Chapter I: Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 158, JANUARY 7, 1920

LONDON:
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 10, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4.
1920.

Bradbury, Agnew & Co., Ltd.,
Printers,
Whitefriars, London, E.C.4.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NEW WELLS FOR OLD.

Over the top of Part II. of _The Outline of History_ I caught the smiling glance of the man in the opposite corner of the compartment.

"Good stuff that," he said, indicating the History with a jerk of his head.

"Quite," I agreed, maintaining my distance.

"Immense," he continued. "And it means the dawn of a new life for me. I'm WELLS'S hero. Every time I've appeared in his half-yearly masterpiece, ever since _Tono Bungay_. And look at the mess he's made of my life. Often I've had to start it under the cloud of mysterious parentage. Invariably I have been endowed with a Mind (capital M). Think of those uphill fights of mine against adverse conditions. And my unhappy marriages. He has led me into every variation of infidelity. When I _did_ hit it off with my wife for once, he sent us to the Arctic regions as a punishment. In the depth of winter, too.

But, now he's taken up this History, I'm free. The dam has burst and strange things come floating down ..."

He sprang to his feet in his excitement. He was wearing a loose-fitting suit and what his master might call a lower middle-class hat.

"And now I'm going to do all the things I've always wanted to do. A happy marriage; well-ordered life in the suburbs; warm slippers in the fender, and all that that stands for; kinemas, perhaps, and bowls. An allotment ..."

"But," I objected, "this History won't occupy him for ever. There should be only about sixteen more parts. He'll have you out again next autumn."

"But WELLS is getting the Suburban idea too." He was standing right over me, glaring horribly with excitement. The train had entered a tunnel and he was shouting bravely against the din. "Look in Part I. He acknowledges the help he has received from Mrs. WELLS. And her watchful criticism. That from _him_! I tell you I am free--free!"

He was shaking me by the shoulders now, his face close to mine. "I shall have my allotment. Prize parsnips--giant marrows!"

"Don't be too sure," I yelled--the tunnel seemed endless. "Remember poor old _Sherlock_. DOYLE raised _him_ from the dead. And you"--my voice rising to a scream--"he'll have you out--out--OUT!"

* * * * *

As I came to I heard my dentist remark to the doctor that I always had been a bad patient under gas.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH ON SILK STOCKINGS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Your article about Christmas presents was a great success. I took your advice about the silk stockings, and sent the following verses with them, which some of your married readers may care to cut out and keep for future use:--

Your stockings once, on Christmas Eve,
Would hang, your cot adorning,
And Father Christmas, we believe,
Would fill them ere the morning;
But since he spied your dainty toes
To exchange the parts he's willing:
He thinks it's his to send the hose
And yours to find the filling.
He lays his offerings at your feet
And hopes you won't deride them,
For he has nothing half so neat
As you to put inside them.

There! I can only repeat that the results were excellent, and express my gratitude to you for the same.

Yours obediently,
GRATEFUL HUSBAND.

P.S.--The ties I got this time were quite all right; she too must have read your article.

* * * * *

NATURE AND ART.

_To Betty, who can afford to defy the laws of symmetry._

[Being reflections on the old theory, recently developed
before the Hellenic Society by Mr. JAY HAMBRIDGE, that certain
formulae of proportions found in nature--notably in the normal
ratio between a man's height and the span of his outstretched
arms (2: [**square root] 5)--constituted the basis of symmetry
in the art of the Greeks and, earlier, of the Egyptians.]

Betty, I fear you don't conform
Precisely to the female norm
From dainty foot to charming noddle,
But, closely measured, span by span,
Seem built upon a private plan
Not found in ANNIE KELLERMAN
Or in the well-known Melos model.

If you compare your width and height--
Arms horizontal, left and right--
With ancient types of pure perfection,
The ratio may not, it's true,
Be as the root of 5 to 2,
But what, my dear, has that to do
With laws of natural selection?

Let Mr. HAMBRIDGE to your shape
Apply his T-square and his tape,
And wish that you were more archaic;
Why should I care? I love you best
For what no compasses can test,
For graces not to be expressed
In terms however algebraic.

I love you for the lips and eyes
That none may hope to standardize
On any system known to Hellas;
And what I like about your smile
Has no relation to the style
Of any pyramid of Nile
Figured by mathematic fellahs.

Though your proportions mayn't agree
With FECHNER'S pedant formulae,
I don't complain of such disparity;
Too flawless that perfection shows;
For me a larger comfort flows
From human failings (take your nose--
I like its quaint irregularity).

Indeed I love you best of all
For those defects by which you fall
Short of the pattern you should follow;
As I would fain be loved for mine,
Speaking as one whose own design
Lacks something of the perfect line
Affected by the young Apollo.

O. S.

* * * * *

HOW TO GAIN A JOURNALISTIC POSITION.

Young aspirants are always endeavouring to secure posts on our leading newspapers, and complain bitterly that their letters of application are ignored by obtuse editors. To help them in this sad ambition Mr. Punch has composed a series of letters to divers editors which he guarantees will prove eminently satisfactory.

_To the Editor of "The Daily News."_

SIR,--I regard the insufferable LLOYD GEORGE as the most dangerous, the most malignant, the most incompetent politician who has ever attempted to misrule this country. The iniquity of the Coalition will make enlightened rulers like LENIN and TROTSKY blush for the human race. I feel with you that till the real Liberal party returns to power England will never know peace and prosperity. Then and then only will brotherly friendship between England and Germany be renewed. Then and then only shall we see cheap milk, cheap coal, abundant housing, the Free Breakfast Table and the Large Cocoa Cup. To show my devotion to the cause you so nobly advocate I may say that I have actually read every article contributed by Mr. MASTERMAN to your paper. I am strongly in favour of an _entente_ with Labour, by which Labour should agree not to contest any seats where the true Asquithians stand a chance. I enclose as a specimen of my work the first of a series of articles on "How LLOYD GEORGE lost the War," which I am sure will be invaluable at by-elections.

