Chapter II: Part 2

"Ah, now we know where we are." George looked round triumphantly. "_Écoutez, Madame._ We don't want beds. _Nous les desirons jamais._ We have them. _Trois lits._ We don't want them. We have beds. _Comprenez?_"

"No beds," explained Madame firmly.

"But I've just told you--" George plunged again into the maelstrom, and a pretty girl appeared from the firelit room behind to stir him to his highest flights of eloquence. A smell of savoury cooking came also, and out in the street night shut down dark and chill and sinister, as it does in all the best novels. John let part of the kit down on the door-sill. It was his way of explaining that at the present moment there was a deeper, more intimate call than the Call of the Wild. Colin moved up a step and turned the haunting-stop full on. George redoubled his efforts, making them very clear indeed. We could understand almost every word he said.

Then Madame answered, and we could understand that too.

"No beds," she said.

The pretty girl smiled in a troubled way and murmured something in a soft voice.

"She says they haven't got any beds in the rooms. Fritz took them all," interpreted George. "_Écoutez, Mademoiselle_. We have beds. _Trois lits. Nous les avons. Tous les trois. Oui. À la gare. Absolument_."

Mademoiselle looked at Madame with a kink of her pretty brows. Madame rose like a balloon to the need.

"No beds," she said very distinctly, with a rounding of eyes and mouth. "No beds, Messieurs. No-o-o--_beds_."

Before George could recover John interfered. He makes a hobby of cutting Gordian knots.

"Oh, what's the earthly use of telling 'em we have beds when they can see for themselves that we haven't? They just think we can't understand. Let's go up and take the rooms if they're decent. Then we'll get the stretchers and put 'em up. That's the only sort of argument we can handle."

Manfully George went to work again. And reluctant, and yet obviously fascinated by his French, like a bird by a snake, Mademoiselle led up the narrow stairs and into a sizeable room, clean as a pin and as naked. On the threshold Madame washed her hands of hope.

"_Regardez!_ No beds. _C'est affreux!_"

George began again. He had courage. Whatever else Nature and luck denied him there was no question of that. For a little it looked as though he were in sight of the goal. Then Mademoiselle explained. They were _désolées_, but the _sales Boches_ had stolen all the beds, and Madame would not let the bare rooms to _Messieurs les Anglais_. It would not be _convenable_ when they had no beds.

"No beds!" Madame appealed to the skylight as witness, and we looked at each other. It was getting late and the others would have rustled all the best bivvies by now. John had another brain-wave.

"Let's pantomime it. They always understand pantomime. There's no use _saying_ we've got beds--not when George has to say it. We'll show them."

Earnestly we pantomimed stretcher beds--our own stretcher beds--and reposeful slumber thereon. "_Mon Dieu!_" cried Mademoiselle, retreating in haste. "No beds," repeated Madame, unconvinced and unafraid.

"She means that she doesn't want to have us," said John in cold despair.

"She'd be a fool if she did now," answered Colin grimly. "Let's get out of this."

And then John had a third brain-wave. He ordered George on guard, and descended with Colin in search of the concrete proof of our sanity. And Madame's voice, faint yet pursuing, followed us down.

"No beds," it said.

In ten minutes we were back triumphant with the three stretchers. It was a full six months since we had written to England for them, and they had come at last. Visions of rest went upstairs with us, and under the big eyes of Madame and Mademoiselle and several more Madames who had collected as unobtrusively as a silk hat collects dust we slashed at the coverings, ripped them off and disclosed--three deck-chairs.

We did not attempt to meet the situation. We left it to the devil--or Madame. And she, with the lofty serenity of one who through long and grievous misunderstanding has won home at last, was completely adequate.

"No beds," she said.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"ADOPTION.--Fine healthy boy, 3½ years; entire surrender
to good home. reception. 5 bedrooms; £1,100."--_Provincial
Paper_.

What an exacting young rascal!

* * * * *

"Liebknecht was the son of a father who opposed tyranny in
earlier days, who sounded the toxin for liberty."--_Express
and Star_ (_Wolverhampton_).

But, to do old LIEBKNECHT justice, it was the son, not the father, who spelt it that way.

* * * * *

THE WAR-DOG'S PARTY.

(_CONTINUED._)

I expected, of course, when I declared the resolution, "Dogs not Doormats," open for general discussion that there would be some pretty plain barking, but nothing calling for the intervention of the Chair. Britain's dogs are sound at heart, even if they do talk a bit wildly about the Tyranny of Man and Rabbitism and Abolishing the Biscuiteer. I don't agree with a lot of it myself--we Airedales have always been conservatively inclined; but I am bound to say that three years in the Army open one's eyes to a lot of things.

