Chapter IV: The Good Man and Cupid 256 (6)

I looked at him in amazement. A kind of inverted Christianity was at work had he only known it. But he prided himself on his paganism.

Well, now he is dead and can find no extenuating circumstances; but I have no doubt he would have explained the catastrophe perfectly, had it been anything short of fatal.

“I was getting very cheap,” he would probably have said, “and needed rest. I could not have got it naturally, being far too busy; so this accident was sent to keep me in bed for a couple of months and pull me clean round.”

But it is hard when the protective stars suffer from _trop de zèle_.

III.--THE NUT

He seemed to be an old habitué of the music-hall, for without a programme he had known all that was coming. And then suddenly he came to his own; for, “Watch this,” he said to those of us who were near him, strangers though we were, as a new number went up; “this is good. I know a chap in this. I’ll tell you when he comes on.” We watched and waited. It was a furious knock-about sketch, the scene of which was a grocer’s shop, staffed by comic grocers. Humorist after humorist came upon the stage, fell over each other, and went through the usual antics; but there was no news of our friend’s friend, nor was the play good.

And then at last a young man representing an aristocratic customer rushed on. “That’s him,” said the man, “that’s old Charley. He’s a nut, I can tell you.” (A nut is what we used to call a “dog,” with a touch more of irresponsibility and high-spirited idiocy.)

“Isn’t he a nut?” he asked us all with a radiant sweeping glance of inquiry. How could we disappoint him? I caught myself nodding in agreement. A nut, surely. “Oh, he’s a boy, I promise you. I’ve had some rare times with old Charley,” his friend went on. “You should see him at Forest Gate on Sundays! I tell you he’s a nut.”

The nut continued to do his best to prove his character. He screwed an eyeglass in his eye, he dashed the girls under the chin, he fell over his walking-stick, he flung his tall hat on the ground. His friend was in ecstasies. “Good old Charley!” he cried again; “isn’t he a nut? By Jingo, but he’s a nut!”

I left him exulting in his intimacy with Charley, while the youths round him glowed in the glory of even the temporary acquaintance of a man who knew intimately a nut on the music-hall stage.

And, after all, that is no small thing.

IV.--THE MASTER OF THE NEW SUBURB

“_The Nook._” Is Mr. Jupp in?

_Mrs. Jupp._ No, lady, I can’t say as he’s in just at the moment, but I daresay I could find him. He’s very likely at “The Limes,” or “Bellaggio,” or up at our other garden.

“_The Nook._” I want to see him very particularly. It’s about my garden. I live at “The Nook,” you know, and I want Mr. Jupp to come to me regularly.

_Mrs. Jupp._ Yes, lady; but I think you’d better see Jupp yourself. I’ll go and find him if you’ll take a chair.

“_The Nook._” But I could go perfectly well. Both those houses are on my way back.

_Mrs. Jupp._ Oh no, lady; you sit down; I’ll fetch him.

[MRS. JUPP _fetches_ JUPP _from “The Green Man.”_]

“_The Nook._” Oh! Mr. Jupp, I want you to come to my garden every Friday. What do you charge for that?

_Mr. Jupp._ Fridays, mum, I’m engaged at “Bellyvista.”

“_The Nook._” Then Wednesdays.

_Mr. Jupp._ Wednesdays, mum, I go to “The Red Bungalow.”

“_The Nook._” All day?

_Mr. Jupp._ Yes, mum, all day. By rights I ought to be there all the week, there’s that work to be done.

“_The Nook._” Mondays, then? Are you engaged on Mondays?

_Mr. Jupp._ Yes, mum; on Mondays I belongs to “Sans Souci.”

“_The Nook._” But this is Monday. Why aren’t you there now?

_Mr. Jupp._ I am, mum. This is my tea-time.

“_The Nook._” Couldn’t you give me your tea-times? You shall have tea--anything you like--in the garden, and if you gave me that hour every evening all through the week I daresay it would do.

_Mr. Jupp._ What, mum, work all through my tea-time!

“_The Nook._” I should pay you for it, of course. And really you’re much better without tea. You’ll enjoy your supper all the more, you know. Wouldn’t he, Mrs. Jupp?

_Mrs. Jupp._ Oh! I never interfere with Jupp’s affairs. Jupp must answer for himself.

“_The Nook._” Well, then, Mr. Jupp, couldn’t you give me an hour in the early morning before you start at the other houses?

_Mr. Jupp._ What about my own garden, mum? When am I going to do that?

“_The Nook._” Of course I should pay you well for coming then.

_Mr. Jupp._ What were you thinking of giving, mum?

“_The Nook._” Well, I would give you eightpence an hour--that’s four shillings a week. Will you come? Are there no other gardeners here?

_Mr. Jupp._ No, mum, no one; and even if there was, he wouldn’t be any use. He wouldn’t understand the soil. It’s very curious soil about here.

“_The Nook._” Well, will you come?

_Mr. Jupp._ I’ll let you know, mum. I’ll think about it and let you know. There’s so many after me I have to be careful, mum. But I’ll let you know.

“_The Nook._” Can’t you decide now? I’ll give you tenpence an hour.

_Mr. Jupp._ I’ll let you know, mum.

[_Exit “The Nook”; enter “La Hacienda.”_]

“_La Hacienda._” Is Mr. Jupp in?

_Mrs. Jupp._ No, sir. I can’t say he’s in just at the moment, but he’s not far away.

“_La Hacienda._” Where do you think he is?

