PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

March 12, 1919.

CHARIVARIA.

The spread of influenza is said to be
greatly assisted by “germ-carriers.”
We can’t think why germs should be
carried. Let ’em walk.

According to The Sunday Express a
young American named Frisco states
that he invented the Jazz. There was
also a murder confession in the Press last week.

“Whitehall,” says a Society organ,
“has succumbed to the Jazz, the Fox-trot
and the Bunny-hug.” It
still shows a decided preference,
however, for the Barnacle-cling.

A man charged at the Guildhall with being drunk said he
was suffering from an attack of influenza and had taken
some whisky. Yes, but where from?

We understand that the heading, “Whisky for Influenza,”
which appeared in a daily paper the other day,
misled a great number of sufferers, who at once wrote
to say that they were prepared to make the exchange.

It is good to know that a perfectly noiseless motor car
has been produced. Even that nasty grating sound experienced
by pedestrians when being run over by a car is said
to have been eliminated.

Shrove Tuesday passed almost unheeded. Even the
pancake thrown to the boys at Westminster School in the
presence of the KING and QUEEN appeared to fall flat.

We are glad to learn that the little
Kensington boy who was tossed by a
huge pancake on Shrove Tuesday is
stated to be going on nicely.

Five hundred and twenty-seven
pounds of American bacon have been
declared unfit for food by the Marylebone
magistrate. Why this invidious
distinction?

“A man,” says Mr. Justice KUNKEL
of Pennsylvania, “has full rights in his
own home against everyone but his
wife.” It is surmised that his Honour
never kept a cook.

We are informed that the dispute
between the Ministry of Labour and
the Irish Clerical Workers’ Union has
been settled by the latter name being
changed to the “Irish Clerical Employees’ Union.”

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is said to favour
the creation of a new Order for deserving
Welshmen. The revival of the
Order of the Golden Fleece is suggested.

A writer in a ladies’ journal refers to the present fashion of “satin-walnut
hair.” We have felt for some time that mahogany had had its day.

Charged at Hove with bigamy a soldier
stated that he remembered nothing
about his second marriage and pleaded
that he was absent-minded. A very
good plan is to tie a knot in your boot-lace
every time you get married.

A sorry blow has been dealt at those
who maintain we are not a commercial
race. “You gave me prussic acid in
mistake for quinine this morning,” a
man told a chemist the other day.
“Is that so?” said the chemist; “then
you owe me another twopence.”

For the benefit of those about to
emigrate we have pleasure in furnishing
the exclusive information that very
shortly there will be big openings in
America for corkscrew-straighteners.

We are now able to state that the
wedding of Princess PATRICIA and
Commander RAMSAY passed off without
a hymeneal ode from the POET LAUREATE.

We understand that a lady operator
who was impudent to the District
Supervisor on the telephone the other
day would have been severely reprimanded
but for her plea that she
mistook him for a subscriber.

It is reported that the paper shortage is soon to be remedied. In these days
of expensive boots this should be good news to people who
travel to and from the City by Tube on foot.

We hear privately that one
of our leading dailies has fixed
April 14th as the date on which
its office “correspondent” will
first hear the note of the cuckoo
in Epping Forest.

Several suspicious cases of
sickness are reported among
the aborigines of New South
Wales. It is not yet known
whether they are due to influenza
or to the native custom
of partaking heavily of snakepie
on the eve of Lent.

Nottingham will hold its
six hundred and fifty-eighth
annual Goose Fair this year,
and a local paper has made
a distinct hit by stating that
it is “the oldest gathering of
its kind except the House of Commons.”

President EBERT, according
to the Frankfort Gazette, is to
have a Chief Master of Ceremonies.
One of his first duties,
in which he will have the advice of
prominent musicians, will be to fix an
authorised style of eating Sauerkraut
which shall be impressive yet devoid
of ostentation.

[Taxi-drivers who consent to pick up fares at a certain London
restaurant at night have supper given to them by the management.]

First Taxi. “WHATEVER ‘AVE YER GOT THEM TOGS ON FOR, ALBERT?”

Second ditto. “ALWAYS DRESS FOR SUPPER DOWN TOWN NOWADAYS, OLD BEAN.”

“A woman’s sphere was her own home, that
she should earn her own living was inimical
to domestic happiness; it was almost contra
bonus morus, which is a very serious thing
indeed.”—Scots Paper.

It certainly would be for Smith mi. if
he said it in class.

“The speaker of the evening was Dr. Charles
——, a full-blooded Sioux Indian, and the
only full-blooded literary man among the
North American Indians.”—American Paper.

We could spare some of our full-blooded,
literary men if there is a shortage in America.

MONUMENTS OF THE WAR.

A PAIR OF MILITARY GLOVES.

It was in Italy, on my way home from Egypt to be
demobilised, that I decided to buy a pair of warm gloves
from Ordnance.

After being directed by helpful other ranks to the A.S.C.
Depot, the Camp Commandant’s Office and the Y.M.C.A.,
I found myself, at the end of a morning’s strenuous
walking, confronted by notices on a closed door stating
that this was the Officers’ Payment Issue Department; that
this was the Officers’ Entrance to the Officers’ Payment
Issue Department; that smoking was strictly prohibited;
and that the office would re-open at 14.00.

I went away to lunch.

At 14.01 I knocked out my pipe conscientiously and
entered. From 14.01 to 14.50 I watched a Captain of the
R.A.F. smoking cigarettes and choosing a pair of socks,
and studied notices to the effect that this was the Officers’
Payment Issue Department; that only Officers were permitted
to enter the Officers’ Payment Issue Department;
that smoking was strictly prohibited; and that the office
would close at 16.00.

At last I heard the B.A.F. man explain that, by James,
he had an appointment at three, and would return, old
bean—er, Corporal—in the morning to see about those
dashed socks. The Corporal behind the counter blew away
a pile of cigarette ash and regarded me distrustfully.

“Only one pair of gloves left, Sir,” he said. “Gloves,
woollen, knitted, pairs one, one-and-tenpence.”

“Thank you very much,” I said. “They’ll do nicely.
I’ll take them now.”

But of course I didn’t. At 15.00 was in another building,
watching another Corporal make out an indent in quadruplicate
for gloves, woollen, knitted, officers, for the use of,
pairs one. At 15.05 I was in another building, getting the
indent stamped and countersigned. At 15.12 I was in
another building, exchanging it for a buff form in duplicate.
At 15.20 I re-entered the Issue Department and went
through the motions of taking up the gloves.

“Excuse me, Sir,” said the Corporal, skilfully sliding
them away; “you must first produce your Field Advance
Book as a proof of identity.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t a proper Field Advance Book,” I
explained. “You see, in Egypt, where I come from—that
is, I was attached, you know, to the—well, in short, I
haven’t a proper Field Advance Book, as I said before.
But I have here an A.B. 64 issued in lieu thereof—they do
that in Egypt, you know—and I have my identity discs,
my demobilisation papers, my cheque-book—oh, and
heaps of other things which would prove to you that I am
really me. Besides, my name is sewn inside the back of
my tunic. And my shirt,” I added hopefully.