Nothing of a really seditious character was said until the Borzoi commenced to address the meeting. I had always disliked the fellow and half suspected him of being an Anarchist or the president of some brotherhood or other. (It's funny how these rascals, whose one idea is to get something which belongs to somebody else without working for it, always call themselves a brotherhood.) But those Russian dogs have such a shifty slinking way with them that you can't always tell what they are driving at. This Borzoi chap had tried once or twice to interest me in what he called the Community of Bones doctrine, but I soon found out that his master was a conscientious objector and a vegetarian and that the doctrine really meant that he would do the communing and I would provide the bones.

The rogue began with some fulsome ingratiating remarks about how pleased he was to see so many fine representatives of the canine race prepared to maintain intact their sovereign doghood whatever the sacrifice might entail. This brought loud applause from the young hotheads; but I noticed traces of disgust along the backs of the older dogs. The time had passed, he continued, for speeches and resolutions and votes of censure. Dogs must act if Man, the enemy, was to be finally crushed. I intervened at this point and told the Borzoi he must moderate his language, upon which he began to bluster, shouting that he would not be put down by an arrogant hireling of effete Militarism. One learns to practise self-control in the trenches, so I was able to repress an inclination to assert my authority then and there. It was no use striking at man himself, he went on, for he had guns and whips and stones at his command. We must strike at him through his children.

Cries of dissent greeted this statement, and I really think the matter would have ended then and there only it so happened that none of those present were personally interested in children, except old Betty the bulldog, who belongs to four little girls who treat her sovereign doghood in a most disrespectful way. But old Betty had gone to sleep, and, anyway, she is rather deaf and has no teeth, so it's likely she would have confined herself to a formal snuffle of protest. "Yes," shouted the Borzoi, now thoroughly worked up, "let every dog take a solemn oath to bite every child on every possible occasion--at least when no one is looking--and Man, the oppressor, will soon come begging for mercy and make peace with us on our own terms. No false loyalty or ridiculous sense of chivalry must withhold us," he continued. "The baby in the pram to-day is the man with the whip of to-morrow and must be bitten with all the righteous fury of outraged doghood." Cries of "Shame!" greeted this remark. I decided that it was time to interpose. With all the severity at my command I bade the wretch be silent.

"Fellow dogs," I said, "it is clear that we must choose here and now, once and for all, between Britishism and Bolshevism. Tails up those who wish to remain British!" And of course every tail went up. "Tails up, the Bolshevists!" But the Borzoi's was down beyond recall and shivering between his legs. "That being your decision, ladies and gentlemen," I continued, "the meeting will constitute itself a Committee of Safety. Remarks have been passed about your Chairman and the canine forces of His Majesty that cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. All I ask is plenty of room and no favour."

All this time the Borzoi had been edging towards the door, and I really think he would have tried to make a dash for it, only at the last minute he caught the eye of the Irish wolfhound. It's no good running away from a dog like that, so Bolshy decided to stay and face the music. Well, as I said before, we war dogs are supposed to be as modest as we are brave, so I will confine myself to saying that down our way Bolshevism hasn't a leg to stand on. Of course Master, when he saw my ear, pretended to be angry, but he knows a war dog doesn't fight except for his country, and when the Borzoi's owner came round next day to complain Master told him he was a miserable Pacifist and had no _locus standi_. I told Master afterwards that the Borzoi had no _loci standi_ either, because I'd jolly well nearly chewed them off; and he laughed and gave me a whole cutlet with a lot of delicious meat on it, saying he wasn't hungry himself.

Of course we dogs met again and adopted the rest of our platform; and I don't mind saying I kept a pretty tight grip on the proceedings. In fact, several resolutions, such as those dealing with "Municipal Dog's-meat," "Rabbits in Regent's Park," "The Prosecution of Untruthful Parlourmaids," "Shorter Fur and Longer Legs," were carried without discussion. Naturally the meetings concluded with a vote of thanks to the Chair, to which I replied (they tell me) felicitously.

That is how the War Dogs' Party came into being; and to-morrow I shall tell that little terrier fellow from No. 10, Downing Street, that as long as his master remains faithful to the Dog-in-the-Street the War Dogs' Party will remain faithful to him.

ALGOL.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"'The little lass, and what worlds away,' one says to oneself
on coming out of Mr. Rosing's recital."--_"Times'" Musical
Critic_.

It's the worst of music that it makes one so love-sick and sentimental.

* * * * *

AN EXPENSIVE AMUSEMENT.

