Chapter II: Part 2

If the author of _Just Like Judy_ will look into that commodious classic, _Mrs. Beeton's Cookery Book_, he will find a formula for light pastry. And if he will proceed to the (for him) enlivening adventure of essaying a tartlet, he will find that most fatal among a host of fatal errors will be any failure to preserve the due proportion of ingredients. I do not suggest that there is as rigid a formula for light comedy. But certainly Mr. DENNY threw in too many unnecessary mystifications and crude explanations in proportion to the wit, wisdom and lively incident of his confection. In particular he was constantly making some of his characters tell the others what we of the audience either already knew or quite easily guessed. To exhaust my tedious-homely metaphor, if you put in a double measure of water the mixture will refuse to rise. And that I imagine is essentially what happened to _Just Like Judy_.

Irish _Judy_, a charmingly pretty busybody, outwardly just like Miss IRIS HOEY, comes to _Peter Keppel's_ studio and hears that this casual youth has got into a deplorable habit of putting off his marriage with her friend _Milly_. She (_Judy_) will see to that! She assumes the _rôle_ of a notorious Chelsea model, whom proper _Peter_ has never seen. _Peter_ knocks his head on the mantelpiece, just where a shrapnel splinter had hit him, and is persuaded that she, _Judy McCarthy_, affecting to be _Trixie O'Farrel_, is his wife. It all seems very horrible to him, but, shell-shock or no shell-shock, he sets to work to paint her portrait in a business-like way, and at the end of four hours it doesn't seem at all horrible. And by the time it is explained that it was all a joke (some people do have such a nice sense of humour) he is all for rushing off to the registry-office, _Judy_ agreeing.

Not that _Judy_ is a minx. She did her level best to make two people who obviously didn't love one another fulfil their engagement, instead of, like a sensible woman, accepting the inevitable, which was, as it happens, so congenial to her. What puzzled me was _Peter's_ indignation with poor _Milly_ when he found that she really didn't love him (but, on the contrary, a bounder called _Crauford_), yet couldn't bear to cause him unhappiness, and was sacrificing herself for him. As that was his attitude precisely, I suppose he felt annoyed by this lack of originality. If we men are like that, it wasn't nice of Mr. DENNY to give us away.

At any rate I am sure Mr. DONALD CALTHROP didn't believe in _Peter_ all the time. When he did he was very good indeed. When he didn't he was horrid. Did Miss IRIS HOEY believe in _Judy_? I am not so sure. I suspect not. Did I believe in either? I did not.

I was a little surprised that Miss JOAN VIVIAN-REES should so overplay her _Trixie_. Her work is certainly in general not like that, and I conjecture the influence of some baleful autocrat of a producer. It seemed to me that Miss MILDRED EVELYN'S _Milly_ was, all things considered, a capable and consistent study of a desperately unsympathetic character, a more difficult and creditable feat than is commonly supposed.

T.

"WILD GEESE."

_Miss PHYLLIS MONKMAN_ (_Violet Braid_). "NO. I JUST KEEP ON DOING THIS FOR THE LOOK OF THE THING."]

I should hesitate to accuse Mr. RONALD JEANS of originality in the design of his musical trifle at the Comedy. The idea of a company of women that bans the society of men is at least as old as the Attic stage. But it is to his credit that though the theme invited suggestiveness he at least avoided the licence of _The Lysistrata_. Indeed there were moments when his restraint filled me with respectful wonder. Thus, though the Pacific Island to which the Junior Jumper Club retired--with no male attendant but the Club porter--clearly indicated a bathing scene, yet we had to be satisfied with an occasional glimpse of an exiguous _maillot_ with nobody inside it.

In fact, the fun throughout had a note of reserve and was never boisterous. Mr. JACK BUCHANAN'S quiet methods in the part of the _Hon. Bill Malcolm_, universal philanderer, lent themselves to this quality of understatement. In a scene where he tried to extricate himself from a number of coincident entanglements with various members of the Club he was quite amusing without the aid of italics. Mr. GILBERT CHILDS, again, as _Weekes_--Club porter and _Admirable Crichton_ of the island--though a little broader in his style, was too clever to force the fun.

