girl was sitting on his knees, and then received the pair as they slid down, announcing their engagement.

What do I intend to do with Bertram and Eunice? I am undecided whether to place them in the vicinity of a volcano, which, unknown to Bertram, has eruptive tendencies, or to send them up in an aeroplane and break the propeller in mid-Atlantic just as the rescue party (including the husband)--What? Do I understand anything about aeroplanes? Certainly not; but I know everything about heroines.

* * * * *

EVIDENCE.

"What's all this I hear about the Abbey?" said my friend Truscott when I met him yesterday.

Truscott has just returned from New Zealand and is for the moment a little behind the times. But he can pick up the threads as quickly as most men.

"It's in a bad way," I told him. "All kinds of defects in the fabric, and there's a public fund to make it sound again. You ought to subscribe."

"It may be in disrepair," he replied, "but it isn't going to fall down just yet. I know; I went to see it this morning."

"But how do you know?" I asked. "You may guess; you can't know."

"I know," he said, "because I was told. A little bird told me, and there's no authority half so good. Do you remember a few years ago a terrific storm that blew down half the elms in Kensington Gardens?"

I remembered. I had reason; for the trunks and branches were all over the road and my omnibus from Church Street to Piccadilly Circus had to make wide detours.

"Well," Truscott continued, "someone wrote to the papers to say that two or three days before the storm all the rooks left the trees and did not return. They knew what was coming. Birds do know, you know, and that's why I feel no immediate anxiety about the Abbey."

"Explain," I said.

"Well," he continued, "when I was there this morning I watched a sparrow popping in and out of a nest built in a niche in the stonework over the north door."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THOUGHTS ON "THE TIMES."

(FROM A TRAIN.)

Really the news is very bad this morning. On the front page there are two Foreign crises and a Home one. On the next page there is one Grave Warning and two probable strikes. On every other page there is either a political murder or a new war. It is awful ...

Yet somehow I don't feel depressed. I rather feel like giggling. An empty smoker in the Cornish express--_empty_ except for me! Extraordinary! And all my luggage in the right van, labelled for Helston, and not for Hull or Harwich or Hastings. That porter was a splendid fellow, so respectful, so keen on his work--no Bolshevism about _him_. I gave him a shilling. I gave the taxi-man a shilling too. That guard is a pleasant fellow also; I shall give him two shillings, perhaps half-a-crown. Yet I see that the railways are seething with unrest.

I have just read _The Times'_ leader. Everything seems to be coming undone ... Persia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, India. This Bolshevist business ... dreadful. The guard has got me a ticket for the Second Luncheon. A capital fellow. I gave him three shillings. Absurd. I have no more shillings now. I am overdrawn. There is a financial crisis. But that, of course, is general. I see that Mr. Iselbaum anticipates a general smash this winter. A terrible winter it is going to be ... no coal, no food ... We ought to be in by five, in time for a fat late tea ... Cornish cream ... jam. Gwen will be at the station, with the children, all in blue ... or pink perhaps. How jolly the country looks! Superficial, of course; the harvest's ruined; no wheat, no fruit. And unemployment will be very bad. And the more people there are unemployed the more people will strike ... Sounds funny, that; but true ... Hope they've given us the usual table in the coffee-room, that jolly window-table in the corner, where one can look across the bay to the cliffs and the corn-fields and the hills ... Only there's no corn, I suppose, this year ... And one has a good view of the rest of the room there ... can study the new arrivals at dinner, instead of having to wait till afterwards. Dinner is much the best time to study them; you can see at once how they eat. And it is so much easier to decide which is the sister and which the _fiancée_ of the young man when they are all stationary at a table. When you only see them rushing about passages in ones it takes days.

All the usual families will be there, I suppose--the Bradleys and the Clinks, old Mrs. Puntage and the kids--if they can afford it this year ... Very likely they can't. I can't, certainly. But I'm going.