"As," says one of Mr. Punch's many and very welcome correspondents, "you will probably be writing for the benefit of your readers a short handbook on how to be demobilised, I enclose for your guidance my solicitor's bill. He was engaged from November 12th until I returned home on leave on December 30th and took a hand in the game myself. The chief work was tracing the various Government Departments to their hidden lairs in which they indulge in the pleasing habit of exchanging minutes.

"Some day perhaps demobilisation will reach me. The sooner the better, for I can never settle this account on my Army pay."

So much for the preamble. Here, with the alteration only of certain names, is the document itself. Mr. Jones, it should be mentioned, is a member of the firm to which the Officer in question (whom we will call Mr. Lute) wishes to return:--

1918. £ s. d.

Nov. 12. Attending Mr. Jones on calling on
the telephone as to Mr. Lute and
advising him to make an application 6 8

" 27. Attending Demobilisation Office,
Whitehall Gardens, when the place
was too crowded to be seen to-day.
Engaged nearly two hours. 13 4

Writing Mr. Lute I was putting
through application. 3 6

" 28. Attending New Bridge Street when I
interviewed Official and he handed
me pivotal form after explaining
circumstances. 18 4

" 29. Attending Mr. Jones on calling when
Mrs. Lute was present, filling in
form after discussing same. Engaged
3 to 3.50. 10 0

Copy to keep 1 0

" 30. Attending New Bridge Street,
interviewing Official, and he
referred Mr. Lute's case to
Mr. Bedford Smith, 105a,
Portman Square, Head Food
Department for your district 13 4

Dec. 2. Attending Portman Square,
interviewing Official, when
he said I had got the wrong
form and requested me to
go to Whitehall Gardens
and ask them about it.

Attending Demobilisation Office
at Whitehall Gardens, interviewing
Official when he wanted to know how
I had got the form as I had no
business to have it as the issue of
them had been stopped, and I said it
had been given to me, and he was
unable to say what should be done
with it, but in any event another
form ought to be filled up, R.C.V.,
and he handed me such form.
Engaged 10.30 to 1; 2 to 3.45 3 3 0

Dec. 3. Attending Portman Square office,
when I said that I had been to the
office at Whitehall Gardens and
they wanted to know how I had got
the pivotal form, but he took it
in and said he would refer it to
the local committee at once, and
he gave me the name of the head man
there and suggested we might push
it if we went to him, and he had
nothing to do with the R.C.V. form. 13 4

Attending Whitehall Gardens asking
what they wanted done with R.C.V.
form and they said if it was sent
in there filled up it would
receive attention in its turn. 10 0

Writing Mr. Jones to get in
touch with Local Authority. 3 6

" 5. Attending Mr. Jones on telephone as
to getting into touch with local
representative, which he would do
at once 3 4

" 6. Filling up same and writing
them therewith 5 0

" 11. Attending Mr. Jones on telephone
when he said Committee had
recommended application last
Friday evening 3 4

" 12. Attending Portman Square,
interviewing Official and
they had not received recommendation
of local committee 13 4

" 13. Attending Mr. Jones, informing
him thereof on telephone giving
me reference No. and he would send
on copy letter to him by local
committee recommending application 3 4

" 16. Attending Portman Square when they
had not heard from local committee,
handing them copy of their letter
and they would act on that 13 4

" 18. Writing Mr. Jones as to further
form, sent in to him to sign 3 6

" 19. Attending Portman Square when
application had gone forward 13 4

Telephoning to Mrs. Lute to
that effect. Like Mr. Jones. 3 4

" 20. Writing Mr. Lute as to the matter 3 6

" 23. Attending Portman Square Official
when application was on way to
War Office and they said you would
be demobilised shortly 13 4

" 31. Attending Mr. Lute, showing
me correspondence and requesting
me to see Demobilisation Department,
Broad Street.

1919
Jan. 2. Attending Broad Street when they
had removed to Hotel Windsor and
obtaining two forms to fill up to
extend your leave while your case
went through if necessary and they
knew nothing about your case 13 4

Attending at your office getting
Secretary to sign form. 10 0

" 4. Attending Windsor Hotel when
department disbanded and had
gone to Lancaster Gate 13 4

Attending you reporting on
telephone 3 4

" 6. Fare and expenses 15 0
--------
Total £14 5 0

* * * * *

THE DRINK OF THE GODS.

A PROHIBITIONIST'S CANTICLE.

Let meaner souls make merry
O'er cups of ruby wine,
With claret, port or sherry
Their tunes incarnadine;
Let little boys emphatic
Become o'er ginger b.
Myself I grow ecstatic
About a drink called "Tea."

