Chapter 2

The girl, having ceased her chatter, took the telegram and began feverishly to count the words. Then her tapping pencil slowed down and her brows contracted; she was assimilating their meaning. Then, with a blush, and a very becoming one, she looked at me with an expression of distress and said, "Do you really want this to go?"

"No," I said, withdrawing the money.

"I'm sorry I was not more attentive," she said.

"That's all right," I replied. "Tear it up."

And I came away, feeling, with a certain glow of satisfaction not unmixed with self-righteousness, that I had done something to raise the post-office standard and to ensure better attention. But the joke is that, if I had myself received better attention, I should have lost thirty pounds, for St. Vitus was unplaced. This story must therefore remain without a moral.

E.V.L.

* * * * *

=Notice in a Shop Window.=

"Hats made to order, or revenerated."

Ah! that's what's wanted so badly to-day for the headgear of the Higher Clergy.

* * * * *

"V.C.W. Jupp, the Sussex amateur, has been invited to become a member of the M.C.C. team, which leaves for Australia on Saturday. A fine all-round cricketer, Jupp is a useful man to any team, but as he usually fields cover-point his inclusion would not necessarily improve the side in its weakest point--_viz._, the lack of oilfields."--_Daily Paper._

Surely the fewer the better, if that's where the butter-fingers come from.

* * * * *

BETWEEN TWO STOOLS.

[Dedicated to those high-minded and dispassionate leader-writers who, after prefacing their remarks with the declaration that "we hold no brief for--" extreme views of all sorts, proceed to show that the conduct of the extremist is invariably explained, if not justified, by the iniquities of the Coalition Government.]

I hold no brief for LENIN Or TROTSKY or their breed; Their way of doing men in Is foreign to my creed; But, since to me LLOYD GEORGE is A source of deeper dread, For Bolshevistic orgies A great deal may be said.

I hold a brief for no land That tramples on its kin; My heart once bled for Poland And groaned for Russia's sin; But, if to clear the tangle WINSTON is given his head, I feel that General WRANGEL Were better downed and dead.

I hold no brief--I swear it-- For militant Sinn Fein; I really cannot bear it When constables are slain; But if you mention CARSON I feel that for the spread Of murder and of arson A good deal can be said.

I hold no brief for SMILLIE Or for the miners' claims; I disapprove most highly Of many of their aims; But when I see the Wizard Enthroned in ASQUITH'S stead, It cuts me to the gizzard And dyes my vision Red.

I hold no brief for madmen On revolution bent, For bitter or for bad men On anarchy intent; But sooner far than "stop" them With Coalition lead, To foster and to prop them I'd leave no word unsaid.

* * * * *

=Our Decadent Poets.=

Extract from an Indian's petition:--

"... to look after my old father, who leads sickly life, and is going from bad to verse every day."

* * * * *

"So far from Mr. Kameneff having had nothing to do with any realisation of jewels, he ... took plains to report it to his Government."--_Daily Paper._

In fact, he took the necessary steppes.

* * * * *

"A privately owned aeroplane, flying from London to the Isle of Wight, descended in a field near Carnforth, seven miles north of Morecambe Bay. The propeller was broken, but the occupants, a lady and a gentleman, escaped with a shaking."--_Daily Paper._

The real shock came when they found out where they were.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE HANDY MAN.

The men I most admire at the present time, though I take care not to tell them so to their faces, are the men who can do everything. By this I don't mean people of huge intellectual attainments, like Cabinet Ministers, or tremendous physical powers, like _Tarzan_ of the Apes. It must be very nice to be able to have a heart-to-heart talk with KRASSIN or to write articles for the Sunday picture-papers, and very nice also to swing rapidly through the tree-tops, say, in Eaton Square; but none of these gifts is much help when the door-handle comes off. I hate that sort of thing to happen in a house.

In the Victorian age, of course, which was one of specialisation based upon peace and plenty, one simply sent for a door-handle replacer and he put it right. But nowadays the Door-handle Replacers' Union is probably affiliated to an amalgamation which is discussing sympathetic action with somebody who is striking, so nothing is done. This means that for weeks and weeks, whenever one tries to go out of the room, there is a loud crash like a 9.2 on the further side and a large blunt dagger clutched melodramatically in the right hand, and nobody to murder with it.

The man who can do everything is the kind of man who can mend a thing like a broken door-handle as soon as look at it. He always knows which of the funny things you push or pull on any kind of machine to make it go or stop, and what is wrong with the cistern and the drawing-room clock.

