Chapter III

"Triggs, this is the deuce of a nice state of things!"

The latest ornament of the woolsack was seated in the privacy of his own apartment prior to retiring to rest. But the cares of his position had followed him there. He was working his way through a mass of papers when his host appeared at the door.

"To what state of things does Your Grace refer?"

The Duke looked round as if to make sure that they had the room to themselves. He seemed to be in a state of considerable agitation; indeed, the abruptness of his entry had in itself suggested agitation.

"Of--of course you know that I--I'm a magistrate."

"Certainly I know it."

Something in the other's tone seemed to have a soothing influence upon the Duke, possibly because it roused the spirit of mischief that was in him. He sat in an armchair. Crossing his arms upon his chest, stretching out his long legs in front of him, he regarded the toes of his evening shoes.

"Triggs, I have had an application made to me for a warrant for your arrest."

The Chancellor went a peony hue, as we have seen him do before.

"Your Grace is joking."

"I wish I were. I found it anything but a joke, and I am afraid that you are not likely to find it one either."

Sir Tristram removed his glasses. He held them in his hand. His face became hard and stern.

"May I ask Your Grace to be more explicit?"

The Duke turned. Placing one elbow upon the arm of his chair, he looked at Sir Tristram as he leaned his chin upon his hand.

"Triggs, Miss Cullen has applied to me to issue a warrant against you for assault."

"Surely such an application was irregular."

"I am not so sure of that, I am not so sure. Anyhow, I told her that it was. The only result of which, so far as I can judge, will be that she will make the application, in more regular form, either to me, or to someone else, to-morrow. But that is not the point. Triggs, did you do it?"

"Is it necessary that Your Grace should ask me?"

"You didn't kiss her?"

Sir Tristram took out his handkerchief. He actually gasped for breath. It is to be feared that at that moment the representative of English law almost told a lie. However, it was only almost; not quite. He merely temporised.

"The whole affair is a pure absurdity."

"How do you mean? Is the charge unfounded?"

Sir Tristram drew his handkerchief across his brow.

"Supposing I did kiss her."

"Supposing! Triggs? Good heavens! I remember your leading for a woman who brought exactly such a charge against a man. I remember how clearly you pointed out how, under certain circumstances, such an action might be, and was, an offence against good morals. Didn't Pickum give the man six months?"

The lawyer's resemblance to a bull-dog became more and more pronounced. He all but showed his teeth.

"I don't know, Duke, if you are enjoying a little amusement at my expense."

The Duke sprang to his feet. His bearing evinced an accession of dignity which, in its melodramatic suddenness, almost approached to farce.

"It is not my habit, Sir Tristram, to regard my magisterial duties as offering much scope for amusement. Situated as I am--as you are--as we all are--our party!--in the eyes of the nation, it seems to me that this matter may easily become one of paramount importance. Of such importance that I have come to you as a friend, to-night, to ask you, if there is a chance of Miss Cullen's charge becoming so much as whispered abroad, to seriously consider if it would not be advisable for you to place your resignation in the hands of the Prime Minister before your appointment to the Chancellorship is publicly announced."

Sir Tristram's jaw dropped open. His resemblance to a bull-dog perceptibly decreased.

"Duke!"

"I am not certain, in coming to-night, that I have not allowed my friendship for you to carry me too far. Still, I have come."

"Your Grace is more than sufficiently severe. If you will allow me to exactly explain my position in this matter, I shall have no difficulty in making that evident. I fear that Miss Cullen is a dangerous young woman."

The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

"You, of all men, ought to know that, under certain circumstances, women are dangerous--and even girls."

"Precisely. That is so. But, I think that, after I have made my explanation, you will allow that Miss Cullen is an even unusually dangerous example of a dangerous sex." He paused--perhaps for reflection. When he continued, it was with a hang-dog air. "Some short time since I did myself the honour of asking Miss Cullen to become my wife. I fear that--eh--circumstances induced me to take her answer too much for granted. So much so, indeed, that--eh--while I was waiting for her answer, I--eh--I--eh--kissed her. I do not wish to lay stress upon the accident that the kiss was but the merest shadow of a kiss. But such, in fact, it was."

"In plain language, Triggs, you kissed her against her will."

"I had no idea that it was against her will, or I should certainly not have done it. Her behaviour after--eh--my action, filled me with the most profound amazement. She jumped up. She addressed me in language which I can only describe as more pointed than elegant. And--eh--she walked away, leaving me, I do assure Your Grace, dumbfounded."

"Well?"

The Duke's back was turned to Sir Tristram, possibly because there was something on His Grace's face which bore an amazing resemblance to a smile.

"Well, I heard nothing more of the matter. Indeed, I have heard and seen nothing of the lady till I met her here to-day. This evening she has alluded to the matter in a manner and in terms which filled me with even more profound amazement than her behaviour on the--eh--original occasion."

"But, man, didn't you apologise?"

"I apologised in terms of almost abject humility. But that did not content her. I will be frank with Your Grace. She made me a proposition which----"

The Duke waved his hands. He cut Sir Tristram short.

"I have heard too much already. Triggs, I have allowed my friendship for you to play havoc with my discretion, let me hear no more. My advice to you is compromise, compromise, at almost any cost. You don't want to have your career ruined by a girl, and for the mere shadow of a kiss. To consider nothing else, think of the laughter there would be. As you say, the young woman can be dangerous, and, if nothing happens to change her purpose, you may take my word for it that she means to be."

Before Sir Tristram could reply, the Duke was gone. The newly appointed representative of the majesty of English law was left alone with his papers and his reflections. These latter did not seem to be pleasant ones. Words escaped his lips which we should not care to print;--we fear they referred to that undutiful ward of his lordship's court. Inwardly, and, for the matter of that, outwardly, he cursed her with bell, book, and candle; certainly never was heard a more terrible curse. And, so thoroughly did he enter into the spirit of the thing, that he was still engaged in cursing her when the door opened, and in front of him was Miss Cullen with the handle in her hand.

She looked charming, and by that we mean even more charming than usual. She had changed her dress for a _peignoir_, or a dressing-gown, or something of the kind. Beyond question Sir Tristram had no notion what the thing was called. It suited her to perfection--few men had a better eye for that sort of thing in a woman than he had. There is no fathoming feminine duplicity, but no one ever _looked_ more surprised than did that young woman then. She had thrown the door wide open and rushed into the room, and half closed it again behind her before she appeared to recognise in whose presence and where she really was.