Tea elevates one's pecker,
Rejuvenates the mind,
Enriches the exchequer,
Yet never makes men "blind";
When footsore and effete I'm
From every ache set free,
And not alone at tea-time
I thank the Lord for "Tea."

It tells of balmy breezes
That blow "o'er Ceylon's isle"
(While HEBER mostly pleases
His accent here is vile)--
Of some far-flung plantation
Where Hindus bend the knee;
And would my occupation
Were prefixed (ah!) by "Tea"!

'Tis told in classic fable
The nectar served to Zeus
At his Olympic table
Was just a vinous juice;
That such is purely fiction
I heartily agree,
Having the sound conviction
'Twas nothing less than "Tea."

* * * * *

"PARIS, SATURDAY.

The Conference will be held in the imposing Salle de la Grande
Horloge. The 'hall of the great clock' is about 30in. long by
15in. wide."--_Liverpool Echo_.

"Imposing," indeed.

* * * * *

"Manchester's £6,000,000 scheme for obtaining water supplies
from Haweswater was approved last night at a meeting of
ratepayers in the Town Hall. The annual increased consumption
of water had been a little over a million gallons per head per
day."--_Daily Dispatch_.

The new slogan of the temperance enthusiasts--What Manchester drinks to-day England will drink to-morrow.

* * * * *

_Tommy_. "MINE ISN'T ORDINARY MALARIA. THE DOCTOR CALLS IT 'MALINGERING MALARIA.'"]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)

I own that to find the publishers, those sometimes too generous critics, writing upon the wrapper of _An English Family_ (HUTCHINSON) an appreciation that bracketed it with _The Newcomes_, did little to predispose me in its favour. Later, however, when I had read the book with an increasing pleasure, I was ready to admit that the comparison was by no means wholly unjustified. Certainly Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE has written a very charming story in this history of the _Frothinghams_ and the growth of their typically English characters, maturing just in time for the ordeal that has tested and (one is proud to think) triumphantly approved the spirit of our country. In fact these memoirs of _Hugh Frothingham_ are something more than an idle romance; there is an allegory in them, and some touch of propaganda, cunningly introduced in the fine character of _Torrance_, the great surgeon who married one of the _Frothingham_ girls and was bombed in the hospital raids. Through the varied activities of the family, as they develop, passes the cleverly-shown figure of _Hugh_, the narrator, who, starting with fairer prospects than any of the others, is ruined by indolence and an income, and hardly saved by the War from degenerating into the torpid existence of a social pussy-cat. _Hugh_ is an admirable example of the difficult art of seemingly unconscious self-revelation. Altogether I have found _An English Family_ greatly to my taste, displaying as it does a dignity and breadth that recall not unworthily the best traditions of the English novel. But did we speak of _Serbia_ in 1914? I only ask.

* * * * *

_High Adventure_ (CONSTABLE) is in certain ways the most fascinating account of flying and of fliers which has come my way. Captain NORMAN HALL, already well known to readers of _Kitchener's Mob_, tells us in this later book how he became a member of the Escadrille Américaine and how he learned to fly. And, as his modesty is beyond all praise, I feel sure that he will forgive me for saying that it is not the personal note which is here so specially attractive. What makes his book so different from other books on flying is that in it we have a novice suffering from all sorts of mishaps and mistakes before he has mastered the difficulties of his art. Whether consciously or not Captain HALL performs a very great service in describing the life of a flier while his wings are--so to speak--only in the sprouting stage. In an introduction Major GROS tells us of the work done by American pilots before America entered the War, a delightful preface to a book which both for its matter and style is good to read.

* * * * *

I confess at once that _The Uprooters_ (STANLEY PAUL) is a story that I have found hard to understand. There seems an idea somewhere, but it constantly eluded me. To begin with, exactly who or what were the Uprooters, and what did they uproot? At first I thought the answer was going to name _Major_ and _Mrs. Elton_, who for no very sufficient reason would go meddling off to Paris, and transporting thence the brother and sister _Ormsby_ to Ireland. The _Ormsbys_ had been happy and (apparently) harmless enough hitherto, but once uprooted they promptly developed the most unfortunate passions--reciprocated, moreover--for their well-wishers. The obvious and laudable moral of which is, never remove your neighbour from his chosen landmarks. Later, however, it became apparent that Mr. J.A.T. LLOYD had a more subtle interpretation for his title in the activities of a band of pacifists, headed by a multi-millionaire, who called himself an American, though somehow his name, _Schwartz_, hardly inspired me with any feelings of real confidence. On his death-bed, however, this gentleman reveals blood of the most Prussian blue, confessing that his wealth has actually been derived from the dividends of Frau BERTHA; and as the War has by this time resolved the emotional difficulties of the other characters the story comes to its somewhat procrastinated finish. My own belief in it had to endure two tests, of which the less was inflicted by a scene specifically placed in a "dim _second class_ carriage" on the L.&N.W.R. in 1916; and the greater by the _cri de coeur_ of the lady, whose husband surprised her with her lover: "Edmund, get that murderous look out of your eyes, the look of that dreadful ancestor in the portrait gallery!" I ask you, does that carry conviction under the circumstances?