Such a man came into my house the other day. I call it my house, but it really seems to belong to a number of large people who walk in and out and shift packing-cases and splash paint and tramp heavily into the bathroom about 8.30 A.M. when I am trying to get off to sleep. They have also dug a large moat right through the lawn and the garden-path, which rather spoils the appearance of these places, though it is nice to be able to pull up the drawbridge at night and feel that one is safe from burglars. Anyhow, whether it is my house or theirs, the fact remains that the electric-bells were wrong. The man of whom I am speaking lives next-door, and he came in and pointed this out. "It is not much use having electric-bells," he said, "that don't ring."

I might have argued this point. I might have said that to press the button of a bell that does not ring gives one time to reflect on whether one really wants the thing one rang for, and thereafter on the whole vanity of human wishes, and so inculcates patience and self-discipline. It is quite possible that an Eastern _yogi_ might spend many years of beneficial calm pressing the buttons of bells that do not ring. But I replied rather weakly, "No, I suppose not."

"I'll soon put that right for you," he said cheerily, and about five minutes later he asked me to press one of the buttons, and there was a loud tinkling noise. It seemed a pity that at the moment when the bell did happen to ring there should be nobody to come and answer it.

"Whatever did you do to them?" I asked.

"It only needed a little water," he said, and I had hard work to suppress my admiration. The very morning before, feeling that I ought to take a hand in all this practical work that was going on about the place, I had filled a large watering-can that I found lying about and wetted some things which someone had stuck into the garden. I have a kind of idea that they were carrots, but they may have been maiden-hair ferns. Somehow it had never occurred to me for a moment to go and water the electric bells.

Almost immediately afterwards this man discovered that all the knives in the kitchen were blunt and went and fetched some kind of private grindstone and sharpened them, and then told me that the apple-trees ought to be grease-banded, which I thought was a thing one only did to engines. And, when he had brought a hammer and some nails and put together a large bookcase which had collapsed as soon as _The Outline of History_ was put on to it (I should like to know whether Canon BARNES can explain _that_), I was obliged to ask him to stop, in case the tramping men should see him and strike immediately for fear of the dilution of labour.

But what impressed me most was the part he took next day in the Railway Carriage Conference, which curiously enough was on the subject of strikes. There were several people in the carriage, and they were talking about what they had done during the railway strike last year, and what they would do if such a thing happened again. I said I should like to be a station-master if possible, because they had top-hats and grew such beautiful flowers. Only four or five trains seem to stop at our station during the day, and if there was a strike I suppose the number would be reduced to one or two. And I thought it would be rather nice to spend the day wearing a top-hat and watering the nasturtiums in the little rock-gardens behind the platform. Watering, I said, was quite easy when once one got into the swing of it.

But the man who could do everything seemed to know everything too, and he told me that station-masters were much too noble to strike. There were two kinds of station-masters, he said, both wearing top-hats, but one kind with full morning-dress underneath it and the other with uniform. But neither kind struck.

Slightly nettled at his superior knowledge, I asked him, "What did _you_ do during the Great Strike?"

"Oh, I had rather fun," he said; "I controlled the signals at London Bridge."

If all the truth were known I expect that he is quite ready for Mr. SMILLIE'S strike; that he has a handy little pick in his bedroom and knows of rather a jolly little coal-mine close by.

EVOE.

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* * * * *

* * * * *

FLOWERS' NAMES.

FOOL'S PARSLEY.

In the village of Picking's Pool Lived Theobald, the village fool; He had been simple from his birth But kindly as the simple earth, And in his heart he sang a song Of "Ave, Mary" all day long.

On Good Friday the people came To honour the rood of Christ His shame; They scattered flowers and leaves and moss About the foot of the humble cross And, when they knelt and prayed and wailed, Theobald saw the Mother, veiled And bowed in a mother's agony. "She suffers more than the Christ," said he.

Theobald searched the fields and lanes To find a solace for MARY'S pains; All the flowers were plucked and gone Save a little dull Parsley, sere and wan; And Theobald wreathed it in simple guise; "It mourns like her," said the Fool made wise.

When Holy Saturday morning broke Back to the shrine went the village folk; And lo! on the weeping Mother's brow A chaplet of flowers was gleaming now; And Theobald smiled secretly To think he had soothed her agony. And ever since Theobald crowned his Queen Fool's Parsley has flowered amongst its green.

* * * * *

HEADGEAR FOR HEROES.

[A contemporary, having heard of the hat specially designed for M. CLEMENCEAU, has decided that the bowler, the topper, the Homburg, the straw, the cloth cap and all other styles at present more or less in vogue leave much to be desired, and has therefore inaugurated a search for the ideal male headdress.]

THE SMILLIE.--A Phrygian model, executed in red Russia leather. Special features are the asbestos lining, the steam vents and the water-jacket, which combine to minimise the natural heat of the head. Embellished with an heraldic cock's-comb _gules_, it is a striking conception.

