Chapter L

_Land Girl_. "WELL, THEY WERE ASLEEP AND LOOKED SO COMFY--I SIMPLY HADN'T THE HEART TO DISTURB THEM."]

* * * * *

THE LANGUAGE TEST FOR V.A.D.'S.

From an Official Form of Application for stripes:--

"I certify that these Members have diligently attended their
duties at the Hospital, are always neat in appearance, punctual in
their habits and proficient in their cursing. I recommend they be
allowed to enter for the Blue Stripe Examination."

* * * * *

From the announcement of a musical service:--

"Soprano Solo, 'With Verger clad'. (_Creation_), Miss Dorothy
----,"--_Canadian Paper_.

Quite a new "creation."

* * * * *

_Philistine_ (_who has been dragged by wife to Jazz tea-shop_). "WHAT IS IT THEY'BE TRYING TO PLAY, DEAR?"

_Modern Wife_. "OH, YOU WOULDN'T BE ANY THE WISER.--NOTHING OUT OF 'THE BOHEMIAN GIRL.'"]

* * * * *

THE HOUSE HISTRIONIC.

The enterprise of Mr. C.B. COCHRAN, who announces that the oak-parlour used in his play at the St. Martin's Theatre will be sold by auction at the conclusion of the run, has not unnaturally provoked a certain liveliness in architectural circles. Should advertisements of houses for sale ever reappear in the newspapers, it is thought likely that they may include something like this:--

Desirable Family Mansion of unique interest, suit dramatist seeking congenial associations. Exceptionally fine dining-hall, as used in the supper scene in _Macbeth_, and equipped with convenient _Banquo_ sliding-panel to kitchen. The latter apartment deserves the epithet Baronial, being transported direct from the successful pantomime, _Puss-in-Boots_, and capable of accommodating a ballet of two hundred cooks. The elegantly proportioned drawing-room (to which a fourth wall has been since added) was the subject of special mention in several leading newspapers after the production of _Epigrams_ at the Niobe Theatre; while each of the twelve bedrooms represents some recent triumph in the Problematical Drama. An attractive feature is the fitting of an artificial sunlight attachment to the outside of each window; while every room is provided with one or more telephones.

Snug Bachelor Flat, direct from the phenomenally successful farce, _Peers and Pyjamas_, at the Plenipotentiaries Theatre. The fine central living-room contains sixteen doors, opening into bedrooms, kitchen, coal-cellar, etc. May be as conveniently entered by the window as by the doors. All the latter work upon the well-known dramatic hinge, by which as soon as one shuts another opens. Unlimited facilities for hide-and-seek. Exceptional opportunity for active tenant.

* * * * *

From _The Mistress of Court Regina_, by Mr. CHARLES GARVICE:--

"He kissed her, taking his cigarette out of his mouth to do so."

This courteous consideration is invariably shown in the best circles.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SUBALTERNS' PARADISE.

I met Bilsden and congratulated him on being in "civvies."

"What are you going to do now?" I asked. "Back to the old firm?"

"No," said Bilsden gravely; "when a man has acquired the power of leading men he's thrown away in an accountant's office, especially as the junior member of the staff. I see no prospect in England. I have offered to take charge of large departments of English firms, and be responsible for entire supervision, but they fail to recognise what the capacity for leadership gained in the army will do. I'm off to Ceylon--tea-planting. Just to control big gangs of coolies and see that they work. It will be child's play for me. Lovely climate; elephants. An absolutely ideal job."

It seemed to me on that foggy frosty day, that to lie in a hammock in the shade, with the temperature about ninety, watching coolies work, would be the perfect form of labour.

I congratulated Bilsden on having found his _métier_.

Half-an-hour later I met Parkinson, another second-loot who had just shed his pip.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" I asked.

"I'm a bit dubious," he said.

"Try tea-planting in Ceylon," I suggested. "Elephants, spicy breezes, swing in a hammock all day watching coolies. My dear boy, were I twenty years younger I should be inquiring about a berth on the next steamer."

"Ah," said Parkinson, "of course Ceylon's all right, and I've a lot of pals going out there; but what about rubber-planting in the Malay Peninsula? They've got tigers there. That's rather a pull."

I admitted the attraction of tigers to certain tastes, but not to mine. In my case the pull, I thought, might be on the tiger's side.

Since these interviews I have been going the rounds of my military acquaintances and I find a general feeling in favour of Ceylon or the Malay Peninsula.

