Chapter 3

It was in a College match--not, I gather, a particularly serious one. Eric and his friend Charles were playing for Balbus College against Caramel College. Caramel had an "A" team out, and Balbus, I should think, must have had about a "K" team ... anyhow, Eric and Charles were both playing. Eric, as he modestly said, doesn't bat much, and Charles doesn't bowl much. Eric said to Charles, "I bet you a fiver you won't get six wickets." Charles said to Eric, "All right; and I bet you a fiver you won't get a hundred runs."

Then began a hideous series of intrigues. Caramel were to bat first, and Eric went to the Balbus captain and said, "There's a sovereign[1] for you if Charles doesn't go on to bowl _at all_."

[Footnote 1: This is a pre-war story.]

"Very well," said the captain, with a glance of sinister understanding. "Wouldn't have anyhow," he added as he pocketed the stake.

Then Charles arrived.

"Two pounds," said the captain.

"What for?" said Charles.

"For ten overs--four bob an over."

"It's too much," said Charles; "but there's a sovereign for you if Eric goes in ninth wicket down."

"Very well," said the captain, with a glance of devilish cunning. "It's only one lower than usual. Thank you."

Acting on intuition and their knowledge of the captain, Eric and Charles then hotly accused each other of bribery. Both confessed, and it was agreed to start fair. Charles was to bowl first change and Eric was to bat first wicket. The captain said he would want a lot of bribing to go back on the original arrangement, especially if it meant Charles bowling, but he would do it for the original price; and, as he already held the money, Eric and Charles had to concede the point.

By the way, I am afraid the captain doesn't come very well out of this, and I'm afraid it is rather an immoral story; but my object is to show up the evils of commercialism, so it is all right.

Pallas Athene came down and stood by the bowler's umpire while Charles was bowling, and he got five wickets quite easily. It was incredible. The Caramel batsmen seemed to be paralysed. Then the last man came in, and the first thing he did was to send up a nice little dolly catch to Eric at cover-point. Eric missed it. When I say he missed it I mean he practically flung it on the ground. Indeed he rather over-did it, and the batsman, who was a sportsman and knew Charles, appealed to the umpire to say he was really out. Pallas Athene grabbed the umpire by the throat, and he said firmly that no catch had been made.

Then the batsmen made a muddle about a run and found themselves in the common but embarrassing position of being both at the wicket-keeper's end. The ball had gone to Eric and he had only to throw it in to Charles, who was bowling, for Charles to put the wicket down. But in one of those flashes of inspiration which betray true genius he realised that in the circumstances that was just what Charles would _not_ do. Direct action was the only thing. So, ball in hand, he started at high velocity towards the wicket himself.

He was a Rugger Blue (I told you) and a three-quarter at that, so he went fairly fast. However, the batsman saw that he had a faint hope after all, and he ran too. It was an heroic race, but the batsman had less distance to go. Eric saw that he was losing, and from a few yards' range he madly flung the ball at the wicket. He missed the wicket, but he hit Charles very hard on the shin, which was something. I fancy he must have hit Pallas Athene as well, for with the very next ball she gave Charles his sixth wicket.

By this time the game had resolved itself into an Homeric combat between the two protagonists, of which the main bodies of the Balbus and Caramel armies were merely neutral spectators--neutral, that is, so far as they had not been hired out for some dastard service by one or other of the duellists.

When Eric went in it was clear that Juno had come down to help him, for he made three runs in eight balls without being bowled once. Then Charles came in. His first ball he hit slowly between mid-off and cover, and he called for a run. All unsuspecting, Eric cantered down the pitch. When he was half-way Charles seemed to be seized with the sort of panic which sometimes possesses a batsman. "No, no!" he cried. "Go back! go back!" And he scuttled back himself. Juno fortunately intervened and Eric just got home in time. But he realised now what he was up against. His next ball he hit towards mid-wicket, and shouting "Come on!" he galloped up the pitch. Charles came on gingerly, expecting to be sent back, but Eric duly passed him; he then turned round and just raced Charles back to the wicket-keeper's end. Charles was only a Soccer Blue (and a goal-keeper at that), and Eric won.

