Chapter II: Part 2

_Pirus._--There are several varieties of this species. The best known, however, comes from Cornwall and was raised by the late Sir W.S. GILBERT, who introduced the Savoy cabbage. It is called the _Pirus of Penzance_.

* * * * *

DANCING DEMOBILISED.

[It is said that demobilised officers, anxious to dance, are
finding it almost impossible to buy dress-shirts and evening
pumps.]

Now that I've been demobilised
I'm going again to dances--
I do not care with whom or where,
I'm taking any chances.
And evening dress, I've been advised,
Will never become transitional;
Yet once or twice I've been surprised
To find my khaki pals disguised
In new dress suits and old trench boots,
Which scarcely seems traditional.

I met my Colonel at a hop
Jazzing in his goloshes,
With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirt
That had shrunk in various washes;
And my Major was doing the Donkey-Drop
Between a couple of rippers--
Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-top
If anything seemed a shade _de trop_,
And his faultless coat hardly echoed the note
Of his worsted bedroom slippers.

But the world long since went off its chump,
And the cry of the man from France is,
"I simply refuse to let shirts and shoes
Prevent me from going to dances.
I'll take the shine out of collar and pump,
And their wearers _will_ look silly
When I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,
The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,
The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,
With a chamois vest on my manly chest,
And football-boots and the smartest of suits
They can cut in Piccadilly."

* * * * *

THE GRAND TRUNK LINE.

"The following are some alternative routes which could be used by
people going home this evening from the City or West End:--

"Clapham Common.--By Elephant, trams and 'buses."--_Evening News_.

LOCAL COLOUR.

I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris. He has the flat over mine, you know. In addition to this Harris is an author. Sometimes he even gets money for it.

"Doin' a bit of work to-day, Harris?" I remarked casually.

"I'm doing a little flying story," he informed me with dignity.

"Oh, yes," I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard.

"Flying?" I repeated. "But what the--I mean, what do you know about flying, anyway?"

Brutality is the only thing with Harris. He was very hurt. He gasped and glared at me in a most annoyed manner.

"I know a pretty good lot," he announced with some asperity. "I've talked to dozens of pilots about it and I've read books on flying--and the newspapers--"

"And don't forget you once passed Hendon in the train too, old son," I soothed him. "I'd no idea you were so well up in it. Sorry I spoke. Let's see it; may I?"

Harris picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the desk and, coughing imposingly, proceeded to read out his masterpiece:--

"Lionel Marchant came slowly out of the hangar, drawing on his long fur gloves and studying his maps with an intent and keen face.

"His machine, a single-seater scout of the latest type, was just being wheeled out and now stood glistening in the bright autumn sunshine, which danced on the shining brasswork and threw deep shadows on the grass beneath.

"The airman swung lightly into his seat; a final word or two with his commanding officer and he flung over the levers and gave a sharp turn to the starting handle.

"The powerful engine in front of him woke into life deafeningly and, waving away the mechanics holding the wings, he pressed the clutch pedal and moved slowly forward.

"His face is very grim and determined--he throws across another lever and the low hum of the motor changes into a deep-throated roar. Gathering speed, he goes faster and faster--now he is in the air--now a little speck in the sky, heading for the enemy's lines--"

"Oh, no, please," I broke in feebly. "I can't stand any more just now. You're not seriously thinking of having this published, are you?"

As in a dream I took the manuscript from his fingers and gazed blankly at it whilst his indignant flow of speech passed harmlessly over my head.

"But, Harris," I said at length, with infinite compassion in my voice, "Harris, I love you as a brother, but this really is awful--why--well, listen here"--

"'As the second German machine came down on them in a steep dive Lionel gave a hasty glance behind him, where the huge engine raced madly, and shouted excitedly to his observer.

"'The latter, swinging the machine gun round sharply, took rapid aim and pressed the trigger--'"

I stopped.

"Well?" demanded the author icily.

"No, it's too frightful," I bleated. "Harris, this _might_ conceivably be read by a real pilot. Heaven forbid, of course! And he'd simply hate this scout 'bus with the engine ahead to change into a 'pusher' two-seater in six paragraphs."

Harris was routed, absolutely demoralised. "They told me to put in lots of flying talk," he murmured abjectly, "and tons of local colour to make it lifelike."

"Yes," I said grimly, "but this colour's too local for words."