The other sex, as was natural with women who affected a serious purpose, had fewer chances, and Miss PHYLLIS MONKMAN spoilt hers by a bad trick of hunching her shoulders and waggling her arms as if she were out for a cake-walk on Montmartre.

There were touches of humour in Mr. CUVILLIER'S tuneful music and in the limited movements of the best-looking chorus that I have seen for a long time.

As for the plot, it had at least the merit of continuity and conformed to the logic, seldom too severe, of this kind of entertainment, as distinct from the so-called _revue_. Nearly everything was well within my intelligence, the chief exception being the title; for never surely did a wild-goose chase offer such easy sport. The birds were just asking to be put into the bag. I should myself have preferred, out of compliment to the chorus, to call the play "Wild Ducks," only, of course, IBSEN had been there before. Not that this would have greatly troubled an author who showed so little regard for the proprietary rights of ARISTOPHANES and Sir JAMES BARRIE.

O.S.

* * * * *

WITCHES.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "'tis born in 'em maybe,
The same as fits an' freckles an' follerin' the sea,
An' ginger hair in some folks--an' likin' beer in me.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "an' powerful strong ones too;
They'll whistle a wind from nowhere an' a storm out o' the blue
'Ud sink this here old hooker an' all her bloomin' crew.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin,
"An' some counts witchcraft bunkum, an' some a deadly sin,
But--there ain't no harm as I see in standing well with a Finn."

C.F.S.

* * * * *

OUR CYNICAL PRESS.

"Mr. ----, M.P., is leaving home for a fortnight's rest."--_Scotch
Paper._

* * * * *

PROTECTION FROM BURGLARS.

FOR IDEAL AND OTHER HOMES.

AND THE PASSAGE SPRING-TRAP ADJUSTED TO A NICETY--

AND THE PATENT PROTECTIVE STAIR-CREAK RECORDER IS SET TO THE RIGHT KEY--

AND YOUR SYNCHRONISED WINDOW-CATCH WARNING SYSTEM GEARED PROPERLY--

YOU CAN JUST GIVE A LOOK AT THE MECHANISM CONTROLLING THE BURGLAR CHLOROFORM SHOWER--

ARRANGE YOUR BARBED-WIRE-ENTANGLEMENT RUG--

RUN THROUGH YOUR JIU-JITSU EXERCISES ACCORDING TO CHART--

FIX YOUR INTERIOR BEDROOM-DOOR DEFENCES--

AND GO TO BED.]

* * * * *

THE INCORRIGIBLE.

Ernest was a sprightly youth
With a passion for the truth,
Who, the other day, began
His career as midshipman.
'Twas not in the least degree
Vulgar curiosity
Urging him to ask the reason
Why, both in and out of season;
'Twas but keenness; all he lacked
Was a saving sense of tact.

Once the Lieut. of Ernie's watch,
Dour, meticulous and Scotch,
Thought he'd show the timid snotty
(Newly joined) exactly what he
Wanted when inspecting men.
Closely Ernest watched, and then
Said, saluting, "Sir, I note
Several creases in your coat,
And I see upon your trouser
Signs of paint-work; yet just now, Sir,
Did you not think fit to blame
One poor man who had the same?"

Ere that outraged Lieut. replied
Suddenly our hero spied
Coming aft, his labours done,
Our benignant Number One
(_Most_ abstemious is he,
And, in fact, a strict T.T.,
But--it shows how Fate can blunder--
No one could be rubicunder.
Ernest, after one swift glance,
Said, "Excuse my ignorance,
But, Sir, can you tell me why
You are always red, while I,
Even when I drink a lot,
Only flush if I am hot?"

Just as Number One grew pale
And collapsed against the rail,
Striving grimly not to choke,
Ernest heard the busy Bloke
Calling loudly, "Let her go!"
To a seaman down below;
"Fool! the cutter's bound to ram you,
Push the pinnace forrard, damn you!"
Ernest shook his youthful head
And he very gently said
Into his Commander's ear,
"You forget yourself, I fear.
May I ask what you would do
If I used that word to _you_?
Is it worthy, Sir, of an
Officer and gentleman?"