"After that," said Eric with his usual modesty, "it was easy." Eyewitnesses, however, have told me more. Juno dealt with the Caramel bowlers, but Eric had to compete with Charles. And Charles resorted to every kind of devilish expedient. Nearly all the Balbus batsmen were bribed to run Eric out, and whenever he hit a boundary Eric had to stop and reason with them in the middle of the pitch. Sometimes he tried to outbid Charles, but he usually found that he couldn't afford it. So he collared the bowling as much as possible and tried not to hit anything but boundaries. Juno helped him a good bit in that way.

When he had made seventy he got a ball on the knee. Charles ran out and offered to run for him, but Eric said he could manage, thank you. Then Charles went and walked rapidly up and down in front of the screen; but Eric wasn't the sort of batsman who minded that.

At about ninety, Eric's knee was pretty bad, so he called out for somebody to run for him--_not_ Charles. Five of Charles's hirelings rushed out of the pavilion, but the captain said he would go himself, as that wasn't fair. Besides, he had money on Eric himself.

At this point I gather that Pallas Athene must have deserted Charles altogether, for he seems to have entertained for a moment or two the ignoble notion of tampering with the scorer. I am glad to be able to say that even the members of the Balbus College "K." Team, eaten up as they were by this time with commercialism, declined to be parties to that particular wickedness. With every circumstance of popular excitement Eric's hundredth run--a mis-cue through the slips--was finally made, scored and added up. In fact, he carried his bat.

"So you were all square," I said, not without admiration.

"By no means," said Eric. "It cost me forty shillings."

"And Charles?"

"It cost him seven pounds."

A. P. H.

* * * * *

"SUGGESTIONS."

A WARNING.

Entering as we are upon the season of games, it might be well to utter an urgent appeal to hostesses not to play "Suggestions." For "Suggestions," though it may begin as a game, is really a wrangle. Under the guise of a light-hearted pastime it offers little but opportunities for misunderstanding, general conversation, allegations of unfairness, and disappointment.

"Suggestions" ought to be played like this: You sit in a semicircle and the first player says something--anything--a single word. Let us suppose it is (as it probably will be in thousands of cases) "MARGOT." The next player has to say what "MARGOT" suggests--"reticence," for example--and the next player, shutting his mind completely to the word "MARGOT," has to say what "reticence" suggests--perhaps _Grimaud_, in _The Three Musketeers_--and the fourth player has to disregard "reticence" and announce whatever mental reaction the name of _Grimaud_ produces. It maybe that he has never heard of _Grimaud_ and the similarity of sound suggests only GRIMALDI the clown. Then he ought to say, "GRIMALDI the clown," which might in its turn suggest "melancholy" or "the circus." All the time no one should speak but the players in their turn, and they should speak instantly and should say nothing but the thing that is honestly suggested by the previous word. At the end of, say, a dozen rounds the process of unwinding the coil begins, each player in rotation taking part in the backward process until "MARGOT" is again reached.

That is how the game should be played.

This is how it _is_ played:--

_First Player._ Let me see; what shall I say?

_Various other Players_ (_together_). Surely there's no difficulty in beginning? Say "anything," etc., etc.

_A Player_ (_looking round_). Say--say "fireplace."

_First Player._ But that's so silly.

_Master of Ceremonies_ (_who wishes he had never proposed the game_). It doesn't matter. All that is needed is a start.

_Another player._ Say "MARGOT."

(_Roars of laughter._)

_All._ Oh, yes, say "MARGOT."

_First Player._ Very well, then--"MARGOT."

(_More laughter._)

_Second Player_ (_trying to be clever_). "Reticence."

(_Shouts of laughter._)

_Other Players._ How could "MARGOT" suggest "reticence"?

_M. C._ Never mind; the point is that it did. Now then--and please everyone be silent--now, then, Third Player?

