Chapter II: Part 2

The meet of the Chingerley Hunt made a gay spectacle. The red coats of the men and the fascinating Parisian _toilettes_ of the ladies shone resplendently in the morning sunshine, while the champing of the horses' bits blended harmoniously with the choiring of numberless larks. Through the brilliant throng moved the Master, Sir Ernest Scrivener, bowing his greetings right and left as he passed.

A few minutes before the hour fixed for the start the approach of a solitary horseman caused many eyebrows to lift in surprise, while Sir Ernest for an instant went white to the teeth. Then he laughed scornfully.

"Why, Wonderson!" cried one of the Hunt. "What on earth are you doing here? I understood you were being married this morning."

"That is so," replied Ralph easily. "But I see no reason why I shouldn't hunt first. DRAKE, you know, played bowls during a crisis, and NERO fiddled."

As he spoke he watched Sir Ernest narrowly. The Master was making his way towards the iron cage in which the fox cub was imprisoned. Ralph edged his horse insensibly nearer.

Amid the eager plaudits of the Hunt Sir Ernest leaned down from his saddle and raised the catch with a flourish. As he did so a packet of papers fell from his breast pocket.

In a flash the released cub had pounced upon the papers and carried them off in his mouth. With a savage oath Sir Ernest plunged his spurs into his horse's flanks and gave chase. Ralph, perceiving instantly what had happened and guessing the all-important nature of the papers, was by him in a stride. Side by side the pair thundered along, while behind them the hounds and hunters streamed out in a confused and glittering medley. They were off! The hunt was up.

Crouching low on the necks of their panting steeds, the two protagonists swept forward, plying remorselessly whip and spur, curb and snaffle. For a time neither gained an inch. Then, without warning, the fox doubled. With a single turn of his iron wrist Ralph wrenched his horse round without the loss of a second, but as he glanced back over his shoulder he perceived that the Master was only twenty yards behind. Ralph redoubled his efforts, his eyes glued to the white bundle clenched in the cub's dripping jaws.

Through field and farmyard, by barn and byre, over rick and river, they sped, and ever the gap between the fox and Ralph lessened, while the gap between Ralph and Sir Ernest grew wider, and the savage baying of the hounds, mingled with the frenzied view halloos of the Hunt, receded further into the distance. Never had the Chingerley Hunt known such a chase.

At last Ralph recognized that his chance had come. Leaning over his horse's ears, he took careful aim and slashed out with his long whip. Unerringly the lash coiled round the papers and jerked them from the fox's mouth. A single glance showed him that they were, as he had anticipated, the forged documents.

Two minutes later Sir Ernest found the exhausted fox lying insensible by the roadside. Glancing up, he perceived Ralph vanishing over the crest of a hill.

"Curse him!" he muttered savagely. "Curse him! I must and will overtake him before he reaches the church or the game is up. If I take a short cut under the hill I can outwit him yet. Curse him again!"

Mercilessly lashing his foaming horse, he galloped in the direction of the church. As he rode a sense of the urgency of the situation grew upon him. If he arrived first, Wonderson could be arrested, if necessary at the pistol's point, before he entered the churchyard, and the papers recovered. If he was too late.... He plunged his spurs an inch deep into his weary mount.

At length the desperate Mazeppa-like dash was over. As he shot through the lych-gate Sir Ernest breathed a sigh of relief. A policeman stood by the church porch awaiting him. Wonderson had been beaten.

With an ugly laugh of triumph he swung himself from the horse. Stolidly the constable turned to face him. Sir Ernest gave one startled exclamation as he saw, not Ragley, but a stranger. He had been forestalled.

The heavy hand of a second policeman fell on his shoulder from behind.

"Sir Ernest Scrivener," said a voice solemnly, "I arrest you on a charge of forgery, and I advise you to come quietly."

Sir Ernest glanced round and saw that he was completely surrounded by police.

As the handcuffs clicked over his wrists there crashed above him the joyous clamour of wedding bells.

* * *

Ralph Wonderson paused for a moment at the lych-gate, his lovely fair-haired bride clinging to his arm. Standing in the mellow beauty of the English landscape they made a memorable picture. A red-coated figure, covered with the stains of hard riding, approached them, bowing low. In his hand he held a magnificent fox's brush.