Aft ran little Ernest, only
Pausing when he saw a lonely
Figure bright with golden lace
Who appeared to own the place.
"Ah!" thought Ernie, "I know you;
You're the luckless Captain who
(Though you hadn't then a beard)
Most unwillingly appeared
But a year ago or less
In the Illustrated Press."
"Tell me, Sir," the youngster cried,
Crossing to the Captain's side
Of the sacred quarterdeck--
"How did you contrive the wreck
Of the cruiser you commanded
When she bumped the beach and stranded?"

You may say, "He is so brave he
Ought some day to rule the Navy."
Certainly he _ought_, but still
I'm afraid he never will;
For they talked to him so gruffly
And they handled him so roughly
That, when he was fit to drop
And the kindly Bloke said, "Stop!
Or you'll make him even madder;
He is wiser now and sadder,"
Ernest simply answered, "Ay, Sir,
You have _made_ me sad; but why, Sir?"

* * * * *

ÆQUAM MEMENTO.

"I wonder," said Mary for the third time, "if we shall catch the tram at the other end."

"Calmness," I told her--this for the second time--"is the essence of comfortable travel. Meeting trouble half-way--"

"It isn't half-way," she said indignantly. "We're nearly there."

We were on a bus whose "route" terminated some five miles from home, which we proposed to reach by a tram, and, the hour being late, it was our chances of catching a car that were worrying Mary.

"Never get flurried," I went on. "If people would only go ahead calmly and steadily.... What causes half our traffic congestion? Flurry. What makes it so difficult to move quickly in the streets? Flurry. What is it clogs the wheels of progress everywhere?"

"Don't tell me," she implored. "Let me guess. Flurry."

"Exactly," I said, and at this point we reached our terminus. Two trams were waiting, one behind the other, some thirty yards away, and, as we descended the steps of the bus, the bell of the first one rang warningly. Mary would have started running, but I detained her.

"Flurrying again," I said indulgently. "Here are two trams, but of course you must have the first one, however full it is," and I led her towards the second. As I expected, it was quite empty, and I was still using it to point my moral when its conductor began juggling with the pole. It was then that I realised that, though on the down lines, this car was going no further. It was, in fact, turning round for its journey back to London, while in the distance the rear lights of our last down tram seemed to wink a derisive farewell.

There was nothing for it but to go ahead calmly and steadily, and we did so. It was somewhere about the end of the fourth mile that Mary asked suddenly:--

"What was it you said clogged the wheels of progress everywhere?"

"Flurry," I said feebly.

"Well, _I_ think it's blisters," she said.

* * * * *

FILM NOTES.

Those who are still inclined to question whether the cinema is to be regarded as a serious force in the realm of Art should not only read the frequent contributions to _The Times_ and other newspapers on this department of the drama, but should bear in mind that quite recently it has been stated that both the Rev. SILAS K. HOCKING and Mr. JACK DEMPSEY have taken part in photo-plays. It cannot be doubted that the peculiar talent required for making the heart of the people throb is being revealed in the most unlikely places.

* * * * *

If proof were needed that the art of the film is a dangerous rival to that of the stage, we would point to the five-reel drama, _The Call of the Thug_, of which a private trade view was given last week. Miss Flora Poudray, who is here featured--her name is new to us--proves to be a screen actress of superb gifts. We have seen nothing quite so subtly perfect as her gesture of dissent when the villain proposes that he and she together should strangle the infant heir to the millionaire woollen merchant on the raft during the thunder-storm. Patrons of the cinema will do well to look out for this delicate yet moving passage. The film will be released as early as November, 1921.

* * * * *

"MR. BALFOUR ON OUR WAR CRIMINALS LIST."--_Daily Paper._

We simply can't believe it.

* * * * *

"The amount of coal available for home consumption last year was 4,385
tons per head of the population."--_Evening Paper._

Then somebody else must have collared our share.

* * * * *

"LIVE STOCK AND PETS.

GENERAL, family 2; liberal wages and outings."--_Liverpool Paper._

The difficulty with "pets" of this kind is that they are hard to get and almost impossible to keep.

* * * * *

"An Englishman usually finds it about as difficult to produce an R from
his thoat as to produce a rabbit from a top-hat--both feats require
practice."--_Provincial Paper._

In this case we fear it can't be done, even with practice.

