Chapter 3

How differently the thing might have been done if put into competent hands. Would not something like the following (though far short of perfection, we admit) have been more acceptable to the general reader?--

Mr. X's erstwhile florid face paled. An ugly look invaded his features of normally classic beauty. Flinging off his braided morning-coat he flew at his opponent. Parrying with his right he brought his left well home with a middle-and-off jab, tapping the claret--a pretty blow, whose only defect was that it struck the wrong face.

Other honourable Members hastened to join the _mêlée_. Pince-nez flew in every direction, toupées were disarranged, dental plates shook to their very foundations. The opposition pack worked well, displaying brilliant footwork, tackling low and dodging neatly the dangerous cross-kicks of their opponents. The heel-work, while above the average, was too often below the belt.

Meanwhile the only lady Member present sat pale and bright-eyed, a silent spectator. Her mind, working rapidly, sensed an impending catastrophe. What could she do to emphasise the woman's point of view? At the sight of blood she nerved herself with a supreme effort to remain in her place. Then, springing to action, she tore her dainty handkerchief into strips with which to provide the bandages which it seemed would inevitably be needed.

At last silence reigned. The collar-studs were collected from the floor of the House and the few remaining Members breathlessly awaited the resumption of the sitting.

As the hon. Member apologised every throat was dry, but most of the eyes were moist. The gracious acceptance of the apology moved strong men to weep aloud until called to order. And there, in the background, sat she whose woman's wit had shown the better way.

* * * * *

=Commercial Menace.=

"Taxis for Hire. Boats and Trains met. Picnic and Wedding Parties promptly attended to and executed with reliability."

* * * * *

"There were only 67 persons enjoying annual incomes of £200,000 or over in 1918, upon whom a tax of about £28,000,000 was levied."--_Daily Paper._

What are we coming to!

* * * * *

"THE GARDEN.

VIOLINS.--For sale, several second-hand Violins."--_Local Paper._

They should harmonize well with the violas in the next bed.

* * * * *

"Mr. ---- (the bride's brother) was at the organ, and played the 'Bridle March' (Lohengrin)."--_Local Paper._

While the happy pair were on their way to the halter.

* * * * *

"An advertisement in a morning paper for 20 laborers to do store work resulted in 400 applicants assembling in front of the Petersham P.O., where the advertiser had promised to meet them. To their intense disgust he failed to materialise. The general opinion is that the advertisement was a hoar."

_Australian Paper._

A frost anyway.

* * * * * [Illustration: =THE USES OF GESTURE.=

A sixpenny-bit--plain.

One penny--with aplomb.]

* * * * *

"G.B.R.L."

G.B.R.L.'s are an old-established convention in my family. Joan and Pauline ("Porgie" _libentius audit_) are exceptional authorities on the animal world in general; exceptional, at any rate, for their years, which respectively total four-spot-six and two-spot-five. They confound their parents daily with questions relating to the habits of marmots or the language of kiwis. But they never talk about "lions," _tout court_. A lion is, _ex-officio_ and _ipso facto_, a Great-Big-Roarin'-Lion--always has been: in short, a G.B.R.L.

It reminds me of a man I know who was made a G.B.E.; but that's another story, and Joan wouldn't see the joke of it anyhow, though I know she would smile politely.

But in this matter of lions, from which I am tending to digress, the old G.B.R. convention has just been weighed in the balance and found wanting. It came about in this wise. Joan's and Porgie's Uncle Barney (his nose is _retroussé_, if anything, only he had the misfortune to be born on St. Barnabas' Day) departed the other day for Afric's sunny shores--for Algiers, in fact--to nurse a tedious trench legacy. This, of course, was a matter of great concern to his nieces, in whose eyes he is distinctly _persona grata_, owing to his command of persiflage and taste in confectionery.

