Chapter LXI

My Dear CHARLES,--Have I ever, in the course of these SECRET and
CONFIDENTIAL despatches, called your lordship's attention to the
existence, the very marked existence, of our Hubert, "the little
Captain," who, being out of the battle for the moment, relies upon
argument for argument's sake to keep up his circulation? It
has been said of him that he spends his office time in writing
superior letters to his subordinates and insubordinate letters to
his superiors; but that, I think, is over harsh. In any case, as
he has now run short of grievances, and the authorities of the
B.E.F. regard him as a joke and like him best when his little
temper is hot, his fights out here have for some time lacked
reality. I fancy that he was merely in search of a _casus belli_
when, being on leave in the U.K., he conceived the idea of a day's
extension and stepped round to the War Office to demand same as of
right.

But the War Office, Charles, is not as other places and War
Officers are not like the common sort. Hubert, arriving in his
best fighting trim, was at once ejected by the policeman at the
door. He underestimated the importance of that official and
his office, otherwise he would not have adopted the
just-dropping-in-to-have-a-chat-with-a-friend-inside attitude.
From the constable's cold response he realised that, in tackling
the W.O. single-handed, he was attempting a big thing, whereas the
W.O., in tackling him, was not under the same disadvantage. Then
he did what was unusual with him; he paused to think before
resuming the offensive. What he wanted, he felt, was big guns. The
House of Commons caught his eye and reminded him of politicians.
He recalled a slight acquaintance with one of the more important
of these and went round to call upon him personally. It was not
his idea to obtain any such authority as would demolish all
opposition at the W.O.; he just hoped to get a personal chit,
which would act as a smoke barrage and at least cover his advance
right into the middle of the enemy defences.

So Hubert asked for the politician in person, but only got his
secretary. This gentleman, having elicited that Hubert's train for
France left at 5 P.M., regretted that the politician would not be
visible till 6. This opposition warmed Hubert's blood; he asked
for a statement in writing. After some little discussion he got
it, since the secretary, for all his caution, could see no harm in
an unofficial note, addressed to no one in particular, and stating
merely that Hubert wanted to see the politician and the politician
was out till 6 P.M.

The little captain is one of those who state their grievances to
themselves, when no other audience is available. During his
return journey to the W.O. mental processes of no little heat and
significance took place in his busy head, he putting up an
overwhelming case to show why his leave ought to be, and must be,
extended. The force of this case gave him such a burning sense of
justice as to carry him, this time, safely past the policeman.

Five rows of barbed wire, two of them electrified, would be but a
poor substitute for the barriers of the W.O. Before you set foot
on the staircase you have to produce a ticket, and it is supposed
that the porter, who has the forms to be filled in, forfeits a
day's pay every time he parts with one. Hubert, gradually losing
confidence, wrote upon the form all he could think of about
himself, and handed it to the porter, who received it with
reluctance, read it with suspicion, and disappeared with a grunt.
What he did with it is not known; probably someone got into
communication with the B.E.F. to know if such a person as Hubert
existed, and, if so, why? Meanwhile Hubert had good time to
realise that no one loved him and that this was cold brutal war at
last.

Bit by bit the porter drifted back and gave Hubert his form, now
stamped and become his ticket. The porter having finished with
him, he passed on and, after many wanderings, found the door of
the room where his sentence would be passed. Bracing himself
up and clearing his throat, he prepared to knock and enter.
Fortunately, however, his audacious intention was observed by an
official and frustrated. He was commanded to write something more
about himself in the book provided for that purpose, and to go on
waiting. Being now an expert at writing and waiting he did as he
was bid, spending the next few hours of his life remodelling his
case in less fierce and glowing terms.

At last the door of the room persuaded itself to open and let out
a real red god, who looked upon Hubert, took an instant dislike
to him, relieved him of his ticket and went in again. During
the ensuing period of suspense the last vestige of Hubert's
personality departed from him.