* * * * *

_Mrs. P.-W.S._ (_to P.-W.S., who has been pulled off at a gate, consolingly_). "NEVER MIND, HENRY; THE HUNTING SEASON IS NEARLY OVER, AND YOU HAVE THE SATISFACTION OF KNOWING THAT YOU HAVE DONE YOUR DUTY IN THE STATION TO WHICH YOU HAVE BEEN CALLED."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The publishers of _Peter Jackson: Cigar Merchant_ (HUTCHINSON) seem in their announcements to be desperately afraid lest anyone should guess it to be a War book. It is, they suggest, the story of the flowering of perfect love between two married folk who had drifted apart. It is really an admirable epitome of the War as seen through one pair of eyes and one particular temperament. I don't recall another War novel that is so convincing. The almost incredible confusions of the early days of the making of K.'s army; the gradual shaping of the great instrument; the comradeship of fine spirits and the intrigues of meaner; leadership good and less good; action with its energy, glory and horror; reaction (with incidentally a most moving analysis of the agonies of shell-shock and protracted neurasthenia) after the long strain of campaigning--all this is brought before you in the most vivid manner. Mr. GILBERT FRANKAU writes with a fierce sincerity and with perhaps the defects of that sincerity--a bitterness against the non-combatant which was not usual in the fighting- man, at least when he was fighting; or perhaps it was only that they were too kind then to say so. Also as "one of us" he is a little overwhelmed by the sterling qualities of the rank-and-file--qualities which ought, he would be inclined to assume, to be the exclusive product of public-school playing-fields. I haven't said that _Peter Jackson_ gave up cigars and cigarettes for the sword, and beat that into a plough-share for a small-holding when the War was done. A jolly interesting book.

* * * * *

I found the arrangement of _The Clintons and Others_ (COLLINS) at first a little confusing, because Mr. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL, instead of keeping his _Clinton_ tales consecutive, has mixed them democratically with the _Others_. Our first sight of the family (and incidentally the most agreeable thing in the volume) is provided by "Kencote," a brightly- coloured and engaging anecdote of Regency times, and of the plucking of an honoured house from the ambiguous patronage of the First Gentleman in Europe. I found this delightful, spirited, picturesque and original. Thence we pass to the _Others_, to the theme (old, but given here with a pleasant freshness of circumstance) of maternal craft in averting a threatened mésalliance, to a study of architecture in its effect upon character, to a girls' school tale; finally to the portrait of a modern _Squire Clinton_, struggling to adjust his mind to the complexities of the War. This last, a character-study of very moving and sympathetic realism, suffers a little from a defect inherent in one of Mr. MARSHALL'S best qualities, his gift for absolutely natural dialogue. The danger of this is that, as here in the bedroom chatter of the Squire's daughters, his folk are apt to repeat themselves, as talk does in nature, but should not (I suppose) in art. Still this is a small defect in a book that is sincere in quality and convincingly human in effect. _The Clintons and Others_ is certainly miles away from the collections of reprinted pot-boilers that at one time brought books of short stories into poor repute. Mr. MARSHALL and Others (a select band) will rapidly correct this by giving us in small compass work equal to their own best.

* * * * *

_Shuttered Doors_ (LANE) is what you might call a third-and-fourth- generation story--one of those books, so rightly devastating to the skipper, in which the accidental turning of two pages together is quite liable to involve you with the great-grandchildren of the couple whose courtship you have been perusing. Observe that I was careful to say the "accidental" turning, though I can picture a type of reader who might soon be fluttering the pages of _Shuttered Doors_ in impatient handfuls. The fact is that Mrs. WILLIAM HICKS BEACH has here written what is less a novel than a treatise, tasteful, informed and sympathetic, on county life and manners and houses. The last of these themes especially has an undisguised fascination for her. When _Aletta_, the chief heroine, was left pots of money by a Dutch uncle (who was so far from filling his proverbial _rôle_ that he hardly talked at all) she spent it and her enthusiasm, indeed her existence, in restoring two variously dilapidated mansions--Graythorpes, her husband's home, and Doller Place, left her by an appreciative aunt. When not thus employed she would be reading a paper on Homes (given here _in extenso_), or comparing those of other persons with her own. I don't want you to get the impression that _Shuttered Doors_ is precisely arid; it is too full of ideas and vitalities for that; but it does undoubtedly demand a special kind of reader. Incidentally, Mrs. HICKS BEACH should revise her chronology. For _Aletta_, who was married at twenty-eight and died at sixty-two, to have had at that time a grandson on the staff of the Viceroy of India, he must have received his appointment before the age of fifteen--which even in these experimental days sounds a little premature.