“If you haven’t a Field Advance Book, Sir,” said the
Corporal coldly, “your only course is to obtain a certificate
of identity from the Camp Commandant.”

“But, look here, Corporal,” I protested, “it would take
me a quarter-of-an-hour to get to the Commandant’s office
and another quarter to get back. I’m sure I couldn’t get
a certificate of identity under an hour and a-half. It is
now twenty-five past three. You close at four. To-morrow
morning at five ac emma I entrain for Cherbourg…. You
see how impossible it all is, Corporal.”

“Sorry, Sir,” said the Corporal. “I’m not allowed to
issue the gloves without your Field Advance Book or a
certificate of identity.”

“But what am I to do?” I asked weakly. “Think,
Corporal, how cold it will be across Italy and France without
gloves. I’ve been in the East for over four years, and
I might get pneumonia and die, you know.”

“I should try the Camp Commandant, Sir,” he said.
“It may not take so long as you think.”

At 15.41 I was outside the Camp Commandant’s office
with my A.B.64, identity discs, demobilisation papers and
cheque-book ready to hand, and my tunic loosened at the
neck.

At 15.42 I entered the office with some diffidence.

At 15.43 I was outside again, dazed and a little frightened,
with a certificate of identity in my hand. It was the fastest
piece of work I have ever known in the Army. And I might
have been Mr. GEORGE ROBEY in disguise for all they knew
in the office—or cared.

“Sorry, Sir,” said the Corporal in the Officers’ Payment
Issue Department at 15.59, “the gloves were sold to
another officer while you were away.”

ONE OF THE PUNCH BRIGADE.

On Half Rations.

“Two officers will be received as paying guests. Comfortable home.
Treated as one of the family.”—Daily Paper.

The italics emphasize our own feeling with regard to this
niggardly arrangement.

“V.A.D.—Required for Shell-shock Hospital under B.R.C.S., Piano,
Billiard Table and Gramophone. Will any hospital closing down and
having same for sale, kindly communicate with Secretary.”—Times.

We do not know what sort of work the V.A.D. is expected
to do under the piano and billiard table, but we presume
that her consent would be required, and that she would
not be sold, so to speak, over her own head.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

JOHN BULL. “I DON’T SAY I’M QUITE COMFORTABLE YET, BUT I CERTAINLY DO
SEEM TO BE GETTING IT A LITTLE LESS IN THE NECK.”

SCENE.—Amateur Theatrical Rehearsal.

Author. “NOT SO MUCH ‘GAGGING,’ MY LAD. JUST SPEAK MY LINES, AND THEN WAIT FOR THE LAUGH.”

Tommy (on short leave). “WHAT! AND RISK C.B. FOR OVERSTAYING MY LEAVE?”

ON THE RHINE.

I.

“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I am a bold and
infamous Hun, I am, I am.”

We are obliged to repeat this continually
to ourselves in order to present
the stern and forbidding air which is
supposed to mark our dealings with
the inhabitants. For, look you, we
have usurped the place of the Royal
Jocks on the “right flank of the British
Army,” and are on outpost duty,
with our right resting on the bank of
the Rhine, while in front the notice-boards,
“Limit of Cologne Bridgehead,” stare at us.

No longer are we the pleasant, easy-going,
pay-through-the-nose people that
we were. No longer does our daily routine
include the smile for Mademoiselle,
the chipping of Madame, or the half-penny
for the little ones. No, we steel
ourselves steadily to the grim task entrusted
to us, and struggle to offer a
perfect picture of stolid indifference to
anybody’s welfare but our own. “Fee-fi-fo-fum.”

What does Thomas think of it all?
Well, to tell the truth, I haven’t caught
him thinking very much about it.
Gloating seems foreign to his nature
somehow, and I don’t think he will
ever make a really good Hun. He is
rather like a child who for four years
has been crying incessantly for the
moon. Having got it, he says, “Well,
I’m glad I’ve got it; now let’s get on
with something else,” and takes not
the slightest interest in the silly old
moon he has acquired with so much trouble.

There are two things to which he
cannot quite accustom himself: not
being allowed to fraternize with the
inhabitants and the realisation that his
laboriously acquired knowledge of the
French language is no longer of any
avail. He will never quite get over
the former of these two disabilities, but
he is coping courageously with the
latter. For instance, in place of the
“No bon” of yesterday, “Nix goot”
now explains that “Your saucepan I
borrowed has a hole in it; please, I
didn’t do it.” For the rest, change of
environment makes very little difference
to him. Given a cooker, a water-cart
and the necessary rations, a British
oasis will appear and be prepared to
flourish in any old desert you like.

No, I am wrong. There is another
difficulty which as yet he has not been
able entirely to overcome. I cannot
describe the consternation which came
over the Company when I informed
them that there was no longer any
need to scrounge; in fact, I forbade it.
At first they thought it was just a
Company Commander’s humour and
paid it the usual compliments of the
parade; but when they found I was
serious they were simply appalled. It
was as if I had taken the very spice
out of their existence. Not to be able
to go out and “win” a handful of fuel
for the evening’s fug and for the brewing
of those unwholesome messes in the
tin canteen? Bolshevism itself could
not have propounded a more revolutionary
principle. Heartbroken some
of the old soldiers came to me afterwards.
“What are we to do, Sir?”
they said. “We only go on guard four
hours in sixteen; we must do something
the rest of the time.” Sternly
I bade them think of scrounging as a
thing of the past—a thing of glorious
memory only to be spoken of round
the fires at home. If they wanted anything
in the meantime to add to their
material comfort they were to come to me for it.

For let me tell you, all you demobilised
wallahs who know only those
countries where the necessities of life
were matters of private enterprise—let
me tell you that in this village, if I say
that I require coal, coal is here, and
with it the Bürgermeister inquiring
politely if my needs are satisfied. We
must have beds? The spare beds of
the village are forthcoming. If we
want baths for the men, our Mr. Carfax,
who speaks a language which the inhabitants
pretend to understand, goes
round to the householders and explains
the necessity. Should there be any
difficulty he explains further that it
would be much better, don’t they think,
and much more convenient if the men
visited the houses, rather than that
baths should be carried to some central
place? It is invariably found to be
preferable for all concerned.

Bathing has now become a pleasure
to all, except, perhaps, to Nijinsky, our
Pole from Commercial Road, East. On
being presented (for the first time, I
gather) to a first-class bathroom with
geyser complete, he evinced signs of
great uneasiness. In fact he seemed
to think that this was making a parade
of a purely private matter. The Sergeant-Major,
being called in, exhorted him to “get in and give the thing a
trial,” at which Nijinsky flung up his
hands in characteristic fashion and
said, “Vell, it’s somethink fur nothink,
anyhow,” and they left him to it. The
rest of the story is concerned with his
turning off the water in the geyser and
leaving the gas on, of a loud explosion
and the figure of Nijinsky, fat and
frightened, fleeing through the main
street dressed in an Army towel. Subsequently
I heard him expressing
forcibly a fixed determination never,
never to be persuaded against his will again.