Again the door opened and another red one, even more godlike,
emerged clamouring for Hubert and his blood. Had he still been in
possession of his ticket (a necessary passport for egress) Hubert
would have fled. There was nothing for it but to confess his
identity and to hope for mercy. The god, who clearly had not more
than three and a half seconds to spare, demanded an explanation of
his presence. Hubert admitted that once, in a moment of impudent
folly, he had thought of asking for a day's extension. The god
said nothing, but a light smouldered in his eyes which intimated
to Hubert that if he did not at once produce some paramount excuse
for so monstrous a request the War would be held up and the
military machine would be concentrated on punishing Hubert.
His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; even if it had been
available it would have helped little, for it is more than mere
words that the gods require. His hand searched in his pockets and
produced the return half of his leave warrant, a five-franc
note, a box of matches, a recently purchased paper flag and the
politician's secretary's note. The first and the last were taken,
the rest fell to the floor, the door closed once more and again
Hubert was alone.

Hubert doesn't know what he did next; probably, he thinks, he sat
down and wept, and it was his tears that induced the gods not to
convert his ticket into a death-warrant, but instead to give him
the slip, "Leave extended one day for urgent private business."
This was clearly one of Hubert's most decisive victories. He had
his day's extension solely in order to interview the politician
at 6 P.M.; he was to interview the politician solely in order to
obtain his day's extension. But Hubert insists morbidly that his
was a moral defeat, amounting to utter suppression. He called upon
the politician at 6 P.M. to thank him personally. Again he could
get no further than the secretary, who, learning that Hubert's
train would not depart at all that day, regretted that the
politician would, on second thoughts, be out for a week. "Now if
I really _had_ triumphed," said Hubert, "I should have got the
secretary to put that also in writing, and should have stepped
round to the War Office again to demand a further week's extension
on the strength of it." This, however, he did not do.

Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

"YE KEN YON THREE HUNS I JUST BROUGHT IN? WEEL, THEY WANT TO PLAY WHIST, AN' I'M GOING BACK TO TRY AND PICK UP A FOURRTH."]

* * * * *

"Southport, December 9th.--Miss ---- presented vegetarian
literature and a box of vegetarian sausages to a Sale of Work in
connection with the United Methodist Church, High Park. The gifts
led to much thought and inquiry."--_Vegetarian Messenger_.

In spite of a natural disinclination to look a gift sausage in the mouth.

* * * * *

A CALL TO THE COW PONIES.

They sent us from Coorong and Cooper
The pick of the Wallaby Track
To serve us as gunner and trooper,
To serve us as charger and hack;
From Budgeribar to Blanchewater
They rifled the runs of the West,
That whatever his fate in the slaughter
A man might ride home on the best.

We dealt with the distant Dominion,
We bought in the far Argentine;
The worth of our buyers' opinion
Is proved to the hilt in the line;
The Clydes from the edge of the heather,
The Shires from the heart of the grass,
And the Punches are pulling together
The guns where the conquerors pass.

So come with us, buckskin and sorrel,
And come with us, skewbald and bay;
Your country's girth-deep in the quarrel,
Your honour is roped to the fray;
Where flanks of your comrades are foaming
'Neath saddle and trace-chain and band,
We look for the kings of Wyoming
To speak for the sage-brush and sand.

W.H.O.

* * * * *

=Commercial Candour.=

From an Indian trade-circular:--

"All our goods are guaranteed made of the best material and equal
to none in the market."

* * * * *

"The approach of the storm was heralded by a magnificent display
of, for a time, almost intermittent lightning."--_Pall Mall
Gazette_.

Followed, it may be presumed, by well-nigh interrupted peals of thunder and nearly occasional downpours of rain.

* * * * *

"One always feels humiliated when one is stumped about a quite
common thing.... All you could see a little way iff was that they
were very dwarg and very thick, and the peculiar coloul baffled
us...."

_A Country Diary in "Manchester Guardian."_

Stumped we may be by the above, but humiliated--never!

* * * * *

=PETHERTON'S PUBLICATIONS.=

A glance at a well-known publisher's window, during a recent visit to London, provided me with material for a little possible quiet amusement, and with this end in view I penned the following:--

DEAR MR. PETHERTON,--When up in town the other day I was surprised and delighted to notice in Messrs. Egbert Arnwell's window two works of yours, one on Bi-Metallism and the other on the Differential and Integral Calculus. Nothing but the prices (really low ones for such works) prevented my purchasing a copy of each book at once.