"This has been unanimously awarded to you, Sir," he said, "as a memento of the finest ride in the annals of the Chingerley Hunt."

And, as Ralph and his bride raised the brush to their lips, from the admiring throng which pressed about them went up that thrilling immemorial hunting chorus, "_Tally-ho! Yoicks forrard! Rah! Rah!_"

* * * * *

ANOTHER MANIFESTO.

We, the undersigned, having carefully considered the situation in all its bearings and applications, have come to the decision that it is no longer consonant with the self-respect of Englishmen to share a name with the great swollen-headed German aggressor--the despiser of treaties, the desecrator of Belgium and the foe of the liberty of the world. We therefore give notice that from now and henceforward we renounce the name of William in all its variations.

(_Signed_)

WILLIAM ARCHER.

WILLIAM ASHMEAD-BARTLETT.

WILLIAM BOOSEY.

BURGLAR BILL (Shade of).

WILLIE CLARKSON.

WILL CROOKS.

WILLIAM DE MORGAN.

WILL EVANS.

GULIELMO FERRERO.

WILLIAM GUNN.

WILLIAM KNIGHT.

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

WILHELM MEISTER (Shade of).

BILLY MERSON.

WILLIAM OSLER.

WILLY POGANY.

WILLIAM RAMSAY.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE (Shade of).

WILLIAM THE SILENT (Shade of).

WILLIAM STRANG.

BILL SIKES (Shade of).

WILLIAM WATSON.

WILLIAM WHITELEY, LTD.

* * * * *

Illustration: _A Pufflecombe Worthy speaks._ "YOU BE TELLING US, JAMES BUZZICOTT, 'BOUT THIS 'ERE LOOVANE THERE'S S'MUCH TARK OVER IN THE PAPERS, AN' THE DESTRUCTION OF A GRAN' OLE BUILDING. BUT WOT DO EE ZAY, JAMES BUZZICOTT, 'BOUT PUFFLECOMBE AND T'OLD 'BELL AN' HORNS' IF US BE INVADED? WOT DO EE ZAY 'BOUT THAT?"

* * * * *

IT'S AN ILL WIND....

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I thought you would like to hear about the Intelligence Bureau which we have established at home since the War broke out. It is run on German lines and so far has been most successful, although there are serious risks.

Clarence thought of it. He is my cleverest brother. He got the idea from a newspaper. Before the War we weren't allowed to read anything in the papers but the cricket scores, but now we may read all.

The Bureau works like this. Clarence goes to mother and says, "May we go fishing this afternoon?" Mother says "No," and hurries off to the sewing meeting somewhere. They are all making things for soldiers, and soldiers' wives and children, and Belgian peasants. Briefly, when she's gone, Clarence writes on a piece of paper the fact that Mother has no objection to our fishing, shows it to our governess, and off we go. Isn't that clever of Germany? When mother returns she forgets to ask of the governess what we have been doing, and it is all right.

The other week-end mother went away and wrote to Clarence that we were to be sure to go to the children's service on Sunday afternoon. Clarence read the letter aloud, and when it came to that part he said, instead of "children's service on Sunday afternoon," something about a picnic on Monday. That is what he calls editing, which is the special duty of an Intelligence Bureau.

Hoping that other children may find our example useful,

I remain,
Yours truly,

BETH MANN.

* * * * *

The Return to Culture.

"GERMANS FALLING BACK ON THE MUSE."

_North Mail._

* * * * *

ARMS AND THE WOMAN.

I was working in the garden, tidying up after the weekly visit of the jobbing gardener, when Bolsover put his head over the hedge. "Heard about the Pottingers' governess?" he asked excitedly.

"The Pottingers' governess?" I repeated. "No; what about her? Has she given them notice?"

"Well, she's not exactly the Pottingers' governess," he replied, "but governess to some intimate friends of theirs named Ings living at Ponders End. Anyhow, I can absolutely vouch for the truth of the story."

"Get on," I said. "Don't keep me on tenterhooks. What's she done?"

"Why, the police have discovered that she's a German spy," said Bolsover mysteriously.