Of course it's an excellent thing that they should take up the white man's burden and make the coolies work, only I'm in dread lest the overcrowding we suffer from in England may be extended to the Orient. Will there be enough plantations, coolies and big game to go round amongst our subalterns?

I can see the Government introducing several Bills--

(1) For the extension of the Isle of Ceylon;

(2) For the lengthening of the Malay Peninsula;

(3) For the importation of five million coolies, estimated at the rate of five hundred coolies each, to give employment to ten thousand second-loots;

(4) For the importation of elephants, tigers, lions, buffalo, hippopotami, giraffes and capercailzie.

* * * * *

AT PRINTING-HOUSE SQUARE.

[Mr. GEOFFREY DAWSON has resigned the Editorship of _The Times_,
owing to a disagreement with Lord NORTHCLIFFE over matters of
policy, and has been succeeded by Mr. H. WICKHAM STEED, formerly
foreign editor.]

"Once more upon the waters! Yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a Steed
That knows his master."

_Byron_, "_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_."

* * * * *

_Driver_ (_ex-infantry_). "I AM, SIR."]

* * * * *

A CAREER.

(_The Right Man in the Right Place_.)

You should see our son James!
You should just see our James!
As bright as a button, as sharp as a knife!
My wife says to me and I say to my wife,
"You'll never have seen such a son in your life
As our jammy son, James."

He is now three years old;
He's a good three years old;
When the fellow was two you could see by his brow
(At the age of a year, you could guess by the row)
That this was a coming celebrity. Now
He's a stout three-year-old.

Question: What shall he be?
Tell us, what shall he be?
Shall he follow his father and go to the Bar,
Where, passing his father, he's bound to go far?
"But one knows," says his mother,"what barristers are.
Something else he must be!"

Do you fancy a Haig?
Shall our James be a Haig?
The War Office tell me he's late for this war,
Have the honour to add there won't be any more
Since that's what the League of the Nations is for;
So it's off about Haig.

But his mother sees light
(Mothers always see light).
"This League of the Nations we mentioned above,
With the motto, 'Be Quiet,' the trade-mark, a Dove,
Will be wanting a President, won't it, my love?"
Jimmy's mother sees light.

Yes, that could be arranged;
Nay, it must be arranged.
In the matter of years Master Jimmy would meet
Presidential requirements. What age can compete,
In avoiding the gawdy, achieving the neat,
With forty to fifty? Thus, forty-five be't.
Given forty-two years, he'll be finding his feet
And the Treaty of Peace should be getting complete....
And so that's all arranged.

HENRY.

* * * * *

"I am sorry to have to say that this statement is a ------, and if
any of my readers have any doubt as to whether I used that strong
term without just reason, I invite them to communicate with the
Ministry of Shipping on the subject."--_Letter in "The Observer."_

We respect our contemporary's discretion, but we _should_ like to know what was the "strong term".

* * * * *

"The Literary Class has grown beyond all expectations, the numbers
attending the last few meetings averaging nearly 100. Papers have
been read and discussed on Dickens' Works, _Tess, Tale of Two
Cities_."

_The Highway_.

Flushed with success, the Literary Class is expected next to tackle HARDY; _Jude the Obscure_ and _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ being the first objectives.

* * * * *

_NOUVELLES DE PARIS._

_Paris, March 3rd, 1919._

DEAREST POPPY,--You know, don't you, that I write for the
Press? You _must_ write, _ma chère_, if you want to be _dans le
mouvement_ nowadays. It's getting to be almost as big a craze as
jazzing and is quite as exciting. It has its difficulties, of
course, but so has the jazz roll. And if you've got a title or
have been mixed up in a _cause célèbre_ you can write on anything
_sans aucune connaissance spéciale_. Camilla Blythely says she
just sends in her photo and signature and those obliging newspaper
people do the rest--which is most helpful to a busy person. But
then we can't all be as notorious as dear Camilla.

I hope it isn't getting just a little overdone. But I hear that
lots of papers are offering only three guineas a column now for
quite important signatures, while others actually insist on
contributors writing their own articles.

_Quant à moi_, I'm writing up the light side of the Peace
Conference. I do those snappy pars about LLOYD GEORGE'S ties and
CLEMENCEAU'S gloves and all those little domestic touches that
people would much rather read about than such remote things as
Czecho-Slovaks and Jugo-Slavs. I did a most _thrilling_ three
columns about the hats of the delegates, from the bowler of Mr.
BONAR LAW to the "coffieh" and "igal" headdress of EMIR FAISUL,
the Arab Prince. (It's always so effective if you can stick in a
word or two like that that nobody understands. You never need get
them right).