Oh, yes, it is a wonderful thing to be
a Hun. Every day we go about telling
one another what Huns we are and
how we love our hunnishness. And
yet, you know, as a matter of fact, I
don’t believe all our efforts amount to
anything really; they wouldn’t deceive
a child—and in fact they don’t. For
ever since we came here one can’t help
noticing that the little tiny natives have
acquired an extraordinarily good imitation
of Tommy’s salute, and, though
Subalterns and Sergeant-Majors may
go about gnashing their teeth and
wearing expressions of frightful ferocity,
still the youngsters grin fearlessly
as they raise their tiny fingers. They
know it isn’t real. They know a Hun
when they see him all right; what child
doesn’t?

And I caught our Mr. Carfax picking
one of them up from the gutter the other
day and soothing its tears with the
baby-talk of all nations. I told him he
was fraternising abominably and was
not being a true Hun.

“Well,” he said, “you can’t leave a
child yelling in a puddle, can you?”

And, damn it, you can’t, so what’s
the use of trying to be hunnish?

L.

Restaurant Commissionaire (to departing client, who
is searching for a tip). “NOW THEN, SIR, HURRY UP; DON’T KEEP ME WAITING
HERE ALL NIGHT.”

Rapid Promotion.

From a Parliamentary report:—

“Colonel Seely mentioned … Major-General
Seely said … General Seely, replying …”—Daily Chronicle.

“The canonical proceedings for the beatification
of Pope Pius IX. and Christopher
Columbus have been definitely abandoned. As
the result of a very close investigation, it was
decided that these two candidates lacked
certain necessary qualifications; Pius IX.
had signed death sentences and Christopher
Columbus was held responsible for massacres.”—Sunday Paper.

This news, we understand, has caused
a painful impression at Amerongen.

Cook (allowing herself to be engaged). “ONE MORE QUESTION, M’LADY. CAN YOU COOK?”

Her Ladyship. “REALLY, I DON’T THINK THAT NEED MATTER.”

Cook. “OH—DON’T IT? I WANT TO KNOW WHO’S GOING TO BE THE REAL MISTRESS.”

THE GREAT COLD-CURE DEBATE.

In view of the prevalence of colds
and the varying counsels given to their
patients by our leading so-called healers,
a mass meeting of doctors and public
men was recently convened, with the
hope that some useful results might follow.

None did.

The Chairman in his opening remarks
said that colds were at once the
commonest complaints to which human
beings were subject and the least understood
by the faculty. It was scandalous
that so little serious attention
should be paid to them by physicians.
A scientific investigator should be as
proud of discovering a preventive for
colds as a scheme of wireless telegraphy.
But it was not so. Researchers
were applauded for compounding
new and more deadly explosives
and poisonous gas, while the
whole mystery of colds remained unplumbed.
The situation was scandalous.
(Loud sneezes.)

Letters were read, among others,
from Lord NORTHCLIFFE, Mr. SNOWDEN
and Sir JOHN SIMON, all saying that
from recent experience they could affirm
that an equable cold temperature was
conducive to the avoidance of catarrh.
In short, an excellent means of escaping
cold was to be out in the cold.

A representative of the Board of
Trade said that all that was necessary
to avoid colds was to keep fit and not
approach infection. Having offered
this very practical advice the speaker
gathered up his papers and left the
room.

Sir Septicus Jermyn, the famous physician,
urged that the best preventive
for colds was to keep warm. One should
wear plenty of thick clothing and especially
cover the neck and throat. A
respirator was an excellent thing. He
even went so far as to recommend earflaps
to his patients, with beneficial
results. A night-cap was also a great help.

Sir Eufus Hardy, the famous physician,
protested that colds were for the
most part negligible. People took them
much too seriously. The best treatment
was to be Spartan—wear the
lightest clothes, abjure mufflers, and,
whenever you could find a draught,
sit in it.

Mr. BERNARD SHAW said that all this
cold-catching was nonsense. He personally
had never had a cold in his life.
And why? Because he lived healthily;
he wore natural wool, retained his
beard, ate no meat and drank no
wine. Lunatics who wore fancy tweeds,
shaved, devoured their fellow-creatures
and imbibed poisonous acids were bound
to catch cold. Resuming his Jaeger
halo, Mr. SHAW then left.

Sir Bluffon Gay, the famous physician,
stated that in his experience colds
were necessary evils which often served
useful ends in clearing the system. For
that reason he was against any treatment
that served to stop them. The
“instantaneous cold cures” which were
advertised so freely filled him with suspicion.
Colds should be unfettered.

Mr. Le Hay Fevre, K.C., representing
the Ancient Order of Haberdashers,
said that he was in entire agreement
with the last speaker. Colds should be
allowed to take their course. Nothing
was so bad as to check them.

Sir Romeo Path, the famous physician,
asserted that colds were far more
serious things than people thought.
As a matter of fact there was no such
thing as a cold pure and simple; colds
were invariably manifestations of other
and deeper trouble. His own specific
was a long period of complete rest and
careful but not meagre dieting, followed
by change of air, if necessary travel to
the South of France. (Loud coughs
and cheers.)

Mr. Bolus, K.C., representing the
[pg 199]
Chemists and Druggists’ Union, said
that it was felt very strongly that the
seriousness of colds should not be
minimised, but that foreign travel was
an error. No malady was so much
helped by the timely and constant employment
of remedies at home. He
trusted that the remarks of the last
speaker would speedily be contradicted
by a competent authority.

Sir Consul Tait, the famous physician,
held that alcohol was the greatest
provocative of colds; aspirin was their
greatest enemy.

Sir Tablloyd George, the famous
physician, observed that a glass of hot
whisky and lemon-juice on going to bed
was a sovran remedy. Aspirin was to
be avoided, but quinine had its uses.

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT said that probably
no one knew more about the way
that other people should behave than
he did. He had written twelve manuals
on the subject and intended to
write twenty-six more, by which time
he would have covered the whole field
of human endeavour. Any one who
had read his book, The Plain Man and
his Wife and their Plainer Children,
would remember that one chapter was
devoted to the cause, evasion and cure
of colds. He would not at the moment
say more than that the work was procurable
at all bookshops. He should
like to address the meeting at fuller
length, but as he was suffering from a
very stubborn cold he must hurry back to bed.

Mr. H.G. WELLS remarked that he
always found that the best corrective
for a cold was to write another novel
of modern domestic life. He had even
heard of the perusal of some of his
novels as a substitute for coal.

Mr. BONAR LAW said that there was
no prophylactic against colds so efficacious
as fresh air and plenty of it.
Since he had formed the habit of flying
backwards and forwards from Paris he
had been free from any trouble of that
kind. He recommended a seat at the
Peace Conference and constant aviation
to all sufferers.

Sir Blandon Swaive, the famous physician,
contended that there was no
sense in the fresh-air theory. Rooms
should be hermetically sealed.

Mr. SMILLIE said that he had given
the matter the closest attention, and
he had come to the conclusion that
there was no preventive of a cold in the
head so complete and drastic as decapitation.

The meeting was considering Mr.
SMILLIE’S suggestion when our reporter,
who had contracted a chill
during Mr. BERNARD SHAW’S remarks,
took his departure.

Officer (to N.C.O. in charge of Chinese labour party).
“I SUPPOSE THESE CHINKS BLOW THEMSELVES UP SOMETIMES, DON’T THEY?”