"Of course, if you think you could do it better yourself," Harris observed with heavy sarcasm, "well, then--"

"Certainly," I agreed heartily. "I don't mind showing _you_, Harris, seeing you're a pal of mine. Just pass the ink and let your uncle get to work."

Behold my effort!--

"'Orderly, what about tea?'

"'Very nearly ready, Sir.'

"'Right. Then I think a small piece of toast is indicated;' and he proceeded to hack the loaf to pieces with great vigour.

"'Hun over somewhere, sounds like,' said a sleepy voice as the throb of an engine was heard overhead.

"'Oh, I can't help his troubles,' observed the toast-maker airily. 'He's got no right to come at tea-time. In about half-an-hour or so I might think about--'

"Here the telephone bell rang.

"'Now that's a splendid joke,' said his unfeeling friend as he laid down the receiver. 'You've got to go up after that chap. They're getting your 'bus out now, so--'

"'What!' came in disgusted tones from the fireside. 'Don't be so dam funny. What do you mean?'

"'Not ragging, really, Bill. The C.O. said he wanted you to have a shot at that fellow. Run like a hare. You may catch him up over Berlin somewhere. I'll eat your toast for you.'

"'Oh, will you?' grunted the other. 'What awful rot it is! Oh, the devil--where's my hat?' and out he plunged.

"Two minutes later he was struggling into a heavy leather coat and, feeling thoroughly ill-used, climbed into his machine.

"The propeller was swung, emitting one hollow cough.

"'Switch off. All right, contact.'

"At the third attempt the engine remembered its manners and started up with a jerk. A few moments to get her running smoothly, a rapid test to see that she was 'giving her revs.' and the chocks, were waved away from the wheels.

"Within twenty yards he was off the ground and, throttle wide open, climbing towards the little white dot thousands of feet above.

"And all the time he was grumbling.

"'What awful rot it is! I've about as much chance of reaching the blighter as ... Running my engine to bits as it is ... May be able to cut him off when he's dropped his eggs.'

"Which is precisely what happened. The last gift had been thankfully received in a ploughed field beneath and the Hun was turning for home when the scout struggled to his level.

"The watchers on the ground saw the small machine press determinedly towards the bigger and a faint crackle of gun-fire broke out.

"It was answered by all the guns on board the enemy craft and the single-seater wavered undecidedly.

"Then he got his adversary fairly in his ring sight again and' risking everything, fired burst after burst.

"All at once the big machine heeled over and dived--a flash and a sudden sheet of flame from the engine and down dropped the raider, to dash to pieces in the French fields three miles below.

"Ten minutes later the British machine slithered on to the ground and switched off in front of the sheds.

"'By Jove, Bill,' said his friend, rushing up excitedly, 'that was the best show--'

"'Not so much of it,' interposed the 'hero,' scrambling out of his seat. 'What about my tea? Did you look after my toast for me? No, might have known you wouldn't.'"

* * * * *

WHAT OUR POETS HAVE TO PUT UP WITH.

"They who faced the terrors of the deep, Who guarded our
snores-while we were asleep."

_Scottish Paper_.

* * * * *

"Though his career was entirely that of a public servant, he had
personality and that self-evident efficiency which mark a man out
for promotion."--_Times_.

That "though" is rather cynical.

* * * * *

* * * * *

RECIPROCITY.

[Discussing the unruliness of modern children, a correspondent
in the Press suggests that parents might exchange offspring for
educational purposes.]

Hector, one thought alone forbade
Your stout progenitor to squirm
Through all the months the Huns essayed
To pink his epiderm--
The thought that you, through what he'd done,
Might find a better world, my son.

Now must you do your bit for me,
For, guided by the sage's lore,
I mean to barter progeny
With Brown, the man next door,
And educate in place of you
Bertram, his brazen-lunged Yahoo.

Too long, too long have I been banned
From giving what he's been denied,
The checkings of a chiding hand,
Impartially applied,
But now he's going to get it, Hec
(Though not exactly in the neck).

Exile from your ancestral hut
At first may fill your soul with pain;
If so, this filial thought should cut
Your tears off at the main:
The hours he spends across my knee
Will mean a better world for me.

* * * * *

IT HAPPENED IN IRELAND.

"Mr. ---- held that purchased meat would be better than that
supplied by contractors, who were not saints. He knew of one
case where cattle were actually killed after they died."--_Irish
Times_.