"Not since the fateful week-end of August, 1914, when the destinies of Europe were decided in a few hours, have issues of such gravity engaged the attention of the British race...." Dreadful. I shall get some tennis tomorrow. I shan't be called. I shall get up when the sun is on my face and not before. I shall dress very, very slowly, looking at the sea and the sands and the sun, not rushing, not shaving properly, not thinking, not washing a great deal, just sort of falling into an old coat and some grey flannels.... Then I shall just sort of fall downstairs--about half-past nine, and give the old barometer a bang. Then breakfast, very deliberate, but cheerful, because the glass went up when I banged it--it always goes up at that hotel ... like the cost of living. Up another five points to-day, I see. Bread's going to be one-and-threepence. But of course there won't _be_ any bread this winter, so the price doesn't much matter. But what about coal? and milk? and meat? "Several new sets of wage claims are due for decision within the next few weeks, and it is possible that two of them at least may not be determined without a cessation of work." More strikes ... But not for a week or two. To-morrow there won't be any papers at breakfast; there won't be any letters. I shan't catch the 9.5. After breakfast I shall smoke on the cliff--then some tennis. Most of the balls will go over the cliff, but when they have all gone one just slips down and bathes, and picks them up on the way. Undress on the rocks--no machines, no tents. Jolly bathing. Mixed, of course. This Tonbridge councillor is on about that again, I see. He ought to come to Mullion. Mixed bathing depends entirely on the mixture. He doesn't realise that. Of course, if he _will_ bathe at Tonbridge ...

"In diplomatic circles no one is attempting to conceal that the situation is extremely grave." Now which situation is that? That must be one of these world-plots. Don't really see how civilisation can carry on more than a week or two now. Lucky I only took a single, perhaps. It was only two pounds, but I hadn't enough for a return. Never shall have enough, probably--but no matter. If the world is coming to an end, might as well be in a good part of it at the time. And it would be sickening to be snuffed out with an unused return-ticket in one's pocket.

On the sands after lunch--build a few castles and dams and things for the children--at least, not altogether for the children, not so much as they think, anyhow. Tea at the farm, with plenty of cream, possibly an egg ... No eggs this winter, I see; some question of non-unionists. Then a little golf before dinner--and perhaps a little dancing afterwards. Coffee, anyhow ...

Then _The Times_ arrives, all wrapped up, just as one is explaining about the seventh hole. It is all stiff and crinkly, and one spends a long time rearranging it, flattening out the folds ...

And one never reads it. That's the best of all.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

PRONE.

_To the Editor of "Punch."_

SIR,--I am an architect (of forty-three years' standing) and I like to keep _au courant_ with everything in the world of building (or of being about to build). Consequently anything new in constructional material interests me, and in this connection I would like to ask you what is or what are Prone? I have only seen it (or them) mentioned once, and from the context I gather that the word "prone" stands for the plural of "prone" (as "grouse" is the plural of "grouse," and as "house" might well stand for the plural of "house" nowadays, considering the shortage of dwellings), and that it (or they) is (or are) used either as a floor covering or otherwise in connection with working on the floor or ground.

My reason for so thinking is contained in the following interesting item, culled from a well-known daily newspaper:--

"There is in London one man at least who works hard every day and has to lay prone to do it.

He may be seen daily in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey re-cutting the names on the flagged gravestones which have been worn by countless pilgrims' feet. He has picked out many illustrious names, and others are to follow."

The sex and species of this hard-worker preclude the notion of any oviparous act, and I take it that one "lays prone" as one lays a mat or strip of carpet, for the purpose of facilitating labour that is done on the knees or stomach. If I am right I should like to get my builder to order some for his workmen absolutely at once.

Anything which would help to defeat the Trade Unions in their fight against speeding-up would be a blessing, especially to the architectural world, so perhaps you will be good enough to enlighten me on the nature of Prone, and where obtainable.

Believe me, Yours very gravely, ONESIMUS STONE (F.R.I.B.A.).

* * * * *

From an American book on "How and What to Read":--

"Other great American short story writers include Bret Harte, Edward Everett Hale, Frank Stockton, and Mary E. Wilkins. With these may be included Thomas Hardy's 'Life's Little Ironies,' which are full of fun."

Mr. HARDY will be glad, no doubt, to add this little irony to his collection.

* * * * *

THE KELPIE.

The scoffer rails at ancient tales Of lake and stream and river; The wise man owns that in his bones The kelpie makes him shiver.

Big salmon-flies the scoffer buys, Long rods and wading stockings; Unpicturesque he walks in Esk With unbelief and mockings.

"A river-horse! O-ho, of course!" And shouts with ribald laughter; He does not see in his cheap glee The kelpie trotting after.