I cannot resist writing to congratulate you on the publication of these volumes, which will, I am sure, add to the instruction if not to the gaiety of nations. Of course I knew--and have had the most complete olfactory proofs--that you were a chemist of at least strong views, but had no idea that your range of knowledge was so extensive as it apparently is.

With renewed congratulations,
Believe me, yours sincerely,
HENRY J. FORDYCE.

By the way, what is a calculus? Could one be obtained in Surbury, or would it be necessary to order from the Army and Navy Stores?

This brought forth:--

SIR,--I greatly regret that my latest publications should have caught your eye, and look on your congratulations as a studied insult.

I should hardly expect a person of your (as I imagine) limited intellect to know anything about the scientific subjects which interest me, but I feel sure that you are perfectly aware that the calculus is abstract and not concrete.

Had you tried to convey sincere congratulations to me I could have borne the infliction with resignation, but I strongly object to such flippant impertinences as are contained in your communication.

Faithfully yours,
FREDERICK PETHERTON.

I felt this was a good start, and so put out more bait:--

DEAR PETHERTON (I wrote),--Sorry you couldn't accept my letter in the spirit, etc.

I've had such a priceless idea since I wrote to you last, and it is this. I propose that we start a Literary Society in Surbury. I'm certain the Vicar would join in. Mr. Charteris, of the Manor, too would, I feel confident, welcome the idea. Dr. Stevenson, the only one to whom I have broached the subject, got keen at once, and the Gore-Langleys and others could no doubt be counted on--say a dozen altogether, including you and myself. I append a short list of suggested contributions, which will give some idea of the range of subjects which might be tossed into the arena of debate:--

The Binomial Theorem in its relation to the Body Politic (yourself).

Cows and their sufferings during the milk controversy in the newspapers (Charteris. This might be published in small quarto).

The attitude of the Manichean Heresiarch towards the use of Logarithms (The Vicar).

The effect of excessive Philately on the cerebral organisms of the young (Gore-Langley).

The introduction of the art and practice of Napery among the Dyaks of Borneo (Miss Eva Gore-Langley).

With a few additions I think we should have enough mental food to keep us going through the summer; and I may add that if you were put up for President of the Society I should certainly second the motion.

Yours ever,
HARRY FORDYCE.

I notice that your writing has gone to pieces rather, old man--through writer's cramp, I fear. You say what looks like "you are perfectly aware that the calcalus is asphalt and not concrete." Of course I do know that much about it.

My letter kept the ball rolling all right, for Petherton replied:---

SIR,--Have you no sane moments? If you have any such, I should be glad if you would employ the next lucid interval in setting your affairs straight and then repairing to the nearest asylum with a request that they would protect you against yourself by placing you in a padded cell. This done and the key lost, the world, and Surbury in particular, would be a happier place.

You cannot seriously suggest that any society for literary discussion could be formed here or elsewhere which should include yourself, and even so you must know that your being a member would prevent my joining it.

Has the call for National Service not reached your ears yet? You appear to have plenty of leisure time on your hands which might be better employed. Or have you offered yourself and been rejected on the grounds of mental deficiency?

Faithfully yours,
FREDERICK PETHERTON.

I didn't feel called upon to make a song about my method of doing my bit, which, I am glad to say, has the approval of the authorities; but I was anxious to hear Petherton's joints crack once more, so I wrote:--

DEAR FREDDY,--Your letters get better and better in style as your writing deteriorates. I am very sorry to gather from your last that you look coldly on my scheme. I am sure that those to whom I have mentioned the idea would decline to entertain it if it lacked your active support, so I trust you will reconsider the matter.

I am thinking over your asylum stunt. It would certainly save some expense, and if this terrible War continues much longer it will, I fear, drive me to such a refuge; though I trust in that event that I shall be allowed to choose pleasanter wall hangings than those you suggest. I'm rather fond of light chintzy papers, aren't you? They're so cheerful.

Hoping to hear from you _re_ our little society at your earliest ("The Surbury Literary and Scientific Society" would sound well, and would look rather nice on our note-paper--what?)--

I am, yours as ever,
HARRY.