Talking of odd words, the latest _boutade_ over here is to find
new names and epithets for our dress materials--some of them quite
weird. If you want a silk _tricot_ you ask for "_djersador_,"
while a coarser texture is "_djersacier_"; "_mousseux_" now
describes velvet as well as champagne; _ninon_ is known as
"_vapoureuse"_; while to make one of the newest Spring dresses you
require only three-and-a-half yards of "_Salomé_." Some of the
_couturiers_ in the Rue de la Paix are issuing fashion-pronouncing
handbooks, while others have their own interpreters to assist
customers.

The theatres over here are getting extremely--well, what our
grandparents termed "_risqués_," but it really goes further than
that. And the worst of it is my countrypeople seem to think
it's the smart thing to go to them, which they do most
indiscriminately. _Heureusement_ they don't understand the stuff.
Whenever I see a most circumspect and highly proper British matron
entering one of the Boulevard theatres nowadays I think what
a mercy it is that we as a nation rely so much on pronouncing
phrase-books for acquiring foreign languages. It keeps one so
single-minded in the midst of a wicked world.

But, after all, propriety is a _question de localité_. Else why
do people do things here which would badly shock us at home? _Par
exemple_, dancing between the courses of a meal is our latest
_caprice_ here; but I was _un peu étonnée_, the other evening, to
see the Duchess of Mintford, at a restaurant of the most _chic_,
jazzing off the effects of the turbot with light-hearted
_abandon_.

Unfortunately a waiter carrying a tray darted across the track
at the very moment when she was involved in that step so
_embrouillant_, the side-roll.

It took quite a long time to collect, and put in their proper
order, the waiter, the contents of the tray, her Grace and all the
other jazzers who were coming up behind.

But, _après tout_, little comment was roused because most of the
onlookers thought the incident was just part of the dance.

So long, old thing.

_Bien à vous_,

ANNE.

* * * * *

THE TRUMP SUIT.

Those who wield Britannia's power
Have decreed a blissful hour,
When the mellow bugle-note
Sounds in every ship afloat,
And you see the forrard decks
Littered up with leathernecks,
Seamen sprawling on the hatches,
Darning socks and fitting patches,
Cleaning jumpers, sewing, smoking,
Writing, fighting, sleeping, joking,
Baiting foe and twitting friend--
Sailors call it "Make and Mend."

In this jolly throng each day
Gunner 'Erbert, R.M.A.,
Sat and smoked serenely bored,
So that I must needs record
When that precious hour was ended
He had neither made nor mended.

'Erbert was a crumpled rose
In the beds of N.C.O.'s,
And a blot on the escutcheon
Which they pride themselves so much on;
For, in spite of threat and curse,
Cells and badges lost, or worse,
Captain's frown or sergeants' oaths,
'Erbert _wouldn't_ mend his clothes.

In a distant Eastern land
Certain tribes got out of hand,
And, to comfort little Mary,
Sought to stew the missionary.
Our Marines were duly sent
To apportion chastisement,
And they snatched him from the larder,
But alas! pursuing harder
Than was wise in such a scrap,
They were landed in a trap.
For the wily natives got
All around and copped the lot,
Stripping off them every stitch
Of the clothes they stood in, which,
I am sure you'll all agree,
Was a great indignity.

Copped the lot? No, there was one
Absent when the deed was done.
'Erb, with his accustomed push,
Was advancing when the bush
Dragged the last remaining stitches
From the bag he called his breeches,
Leaving nothing but the dregs
Of the red stripe down his legs.
'Erbert paused; though not a prude,
He had never liked the nude.

Seated in a distant clearing.
He remarked the natives cheering,
And, directed by the din,
Saw the plight his mates were in.
When he thought the time was ripe,
Clad in little but his stripe
'Erbert charged.... The tribes in wonder
Promptly bolted with the plunder.

'Erbert with averted head
Quickly gathered every shred
Of his late-lamented kit,
Saying, as he handed it
To the Major, "I infer
You have lost your breeches, Sir."

With his glasses in his hands
On his deck the Captain stands,
Watching with surprise and fear
His detachment reappear--
First the Major, garbed in dirt
And the tail of 'Erbert's shirt;
Then the Sergeant, better dressed
In the sleeves of 'Erbert's vest;
Then the rest in fragments torn
From the jumper he had worn.
Last comes 'Erbert, proud as NELSON,
With a smile and nothing else on.