The storm comes chill from off the hill; An eerie wind doth holloa; And near and near by surges drear The water-horse doth follow.

A snort, a snuff; enough, enough; Past prayer or human help he Comes never more to mortal door Who meets the water-kelpie.

* * * * *

"THE KING ARRIVES IN SCOTLAND

ASKED TO LEAVE."

_Consecutive Headlines in "The Daily Mirror."_

The habit of reading the headlines in our pictorial newspapers without glancing at the pictures beneath them is liable to create false impressions.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO A MAKER OF PILLS.

"The Pill Trade has fallen on evil days; no ex-service men seem to require pills."--_A pill manufacturer summoned for rates at Willesden._

O Benefactor of the British Tommy, So often sick in far unfriendly climes, What tears of sympathy are flowing from me To learn that you have fallen on evil times! Yea, to my mind 'tis little short of tragic That men no longer buy your potent spheres of magic!

Scarce less detested than the Bulgar bullet Your bitter pellets of Quin. Sulph. gr. 5 Have often stuck in my long-suffering gullet, Leaving me barely more than half alive, Whilst the accursed drug, whose taste I dread, Hummed like an aeroplane within my throbbing head.

And what about Acetyl-Salicylic, And what of Calomels and Soda Sals? Existence had been even less idyllic Without those powerful and faithful pals! Why, midst the fevers of the Struma plain you Furnished the greater part of Tommy's daily menu.

Or what of that infallible specific, Your Pil. Cathartic Comp., or No. 9, Whose world-wide influence must have been terrific Since first it found its footing in the Line? The British Tommy took it by the million-- Why should it fail to sell now he has turned civilian?

It is not base ingratitude that blinds him To recognition of an ancient debt, But rather that the sight of these reminds him Of painful days which he would fain forget. When life was one long round of guards and drills, Marches, patrols, fatigues and sick parades--and pills.

Yet hear me, maker of the potent pilule: Although my days of soldiering are o'er, I'm fondly trusting that, when next I'm ill, you Come to my rescue as you came of yore; Meanwhile you'll understand that I, for one, Refuse to buy your wares and eat them just for fun.

* * * * *

A DEAD HEAT.

"In the high jump final, Landen (U.S.A.) was first with a jump of 6ft. 4-1/2in.; Muller (U.S.A.) and E. Keleend (Sweeden) died for second place."--_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

"I heard Lord Rosebery say: 'Your little girl has got beautiful eyes.' I repeated this upstairs with joy and excitement to the family, who ... said they thought it was true enough if my eyes had not been so close together."--_Extract from Autobiography of Margot Asquith._

Her "I's" are generally rather close together.

* * * * *

"The policy which should be adopted is first to take steps to prevent prices continuing to rise, and then to endeavour to reduce them until the purchasing power of the pound sterling is equal to the purchasing power of the dollar."--_Financial Paper_.

Judging by the New York exchange good progress has been made in this direction.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

GEORGE, JANE AND LENIN.

Now that Soviet rule in England is apparently so imminent it seems to me that we ought to consider a little more closely the application of its practical machinery. The morning papers reach this village at three o'clock in the afternoon, so that nobody is in to read them, and when one comes back in the evening one is generally too lazy, but a couple of rather startling sentences about the coming Communist _régime_ have recently caught my eye.

"The people of England, like the people of Russia," runs the first, "will soon be working under the lash." And the second, so far as I remember, says, "Our rations will no doubt be reduced to half a herring and some boiled bird-seed, which is all the unhappy Russians are getting to eat."

Before these changes fall suddenly upon us I think we should ponder a little on the way in which they will affect our urban and agricultural life.

Take the House of Commons. A very large and symbolic knout might occupy the position of the present mace, and from time to time the SPEAKER could take it up and crack it. As this needs a certain amount of practice it will be necessary to select a fairly horsey man as Speaker, and the Whips, who will follow the same procedure, should also be skilled practitioners. I see no difficulty in applying the same method to commercial and factory life in general, still less to the packing of the Underground Railway and the loading of motor-omnibuses and trams.

It is rather when we come to scattered rural communities that the system seems likely to break down. Take the case of George Harrison in this village. When I first met George Harrison, and he said that he thought the weather was lifting, he was carrying a basket of red plums which he offered to sell me for an old song. On subsequent occasions I met him--

1. Driving cows. (At least I suppose he was driving them; he was sitting sideways on a large horse doing nothing in particular, and some of the cows were going into one field and some into another, and a dog was biting their tails indiscriminately.)

