Chapter II (2)

_I have recently turned up in a loft the following books: "Complete
Farrier," LAW'S "Serious Call," "Robinson Crusoe," WESLEY'S "Hymns,"
"The Shipwreck," by FALCONER, two odd volumes of "The Spectator," and
PRENDERGAST'S "Sermons." All are very old, dirty and worm-eaten, and I
feel sure must therefore be very valuable. Can you say what I am likely
to get for them from a good dealer?--E. G. (Croydon)._

Fourpence for the lot.

MR. KIPLING.

_Kindly tell me if the Mr. KIPLING who has been making such a splendid
speech about the Cabinet and their mercenariness and the treacherous
nature of the Irish is the same Mr. KIPLING who wrote "The Recessional"
and "Without Benefit of Clergy"? Some one here says that he is, but I
doubt it.--A. L. D. (Swindon)._

We are making enquiries.

* * * * *

HULLO, BEDROOM SCENE!

When Elizabeth presented me with my first safety razor we were both extremely hopeful about the future. She, fresh from the influence of a chemist's assistant, was convinced that breakfast would receive my attentions at more nearly its official hour; while I, reading folded eulogies that had nestled mid the dismembered parts of the razor itself, was looking forward to quite ten minutes extra in bed each morning.

Incidentally we were both disappointed.

For some time everything went well. And then the disused razor blades began to collect!

Now, one of the duties of our seventh housemaid (the seventh this year) was to light gas and things in the bedrooms when it became dark. And one evening, when she was groping about with her hands and snatching at things on the dressing-table in the hope of finding matches, she clutched a group of discarded razor-blades by mistake, strewed them and her blood over Elizabeth's best blue carpet, and gave notice the next morning.

"_Now_, what is to be done?" said Elizabeth next day as she sat on the floor and massaged the blue Axminster. "No housemaid, and a bedroom carpet disguised as a third-rate murder clue."

"Either get a red carpet, or apply for your next housemaid to a Society for Destitute Aristocrats, blue blood guaranteed," I suggested.

Elizabeth left off massaging and gazed searchingly at the murder clue.

"All because you didn't throw away those wretched razor blades," she said. "Hughie, I hate you! Throw them away at once!"

"Unhate me first," I stipulated.

Elizabeth unhated me, ruffling my newly-made hair in the process.

It took but two strides to reach the dressing-table; it was the work of hardly one minute to collect that ever-growing herd of assertive "has beens," and then ... I began to wonder where I was going to throw them.

Where did one generally throw away things? Out of the window?

I turned my head away in horror. Who was I that I should shower razor blades on that passing archdeacon?

The waste-paper basket?

My housemaid's life was too valuable.

The dust-bin?

But there again the dustman might delve; the Employers' Liability Act is a tricky business and I am only insured against my own death--which always seems to me silly.

"Look here," I said, "it's not so easy to throw these things away as you appear to think. Where am I to throw them?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth to suggest places. Then she shut it again without speaking and became thoughtful.

"Yes," she admitted at length, "it is a little difficult. One can't even bury them in the garden in case they should damage the potatoes."

"There," I cried triumphantly--"they've floored you too!"

Elizabeth gathered together her pails and sponges and held out a hand to be helped up.

"Not at all," she said. "All you've got to do is to put them in a cardboard box and make them into a nice parcel, and I'll write a label."

"Now," she said, when she had finished attaching it, "let's take the dogs for a walk, just to the end of the road. This parcel contains things that are dangerous to the public welfare, doesn't it? Very well, then, I shall make sure that it's taken into safe custody by the nearest policeman."

"Look here, Elizabeth," I said firmly, "I'll have nothing to do with your silly ass tricks. If we draw blood from the police----"

"Oh, that'll be all right," she remarked cheerfully as we reached the end of the road. "We shan't wait to explain. Quick! There _is_ a policeman coming! Here's the parcel. Put it down just at the bottom of the letter-box."

As I stooped with it, "He won't get hurt," said Elizabeth. "He'll open it too gingerly to cut himself. He'll think it's a bomb."

"Why?" said I.

And then first I saw the writing on the label. It said, VOTES FOR WOMEN.

* * * * *

Illustration: "OLE BILL YONDER'S GOT A JOB. THINKS HE'S GOIN' TO SET THE THAMES ON FIRE."

"NOT 'IM; 'E TAKES 'ARF A BOX O' MATCHES TO LIGHT A WOODBINE."

* * * * *

"IPSWICH
ELECTION
RESULT.

WORDS AND MUSIC OF
'DON'T YOU MIND IT, HONEY.'"

_"Reynolds" poster._

This has cheered Mr. MASTERMAN up a good deal.

