Chapter II

Mr. Hitquick, who had been delivering over-night, amidst much applause, an impressive lecture to the members of the Hitquick Club on various phases of Lawn-tennis dynamics, was with some difficulty roused from his slumbers on the particular morning of which it now becomes our duty to write.

“What’s that, Samuel?” he proceeded to say to his servant, as he sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes,――“a letter?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.

“Then bring me my spectacles,” said Mr. Hitquick.

“If you please, sir, a boy have walked over with this from Little Mugborough, and he’s a-vaiting below for a hanswer.”

“Very well, Samuel,” said Mr. Hitquick, as he adjusted his spectacles and opened the letter. “Why! dear me! What’s this?”

‘The Secretary of the Little Mugborough Lawn-Tennis Club presents his compliments to Mr. Hitquick, and begs to inform him that two members of his Club will be glad to play any two members of the Hitquick Association at four o’clock this afternoon.’

“Why! a challenge,” said Mr. Hitquick. “Of course, we will meet them. Let me see there’s Shortgrass and Cutman, two active men in the prime of life, who tell me they generally offer half-thirty in mixed country society; the very thing. Here, take this, Samuel.”

“It strikes me wery forcibly,” said Samuel to himself with a wink, “that, if those two gents don’t look a bit more spry this afternoon than I have ever seen them ven I have had the extreme privilege of vatching their performances, the Hitquick Club will have a very considerable wopping,”――and, whistling to himself, he went off with the letter.

Now, it must be confessed that neither Mr. Shortgrass nor Mr. Cutman were such performers on the Tennis-lawn as they had led their worthy President, Mr. Hitquick, to believe, nor as they had described themselves in their after-dinner conversations, as they sipped the soft claret for which the Hitquick Club was so deservedly famous; though certain papers which they had read before the members of the Association had, no doubt, stamped them as theoretical professors of no mean order.

Notably, a paper by Mr. Cutman on “Atmospheric resistance to the Cutman service in the latitude of Greenwich” (a lecture suggested by certain accurate memoranda, prepared by the statist of the Club, to the effect that only ’17 of these services so far overcame it as to pass over the net), had placed him in the front ranks of Lawn-tennis theorists; while a lecture by Mr. Shortgrass, on “Suspected tidal attraction on the Shortgrass lob” (accounting for the discovery by the same scientific observer that it almost always completed its parabola on Mr. Shortgrass’s side of the net), had brought him, too, into a leading position amongst spheric scientists.

At four o’clock, however, Mr. Shortgrass and Mr. Cutman stepped upon the lawn, prepared to do battle for the Hitquickians, and were soon confronted by the team from Little Mugborough.

The game began, A sharp service was sent to Mr. Shortgrass, who shut his eyes, hit wildly, and returned it accidentally. No one’s astonishment was greater than his own; he felt he had done enough; he shouted “yours” to balls which kept striking him on head, stomach, and legs, and did not appear to recover from his intense surprise till the umpire called, “Set the first, six games to love, Little Mugborough wins.”

“Call that placing, Samivel, my boy,” said a stout elderly gentleman, of horsey dress, to his son, who was no other than Mr. Hitquick’s servant; “call that placing? Vy! I should like to see one of these ere ball-placers as could _flick_ a fly off a leader’s ear! That’s wot I calls placing, Samivel.”

Mr. Hitquick’s face had now begun to lengthen to such an extent as to cause a bystander to inform him that a curious compound of brandy and soda-water was to be obtained in the marquee close by, whither Mr. Hitquick, taking such bystander’s advice now adjourned.

“Capital game――smart sport――rare exercise――very,” were the words that fell upon Mr. Hitquick’s ear as he entered the marquee.

“What! Jangle?” said he, recognising an old acquaintance, “What brings you here?”

“ Me here――Wymbledoune Arms――met a party――capital fellows――gin and water――Lawn-tennis――great match――Little Mugborough――came on here――and here we are. What name? Know your face.”

“My name, sir, is Hitquick, author of a ‘Treatise on Balls;’ at your service, sir.”

“Ah! Hitquick――much pleasure――great man――good book――read it myself―― Spheric lore――Sun, Saturn――Earth――Jupiter――pumpkins――balls――inter- threaded――human race――round games――round robins――general idea――deuced clever.”

“And do you――er――join, Mr. Jangle, in this――er――healthgiving pastime?”

“Play, Sir,” said Jangle――“I think I did――never heard?――queer thing――deuced strange――great traveller――round the world――visited Madagascar――met a stranger――said he could play――offered to play him――gave fifteen――thermometer 110 degrees in the shade――threw in a bisque――beat him hollow――no umpire――stranger riled――disputed scoring――they always do――ex-champion――name Shadow――all love- sets――play? rather.”