I went into the nursery on the fateful morning to break the sad news. My daughters were at breakfast and I was just in time to hear Joan's grace, "Thank God for our b'ekfas'--and _do_ make us good." The extremely sanctimonious tone in which this was delivered, combined with the melodramatic scowl which marred the usual serenity of Porgie's countenance, convinced me that the morning had commenced inauspiciously and that it would be well to gild the pill which I had to administer.

"Hallo, stout women," I said cheerfully. Joan looked politely bored but made no reply.

"Not 'tout wimmin," said Porgie heavily and uncompromisingly. Obviously it was too early in the day for any of that sparkling back-chat for which my daughters are so justly famed. So I got down to hard tacks at once.

"Your Uncle Barney," I said, "is going to Algiers to-day."

I explained that Algiers was in Africa, where the black men come from. Joan was mildly intrigued. She opined that her Uncle Barney would follow the local customs (as she understood them) and wear no clothes. I said I doubted if his medical adviser would approve of his carrying international courtesy to such an extreme. Joan was frankly disappointed. So I tried again.

"I expect he'll see some lions in Africa," I suggested.

Joan's interest revived. "Great-big-roarin'-lions," she corrected me. Porgie expressed herself, as usual, in precisely similar terms.

"Yes," I said feelingly, "great big roarers. I expect they'll eat him up quite soon."

Joan looked deeply concerned at this callous prediction, and the corners of Porgie's mouth drooped ominously.

"I don't like roarin' lions," said Joan.

"Don't nike roarin' nions," said Porgie.

"Are they in cages?" suggested Joan hopefully. This was an excellent idea.

"Of course they are," I said with great heartiness.

Joan was not satisfied. "Will they roar when they see Uncle Barney?" she inquired.

This gave me my chance most unexpectedly. "I should just think they will," I said. "If they see him dressed like your black men, they'll roar till the tears pour down their cheeks."

"I 'spect they'd be laughing at him," said Joan, gracefully helping me out.

"I 'spect so," I replied.

"_I_ see," said Joan comfortably.

"_I_ see," said Porgie.

* * * * *

So G.B.R.L. has come to have a new and a more genial significance, thanks to Uncle Barney.

* * * * *

"Vacant Possession, through sickness.--Capital Chop, with good living accommodation, in best business position."--_Daily Paper._

Purchaser will acquire a steak in the country.

* * * * * [Illustration: =ANOTHER CHILD ACTRESS.=

_Mrs. Bluff_ (_a popular pauper_). "NOW, FANNY, WHAT'LL YER SAY WHEN I TAKES YER INTO THE KIND LADY'S DRORIN'-ROOM?"

_Fanny_ (_thoroughly proficient_). "OH, THAT'S AN EASY ONE. I'LL PUT ON A BEWTIFUL LORST LOOK AN' SAY, 'MUVVER, THIS IS 'EAVEN!'"]

* * * * *

=Mr. Punch's Misquotations.=

Of a prima donna who sang in a private drawing-room: "At a party she gave what was meant for mankind." (GOLDSMITH).

* * * * *

"FAR-FETCHED HERRING.

"The steam drifter Bruces landed at Buckie to-day the furthest-fetched catch of herrings on record. The herrings were caught on the Yarmouth grounds, over 4000 miles distant."

_Scotch Paper._

The last detail seems as far-fetched as the fish.

* * * * *

"Lost, in Paragon Street or Station, Black Dog with purse, money, eyeglass and papers; name and address inside.--Reward returning same."--_Daily Paper._

But suppose the finder is an anti-vivisectionist?

* * * * *

There was a young lady named Janet, Who committed high treason in Thanet; She dressed up her cat In a _D**ly M**l_ hat, And was promptly fired out of this planet.

* * * * *

ONE TOUCH OF DICKENS.

Knowing that there was everything in my appearance to command respect, I went into the manager's room with confidence. Lean and brown and middle-aged, in a tweed coat and grey flannel trousers, which, though not new, were well cut, I felt that I looked like one accustomed to put in and take out sums from banks. There was no trying for effect, no effort, no tie-pin. The stick I carried was a plain ash. The pipe, which I removed from my mouth, had no silver mounting. Ah, but it showed the tiny mother-of-pearl star which stamped it as a Bungknoll. There was going to be no difficulty here.