_To the Editor of "The Daily Mail."_

SIR,--I am young and, if possible, growing younger daily. My motto is "Hustle and Bustle" and not "Dilly and Dally." I live on standard bread, in a wooden hut embowered, when feasible, with sweet peas. My ear is always close to the ground, and I can confidently predict what the man in the street will be thinking about the day after tomorrow. Politically, I am opposed to the Wastrels, the Wee Frees and the Bolsheviks, and am not prepared as yet to back Labour unreservedly. I can express myself brightly and briefly on any topical subject. Herewith I send specimen articles (length three hundred words) on "Poker Bridge," "Are we having Wetter Washdays?" and "The Woggle-Wiggle Dance." Should there be no vacancy on your staff I should be prepared to accept one on any other of your publications--_The Weekly Dispatch_, _The Times_ or _The Rainbow_.

_To the Editor of "The Manchester Guardian."_

SIR,--I was a Conscientious Objector during the War. I conscientiously object to everything still, including the Peace Treaty. I speak and write fifteen languages and dialects, including Oxford English. I have a comprehensive knowledge of social and political life in Continental Europe, Asia, Africa, America and Polynesia. I have also resided in England. I have a deep conviction that under all conditions, everywhere and at all times, England is invariably and absolutely in the wrong. In home politics I am resolutely opposed to all the Coalition has done, is doing or will do. It is my firm opinion that the actions of England would become less deplorable, less criminal if Mr. ASQUITH returned to power. I enclose as specimens of my mentality two intensely human articles which I doubt not will find a home in your columns: "Proportional Representation in Jugo-Slavia" (length four thousand five hundred words) and "Futurism under TROTSKY" (length five thousand words).

_To the Editor of "The Spectator."_

SIR,--In offering my services to you I may point out how happily my up-bringing and mental training have fitted me for a post on your staff. The child of an Archdeacon (who was also honorary chaplain to a rifle club), I was born in a house with earth-filled walls and brought up in intimate association with a large number of most intelligent animals. If desired I am prepared to relate anecdotes of the family bull-dog and a pet she-goat which will verify my description. I feel with you that England can only be saved by relying on a Free-Trading, Non-Socialist, Church Establishment. I loathe alike Mr. ASQUITH and Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, and think that the intellect of England, which blossoms so luxuriously in country rectories and deaneries, finds its best expression in Lord HUGH CECIL. As a specimen of my literary ability I enclose a middle article on "The Sense of Obligation in Tom-Cats."

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH. "ACCEPT THIS POOR TRIBUTE IN RECOGNITION OF MUCH GOOD ENTERTAINMENT IN THE PAST. I DON'T KNOW WHAT MY ARTISTS WOULD HAVE DONE WITHOUT YOU."

[The recent withdrawal of horsed cabs from certain ranks in the London district foreshadows the final extinction of this venerable type.]]

* * * * *

_Waiter._ "THAT'S GAME PIE, SIR."

_Club Grouser._ "UMPH! THINK I MUST HAVE GOT A BIT OF THE FOOTBALL."]

* * * * *

CHARIVARIA.

It is rumoured that Professor PORTA has sent a message to Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, wishing him a Happy New World.

* * *

Mr. Justice ROWLATT has decided that photography is not a profession. With some actresses, of course, it is just a disease.

* * *

The gentleman who drew 1920 in a fifty-pound sweepstake as the date of the ex-Kaiser's trial is now prepared to sell his chance for sixpence-halfpenny.

* * *

"He is not a politician," says Mr. R. HARCOURT in _The Times_, referring to Sir AUCKLAND GEDDES. It will be interesting to see how Sir AUCKLAND accepts this compliment.

* * *

A letter posted at Hull for Odessa in July, 1914, has just been returned to the sender. The postal authorities are thought to take the view that the sender should be given an opportunity of adding a few seasonable observations to his previous remarks.

* * *

It is all nonsense to say that there can be no change in the present high prices. They can always go higher.

* * *

Owing to the strike of cabmen in Glasgow a number of people had to walk home on New Year's Eve. It is not said how the others got home, but we have made a guess.

* * *

On enquiry about the erection of huge new premises in the Strand by the American Bush Terminal Company, we gather that London is not to be removed, but will be allowed to remain next door.

* * *

Inspector MOSS of the Great Eastern Railway Police has just had his pocket picked and thirty pounds stolen. It is only fair to say that he was in plain clothes and the thief did not know he was a police officer.

* * *

A history of the Ministry of Munitions is to be compiled at a cost of L9,648. To keep the expense down to this modest sum by economy in printing Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL will be referred to throughout as "X."

* * *

A man has been charged with damaging a London omnibus. He pleaded that the vehicle pushed him first.

* * *

Mrs. PAYNE, the only woman mouse-trap-maker in London, has retired from the business. It is said that a number of mice hope to arrange a farewell cheese.

* * *

At a recent meeting of the Peace Conference it was decided that the troubles in Egypt and India should in future be referred to as Honorary Wars.

* * *

The Indians much appreciate CHARLIE CHAPLIN, says _The Weekly Dispatch_. We felt confident that this film comedian would come into his own some day.

* * *

Only two minor railway accidents were reported in December, but a South Coast train which started that month is reported to have run into the New Year.

* * *

It is estimated that _The Outline of History_ by Mr. H. G. WELLS will be concluded this year. It would be a pleasing compliment to the author if at the end of that time Parliament made it illegal for any more history to happen.