2. Clearing muck and weeds out of the stream.

3. Setting a springe for rabbits.

4. Delivering letters, because the postman doesn't like walking up the hill.

Now I maintain that there would be insuperable difficulties in making George carry out all these various activities under the lash. Anyone, I suppose, under a properly constituted Soviet _régime_ might be detailed as George Harrison's lasher, Mr. SMILLIE, Mr. G.K. CHESTERTON, Lord CURZON, Mr. CLYNES or the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND. Can you imagine Mr. CHESTERTON walking about on guard duty in a rabbit warren while George Harrison set springes in accordance with the principles laid down by the Third Internationale for rabbit-snaring? or the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND standing in gum-boots in the middle of a stream and flicking George Harrison about the trousers if he didn't rake out old tin cans at forty to the minute as laid down by the Moscow Code? Now I ask you.

And then there is this half a herring and boiled bird-seed arrangement. George Harrison has a sister of eighteen who kindly comes in to do cooking and housework for us every day. She thinks us frightfully queer, and if we bought some herrings and bird-seed and asked her to cook them for us I have no doubt she would oblige, but, though she doesn't much care what we eat, there are a lot of things she doesn't eat herself, and fish is one of them. Porridge, which, I suppose, is a kind of bird-seed, is another.

Not that Jane calls it eating, by the way. She calls it "touching," and there are any number of things that she doesn't fancy touching. She will touch enormous platefuls of bacon or sausages or almost any derivative of the domestic pig, and the same applies to puddings and cake. But beef and mutton she does not touch, nor margarine, and we have to be almost as careful that Jane Harrison has plenty of the right things to touch as about the whole of the rest of the family.

Now here again I think it would be quite possible to induce the people of England in our large industrial centres to ration themselves on boiled herring and bird-seed. We should not use those names, of course. The advertisements on the hoardings would say:--

THE BOUNTIFUL HARVEST OF THE SEA BROUGHT TO THE BREAKFAST TABLE

or

WHAT MAKES THE SKYLARK SO HAPPY? TRY HARRABY'S HEMP. A SONG IN EVERY SPOONFUL.

But propaganda of that sort would have no effect on Jane. She would simply say that she never cared to touch herrings and that she did not fancy hemp-seed.

When I consider the cases of George and Jane I am bound to believe either that the Russian moujiks (if this is still the right word) are more docile and tractable than ours, or else that the Soviet _régime_ will need a great deal of adaptation before it can be extended to our English villages. Or, of course, it may be possible that some of the minuter details of M. LENIN'S administration have not been fully revealed to me. I shall find out about this no doubt when I return to London. In the meantime I am banking on George and Jane, whatever the COUNCIL OF ACTION may do.

EVOE.

* * * * *

THE OLD ORDER CHANGES.

"'He brightened up a lot when his mother-in-law arrived,' said an onlooker.--"_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

* * * * *

LUCERNE.

O, every dog must have its day And ev'ry town its turn; For fair is fair ... and, anyway, Let's talk about Lucerne.

Lucerne is in Switzerland, and I am in Lucerne. The moment I heard that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE was coming to Lucerne I felt that a new importance was added to Switzerland, to Lucerne, to me and, if I may say so, to Mr. LLOYD GEORGE. But I felt that, if I didn't do something about it, Lucerne and Mr. LLOYD GEORGE would get away with all the credit and my part in the affair would be overlooked.

The question arose as to what to call that "something"? After a great deal of thought I decided to try you with a short and simple "Lucerne," one of my reasons being that, if you get down to the hard facts, there is no such place.

Try (as the G.P.O. suggests to disappointed envelopes)--try

LUZERN.

Now don't let us have any argument about it, please. It makes no difference how long you have called the place "Lucerne" or how many of you there are. It is no good saying that English people and French people call it "Lucerne" and as victors the Entente have the right to impose their wishes; and it is no good quoting authorities at me. Luzern calls itself Luzern, and, to satisfy myself that it is not mistaken on the point, I have obtained complete corroboration from the _Amtliches Schweizerisches Kursbuch_, an authority whose very name is enough to make your _Bradshaw_ look silly and shut up.