_Mrs. Jupp._ Well, he might be at “Sans Souci,” and he might be at “Bellyvista,” or up at our other garden, perhaps. You see, being the only gardener about here, he’s so much in request. If you’ll take a seat I’ll fetch him.

[_She fetches_ JUPP _from “The Green Man.”_]

“_La Hacienda._” Mr. Jupp, I want to arrange with you about my garden. What day will suit you best?

_Mr. Jupp._ I don’t know, sir, as I’ve got any day.

“_La Hacienda._” You don’t mean to say you’re full up? The whole week?

_Mr. Jupp._ I might be able to squeeze in an hour here and there. Suppose--I only say suppose, mind--I was to come for an hour every morning before I started in regular at my day’s work, wherever it might be--at “The Nook,” or “Bellyvista,” or “Sans Souci,” or “The Red Bungalow,” or “The Corner House,” or wherever it was? Although, of course, I ought to be in my own garden then, as the missus here well knows. What would it be worth your while to give me?

“_La Hacienda._” For an hour every morning early?

_Mr. Jupp._ Yes, sir, time I ought to be giving to my own garden.

“_La Hacienda._” Well, as it’s important, and you seem to be the only jobbing gardener about here----

_Mr. Jupp._ No, sir, there’s no other, and even if there was, he wouldn’t be any good. He wouldn’t understand the soil. It’s very curious soil about here. It’s a matter of a lifetime to learn it.

“_La Hacienda._” Well, I wouldn’t mind as much as a shilling an hour, at any rate at first. Would that do?

_Mr. Jupp._ Well, I’ll think about it, and let you know, sir. I can’t decide anything till I’ve seen the gentleman at “The Trossachs.” He has the first claim on any of my spare time, such as it is; but I’ll let you know.

[_Exit “La Hacienda”; enter “The Cedars,” on a similar errand._]

V.--THE SECOND FIDDLE

“He is tall and thin; a Jew, of course. They are always Jews. He has a large hook nose such as I detest and a black moustache. He dresses very carefully, but it is cheap stuff; still, it looks smart, and women are so foolish. His hair is not long, for he wishes to be thought a man of the world as well as a musician. But I must confess he plays well, so far as technique goes, though he never feels it.

“His eyes are fat, and he has learned to roll them and close them rapturously, and lift his eyebrows, and now and then he sways his head and seems to be in a dream of beauty. That’s all trick, and very likely he practises it before the glass, for he has no music in his soul really, and he is always scheming. Even while his eyes appear to be closed in ecstasy he is looking under the lids at the women to see which is the best worth cultivating.

“I, too, adore women, although I am afraid of them, and I am so lonely I don’t mind confessing that once I too sat before the looking-glass and tried to make languishing faces like his; but I suddenly realized what I was doing and was ready to disfigure myself for shame. Yet they are so charming, some of the women here, and it would be so delightful to play on their feelings as he can and make them open their lips just a little and look away into nothing; above all to make them want me.

“Why one man playing a piece can do that and another man playing the same piece much better with real feeling cannot is a mystery. And I would be so nice to them. They would be able to trust me. I would give them such good advice and take such care of them.

“Instead, the women who come here, many of them, come only to watch _him_. They make their men bring them here, and often they forget to eat. Then the men they are with are furious. I have heard them sometimes at the nearest tables to the orchestra. ‘Why can’t you let that damned fiddler alone,’ I have heard them say--every one talks the same in our restaurant--‘and pay a little attention to me?’ And then the women are cross, and the meal is ruined.

“But when he goes off--as he does after every two or three selections--to sit with a friend or receive congratulations from the visitors who call him to their tables, and I have to take his place and lead the orchestra, then the men’s faces clear again, for they know that no woman will ever look at me or forget her food when I am playing a solo, for I am short and fair. It is no use being short and fair. I can play all that he does, and I love it too, which he does not--but it is useless. No one looks at me twice. I am short and fair, and middle-aged too.

“But even when I was younger and better dressed and didn’t care I never could get women to be interested in me. It is some trick, I suppose. He takes them all in; but I could tell them some things about him if I were asked--how mean he is, how vain, how jealous, how fickle.

“He is cruel too. When our poor pianist had pneumonia through playing for him one night in a cold hall he refused to allow him any money till he was well enough to play again. Five weeks. Not a penny. And the second violin, whose place I took, was discharged only because he was applauded too much in the solos. One who really needed the post too. A poor man with a large family.

“But women don’t mind about things like that. They don’t ask a man to be kind and good, especially if he plays well. And I confess that his playing is wonderful--technically. But no heart at all.

“Notes are continually being brought to him by the waiters. Sometimes they merely ask for certain things to be played, always waltzes or love songs, and sometimes they are more personal. And while we are playing a piece which one of the pretty women has asked for he is looking at her and making his faces and closing his eyes until she feels like a queen. Isn’t it strange? They should see him when we rehearse. He doesn’t smile then. He snaps and snarls.

“‘Ah!’ say I to myself as I watch it all through my spectacles, ‘you should see his wife waiting outside the restaurant to waylay him on his way to his cards and get some money. He wanted her once, before she was tired and plain. Now he only wants new faces and new voices and new admiration.’ That’s what I am saying behind my spectacles, but no one knows it. There’s no telepathy, as you call it, in me. I am short and fair. We who are short and fair are without magnetism. All there is for us is to be true; but women don’t mind about that. They want magnetism.

“It is difficult for me, being in his employ and being so unimportant, to help much, but sometimes when I see a really nice girl--and we have a few here--losing her head I try quite hard. I try to catch her eye and indicate my real opinion of him grimacing there. Of course, I can only frown and nod. What else could I do? I couldn’t go down and speak to her; but I try very hard with my expression.