"Good morning," I said. "I regret to trouble a busy man over a small matter, but I wish to cash a cheque for ten pounds."

He was a quiet, capable-looking man with a rather tired expression.

"The cashing of cheques," he said, laying down his pipe, "is one item of our duties."

"Unfortunately," I continued, "I have run short of money. I bought a rather good print in a shop down the road and it has left me without any. I can give a cheque on Bilson's, but the banks in town close to-morrow and it would mean waiting three days, so I hope that you will be able to--"

"You can bring someone to identify you, of course?" he said, reaching for a bell.

"I am sorry to say that I am unknown here. I am all right at the hotel, but I don't like to ask the people for money. I have brought only a small bag, and what with the races and so forth I might expose myself to a disagreeable refusal."

"Yes," he said, "you might. But I'm afraid I can't cash a cheque for you without an identification. I'll send it for collection if you like."

"But that means waiting for days, and I haven't a shilling left. I came here for a week to look at the country about your town--a beautiful little town." I added this diplomatically.

"Do you think so? I consider it a hole. But I don't know much about it as I'm only here for a week. However, I'm sorry I can't help you except in the way I mentioned."

"But look here--do I look like the kind of man who plays tricks? Here is my card and my club address. And letters"--I tore one out of an envelope, but it was the one from Mosbyson's reminding me that they had already applied twice for payment--"but letters are of little use to identify one."

"They are," he agreed.

"The fact is, among other things, I want to buy another print which I have just caught sight of. It may be snapped up at any moment, like the one I snapped up yesterday."

"Let it go. It's probably a fake."

"Which one?" I said hotly. "The one I bought yesterday or the one I'm going to buy?"

"Both. But I can't cash your cheque."

"But look at the mess I'll be in. Would you have me pawn my watch?"

"I would not; neither would I have you not do so, if you take my meaning."

"I see," I said bitterly. "In plain words you are indifferent to my fate."

He smiled slightly and reached for a match to re-light his pipe.

My blood was up. I would not be defied by this man; at least, not completely. "Very well," I said coldly, "I will leave my cheque for ten pounds with you and take only a couple on account."

"I couldn't do that either."

"Well, a pound will have to do then."

"No."

"Then," I said in despair, "we come to the ridiculously small amount of eighteenpence. Ha, ha!"

"And that," he answered, "would be equally objectionable."

I started. "Come," I said, "you are human after all. You can quote at random from DICKENS. You read him?"

"I do. When not engaged in business pursuits." He looked anxiously at the clock.

"Who was _Mrs. Chickenstalker_?" I asked sternly.

"She kept a shop. In _The Haunted Man_."

"Whom did _Mr. Wopsle_ marry?"

"Nobody. But hadn't you better see about your watch?"

"Not yet. How many glasses of punch did _Mr. Pickwick_ drink on One Tree Hill?"

"Depends on how you count them. I make it eight."

"Correct. Look here--have you thought about the bagman's story--the first one? He says it is eighty years since the events he relates took place, and that would carry it back to 1747. And yet the traveller damns his straps and whiskers. Why, if he'd worn strapped trousers and whiskers in those days he'd have had a mob after him."

"Yes, and he wouldn't have been driving a gig on Marlborough downs. He'd have been riding with pistols in his holsters, wrapped in a horseman's cloak and wearing a plain bobwig. I've thought of that too."

"I see you have. But there's another--"

"Let me. Can you account for this? _Martin Chuzzlewit_ left _Mr. Pecksniff's_ house in the late autumn--say the last of November to be on the safe side. He stays five weeks in London and then goes to America--say another five weeks. Then, after a week in _Major Pawkins_' boarding-house, he goes to a place which is identified as the original site of Cairo, Illinois--say another week. This would land him there at the end of February, when everything is frozen stiff. But they travelled down the river in a heat that blistered everything it touched."