"The following has been issued by the Sinn Fein Executive:--

"At the weekly meeting of the Executive it was unanimously
decided to appeal to the subscribers to the Mansion House
Anti-Subscription Fund."--_Irish Times_.

* * * * *

"This enabled him [Mr. Bottomley] to provide a sum sufficient to
yap the other shareholders 12. in the pound."--_Evening Paper_.

We always thought him a bit of a dog.

* * * * *

THE BLANKET ASTRAY.

Now that most of us are on the point of escaping into civil life, the relentless department to whom the W.O. entrusted the stewardship of Army blankets is calling us to strict account as to our dealings with these articles.

Between us and freedom rise the accusing phantoms of blankets we signed for and failed to return, blankets we misused as carpets, curtains and table-cloths. The bright dawn of the new era is overcast by their threatening shadow.

The A.A.L.R.B.G.S.--Acting-Assistant Local Recorder of Blankets General Service, a very important Hat indeed--some time last winter paid us a visit and went away without complaint. We had specialised in cherishing Blankets G.S. For fear of loss or damage none had been issued for use, and the enthusiasm of all ranks was so warm that the men were glad to sleep without them, if only they might go and see for themselves the full tally of blankets folded correctly to a hair's-breadth and piled irreproachably and unapproachably in the stores.

Then, three days ago, arrived a chit asking us to explain a curt quotation from the report of the A.A.L.R.B.G.S., to the effect that

"_There was a blanket on the table
in the store_."

By a civilian this might be interpreted as a word of praise for our care of the table or for the comfortable _tout ensemble_ of the Quartermaster-Sergeant's treasure-house; but we know better. We read it with the sensations of a householder who, after the call of a Scotland Yard official, should be invited to explain, in an otherwise satisfactory account of his visit, the sentence--

"_There was a corpse in the boot
cupboard_."

It suggested criticism, suspicion, disapproval. In his dilemma the O.C. replied as follows:--

"Owing to the fact that, in view of the paper scarcity, the keeping of Individual History Sheets for the Blankets under my command was discontinued early in the War, I have found it difficult to collect evidence. I beg, however, to submit the likeliest explanations that offer.

"(1) Possibly the blanket was placed on the table, folded and compressed beneath the weight of the various utensils, literature and stationery necessary to the functioning of a B.Q.M.S., in order that the correct regimental wrinkles, as laid down in the various handbooks, might be made and maintained; the blanket to be used as a model at lectures to young soldiers on the care of equipment.

"(2) The distance between the Main Blanket Dump and the table under suspicion is only four feet. It is in the experience of all familiar with conditions in the Field that blankets with long service frequently develop extreme activity. I beg to suggest that the blanket in question may have absented itself without leave from the main dump and proceeded as far as the table by its own locomotive power.

"(3) About the date of the inspection the name of an N.C.O. was submitted with a recommendation for the O.B.E., but was withdrawn on compassionate grounds. I cannot trust my memory, but possibly the justification of this recommendation was the N.C.O.'s zealous care of the property of H.M. THE KING, in that he sacrificed his own blanket for the welfare of the table." (On paper, of course, our blankets are issued in the normal way.) "The weather at the time was inclement, either (_a_) wet and dirty or (_b_) extremely cold. The N.C.O. was determined that this table should be protected from the deleterious effects of (_a_) moisture likely to result from the vicinity of the Q.M.S., damp from out-door duties or (_b_) very low temperature, which is known to injure such articles of furniture.

"(4) The blanket may have been known to be likely to try to escape from custody, and have been placed conspicuously on the table so as to be directly under the observation of the Q.M.S.

"(5) The table may have intended illegally to absent itself without leave, and have concealed itself beneath the accused blanket in the hope of eluding the vigilance of the sentries, disguised as a civilian table, i.e. covered with a table-cloth. This theory is unlikely, the table bearing an excellent character and never having been known to attempt desertion or be in any way guilty of conduct contrary to good order and military discipline.

"(6) The Storeman--now demobilised and dispersed--may have committed the irregularity suggested, with the idea of increasing the amenity of the stores during the inspection, as a humble compliment to the A.A.L.R.B.G.S.

"(7) No. 55,442, Procter, Mary, a member of the Q.M.A.A.C., may be correct in her statement that the article described as a 'blanket' was not a blanket, but a rug, travelling. She says she is 'in a position to know this,' as the article is her own property, and supports the claim by demonstrating the presence of her initials embroidered across one corner.

"I await your reply." And so we all do.

* * * * *

VICTRIX.