"'Angels and ministers of grace de ---- '"

"Yes," he went on, "she had been with them three years, teaching the children '_Ich bin geworden sein_,' and '_Hast du die Tochter des Löwen gesehen_,' and all that. It appears that the police called at the house one night recently and insisted on searching her room and her trunks. Mr. Ings protested; said they'd made a mistake, pledged his word on her honour and integrity, but all with no avail. They searched and found--what _do_ you think?"

"I'll buy it," I said; "Uncle Jasper's coming to lunch with me. What did they find?"

"It's no catch," protested Bolsover, "but the solid truth. They found in one of her trunks a German service-rifle and a quantity of ammunition."

"Never!" I exclaimed.

"Only once," retorted Bolsover. "She's now in a Concentration Camp near Hendon."

I thought no more about the matter until midway through lunch. We were waiting for the _soufflé_ when--

"Have you heard that story about a German?" Uncle Jasper and I began simultaneously.

"After you, Uncle," I said dutifully. "What were you going to say?"

"I was about to ask you if you had heard the story of the Polworths' governess," he said.

"No," I answered. "Tell me. You refer to the Polworths of Croydon?"

"Exactly. Well, they--or rather some friends of theirs named Culverton, living at Purley--had a German governess who had been in the family for some years. A night or two ago the police----"

But I needn't repeat it. In all essentials it was Bolsover's story over again, the only differences being that they found three bombs and that the governess was incarcerated at Horsham.

In the afternoon I accompanied Uncle Jasper to the railway station. On my way home I met the Vicar, and we fell to discussing the war. Eventually the conversation got to espionage.

"That reminds me," said the Vicar, "of a very strange case in the household of one of my parishioners--or it would be more correct to say that what I am going to tell you occurred in the house of a friend of his at Canterbury. However, the _bona fides_ of the facts is absolutely unimpeachable. It appears that----"

And here followed another version of the governess episode, identical in all respects with those of Bolsover and Uncle Jasper, save only that the police found a loaded revolver and a plan of Chatham Dockyard, and that the woman had been deported.

That same evening I dined at old Colonel Jevers', and when the ladies had withdrawn to the drawing-room our host began--

"Talking about the war reminds me of a most extraordinary spy story I heard to-day about a German governess."

All the men exchanged glances and smiled. The Colonel continued--"I can say at once that what I am going to tell you is authentic, for the events actually happened to the man who told me--I daresay some of you know Bickerton?--or rather to an old friend of his, which, under the circumstances, is practically the same thing. Well, this friend of Bickerton's, whose name was--"

"Ings, Mullens, Doddridge, Finlayson," we all, except young Pitts, murmured _sotto voce_.

"... Potherby, lived at--"

"Ponders End, Woking, Cleckheaton, Norwich," we added in a similar manner.

"... Maidstone, and for some time had had in his employ a German governess."

And so the tale went on until the Colonel got to the searching of the trunk. "... and in it was found...."

"A service-rifle, three bombs, a loaded revolver, plans of fortifications," we supplied as before.

"... incriminating letters showing clearly that for years the woman had been in communication with the German Secret Service Bureau," concluded our host.

Young Pitts left with me and walked to my house.

"I didn't hear any asides from you while the Colonel was repeating that hoary old yarn," I said as we reached the gate. "Hadn't you heard it before?"

"I heard it in the train this morning," Pitts answered.

"You don't believe it, surely?"

"Of course not. Amongst other reasons, because the man in whose house the events were supposed to have taken place happens, I know, to be a bachelor, and would not therefore require the services of a German governess."

"Who was the person referred to in the version you heard?" I asked.

"You," he replied.

* * * * *

Illustration: _London Scot (proud of his English)._ "AW'LL BE HAME ABOOT EICHT O'CLOCK THE NICHT, AN'----"

_Voice of Operator (obedient to Government instructions)._ "NO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, PLEASE."

[_Cut off._]

* * * * *

Footwork.

"In a comparatively short time now, summer gardens will have to be
overhauled, the bedding-out plants taken up, cuttings taken, and the
ground prepared for next spring's display; all of which will be
labour usually regarded as _manual_, but which is well within the
capabilities of a strong intelligent woman."--_Country Life._

Who would of course regard such labour as womanual.

* * * * *

"Forming a hollow square in front of Webbe Tent, Lord Grenfell
addressed the corps, and complimented them on the work they had done
and their smart appearance."