_Third Player._ "Audacity."

_M. C._ I'm afraid you're not playing quite fairly. You see "reticence" cannot suggest "audacity." The First Player's word not impossibly might. Could it be that you were still thinking of that?

_Third Player._ I'm sorry. But "reticence" doesn't suggest anything.

_Other Players_ (_together_). Oh, yes, it does--"silence," "grumpiness," "oysters," "Trappists."

_M. C._ If a word suggests nothing whatever to you, you should say, "Blank mind."

_Third Player._ Ah, but I've thought of something now--"reticule."

(_Roars of laughter._)

_M. C._ It's all right. That's how the mind does work. Now, next player.

_Fourth Player._ Have I got to say something that "reticule" suggests?

_M. C._ That's the idea--yes.

_A Player._ Say "vanity-bag."

_Another Player._ Say "powder-puff."

(_Roars of laughter._)

_M. C._ Please, please--either the game is worth playing or it isn't. If it is worth playing it is worth playing seriously, and then you can get some very funny effects--it's a psychological exhibition; but if other players talk at the same time and try to help it's useless. Now, next player, please. The word is "reticule."

_Fourth Player_ (_after a long silence_). "Bond Street."

_Fifth Player._ Ah, "Bond Street"! That's better. That suggests heaps of things. Which shall I choose? "Chocolates"? No. "Furs"? No. "Diamonds"? No. Oh, yes--"Old Masters."

_M. C._ (_with resignation_). But you know you mustn't select. The whole point of the game is that you must say what comes automatically into your mind as you hear the word.

_Fifth Player._ I'm sorry. Shall I go back to "diamonds"?

_M. C._ No; you had better stick to "Old Masters."

_Fifth Player._ "Old Masters."

_Sixth Player_ (_deaf_). What did you say--"mustard-plasters"?

_Fifth Player._ No; "Old Masters."

_Sixth Player._ I've heard of new men and old acres, but I've never heard of Old Pastures. What are they?

_Fifth Player_ (_shouting_). No, no; "Old Masters." Pictures of the Old Masters--RAPHAEL, TITIAN.

_Sixth Player._ Ah, yes! "Old Masters." Well, that suggests to me---- Yes (_triumphantly_), "the National Gallery."

_Seventh Player_ (_who has been waiting sternly_). "Trafalgar Square."

_Eighth Player_ (_instantly_). "NELSON."

_Ninth Player_ (_even more quickly_). "NELSON KEYS."

_M. C._ (_beaming_). That's better. It's going well now.

_Tenth Player._ "England expects----"

_Ninth Player._ No, you can't say that. I could have said that, but you can't.

_Tenth Player._ Why not?

_Ninth Player._ Because "NELSON" is all over and done with. The new name is "NELSON KEYS." You ought to have thought of something connected with him.

_Tenth Player._ If you'd said "KEYS" I might have done. But you said "NELSON KEYS," and the "NELSON" touched a spot. Isn't that right?

_M. C._ Quite right. It's the only way to play. But may I once more ask that there should be no talking? We shall never be able to unwind if there is. Now, please--"England expects----"

_Eleventh Player._ "Duty."

_Twelfth Player._ "Bore."

_Thirteenth Player._ "The Marne."

(_Cries of astonishment._)

_Various Players._ How can "bore" suggest "the Marne"?

_M. C._ But it did. You mustn't mind.

_Twelfth Player._ How did it? Just for fun I'd like to know.

_Thirteenth Player._ Well, when I was on the Marne I used to see the marks on the ground made by them.

_Twelfth Player._ By who?

_Thirteenth Player._ The wild boars.

(_Roars of laughter._)

_Twelfth Player._ But I meant that duty is a bore--b-o-r-e.

_M. C._ (_frantic_). It doesn't matter. It's what you think--not what is--in this game. But really we're in such a muddle, wouldn't it be better to begin again? You all know the rules now.

_Hostess._ Perhaps "Clumps" might be better, don't you think?

_M. C._ Just as you like. "Clumps," then.