"I--I thought--isn't this Mary Waller's room? Oh--h!"

As struck with panic she turned as if to flee. But Sir Tristram, who was gifted, before all else, with presence of mind, interposed. He rose from his chair.

"Miss Cullen, may I beg you for moment?"

"Sir! Sir Tristram Triggs!" Miss Cullen's air of dignity was perfect, and so bewitching. "I had something which I wished to say to Lady Mary Waller. There has been some misunderstanding as to which was her room. I must ask you to accept an apology."

"Unlike you, Miss Cullen, I always accept an apology."

"Indeed. Then my experience in that respect has, I presume, been the exception which proves the rule."

"May I ask when you apologised to me,--and for what?"

"This evening--," the lady looked down; her voice dropped; thrusting the toe of her little shoe from under the hem of her skirt, she tapped it against the floor--"for becoming a wife."

The grim man behind the table regarded her intently. Although he knew that the minx was worsting him with his own weapons, she appealed to, at any rate, one side of him so strongly, that he was unable to prevent the corners of his mouth from wrinkling themselves into a smile.

"May I ask, Mrs. Stanham----"

"Sir Tristram!" She threw out her arms towards him with a pretty little gesture. "You have set my heart all beating! You have brought the tears right to my eyes! You are the first person who has called me by my married name."

He moved his hand with a little air of deprecation--as if the thing were nothing.

"May I ask, Mrs. Stanham, if Mr. Thomas Stanham is related to the Duke of Datchet?"

"Related?--Of course he is!--He's his favourite cousin."

"His _favourite_ cousin?" We doubt if she was justified in her use of the adjective, but, the simple truth is, she _was_ a dangerous young woman. "I see. The plot unfolds. May I ask, further, if this little comedy was rehearsed in advance?"

"And in my turn, may I ask, Sir Tristram, what it is you mean?"

They looked at each other, eye to eye. They understood each other pretty well by the time Sir Tristram's glance dropped down again to the papers on his table. His tone became, as it were, judicial.

"Well, Mrs. Stanham, I have been considering the matter of which you spoke to me this evening, and, having regard to the whole bearing of the case, to the social position of Mr. Thomas Stanham, and so forth, speaking, of course, _ex parte_, and without prejudice, I may say that, as at present advised, if proper settlements are made, the marriage might be one which would not meet with the active disapprobation of the court."

Sir Tristram raised his eyes. The lady shook her head--very decidedly.

"That won't do."

"Won't do?--What do you mean?"

"What I say. I'm not going to have Tommy bothered about settlements. I'm settlement enough for Tommy. What you have to do is to sit down and to simply write this: 'My dear Mrs. Stanham,--Speaking as Lord Chancellor, it gives me much pleasure in assuring you, as a ward of the court, that your marriage with Mr. Thomas Stanham meets with my entire and unreserved approval.--Yours faithfully, Tristram Triggs!'" Sir Tristram glowered--he might! But she was undismayed. "You will have to do it, sooner or later--you're a very clever man, and you know you will!--so why not do it at once?"

He did it at once. Actually! Possibly because the whole affair appealed keenly to his sense of humour,--one never knows! She read the paper, folded it, and then she said--with such a pout! and with such malice in her eyes!--

"Now you may kiss me again; if you like."

"I am obliged to you; but the costs in the suit have already been too heavy."

"Then I'll kiss you!"

And she did--with some want of precision, just over the right eye. Then she fled to the door. When she was half-way through it, she turned, and waved towards him the hand which held the paper.

"You are my guardian, you know."

SOME COSTLY PETS.

HOME LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

DESCRIBED BY ONE WHO HAS LIVED THERE.

To the majority of Englishmen the phrase "Life on board a Man-of-War" calls up pictures of smart gun-drill, tactical exercises, and other more or less irksome though necessary duties. Few people indeed have any cognizance of the way in which our bluejackets live their daily life and how they manage to amuse themselves in the spare time at their disposal during the three years afloat, which is the usual period of a seagoing ship's commission.

Jack is awakened at 5 a.m. in summer and 6 a.m. in winter by the loud blare of a bugle under his hammock, and the hoarse voices of the bosun's-mates shouting "Show a leg there. Arise and shine, 'rise and shine. All ha- - - - - -nds lashupandstowhammocks." Having lashed his bedding in his hammock in the regulation manner, by taking seven turns round it with his hammock-lashing, he has his breakfast, for which meal he is allowed half an hour.

He then works and drills more or less continuously until noon, with the exception of 15 minutes' "stand easy" at 8 a.m., when he is allowed to smoke, and to go down to his mess and eat and drink if he feels so inclined.

At noon the ship's company is "piped to dinner."

Noon is the dinner hour of our navy right throughout the world, and though things have greatly changed since the introduction of steam and the torpedo, the navy still retains the "bosun's pipes" of the days of Nelson. No sooner is the shrill pipe sounded than there is an excited rush of men to the cook's "galley," whence arises a cloud of odorous steam redolent of baked meats, vegetables, and baked and boiled "duffs" (so dear to the naval heart of all ages), which are to feed the 600 or 700 odd hungry men just released from work.

SERVING OUT JACK'S GROG (12.30).]

Men going on watch at noon--as the Marine sentries, for example--are allowed to fetch their dinner at "seven bells" (11.30), and sometimes ludicrous mistakes will arise through this privilege. The men take turns to prepare the dinner, and the cook of the mess for the day usually fetches his mess-mates' dinner from the "galley." On one occasion which the writer recalls, the cook was at work on deck when the bell struck seven, and could not get away. Several of his mess-mates (he was a Marine Artillery man) having to go on watch at noon, proceeded to the "galley" in quest of their dinner, and "fisted" (seized) a savoury dish they imagined to be theirs, without first examining the brass mess-number on the side thereof. The dinner was divided and eaten, and the plates were being washed up, when a group of excited bluejackets, having questioned every other mess in the ship, made their way to No. 19 mess and hungrily demanded their dinner.

TEETOTAL SAILORS RECEIVING CASH INSTEAD OF RUM.]