As Jangle and Mr. Hitquick reapproached the game, it had just become the duty of the umpire to cry: “Three sets to love, Little Mugborough wins,” thus deciding the match adversely to the Hitquickians. Mr. Hitquick retired a few paces from the bystanders, and, beckoning Shortgrass to approach, fixed a keen and searching glance upon him, and uttered in a low tone these remarkable words:――

“Sir, you’re a humbug.”

Turning to Cutman, who was trying to conceal himself behind his late partner, he added,――

“And you, too, sir.”

“What?” they both exclaimed, starting.

“Humbugs, sir. I will speak more plainly, if you desire it. Imposters, sir. Yes; imposters.”

And with these words Mr. Hitquick turned slowly on his heel, and proceeded to rejoin his friends.

This Parody originally appeared in _Pastime_, July 20, 1883. It was afterwards reprinted in _Tennis Cuts and Quips_, an amusing volume ably edited by Mr. Julian Marshall, and published by Field and Tuer, London.

――――

The late Mr. Charles Stuart Calverley, the author of many clever parodies, was a diligent student of the works of Dickens, and when he entered at Christ’s College, Cambridge, in October 1852, it was generally admitted that he was more familiar with the Pickwick Papers than any other man in the University. Hence arose the jocular notion of having a competitive examination on that work, and Calverley drew up an ingenious syllabus of questions, from which it may be gathered how accurate and minute was his acquaintance with Pickwick. The examination was open to all members of Christ’s College, the first prize was taken by Mr. Walter Besant, and the second by Mr. (now Professor) Skeat, two gentlemen whose names have since become familiar in the literary world. The Pickwick Examination Paper will be found in _Fly Leaves_, by C. S. Calverley, published by G. Bell & Sons, a few specimen questions will show the humour of the thing:――

1. Mention any occasions on which it is specified that the
Fat Boy was _not_ asleep; and that (1) Mr. Pickwick and (2)
Mr. Weller, senr., ran. Deduce from expressions used on one
occasion Mr. Pickwick’s maximum of speed.

2. Translate into coherent English, adding a note wherever a
word, a construction, or an allusion requires it:

“Go on, Jemmy――like black-eyed Susan――all in the
Downs”――“Smart chap that cabman――handled his fives
well――but if I’d been your friend in the green
jemmy――punch his head――pig’s whisper――pieman, too.”

3. Elucidate the expression, “the Spanish Traveller,” and
the “narcotic bedstead.”

4. What operation was performed on Tom Smart’s chair? Who
little thinks that in which pocket, of what garment, in
where, he has left what, entreating him to return to whom,
with how many what, and all how big?

5. Give, approximately, the height of Mr. Dubbley; and,
accurately, the Christian names of Mr. Grummer, Mrs. Raddle,
and the Fat Boy; also the surname of the Zephyr.

8. Give in full Samuel Weller’s first compliment to Mary,
and his father’s critique upon the same young lady. What
church was on the valentine that first attracted Mr.
Samuel’s eye in the shop?

11. On finding his principal in the pound, Mr. Weller and
the town-beadle varied directly. Show that the latter was
ultimately eliminated, and state the number of rounds in the
square which is not described.

12. “Any think for air and exercise; as the wery old donkey
observed ven they voke him up from his deathbed to carry ten
gen’lmen to Greenwich in a tax-cart.” Illustrate this by
stating any remark recorded in the Pickwick Papers to have
been made by a (previously) dumb animal, with the
circumstances under which he made it.

15. Describe Weller’s Method of “gently indicating his
presence” to the young lady in the garden; and the Form of
Salutation usual among the coachmen of the period.

20. Write down the chorus to each verse of Mr. S. Weller’s
song, and a sketch of the mottle-faced man’s excursus on it.
Is there any ground for conjecturing that he (Sam) had more
brothers than one?

23. “She’s a swelling visibly.” When did the same phenomenon
occur again, and what fluid caused the pressure on the body
in the latter case?

24. How did Mr. Weller, senior, define the Funds, and what
view did he take of Reduced Consols? in what terms is his
elastic force described, when he assaulted Mr. Stiggins at
the meeting? Write down the name of the meeting?

30. Who, besides Mr. Pickwick, is recorded to have worn
gaiters?

In connection with this examination reference may be made to the “Death of Mr. Pickwick,” by Messrs. W. Besant and J. Rice in “The Case of Mr. Lucraft, and other Tales.”

――――

THE BATTLE WON BY THE WIND.

_By the author of the “Picnic Papers,” “Barnaby Fudge,” &c._

Night! Night and a thick darkness on the dreaming city. It was o’er all――that pitchy veil――o’er lone deserted streets and broad suburban roads, along which wagons with their great clamped wheels jolt forward to the early market――o’er square and terrace, and stately dome and carved pinnacle――a deep dense obscurity, into which tower and steeple rose and were lost to the eyes of the gazer from below!