“Once when he was making love to a new bookkeeper girl I was able really to act. I told her to be careful. She was a good girl, but oh so silly, as girls can be with musicians. All musicians, that is, but me and the fat ’cellist. She replied that what I said might be true but she liked him all the same. She took people as she found them, she said, and he was always very nice and kind to her.

“‘If you want a lover,’ I said, ‘let me be your lover. I have no one to love; he has thousands.’ But she only laughed. ‘There’s some fun in taking a man from thousands,’ she said. That’s what women are. I don’t want to win a girl from thousands of men. I just want her or I don’t want her. But women--at any rate the women who come here--are different.

“Well, she wouldn’t listen, but she was a good girl, and true to me, for she didn’t tell him what I said, although I couldn’t bring myself to ask her not to. But she was honourable and didn’t tell him. And so it went on; he smiling and bowing and playing to the women all day, at lunch and dinner, and going to tea with them in between, or playing cards with his little set of friends, and at night the bookkeeper girl waiting for him. And so it went on for a month, and then he grew tired and left her, and she lost her place here; and if she has any money now it is that which I have lent her to get through her trouble with.

“So you see what sort of a man he is. But that he can play I will admit. He has a wonderful touch, and a beautiful instrument worth a great deal of money. He could earn a large salary in any orchestra in the world. But there is no heart in his playing. He does not love music as one should.”

Without Souls

I.--THE BUILDERS

I

_Mrs. Thrush._ What do you think of that hawthorn?

_Mr. Thrush._ Oh, no, my dear, no; much too isolated, it would attract attention at once. I can hear the boys on a Sunday afternoon--“Hullo, there’s a tree that’s bound to have a nest in it.” And then where are you? You know what boys are on a Sunday afternoon? You remember that from last year, when we lost the finest clutch of eggs in the county.

_Mrs. Thrush._ Stop, stop, dear, I can’t bear it. Why do you remind me of it?

_Mr. Thrush._ There, there, compose yourself, my pretty. What other suggestions have you?

_Mrs. Thrush._ One of the laurels, then, in the shrubbery at the Great House.

_Mr. Thrush._ Much better. But the trouble there is the cat.

_Mrs. Thrush._ Oh, dear, I wish _you’d_ find a place without me; I assure you (_blushing_) it’s time.

_Mr. Thrush._ Well, my notion, as I have said all along, is that there’s nothing to beat the very middle of a big bramble. I don’t mind whether it’s in the hedge or whether it’s on the common. But it must be the very middle. It doesn’t matter very much then whether it’s seen or not, because no one can reach it.

_Mrs. Thrush._ Very well, then, be it so; but do hurry with the building, there’s a dear.

II

_Mr. Tree-Creeper._ I’ve had the most extraordinary luck. Listen. You know that farmhouse by the pond. Well, there’s a cow-shed with a door that won’t shut, and even if it would, it’s got a hole in it, and in the roof, at the very top, there’s a hollow. It’s the most perfect place you ever saw, because, even if the farmer twigged us, he couldn’t get at the nest without pulling off a lot of tiles. Do you see?

_Mrs. Tree-Creeper._ It sounds perfect.

_Mr. Tree-Creeper._ Yes, but it’s no use waiting here. We must collar it at once. There were a lot of prying birds all about when I was there, and I noticed a particularly nosey flycatcher watching me all the time. Come along quick; and you’d better bring a piece of hay with you to look like business.

III

_Mr. Wren._ Well, darling, what shall it be this year--one of those boxes at “The Firs,” or the letter-box at “Meadow View,” where the open-air journalist lives, or shall we build for ourselves like honest wrens?

_Mrs. Wren._ I leave it to you, dearest. Just as you wish.

_Mr. Wren._ No, I want your help. I’ll just give you the pros and cons.

_Mrs. Wren._ Yes, dear, do; you’re so clear-headed.

_Mr. Wren._ Listen then. If we use the nest-box there’s nothing to do, no fag of building, but we have to put up with visitors peeping in every day and pawing the eggs or the kids about. If we use the letter-box we shall have to line it, and there will be some of the same human fussiness to endure; but on the other hand, we shall become famous--we shall get into the papers. Don’t you see the heading, “Remarkable Nest in Surrey”? And then it will go on, “A pair of wrens have chosen a strange abode in which to rear their little fluffy brood----” and so forth.

_Mrs. Wren._ That’s rather delightful, all the same.

_Mr. Wren._ Finally, there is the nest which we build ourselves, running just the ordinary risks of boys and ornithologists, but feeling at any rate that we are independent. What do you say?

_Mrs. Wren._ Well, dearest, I think I say the last.

_Mr. Wren._ Good. Spoken like a brave hen. Then let’s look about for a site at once.

IV

_Mr. Swallow._ I’ve looked at every house with decent eaves in the whole place until I’m ready to drop.

_Mrs. Swallow._ What do you think about it?

_Mr. Swallow._ Well, it’s a puzzle. There’s the Manor House: I began with that. There is good holding there, but the pond is a long way off, and carrying mud so far would be a fearful grind. None the less it’s a well-built house, and I feel sure we shouldn’t be disturbed.

_Mrs. Swallow._ What about the people?

_Mr. Swallow._ How funny you are about the people always! Never mind. All I can find out is that there’s the squire and his wife and a companion.

_Mrs. Swallow._ No children?

_Mr. Swallow._ None.