Is it Fortune's final stroke,
Or the Skipper's little joke?
As the ladder they ascend
Comes the bugle "Make and Mend."

* * * * *

"A flotilla of Portuguese warships is actively maintaining the
blockade between the mouth of the Volga and that of the Minho."

_Daily Paper_.

The report that the Bolshevists have borrowed a "Big Bertha" and are meditating a bombardment of Lisbon by way of reprisal is as yet unconfirmed.

* * * * *

"Mr. W.A. Appleton, secretary of the Feedration of Trade Unions,
declares that since the Armistice the federation 'has lost no
opportunity of endeavouring to smash the controls that meant
continued high prices (of food)."--_Evening Paper_.

More power to the "Feedration" in its self-sacrificing campaign.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"I S'POSE YOUR OVERDRAFT BLEW YOU OUT AGAIN--WHAT?"]

* * * * *

THE RIGHTS OF LABOUR.

_(Extract from "The Times and Mail" of January 1st, 1925.)_

A significant case was heard yesterday in the courts, when William Blogg, bricklayer's labourer, recovered twenty-five pounds damages from James Buskin Carruthers, artist, for injury done to the plaintiff's eight-cylinder car through defendant's culpable negligence in allowing himself to be run over by it.

Plaintiff urged that he was a labouring-man, who worked eight hours a day. The court was at once adjourned, while restoratives were applied to the Bench.

On the resumption of the proceedings it was explained that since the passing of the Two Hours Maximum Day Bill the supply of labour had been inadequate to meet the demands made upon it, and plaintiff had patriotically filled four posts, at the minimum rate of fifteen shillings an hour. It was while he was hurrying from one sphere of activity to another that the collision occurred, resulting in injury to the plaintiff's mud-guard and loss of valuable time.

Defendant, who admitted negligence, pleaded poverty and threw himself upon the mercy of the Court.

The Bench, in summing up, called the jury's attention to the fact that defendant was not a labourer, but only a professional man; at the same time he reminded them of the impartiality of British justice, which did not admit that there was one law for the rich and another for the poor. Even the wealthiest labouring-man must be protected in the exercise of his inalienable right to work.

The accompanying photograph shows the plaintiff in the act of assisting to build a wall.; He is a self-made man, having started life as a solicitor and by sheer perseverance raised himself to the lucrative and responsible' position of an unskilled bricklayer's labourer.

* * * * *

TO M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU.

Strong son of France, whose words were ever lit
By lightning flashes of ironic wit;
More fond of power than of pelf or place,
Eternal foeman of the mean and base,
And always ready in a righteous cause
To suffer odium and contemn applause--
Men call you still the "tiger," but the name
Has long outworn the faintest hint of blame,
Since in your country's direst hour of need
You have revealed your true heroic breed;
A tiger--yes, to enemies and Huns,
But trusted, idolised, by France's sons.
So when of late a traitor's felon blow
Was like to lay you, old and ailing, low,
And France was sorely stricken in her Chief,
The wide world shared her anguish--and relief;
For the assassin, resolute to kill,
Was foiled by your indomitable will.
Immortal France! she cannot spare you yet,
Till you have paid in full your filial debt,
And by the great Redemption and Release
Stamped Victory with the final seal of Peace.

* * * * *

(No representative of the General Public seems to have been invited to sit on the Coal Industry Commission.)]

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, February 24th._--The mantle of the lamented Mr. JOSEPH KING, whose taste in _protégés_ was so remarkable, seems to have descended upon Colonel WEDGWOOD. His request for the return to this country of LAJPAT RAI, "the Indian patriot," aroused a storm of objection from other hon. Members, who considered the description inapplicable to a person deported for sedition. But it was quickly quelled by the SPEAKER with the unanswerable assertion that "everybody calls himself a patriot in these days."

Mr. RAPER sought an assurance that no "wrack"--which appears to be a term of art in the timber trade--should be used in the houses to be erected under the Government's new housing scheme. If these were not to be "the unsubstantial fabric of a vision," he implied, the official builders had better leave the wrack behind.

Something is at last to be done to reduce the growing plague of Questions. Hitherto each Member has been entitled to put down eight Questions for oral reply on any one day. But in future no one is to be permitted to "star" more than four Questions _per diem_. Even that is regarded by some Members as an extravagant allowance. Major HENNESSY, I understand, thinks "three stars" enough for any man.