Night! black, stormy, dreary night. Driving in long dim lines athwart the starless sky――lashing the sloping roofs of dripping houses――flooding kennel and gutter and choked-up drain――pattering like a loud chorus of rolling spectre drums at rattling windows and on streaming sky-lights――down――in one steady, uninterrupted, continuous pour――drove the wild storm of lashing hail and rain! A dismal night! A night for the well-housed to snoozle themselves up beneath the bed-clothes, and listen all crouchingly to the roaring of the tempest! A night for the homeless pauper to lie down on the lee side of hedge and stack――and stretching his stiffening limbs in the icy sludge, wait patiently until Death came by and touched him with its sceptre!

Night――a dreary, dismal, rainy, windy night! A night of unchained gale and unbridled hurricane! How the fierce wind roared, to be sure! How it roared in its wrath, and muttered in its sulkiness, and sung in its glee, and howled and shrieked and whistled and raved in the full swing of its fury. It was a jubilee――be certain of it――a time of jubilee with the Wind!――a night when it had full license and authority, and power and sanction, to do its best and its worst――by sea and by land――above and below. And did not the fierce wind avail itself of the opportunity? Did it not muster its forces, and its energies, and its powers, far up amongst the dim-driving clouds, preparing for the onset――preparing for its night of empire and of pillage and of mischief? And then, when its time of liberty came, did it not burst out with a roar, and a shout, and a clang, as of victorious trumpets――did it not career all madly over land and sea, beating down the weak and broken corn, and roaring over the stark brown moors, and catching the big leafy limbs of gnarled trees――gnarled old mighty trees which had stood there for centuries――and wrenching them all torn and riven and splintered from the groaning trunks, and then grappling and wrestling with them as strong men fight, until the victorious wind, with a loud shriek of triumph, would drag the huge branch out, and toss it contemptuously away!

Who――o――o――op! for the Battle won by the Wind!

But that was not all. No, no. It attacked the city too, as well as the country. It did. The wind! Coming with a sweep and a pounce and a roar and a whistle-shrieking up through empty streets――groaning with a hollow sound in dim big archways――catching as with a muscular grasp, vanes and weathercocks――coming to the outside of windows――laying hold of the glazed sashes――shaking and rattling them and shouting hoarse mad greeting to the people within――lingering, I say, an instant at such places, and then departing with a burst of uproarious joy to lay siege to some high old tottering ricketty gable, which it would so shake, and push, and pull, and cause to waver and quake――that the whole crazy old tenement to which it belonged would wheeze and creak and groan in sympathy, until the old men and the old women, who dwelt there for long years, would be terrified and frightened, and would cower down upon the hot hearths or in their beds, crying――“Woe is me, but this is a wild night!”

And it was――it was――a wild night.――Who――o――o――op for the Battle won by the Wind!

On a bridge which spans a black, swollen, mightily rushing river. Dim lights twinkle along its great massive, girding, granite parapets. The wind sweeps over it, and roars in the arches below, and catches up the bright foam from the water, and rushes along with it, scattering the spray in white handfuls aloft, so that the passenger who looks into the gulf from between the balustrades of carven stone which fence the footpath, shrinks to see the driving masses of blurred whiteness――the vexed surface of the waters torn up and carried along by the strong broad hands of the blast!

Where a flickering lamp flashed and paled, and rose and fell within the streaming and storm-lashed crystal of its dripping prison, stood a woman――a woman, beautiful and alone. Black clusters of rain-drenched hair waved and streamed from her pale cheeks. Her garments were mean and sodden, and saturated with the storm; but her eye was bright and fierce, and burning with a fire not of this world――with a fire which once――when the western heaven opened, and the forked lightning leaped out into the darkness――confronted the fierce blaze――and gave it back glare for glare!

She stood beneath the flickering lamp. For a moment only. The next she was erect upon the parapet――her arms extended――her drapery streaming free――like a bird that preens its plumage for a new flight――a flight into another world?

Ha!――a voice! Yes――the woman’s――hark!

What says it? The words――the last words――have gone forth; and as the dark form disappears from its granite resting-place――disappears into the black, howling, lashing gulf beneath――these words ring up and away into the air――being carried on the wings of the tempest whithersoever it will――these awful words――

“Who――o――o――op for the Battle won by the Wind!”

Yes, yes――the wind of Passion――the breath of hopeless, homeless, heartless, Despair!

From _The Puppet-Showman’s Album_. Illustrated by Gavarni. London, no date.

――――

Amongst the _Sensation Novels_, so skilfully condensed by Bret Harte, is a humourous parody of the most popular of Charles Dickens’s Christmas books. In it the leading characteristics and failings are admirably hit off, not only of Dickens, but also of Scott, Charles Lever, Marryat, Fennimore Cooper, Hawthorne, and Thackeray, as will be seen from the following extracts:――

THE HAUNTED MAN.
_A Christmas Story._