* * *

The Thames angler who was asked in the Club at night if he had had any luck that day, and replied that he had not had a bite, is thought to be an impostor.

* * *

An Insurance official states that thin people live longer than stout. This is probably due to the fact that when thin people stand sideways the motor-car doesn't get a real chance.

* * *

"It is just twenty months since we experienced the last hostile air-raid," states an evening paper. Should this indiscreet statement reach the ears of certain Government Officials it is feared that one or two of our picturesque anti-aircraft stations may be dismantled.

* * *

According to an American paper, a lawyer has left New York for Mexico, in order to try to explain to the inhabitants the meaning of Peace and the benefits to be derived from joining the League of Nations. We understand he has made full arrangements for leaving a widow and two young children.

* * *

Our heart goes out to the tenant of an experimental paper-house who discovered, on going up-stairs, that his two-year-old son in a fit of ungovernable passion had torn up his nursery.

* * *

A man has written to _The Daily Mail_ advocating the alteration of the calendar to thirteen months of twenty-eight days each, _with two Christmas Days in Leap Year_. The writer--to do him justice--did not sign himself "Paterfamilias."

* * *

The New Poor Dance Club, which has opened in the West End, is having its vicissitudes. Last week, it is reported, a distinguished stranger mistook a waiter for one of the members, and the waiters have threatened to strike if it occurs again.

* * *

Los Angeles, California, says a New York cable, is suffering from an unprecedented crime wave. A proposal by President CARRANZA to draw a _cordon sanitaire_ round the place has not yet reached Washington.

* * *

"Are dark people cleverer than fair?" asks a contemporary. These clumsy attempts to destroy the Coalition spirit are too transparent to be successful.

* * *

Intending visitors to the Zoological Gardens in Ph[oe]nix Park, Dublin, are now required to get a permit from the military authorities. A daring attempt by a Sinn Feiner to approach the Viceregal Lodge under cover of a cassowary is said to be responsible for the order.

* * *

The ex-Kaiser, it is stated, has asked the Prussian Government if there would be any objection to his settling in Peru as a cattle-raiser. The probability that the Crown Prince will settle in France for a spell as a watch-lifter is thought to have fired the ex-Imperial imagination.

* * *

A report from Chicago states that, as a result of the prevailing taste for wood-alcohol, a number of citizens successfully revived the ancient custom of seeing the Aurora Borealis in.

* * * * *

"I CAN'T GET THROUGH THESE BEASTLY TROOPS."]

* * * * *

"The charm of a pleasing figure depends upon an uneasy fitting
corset."

_Advt. in Canadian Paper._

_Il faut souffrir pour etre belle._

* * * * *

"There would also be great competition for carniferous timber
from other countries."

_Scotch Paper._

Not so much now that the meat-shortage is over.

* * * * *

"Dundee leads the way in Scotland in a new phase of sport for
ladies.

The innovation was created by the City Magistrates to-day,
when an application for a billiard-room license in the new
City Hall was granted.

Under the license ladies will be permitted to cross cues with
gentlemen partners in a public billiard-room."--_Local Paper._

It is supposed that their worships were under the impression that billiards was a new form of shinty.

* * * * *

THE TUBE CURE.

[It has been observed that employees in the Tubes never catch
cold while at work, and doctors, questioned by an evening
paper, have said that "the Tube atmosphere should be quite
likely to cure a cold if breathed long enough--say for an hour
at a stretch."]

To-day, when I acquire a cold
(Rude Boreas having blustered),
I do not, as in times of old,
Immerse my feet in mustard;
I put a penny in a slot
At some Tube railway station
And draw a ticket for a not
Far distant destination.

I shun the crowded lifts, although
They're right enough in their way,
And make my calm, unruffled, slow
Descension by the stairway;
'Tis there a man can be alone,
Immune from all intrusion;
I doubt if there was ever known
Its equal for seclusion.

Where no invading footsteps fall
I quaff the healthy vapours,
While glancing at my ease through all
The illustrated papers;
And since I've found the bottom stair
A place they don't upholster,
I always take when going there
A small pneumatic bolster.

Not till an hour or twain have gone,
Thus pleasantly expended,
Do I proceed to carry on,
And, when my journey's ended,
I find all dread bacilli slain--
No germ shows his (or her) face--
And so, my cherry self again,
Come blithely to the surface.

* * * * *

A BUNCH OF POETS.

Mr. Obadiah Geek has broken his long silence to some purpose. Those who remember his pre-war achievements in the field of polychromatic romanticism will hardly be prepared for his present development, which lifts him at a bound from the overcrowded ranks of lyric-writers to the uncongested heights whereon recline the great masters of epic poetry. And yet it was perhaps inevitable. The thunder and the reek of war (the last two years of which, we believe, were spent by Mr. Geek in the Egg Control Department) could scarcely have failed to imprint their mark on the author of _Eros in Eruption_; and so he has given us a real epic, whose very title, _Ad Astra_, is symbolic of the high altitudes in which he so triumphantly and so securely navigates. Outwardly it is a story of the War, but there is little difficulty in probing the allegory; and those who follow the hero's vicissitudes as a private in the Gasoliers, right through to his victorious advancement to the rank of Acting Lance-Corporal, unpaid (and there is a symbolism even in the "unpaid"), will readily supply the application to the affairs of everyday life.

The ten thousand odd lines of this inspired poem are liberally enlivened with those characteristic flashes which Mr. Geek's previous efforts have led us to expect. Nothing could be happier than the following, descriptive of the hero's early days on the barrack-square:--

The Sergeant rolled his eyes toward the azure
And called down curses on my bloody head...
"You buzz about," his peroration ran,
"Like a bluebottle in a sugar-bowl.
Thank God we have a Navy!" and my feet,
Turned outward, as they had been drilled to turn,
At forty-five degrees or thereabouts,
Itched to join issue with his swollen paunch;
But I refrained.