THE PREMIER.--A semi-Tyrolean type in resilient chamois, which can be readily converted to any desired shape, with or without extra stiffening. Its adaptability and the patent sound-proof ear-flaps make it particularly suitable for travellers. Detachable edelweiss and leek trimming.

THE ERIC.--An adaptation of the _cap of maintenance_ in a special elastic material, warranted not to burst under pressure of abnormal expansion of the head of the wearer. Practically fool-proof.

THE WINNIE.--A fore-and-aft derived from a French model of the First Empire period, the severity of which is mitigated by the addition of little bells. A novelty is the mouthpiece in the crown, which enables the hat to be used as a megaphone at need. An elastic loop holds a fountain-pen in position. The whole to be worn on a head several sizes too big for it.

THE CONAN.--A straw bonnet of bee-hive shape. Medium weight. In a diversity of shades. The special puggaree of goblin blue material is designed to protect the wearer from moonstroke without obscuring the vision.

THE WARNER.--An easy-fitting crown carried out in harlequin flannel surmounts a full brim of restful willow-green. Garnished with intertwined laurel and St. John's-Wort, and decorated with the tail feather of a Surrey fowl, it makes a comfortable and distinguished headdress for a middle-aged gentleman.

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* * * * *

A SHIP IN A BOTTLE.

In a sailormen's restaurant Rotherhithe way, Where the din of the docksides is loud all the day, And the breezes come bringing off basin and pond And all the piled acres of lumber beyond From the Oregon ranges the tang of the pine And the breath of the Baltic as bracing as wine, In a fly-spotted window I there did behold, Among the stale odours of hot food and cold, A ship in a bottle some sailor had made In watches below, swinging South with the Trade, When the fellows were patching old dungaree suits, Or mending up oilskins and leaky seaboots, Or whittling a model or painting a chest, Or yarning and smoking and watching the rest.

In fancy I saw him all weathered and browned, Deep crows'-feet and wrinkles his eyelids around; A pipe in the teeth that seemed little the worse For Liverpool pantiles and stringy salt-horse; The hairy forearm with its gaudy tattoo Of a bold-looking female in scarlet and blue; The fingers all roughened and toughened and scarred, With hauling and hoisting so calloused and hard, So crooked and stiff you would wonder that still They could handle with cunning and fashion with skill The tiny full-rigger predestined to ride To its cable of thread on its green-painted tide In its wine-bottle world, while the old world went on And the sailor who made it was long ago gone.

And still as he worked at the toy on his knee He would spin his old yarns of the ships and the sea, _Thermopylæ_, _Lightning_, _Lothair_ and _Red Jacket_, With many another such famous old packet, And many a bucko and dare-devil skipper In Liverpool blood-boat or Colonies' clipper; The sail that they carried aboard the _Black Ball_, Their skysails and stunsails and ringtail and all, And storms that they weathered and races they won And records they broke in the days that are done.

Or sometimes he'd sing you some droning old song, Some old sailors' ditty both mournful and long, With queer little curlycues, twiddles and quavers, Of smugglers and privateers, pirates and slavers, "The brave female smuggler," the "packet of fame That sails from New York and the _Dreadnought_'s her name," And "all on the coast of the High Barbaree," And "the flash girls of London was the downfall of he."

In fancy I listened, in fancy could hear The thrum of the shrouds and the creak of the gear, The patter of reef-points on topsails a-shiver, The song of the jibs when they tauten and quiver, The cry of the frigate-bird following after, The bow-wave that broke with a gurgle like laughter. And I looked on my youth with its pleasure and pain, And the shipmate I loved was beside me again. In a ship in a bottle a-sailing away In the flying-fish weather through rainbows of spray, Over oceans of wonder by headlands of gleam, To the harbours of Youth on the wind of a dream.

C.F.S.

* * * * *

"HIGH COMMISSIONER PAYS CALLS.

Jerusalem, August 27.--The High Commissioner visited yesterday afternoon the tomb of Abraham, Sarah, Rebecca, Isaac, Jacob and Leah in the Cave of Makpéla at Hebron."--_Egyptian Mail_.

No flowers, by request.

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* * * * *

* * * * *

THE BEN AND THE BOOT.

Whither in these littered and overcrowded islands should one flee to escape the spectacle of outworn and discarded boots? I should go to a mountain-top and amongst mountain-tops I should choose the highest. I should scale the summit of Ben Nevis.

Yet it is but a few days since I saw on that proud eminence the unmistakable remains of an ordinary walking boot.