Corporal. “OH, NOTHING TO SPEAK OF, SIR—NOT NEAR AS MUCH AS THEY USED TO.”

Journalistic Enterprise.

“NEWS BY TELEGRAPH AND TELEPHONE.

“To-day is Pancake Day.”—Daily Mail, March 4.

“HIGH-CLASS FISH DURING THE LENTEN SEASON.

“All kinds arrive daily direct from the coast,
and prices the maximum when possible.”—Advt. in Provincial Paper.

To judge by our own fishmonger, they always are possible.

From the report of a prosecution for
selling eggs above the controlled price:

“Mr. ——, for the defence, contended that
the lay mind could assume that new-laid eggs
laid by the vendor’s fowls were not within the
scope of the Order.”—Birmingham Daily Post.

In a poultry case the opinion of the
“lay mind” should have been conclusive,
but the Bench decided otherwise.

“When is the State going to help mothers
with large families? If the cost of living has
increased 100 per cent., then for eight persons
the increase is 800 per cent.

“How many mothers with eight in family
have received an increase of 800 per cent. in
their income since 1914?—W.W., London.”—Daily Sketch.

“W.W., London,” should not be
allowed to squander his gifts on the
daily Press. We want a statistician
like this to tot up the German indemnity.

THE WATCH DOGS.

LXXX.

My Dear Charles,—You are a lawyer
and you ought to know. Yet to
myself, when I compare my profits with
those of the Government in this deal,
I seem a model of innocence.

Let me refresh your memory of the facts.

In the Spring of 1918 I was dispensing
passports to deserving cases
in the name of His Majesty’s Government.
In the neutral country where
I was doing this there was a very wicked
and a very plausible man, whom we
will call Mr. Abrahams (he has had so
many surnames at one time and another
that a new one cannot do him any
harm). Rate of exchange stood at the
figure of twenty local francs to the
pound sterling, and, as you would put
it, other things were equal.

Mr. Abrahams was obsessed with
a desire to see England, entirely for
its own sake. England, also thinking
entirely of itself, was obsessed with
a desire not to see Mr. Abrahams.
Mr. Abrahams came to my office, said
nice things about me to my face and
begged me to let him go. I said nice
things to him, and told him I would if
I could, but I couldn’t. He took this to
mean I could if I would, but I wouldn’t.
He offered me cash down; a cheque
for five pounds sterling, or a note for
a hundred francs; I could have it which
way I liked. We should call it for appearance’
sake a gift to His Majesty’s
Government for the better prosecution
of the War.

I thanked him cordially on behalf
of His Majesty’s Government, but regretted
that I was the victim of circumstances
over which I had no control.
Refusing to believe there could be any
circumstances which could stand up
against an officer of my power, position
and force, he produced a note for
a hundred francs and put it on my
table. He then withdrew, meaning
(I gathered) to return to the attack as
soon as the money had sunk in. From
this point on, Mr. Abrahams disappears
from the story. It is not the first or
only story, as the police will tell you,
from which Mr. Abrahams has disappeared.

My report to His Majesty’s Government
did not omit a full mention of the
matter of the five pounds or hundred
francs offered. It begged for instructions
as to the disposal of the booty
which, it stated, lay in my “Suspense”
basket. No instructions could be got,
though frequent messages, saying, “May
we now have an answer, please?” were
sent. Weeks passed, and every morning
I was tempted by the sight of that
note for a hundred francs lying in the
basket. My moral gradually declined.
So did the rate of exchange. So did
the barometer.

There came a day, the weather being
such that any man who could sin would
sin, when I had in my pocket a cheque
made out for five pounds which I was
about to cash for lack of ready francs,
and when the rate of exchange had got
as low as nineteen francs to the pound,
which would mean (I rely entirely on
the evidence of the bank man) ninety-five
francs for my five pounds. Charles,
I fell. Explaining to myself that
Mr. Abrahams had clearly intimated
that his gift to the Government was
alternatively a cheque for five pounds
or a note for a hundred francs, I put
my cheque into the “Suspense” basket
and pocketed the note, thus making
five francs profit.

More weeks passed; no instructions
came, and every day I was tempted by
the sight of that cheque. One bright
summer morning, when any man who
had any goodness in him could not help
being good, and when the rate of exchange
had risen to twenty-one, I came
to my office full of noble intentions
and hundred franc notes of my own.
I may mention in passing that it takes
very little money to fill me up. I had
just cashed a cheque of my own at the
rate of a hundred-and-five francs to the
five pounds, and I felt robust and self-confident
and ready to do it again.
There, on the top of my “Suspense”
basket, lay just the very cheque for the
purpose. Charles, I fell again. Explaining
to myself that Mr. Abrahams
had clearly intimated that his gift to
the Government was alternatively a
note for a hundred francs or a cheque
for five pounds, I put a note for a hundred
francs into the “Suspense” basket,
and pocketed the cheque, thus making
another five francs profit.

That, my Lord, is the case for the
prosecution; but you may as well have
the rest of the story. Instructions or
no instructions, I thought it was now
time to send the note for a hundred
francs to the Government. The Government
said it had no use for francs
in England, sent back the note to me
and told me to buy, locally, an English
cheque, which I was to hold, pending
further instructions. It took some time
to arrive at this point, and meanwhile
rate of exchange had had a serious
relapse. The hundred franc note bought
a cheque for five guineas. Not feeling
strong enough to pend further instructions,
I at once sent this home. More
haste, less speed: I forgot to endorse
it. After another period the cheque
came back, with a memo. The memo
said: (1) His Majesty’s Government
had no love or use for unendorsed
cheques drawn in favour of other people.
(2) His Majesty’s Government
requested me to endorse the cheque,
cash it locally and put the proceeds to
the credit side of my expenses account.
(3) His Majesty’s Government trusted
that Mr. Abrahams would not cause
this sort of trouble again.

Whether it was the stimulus given
by this memo, or whether it was merely
a case of giving up the drink and becoming
a reformed character, rate of
exchange had, I found when I went to
carry out orders, risen to and stuck at
the dizzy height of twenty-three francs
and twenty centimes to the pound.
His Majesty’s Government has drawn
in the long run (the very long run) the
sum of one hundred and twenty-one
francs and eighty centimes, thus making
more than twice as heavy a profit
as I had. And yet you have the impudence
to tell me that I am guilty of
embezzlement, with corruption.

I can only say I should be ashamed
to be a lawyer.

I can only add that I should be
happy to be His Majesty’s Government.

With all best wishes and enclosing
stamps for eighty centimes as representing
your share of the proceeds
(including fee for opinion),

I remain,

Yours sincerely, HENRY.

PIVOTS.

Officer (on leave). “YOU’LL BE GLAD TO HAVE THE BISLEY MEETING REVIVED?”

Veteran Volunteer Marksman. “YES; BUT THERE’LL BE SOME POOR SCORING. YOU SEE
THERE’S BEEN NO SERIOUS SHOOTING FOR THE LAST FOUR YEARS.”

OCCUPIED OPERA.