_Mrs. Swallow._ Then I don’t care for the Manor House. Tell me of another.

_Mr. Swallow._ This is the merest sentiment; but no matter. The Vicarage next.

_Mrs. Swallow._ Any children there?

_Mr. Swallow._ No, but it’s much nearer the pond.

_Mrs. Swallow._ And the next?

_Mr. Swallow._ The farmhouse. A beautiful place with a pond at your very door. Everything you require, and lots of company. Good sheltered eaves, too.

_Mrs. Swallow._ Any children?

_Mr. Swallow._ Yes, one little girl.

_Mrs. Swallow._ Isn’t there any house with babies?

_Mr. Swallow._ Only one that could possibly be any use to us; but it’s a miserably poor place. No style.

_Mrs. Swallow._ How many babies?

_Mr. Swallow._ Twins, just born, and others of one and two and three.

_Mrs. Swallow._ We’ll build there.

_Mr. Swallow._ They’ll make a horrible row all night.

_Mrs. Swallow._ We’ll build there.

II.--BUSH’S GRIEVANCE

I am very happy for the most part. I have perfect health and a good appetite, and They are very good to me here: let me worry them at meals, and toss me little bits--chiefly bread and toast, I admit, but nice bread and nice toast; and though He spends far too much time indoors with books and things, and She doesn’t go for walks, and the puppy-girl has a dog of her own, and doesn’t want me (nor do I want her), yet I manage pretty well, for there is a boy who often goes to the village, through the rabbit fields, and takes me with him, and there is a big house near by where the servants throw away quite large bones only half-scraped. Either they are extravagant or they don’t make that horrid watery stuff, the ruination of good bones, which My People here will begin their dinner with.

So you see I don’t do badly; and, though now and then I have to be whacked, still it doesn’t hurt much, and He only half knows how to do it; while as for Her (when He’s away), She’s just useless.

But my grievance, you say? Oh, yes, I have one grievance, and talking it over with other dogs, particularly spaniels (like me), I find that it’s a very common one. My grievance is the game they will play instead of going for a walk. In winter it’s all right, They walk then; but in summer They will play this game. I can’t make head or tail of it myself, but They simply adore it. It is played with four balls--blue and red and black and yellow--and hoops. First one of Them hits a ball, and then the other. It goes on for ever. I do all I can to show Them what I think of it: I lie down just in front of the player; sometimes I even stop the balls completely; but They don’t take the hint: They just shout at me or prod me with the mallet.

That’s my grievance. Of course it was pretty bad when They got a dog for the little puppy-girl, especially as it is not a breed I care for; but that I can stand. It’s this wretched monopolizing game that I can’t stand. I hate it.

III.--A LONDON LANDMARK

I am the biggest of the elephants--the one that keeps on nodding its head. Why I do that I’ll tell you later. The habit began some years ago. You see, I am getting on. I have been here ever since 1876, and that’s a long time. I was thinking the other day of all the things that have happened since I moved to Regent’s Park from Ceylon, and really it is wonderful. For I hear what’s going on. In between remarks about how big I am, and how restless I am, and what a wicked little eye I’ve got, the people say all kinds of things about the events of the day. Last Sunday I heard all about the Suffragettes, for instance. There wasn’t much talk about Suffragettes in 1876.

I read what’s going on too. Now and then some one drops a paper or I borrow the keeper’s. It took me a long time to learn to read, but I know now. I began with the notices about pickpockets, which are everywhere in these Gardens. That’s an old thing, isn’t it? We four-footed creatures, whom you all come to stare at and patronize, at any rate have no pockets to pick, and therefore are spared one of your weaknesses. (Except of course the kangaroo.) I mastered the pickpocket notice first, and then I learned the meaning of the one about smoking in my house. And so by degrees I knew it all, and it’s now quite simple. I can read anything. I wish the people who came here could read as well. It says as plain as can be on my little door-plate thing, in front of the railings, that I am--that I am a lady--but how many visitors do you suppose refer to me as “she” or “her”? Not more than three out of the hundred. I count sometimes, just for fun. That’s really why I nod: I’m counting. “Isn’t _he_ enormous?” they say. “Look at _his_ funny little eye?” “Would you like to give _him_ a bun, dearie?” and so on. And all the time, if only education were properly managed in this country, they could read my sex. It’s on the board all right.

I have been here longer than any one except the hippopotamus, which was born here in 1872. But to be born here is dull. I had six years of Ceylon first; I am a traveller. Supposing that I got away I should know what to do; but that old hippo wouldn’t. Homekeeping hippos have ever homely wits, as the proverb has it.

Do you know that in 1876 Winston was only two years old? Think of it. He used to be brought to see me when he was a tiny toddle with quite a small head. I’ve given him many a ride on my back. I often wonder what is the future of the children who put buns in my trunk and ride on my back, but this is the only one I can remember who got into office so young.

It’s an old place, the Zoo. Such queer creatures come and look at me,--lean, eager naturalists, lovers, uncles with small nephews, funny men trying to think of jokes about me. I like the Bank Holidays the best. There’s some pleasure in astonishing simple people; and I like Sundays the least because the clever ones come then. Schoolmasters are the worst, because they lecture on me. My keeper hates them too, because they ask such lots of questions and never give any tips. There’s a fearful desire to know how heavy I am. What does that matter? “My word, I wouldn’t like him (_him_, of course) to tread on my favourite corn!”--I wonder how often I’ve heard that joke. The English make all their jokes again. They say things, too, about my trunk--packing it up and so on--till I could die of sheer _ennui_.