The Marines had taken the wrong one, but offered their own in exchange. Search at the "galley" failed to produce the missing meal, which was eventually discovered stowed away beneath a wash-tub under the Marines' mess-table, uncooked. The absent-minded cook for the day, who was much taken up with a song of his own composition, entitled "A Barrack-room Dinner," which he was to sing at a forthcoming entertainment, had, in his contemplation of the visionary meal he was to sing of, forgotten to take the actual dinner to the galley, and there it lay in the mess in all its uncooked glory.

After a somewhat heated discussion, the Marines appeased the bluejackets by paying for a dinner of corned beef and pickles from the canteen, and thought they had heard the last of the matter; but the sailors had determined to pay the "Joeys" in their own coin, and did so a few days later, when the ship's company, being at "collision quarters," the Marines' messes were emptied of all their inmates. A party of bluejackets was stationed with the diving apparatus on the main-deck near the Marines' messes, and in the party were several who had suffered the loss of their dinner. It was 4 p.m., and noticing a large "plum-duff" on the table, evidently intended as a delicacy for tea, they pounced on it to a man. When the Marines came down in hungry expectation, behold! there was but an empty dish.

Dinner time lasts an hour and a quarter, and at "one bell" (12.30) the bugle-call for grog--"Nancy Dawson," as it is nick-named--summons the cooks to the grog tub.

The bugle-call, which is unknown even to army men, is given on the previous page.

Each man above the age of eighteen is allowed half a pint of grog, usually mixed in the proportion of one part of rum to three of water, and hence familiarly termed "three water"; and the number of half-pints due to each mess is served out to the cook of that mess for the day. The cooks stand _à queue_ in the numerical order of their messes, the mess whose turn it is to pump the grog-water for that day (the messes take daily turns at so doing, petty officers' mess excepted) standing first "on tally," and the grog is served out by a petty officer and the Marine sergeant of the guard, under the supervision of a warrant officer and the ship's steward, who, book in hand, checks off the number of pints allotted to each cook.

The grog-tub is usually decorated with some loyal motto worked in brass, a first favourite being "The Queen, God bless Her."

A large proportion of men, thanks to the praiseworthy exertions of that true friend of Naval mankind, Miss Agnes Weston, are teetotalers; and these men, together with the boys under 18, are allowed money instead of rum at the rate of one penny one day and three farthings the next alternately. This is paid them once a quarter (monthly in harbour ships) by the paymaster in exactly the same manner in which the entire ship's company receive their ordinary pay.

The dinner-hour, too, is a convenient time for the sale of dead or "run" men's effects.

When a man has absented himself without leave for seven days he is officially posted a deserter, and any clothes, uniform, &c., he may have left behind him are sold by auction to the highest bidder, the proceeds going to the Government.

AN AUCTION--SELLING A DESERTER'S CLOTHES.]

Jack Tar, like a great number of his social superiors, does not believe in giving a paternal Government any more than he can conveniently help; and many a great bargain does he pick up at these sales. For instance, a white duck tunic, such as the master-at-arms is holding up for inspection in our illustration, and which costs Jack 4s. to 5s., will start at 3d. and slowly mount up to 6d. or 8d., beyond which sum the bidding seldom rises.

At 1.15 p.m., dinner being over, on ordinary week days the bugle sounds "Clean Guns," and work recommences; but on Sundays and Thursdays (known to the bluejacket as "Spun-yarn Sunday") the ship's company are granted an afternoon of rest.

As soon as dinner time is over the bosun's mate pipes the sufficiently obvious pipe "Hands make and mend clothes"; and, as Jack makes all his own wearing apparel, he is not slow to take advantage of the time allowed him.

In fine weather the men bring their machines on deck and smoke and sew together. Every conceivable kind of needlework does Jack execute equally well. And not only the rank and file, but the petty officers also are glad to make their own clothes rather than buy them ready made; and though Jack is generally a self-taught tailor, he turns out far smarter work than the slop-shops. The difference is very obvious if one compares a bluejacket wearing uniform "built" by his own deft fingers, with one who is wearing a suit bought at some "Naval Outfitter's."

The men have the forward part of the upper deck to themselves, the petty officers having the space further aft set apart for them; but this advantage is not without its little drawbacks. Witness an incident experienced by the writer.

He was seated by a ventilator playing chess--a favourite game--with a comrade. The fleet was about to enter Vigo, and a heavy sea was running, drenching the fo'c'sle and the other side of the deck, but leaving the space where the players were seated dry as a bone. They were just congratulating themselves on their comfortable quarters, when the ship, suddenly altering course to make the entrance to the bay, slewed round to port, and a heavy sea came neatly in and caught them as they sat. Chessmen, board, and players went suddenly floating about the deck in picturesque confusion, to the great amusement of the onlookers, who were expecting some diversion. Going below to change his clothes--for he was wet to the skin--the writer had the bad luck to stand directly under the same ventilator, and no sooner had he donned dry clothes than another malevolent and illfavoured sea came carefully down the ventilator shaft and rendered him as wet again. He tenderly avoided that ventilator during the remainder of the cruise.

Thursday afternoon is the recognised time for the opening of the mysterious and voracious "Scran-bag."

On board a man-of-war tidiness is a matter of great importance, and with a view to enforcing it an officer--on Sundays and Thursdays the puissant captain himself--makes a tour of the entire ship at certain hours. Woe betide the luckless man who has left out of its place the smallest article! For when the decks are being cleared up for the "Rounds" (as the inspection is termed), here a towel that has been inadvertently left on a rack instead of being stowed away in its appointed place, the kit-bag--here a book, or a coat, or a pound of tobacco, stowed away out of sight behind a scuttle cover, and discovered by the insinuative, far-reaching hand of the "Crusher," as the ship's corporal is familiarly termed, a hand that has a pleasant knack of exploring out-of-the-way nooks and corners--in short, any article that is left about is confiscated, and placed within a huge canvas bag, the "Scran-bag."

Every Thursday it is opened, and there gathers around it an excited knot of men who overhaul its contents thoroughly, a ship's corporal standing by to see that no man claims "what isn't his'n." But before the owner is allowed to take away his article he is mulcted in one penny for each article, to be put in the poor-box, or else he has to provide a piece of soap to be used in scrubbing decks.

