Chapter I: Knit

THOU KNITTEST.

HE KNITS.

WE KNIT.

_YOU_ KNIT.

THEY KNIT.

* * * * *

THE SUPPRESSED SUPERMAN.

"What are you reading, Arthur?" I said.

"NIETZSCHE," said Arthur.

I sneezed in response. "Isn't that the chap," I said, "who's really responsible for the war?"

"People like you think so," he said.

"The reading of philosophy," I said, "was never in my line. Give me the exact sciences; EUCLID for me every time."

"Hopelessly moth-eaten," said he. "Most of the schools have dropped him in favour of geometry."

"Bah," I said, "a quibble. But tell me, wasn't it NIETZSCHE who taught the Germans to think they were supermen or whatever you call 'em?"

"Contrary to the opinion of the man in the street," said Arthur, looking at me rather meaningly, "NIETZSCHE did not write merely for the benefit of German people, nor did he approve, I should say, of the German idea of culture. You've been reading the evening papers; you're a wallower, that's what you are."

"I'm afraid," I said, "you also consider yourself a bit of a superman."

"I admit," he said, "that I've gone a long way."

"Towards Tipperary?"

"Beyond you," he said, tapping the page of NIETZSCHE he was reading; "we're not on the same plane."

"You can always get out and change," I said.

"Such flippancy," said Arthur, "is unbecoming in a lance corporal. What you want is a course of philosophy."

"What you want," I said, "is a course of musketry." Arthur, who, like me, is rising forty-six, is sound enough for home defence, but isn't in any Force yet. So, being a lance corporal in the "United Arts" myself, I feel I can throw advice of this sort at him freely.

"I'm going to give you a mental prescription," he said, taking out a pencil and scribbling on an envelope. "Have you read this--LUDOVICI'S _Who is to be Master of the World_?"

"No, I haven't," I said; "but I can tell you who isn't going to be--in once."

"The Japanese," said Arthur, "think a lot of it."

"I've got a pal," I said, "who'd dearly enjoy a few rounds of mental jiu-jitsu with you. He's got rather advanced ideas."

"Advanced!" said Arthur contemptuously. "We Nietzscheans speak only of being 'complete' or 'nearer completion.'"

It was at this point that Alfred joined in. He was sitting in uniform on the other side of the fire, reading _Ruff's Guide_.

"Who's that talking about poor old LUDOVICI?" he asked.

For a moment I was afraid Alfred thought that LUDOVICI was a horse.

"I was recommending him to this shining light of the Burlington House brigade," said Arthur.

Alfred laughed. "Look here, young fellow," he said, "everybody knows that he (pointing to me) is an antediluvian; but you've gone a bit off the boil yourself, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" said Arthur, looking rather pained.

"Many Continental theories," said Alfred, "when they die, go to Oxford. I'm afraid your friend LUDOVICI'S theory has been sent down even from there. Have you read Barrow's _Fallacy of the Nietzschean doctrine_?"

"N-no," said Arthur.

"Or Erichsen's _Completion of Self?_ You can get the paper edition for a bob."

"I'm sorry to say I haven't," said Arthur, who looked sadly chap-fallen. "But I will. However, for the moment I've got a meeting on--our literary club, you know."

"I'm coming round to raid you one night," I said, "to see if you're all registered."

For reply Arthur slammed the door behind him.

"Alfred," I said, when Arthur had left the house, "you astound me. Who are these new friends and their philosophies, Barrow and the Danish fellow, what's his name?"

"Mere inventions," said Alfred, "but they served."

"Then the fat's in the fire," I said; "he'll find out that you've been pulling his leg before lunch-time to-morrow."

"That's all right," said Alfred. "Our lot's booked for Pirbright to-morrow morning, and we shan't meet again till the other side of Peace."

* * * * *

Illustration: AN ECHO FROM EAST AFRICA.

_Sentry_ (_until lately behind the counter in Nairobi, to person approaching post_). "HALT! ADVANCE ONE, AND SIGN THE COUNTERFOIL!"

* * * * *

Illustration: THE CHILDREN'S TRUCE.

PEACE. "I'M GLAD THAT THEY, AT LEAST, HAVE THEIR CHRISTMAS UNSPOILED."

* * * * *

THE PRIZE.

With ivy wreathed, a hundred lights
Shone out; the Convent play was finished;
The waning term this night of nights
To a few golden hours diminished.

Again the curtain rose. Outshone
The childish frocks and childish tresses
Of the late cast that had put on
Demureness and its party dresses.

Rustled a-row upon the stage
Big girls and little, ranged in sizes,
All waiting for the Personage
To make the speech and give the prizes.

And there, all rosy from her _rôle_,
Betsey with sturdy valiance bore her,
Nor did she recognize a soul
But braved the buzzing room before her

With such resolve that guest on guest,
And many a smiling nun behind them,
Met her eyes obviously addressed
To proving that she did not mind them.

(So might a kitchen-kitten see--
Whose thoughts round housemaids' heels are centred--
The awful drawing-room's company
He inadvertently has entered.)

Swift from her side the girlish crowd,
With lovely smiles and limber graces,
Went singly, took their prizes, bowed,
Returning sweetly to their places.

Then "Betsey-Jane!" and all the rout
(Her hidden mother grown romantic)
Beheld that little craft put out
Upon the polished floor's Atlantic.

The Personage bestowed her prize,
And Betsey, lowly as the others,
Bowed o'er her sandals, raised her eyes
Alight with pride--and met her mother's!

She thrust between the honoured row
Before her in her glad elation;
Her school-mates gasped to see her go;
The nuns divined her destination;

The guests made way. Clap following clap
Acclaimed Convention's overleaping
As Betsey gained her mother's lap
And gave the prize into her keeping.

* * * * *

Royalties We Have Never Met.