* * * * *

Really, the delight of the publishers over _Cecily and the Wide World_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) is almost touching. On the outside of the wrapper they call it "charming," and are at the further pains to advise me to "read first the turnover of cover," where I find them letting themselves go in such terms as "true life," "sincerity," "charm" (again), "courage," and the like. The natural result of all which was that I approached the story prepared for the stickiest of American cloy-fiction. I was most pleasantly disappointed. Miss ELIZABETH F. CORBETT has chosen a theme inevitably a little sentimental, but her treatment of it is throughout of a brisk and tonic sanity, altogether different from--well, you know the sort of stuff I have in mind. _Cecily_ was the discontented wife of _Avery Fairchild_, a young doctor with three children and a fair practice. After a while her discontent so increased that she betook herself to the wide, wide world, to live her own life. And as both she and _Avery_ before long fell cheerfully in love with other persons I suppose the move could so far be counted a success. Before, however, the divorce facilities of the land of freedom could bring the tale to one happy ending an accident to _Cecily's_ motor and the long arm that delivered her to her husband's professional care brought it to another. I am left wondering how this dénouement would have been affected if _Avery_ had been, say, a dentist, or of any other calling than the one that so obviously loaded the dice in his favour. I repeat, however, a distinctly well-written and human story, almost startlingly topical too in one place, where _Dr. Avery_ observes, "There's a lot of grippe in town, and it's a thing that isn't reported to the Health Department." The obvious inference being that it ought to be. _Avery_, you observe, had more practical sense than the majority of heroes, few of whom would ever have thought of this, or, at any rate, mentioned it.

* * * * *

Baroness ORCZY's romance of old Cambrai, _Flower o' the Lily_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), should not be regarded as in any way bearing upon the more modern history of that remarkable city. It has nothing to do with our war; it has a war of its own, a rapid affair of bows and arrows, scaling ladders and such desperate situations as can be, and were, saved by the arrival of the right man, single-handed, in the right place at the right moment. Familiar as is his type in novels of this adventurous kind, I think I shall never tire of the consummate swordsman hero who impersonates, for political and matrimonial ends, a man of infinitely higher degree but far less real worth than himself, handling the vicarious business with an incredible adroitness, but mistakenly carrying by storm the love of the lady for himself. The lady is so confoundedly attractive in these circumstances, possibly because there is about them a tonic which lends additional colour to the feminine cheek and a new brilliance to the eye. And, however bitter may be the first moment when the true personalities are divulged, it all comes right in the end. Here is a story of intrigue and battle and love, written in the necessary phraseology of the time and woven round (and, I trust, consistent with) the historical contest between the Spanish and French Powers, disputing the terrain of Flanders; in every way a worthy successor of _The Scarlet Pimpernel_. It is inevitable to suggest that this story should also be dramatised in due course; it would make as a play an instant and irresistible appeal to that great public which loves the theatre most when it is most theatrical. And it is doubtless destined also for the Movies.

* * * * *

"GIE YE CHOCOLATE! _GIE YE CHOCOLATE!!_ D'YE THINK I'VE BEEN BOBBIN' UP AN' DOON IN FRONT O' YOUR AULD MON FOR FOUR YEARS JUST TAE COME HERE AN' GIE YE CHOCOLATE?"]

* * * * *

MORE SECRETS OF THE FLEET.

"Few people realise the difficulty senior officers in the Navy
who are married and have children have in making both ends
meet. Naval officers who entered over fifteen years ago did
not, as a rule, come from the married classes."--_Sunday
Paper_.

* * * * *

"Whilst waiting to be bathed, an old blind female inmate of
the ---- Institution fell to the floor, breaking her
thigh. Her injury has accentuated her death from
bronchitis."--_Birmingham Post_.

With a grave accent, we fear.

* * * * *

"The war broke Germany's hold on world's wild animal trade,
the New York Zoological Society chairman states. Zoos and
circuses are now turning to British dealers to fill their
cages."--_Evening Paper_.

Provided that the above paragraph has made the British dealers sufficiently wild.