Nearly everyone has seen "Ship's tobacco" in some form or other, but few know how the sailor prepares it for use. It is served out to him monthly, at the same time as his soap, in packages of 1 lb., for which he pays 1_s._ 1_d._, being allowed it duty free. It is a dark, rich leaf, and the first thing done is to remove the stems. This done, some water is sprinkled on the loose leaves (the old salt will prefer rum, to add to its strength and flavour), and the whole is enclosed in a piece of canvas and tightly bound with twine until it assumes a cigar-like shape, pointed at each end. Next some fine line is taken, one end secured to the tobacco and the other made fast to some strong support. One or two men now sit astride the line, and the tobacco is wound round and round, the weight of the men compressing it to about half its original bulk. When entirely covered with line it is tightly secured, and in two or three days is ready for use.

At night the men's time may fairly be considered their own. On certain evenings fresh water is served out for the washing of clothes, for Jack is his own washerwoman as well as tailor. That the marine is no less handy than his sailor brother may be gathered from the fact that the ship's cobbler usually belongs to that immensely useful branch of the service so aptly described by Kipling as "soldier and sailor too."

JACK AS TAILOR--MAKING AND MENDING HIS CLOTHES.]

A number of men who are handy with razor and scissors make a good addition to their pay by attending to the tonsorial wants of their less gifted brethren, and shave and cut hair in a heavy sea-way with the ship rolling and pitching all over the place as easily as they do in harbour with an immovable deck to stand on.

A SKILFUL MACHINIST.]

"All work and no play"--the proverb was made for Jack; and though the bluejacket has to make his own amusement he does it as thoroughly as he does all else he puts his hand to. Nearly every ship in the navy has its nigger troupe or theatrical party, and some really clever performances are given; the make-up and dress are good, and would be no disgrace to a professional company. The fair sex, though absent, are hardly conspicuous thereby; few uninitiated eyes would detect in the female characters a middle-aged able-seaman or a cheeky young ordinary.

A more athletic relaxation is boxing, which is--as it should be--a favourite amusement aboard. Many a good man has the Royal Marines or the navy supplied to the professional ring.

While the men are amusing themselves in various ways their superiors are likewise killing time, and will often indulge in cricket on the quarter-deck, which is screened with canvas to avoid losing the ball overboard. The game can only be played at sea, for in harbour the quarter-deck is required for more serious work. The ball is usually a soft tennis-ball. The officers don flannels, and many an exciting game, such as Ward-room _v._ Gun-room, is played, and continued at every opportunity till the match is finished.

Every officer aboard takes an interest in these matches, captain and commander often coming on deck to encourage their juniors with their august presence, and many a match won by the navy ashore has been due to the practice aboard. For if a man can play cricket with a sloping and mobile deck beneath him he can surely do better on a well-rolled pitch.

On Saturday nights, on such ships as carry one, the band discourses sweet dance-music for the delectation of the men; and these proverbially ardent lovers of Terpsichore are true to their goddess, even though the wind is howling great guns, and the ship rolling and pitching in such a way that none but true sons of Neptune could even walk upright, to say nothing of dancing.

When no band is carried, a miscellaneous collection of blue-jacket and marine musical amateurs supply the deficiency; and their music, though not perhaps up to the standard of Mr. Dan Godfrey, amply fulfils its requirements.

SAILORS CLAIMING THEIR ARTICLES ON THE OPENING OF THE "SCRAN-BAG."]

When the ship is in harbour, leave is often allowed, and in connection with shore-going there is an interesting formality not generally known. It is one of the most heinous crimes in the naval decalogue to attempt to smuggle any intoxicant aboard; and to obviate such a possibility every man on returning from shore is searched by the corporal of the gangway, a ship's corporal standing by, book in hand, to enter the names of the offenders in the "black list," to be dealt with next day by the commander.

"JACK IS HIS OWN WASHERWOMAN."]

The corporal of the gangway is usually an experienced Marine told off for the duty, and under his hands it would be difficult for even the most crafty smuggler to conceal any liquor about his person.

But to the credit of our navy be it said that cases of smuggling are extremely rare.

As a general rule Jack Tar and Joe the Marine, though certainly sometimes labouring under conditions trying to even the most law-abiding civilian, conform to regulations and discipline with that breezy cheerfulness and brave good-will which makes them, as they always have been and it is to be hoped always will be, the idols of their countrymen, the proud boast of their nation, and a standing menace to her enemies.

OFFICERS PLAYING CRICKET ON THE QUARTER DECK.]

CRICKET SKETCHES.

_Two Pages by Mr. "Rip."_

HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY.

A COMEDY IN AN OMNIBUS.

BY CLARENCE ROOK; ILLUSTRATED BY B. E. MINNS.

The gloom was gathering. Ten minutes ago the conductor had leaned from his step, taken the lamp from some unseen hand, and stuck it up in its place by the door. The bus lurched round the corner into Bishop's Road. It was a Bayswater bus, and the old gentleman who was changing his seat drove his elbow into my hat.

"Bless me! I'm always doing that. Most extraordinary! I'm sure I beg your pardon."

I told him that it was of little consequence, and another swing of the bus seated him suddenly beside the tired-looking girl with a music portfolio in her hand. She opened her eyes for a moment, and then closed them again. The woman beyond shifted her baby to the other arm--the arm furthest removed from the old gentleman--and continued to rock it mechanically.

The old gentleman evinced a restlessness which was not suggested by his mild aspect and his white hair, though a closer examination revealed a certain furtive look in his eyes. Four separate times he had shifted his seat since I had taken my place in the corner next the door at Oxford Circus. A slight irritation at his want of repose caused me to shoot a protesting glance at him over the top of my evening paper, for few things annoy me so much as purposeless activity. Old gentlemen should be glad enough to sit still when they have the chance. But I could not find it in my heart to be angry with such a benevolent-looking old gentleman.

It was just then, as my eyes were returning to my paper, that the demon of suspicion took tentative hold upon my mind. "Why," I asked myself, "do nice-looking old gentlemen, with white hair and shifting eyes, want to change their place in a bus?"

The suspicion came--and went, for the kindly and venerable face gave no hold for doubt. But I laid down my paper upon my knees and leant back in the corner to watch him, speculating whether he would change his place again before we came to Westbourne Grove. The driver's whip-lash sounded on the middle pane opposite to me, and the bus slowed down to take up a passenger who, after a glance inside, mounted to the roof.

The conductor shoved his parcel up after him, pulled the string and resumed his position against the side of the door, where, upon that mysterious block which is kept in a receptacle over the entrance, he was apparently making sketches of the passengers inside. Mentally commending his diligence, I turned my eyes again to the old gentleman, who met my glance for a moment, and seemed to deprecate my displeasure by the lifting of his brows and a turn of his head.