_The Contingent._

After which the C.O., on behalf of the corps, complimented Lord GRENFELL on forming a hollow square.

* * * * *

Illustration: SEASIDE MINSTREL, SUSPECTED OF BEING AN ALIEN, IS MADE TO REMOVE THE BLACK FROM HIS FACE FOR PURPOSES OF IDENTIFICATION.

* * * * *

IMPERIAL FAVOURS.

We read with very great interest the official and authentic information circulated by the Wolff Agency with regard to the status of the Austrian _Landsturm_. From this we learn that "on account of its gallant conduct" (attended apparently by disastrous results) the Emperor FRANCIS JOSEPH has granted it permission to serve outside Austria. This is a gracious concession which will no doubt be very highly appreciated by the _Landsturm_; but one trifling difficulty seems to stand in the way. To be frank, we do not quite see how they are going to get outside. At least it would be well for them to take steps before it is too late. Events have not facilitated the journey _viá_ Lemburg, or that _viá_ Sarajevo. We know it would be a cruel disappointment if they found themselves debarred from enjoying this exceptional boon. Perhaps they might try the emergency exit to Italy, where a warm reception would await them.

Meanwhile the idea has been taken up by FRANCIS JOSEPH'S brother Emperor, who never likes to miss a good thing. We understand that he has granted to the German Fleet--on account of its gallant conduct in the Kiel Canal--permission to serve outside in the North Sea and also in the Solent. We need hardly add that the news has been received with the utmost geniality by the British Fleet.

* * * * *

Nasty Accident to Divine.

"Cardinal Vanutelli, the doyen of the Papal Conclave, has had the
misfortune to break his conclave."--_Liverpool Echo._

* * * * *

Another Attack on the Press.

"The Antwerp correspondent of the 'Telegraaf' states that yesterday,
between Termonde and Ghent, German soldiers fired upon a train full
of Reuter."--_Birmingham Daily Post._

* * * * *

From a poster:--

"WHAT WE HAVE
TO OFFER
ITALY.

_The Globe._"

This is, of course, a rhetorical exaggeration. Actually it would be a small piece of Austria.

* * * * *

The Confession.

From a letter in _The Globe_ on the liberty allowed to German prisoners:--

"With Portland and Weymouth almost within artillery range the thing
seems monstrous. Who is responsible?--I am, &c., MIDDLE TEMPLAR."

Then we hope Middle Templar is ashamed of himself.

* * * * *

TO LIMEHOUSE.

Eastward the buzzing tram-car dips
Adown Commercial Road,
Till you may see the masts of ships,
With all their canvas stowed,
Stand o'er the house-tops, high
Against blue sky;
And thus Romance doth stray,
Mid work-a-day.

O drabbest of all penny fares!
Yet may you catch a glimpse
Of little dusty courts and squares
Where little dusty imps
Play by the plane-trees there,
Squalid, un-fair--
If these a child or tree
Could ever be.

The trams they go with hoot and lurch
Long miles, through glare and grime,
With here and there a dim cool church
Wide open all the time;
Where on this lovely day
Folk stop to pray
That wars, at length, may cease
And we have peace.

* * * * *

Stamping Out the Enemy.

"With German factories paralysed and the cold grip of the British
Feet about her throat, Germany, it is argued, must bring the war to
a close before starvation conquers her."

_Yorkshire Evening Post._

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I confess that I did not foretell the present state of affairs, and I refuse to believe anyone else who professes to have done so unless he can produce his prophecy in writing. _Germany and England_ (MURRAY), however, puts the late Professor J. A. CRAMB definitely among the few and persistent prophets who should long ago have been very much more honoured in their own country. The book is a _résumé_ of lectures delivered in London in the early part of 1913, and it was first published a few months ago. The present reprint proves the lecturer to have been wiser before the event than many of us are even while the event is happening. Had he lived to see "the day," he would certainly have revised his incidental opinions of French competence and Russian honesty, British resource, and the utility of the Territorial; he would have willingly praised what he has somewhat hastily derided. His theme, however, is not criticism of the Allies, but appraisement of Germany; and his arguments, simply but eloquently expressed, should be very closely regarded by those haphazard optimists who suppose this War to be the personal prank of a braggart Kaiser, doomed to an immediate failure for want of his subjects' support. I have devoured more pages of printed matter since this trouble began than I care to think about, but from the whole lot I have had less enlightenment than from this half-crown volume; I have learnt exactly what is taking place--and why--from one who, unhappily, died before any of the existing wars was declared. Clearly the days of miracles are not yet dead.