_The Deaf Player._ What is the word now?

_A Player._ We're going to play "Clumps" instead.

_The Deaf Player._ Mumps in bed? I'm sure I don't know what that suggests. That's very difficult. But I like this game. It ought to be great fun when we unwind.

(_They separate for "Clumps."_)

E. V. L.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Headline to an article on ladies' fashions:--

"STOCKINGS COMING DOWN."

This should make the hosiers pull up their socks.

* * * * *

"Several reasons, besides the claims of humanity, made the Eugenist favour schemes for abolishing the eugenist."--_Daily Paper._

We are inclined to agree with the Eugenist.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MISPLACED BENEVOLENCE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--From your earliest years you have preached sound and wholesome doctrine on the duty of man to birds and beasts. Indeed, I remember your pushing it to extreme lengths in a poem entreating people not to mention mint-sauce when conversing with a lamb. Still, I wonder whether even you would approve of the title of an article in _Nature_ on "The Behaviour of Beetles." Of course I know that "behaviour" is a colourless word, still I am rather inclined to doubt whether beetles know how to behave at all. I may be prejudiced by my own experiences, but they certainly have been unfortunate. They began early--at my private school, to be precise. I shall never forget the conversation I had, when a new boy, with a sardonic senior who, after putting me through the usual catechism, asked me what I was going to be. I replied that I had not yet decided, whereupon my tormentor, after looking at my feet, which I have never succeeded in growing up to, observed, "Well, if I were you, I think I should emigrate to Colorado and help to crush the beetle." Later on in life I was the victim of a cruel hoax, carried out with triumphant ingenuity by a confirmed practical joker, who with the aid of a thread caused what appeared to be a gigantic blackbeetle to perform strange and unholy evolutions in my sitting-room. Worst of all, I was victimised by the presence of a blackbeetle in a plate of clear soup served me at my club. I backed my bill, but it was too late, for I am very shortsighted.

No, Mr. Punch, I am prepared to discuss the Ethics of Eels, the Altruism of Adders, the Piety of Pintails, or even the Benevolence of Bluebottles, but (to deviate into doggerel)--

"Let LANKESTERS, LUBBOCKS and CHEATLES Dilate with a rapturous bliss On the noble behaviour of beetles-- _I_ give them a miss."

I am, Mr. Punch, with much respect,

Yours faithfully, PHILANDER BLAMPHIN.

* * * * *

THREE TRAGEDIES AND A MORAL.

There was an imperious old Sage Who upheld the dominion of Age, But his son, a grim youth, Red in claw and in tooth, Shut him up in a chloroformed cage.

There was also a Child full of beans Who bombarded nine great magazines, But not one of the nine Ever published a line, For the Child was not yet in its teens.

There was thirdly, to round off these rhymes, A Matron who railed at the crimes Of designers of frocks Who in smart fashion "blocks" Left middle-age out of _The Times_.

The moral--if morals one seeks In an age of sensation and shrieks-- Is this: Even still Things are apt to go ill With old, young and middle-aged freaks.

* * * * *

Our Erudite Contemporaries.

"The Grecian women were forbidden entrance to the stadium where the [Olympic] games were being held, and any woman found therein was thrown from the Tarpeian rock."

_Canadian Paper._

* * * * *

"The French are thinking of building straw houses to remedy the present housing crisis. The first straw house has already been built at Montargis."--_Evening Paper._

Where, presumably, they are trying it on the well-known local Dog.

* * * * *

"Negotiating the intricate traffic of the City was quite easy, the engine being responsive to the slightest touch of the steering wheel. It is just the car for the owner-driver."

_Financial Paper._

Our chauffeur agrees. He says _he_ wouldn't undertake to drive it down the village street, let alone the City.

* * * * *

"IS SINGING ON THE DECLINE? A GREAT TENOR'S ADVICE. 'NEVER FIGHT AGAINST THE BRASS.'"