Petherton saw red again and bellowed at me, thus:--

SIR,-- ---- you and your beastly society. I don't know who is the more execrable, you or the KAISER.

Faithfully yours,
FREDERIC PETHERTON.

Common decency compelled me to reply, so I wrote:--

MY DEAR OLD BOY.--You don't know how grieved I am to hear that you cannot entertain the scheme.

Of course I can read between the lines, and know that your heart is in it, and that it is only the many calls on your time which prevent your active co-operation with me in the matter. Of course, needless to say, your lack of support has killed what looked like being a promising scientific bantling (through stress of emotion I nearly wrote "bantam," which brings me to the subject of poultry. How are yours? I forgot to ask before).

I hope the question of the S.L. & S.S. will now be dropped; it is too painful. If you insist on continuing the discussion I shall decline to answer the letter, so there!

Yours,
H.

But Petherton refused to be drawn.

* * * * *

From a Church appeal:--

"A recent collection revealed that, of 179 coins put in the plate,
176 were coppers, whilst not more than 15 people could have
contributed anything above one shilling."

The person who took the twelve silver coins by mistake will, we hope, return them next Sunday.

* * * * *

=THE SHERWOOD FORESTERS.=

Deep in the greenwood year by year
Bold ROBIN HOOD, a knightly ghost,
Has eased the purse that bulged the most
And stalked the wraiths of Rufford deer;

And, as the centuries speed away,
Has seen his oak and birk-land shrink,
Where teeming cities on its brink
Crowd in on Sherwood of to-day.

But still each year the outlaw-king,
By Normanton and Perlethorpe spire,
Has watched the beeches' emerald fire
Flare upward in the leaping spring;

Each heather-time has found his own
Eyrie of rest where Higger Tor
Shimmers in purple as before
KING COEUR-DE-LION held his throne.

And Foresters away "out there,"
Sons of his sons, have surely seen
A figure clad in Lincoln green
Glide by them swiftly, thin as air;

And, yarning in the creepy dark,
Have told of arrows, cloth-yard long,
Whistling before them clean and strong,
Of Huns that got them, pierced and stark;

How when their line is making good,
In charge or trench, as Sherwoods can,
Soft-footed, ever in the van,
Stalks the bold ghost of ROBIN HOOD.

* * * * *

* * * * *

=THE SECRETS OF HEROISM.=

"Don't talk about heroism," said Sergeant William Bingley, "until you know what it is--and isn't.

"There were two men in my platoon over there that I'd match against any other two in the British, Allied, or Enemy armies for the biggest funks on earth; two boys from the same town, as unlike as cross-bred puppies, but cowards to the ankles.

"They were the only two that didn't volunteer for a listening picket one night, and I felt so ashamed of them that I decided to mention it.

"'You nickel-plated, glass-lined table-ornament,' I said to Ruggles when I found him alone, 'aren't you ashamed to form a rear rank alone with Jenks every time you're asked to do anything?'

"I knew they hated each other, and I thought I'd draw him, but he hadn't a word for himself.

"'Tell me what you joined for,' I said more persuasively, for he had been in the Army over a year. 'You're the only man in the company, bar your friend Jenks, that turns white at the pop of a cork out of a Worcester sauce bottle.'

"He stroked the bit of hair behind his right ear and let slip a grin like the London and Country mail slots at the G.P.O.

"'I'll tell you, Sergeant,' he said. 'I never had much heart for soldiering, and I only joined up when I did to spite the girl that jilted me. She jilted me for Jenks, and no sooner did she say the word to him than she talked him into enlisting too.... That's why I'm no good. Every time I remember I'm a soldier I think of her laughing at me, and I feel a fool.'

"'Well,' said I, 'she must be proud of you both, for you're the weariest, wonkiest pair of wash-outs I ever swore at.'

"I didn't send for Jenks; I could guess his excuse. He had obviously about as much spirit for fighting as Ruggles, and he was just hanging on and trying not to get hurt before the War stopped.

"We had a few weeks out of the trenches after my chat with Ruggles, and one afternoon I came upon them enjoying a hearty, homely, ten-round hit, kick, and scramble in a quiet corner near their billet. They looked as if they meant it, but they finished up in about ten minutes, hugging each other in six inches of mud. Ruggles got up first, and while he waited for Jenks he turned on his Little Tich smile. It worked; Jenks smiled too, and the rivals went off together like brothers.