The Interviewer’s Bag

I.--THE AUTOGRAPHER

He was sitting forlornly on the shore at Swanage, toying with an open knife. Fearing that he might be about to do himself a mischief, I stopped and spoke.

“No,” he said, “I’m not contemplating suicide. Don’t think that. I’m merely pondering on the illusion that England is the abode of freedom.”

“But isn’t it?” I asked.

He laughed bitterly.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

He jerked his thumb towards the stone globe which is to Swanage what Thorwaldsen’s Lion is to Lucerne, or the Sphinx to the desert.

“Well?” I said.

“Have you seen the tablets?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“They’ve put up two tablets,” he explained, “with a request that any one wishing to cut or write his name should do it there rather than on the globe.”

“Very sensible,” I said.

“Sensible?” he echoed. “Sensible? But what’s the use of cutting your name on a place set apart for the purpose? There’s no fun in that. Things are coming to a pretty pass when Town Councils take to sarcasm. Because that’s what it is,” he continued. “Sarcasm. They don’t want our names anywhere, and this is their way of saying so. Sarcasm has been described,” he went on, “as ‘the language of the devil’; and it’s true.”

“But why do you want to cut your name?” I asked.

He opened his eyes to their widest. “Why? What’s the use of going anywhere if you don’t?” he retorted. “You’ll find my name all over England--on trees at Burnham Beeches, on windows at Chatsworth, on stone walls at Kenilworth, on whitewash at Stratford-on-Avon, in the turf of Chanctonbury. You’ll find it in belfries and on seats. I should be ashamed of myself if I didn’t inscribe it--and permanently, too. But this is too much for me. I came here only because I heard about the stone globe; and then to find those tablets! But I haven’t wasted my time,” he continued. “I went over to the New Forest the other day, and to-morrow I’m going to Stonehenge.”

“That’s no good,” I said.

“No good? Why, I’ve bought a new chisel on purpose for it. I’m told the stone’s very hard.”

“You won’t be able to do it,” I said. “It’s enclosed now, and guarded.”

He buried his face in his hands. “Everything’s against me,” he groaned. “The country’s going to the dogs.”

II.--THE EQUALIZER

My friend was talking about the difficulty of getting level with life: with the people who charge too much, and with bad management generally; the subject having been started by a long wait outside the junction, which made our train half an hour late.

“How,” my friend had said, “are we ever going to get back the value of this half-hour? My time is worth two guineas an hour; and I have now lost a guinea. How am I to be recouped? The railway company takes my money for a train which they say will do the journey between 11.15 and 12.6, and I make my plans accordingly. It does not get in till 12.36, and all my plans are thrown out. Is it fair that I am not recompensed? Of course not. They have robbed me. How am I to get equal with them?”

So he rattled on, and the little cunning eyes opposite us became more cunning and glittering.

After my friend had left, the little man spoke to me.

“Why didn’t he take something?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Something from the carriage, to help to make up?” he said. “The window strap for a strop, for instance? It’s not worth a guinea, of course, but it’s something, and it would annoy the company.”

“But he wasn’t as serious as that,” I said.

“Oh, he’s one of them that talks but doesn’t act. I’ve no patience with _them_. I always get some, if not all, of my money back.”

“How?” I asked.

“Well, suppose it’s a restaurant, where I have to wait a long time and then get only poor food. I calculate to what extent I’ve been swindled and act accordingly. A spoon or two, or possibly a knife, will make it right. I am scrupulously honest about it.” He drew himself up proudly.

“If it’s a theatre,” he went on, “and I consider my time has been wasted, I take the opera-glasses home with me. You know those in the sixpenny boxes; I’ve got opera-glasses at home from nearly every theatre in London.”

“No!” I said.

“Really,” he replied, “I’m not joking. I never joke. You tell your friend when you see him next. Perhaps it will make him more reasonable.”

III.--A HARDY ANNUAL

“You look very tired,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, with a sigh. It was at the private view of the Academy. “But I shall get some rest now. It is all over for a while.”

“What is over?” I asked.

“My work,” he said. “It does not begin again with any seriousness till next February; but it goes on then till April with terrific vigour.” He pressed his hand to his brow.

“May I know what it is?” I inquired.

“Of course,” he said. “I name pictures for the Exhibitions. The catalogues are full of my work. Here, for example, is one of my most effective titles: ‘Cold flows the Winter river.’ Not bad, is it?”

I murmured something.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he replied. “You’re thinking that it is so simple that the artist could have done it himself without my assistance. But there you’re mistaken. They can’t, not artists. They can just paint a picture--some of them--and that’s all. You’ve no idea.... Well, well.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes,” he continued; “it’s so. Now turn on. Here’s another of mine. ‘It was the Time of Roses.’ That sounds easy, no doubt; but, mark you, you have not only to know it--to have read Hood--but--and this is the secret of my success--to remember it at the right moment.” He almost glittered with pride. “Turn on,” he said. “‘East and West.’ That’s a subtle thing. Why ‘East and West’? you say. And then you see it’s an English girl--the West--holding a Japanese fan--the East. But I’m not often as tricky as that. A line of poetry is always best; or a good descriptive phrase, such as ‘Rivals,’ ‘Awaiting Spring’s Return,’ ‘The Forest Perilous,’ ‘When Nature Sleeps,’ ‘The Coming Storm,’ ‘Sunshine and Shadow,’ ‘Waiting,’ ‘The Farmer’s Daughter,’ ‘A Haunt of Ancient Peace.’”

He paused and looked at me.