As the bus quickened up again, the tired-looking girl swayed slightly, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the old gentleman. The old gentleman glanced sideways at the closed eyes of his neighbour, and, as a kindly smile stole over his face, his arm slid round the girl's waist. The pair made quite a pretty picture. The conductor at my elbow turned slightly, to get a better light upon his sketching block.

And then I noticed a curious disturbance--only a momentary rise and fall--in the dress of the sleeping girl. No one, so far as I could tell, had moved. The girl's hands were lying in her lap, precariously clasping her music portfolio. The disturbance occurred on the right side of the dress, which was the side furthest from the old gentleman in whose kindly embrace the girl lay.

The explanation came to me in a flash. In so sudden a flash that I turned in the same instant to the conductor and found his sidelong glance meeting mine.

"See that?" he muttered, under the clatter of the bus.

"I should think I did," I said, "he's picked her pocket."

"I've 'ad a eye on the old josser for the last month," he said. "I'll make it a fair cop this time. You're my witness."

"Well," I said, "I'm not awfully keen on being mixed up----"

"Bit of high-spyin' now," he said. "What's the matter with a little bit o' high-spyin', eh?"

The conductor mounted the steps to the roof. The tired girl, awakened suddenly to her position, straightened herself and peered anxiously through the window of the bus as though to make certain that she had not been carried to Wormwood Scrubs in her sleep. Reassured, she gathered up her portfolio in a firmer grasp with one hand, and with the other searched the back of her head for errant pins.

Round the edge of my paper I watched the old gentleman, whose eyes were now fixed obliquely upon the woman on his left. I distinctly saw his eyes travel down from the woman's face to her black cloth jacket, and stop at the outside pocket, from which her omnibus ticket was peeping. The pocket was on a level with, and almost touching his elbow, and his hand, his left hand, which was resting upon his knee, began slowly to travel towards the pocket of the tired-looking woman.

The baby was kicking, grasping at the stuffy air with crinkled fingers, and threatened to give voice, and the tired-looking woman, rocking more anxiously than before, looked timidly from one neighbour to another as though in apology for the wrath to come.

At that moment my glance was attracted to a point above the old gentleman's head, where I met the eyes of the conductor, pressed close against the window-pane. A little higher was the tip of his nose, whitened by the pressure, and above that his stubby red moustache, underneath which a mouth gaped with inquiry. For a moment or two I was fascinated by the inverted face, which seemed to belong to some other-world creature which had tumbled from extra-mundane space and stuck fast upon the window of the Bayswater bus.

The benevolent old gentleman, quite unconscious of the watchful eyes behind his head, was regarding with a bland smile the advertisements on the window behind me. And as my eyes fell again on the spot where I had last seen his hand, I saw that it was not there. There never was a more unskilful performance. For there sat the old gentleman before my eyes, looking calmly over my head, with two fingers inserted into the pocket of the woman who was rocking the baby. As though it knew the wrong that was being done, the baby gave vent to the threatened yell, and the mother, patting it, and rocking it, and speaking to it in unknown tongues, saw nothing and felt nothing else.

Suddenly, as I watched, the benevolent old gentleman dropped his eyes from the advertisements, and mine arrested them as they fell. Never was an old gentleman so vastly perturbed. I almost felt sorry for him; for an aged criminal who has not learned the art of escaping detection and is therefore hopelessly incompetent, is a pathetic sight.

The omnibus stopped with a jerk just as we came within the range of the lamps at the corner, and the old gentleman, so evil were his deeds, seemed to shrink from the light. I was not quite certain of the etiquette with pickpockets. Ought I to leap upon him then and there and to denounce him? That would be melodramatic, I reflected; and I hate a scene; so I only raised myself from my seat, borrowed support from the handrail above my head, and waited upon events.

The tired girl bestirred herself and looked round, the woman with the baby changed her burden again from one arm to the other and peered anxiously at the door.

"Royal Oak," I said, answering her look of inquiry.

She sank back in her seat and closed her eyes, and at the same moment the old gentleman jumped up and shambled towards the door, while the other passengers carefully drew in their toes.

By this time I noticed that the conductor's face had detached itself from the window. Three people had risen to leave; but the old gentleman was first, being clearly in a hurry; and as he found himself unable to pass me, half-standing and half-sitting, with my hand on the overhead rail, he looked pleadingly at me, as though imploring my silence. I hesitated a moment. It was none of my business to arrest criminals. But I did not mind giving a passive support to the cause of justice, so I stayed where I was. And then the conductor appeared, blocking the doorway.

"No, yer don't," he said.

"My good man," began the old gentleman, "I sincerely trust I have given no offence. I only----"

"I see yer," said the conductor, looking over his shoulder towards the public-house, and jerking his head.

"Then kindly oblige me," said the old gentleman, "by not making a fuss. If a sovereign now----"

"Oh, stow it," said the conductor. "You've done it once too often, that's what you 'ave. I see yer right enough this time, and you're going to be give in chawge, that's what you are. Strite."

The old gentleman looked helplessly round him. Impatient passengers began to remonstrate from the step; others from the kerb.

"'Old on," said the conductor, "we're all goin' 'ome to tea."

A policeman crossed from the opposite corner.

"'Igher up there!" he remarked, dispassionately.

"Look 'ere, constable," said the conductor, "'ere's a job in your line." Then his tone became official. "I 'ereby give this man in chawge for picking pockets."

"Oh," said the policeman, scattering the bunch of people gathered round the step.

"I see him--and this gentleman 'ere see him," said the conductor. "'Tain't the first time, neither. Old 'and, he is; that's what _he_ is."

The doorway was now blocked by the policeman's form.

"That ain't good enough for me," he said. "Any of you ladies and gentlemen lost anything?"

"I see 'is 'and in that lydy's pocket," said the conductor, pointing over the constable's shoulder at the woman with the baby. "You feel in your pocket, lydy."

Then ensued a general searching of pockets, while a rival omnibus swept by triumphantly and gathered up such passengers as were too impatient to await the outcome of the situation.

I leaned forward and said in an undertone to the girl with the portfolio, who alone of the passengers shewed no interest in the contents of her pocket, "You had better look in your pocket, I feel convinced it was picked while you were asleep upon his shoulder."