"I said nothing, and forgot them again--clean forgot them, until, a week later, Jenks came to me in Number Seven with a yarn about a crater and a sniper, and might he go and perforate him.

"I had noticed the sniper myself, so I sent Jenks to chase a broom and picked my own men for this job that mattered. I'd no sooner done it than Ruggles marched up and asked to be made one of the party.

"I just stared at him, and his grin stretched half an inch each way.

"'I saw Jenks asking you,' he told me, 'and I won't be behind Jenks. Besides, it was me told him of the sniper.'

"'It's a change for you two to be worrying over snipers,' I said.

"'Well, you're not grumbling at that, are you, Sergeant?' said he.

"'I am not,' I said. 'And I hope you'll keep it up until we're relieved.'

"'You watch us,' he answered.

"I did. It was Ruggles that put his bayonet into the machine-gunner that had knocked out half the company. He took the last two bullets in his arm and side; and it was Jenks that put himself between Ruggles' head and the revolver that would have made pulp of it if Jenks hadn't got the hand that held it. He took the bullet in his cheek.

"I saw them in the dressing-station when the shouting was over. Ruggles was laughing at what Jenks's face would look like when it was out of bandages. The bullet had taken away about a third of an ear. Jenks was cursing because it hurt to laugh back.

"'Never mind,' I said to him with a wink at Ruggles, 'I warrant there's some little girl who won't laugh at you when you get back home. She has more to be proud of now than your face.'

"'Then you're wrong, Sergeant,' he answered quietly. 'She's changed her mind. She's _his_ girl now.'

"I looked at Ruggles. He wouldn't catch my eye, but a blush was working round towards his neck.

"'And I've changed my mind too,' said Jenks. 'D'you think I'd have taken those risks I took to-day if there was a girl at home worrying over every casualty list? A man's a fool to risk breaking a heart to try to get a medal.'

"'Ay, that's the way you look at it,' said Ruggles, as red as beetroot. 'But I bet the Sergeant's glad she's changed her mind. I never knew your equal for a clammy coward, Jim, before she chucked you up.'

"Jenks began to look black. 'There were two of us, anyway,' he said.

"'P'r'aps there were,' Ruggles agreed cheerily. 'But what's the good of making a show of your soldiering unless there's someone at home looking on and caring?'"

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The National War Savings Committee is issuing a two-penny cookery
book, giving a host of simple remedies for economical dishes."
_Birmingham Daily Mail_.

Some of them do upset the internal economy, no doubt.

* * * * *

"St. Quentin Canal, in spite of the damage reported to have been
done to it by the Germans, will probably still be an important
military obstacle. It is, for instance, when full of water, over
eight feet deep." _Daily News_.

When full of beer it becomes absolutely impassable.

* * * * *

Extract from a regimental notice:--

"I am glad to inform you that a Special Order ... guarantees
your admission to this Regiment on your release from the Postal
Service.... If attested and passed into Class A for Service, you
should apply to your Recruiting Officer, who will post you and
forward you here on an A.F. B. 216."

An appropriate and convenient arrangement.

* * * * *

WITH MR. PUNCH'S SINCERE GOOD WISHES FOR THE SUCCESS OF THE IRISH CONVENTION.]

* * * * *

_Non-Politician_ (_in remote country-house, to wife on her midnight return from county town_).

"MABEL, YOU'VE BEEN VOTING."]

* * * * *

=ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.=

_Monday, May 21st_.--Mr. MACCALLUM SCOTT complained that a question of his relating to the prohibition of "dropped scones"--which Captain BATHURST, that encyclopædia of food-lore, described as falling "under the same category as the crumpet"--had been addressed to the Ministry of Munitions instead of the Ministry of Food. It was really a venial error on the part of the Clerk at the Table, for the modern scone distinctly suggests a missile of offence, and is much more like a "crump" than a crumpet. If HINDENBURG were acquainted with our London tea-shops (_consule_ DEVONPORT) he would never have imagined that his famous phrase about "biting upon granite" would have any terrors for the British recruit.