* * * * *

Do not allow yourself to be misled by the fact that the portrait on the paper cover of _Maureen_ (JENKINS) does, I admit, remarkably suggest a lady whose mission in life is the advertisement of complexion soap. You probably know already that the methods of Mr. PATRICK MACGILL are made of sterner stuff. This "Story of Donegal," which I have no intention of giving in detail, is the history of the course of true love in an Irish village, full of types which, I dare say, are realistically observed; verbose in places to an almost infuriating degree (not till page 61 does the heroine so much as put her nose round the scenery), but working up to a climax of considerable power. _Maureen_, I need hardly say, was as fair as moonrise, but suffered from the drawback of an irregular origin, which took the poor girl a great deal of living down. Nor need I specify the fact that most of the male characters in the district are soon claimants for her hand. Really this is the plot. Having betrayed so much, however, nothing shall persuade me to expose the bogie scenes on the midnight moor, where the villain combines his illicit whiskey manufacture with his courtship, and where finally the three protagonists come by a startling finish. _Maureen_ is not a story that I should recommend save for readers with abundant leisure; but those whose pluck and endurance carry them to the kill will certainly have their reward.

* * * * *

In _Memories of a Marine_ (MURRAY) Major-General Sir GEORGE ASTON records for us, cosily and anecdotally, a life spent in service, not only of the active kind--in Egypt and South Africa--but also as a Staff College Professor, and, more intriguingly, as an expert in Secret Intelligence in the cloisters of Whitehall or up and down the Mediterranean. If his book is not so sensational in the matter of revelations as the current fashion requires, it has a restful interest all its own, varied here and there with some very attractive stories. To give just one example, the author, when setting out to co-ordinate the work of various authorities in a certain harbour, found a signal buoy, a torpedo station, a fixed mine and a boom, each under separate control, all included in the defences. But the torpedo could not be launched unless the buoy were first cleared away, and the mine, if fired, would blow up the boom. One would have welcomed more of this sort of thing, for the truth is that even restfulness may be overdone and discretion become almost too admirable. Occasionally too the writer enlarges a little on--well, he enlarges a little, as anyone would with half his provocation. Still, for all comrades of his service, at any rate, every word he has written will be of interest; and perhaps he does not really mind so much about the general public, though he has had the good sense to crown his work with an apposite quotation from _Punch_.

* * * * *

_The Specials_ (HEINEMANN) is the story of the Metropolitan Special Constabulary, and it would have been a thousand pities if it had not been told. Colonel W.T. REAY'S book will stand as a record of invaluable service performed by a devoted body of men, service for which the whole nation--and London in particular--has every reason to be grateful. If I understand Colonel REAY rightly he doesn't wish bouquets to be thrown at the Specials, but he would not, I think, discourage me from saying that they performed dangerous and ticklish work with unfailing resource and tact. All of us know that they desire no other reward for their services than the satisfaction of having done their duty; but our gratitude demands to be heard; and I for one take this occasion to trumpet forth the "All clear" signal with feelings of affectionate pride.

* * * * *

If _By Way of Bohemia_ (SKEFFINGTON) is a fair sample of Mr. MARK ALLERTON'S work I have been missing a number of very readable stories. His hero, _Hugh Kelvin_, a journalist (they must be rare) who had no very good conceit of himself, married a barmaid, and she ran his house as if it were a third-class drinking saloon. She was one of those women who for want of a better word we call impossible; but she found _Hugh_ as unsatisfactory as he found her. In the circumstances the union had to be dissolved, and, although I suspect Mr. ALLERTON'S tongue of being very near his cheek when he contrived _Hugh's_ escape from a life of sordid misery, I admit that his solution of the difficulty is cleverly told. And, after all, coincidences do happen in real life, and it would be unfair to Providence to suppose that they were not put there for a useful purpose.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Gentleman washes to be received as Paying Guest."--_Daily Paper._

A very proper preliminary.