Here's a lady come to town
Puts us all to shame;
Walking in with noiseless feet,
Very light and very fleet,
Over-night she came.
Not a beauty in the land,
Though she knew no peer
Both for comeliness and grace,
But must take a second place--
The snow is here.

Never monarch wore, I swear,
Such a radiant dress;
All the whitenesses we prize
Suddenly before our eyes
Turn to dinginess.
Gone are all the shining joys
That we held so dear;
Linens, marbles, gleaming plumes
We must hide in shadowed glooms--
The snow is here.

Veil your brows, you pretty maids,
With your falling curls;
Should you venture forth to-day
Tuck your milky throats away,
Cover up your pearls.
Naught shall match your loveliness
Later in the year
(Who so foolish as to dare
Say the lily is more fair?)
But--the snow is here.

R. F.

* * * * *

A MASTER OF GROTESQUE.

The Leicester Galleries for laughter just now! For the walls of the inner room are hung with drawings by Mr. H.M. BATEMAN, not a few of which--such as "The Leave Wangler," and "The Man who Clung to the Railings," and "The Infectious Hornpipe"--have already rejoiced the readers of _Punch_.

Mr. BATEMAN'S appeal is double, for, having enjoyed his broad or subtle farce and his keen satirical observations, one may turn to the admiration of his technique, or _vice versâ*_. He did not invent the idea of the humorous sequence--the accumulative pictorial comedy; CARAN D'ACHE had come before, and before CARAN D'ACHE was WILHELM BUSCH, the German; but he has made it his own to-day. Some of his series are irresistible. As a delineator of types, accurate beneath the caricature, he is deadly; particularly, perhaps, when he turns his attention to the Senior Service. But his Brigadiers and his Clubmen are also always within an ace of being identifiable.

For anyone in the dumps Mr. Punch prescribes a speedy visit to the Leicester Galleries.

* * * * *

OUR PLUTOCRATIC CLERGY.

"Curate wanted. £22. 2 churches. E.P."

_Church Times_.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_

MR. JOHN GALSWORTHY is a most deceptive writer. He lures a reader on by a display of gentleness and smoothness and moderation, and then turns on him and makes it plain that he is really a most provocative fellow and is engaged in matching his mind against yours. He tries to commit you to some such statement as this: "The allegiance of the workman in time of peace is not rendered to the State, but to himself and his own class." Or this: "I think editors, journalists, old gentlemen and women will be brutalised [by the War] in larger numbers than our soldiers." Or this: "This is at once a spiritual link with America and yet one of the great barriers to friendship between the two peoples. We are not sure whether we are better men than Americans." Or this: "My mind is open, and when one says that, one generally means that it is shut." Disconcerting, very, and all to be found in _Another Sheaf_ (HEINEMANN). Mr. GALSWORTHY'S chief object in his little book is to arouse us to the disgrace and destruction of our State and race if we continue to allow ourselves to be fed, not by our own resources, but by alien corn and meat, which may so easily become hostile corn and meat. Incidentally Mr. GALSWORTHY finds that we are in the mass far too ugly. For instance, how few of us have chiselled nostrils! We ought not to eat so much pure white flour.

* * * * *

On the second page of _The Secret City_ (MACMILLAN) Mr. HUGH WALPOLE (or, to be meticulously correct, _Durward_, into whose mouth the story is put) says that "there is no Russian alive for whom this book can have any kind of value except as a happy example of the mistakes that the Englishman can make about the Russian." Well, after finishing the book, which is in some ways a sequel to _The Dark Forest_, I felt so very disinclined to believe this statement that I consulted a Russian, who is very much alive, and received the opinion that, if Mr. WALPOLE has not succeeded in drawing the real average Russian, he has given us a type whose faults and virtues sound the keynote of the situation as it is to-day. Such an opinion is worth a thousand times more than any judgment of mine, and I am glad of the opportunity to record it. From a literary point of view it seems to me that Mr. WALPOLE, in allowing _Durward_ to tell the tale, has created innumerable difficulties for himself--difficulties which to a great extent have been cleverly overcome, but which nevertheless make the story wobble dangerously and once or twice threaten it with devastation. To me, however, the interest never really flagged, for granted that one has a sympathy with Russia one feels acutely what Mr. WALPOLE is aiming at and how wonderfully he succeeds. It is not difficult to find faults: to complain, for instance, that a strong man like _Semyonov_ would not have taken such elaborate measures to get himself killed; but these points are trivial in a book which is not to be read so much for its story as for its idea. And the idea is great.