Or again:--

Fame, the skyscraper, hath a thousand floors;
And some toil slowly upward, stair by stair,
And stagger and halt and faint upon the way;
Others, more fortunate, achieve the top
At one swift elevation, by the lift.

Mr. Geek, whatever his method of progression may have been, has certainly "achieved the top"--if indeed he has not gone over it.

* * * * *

In _Throbs_, Miss Gramercy Gingham-Potts reveals a depth of feeling and delicacy of expression that should secure her the right of entry to every art-calendar and birthday-book. Her Muse is, perhaps, a trifle anaemic, but to many none the less interesting on that account; its very fragility, in fact, constitutes its chief appeal. She has an engaging gift of definition that, combined with a keen appreciation of the obvious, makes her verses particularly susceptible to quotation. For instance:--

The maiden asked, "What is a kiss?"
The poet wrote:
"Kisses are stamps that frank with bliss
Love's contract-note."

While for effectively studied simplicity it would be difficult to match the lyrical gem to which Miss Gingham-Potts has given the arresting title, "Farewell":--

The birds sing sweet in Summer;
The daisies hear their song;
But Winter's come, and they are dumb
So long.

I told my love in Summer,
So pure and brave and strong;
But frosts came on; my love is gone;
So long!

* * * * *

A new volume by the author of _Swings and Roundabouts_ is something of an event; and in _Bottles and Jugs_ Mr. Ughtred Biggs makes another fascinating raid on the garbage-bins of London's underworld. Mr. Biggs is a stark realist, and his unminced meat may prove too strong for some stomachs; but those who can digest the fare he offers will find it wonderfully sustaining. Here is no condiment of verbiage, no dressing of the picturesque. Life is served up high, and almost raw. By way of illustration we cannot do better than quote from the opening poem, "Bill's Wife," in which the calculated roughness of the rhythm is redolent of the pervading atmosphere:--

At the corner of the street
Stands the Blue-faced Pig;
Outside a barrel-organ is playing
And the people are dancing a jig.

A woman waits there grimly;
Her eyes are set and her lips drawn thin;
For Bill, her man, is in the public,
Soaking his soul in gin.

Students of sociology might do worse than devote careful attention to these gaunt chronicles of Slumland.

* * * * *

The following stanzas, taken from a poem entitled "Reconstruction," are a favourable example of Mr. Thor Pinmoney's somewhat unequal genius:--

By strife we live, but boredom slays;
My mind from out this office strays
And takes me back to the spacious days
When I counted socks in Ordnance.

I hate my pen; I hate my stool;
What am I but a nerveless tool?
But we did not work by rote or rule
When I counted socks in Ordnance....

There are times even now when it really seems
I'm back in a suburb of shell-shocked Rheims;
But the office echoes my waking screams
When I find it was only in my dreams
I was counting socks in Ordnance.

Unfortunately, all Mr. Pinmoney's efforts do not come up to this standard, and we should be almost inclined to wonder whether the writer has not after all mistaken his vocation, were it not for the really brilliant piece of work which brings the volume (_Pegasus Comes Home_) to a close. We make no apology for reproducing this masterpiece in full:--

Man comes
And goes.
What then?
Who knows?

Here we have the whole philosophy of life and the life hereafter summed up. If he never writes another line Mr. Pinmoney is by this assured of a permanent place in the anthology of post-bellum poetry.

* * * * *

"Replying to the toast of his health, Mr. Lloyd George said it
was a great boon that a large industrial community should have
been founded amongst these lovely surroundings, a boon not
only for the workers, but also for their little children, who
would have the advantage of being reared in georgeous mountain
air."--_Daily Paper._

Lloyd-Georgeous, in fact.

* * * * *

HORRIBLE NIGHTMARE OF A LADY WHO DREAMS THAT SHE HAS GONE TO A BALL IN HER NIGHT-GOWN AND FOUND HERSELF SHOCKINGLY OVERDRESSED.]

* * * * *

THE "FIRST HUNDRED" OF LOEB.

[The Loeb Classical Library, founded by a munificent American
millionaire, Mr. JAMES LOEB (_prononcez_ "Lobe"), and edited
by Dr. E. CAPPS, Mr. T. E. PAGE and Dr. W. H. D. ROUSE, has
now reached its hundredth volume.]

When ways are foul and days are damp,
When agitators rage and ramp,
And SMILLIE, with the aid of CRAMP,
Threatens to rend the globe;
When margarine is scarce, or beef,
And drinks are dear and few and brief,
I find refreshment and relief
And comfort in my LOEB.

Good print, good company, a text
By no vain annotations vexed
Which call from students sore perplexed
The patience of a Job;
And, page by page, a first-rate crib,
Neither too faithful nor too glib--
That, without fulsomeness or fib,
Is what we get in LOEB.

Let scientists on various fronts
Indulge in their atomic stunts,
Or harness to our prams and punts
The puissant radiobe;
Me rather it delights to roam
Across the salt AEgean foam
With old Odysseus, far from home,
And bless the name of LOEB.

To soar with PLATO to the heights;
To find in PLUTARCH'S kings and knights
The human touch that more delights
Than crown or regal robe;
To taste the fresh Pierian springs,
To see CATULLUS scorch his wings
With the fierce flame that sears and stings--
For this I thank thee, LOEB.