* * * * *

"He left to his eldest son to devolve as an heirloom his picture by
Velasquez of a girl with a bird on her finger and a boy and a basket of
limes and L500 to the Foundling Hospital."--_Times._

No doubt the Hospital will be grateful for its three legacies.

* * * * *

A GREAT OCCASION.

As was anticipated by the promoters of the tercentenary celebration of the discovery of Logarithms, to be held next July, the application for tickets has been overwhelming. The Albert Hall, Olympia, and the White City, each of which in turn was selected for the place of meeting, have been successively abandoned as inadequate, and it has now been decided to roof in the whole of Hyde Park. Even with the huge amount of accommodation thus available it is feared that many millions will have to be turned away.

Excursion trains will be run from all parts, and the advanced bookings are already said to have eclipsed the record for the Cup Final.

The whole period of the celebration will be regarded as a public holiday, and the Stock Exchange will be closed.

Some idea of the entertaining character of the festival will be gathered from the following abstracts from the preliminary programme, a copy of which we have had the privilege of inspecting.

The ceremony will open to the strains of Sir EDWIN ELGAR'S _Logarithmic Symphony_, composed specially for the occasion.

Among the papers to be read in the course of the proceedings we note:

"State-aided Logarithms," by Mr. LLOYD GEORGE.

"SHAKSPEARE'S indebtedness to the Logarithm," by Sir SIDNEY LEE.

"The Logarithm in relation to Federal Home Rule," by Mr. F. S. OLIVER.

"My Favourite Logarithm," by Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR.

"Logs I have Rolled," by Mr. C. K. SHORTER.

"The Logarithm at the Olympic Games," by Mr. THEODORE ANDREA COOK.

"The Logarithm in the Home," by Mr. GORDON SELFRIDGE.

"The Logarithm in the Nursery," by "Aunt Louisa" (of _Tips for Tots_).

"Logs and the Higher Criticism," by Sir Oliver Log.

"Logarithms and the Hire System," by Lord Catesby of Droll.

"The Paradox of Logarithms," by Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON.

"Logarithms and the Animal World," by the Editor of _The Spectator_.

Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD will recite a poem, entitled "The Log of the Widow's Cruise."

An interesting contrast to the flood of eulogy will be supplied by Sir ALMROTH WRIGHT, who, taking the view that the simplicity with which logarithms can be handled is leading the nation inevitably towards mental atrophy, will introduce the question, "The Logarithm: is it a Public Menace?"

The programme will conclude with a costume ball, at which everybody present will be disguised as a different logarithm.

* * * * *

THE WAY OUT.

I carefully searched through all my pockets for the third time.

"Smithers," I said, "I have lost my railway ticket."

"Not really?" replied Smithers, scarcely looking up from his newspaper. "Have another look."

I had another look. I looked in my hat-band, in the turned-up bottoms of my trousers, and in the hole in my handkerchief. "No," I said firmly, "it's gone!"

"Extraordinary thing!"

"I have no doubt," I continued, "that the railway company are in some way to blame for it, but for the moment I cannot quite fix the responsibility. Let us view the matter bravely. We are now within a few miles of our destination; in a short time we shall be asked to produce our tickets; what are we to do?"

"I shall give mine up."

"Smithers," I said; "there is a selfish callousness about your reply which I do not like. A crisis in the life of another evidently does not move you."

"You can, I presume, pay again?"

"No," I said, "I have an absurd prejudice against paying twice for the same thing; I inherit it from a great-aunt on my mother's side."

"Then you'd better explain to the ticket-collector."

"Explanations are a sign of mental and moral weakness."

"Well, I've nothing more to suggest. You'll have to pay again."

"I shall not pay again," I replied, taking the paper gently from him. "I am a man and an Englishman; and Englishmen are not to be intimidated."

"Do you think," I continued, "that you could hold the collector in conversation while I glide imperceptibly from the precincts of the station?"

"I'm perfectly sure I couldn't."

"I was afraid not," I said sadly; "that would require imagination, tact, pluck, adroitness, in all of which commodities, my dear Smithers---- Well, no doubt it's a good thing nature doesn't mould us all alike."

"No doubt, else your handicap would not be 16, while mine is scratch."

"Golf is not life," I answered. "But I will tax your genius a little less. Could you for a few moments look like a director of the line, or a foreman shunter, or something of that sort?"

"I could try."

"Then," I said cheerfully, "we will bluff the collector--bluff him into believing we are that which we are not. Many people go through life like that. It is quite simple. All we have to do is to stroll up the station looking as much like commercial or mechanical despots as possible; give a kindly smile of condescension to the ticket-collector, make a casual remark about the working of the coupling rods, and pass out of the station."

"Yes," said Smithers.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes," said Smithers.