* * * * *

_Rollo Johnson_ was incautious enough to be born the natural son of a peer. This fact caused just sufficient complications to keep MARY L. PENDERED'S latest story, _The Silent Battlefield_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL), from any threat of stagnation while she was developing the theme that really intrigued her. This was the struggle between increasing wealth and early-acquired Socialism as it arose in the mind of a hero working his way up from poverty to millionairedom, a seat in the House and the opportunity of hobnobbing with lords, suffragettes and other notables. When I say that the two sides of the Socialist case are presented with rather uncommon fairness you may think that is only because my own particular creed is upheld; but really and truly I was frowning quite as much as purring while the silent battle proceeded, and the end is neutral enough to bring despair to all true believers. Lest you should suppose the book all made up of election addresses I hasten to add that, in the quiet and thoughtful way one expects of the author, the story is a good one, the pictures of a small country town are true to life, and the characters without exception real creatures of flesh and blood. Remembering the puppets that so often have been made to represent their country in a political novel, this is saying more than a little, and if it is true that, among the ladies of the cast, one still finds those the most attractive who have no pronounced opinions to speak or vote about, no doubt this is just old prejudice, and, anyway, the book is one that can be heartily commended.

* * * * *

The scene of _In Happy Valley_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is laid spiritually, if not strictly geographically, in that part of the continent of America which everybody who has gone to a cinema, hoping against hope, knows so well. I mean the country where people have "shooting irons" and use them on the slightest provocation to insist that other people shall carry their hands at an absurd and wearisome elevation, and all the men wear fringy trousers, and all the women shawls, save the heroine, who has to be suitably arrayed for the performance of athletic feats. I admit that I didn't feel quite at home _In Happy Valley_, because I missed the sheriff and his posse, and nobody held up the stage-coach; still the young doctor and the school teacher and the ladies at the mission did their best for me, and I found it a great help to know the language, an attainment of which I am justifiably a little vain, for not everyone could translate at sight to "thud" the road or "shoot up" a Christmas party. Mr. JOHN FOX, Junr., has not placed his largest strawberries--and some of them are quite nice ones--at the top of the basket. His first story did not attract me as much as others further on, such as, for instance, that excellently humorous one, "The Angel from Viper," though here and in other places a lady called _St. Hilda_, obviously not she of Whitby, confused me a little. I fancy that we were supposed to have made her acquaintance in some previous book. But my real quarrel with Mr. Fox is that he has only given walking-on parts to the actors who do best when such tales are told upon the screen--I mean the horses.

* * * * *

When it is granted that books on flying by fliers have at present a peculiar fascination, the fact still remains that what I will call The Library of Aviation has usually been remarkably fortunate in its contributors. _Cavalry of the Air_ (SIMPKIN, MARSHALL) is the last flying work which it has been my good fortune to read, and the only conceivable reason for finding fault with it is that "FLIGHT COMMANDER" occasionally becomes a little facetious. But when that small complaint is made I have nothing left except praise. The author was first of all an Observer--or, as he calls it, a "Shock Absorber"--in France, and he describes his life so that we groundlings may understand and sympathise with every phase of it. Especially I like the way in which he pays tribute to the infantry. In the second part of his book he tells us of his training as a pilot; and here he gives information which deserves to be most thoroughly studied. The illustrations by Mr. GEOFFREY WATSON add to the charm of this attractive volume. Of another contribution to the literature of the air which lies before me I cannot speak so well. Lieut.-Colonel CURTIES has an inventive mind, and in _Blake of the R.F.C._ (SKEFFINGTON) he uses it unsparingly. But although I am ready to believe almost anything in a book of this kind, I am bound to confess that I found myself bewildered by this breathless romance. Indeed the pace is so hot at the outset that even the author seems to have lost control of it. If, however, you are craving for excitement you will find it here. The scene is laid in Cairo, and we all know that funny things happen in that city. Not the least funny thing that happened to the characters in this story was the careless ease with which they drank whisky-and-soda. But this--let me warn you--happened nearly two years ago.

* * * * *

UNIQUE EXPLOIT OF A LADY-VOTER.

"I felt a very proud woman when I walked into the ballot-box, for
the first time, and cast my vote. And it took me 4-1/2 hours to
get there and back."--_Local Paper_.

* * * * *