I've made no fortune out of beer;
I'm not a plutocrat or peer,
Nor yet a bloated profiteer,
An OM or e'en an OBE;
But if I'd thirty pounds to spare
I'd go and blow them then and there
Upon the Hundred Books that bear
The sign and seal of LOEB.

* * * * *

_The Rescuer._ "I'M NOT A VERY GRACEFUL DIVER, YOU KNOW. WHAT ABOUT EMPLOYING A PROFESSIONAL SWIMMER FOR THIS PART OF THE SHOW?"]

* * * * *

A NEWSPAPER SCOOP.

(_With the British Army in France._)

"I spotted him by the fountain-pen stains on his vest and the thunderbolts sticking out of his pockets," said Frederick. "So I went up to him and said, 'You are Wuffle of _The Daily Hooter_, the man who wiped-up Whitehall and is now engaged in freezing-out France?"

"What did he say?" asked Percival.

"Whipped out a note-book and asked me to tell him all about it. I said I was pining for the white cliffs of Albion and that the call of the counting-house and cash-box was ringing in my ears, but that I couldn't get demobilised because the Colonel's pet Pomeranian had conceived a fancy for me and wouldn't take its underdone chop from anyone else. I also hinted that I and a few friends could tell him things that would make his biggest journalistic scoops look like paragraphs in a parish magazine, so he invited me to bring you round this afternoon to split an infinitive with him."

"Wuffle?" said Binnie. "That's the man who wrote about 'gilded subalterns loafing luxuriously in cushioned cars in a giddy round of useless and pampered ease'?"

"Well, I won't say he wrote it, but he signed it. No single man living could write all the stuff Wuffle signs. It's turned out as they turn out cheap motor-cars. One man roughs it out, passes it to the adjective department, thence to the punctuation-room, where they sprinkle it with commas and exclamation marks, and then Wuffle touches it up, fits it with headlines and signs it. Oh, I forgot. Before it goes to press the libel expert looks it over to see that it isn't actionable."

"Anyway, he's the responsible party," said Binnie, "and I would fain have converse with the Wuffle. That 'gilded subaltern' bit was ringing in my head like a dirge the other night when I was wearily trudging the seven kilometres from St. Denis camp because there was no one to give me a lift."

That afternoon Frederick introduced his friends to Wuffle.

"Sorry we're late," he said, "but Percival and Binnie here have been engaged with the Pioneer-Sergeant discussing the best method of converting a whippet-tank into a roller for the tennis-courts."

At that moment a motor-lorry rumbled by, and Binnie, recollecting a passage in Wuffle's latest article about "motor-lorries rushing madly about with apparently no purpose in view," jumped excitedly to the door.

"'Magneto Maggie' leading," he shouted, "and 'The Sparking Spitfire' is just behind. Care to double your bet on 'Maggie' at evens, Percival?"

"Not yet," replied Percival cautiously. "It's only the first lap yet, and 'Maggie' sometimes jibs a bit when she passes the Remount Depot."

Wuffle had his fountain-pen at the alert and looked inquiringly at Frederick.

"I suppose it _is_ another example of deliberate waste," said the latter. "But we've got the lorries eating their heads off in the garages and the petrol is simply aching to be evaporated, so we give the drivers exercise and ourselves some excitement over organising these Area Circuit Steeplechases."

"Why not trans-ship the lorries?" suggested Wuffle.

"That would never do, old prune," said Frederick. "The troops would have nothing to guard."

"Send the men home," persisted Wuffle.

"Come, my willowy asparagus," replied Frederick in horrified tones, "we must have troops to find us work to do. Of course it's sometimes difficult to keep the men employed, and then we have to make dumps of empty biscuit tins and things for them to guard."

"I fixed up a real beauty at Le Glaxo, not ten kilometres from here," chipped in Percival. "If you'd like to see it there's a train going in about twenty minutes."

Wuffle jumped up with alacrity.

"I'd be awfully glad to get a snapshot of it," said he, disappearing in search of his hat and coat.

Frederick took the opportunity to make a few scathing remarks to Percival.

"It's just like you, you mouldy old citron," he said. "I start a little experiment in _tirage de jambe_, and you put your heavy hoof in and spoil the whole business. You know jolly well that Le Glaxo was completely closed down months ago."

"Oh, put another penny in your brain-meter and try to realise that you aren't the only one who's grown up," replied Percival impatiently. "Your brain-waves move about as quick as G.P.O. telegraph messages. I'd got the scheme worked out while you were putting over your old musical-comedy gags."

Since the departure of the British, Le Glaxo's only excitement is the arrival of its one train per day. Ignoring the sensation caused by the detraining of four persons simultaneously, Percival led his party along a muddy rough lane.

"The dump is about four kilometres away and the road gets rather bad towards the end," he said, maliciously edging Wuffle into a bit of swamp. "Sorry; I was going to warn you about that."

Wuffle scraped mud from his trousers and followed the leader over a rough wall into a hidden ditch. A breathless climb up a hill and a steady trudge over plough-land found Wuffle still game, but, after he had got his camera ready for action on the cheerful assurance that they were nearing their quarry, a disappointed cry from the leader dashed his hopes.

"Hang it!" said Percival, "I forgot. The dump was moved to Pont Antoine last Tuesday. Come along; it's only three kilometres away."

Strangely enough, Pont Antoine was also a blank. Binnie suggested trying Monceau, two kilometres further on; but when they arrived there, fatigued and dirty, a thin drizzle was falling and it was almost dark. Percival confessed himself baffled.

"I'm awfully sorry," said he to Wuffle; "I can't find it now, and the point is how are we going to get back? There isn't a railway for miles."

"Don't any of our lorries or cars pass here?" asked Wuffle.

"Oh, yes. But they won't give _you_ a lift. The orders are dead strict against civilians riding in W.D. vehicles."