"I see how it is," I said, taking my golf clubs out of the rack as the train pulled up. "You have no stomach for it; the spice of adventure it contains does not appeal to you. Well, so much for modern civilisation. I will go through alone with it; pray, if you wish, detach yourself from me until we are out of the station."

I sprang out and hurried up the platform; a servant of the company was in waiting.

"Tickets, please," he said coldly--unnecessarily coldly, I thought.

I smiled. "I am glad to see," I observed genially, "that on my line at any rate even the commander-in-chief cannot pass the sentries unchallenged. Your sense of duty shall not go unrewarded; let me have your card."

He stared at me stonily.

"Don't you recognise me?" I asked.

"Tickets, please," he repeated.

I have never seen a face so lacking in that gracious trustfulness which is at once the pride and the adornment of the normal ticket-collector. I think in his youth he must have committed a murder or robbed an orchard, for the shadow of a crime seemed to hang over him. I felt instinctively that he was not fit to play the part I had allotted to him.

I looked back. Smithers was pluckily doing up his bootlace several yards away; a tactless grin seemed to desolate his features. The grin decided me.

"Smithers," I called, "hurry up with the tickets; the inspector is waiting for them. Good day, inspector."

And I walked briskly from the station.

* * * * *

"One hundred and seventy started out, the number including the best of the English players and the entire American continent."

_Montreal Gazette._

If this is so America was hardly worth discovering.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Long-suffering Vegetarian Lodger._ "DON'T TROUBLE TO COOK THE CATERPILLARS IN FUTURE, MR. GEDGE. I _NEVER_ EAT THEM."

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The dry sticks, as it were, of _The Bale Fire_ (HUTCHINSON) are not very cunningly laid, with the result that from a spectacular point of view the conflagration fizzles out rather tamely. But there are so many bright passages in the book and so many sympathetic sketches of characters that I cannot help wishing the FRASERS (HUGH and MRS.) had either written a longer story depending completely on the interplay of temperament, or else built more carefully on their melodramatic substructure. For though _Captain Mayhune_, the villain of the piece, is the proprietor of a gaming-hell and terrorises _Lady Trague_ with a piece of blotting-paper on which may be read a portion of her letter to a young man whom she indiscreetly though innocently adores, nothing very serious comes of his machinations, and our interest in the book is mainly confined to the emotional relations between _Sir Charles_, a fussy elderly martinet, his too young wife, and _Maisie_, her seventeen-year-old step-daughter, who varies from deeper moods to those of a silly and self-willed child. Then there is _Captain Mayhune_ himself, a man of good impulses and evil, in whom, somehow or other, though never without a struggle, the evil always triumphs. Other characters are rather jerkily introduced, amongst whom a family of good-natured and thoroughly "nice" Americans, who help to straighten things out and bring people to a better understanding, are most conspicuous. But that piece of blotting-paper! If I were a stationer and kept a circulating library, I think I should try to turn an honest penny by selling sand to my customers along with their packets of linen-wove and blue-black writing-fluid. "Simple, effective, and leaves no chance to the blackmailer."

* * * * *

It is pleasant to receive in this age of realism a novel that is frankly romantic. Miss KAYE-SMITH in _Three against the World_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) colours up life with lavish brush. We have a returned convict who fiddles in the rain for the benefit of dancing village children; we have impresarios who stand at the doors of inns and hear him thus fiddling; an untidy heroine who speaks in gasps and gurglings; and a lover who goes to literary parties in London and therefore (the inference is implied by the author) falls in love with two ladies at once. Such a novel is refreshing after the mathematical accuracy with which clerks, barmaids and politicians are perpetually presented to us by our novelists, but I am not at all sure that Miss KAYE-SMITH is wise in trusting our credulity too far. There was a day when one would have accompanied her _Tramping Methodist_ anywhere, but of late years that promise has not been fulfilled, and her last novel is, I think, distinctly her poorest. I like her affection for Sussex, her catalogue of Sussex names, the fine colour of her descriptive work; but her story is on the present occasion too obviously arranged behind the scenes. One can see the author working again and again for the romantic moment, and scenes that should have convinced and wrung the reader's heart (always eager to be wrung) have in their appearance some suspicion of the paint and paste-pot of the cheaper drama. I hope that Miss KATE-SMITH will get back in her next book to her earlier strength and sincerity.