"No," I said jealously, "I have not thought of that. Wonderful, isn't it, how one likes to catch DICKENS in a mistake? Like having a joke on a good old friend."

"Exactly," he said ardently, "I wish I had more time--"

"If you're free this evening come and dine with me at the 'Bull.' At about eight, if you can."

"I'd like to very much. Thanks. I'll come."

"I've thought of two more," I said; "but I'll go now, as you must be busy, so good-bye for the present. A bit before eight."

"I'll be there. I am rather busy just now. Good morning." He rang the bell. "Oh, Mr. Jounce," he said to the underling who appeared, "will you please cash this gentleman's cheque?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

=AN UNLIKELY STORY.=

I am hoping very much that this story will, as Agony Column advertisements put it, meet the eye of a certain Professor at a certain Academy of Music. Of course I might tell it to him myself, as he happens to be my Professor, at least from 7 to 7.45 on Friday evenings; but it is a story which involves a great deal of explanation and, well--things on the whole get believed better in print.

To be quite frank I did begin telling him at the time, but I saw that the first two words had destroyed his faith in the rest of it. I don't really blame him, for it began with "my cleaner," and I don't suppose that he has the ghost of an idea that, if you teach cooking, as I do, under the London County Council, they kindly keep a charlady to wash up for you and so on, and they call her a "cleaner."

The Professor is a very bad listener. I might have managed to explain to him what a cleaner is, but I never could have made him see why she was having tea with me, so I gave it up.

Really it is so simple. She lives at Cambridge Heath; I live at Croydon, which doesn't sound as countrified but is really so much nicer that no Croydon people who knew Cambridge Heathers could help asking them to tea at least once a year, when the garden was at its best. My cleaner's visit is always very delightful, because she makes the garden seem at least four times its usual size by sheer admiration; but this year, just as she was getting into her stride, it began to rain, and we had to seek refuge by the piano.

We sang "Where the Bee Sucks" and "Annie Laurie" very successfully, and she at last unthawed to the extent of remarking that she would give us a "chune," though she "hadn't stood up" to sing by herself "for donkey's ears." Stipulating that someone should help her out if the need arose, she investigated the inside of the piano-stool where the music lives, looking for a suitable song, and made, to her horror, the discovery that among all the odd pages it contained there was not one that had ever adhered to a piece called "The Maxeema," nor yet to a song which asks how someone is "Goin' to keep 'em down on the farm now they've seen gay Paree?"

The painful incident was passed over at the time, "The Long Trail" being discovered at the bottom of the pile and satisfactorily negotiated, and I forgot all about it until the next Friday evening, when, just as I was about to shake the dust of Cambridge Heath off my shoes, my cleaner, rising from her scrubbing, wiped her hands on her apron, produced two large limp sheets of white paper which resolved themselves into the music I ought to have had and hadn't, and pressed them upon me with all the eagerness of a more than cheerful giver.

A kind of panic seized me, for on Friday evenings I make the Academy of Music as it were a half-way house on my way home. Under the cleaner's kind and beaming glance there was nothing to do but put them into the attaché case in which I carry my music and try to believe that, wonderful man as he is, even my Professor wouldn't be able to see inside it when it was shut, in fact that it only rested with me to be quite sure that in his presence I only took out Chopin and not the gentleman who was interested in farming.

And I managed nicely. I took out the "Nocturnes" and shut the case up again before the cleverest (and nicest) of Professors could have guessed the company they were keeping, and he was graciously pleased to nod, instead of shaking his head, for most of the three-quarters of an hour. He really must have been pleased with me, for at 7.45 he told me that I showed marked improvement, and then kept me till 7.49 while he explained that a _flair_ for the best of music such as I exhibited was both uncommon and, from a Professor's point of view, exceeding enjoyable. At 7.50--he, benign, I blushful--we approached the attaché-case.