“They all sound fairly automatic,” he went on; “but that’s a blind. They want doing. You know the saying, ‘Hard writing makes easy reading’; well, it’s the same with naming titles. You think it’s nothing; but that’s only because it means real work. I don’t know how to explain the gift--uncanny, no doubt. Kind friends have called it genius. But there it is.”

“I hope the financial results are proportionate,” I said.

“Ah,” he replied, “not always. But how could they be? It’s not only the expense of getting to the studios--taxis, and so forth--but the mental wear and tear. Still, I manage to live.”

IV.--ANOTHER OF OUR CONQUERORS

I used to think that the office-boy did those things. But no; it seems that it is an industry, and a very important one.

I made the discovery at a station, where the horrible and irritating word “Phast-phix” on the picture of a gum bottle held the reluctant eye.

A sleek little man in a frock-coat and a tall hat, who had evidently breakfasted on cloves, paused beside me.

“You might not think it,” he said, “to look at me; but that word that you are obviously admiring so naturally--and I may say so justly--originated with me. I invented it.”

“Why?” I asked. “Surely there are other things to do.”

He seemed pained and perplexed.

“It is my business,” he said. “That’s what I do. I have an office; I am well known. All the best firms apply to me. For example,” he went on, “suppose you were to bring out a fluid mutton----”

“Heaven forbid!” I cried.

“Yes, but suppose you were to,” he continued, “and you wanted a name for it, you would come to me.”

“Why shouldn’t I think of one myself?” I asked.

“You!” he cried. “How could you? It’s a special equipment. Just try and you’ll see. What would _you_ call it?”

“Well,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I might call it--I might call it---- Hang it, I wouldn’t do such a thing, anyway.”

“There,” he cried triumphantly, “I knew it. You would be lost. You would therefore come to me. I should charge you ten guineas, but in return you would have a name that would make your fortune.”

“What would that be?” I ventured to ask.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “for certain. ‘Sheep-O,’ perhaps. But anyway it would be a good name. ‘Flock-vim,’ perhaps. Or even ‘Mut-force.’”

I began to long for my train.

“How do you think of such things?” I inquired. “Tell me your processes.”

He laughed deprecatingly. “I have given the subject an immense deal of thought,” he said. “For many years now I have done little else; I am always on the look-out for ideas. They come to me at all kinds of odd times and in all kinds of odd places. In bed--on a ’bus--in the train.”

“This one?” I asked.

“‘Phast-phix’?” he replied. “Oh, I thought of that instantaneously. You see, the firm came to my office to say they were putting a new gum or cement on the market, and they must have a good name for it at once. I had no time. I buried my head in my hands, for a few seconds (my regular habit) and suddenly ‘Phast-phix’ flashed into it. They were enchanted.”

“I notice,” I said, “a tendency among advertisers to transform ‘f’ into ‘ph.’”

“Yes,” he said, “they got it from me. I was the first. It is far more striking, don’t you think? To spell ‘fast-fix’ correctly wouldn’t be witty at all.”

I agreed with him.

“Tell me some more of your special inspirations,” I said. “Have you done anything lately as good as ‘Phast-phix’? But no, how could you?”

“Let me see,” he remarked. “Yes, there is the name for the new pen. They came to me in a great hurry for that, too. But as it happened I had that carefully pigeon-holed, for I am always inventing names against a rainy day. I gave it to them at once--the ‘Ri-teezi.’ You have no doubt seen it advertised.”

(Haven’t I?)

“That has been an immense success,” he went on. “It’s not a bad pen, either; but the name! Ah!”

“Anything else out of the way?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I was just going to tell you. I was approached by a firm with new blacking. All it required was an absolutely knock-out name. I gave them one, and only yesterday I had a visit from the Secretary of the Company, who was present at the Board meeting when my letter was read out. He says that the thrill that ran through the directors--sober business men, mind you--at that moment was an epoch in the history of commerce.”

“Indeed,” I remarked; “and what was the name?”

“The name?” he said. “Ah, yes. It was one of my best efforts, I think. Simple, forcible, instantaneous in its message and unforgettable in form--‘Shine-O.’”

“Yes,” I said, “that should be hard to beat. I congratulate you.” And so we parted.

I wonder if there’s really any money in that fluid-mutton idea.

V.--A CASE FOR LOYOLA

We had no introduction save the circumstance that we chanced both to be taking refreshment at the same time--and, after all, is not that a bond? He did not begin to talk at once, and very likely would not have done so had not a little man come hastily in, received his drink, laid his money on the bar without a word, also without a word consumed it, and hurried out again.

“You might guess a hundred times before you could say what that man does,” said my neighbour.

I gave it up at once. He might have been anything requiring no muscle, and there are so many varieties of such professions. An insurance agent, but he was too busy and taciturn; a commission agent, but he was alone; a cheap oculist, but he would not be free at this hour. I therefore gave it up at once.

“He’s a conjurer,” said the man. “Not on the stage; goes out to parties and smokers.”

I expressed the necessary amount of surprise and satisfaction.

“Odd what different things men do,” he continued. “There’s all sorts of trades, isn’t there? I often sit for hours watching men and wondering what they are. Sometimes you can tell easily. A carpenter, for instance, often has a rule pocket in his trousers that you can spot. A lawyer’s clerk has a certain way with him. Horses always leave their mark on men, and you can tell coachmen even in plain clothes. But there’s many to baffle you.”

“Yes,” I said, “it needs a Sherlock Holmes.”

“And yet there’s some to puzzle even him,” said my man. “Now what do you think he’d make of me?”