* * * * *

No doubt you already know the work of Mr. H. F. PREVOST BATTERSBY (FRANCIS PREVOST) in "another place," _i.e._, on the battlefield, where as a war-correspondent he has proved himself a keen observer and an accomplished master of style. But he can also write romances uncommonly well. His latest, _The Lure of Romance_ (LANE), displays once more exactly the qualities that have brought its author previous renown--an appreciative eye and a ready pen for the dramatic and picturesque aspects of a big fight. He knows exactly what a bullet sounds like as it whistles over the head of the person to whom it was addressed; and as no doubt many of us are taking an unusual interest in bullets just now there should be a large public for a story that is so largely concerned with them. On its own merits as a tale it is bustling and picturesque enough. The scene of it is laid in a South American Republic (that useful variant on Ruritania), and the plot deals with the rescue of the charming daughters of a rapscallion President, threatened by local revolutionaries. Naturally, therefore, there is some shooting--in the American sense--all of which bears the sign of expert handling. The affair ends with a really thrilling climax, in which _Doyne_, the engineer and chief hero, confounds the politics of his enemies by letting loose a reservoir upon them. This is great fun. Especially as the contents of the reservoir, on its way down through a mountain-jungle, brought along with it what Mr. BATTERSBY pleasantly calls "clattering carapes of gigantic crabs." A truly gripping finish!

* * * * *

Illustration: THE PICNIC, SEPTEMBER, 1914.

_Anxious Mother._ "I HOPE WE'VE FORGOTTEN NOTHING, FRED?--SANDWICHES, SPIRIT LAMP, SUGAR, TEA, MILK, JAM, AMMUNITION, KNIVES, FORKS, REPEATING RIFLE, PICKLES, BARBED WIRE, &C., &C."

* * * * *

It would seem a far cry from the clash of armies to the romance of a honeymoon spent on a raft _de luxe_ drifting lazily down a river of Burma. That is the theme of _Love's Legend_ (CONSTABLE), by Mr. FIELDING HALL, author of _The Soul of a People_. But there may be a war of sex with sex scarcely less tragic than the wars of men with men (or brutes). The author shows us an oldish husband--a civil servant--who surmounts, with not too much indelicacy, the primary difficulty of his young wife's ingenuousness in relation to the sacrament of marriage. But a further and worse difficulty is waiting for him when he comes to deal with the incompatibility of the sexes in the matter of moral standards. The thing, of course, has been done once for all by LOUIS STEVENSON in _Virginibus Puerisque_. But he did it in essay form; here we have the piquancy of personal narrative and dialogue. Husband and wife in turn are responsible for the story, each assuming a partial attitude towards facts and opinions; or else it is one of his old friends (a source of foolish jealousy to the wife) who takes up the tale without warning when they meet at some riverside station. This means a pleasant variety of styles, and there is a certain childlike freshness about the method by which the husband adapts himself to his wife's intelligence, presenting his more difficult arguments in the form of fairy-tales--a habit which the author may, for all I know, have assimilated through intercourse with the local native. All goes badly, and things began to threaten an _impasse_, when one foggy night the raft is cut in two by a paddle-boat and the pair get separated and nearly killed. They are so pleased to be restored to one another alive that they tacitly agree to waive their differences. It is perhaps rather a puerile _dénouement_, and not likely to be very helpful to the newly-wedded public. There must be very few couples who can count on having their elemental differences healed by means of a collision between a honeymoon raft and a paddle-steamer on a Burmese river. All the same I commend the book, for it has a charm of manner that will appeal to all. As for its matter, half of it will seem sound to you if you are a male, and most irritating if you are a female; and the other way about with the other half. Personally, being a man, I thought the woman wanted smacking.

* * * * *

The new German National Anthem (we hope):--_Deutschland unter Allies._

* * * * *

We are living in unsettled times. St. Petersburg has become Petrograd, and now we read in _The Yorkshire Observer_ that "The Bradford Baths Committee have decided to alter the name of the Central Baths to 'The Kursaal.'" What next?