* * * * *

That _Second Nature_ (DUCKWORTH), which JOHN TRAVERS has in mind, is the innate sense of obligation which compels a gentleman to be a gentleman, whatever else he may be, in all that he does, says, thinks, eats, drinks and wears. The family of _Westfield_ went back to times past remembering, and it came a little hard to the descendant of such a stock to have to choose his wife from among women who had done time or else to lose that legacy by the help of which alone he could hope to keep up the ancestral castle as a going concern. But so it was, by reason of the testamentary caprice of a spiteful uncle; and the position was not eased by the special condition for publicity, designed to bring it about that the family records, which began proudly in Doomsday Book, should conclude ignominiously in _The Daily Mail_. For _Jim_, always the gentleman, there was choice only between the devil of poverty or the deep sea of the Prisoners' Aid Society. He resorted to the latter (refusing Suffragettes), and came by _Joan Murphy_ for wife who, with all her excellent capacity, was no lady. Manslaughter, however, may be a venial crime and physical beauty is a very saving grace, and, as these things all happened in the earliest chapters, I readily foresaw an ultimate end of the happiest nature and a solution of all difficulties worked out in defiance of the probabilities. A disappointed prophet is a captious critic and, the story turning out quite otherwise, I was very much on the alert for latent faults. Of these I found none. True, I did not altogether like _Jim Westfield_, but then I doubt if I was altogether meant to. Furthermore I give many extra marks to the author (as to whose sex, by the way, I have in my ignorance had moments of doubt) for moving the scene to India and thus giving substance and colour to a very remarkable love-story, while at the same time assisting his original theme with the subtle comparison, rather hinted at than dwelt upon, of caste.

* * * * *

_Pot-Pourri Mixed by Two_ (SMITH, ELDER) is a book to live with, but not to be read at a sitting. After spending some hours with Mrs. C. W. EARLE and Miss ETHEL CASE I found that my critical palate was unequal to the demands of so liberal and varied a banquet; and when I had finished a poem by Mr. MASEFIELD, and found that it was followed by a recipe for cucumber soup, I wanted badly to laugh out loud. My advice, therefore, to readers is to take a snack from time to time, but not to make a square meal of it. While dissenting from some of Mrs. EARLE'S opinions--I do not, for instance, think that the paper she mentions is "the best of all evening papers"--there is no getting away from her sincerity or from a certain indefinable charm which prevents her from causing irritation even when she is proclaiming her very pronounced views. Miss CASE, the other mixer, supplies some really valuable hints on gardens. These are drawn from her practical experience and are given succinctly enough. The only fault to be found with her is that in her efforts to be a pot-pourrist she occasionally finds it easier to mix than to blend. With each chapter we are furnished with various recipes which should, at any rate, gladden the heart of all vegetarians. Even I, whom Mrs. EARLE possibly would think a heretic, am prepared to take my chance with salsify scallops, walnut pie and hominy cutlets.

* * * * *

_The Magic Tale of Harvanger and Yolande_ (MILLS AND BOON) is set forth by a new scrivener, to wit, one G. P. BAKER, in more than ordinarily flamboyant Wardour Street English. _Harvanger_, a Shepherd, hies forth on his Quest for the Best Thing in the World. It turneth out in sooth to be LOVE and _Yolande_. Perhaps Mr. BAKER, an easy prey to the magic of jolly old words, has let himself do a little too much embroidery to the square inch of happening. There are indeed some good fights, though, by reason of this excess of embroidery, they are a little vague and difficult to follow. It is very well to have orgulous messires and men of courteoisie, with cotehardie of crocus or hose of purpure (showing how History repeateth herself), gearing and graithing for battle, mounted on coal-black destriers and generally behaving right this, that and the other withal; but when _Yolande_, asking _Harvanger_ what will happen to her when he is away, receiveth for answer, "Truly I fear that thou wilt be very dull"; or when _Bernlak_, the fighter, says of a dead man, "I took over such effects as he left" (very much after the manner of my solicitor), one can't help feeling a little let down. Of such indeed are the perils of the Higher Tushery. They should not, however, be allowed to prejudice the consideration of a painstaking narrative which may well delight the confirmed romantic.

* * * * *

Illustration: ANOTHER LONG-FELT WANT SUPPLIED.

A CIGAR-HOLDER FOR THE USE OF DIVERS.

* * * * *

Mr. LAURENCE KETTLE, as quoted by _The Irish Volunteer_ and re-quoted by _The Dublin Evening Mail_ (and they may share the glory between them):--

"Those gentlemen of the army could be described by the poet Milton as
the Oiled and Curley Assyrian wolves."

However, it is no good going to the Zoo to look for these in the Wolf House. Stay at home quietly and read "Maud" and "The Destruction of Sennacherib," and then you will understand how MILTON would have plagiarised TENNYSON and BYRON in one line if he had only lived long enough.

* * * * *

"When Mr. Asquith came in he was greeted with Opposition shouts of
'Ipswich' and 'Where's Masterman?' Mr. Asquith said--The Government
adhered to decision not to take part officially in Panama
Exposition."--_Star._

If Mr. ASQUITH wishes to be a success in the House he must improve his powers of repartee. At present his back-answers are entirely lacking in snap.

* * * * *