It was a chilly morning early in
January. The Opera at Cologne had
just become recognised as the principal
attraction of the place, and as yet there
was no suave interpreter in attendance
to mediate between the queue of representatives
of Britain’s military power
and the German clerk in the box-office.

I suppose that in some handsome
suite of apartments in one of the best
hotels in Cologne an exalted personage
with red trimmings spends his whole
time—office hours, of course—in devising
fresh schemes for the sale and distribution
of opera tickets to the British
troops. The demand for them is always
far in excess of the number reserved
for the military, and fresh schemes for
their distribution are inaugurated every week.

We were still in the days when
officers and men of every rank and
every branch of the Army of Occupation
used to wait in a democratic queue
for the box-office to open at 10 A.M. It
was 9.15 when I took up my position,
beaten a short neck by a very young
and haughty officer, a Second-Lieutenant
of the Blankshires. There is always
a cold wind round that corner of the
Rudolfplatz, but every officer and every
O.R. turned up his coat-collar, stamped
his feet and determined to stick it.
After all, from the time when he waits
his turn to receive his first suit of
khaki, every soldier is inured to standing
in queues, and when he has so often
stood half-an-hour in a queue for the
chance of a penny bowl of Y.M.C.A.
tea he will think nothing of standing
for an hour for a seat at the Opera.
For the officers no doubt the situation
had the attraction of novelty.

By the time the office opened the
queue reached from the Opera House
steps nearly to the tramway Haltestelle,
and much speculation was going on as
to how many would be sent empty
away. Inch by inch we moved forward,
mounted the steps one by one, and came
within the relative warmth of the vestibule.
At last the weary waiting-time
was over; the young subaltern stepped
before the guichet and, pointing to a
handbill, demanded in a loud and dignified
voice a ticket for next Monday’s performance
of “KEINE VORSTELLUNG!”

How shall I describe the painful
scene that followed—a scene in which,
as a mere Tommy, I had too much
discipline to intervene? In vain the
obsequious purveyor of tickets offered
a selection of the world’s most popular
and celebrated operas for any other day
but Monday. Nothing would do for my
officer but Keine Vorstellung. Indeed,
as he explained in his best and loudest
English, Monday was his only free
evening. Keine Vorstellung he wanted
and Keine Vorstellung he must have.
Followed reiteration, expostulation, vituperation
in yet louder English than
before, and when at last he turned away
without his ticket he was still convinced
that the authority of the Britische
Besatzung had been outraged and defied
by the man behind the window.

I often wonder what he said when
the precise meaning of those two mystic
words was revealed, to him. I like to
think that it may have happened at the
Requisition Office, whither he had gone
to procure an order to compel that recalcitrant
square-head to supply him
with the ticket so unwarrantably withheld.

“Wanted a good Cook; kitchen-maid kept;
small fairy.”—Provincial Paper.

It is pleasant to come upon a really appreciative mistress.

Little Girl (to Bride at wedding reception).
“YOU DON’T LOOK NEARLY AS TIRED AS I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT.”

Bride. “DON’T I, DEAR? BUT WHY DID YOU THINK I SHOULD LOOK TIRED?”

Little Girl. “WELL, I HEARD MUMMY SAY TO DAD THAT YOU’D BEEN RUNNING
AFTER MR. GOLDMORE FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS.”

PTERO-DACTYLS.

(Of the Pioneers of the Air.)

To Psychical Mediums.

Extract from a tradesman’s circular:—

“Mr. ——, who has just been disembodied, hopes to call quite
shortly and will, we trust, be allowed to book forward your Spring
term requirements.”

“A letter sent by a Government Department to the Hornsey Borough
Council was so long that it was not read at all.”—Daily Paper.

But if you think that will discourage them you don’t know our bureaucrats.

THE FOCH-TERRIER.

“I KNOW ALL ABOUT THAT SILLY DOG IN ÆSOP. I’M NOT TAKING ANY CHANCES.”

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, March 3rd.—The terrors of
the Statute of Anne having been temporarily
removed, Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN
headed a little queue of Ministers
coming up to take the Oath. How the
already crowded Treasury Bench is to
accommodate the new-comers it is
difficult to see, but presumably a system
of reliefs will be arranged.

MR. McCALLUM SCOTT.

“SH-H! DON’T YOU KNOW THERE’S A DEMOBILISATION ON?”

The present epidemic was discussed
by Captain NEWMAN and Sir JOHN REES
who were not agreed as to whether
port is a “preventative” or a “preventive”
of influenza, but were unanimous
in thinking that far too little of
it was available.

On bearing that the liability of agricultural
shows to the Entertainment
Tax depended on whether instruction
was combined with amusement, Colonel
WEIGALL pertinently asked who was to
decide where amusement ends and education
begins. Talking of education,
I shall in future, following Mr. H.A.L.
FISHER, try to pronounce Thibetan
with a long “e,” but, I hesitate, even
on the authority of the MINISTER OF
EDUCATION, to speak of “Febuary.”

Since Mr. CHURCHILL became War
Minister he has developed a remarkable
likeness to Lord HALDANE. Happily
the resemblance extends only to the
rondeurs, and not to the occasional
longueurs, of his predecessor. How
long his Lordship would have taken
to elucidate the present position and
future composition of the British
Army I cannot estimate, but it
would have been several hours.
Mr. CHURCHILL’S survey of the
World, from Siberia to the Rhine,
occupied a brief sixty minutes and
included some attractive speculations
on the kind of Army we
should need in the future. He
hopes, among other things, for
an improved General Staff, composed
of officers acquainted with
war in all its phases—land, sea
and air—who could give the
Cabinet expert advice on war as a
whole, and save it (we inferred)
from such hesitations as led to
the glorious tragedy of Gallipoli.

“I thought we had given up
war,” interjected Mr. HOGGE; and
other Members twitted the Minister
with having left out of his
account the League of Nations.
But Mr. CHURCHILL, in reply,
while expressing the utmost respect
for the League, pointed out
that it was not yet in being,
and that meanwhile Britain must
continue to be a strong armed Power.

A number of maiden speeches
were delivered during the evening. The
SPEAKER was not in the Chair, but I
hope he was somewhere in the precincts
to hear the cheers which greeted
the initial effort—commendably brief
and to the point—of his son, Major
LOWTHER, on the subject of courts-martial.

Tuesday, March 4th.—Lord SINHA
OF RAIPUR delivered his maiden speech
in a style which promises well for his
Parliamentary career. Accepting the
dictum of Lord SYDENHAM that frankness
is essential in Indian affairs, he
proceeded to act upon it by administering
a dignified rebuke to his lordship
for having suggested that one of the
periodical affrays between Mahomedans
and Hindoos was occasioned by the
MONTAGU-CHELMSFORD report.

A NEW FORCE IN POLITICS.

THE DE VALERA GIRL.

No fewer than forty-six questions
were addressed to the War Office.
But obviously this sort of thing cannot
go on. The SECRETARY OF STATE
cannot devote so much of his valuable
time to satisfying Parliamentary curiosity.
Accordingly he has appointed a
“Members’ friend” to hear complaints
and answer questions. Mr. McCALLUM
SCOTT has been rewarded for his consistent
admiration—did he not publish
a eulogy of “Winston Churchill in
Peace and War” when his hero’s
fortunes were temporarily clouded?—and
on two days a week will have the
privilege of acting as lightning-conductor.