Upon my word I couldn’t say. He was just the ordinary artisan, with a little thoughtfulness added. A small, pale man, grizzled and neat, but the clothes were old. The shininess and bagginess of the knees suggested much kneeling; nothing else gave me a hint.

“I give that up too,” I said.

“Well,” he replied, “I’ll tell you, because you’re a stranger. I’m a worm-holer.”

“A worm-holer?”

“Yes, I make worm-holes in furniture to make it seem older and fetch a better price.”

“Great heavens!” I said; “I have heard of it, of course, but I never thought to meet a worm-holer face to face. How do you do it?”

“It’s not difficult,” he said, “to make the actual holes. The trick is to make ’em look real.”

“And what becomes of the furniture?”

“America chiefly,” he said. “They like old English things there, the older the better. Guaranteed Tudor things will fetch anything ... we guarantee all ours.”

“And you have no conscience about it?” I asked.

“None,” he said. “Not any more. I had a little once, but there, the Americans are so happy with their finds it would be a shame to disappoint them. I look on myself as a benefactor to the nation now. I often lie awake at nights--I sleep badly--thinking of the collectors in U.S.A. hugging themselves with joy to think of the treasures I’ve made for them.”

The Letter N

A TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE

_Extract from the copy of Harold Pippett, only reporter for “The
Eastbury Herald,” as handed to the compositor._

I

Inquiries which have been made by one of our representatives yield the gratifying tidings that Kildin Hall, the superb Tudor residence vacated a year or so ago by Lord Glossthorpe, is again let. The new tenant, who will be a valued addition to the neighbourhood, is Mr. Michael Stirring, a retired banker.

II

_From “The Eastbury Herald,” 2 Sept._

Inquiries which have been made by one of our representatives yield the gratifying tidings that Kildin Hall, the superb Tudor residence vacated a year or so ago by Lord Glossthorpe, is again let. The new tenant, who will be a valued addition to the neighbourhood, is Mr. Michael Stirring, a retired baker.

III

_Mr. Guy Lander, Estate Agent, to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

DEAR TED,--There’s a fearful bloomer in your paper this week, which you must put right as soon as you can. Mr. Stirring, who has taken Kildin, is not a baker, but a banker.

Yours, G. L.

IV

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mr. Guy Lander._

MY DEAR GUY,--Of course it’s only a misprint. Pippett wrote “banker” right enough, and the ass of a compositor dropped out the “n.” I’ll put it right next week. No sensible person would mind.

Yours, EDWARD HEDGES.

V

_Mrs. Michael Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

SIR,--My attention has been called to a very serious misstatement in your paper for Saturday last. It is there stated that my husband, Mr. Michael Stirring, who has taken Kildin Hall, is a retired baker. This is absolutely false. Mr. Stirring is a retired banker, than which nothing could be much more different. Mr. Stirring is at this moment too ill to read the papers, and the slander will therefore be kept from him a little longer, but what the consequences will be when he hears of it I tremble to think. Kindly assure me that you will give the denial as much publicity as the falsehood.

Yours faithfully,
AUGUSTA STIRRING.

VI

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mrs. Michael Stirring._

The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” presents his compliments to Mrs. Stirring and begs to express his profound regret that the misprint of which she complains should have crept into his paper. That it was a misprint and not an intentional misstatement he has the reporter’s copy to prove. He will, of course, insert in the next issue of “The Eastbury Herald” a paragraph correcting the error, but he would point out to Mrs. Stirring that it was also stated in the paragraph that Mr. Stirring would be a valued addition to the neighbourhood.

VII

_Mrs. Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

SIR,--Whatever the cause of the slander, whether malice or misadventure, the fact remains that you have done a very cruel thing. I enclose a cutting from the London Press, sent me by a friend, which will show you that the calumny is becoming widely spread. Mr. Stirring is so weak and dispirited that we fear he may have got some inkling of it. Your position if he discovers the worst will be terrible.

I am, Yours faithfully,
AUGUSTA STIRRING.

(THE ENCLOSURE)

_From “The Morning Star”_

SIGNS OF THE TIMES

We get the new movement in a nutshell in the report from Eastbury that Lord Glossthorpe has let his historic house to a retired baker named Stirring, etc., etc.

VIII

_From “The Eastbury Herald” 9 Sept._

ERRATUM.--In our issue last week an unfortunate misprint made us state that the new tenant of Kildin Hall was a retired baker. The word was of course banker.

IX

_Mr. John Bridger, Baker, to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

DEAR HEDGES,--I was both pained and surprised to find a man of your principles and a friend of mine writing of bakers as you did this week. Why should you “of course” have meant a banker? Why cannot a retired baker take a fine house if he wants to? I am thoroughly ashamed of you, and wish to withdraw my advertisement from your paper.

Yours truly, JOHN BRIDGER.

X

_Messrs. Greenery & Bills, Steam Bakery, Dumbridge._

DEAR SIR,--After the offensive slur upon bakers in the current number of your paper we feel that we have no other course but to withdraw our advertisement; so please discontinue it from this date.

Yours faithfully,
GREENERY & BILLS.

XI

_Mrs. Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

SIR,--I fear you have not done your best to check the progress of your slanderous paragraph, since only this morning I received the enclosed. You will probably not be surprised to learn that through your efforts the old-world paradise of Kildin, in which we had hoped to end our days, has been rendered impossible. We could not settle in a new neighbourhood with such an initial handicap.

Yours truly, AUGUSTA STIRRING.