It reposed on the perilous edge of a snowdrift that even in summer curves giddily over the lip of the dreadful gulf over which the eastern precipice beetles. There is ever a certain pathos about discarded articles of apparel: a baby's outgrown shoe, a girl's forgotten glove, an abandoned bowler; but the situation of this boot, thus high uplifted towards the eternal stars, gave to it a mystery, a grandeur, a sublimity that held me long in contemplation.

How came it there?

The path that winds up that grey mountain is rough; its harsh stones and remorseless gradients take toll of leather as of flesh. Yet half a sole and a sound upper are better than no boot; and what climber but would postpone till after his descent the discarding of his damaged footgear?

Could it be, I asked myself, the relic and evidence of an inhuman crime? Was it possible that some party of climbers, arriving at the top lunchless and desperately hungry, had sacrificed their plumpest, disposing of his clothes over the cliff, but failing to hole out with this tell-tale boot?

But no, I bethought me of the price of leather. They would have reserved the boots, even at the risk of suspicion. Moreover, no one would ever reach that exacting altitude in a state of succulence.

A glow of sympathy, a thrill of appreciation swept through me as I realised what was at once the worthiest and the likeliest explanation.

Who shall plumb the depths of the affection of a true pedestrian for his boots, the companions and comfort of so many a pilgrimage? Who but the climber, the hill-tramp, knows the pang of regret with which he faces at last the truth that his favourite boots are past repair, the sorrow and self-reproach with which he permits them to be consigned to Erebus?

I saw it all. As the Roman veteran hung upon the temple wall of Mars the arms he might no longer wield, so hither came some lofty-minded climber, bearing in devoted hands his outworn and faithful boot, to leave it sadly and with reverence in this most worthy resting-place, here to repose at the end of all the roads it had trod, on the highest of all the native hills it had climbed.

W.K.H.

* * * * *

=Another Impending Apology.=

"Mr. Roberts, Member of Parliament, has arrived. Mr. Roberts is a tall and well-built gentleman with a posing appearance."

_Mysore Patriot_.

* * * * *

"Families supplied in 18, 12 or 6 gallon casks."--_Hertford brewer's notice_.

Where's your DIOGENES now?

* * * * *

"The dinner was in the House of Commons, and I sat next to Henry. I was tremendously impressed by his conversation and his clean Cromwellian face."

_From a famous autobiography._

It was, we trust, the CROMWELL touch rather than the cleanness that was so impressive.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.

THE EARWIG.

How odd it is that our Papas Keep taking us to cinemas, But still expect the same old scares, The tiger-cats, the woolly bears, The lions on the nursery stairs To frighten as of old! Considering everybody knows A girl can throttle one of those While choking with the other hand The captain of a robber band, They leave one pretty cold. The lion has no status now; One has one's terrors, I'll allow, The centipede, perhaps the cow, But nothing in the Zoo; The things that wriggle, jump or crawl, The things that climb about the wall, And I know what is worst of all-- It is the earwig--_ugh_!

The earwig's face is far from kind; He must have got a spiteful mind; The pincers which he wears behind Are poisonous, of course; And Nanny knew a dreadful one Which bit a gentleman for fun And terrified a horse.

He is extremely swift and slim, And if you try to tread on him He scuttles up the path; He goes and burrows in your sponge And takes one wild terrific plunge When you are in the bath; Or else--and this is simply foul-- He gets into a nice hot towel And waits till you are dried, And then, when Nanny does your ears, He _wrrriggles_ in and disappears: He stays in there for years and years And _crrrawls_ about inside. At last, if you are still alive, A lot of baby ones arrive; But probably you've died.

How inconvenient it must be! There isn't any way, you see, To get him out again; So, when you want to frighten me Or really give me pain, Please don't go on about that bear And all those burglars on the stair; I shouldn't turn a tiny hair At such Victorian stuff; You only have to say instead, "THERE IS AN EARWIG IN YOUR BED" And that will be enough.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

MY RIGHT-HAND MAN.

On glancing the other day through the only human column of my newspaper--that headed "Personal"--I was much intrigued by the advertisement of a gentleman who styled himself a "busy commercial magnate," and who announced his urgent need of a "right-hand man." The duties of the post were not particularised, but their importance was made clear by the statement that "any salary within reason" would be paid to a really suitable person.

No, I did not think of applying for the post myself; a twelve months' adjutancy to a dyspeptic Colonel had long cured me of the desire to bottle-wash for anyone again, however lavish the remuneration. But, I thought to myself, it must evidently be a profitable notion to employ a right-hand man, or why should this magnate person be so airy on the subject of salary? Would it not then pay me to engage somebody in a similar capacity? Increased production, in spite of Trade Union economics, is emphatically a need of the moment. With a right-hand man at my right hand (when he wasn't at my left) I could, I felt sure, increase my own output enormously; and I began to plan out my daily work under the reconstruction scheme.