The most intriguing detail in the
story of DE VALERA’S escape from
Lincoln Gaol was the beguilement of
the guards by two sweet girl-graduates
from Dublin. But this afternoon Mr.
SHORTT curtly stated—with a twinkle
in his eye—that the sentries disclaimed
all knowledge of the ladies. Still, is
this conclusive?

Wednesday, March 5th.—The friends
of the new LORD CHANCELLOR were becoming
anxious lest his natural gaiety
should be permanently suppressed
by the necessity of keeping up
the dignity of the Woolsack.
They need be under no further
apprehensions. A motion in
favour of Home Rule All Round,
introduced by Lord BRASSEY and
supported by Lord SELBORNE,
furnished him with his chance.
Metaphorically flinging his full-bottomed
wig on to the floor he
skipped into the arena, executed
a war-dance around his amazed
victims, and, before they knew
where they were, got their heads
into Chancery and knocked them
together until they were compelled
to give in. Talk of the
congestion of Parliament! Why,
now that party spirit was in abeyance,
Bills went through with
incredible rapidity. As for the
supposed ambitions of the “little
nations,” what, he asked, did
Scotsmen and Welshmen care
about subordinate Parliaments
when they were governing the
whole Empire? If the advocates
of the proposal really believed
in it let them go out as missionaries
into the wilderness, and,
[pg 206]
if they escaped the proverbial fate of missionaries,
convert the heathen voters to
their creed. Thereupon Lord BRASSEY,
his brow bloody but unbowed, intimated
that “a time would come,” and
meanwhile withdrew his motion.

At Question-time Mr. BONAR LAW indignantly
denied a newspaper rumour
from Paris that the British delegates
had decided not to demand any money-indemnity
from Germany, but took
occasion later on to discount somewhat
freely the election-promises made on
this subject by himself and other Ministers.
It would be better, he implied,
to accept a composition than to put
the debtor into the Bankruptcy Court.
This is common sense, no doubt, always
provided that the Hun does not misinterpret
his reprieve, and, instead of
laying golden eggs for our benefit, resume
the practice of the goose-step.

On the Civil Service Estimates,
swollen to five times their pre-war
magnitude, Mr. BALDWIN made an
earnest appeal for economy. If every
man would ask himself, “What can I
do for the State?” instead of “What
can I get out of it?” we might yet
emerge safely from our financial straits.
The House, as usual, cheered this fine
sentiment to the echo, and, to show
how thoroughly it had gone home, Mr.
ADAMSON, the Labour leader, immediately
pressed for an increase in the
salaries of Members of Parliament.

Thursday, March 6th.—The CHIEF
SECRETARY FOR IRELAND announced that
the Government had decided to release
such of the Sinn Fein prisoners as had
not already saved them the trouble.

History does not always repeat itself.
The first JOSIAH WEDGWOOD enhanced
his fame by a faithful reproduction of
the Portland Vase. JOSIAH the Second,
essaying a fancy portrait of the present
Duke of PORTLAND (in his capacity of
a coal-owner), was less fortunate in the
likeness, and this afternoon handsomely
withdrew it from circulation.

The Second Reading of the new Military
Service Bill brought a storm of
accusations against the Government
for having broken its election-pledges.
Had not the PRIME MINISTER and his
colleagues gone to the country on a cry
of “No Conscription”? The Member
for Derby was particularly emphatic in
his denunciation; but Mr. CHURCHILL
effectively countered him by quoting
Mr. THOMAS’S own translation of the
pledges in question as meaning “Militarism
and Conscription.”

A little rift within the Coalition lute
was revealed when Mr. SHAW remarked
that some people seemed to want “to
make this country a fit place for casuists
to live in;” but the House as a whole
took the view that without an assured
peace it would be no place for any one,
and passed the Second Reading by an
overwhelming majority.

Conductor. “OUTSIDE ONLY!”

THE SENTINELS.

She. “THEY SAY THE VICAR TALKS IN HIS SLEEP.”

He. “VERY LIKELY. HE TALKS IN MINE.”

THE SPACE PROBLEM.

THE SWEET-SHOP.

It was a mean street somewhere in
the wilderness of Fulham. How I got
there I don’t exactly know; all that I
am clear about is that I was trying, on
insufficient data, to make a short cut.
Twilight was falling, there was a slight
drizzle of rain and I told myself that I
had stumbled on the drabbest bit of all London.

Here and there, breaking the monotony
of dark house-fronts, were little
isolated shops, which gave a touch of
colour to the drabness. I paused before
one of them, through whose small and
dim window a light shed a melancholy
beam upon the pavement. Nothing
seemed to be sold there, for the window
was occupied by empty glass jars, bearing
such labels as “peppermint rock,”
“pear drops” and “bull’s-eyes.” Apparently
the shop had sold out.

I was on the point of turning away
when I noticed that someone was
moving about inside, and presently an
ancient dame began to take certain jars
from the window and fill them with
sweets from boxes on the counter. Evidently
a new stock had just arrived.
Then I remembered that sweets had
been “freed.”

A little girl stopped beside me, stared
through the window and then ran off at
top speed. Within a couple of minutes
half-a-dozen youngsters were peering
into the shop, and a pair of them
marched in, consulting earnestly as
they went. The news spread; more
children arrived. I distributed a largesse
of pennies which gave me a popularity
I have never achieved before.
The street seemed to take on a different
aspect. I almost liked it.

AN OLD DOG.

There can be no doubt about it. Not merely is Soo-ti
getting to be an old dog, but he has already got there. He
is an old dog. Yet the change in the case of this beloved
little Pekinese has been so gradual that until it was accomplished
few of us noticed it. Yesterday, as it seemed,
Soo-ti was a young dog, capable of holding his own for
frolics and spirits with any Pekinese that ever owned the
crown of the road and refused to stir from it though all the
hooters of Europe endeavoured to blast him off it. To-day
he is still a challenger of motor-cars; but he hurls his
defiance with less assurance and has been seen to retire
before the advance of a motor-bicycle.

Moreover, there are other signs of what his master calls,
let us hope with accuracy, a cruda viridisque senectus.
Quite a short time ago his muzzle, like the rest of him,
was as black as ebony. Now he wears a pair of thick
white moustachios, which are comparable only with those
worn by that great chieftain, Monsieur le Maréchal JOFFRE.

In another way too our little dog gives proof that his
years are advancing. He used to welcome ecstatically the
moment of the promenade; not that he intended thus to
show any deference to the humans who were inviting him
to take a walk, but that he thought it was a fine manly
thing to do, and one that might bring about that fight of
his against a neighbouring and detested deer-hound to
which he looked forward as to one of his unachieved
pleasures. He therefore fell not more than one hundred
yards behind his accompanists, and when this was pointed
out to him made a very creditable effort to hurry up and
rejoin. Now, however, when taken for a duty-walk, he
still barks a little at the outset, but thereafter begins at
once to lag, and is found in an armchair when the party
returns. It is vain to remind him that in the old days he
was called the little black feather for the lightness of his
gait when puffed along by the gusts of a fierce nor’-easter.
Here is one of the complimentary stanzas that were
lavished upon him by his young mistress:—

It would be quite useless to lure him out with verse, and
plain prose is equally ineffective when once he has made
up his mind that he doesn’t mean to move.