"The Government is not a trustee for one class, but for all," was the leading theme of the PRIME MINISTER'S firm and tactful speech in introducing the Coal Industry Commission Bill. He was studiously conciliatory to the miners, but made it plain that they could not be allowed to put a pistol at the head of the general community.

The miners appear, however, to be in the mood of the little girl who said, "I don't want to go to bed; I want to be _in_ bed." The gist of eloquent speeches delivered on their behalf by Mr. HARTSHORN and Mr. RICHARDS was that the Government already possessed all the relevant facts, and should give the desired relief at once. But they mustered only 43 in the Division Lobby against 257 for the Second Reading.

_Tuesday, February 25th._--Their Lordships resumed their debate on Industrial Unrest. Lord RUSSELL attributed it mainly to ignorance--on the part of the capitalists and the newspapers, who, with few exceptions, never gave fair play to Labour. He was supported to some extent by His Grace of YORK, who declared that, after a perusal of the Labour Press and the non-Labour Press, he could hardly believe they were dealing with the same subject.

Up to almost the eleventh hour the Committee stage of the Coal Commission Bill in the Commons was not encouraging. The Labour representatives moved amendment after amendment, designed either to wreck the measure or to make the Commission a mere registration-office to approve their own cut-and-dried plans.

Mr. RICHARDS moved to omit wages and hours from its purview, but the House, brought up in the belief that _Hamlet_ without the _Prince of Denmark_ is but a poor play, voted him down by 270 to 40.

Then came another question-begging amendment from Mr. ADAMSON, suggesting that the Commission's inquiries into the possibilities of reorganising the mines should be limited to the single question of "nationalization"--the "blessed word" of Labour just now. This was supported in a capital maiden speech by Mr. SPOOR, an ex-pitman, whose father and son are both in the mines, and by Mr. CLYNES, who rather unreasonably complained that the HOME SECRETARY made SHORTT speeches; but it shared the same fate.

Not till the Bill was nearly through Committee was there any sign of _rapprochement_. Then, in response to the persuasive purring of Mr. BRACE, who had urged that the Commission should issue an interim report on wages and hours by March 12th, the PRIME MINISTER declared that, after consultation with Mr. Justice SANKEY, he was prepared to promise that the report should be ready on March 20th. A smile, extending almost to the extreme limits of his moustache, spread over Mr. BRACE'S benevolent countenance. Thenceforward all was peace, and the Third Reading was carried without a division.

_Wednesday, February 26th._--The Lords passed the Coal Industry Commission Bill through all its stages without a pause. Then Lord DEVONPORT expatiated on the mistakes of the Food Controllers with such a wealth of illustration that the LORD CHANCELLOR, who is fond of Classical "tags," was heard to murmur, _"Omnium consensu capax imperil nisi imperasset."_

A Second Reading was given to the Re-election of Ministers Bill, on the plea of the LORD CHANCELLOR that until it is passed several of his Ministerial colleagues will be _nantes in gurgite vasto_--or, in other words, all at sea.

Rumours that a new Department of Public Information was to be set up excited much curiosity in the Commons, but only negative replies were received. The Department, if, and when, it comes into existence, is not to advertise the virtues of the Coalition, nor is it to publish a newspaper of its own; though, to judge by the leaflets, circulars and _communiqués_ issued by the existing Ministries in the course of the week, such an organ would certainly not perish for lack of copy.

The so-called Ten Minutes' Rule was originally intended for the introduction of comparatively unimportant Bills. This after-noon Mr. SHORTT employed it for the purpose of explaining the provisions of one of the most revolutionary and comprehensive measures ever brought forward in any country. Briefly it is to put under the control of a single Minister of Ways and Communications our railways, our canals, our roads, and also our supply of electricity, hitherto in the hands of hundreds of public companies and local authorities. Only on one point did the Bill meet with opposition. I do not know whether Mr. JOYNSON HICKS claims any connection with Hicks's Hall, which stands in the old road-books as the starting-point of the great highway to the North, but he became almost lyrical in his denunciation of the proposal to put all the roads in the country in charge of a railwayman like Sir ERIC GEDDES. They ought, in his opinion, to be under the care of someone "born on roads" and "trained on roads"--a sort of super-tramp, I suppose.

_Thursday, February 27th._--To an appeal for an increase in the pensions of Crimea and Mutiny veterans, to meet the rise in the cost of living, response was made that such an increase would be granted in the case of those not over seventy years of age. It is not thought that the concession will cause a heavy drain on the national resources, few of the veterans having joined up before entering their 'teens.