"It's the result of the articles in the papers about waste," said Frederick sympathetically. "But I don't suppose there would be any objection to your hanging on and running behind."

Wuffle looked round disconsolately. In the gloom the lighted windows of the tiny Hotel de l'Univers blinked invitingly.

"I think I'll stop here for the night," he said, "and telephone for a car to fetch me to-morrow."

"Right-o!" said Percival. "And when it's thoroughly light you might--you _might_ be able to find the dump. So long."

As they rumbled uncomfortably home on a fortuitous three-ton lorry, Percival looked round for applause.

"_C'est bien fait, mon vieux_," chuckled Binnie. "I'll bet the Wuffle won't go dump-hunting again in a hurry. And he won't be able to do any damage from that little estaminet for a day or two."

* * * * *

The well-advertised series of articles in _The Daily Hooter_ commenced a few days later. The conspirators studied them diligently in gleeful anticipation of finding their contribution to journalistic enterprise. It came at the end, in a brief paragraph.

"When I had collected my material for this powerful indictment, etc., etc." (ran the article), "I met a party of irresponsible subalterns bent on the old, old army pastime of leg-pulling. For the sake of exercise and amusement I permitted them to conduct me on a wild-goose chase after an imaginary dump, which luckily led me to a sequestered little hotel where I was able to write my articles in peace and quietude. But to return to the main question. I unhesitatingly affirm..."

Percival, who was reading aloud, let the paper fall limply from his hand.

"Frederick," he said, "put your biggest boots on and kick me. The word-merchant was laughing at us all the time."

* * * * *

TRAPPING IMITATION ERMINE.]

* * * * *

"The letter about the Bloomsbury cat that bought her own cat's
meat in your issue of December 6th is interesting."

_A Correspondent in "The Spectator."_

The cat would, however, have shown more regard for the feelings of our justly-esteemed contemporary if it had wrapped up its purchase in some other publication.

* * * * *

"In his defence, ---- said that he had really intended
marrying the girl, but that he came to the realization that
she was extremely ejaljoujs, hence his bjreach.

jThe court found that this was sufficient ground to justify
jjjustify jujjjj jstjijfjy his breach of promise."--_Canadian
Paper._

It is evident, however, that the Court did not arrive at this decision without considerable hesitation.

* * * * *

More Headaches for Historians.

"The revellers passed the time in dancing and singing until
St. Paul's clock struck midnight. Then 'Auld Lang Syne' was
sung with enthusiasm and, after repeated cheers, the crowd
dispersed."--_Times._

"It was typical of the largest crowd that has watched round
the cathedral the passing of the year that at the moment when
midnight struck it should be engaged in one tremendous jostle
and push, rough and tumble, and that no one thought to strike
up the tune--traditional to the occasion--of 'Auld Lang
Syne.'"--_Star._

"The gigantic Hindenburg figure of Militarism in the centre of
the room melted away with the appearance of the Peace Angel,
reputed to be the fairest lady in Chelsea, who had climbed a
ladder within his leviathan bulk."--_Times._

"When twelve o'clock struck The God of War _should_ have
collapsed gracefully to give place to the most beautiful
artist's model in Chelsea, draped as the Goddess of Peace.
But something went wrong with the ropes, and the God of War
floated a yard or two into the air, just sufficiently high to
show us the feet and knees of the Goddess of Peace."--_Evening
Standard._

* * * * *

"The famous flood-test of the Parisian, the stone ouave on
the Bridge of Alma, is in water up to his waist."--_Provincial
Paper._

Surely an understatement. The "ouave" seems to have had his Z washed away.

* * * * *

From a _feuilleton_:--

"James put his cold hands in his pockets and buttoned up his
coat collar before turning out to his work."--_Weekly Paper._

This is not so easy as it sounds.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WORDS OF WISDOM.

"Come, all you young seamen, take heed now to me,
A hard-case old sailorman bred to the sea,
As sailed the seas over afore you was born,
An' learned 'em by heart from the Hook to the Horn.

"Don't hold by the ratlines when going aloft
(Which I've told you afore but can't tell you too oft),
Or you'll strike one that's rotten as sure as you live,
And it's too late to learn when you've once felt it give;
If you don't hit the bulwarks you'll sure hit the sea,
For them rotten ratlines--they're the devil," says he.

"Now if you should see, as you like enough may,
When tramping the docks for a ship some fine day,
A spanking full-rigger just ready for sea,
And think she's just all that a hooker should be,
Take 'eed you don't ship with a skipper that drinks--
You'd better by half play at fan-tan with Chinks!--
For that'll mean nothing but muddle an' mess,
It may be much more and it can't be much less,
What with wrangling and jangling to drive a man daft,
And rank bad dis-cip-line both forrard and aft,
A ship that's ill-found and a crew out of 'and,
And a touch-and-go chance she may never reach land,
But go down in a squall or broach to in a sea,
For them drunken skippers--they're the devil," says he.

"And if you go further and pause to admire
A ship that's as neat as your heart could desire,
As smart as a frigate aloft and alow,
Her brasswork like gold and her planking like snow,
Look round for a mate by whose twang it is plain
That his home port is somewhere round Boston or Maine,
With a jaw that's the cut of a square block of wood,
And beat it, my son, while the going is good!
There'll be scraping and scouring from morning till night
To keep that brass shiny and keep them decks white,
And belaying-pin soup both for dinner and tea,
For them smart down-easters--they're the devil," says he.