One more sign of old age there is, which I may briefly
describe. He is always much agitated when his mistress
packs her boxes to depart to an institution for higher education
of which she is a member. While this is going forward,
Soo-ti will not stir from her room except it be to couch in
the passage outside. Thence he re-transfers himself to her
room, and has been known, when the chief box is full of garments,
to leap into it, to pad round in a circle three times,
and to sink down with a sigh of satisfaction on what was
once a very artistic bit of packing. I do not say that this
trick is entirely due to old age. Nearly all dogs do it.
Only there was on the last occasion a special anxiety, and
a more than usual persistence and querulousness which
seemed to say, “Don’t go too far away, and come back
soon, so that we may meet again before my eyes grow dim
and my ears lose their keenness.”

“In future all unmarried men and women having an income of
$1,000 will be taxed by the city. Married men will not be taxed
unless their income is over $1,500,000.”—Canadian Gazette.

The poor fellows must have some compensation.

THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

[“C.K.S.,” in The Sphere, describing his numerous visits to GEORGE
MEREDITH at Box Hill, tells us that in no real sense can he claim to
have been an intimate friend; “but then,” he adds, “I always make
the test of intimate friendship when people call one another by their
Christian names.”]

The Twopenny Egg.

The daily press informs us that we are “in sight of the
twopenny egg.” On making inquiries we learn that this
phenomenon will be invisible at Greenwich, but may be
viewed from the North of Scotland, a region happily less
inaccessible than many to which scientific expeditions have
in the past been made. At the time of writing opinions
differ as to the best point for observation, but it is probable
that the island of Foula, in the Shetland group, will be chosen.

“Masters and men are visibly strained by the crisis. They all know
that they are sitting on a volcano. The prelude is all icy suspicion.”—Mr.
JAMES DOUGLAS in “The Star”.

It won’t be the volcano’s fault if the ice doesn’t get melted.

“The complainant was ascending the staircase of the club when he
met the defendant, who, speaking of Lemberg, said Lemberg belonged
to Russia. Complainant replied: ‘No, it is in Poland; it cannot
belong to Russia,’ when the defendant struck him with some sharp
instrument on the top of the head, and the stars had not yet completely
healed.”—Evening Paper.

The constellation referred to must, we think, have been the Great Bear.

THE DOPED LION.

A STORY OF ANCIENT ROME.

THE GAME OF THE TELEPHONE.

True sportsmen will regret Mr.
ILLINGWORTH’S statement, made recently
in the House, when he said,
“I have every expectation that the
[telephone] service will improve.”

By “improve” he no doubt meant
that when we ring up a number in
future we shall simply get it; that
people who want us will be able to get
us, and so on. It is a dismal prospect.

I only hope the improvement
will be delayed until I
get my own back. I have
been playing rather a bad
line lately, and only this
morning lost a set by one game to two.

The operator won the first
game before I could get into
my stride. She rang me up
three times in five minutes,
and each time put me on to
nobody. This was a very
bad start, and I determined
that I must at least give
her a game. So the third
time I held on, mechanically
knocking the semi-circular
ring arrangement up and
down. There is always a
chance that your signal may
be working, and it annoys
the operator. But she beat
me by a swift stroke.

“What number do you
want?” she asked cynically.
I said, “Well played, Sir—Madam!”
Then she rubbed
it in with a parting shot:
“Sorry you have been
terroubled,” she said, and
cut me off. Love—one.

“Hullo!” I said, when
my bell rang the next time.

“Put me through to Extension
8, please.”

The only thing to do with
this sort of shot is to return
it safely.

“Sorry, old chap,” I said, “I haven’t got one.”

“Haven’t what?” he said.

“Got one.”

“One what?”

“Extension.”

Then he became annoyed and shouted,
“Aren’t you the War Office?”

“No,” I answered, “I am not the
War Office.”

“Aren’t you the War Off—”

But I clapped on my receiver. In
fact I clapped it on so violently that I
thought I had silenced the thing for
good and all.

A series of tugging ineffective clicks
on the part of my bell decided me to
investigate. This move on my part
was to win me the game.

I took off my receiver and listened.
No answer. I banged the rigging. No
answer. I banged and thumped.

“Yes, yes,” she said rather peevishly,
“I am attending to you as quickly as I
can. What number do you want?”

“Well,” I explained, “as a matter of
fact I don’t want a number. I only
wondered if my line was all right.
Sorry you have been terroubled,” and I
cut her off. One—all.

The third and last game started
briskly. In the course of the first ten
minutes I was rung up and asked if I was—

1. The Timber Control.

2. Mr. Awl or All.

3. The Timber Control (again).

4. The London Diocesan Church
Schools. (At this point I rather lost
my head and answered, “D—— the
London Diocesan Church Schools.”)

My impiety offended the Bishop (I
assume it was a Bishop), and he, rather
unfairly, must have incited the gods to
take sides against me. In a lucid interval,
while I was doing a call of my own,
the operator, without giving me any
warning, switched me on to the supervisor.
This must have been an inspiration
from Olympus. However I was
equal to the emergency; nay, took advantage
of it. Experience has taught
me that it is always best to talk to the
person you get, whether you want that
person or not. So I explained to the
supervisor that I was a busy man,
although the rumour which
ascribed to my shoulders
the War Office, the Timber
Control and the L.D.C.S.
was, at the moment, unfounded.

She played up magnificently;
took my number,
my name, my address, the
date, the time of the day,
how many times I had been
rung up, whom by and
when, and was going to ask
me the date of my birth and
whether I was married or
single, when I protested.
Then she calmed down and
said she would have my
line seen to.

The game seemed to be
going well; but again I was
beaten by a swift stroke.
My bell rang.

“Telephone Engineering
Department speaking,” it
said. “We have received a
report that your line is out
of order. We are sending
a man and hope he will
finish the job before luncheon.”

This was the end, as anyone
knows who has ever
got into the clutches: of
the Telephone Engineering
Department.

“Please,” I said (my
spirit was quite broken)—”please,
for God’s sake,
don’t send a man. Not this
morning at any rate. Put it off, there’s
a good fellow.”

“But I thought there was something wrong—”

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s a hideous
mistake. My line never behaved better
in its life. It’s a positive joy to me.”

I have it on Mr. BALFOUR’S authority
that all truth cannot be told at all
times. But I had lost the set.

THE THIRST FOR EDUCATION.

Mother. “Wot’s all this ‘ubbub goin’ on indoors?”

Daughter. “Baby’s bin and licked ‘Erbert’s ‘ome lessons orf
‘is slate.”

“On Friday, March 7th, Messrs. ——, on
the instructions of the executors of the late
Mr. ——, are selling by auction in pneumonia
and acute influenzal pneu-built cottages
situate in Chapel Street.”—Provincial Paper.

Personally we were not bidding.