(THE ENCLOSURE)

_From “The Daily Leader”_

THE TRIUMPH OF DEMOCRACY

After lying empty for nearly two years Lord Glossthorpe’s country seat has been let to a retired baker named Stirring, etc., etc.

XII

_Mrs. Michael Stirring to Mr. Guy Lander._

DEAR SIR,--After the way that the good name and fame of my husband and myself have been poisoned both in the local and the London Press, we cannot think further of coming to live at Kildin Hall. Every post brings from one or other of my friends some paragraph perpetuating the lie. Kindly therefore consider the negotiations completely at an end. I am, Yours faithfully,

AUGUSTA STIRRING.

XIII

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mr. John Bridger._

DEAR BRIDGER,--You were too hasty. A man has to do the best he can. When I wrote “of course,” I meant it as a stroke of irony. In other words, I was, and am, and ever shall be, on your side. You will be glad to hear that in consequence of the whole thing I have got notice to leave, my proprietor being under obligations to Lord Glossthorpe, and you may therefore restore your patronage to “The Herald” with a clear conscience.

Yours sincerely, EDWARD HEDGES.

XIV

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mrs. Stirring._

The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” presents his compliments to Mrs. Stirring for the last time, and again assures her that the whole trouble grew from the natural carelessness of an overworked and underpaid compositor. He regrets sincerely the unhappiness which that mistake has caused, and looks forward to a day when retired bakers and retired bankers will be considered as equally valuable additions to a neighbourhood. In retirement, as in the grave, he likes to think of all men as equal. With renewed apologies for the foul aspersion which he cast upon Mr. and Mrs. Stirring, he begs to conclude.

P.S.--Mrs. Stirring will be pleased to hear that not only the writer but the compositor are under notice to leave.

The New Chauffeur

(_An Impossible Dialogue_)

_Employer._ And now as to wages. What do you want?

_Chauffeur._ Forty pounds a year and all found.

_E._ And what do you expect to do for that?

_C._ To keep the car in good order and drive you out in it.

_E._ Yes. You must excuse me asking so much, but you see I don’t know you at all. What kind of a temper have you?

_C._ Very good.

_E._ Yes, of course. But I mean what kind of temper have you when you are told suddenly, late on a wet night, to go to the station?

_C._ Very good.

_E._ Always?

_C._ Certainly.

_E._ Well, I want you to be quite sure. Is your temper so perfect that if I were to offer you another £5 a year to secure this point about unexpected runs in bad weather and so forth, it would make no difference?

_C._ I think it might make a difference.

_E._ And you would stand by the bargain? Never for a moment go back on it?

_C._ No.

_E._ Then we will say £45. And one other point. There are some chauffeurs so poor spirited that on an open road with no danger they will go at only, say, twelve miles an hour. You are not like that, are you?

_C._ Certainly not.

_E._ You hate going slow?

_C._ Yes.

_E._ Ah, then, that settles it, for a chauffeur who objects to go slow is no good to me. You see, I often want to go slow: in fact, always when it is very dusty and we are near cottage gardens.

_C._ Yes; but, of course, if you wished it----

_E._ You said you hated it. Now, an unwilling servant is the last thing I require.

_C._ But----

_E._ You mean that you could get over your dislike and become willing to meet my wishes?

_C._ Yes.

_E._ But willingness must be more spontaneous than that. Suppose we were to fix it up now absolutely, would you continue in that frame? You would always be willing?

_C._ Always.

_E._ Then shall we say another £5 a year? That makes £50.

_C._ Thank you very much.

_E._ Oh, no, not at all. It’s a commercial transaction. I want what you are prepared to sell. There is one other point. What kind of an expression do you wear when you are told by your employer to take out for a drive certain of his poorer friends who cannot afford more than a small tip, if any?

_C._ I am perfectly content.

_E._ Perfectly?

_C._ Well, of course, one prefers to drive one’s own employer.

_E._ Ah!--but supposing I wished all your passengers to be of equal importance and interest to you? There is no pleasure in a drive if the driver is sullen. Have you ever thought of that?

_C._ Never.

_E._ You see it now?

_C._ Yes, I see it now.

_E._ And if I were to add another £5 it would guarantee the smile?

_C._ Absolutely.

_E._ Very well, then, that makes it £55. We will leave it at that. You will begin on Monday.

The Fir-tree; Revised Version

(_Too Long after Hans Andersen_)

Once upon a time there grew a fir-tree in a great Newfoundland forest.

It had a delightful life; the rain fell on it and nourished its roots; the sun shone on it and warmed its heart; now and then came a great jolly wind to wrestle with it and try its strength. The peasant children would sit at its foot and play their games and sing their little songs, and the birds roosted or sheltered in its branches. Often the squirrels frolicked there.

But the tree, although everything was so happy in its surroundings, was not satisfied. It longed to be something else. It longed to be, as it said, important in the world.

“Well,” said the next tree to it, “you will be important; we all shall. Nothing is so important as the mast of a ship.”

But the tree would not have it. “The mast of a ship!” he said. “Pooh! I hope to be something better than that.”

Every year the surveyors came and marked a number of the taller trees, and then wood-cutters arrived and cut them down and lopped off their branches and dragged them away to the ship-builders. The tree disdainfully watched them go.

And then one day the surveyor came and made a mark on its bark.

“Ha! ha!” said a neighbour, “now you’re done for.”

But the tree laughed slyly. “I know a trick worth two of that,” he said, and he induced a squirrel to rub off the mark with its tail, so that when the wood-cutters came it was not felled after all.

“Oh,” said the swallows when they came back next year, “you here still?”