_Morning Paper._

It is, we believe, the experience of most impresarios that great tenors almost invariably fight _for_ the brass.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

So charged is it with liable-to-go-off controversy that I should hardly have been astonished to see Mr. H. G. WELLS'S latest volume, _Russia in the Shadows_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), embellished with the red label of "Explosives." Probably everyone knows by now the circumstances of its origin, and how Mr. WELLS and his son are (for the moment) the rearguard in that long procession of unprejudiced and undeceivable observers who have essayed to pluck the truth about Russia from the bottom of the Bolshevist pit. What Mr. WELLS found is much what was to be expected: red ruin, want and misery unspeakable. The difference between his report and those of most of his forerunners is that, being (as one is apt to forget) a highly-trained writer, he is able to present it with a technical skill that enormously helps the effect. Our author having been unable to deny the shadow, like everyone else save perhaps the preposterous Mr. LANSBURY, the only outstanding question is who casts it. The ordinary man would probably have little hesitation about his answer to that. Mr. WELLS has even less. He unhesitatingly names you and me and the French investors and several editors. Well, I have no space for more than an indication of what you will find in this undeniably vigorous and vehement little volume. But I must not forget the photographs. Some of these, of devastated streets and the like, have rather lost their novelty. Unfortunately, however, for Mr. WELLS as propagandist he has also included a number of the most revealing portraits yet available of the men who are hag-riding a once great nation to the abyss. I can only say that for me those portraits put the finishing touch to Mr. WELLS'S argument. They extinguish it.

* * * * *

The pictorial wrapper of _A Man of the Islands_ (HUTCHINSON) is embellished with a drawing of a coffee-coloured lady in a costume that it would be an under-statement to call curtailed, also (inset, as the picture-papers say) the portrait of a respectable-looking gentleman in a beard. In the printed synopsis that occupies the little tuck-in part of the same wrapper you are promised "an entrancing picture of breaking seas on lonely islands and tropical nights beneath the palms." In other words Mr. H. DE VERE STACPOOLE as before. Lest however you should suppose the insularity of this attractive pen-artist to be in danger of becoming overdone, I will say at once that the six tales from which the book takes its name occupy not much more than a third of it, the rest being filled with stories of varied setting bearing such titles as "The Queen's Necklace," "The Box of Bonbons," and the like--all frankly to be grouped under the head of "Financial Measures." This said, it is only fair to add that the half-dozen _Sigurdson_ adventures--he was the Man of the Islands, a bearded trader, murderer, pearl thief and what not--seem to me a group of as rattling good yarns as of their kind one need wish to meet, every one with some original and thrilling situation that lifts it far above pot-boiling status. I could wish (despite anything above having a contrary sound) that Mr. STACPOOLE had given us a whole volume with that South Sea setting that so happily stimulates his fancy.

* * * * *

Mr. S. P. B. MAIS has not yet extricated himself from the groove into which he has fallen. It is not a wholesome groove, and even if it were I should not wish an author of his capacity to remain a perpetual tenant of it. In _Colour Blind_ (GRANT RICHARDS) we are given the promiscuous amours of a schoolmaster, a subject which has apparently a peculiar attraction for Mr. MAIS. _Jimmy Penruddocke_, who tells the story, left the Army and could not find a job until he was offered a mastership at a public school. The school rather than _Jimmy_ has my sympathies. There was nothing peculiarly alluring about this philanderer to account for the devastating magnetism which he exerted upon the female heart. To describe all this orgy of caresses could hardly have been worth anyone's time and trouble; certainly it was not worth Mr. MAIS'S. I say this with all the more assurance because, greatly as I dislike the main theme of this novel, there are many good things in it. There is, for example, _Mark Champernowne_ (_Jimmy's_ friend), a finely and consistently drawn character, and there are descriptive passages which are vividly beautiful and also some delightful gleams of humour. I think that when Mr. MAIS'S sense of humour has developed further he will agree with me that a man who loved as promiscuously as _Jimmy_ and then wrote over three hundred pages about it could, without much straining of the truth, be called a cad.

* * * * *