"Allow me," said my Professor, reaching for it to replace Chopin; but I snatched it up before he could get it. Like most truly great men he is a little absent-minded, and he didn't seem to notice anything, but just held out his hand in farewell. But when my Professor shakes hands it means more than that; it means benediction, recognition, salutation--lots of things; for it is rumoured at the Academy that he never bestows that honour on any save those whom he regards as kindred spirits, acolytes at the altar of Music, personalities, not pupils.

And then my attaché-case opened itself quietly, after the manner of attaché-cases, and laid "'Ow're you goin' to keep 'em?" and "The Maxeema" right side up, and their names in such large print too, like an offering at his wonderful feet. Trembling at the knees I said:--

"My cleaner gave them to me."

But he looked at me and went on looking, and that is why I hope so very much that he will read this very unlikely story.

* * * * *

MORE PAY FOR M.P.'S.

(_A perfectly horrible prospect._)

If I were a Member of Parliament[A] On a most inadequate stipend, Up in an attic and worn and spent And wondering how to pay my rent, And sucking an old clay pipe end,

I'd write to BONAR and Mr. GEORGE, Or the party Whips that ran 'em, "Unless you want me to steal or forge You must make those Treasury blokes disgorge A thousand at least per annum.

"Put it at that and make it free From AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN'S taxes, For the glory withers that used to be The sole reward of a stout M.P. As the cost of everything waxes.

"What-not and Coalitionist Equally crave the shilling For a pot of beer or an ounce of twist As they trudge to their homes through the mire and mist From the long day's lobby-filling.

"Radical joins Conservative In a concord wholly hearty, Wanting to know if the State will give An adequate wage upon which to live, And so does the National Party.

"And the boots of the Labour Members creak And a terrible ghastly pallor is On the Wee Free face as it tries to speak; But ah! what a change to each sunken cheek If you put a bit more on our salaries!

"Shibboleths old to the wind we'd fling And turn to the task that presses; Sound reforms would go with a swing And we might have a chance of lengthening Those fearfully short recesses.

"There'd be the chance to show your tact In welding the hostile sections; Sworn and sealed in a mighty pact We'd put on the books the world's best Act Abolishing all elections."

EVOE.

[Footnote A: This beautiful opening line is not original. It is borrowed, with due acknowledgments, from a once famous music-hall song.]

* * * * *

From an article on "History without Tears":--

"There is no book that gives one a more comprehensive idea of the character of the Byzantine Empire, of the reasons for its decline and its disappearance, than Scott's 'Count Robert of Sicily.'"

Except perhaps Wrongfellow's "King Robert of Paris."

* * * * * [Illustration: _Sportsman (who has mounted boy for his first hunt in Ireland_). "WELL, HOW DID YOU GET ON?"

_Boy._ "FIRST-RATE, THANK YOU. I'LL GO IN A HARD HAT NEXT TIME, THOUGH. A FELLOW CAME UP TO ME AT THE MEET AND SAID, 'CAP, HALF-A-CROWN, PLEASE.'"]

* * * * *

=OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.=

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

A new novel by ANTHONY HOPE certainly deserves in these days to be considered a literary event of some importance. His _Lucinda_ (HUTCHINSON) seems to me both in plot and treatment equal to the best of his work; as dignified and yet as lightly handled as anything he has given us in the past. The plot (which I must not betray) is excellent. From the moment when _Julius_, the narrator, making his leisurely way to the wedding of _Lucinda_, is passed by her alone in a taxicab going in an opposite direction, the interest of the intrigue never slackens. Into an epoch of rather "over-ripe" and messy fiction this essentially clean and well-ordered tale comes with an effect very refreshing and tonic. ANTHONY HOPE'S characters as ever are vigorously alive; in _Lucinda_ herself he has drawn a heroine as charming as any in that long gallery that now stretches between her and the immortal _Dolly_. In short, those novel-readers who are (shall I say?) beginning to demand the respect due to middle age will enjoy in these pages the threefold reward of present interest, retrospection and a comforting sense that the literary judgment of their generation is here triumphantly vindicated in the eyes of unbelieving youth. What could be more pleasant?

* * * * *