Staff Officer (accustomed to staff-car pace). “HERE, CABBY—LET ME OUT. I’D RATHER WALK.”

Antique Jehu (who thinks he has to do with a “shell-shock” case). “IT’S ALL RIGHT, SIR. I’M GOING VERY CAREFUL.”

S.O. “I KNOW. BUT I’M SO AFRAID OF SOMETHING RUNNING INTO US FROM BEHIND.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

When a story bears the attractive title of The House of
Courage (DUCKWORTH); when it begins in the Spring of
1914 with a number of pleasantly prosperous people whose
faith in the continuance of this prosperity is frequently
emphasised (“as if they had a contract with God Almighty”
is how an observant character phrases it); and when, in the
first chapter, the hero has an encounter with two Germans
in a Soho restaurant—well, it requires no great guessing to
tell what will happen before we are through with it. And,
in fact, Mrs. VICTOR RICKARD’S latest is yet another war-story;
though with this novelty, that the hero’s experiences
of service are almost entirely gained in a German prison-camp.
As perhaps I need not say, both divisions of the
tale are admirably written. It is hardly the author’s fault
that the earlier half, with its pictures of a genial hunting
society in County Cork, is distinctly more entertaining than
the scenes of boredom and brutality at Crefeld, well-conveyed
as these are and almost over-realistic and convincing.
Inevitably too the scheme is one of incident rather than
character. One has never any very serious doubt that in
the long run the hero, Kennedy, will marry the girl of his
choice, despite the fact of her engagement to the clearly
unworthy Harrington. But as part of the long run was
from Crefeld to the Dutch frontier, over every obstacle that
you can imagine (and a few more, including an admirable
thrill almost on the post), one is left with the comfortable
feeling that the prize was well earned. You will rightly
judge that most of The House of Courage is rather more
frankly sensational than Mrs. RICKARD’S previous war-work;
but it remains an excellent yarn.

When Esmé Hillier, possessed by The Imp (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), was only ten, in a fit of annoyance she pushed
the hero (to whom she had had no previous introduction)
into the sea. I have some sympathy with her energetic
protest, for a Highland Chieftain even at the age of sixteen
should know better than to row about in an open boat
kissing a young lady. Esmé, a pained spectator, showed
her public spirit by punishing his bad form, but in the act
she sealed her own fate, for after this it was inevitable that
they should ultimately marry each other, the girl of the
kissing episode notwithstanding. The immediate incentive
to their union, which was by the Scotch method, was that
Esmé had applied mustard-plasters to a Cabinet Minister’s
person by affixing them to his dress-suit, and Tourntourq,
the Chieftain, had nobly attempted to bear the blame.
Though married in haste they did not wait for leisure
before they repented, but commenced quarrelling at once,
until Esmé, in order to test his love and that of an admirer
who was helping to complicate matters, “bobbed” her hair
and threw the severed tresses at her husband. After this
they separated. Presently the War came, and the admirer,
who was really quite a nice person, was killed, and Tourntourq,
who was apparently a lunatic, though that is not
stated in so many words, was blinded. It seems quite
superfluous to add that Tourntourq wins the V.C. and recovers
both sight and wife in the last chapter; but there
are such good patches in the book that I cannot help
hoping that some day WILSON MACNAIR will try her hand
[pg 212]
(I feel it is her hand) at another, which I shall really
believe in all through.

Of late our costume-romancers have become strangely
unprolific. So I was the more pleased to find Mrs. ALICE
WILSON FOX bravely keeping the old flag flying with a story
bearing the gallant title, Too Near the Throne (S.P.C.K.).
I daresay its name may enable you to give a fairly shrewd
guess at its plot. This is an agreeable affair of a maid,
reputed Catholic heir to the English Crown, and used as
pretext for an abortive rising against KING JAMES I. You
can see that in practised hands (as here) and decorated
with a pretty trimming of sentiment, abductions, witch-finding
and other appropriate accessories, this furnishes
a theme rich in romance. Perhaps I was a thought disappointed
that more was not made of the actual conspiracy,
and that, having started “too near the throne,” the tale
subsequently gave it so wide a berth. But this is no great
fault. I can witness that Mrs. WILSON FOX has at least one
essential quality of
the historical novelist
in her appreciation
of picturesque
raiment. Almost indeed
she emulates
those jewelled paragraphs
in which the
creator of Windsor
Castle would fill half
a chapter with a riot
of sartorial coruscations.
As a birthday
present, say for an
appreciative niece, I
can think of few
volumes whose welcome
would be better
assured.

Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD has brought together in St. George
and the Dragon
(HEINEMANN) a speech “given” by him in New York on last
St. George’s Day, and a lecture on The War and the Future
which he delivered up and down America from January to
August of last year. Since then many things have happened.
But nothing has happened that can make Mr. MASEFIELD
other than proud of the part he has played in explaining
and glorifying his country’s cause and commending it to
the hearts and minds of all good Americans. I confess that
when I took up the book and read the first few lines I was
afraid that Mr. MASEFIELD had yielded to the temptation
of delivering his speech in poetical prose of a faintly Biblical
character, as thus: “Friends, for a long time I did not
know what to say to you in this my second speaking here.
I could fill a speech with thanks and praise—thanks for the
kindness and welcome which have met me up and down this
land wherever I have gone, and praise for the great national
effort which I have seen in so many places and felt everywhere.”
Mr. MASEFIELD however soon abandoned this
manner and made the rest of his way in a good solid
pedestrian style. But he did not disdain to go so far in
flattery of the Americans, his audience, as to use the word
“gotten” for the past tense of the verb “to get.”

There can be few Irishmen who look at their England
with such affectionate eyes as Lord DUNSANY. Tales of
War (FISHER UNWIN) is full of this sweet theme. The first
of the tales is a fine story of the Daleswood men who, cut
off from their supports and worried because there would
be none left in their native village to carry on the Daleswood
breed, were for sending out their youngest boy to
surrender. But, deciding that that wasn’t good Daleswood
form, they (for their last hours, as they thought) fell to
recalling the familiar beauties of their old home and to
cutting in the Picardy chalk the roll of their names for
remembrance. You get it again, that calling-up of the
home memories, when, in another marooned party, the
Sargeant that was keeper begins with a vision of sausages
and mashed and goes on to the birds and beasts and flowers
and soft noises of English woods at night. And in a half-dozen
other sketches. And it is good to find an Irishman
and a poet to say things which stick on our embarrassed
tongues. Lord DUNSANY has a happy trick of compressing
a great deal into a little space, and his vignettes, sketched
in with a conscious art, should find a place on our shelves
among the war records which our children are to read.

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

War Profiteer. “Stow that row, ‘Orace. ‘Ow did I know yer wanted a toy?”

“When the wife of President Wilson was
in London she spent hours shopping in Regent
Street and other quaint sections of London.”—Daily Gleaner.

Regent Street will be pleased.

“Captain Hayes, of the Olympic, in receiving
a loving cut from Halifax citizens, described
how the Olympic sank the U-boat 103, a
few months ago. The liner cut through the submarine without losing
a single revolution of the propellers.”—Australian Paper.

One good cut deserves another.

THE INFLUENZA-MASK.