"I wasn't," she said, abruptly. Then, reflecting apparently that she was rude as well as tired, she added, "I've nothing worth stealing, thank you all the same."

In a desultory way she began fumbling in the pocket of her dress. The old gentleman stood by the policeman. His face had grown very red; his eyes, wandering from one passenger to another, became suddenly fixed, and his face was redder than ever. It was sufficiently obvious that he was very uneasy. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw the baby's head hanging at an alarming angle over the woman's arm. The mother was leaning towards the light and looking at the contents of her free hand--a bus ticket, two pennies, a farthing, and a sovereign.

"Now, then! lost anything, mem?" asked the conductor.

"No, _I_ ain't lost nothing," she began, slowly.

The old gentleman nodded to her pleasantly.

"Though," she continued, "I don't rightly understand why----"

"I think this must belong to you, sir," said the girl with the portfolio, suddenly, holding out a sovereign to the old gentleman.

"Not at all, my dear; nothing to do with me, nothing whatever," he said, nodding his head at her. "Old enough to be your grandfather, too!"

"Now then, what's all that?" asked the policeman.

"Only this gentleman must have been putting a sovereign into my pocket, and I insist--oh! I insist----"

"Look here, constable," said the old gentleman, "can't you see that you are embarrassing the young lady? Any little transaction between her and me is none of your business, or anyone else's either."

The old gentleman stamped impotently upon the floor of the omnibus.

"He's been giving money away," said the policeman over his shoulder to the conductor, "looks like."

"And why not, why not?" said the old gentleman. "What's the good of having money if you can't make people happy with it?"

The constable looked reflectively at him.

"I dunno," he said. "I'd better take your name and address."

The old gentleman looked apprehensively round. Then he took a card from his pocket and gave it to the policeman.

"Please don't read it out," he said.

The policeman looked at the card, put it into his pocket-book, and made a note in pencil. Then he swung himself off the omnibus and looked hard at the old gentleman as he descended slowly.

"You go home," he said. "You want to be took care of, you do."

The conductor stood upon the kerb with his hand on the rail, looking after the old gentleman as he trudged off towards Royal Oak Station.

"'Urry up there," said the constable. "Wastin' my time," he added, as he turned his back.

The conductor rang the bell and leaned dolefully against the stairway as the bus started away from the dispersing crowd.

The girl with the portfolio was regarding her sovereign thoughtfully, holding it between her thumb and forefinger; then she returned it with her handkerchief to her pocket, looked doubtfully round and blushed slightly.

The woman with the baby was biting something, which, as she caught my eye, she hurriedly slipped into her jacket pocket. "Not that I'd be be'olden to anybody," she remarked at large, rocking her baby with much energy, "me 'usband earning good money, thanks be. But peliteness is peliteness----"

"You _may_ think yer know yer way abart," said the conductor, looking at me and jerking his head up and down, "but now and then you find you're left--badly left. Now, think o' that! Droppin' sovereigns all over the place. Well, I wish I'd a'knowed!"

THE HEAVENLY TWINS.]

LITTLE DARLINGS.

HALF A MILLION PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHILDREN.

_Words by Somers J. Summers. Photographic Illustrations by W. J. Byrne._

Locked away in the breast of Mr. W. J. Byrne, the children's photographer, is a secret which, when she has read this article, every mother of children will want to know. Let it be said at once, however, that her curiosity will have to go unsatisfied; Mr. Byrne has his secret, and wild interviewers cannot drag it from him.

Ability to pose adults gracefully and naturally before the camera is an accomplishment admittedly rare; in the case of children, with the difficulties increased tenfold, it must be a gift. It is one thing to dump a subject into a chair and obtain a likeness, another to make a picture as well. And when a man has taken half a million photographs of little sitters, in as many poses, he may be held to be something of an authority on the subject. That is Mr. Byrne's record; he is to children what Rosa Bonheur is to animals, save that he uses neither pencils nor brush; he is a veritable artist with the camera. Some of the examples of his skill here seen represent, it is not difficult to realise, an infinity of painstaking and experimenting, while others tell of patient waiting, followed by considerable alacrity at the moment of a fleeting expression which he desired to preserve. Mr. Byrne's method is very simple; one half of his secret is soon told.

"Photographing children," he says, "is charming work, but it can never be successful so long as the customary relations between them and the photographer exist. They usually enter a studio with much the same sort of feelings as they do a dentist's. They should be made to feel at home before the business side of their visit is reached. Instead of being at once placed in the 'operating' chair, they should be allowed to wander about, if old enough, at their own sweet wills and in any case become accustomed to their strange surroundings. Wild gesticulations, promises of chocolates, stories of 'the little bird,' and orders to 'keep like that,' only serve to produce expressions of wonder and fear. Personally I let the child amuse itself with new toys, and either pretend to take no notice, or else join in the game. This may go on for half an hour. Meanwhile, an attendant is quietly focussing an almost concealed camera, and when the child begins to prattle, I wait for an unconscious and happy expression, then snap goes the shutter, and the thing is done.

"Every child's face is beautiful to at least one pair of eyes. The features may not be symmetrical, the eyes may be small and dull, but the charm of childhood does not lie entirely in facial beauty. It is the coy smile and the quaint expression that a parent prizes most. And it is these characteristics that a photographer should aim to catch. Mothers often make the mistake of rehearsing the sitting at home. It is even better not to mention the matter in the presence of the little one; it is usually much more satisfactory if the visit is a surprise one as far as the child is concerned. It is also unwise to dress the young sitter in unaccustomed clothes or to warn it to be good. For general work, my rule about posing children is, 'Never pose them at all.'"

Mr. Byrne's studios are veritable toy-shops, containing everything from a jumping frog to a model of an Atlantic liner. Indeed, Mr. Byrne has given a big firm of toy-dealers a standing order to send anything new that comes in the market. Antiquarians will learn with a pang that the dear old Noah's Ark is going the way of all flesh. British children will have none of it. They refuse to look pleasant for less than a little bicycle with rubber tyres, or a miniature motor-car with real boilers--at least when they go to be photographed.

So much, then, for how Mr. Byrne's "happy" results are produced; what about his "unhappy" ones? Both are well represented here. Take the first pictures, Sunshine and Shadow. What caused the inquisitive little fellow in the first to find the world all dark and so little of interest in life a few seconds later?