When the PRIME MINISTER read from his manuscripts the proposed conditions of the Irish Convention--how it must include representatives not only of political parties, but of Churches, trade unions, commercial and educational interests, and of _Sinn Fein_ itself; and must be prepared to consider every variety of proposal that might be brought before it--an Irish colleague whispered to me, "Sure, the Millennium will be over before we get it."

Nothing could have been handsomer than Mr. REDMOND'S welcome to the proposal. All he was concerned for, I gathered, was that his Unionist opponents should be generously represented. Ulster, in the person of Sir JOHN LONSDALE, made no corresponding advance. He would submit the proposal to his constituents, but not apparently with letters commendatory.

I daresay Mr. WILLIAM O'BRIEN set out with the honest intention of blessing the Government plan, of which indeed he claims to be the "onlie begetter." But the sound of his own voice--in its higher tones painfully provocative--stimulated him to proceed to a dramatic indictment of his former colleagues. I felt sorry for the prospective Chairman, charged with the task of attempting to reconcile these opposites.

Mr. HEALY, cowering beneath the shelter of his ample hat, as Mr. O'BRIEN'S arms waved windmill-like above him, must have felt like _Sancho Panza_ when the _Don_ was in an extra fitful mood; but he kept silence even from good words.

The briefest and most helpful speech of the afternoon came from Sir EDWARD CARSON, who, while declaring that he would never desert Ulster, nevertheless made it plain that Ulster on this occasion should take her place beside the rest of Ireland. Only Mr. GINNELL remained obdurate. In his ears the Convention sounds "the funeral dirge of the Home Rule Act."

_Tuesday, May 22_.--If you should happen to see of a Sabbath morning a stream of official motor-cars leaving London with freights of the brave and the fair you may be sure they are going on some National business. Both the War Office and the Admiralty keep log-books, in which are faithfully entered--I quote Dr. MACNAMARA--"full particulars of each journey, the number and description of passengers carried and the amount of petrol consumed." Do not therefore jump to the hasty and erroneous conclusion that the gallant fellows and their charming companions are "joy-riding;" such a thing is unknown in Government circles.

The HOME SECRETARY moved the second reading of the Representation of the People Bill with a suavity befitting a CAVE of Harmony; and by the clearness of his exposition very nearly enabled the House to understand the mysteries of proportional representation, though even now I should not like to have to describe off-hand the exact working of "the single transferable vote."

The opponents of the Bill were well-advised in selecting Colonel SANDERS as their champion. With his jolly round face, bronzed by the suns of Palestine, he looks the typical agriculturalist. He may, as he says, have forgotten in the trenches all the old tricks of the orator's trade, but he has learned some useful new ones, and while delighting the House with his sporting metaphors struck some shrewd blows at a measure which he regards as unfair and inopportune.

For almost the first time since the War Lord HUGH CECIL was discovered in quite his best form. The House rippled with delight at his refusal to be forcibly fed with a peptonized concoction, prepared by the SPEAKER'S Conference in the belief that the Mother of Parliaments was too old and toothless to chew her own victuals. "This Bill is Benger's Food, and you, Sir, and your Committee are Bengers."

The SOLICITOR-GENERAL'S solid and solemn arguments in favour of the Bill fell a little flat after this sparkling attack. He should have said, "The noble Lord reminds me, not for the first time, of GILBERT'S 'Precocious Infant,' who

'Turned up his nose at his excellent pap--
"My friends, it's a tap
Dat is not worf a rap."
(Now this was remarkably excellent pap).'"

_Wednesday, May 23rd_--The Russian officers who adorned the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery this afternoon must be a little puzzled by the vagaries of British politics. They had been informed, no doubt, that the most urgent problem of the day was caused by the desire of one of the British Isles to manage its own affairs. Yet the first thing they heard at Westminster was the petition of another of these Isles--that of Man--begging release from the burden of Home Rule and demanding representation in the Imperial Parliament. Perhaps this little incident will help our visitors to appreciate why Englishmen do not invariably form a just judgment of events in other countries--Russia, for instance.

* * * * *

* * * * *

=SONGS OF FOOD PRODUCTION.=