"But if by good fortune you chance for to get
A ship that ain't hungry or wicked or wet,
That answers her hellum both a-weather and lee,
Goes well on a bowline and well running free,
A skipper that's neither a fool nor a brute,
And mates not too free with the toe of their boot,
A sails and a bo'sun that's bred to their trade,
And a slush with a notion how vittles is made,
And a crowd that ain't half of 'em Dagoes or Dutch,
Or Mexican greasers or niggers or such,
You stick to her close as you would to your wife,
She's the sort that you only find once in your life;
And ships is like women, you take it from me,
That, if they _are_ bad 'uns, they're the devil," says he.

C. F. S.

* * * * *

"With regard to prison labour, it is stated that the
manufacture of war stories had continued to employ every
available inmate."

_Christian Science Monitor._

We had wondered where some of them came from.

* * * * *

WITH GRATEFUL COMPLIMENTS TO THE GALLANT VOLUNTEERS OF THE BRITISH MINE CLEARANCE FORCE.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE QUESTIONABLE ALIEN.

William, my hitherto unventuresome friend William, is going abroad. I cannot be certain why. Perhaps he no longer feels his heroism equal to the strain of living in a country fit for heroes. It may be that he has unwittingly incubated a bacillus which figures in novels as the "Call of the Wild." Anyhow, William is going abroad--so much so that, if he went any farther, he would be on his way home again.

I need not say that I felt called upon to help William through this trying period, and our preparations proceeded satisfactorily until the clever geographers who arrange these things nowadays discovered that William could fetch the Far East by way of the Far West. Then the international complications set in. First, William's passport--a healthy enough document at the start--had to be carried round the diplomatic quarter of London until it broke out into a thick rash of supplementary _visas_. Next we sought out the moneychangers in their dens, to transmute William's viaticum bit by bit into four foreign currencies. Then a Great Power through whose territory William will have to pass apparently was nervous of his approach and instituted a grand inquisition into the status and antecedents of the Alien (William).

We unfolded the paper on our table and stared at it aghast. Its area was rather less than a square yard; in colour it favoured the yolk of bad eggs; while all over its broad expanse were ruled compartments, half of them filled with questions that no gentleman would ask another, the other half left blank for William's indignant replies. We managed with great difficulty to squeeze into the panel provided all his baptismal titles--there are four of these besides "William"--and then attacked the first real poser:--

_Are you in possession of 100 dollars, or less? If less, by how much?_

William groaned. "Reach me down Todhunter's Arithmetic, will you?" said he.

I did so, and turned up the Money Market page of our daily paper. Nothing was heard for the next five minutes but grunts and sighs of despair. We then gave it up on the understanding that William must make a point of winning heavily at bridge--or would it be euchre?--on the way across.

_Have you ever been in the territory of the Great Power before?_

"No," breathed William devoutly, "and, please Heaven, it shan't occur again!"

_What is your reason for coming now?_

"I suppose I'd better tell the truth," he said; "they'll never believe me if I say I've come to put DEMPSEY up to that right drive of CARPENTIER'S."

_Were you ever in prison, an almshouse, or an institution for the treatment of the insane? If so, which?_

"Take your time, William," I said; "think carefully."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Do they want to know _all_ the gaols and asylums I've been in," he asked, "or only the more recent?"

_Are you a polygamist?_

William turned deathly pale. He then fixed me with a terrible stare of accusation and reproach.

"No, no, William," I protested frantically, "I assure you on my honour that _I_ haven't been talking."

This assurance calmed him somewhat. Bit by bit the colour came back to his cheeks and at length he was able to remark more hopefully: "Well, there's this to be said for it, most of my wives are sportswomen. I don't _think_ they'll give me away."

_Are you an anarchist?_

"No," answered William frankly, "but I possess a brother-in-law who has leanings towards Rosicrucianism. Next, please."

The next was a very searching, legally-worded inquiry. It demanded at great length to be informed whether William was a person who advocated the overthrow by force or violence of the Government of the Great Power, or all forms of Law, or believed in the propriety of assassinating any or every officer of the Great Power because of his official character.

William took up the paper-knife with an expression of sheer animal ferocity. "Yes," he hissed, "the whole lot. Torturing them, too!"--and fell back into his chair with peal upon peal of maniacal laughter.

* * * * * * *

William was practically a wreck before the inquisition came to an end. He had not even sufficient spirit left to fly at me for entering his distinguishing marks as "a general air of honesty, tempered by a slight inward squint."

* * * * *

_Post-War Sportsman._ "OH--ER--IS THERE? I HAVEN'T NOTICED IT, BUT I'VE GOT A COLD IN MY HEAD."]

* * * * *

"The Board of Trade have awarded a silver cup to Mr. John
Bruce, D.S.C., skipper of the steam drifter _Pansy_, of Wick,
in recognition of the promptitude and ability with which
he rescued the domestic servant, Strawberry Bank, Hardgate,
pleaded guilty to having bemusic, stolen a gold safety pin,
a fountain pen, two pairs of gloves, two blouses and several
other articles of clothing."--_Fishing News._

We never believe these fishing stories.

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE HOME.

II.--THE DIAGNOSIS.

When Jimmy, our small but significant son,
Is prey of a temper capricious and hot,
And tires of a project as soon as begun,
And wants what he hasn't, and hates what he's got,
A dutiful father, I ponder and brood,
Essaying by reason and logic to find
The radical cause of the juvenile mood
In the intricate growth of the juvenile mind.

But women and reason were never allies;
The rule of a mother is logic of thumb;
The trouble concerns, she is quick to surmise,
His rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

O woman (though angel in moments of pain,
When angels of pity are most _a propos_),
Why, why won't you listen when husbands explain
The things they have thought and the knowledge they know?
And why do you smile when they beg to repeat?
And why are you bored when they make it all clear?
And why do you label their emphasis "heat,"
And bid them "Be careful; the servants may hear"?