It must have been something wholly unexpected, for it effected much the same change in his companion's countenance. Was it a pin-point gently insinuated between the shoulder blades, or a cold sponge dexterously applied to the little spine?

That is what mothers would like to know. Mr. Byrne says, with a smile, that it was neither--that the expression was a purely natural development. But will the mothers of England believe him?

There is, too, the case of the little boy gazing so intently into a hand-glass; what did he find hidden in its depths to make him suddenly cast it aside, and turn to where the photographer is presumably standing, with such a look of mingled disappointment and disgust? His discovery was evidently remarkable, for, as will be seen, it had the additional effect of taking his fore-lock out of curl. Again Mr. Byrne is appealed to, and again he smiles and vouchsafes the same reply. And again the mothers of England will have their suspicions.

In photography, as in many another profession, the path of those who would forsake the beaten track does not lie through acacia groves. Many obstacles strew the way. For instance, Mr. Byrne conceived the notion of posing children in a big boot, such as appears in two of the accompanying reproductions. It is a simple-looking boot, yet it took two years to make; that is to say, the day the order was given, and the day it was satisfactorily carried out, were separated by a span of such duration. But much happened in between. First of all Mr. Byrne made a rough design of what he wanted, giving the dimensions, etc., and sent it, through a friend, to a local bootmaker. Perhaps, not anxious to have his idea noised throughout camera-land, Mr. Byrne's instructions were not as explicit as they might be; it was the time of the dynamitard outrages, and the worthy artist in leather grew suspicious. What might his customer want with such a boot? it was most unusual; he had never heard of a man with such a large foot; and why only _one_ boot? He didn't like such peculiar orders, but he would do what he could in the matter; of course it would cost a goodish sum. As to whether the poor man had nightly visions of the strange boot being filled with infernal machines and placed under the House of Commons, and himself charged by the State with aiding and abetting the plot, no reliable information is forthcoming, but certainly, after two months had elapsed, he sent word to say that he found the work more difficult than he had anticipated, and that unless the one-legged individual, for whom the boot was apparently intended, could call and be measured in the ordinary way, he must regretfully throw up the job. A carpenter was next tried, but with little more success. The boot actually did come home, after a time, but it was large enough for six children to lose themselves in, instead of comfortably accommodating one. At this stage it occurred to Mr. Byrne that one of the Drury Lane "property" men, used to tailoring for pantomime giants and other unusual creatures, would be able to make a boot a little bit out of the common without being too inquisitive as to its mission in life. So it finally arrived, a beautiful creation, fit for any Brobdingnagian dandy, and redolent of Day and Martin. But Mr. Byrne wanted a dilapidated boot; to save further trouble, however, he proceeded, with the aid of a pocket knife and an old hatchet, to dilapidate it himself.

It was much the same with the egg appearing herewith. It was tried in canvas, wood, and papier-maché before the more serviceable aluminium produced a "lay" that any pantomime bird might be proud of. Both the boot and the egg have done yeoman service since. They have assisted in producing something approaching a thousand photograph-pictures.

When Mr. Byrne had shown that the novel could be blended with the artistic in child photography, would-be imitators were not slow to appreciate the innovation. Photographers wrote from all parts of the country to inquire where Mr. Byrne obtained his "properties"; they would like to add duplicates to their own studios. Guileless Mr. Byrne replied in each case--"From America."

It would be as difficult for Mr. Byrne to say how he came to make a spécialité of child photography as it would to explain what led him to take to the camera at all. He practically drifted into both.

"My life," he says, "might almost be described as one long drift. Although I was born in Ireland, I entered the Italian army, for some reason no one, not even myself, has ever been able to explain, when I was fifteen years of age. I fought in the Austro-Franco-Italian campaign of 1859, being one of the only two Britishers engaged in the war. The other was the late Colonel Peard. Like him, I was present at the great battles of Magenta and Solferino, and like him I several times came near ending my career on the plains of Lombardy.

"When the war was over, and there seemed no prospect of another, I drifted away from the colours, back to London, and into the more peaceful occupation of portrait making. Photography was in its infancy in those days; and I can only presume that I took kindly to it because I had always been something of an artist, which was of considerable advantage to me in my new profession. After a while I discovered that I secured happier results with children than was usual, probably because, being naturally fond of them, I devoted more care and attention to them than was customary, for child sitters were rare then, and photographers were apt to regard them as rather bad bargains, notwithstanding the higher fees charged."

It is not surprising to learn that Mr. Byrne has "snapped" nearly all the little English royalties; his studios being located at Richmond in Surrey, he has frequently been summoned to the White Lodge and Windsor Castle, not to mention more distant royal seats. Regarding juvenile princes and princesses, Mr. Byrne has something interesting to say.

"Royal children have charming and simple ways, and it is usually an easy matter to establish friendly relations with them. That once accomplished, photographing always becomes a pleasure. They are just as fond of new toys as other children, just as eager for a romp, frequently more so. Indeed, I have more than once had to 'play soldiers' with some of the Queen's grandchildren while waiting for them to reach a sitting-still mood."

Perhaps much of Mr. Byrne's success is due to the fact that photography is not merely his profession; it is his hobby as well. He is constantly devising new and novel poses, both for his private sitters and the child-models he employs. When a mother calls at the studio with her bairn, she is shown numerous bulky volumes, veritable picture galleries of children in almost every conceivable attitude, and invited to choose which she would prefer for her own little one's portrait. Bewildered by such a display, she usually elects to leave the choice to the photographer, and she is invariably wise; for the pose that shows to perfection the characteristic beauty of one child may be quite unsuitable for another. A trained eye notices these things as quickly as a practised artist can tell whether a certain bit of scenery is "paintable" or not. One of Mr. Byrne's child-models must be the most photographed little person in the country, for she has figured in no fewer than two thousand studies. To show the variety of these, a page herewith is devoted to a composite reproduction of the little model in some of her happiest poses. The sweet child, it might be mentioned, is the daughter of Mr. Byrne's laundress.

Mr. Byrne has three "Don'ts" for mothers who would secure speaking likenesses of their little ones. Don't let the little one know beforehand that it is going to a studio. Don't dress it in any costume to which it is unaccustomed. Don't endeavour to arrange its hair; this will look better if allowed to fall naturally.

It must not be supposed, however, that the subject of this article is a photographer of children only. Between them, eighty-nine exhibitions in various parts of the world have awarded him something like a quarter of a hundredweight of medals for exhibits of all kinds, while he has also photographed nearly every adult member of our royal family and innumerable celebrities. In this branch of his work, however, Mr. Byrne has to content himself with the artistic, and leave the novel severely alone. For the Prince of Wales, considerate sitter though he is, would hardly consent to have himself "caught" in an old boot, or Sir Ellis Ashmead Bartlett, though he does much to amuse his fellow members of Parliament, permit himself to be represented emerging from an aluminium egg. So the "properties" have to be laid aside at times.

"The Queen," says Mr. Byrne, "is one of the best sitters in the world, very rarely moving or spoiling a plate. That abomination of all studios, the head rest, is quite unnecessary in Her Majesty's case. The Prince of Wales takes quite a keen interest in photography himself, and when sitting will go to considerable personal trouble in order that the results may be successful. The Prince will get together a royal group where anyone else would fail. The German Emperor is a most genial sitter; but his pose before the camera is apt to be rather stiff, and his expression somewhat stern. Nearly every royal sitter, in fact, has some peculiarity which one finds it one's task to moderate without destroying altogether."

But we are no nearer Mr. Byrne's secret. How were the "unhappy" pictures obtained? Stories are told of fond mothers, waiting in anterooms, being horrified to suddenly hear piercing shrieks proceeding from the studio. Breathlessly they have dashed in, to find Mr. Byrne all smiles, baby all tears. When the proofs came home, the picture showing baby crying was generally voted wonderfully lifelike, even if it was not selected for general distribution.

These strange rumours are referred to, and once again Mr. Byrne is appealed to to withdraw the veil; but yet again he smiles and replies as before. Which reply, it is to be feared, the mothers of England will accept with the customary condiment.

POISONED RING.
POISONED GLOVES.
POISONED SWORD.
POISONED HOCKEY STICK.
POISONED SHIRT.
POISONED DAGGER.
POISONED BOOTS.
POISONED BOWL.
]

DEVICES CONCEIVED BY THE GRIM AND GHASTLY INGENUITY OF OUR FOREFATHERS.

The ingenuity of man in devising schemes to perpetuate life has almost been equalled by his ingenuity in framing devices to abridge it. In all ages there have been men who hated convention, even conventional murder. When they desired to remove an enemy secretly, they had recourse to poison; but not to ordinary schemes of poisoning. They made it an art.

An interesting device, very palpably suggested by the famous shirt of Nessus, is that given on the opposite page. The shirt was charged within with poison of great acerbity, which so acted upon the skin of its wearer as to inflame and then blister with incredible malignity, until the victim died in horrible agonies.

Various hypotheses have been put forward with respect to the history of the shirt we illustrate, which is now in an American museum; but there seems every reason to believe that it is the garment mentioned in a German work of the 15th century by Adolph Beckert, as having been exhumed with the body of a Greek military captain, with an inscription to the effect that, having been guilty of gross insubordination, amounting to treason, he was ordered to denude himself of his garments in the presence of the soldiers, and don the fatal tunic.

Of equal, if not greater antiquity, was the device in vogue among the Tartar princes.

When a prince desired to dispatch an inconvenient subject, he was invited to a game of hockey, participated in by the various nobles, officers and officials of the Court. The Royal Chamberlain always took good care that the technical miscreant should play with a special stick, within whose jewelled hilt lurked the deadly poison. But even the drug would have been scarcely sufficient to destroy life if there had not been also concealed in the handle a number of microscopic needle points which, tiny as they were, and almost unobserved at the first handling, were quite sufficient after a few minutes' play to puncture the skin.

In this connection we may advert to the vast number of swords and daggers extant whose tips were impregnated with poison; these are to be found in many museums in Europe. There are not a few even in our own Scotland Yard. Although legitimately poison devices, they betray little ingenuity.

The pair of gauntlets shown on the opposite page are said to have been the property of a great foreign political notability. Once well on the hands of the victim, a species of gum, with which the interior was lined, adhered with such tenacity to the flesh that it was next to impossible to remove the gloves, except by cutting them away; and even then the gum remained impervious to water, or of solution, until inflammation was succeeded by festering, and unless amputation of the whole arm followed, death inevitably ensued.

Several deaths from the wearing of poisoned boots have been recorded, notably that of Andre Nolofski, courier to the Russian Empress Catherine the Great, who was discovered some nine miles from Moscow, lying prone dead on the side of the road, with apparently not a mark of disfigurement, until someone removed his boots. Then a surgeon discovered that tiny poisoned needles had pierced his feet.

Poison rings were not unknown to the Romans. A hollow duct was contained in half the ring, from which poison was supplied to a needle of infinitesimal size at the opposite side. The other half of the circle enclosed a very delicate mechanism for operating the needle. When, with a slight pressure, the hand of the enemy was clasped with apparent cordiality and good-fellowship, it gently punctured the skin without exciting suspicion.

Another device we illustrate was in very common use amongst the Chinese up to a century ago. It consisted of a bowl heavily coated with a colourless soluble poison on the inside. Upon any hot liquid, such as tea, being poured into this cup, the poison became dissolved. As a whole service of this ware might come into the possession of one family without suspicion, it is not difficult to credit the fact that in spite of every precaution about food, seven or eight persons were often exterminated by this process.

OUR MONTHLY GALLERY OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PAINTINGS.

A FLOWER OF SPAIN.]

"HUSH."]

THE FAVOURITE.]

MEDITATION.]

GOOD-NIGHT!]

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note

Page 14: 'busses' corrected to 'buses', though 'busses' may have been in use in 1898, or may have been confused with fishing boats (herring busses).

"... he even saw cabs and buses with different eyes."

Page 40: 'our's' corrected to 'ours' (though 'our's' may have been in use in 1898).

"From the American aspect, ours is dull,..."

Page 56: 'Meterological' corrected to 'Meteorological'

"the Meteorological Office, a Government department...."

Page 78: 'ofence' corrected to 'offence'.

"... to have sufficiently purged himself of his offence?"

Pages 93-97: 'bluejacket' (noun) appears a number of times; blue-jacket (adjective) appears once.

'workwoman' and 'work-woman' also both appear, in different stories.

Numerous occurences of words which are sometimes joined by a hyphen, and sometimes separate, also appear (e.g. 'bugle-call' and 'bugle call').