The argument leaves me, though ever more sure,
Reproachful and angry and sullen and dumb:
It leaves her reforming my diet, to cure
_My_ rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

HENRY.

* * * * *

ANIMAL HELPS.

(_By a Student of Domestic Economy._)

Living in a remote country district, where the difficulty of obtaining servants is at present insurmountable--the nearest "pictures" are twelve miles off--I have been much impressed and encouraged by two letters in recent issues of _The Spectator_. One describes a Bloomsbury grocer's cat that bought her own cat's-meat; another recounts the exploits of a spaniel belonging to a house painter and glazier at Yarmouth (Isle of Wight), which, if given a penny, would immediately amble off to a grocer's shop and purchase a cake.

Viewed in their true perspective, these exhibitions of animal intelligence seem to indicate fruitful possibilities of the employment of our dumb friends to assist us in these trying times. Many years ago I remember reading of a baboon which discharged the duties of a railway porter at a station in Cape Colony with great efficiency. I have unfortunately mislaid the reference, but so far as I can remember no mention was made of wages or tips; consequently the importation and employment of skilled simian labour on a large scale might go a long way towards reducing the expenses of our railway system.

But in view of certain obvious difficulties it is perhaps better to restrict our attention to the sphere of domestic service and farm labour. And here I would urge with all the power at my command the employment of the elephant. The greatest burden of household work is the washing of plates, and this is a task which elephants are peculiarly well fitted to undertake; also the cleaning of windows without the use of a ladder. A well-trained and amiable elephant, again, would enable parents to dispense with a perambulator. I admit that the initial outlay might be considerable, but the longevity of elephants is notorious, and it would always be possible to hire them out to travelling menageries.

Another neglected asset is the well-known aptitude shown by poodles for digging out truffles, an accomplishment of which I often read in my youth. If truffles, why not potatoes?

The extraordinary intelligence and affectionate disposition of the runner duck has often been commented on by our serious weeklies, but so far little attempt has been made to turn these qualities to practical account. They forage for themselves. Why should they not be taught to do so for their owners as well?

One more point and I have done. Greek and Latin are going or gone, but a modicum of Mathematics seems to be indispensable to the modern curriculum. The domestic pig has on many occasions shown a capacity for mastering simple arithmetical processes, and we know that the pupil always ends by bettering his master. Under a more enlightened and humane _regime_ I confidently look forward to the time when our children will learn the Rule of Three, not from highly-paid and incompetent governesses, but from unsalaried porcine instructors, trained in the best Montessorian methods.

* * * * *

_Maid._ "WELL 'M, SHE EBBS AND FLOWS."]

* * * * *

Our Plutocratic Sportsmen.

"A gold course is being laid out in Ryde House Park, Isle of
Wight."--_Sunday Paper._

* * * * *

The New Rich.

"Working Man (36) requires Lodgings, full or part board; car
ride or convenient Rolls-Royce."--_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

"Lady requires gentleman Chauffeur, repair and clean car; good
dancer."--_Times._

One who can "reverse," it is hoped.

* * * * *

"Considering the greatness of the provocation, Centralia,
Wash., yesterday showed a calmness worthy of an American
community. There were no farther attempts at lynching after
the hanging of the secretary of the I.W.W. organisation on
Tuesday night." _American Paper._

Oh, my friends, let us strive to emulate the calmness of Centralia, Wash.

* * * * *

A LETTER TO THE BACK-BLOCKS.

DEAR GINGER,--A Merry Christmas to you! A bit late, you say? On the contrary, in plenty of time. It is next Christmas I am referring to. Over there, in your tropical land, when the sun stings your skin through your shirt and the sand blisters your feet through your boot-soles, when you butter your bread with a soup-ladle and the mercury boils merrily in the barometer, then, vainly pawing the air for mosquitoes with one hand and reaching for the siphon with the other, you gasp, "Gad! it must be getting on for Christmas-time."

But over here in England, where the seasons wheel round without any appreciable difference in temperature, where, if it were not for the gentleman who writes the calendars, nobody would know whether to wear straw-hats or snow-shoes, Christmas comes sneaking up behind you and grabs you by the pocket before you have time to dodge. "Christmas Eve already!" you exclaim. "Christmas Eve! and there's dear old Tom in Penang and good old Dick in Patagonia and poor old Harry in Princetown, and I've not written a word of cheer to any of them and now have no time to do so." That's what happened to me this year, anyhow; but I'm determined it shall not occur again, so--A Merry Christmas to you, Ginger.

This my first Yule in the Old Country, after many in foreign climes, was not an unqualified success. On the morning of Christmas Eve I went for a walk and lost myself. After wading through bog systems and bramble entanglements for some hours I came out behind a spinney and there spied a small urchin with red cheeks and a red woollen muffler standing beneath a holly-tree. On sighting me he gave vent to a loud and piteous howl. I asked him where his pain was, and he replied that he wanted some holly for decorations, but was too short to reach it. I thereupon swarmed the shrub, plucked and tossed the richly berried boughs to the poor little chap. In return he showed me where I lived--which indeed was not two hundred yards distant, but concealed by the thicket.

Later in the day Edward came in to tea, much annoyed. Bolshevism, he declared, was within our gates. He had been out to collect Christmas decorations in his own private fenced spinney, and confound it if some scoundrels hadn't been and gone and stripped his pet holly-tree of every twig! Anarchy was yapping at the door.

The Aunt soothed him, saying she had that very afternoon purchased a supply of splendid holly from a sweet little boy who had come round hawking it at sixpence a bough. I asked her if by any chance the dear little fellow had worn a red woollen comforter, and was not surprised when I heard that he had.