As a retort, "Yah! German!" is, I am told, already considered _vieux jeu_ by the wits of the pavement. But Ulstermen and Nationalists still think it effective to twit one another with having been supplied with rifles from the arsenals of the Bosch. They bandied charges and contradictions so vigorously this afternoon that the SPEAKER had to intervene to put an end to these "nonsensical bickerings."

The SECRETARY OP THE TREASURY scouted the suggestion that County cricket-matches should be exempted from the entertainment tax. It is believed that his answer was based solely upon financial considerations, and that he must not be held to have expressed the opinion that first-class cricket, as played by certain counties, _is_, in point of fact, entertaining.

* * * * *

"German residents in South-west Africa have forwarded the
Administrator a petition for transmission to President Wilson,
claiming permission to erect a republic union with the Republic
of Germany. The petitioners claim that they not only represent a
majority of the white inhabitants, but interpret the views of
the wishes of the majority of the majority of the ahmbahmbahmbah
natives."

_New Zealand Paper_.

We should like to know more of this remarkable tribe, which, _inter alia_, seems to have evolved a new method of proportional representation.

* * * * *

THE RED WINE OF THE COUNTRY.

"Did I iver tell ye," asked ex-Sergeant O'Reilly, filling his pipe from my tobacco-jar, "about the red wine?"

"I remember a story about sparkling Burgundy," I said.

"Och, that wouldn't be it at all. 'Twas another time altogither."

"Well," I said, "tell me about the red wine."

"'Twas this way." O'Reilly leant back in his chair, covered his maimed hand with a pocket-handkerchief--a curious way he had--and looked at me with that expression of openness and simplicity which demands confidence. "We was 'way back o' the line at the time, at a place where ye'd expect to get a taste o' rest; but what wid fancy attacks an' 'special coorses' (thim 's the divil an' all!) there wasn't enough rest for an honest man to get into mischief. Well, there was to be a grand inshpection by a tremenjus brass-hat, one o' thim soort all over ribbons that rides wid a shtiff back. 'Twas the mornin' before the great day whin the O.C. comes to me all of a flutter, an' says he, 'Sergint, ye've a chanct now to do me a good turn.'

"'I'll do it, Sorr,' says I, 'if it costs me my shtripes.'

"'The fact is,' says he, 'we've run out o' claret, an' there's no dacent shtuff to be had for twinty miles round; annyway, that's what I'm tould. Now the Gin'ral has a great fancy for red wine.'

"''Tis a sad business,' says I.

"'I've heard it whispered,' says the poor man, an' he wid the D.S.O. an' all, 'that where there's a good dhrop o' dhrink you're the man to find it. An',' says he, 'there's no discredit to ye in that, O'Reilly.'

"'Indeed no, Sorr,' says I; ''tis a gift.'

"'Well,' says he, 'would ye use that same gift of yours for the honour o' the Rig'mint?'"

O'Reilly felt in his pocket for a tobacco-stopper, attended carefully to his pipe and again fixed me with his candid gaze.

"'There's a bit of a place 'way back,' says I, 'where I've a fancy I might find somethin'.'

"Wid that he shtuck a bunch o' notes in me hand. 'Don't shpare the cost,' says he, 'but get it. 'Tis up to you, Sergint, to save a disp'rit situation.'"

"It was a terrible responsibility," I said.

"Ye may say that. Whin I was alone wid thim notes bulgin' in me tunic, I'd a notion I might let down the Rig'mint afther all, an' that would have bruk me heart. But off I wint to see Achille. 'Twas four miles to the village, an' I wint on my blessed feet, an' by the time I got to the place I was as nervous as a mouse in a thrap. Achille's shop wasn't a café or an estaminet or a buvette or anny o' thim places. He had a bit of a brass plate on his door wid 'Marchand de Vins' on it. I knew him by raison of a fancy that took me wan day for a dhrop o' brandy. So I wint in through Achille's door wid thim notes as hot in me pocket as Patsy Donelly's pipe.

"Achille hopped out o' the little room at the hack same's a bird out of a cage. 'Ah,' says he, 'that was good cognac, eh? You shall have more, me son.'

"'Achille,' says I, ''tis a shtrange thing, but there's niver a thought o' cognac in me mind at all. 'Tis red wine, the best, that I'm afther.'

"'Red wine!' says he. 'I haven't a litre o' red wine in the cellars.'

"'Holy Powers!' says I, 'an' you wid "Marchand de Vins" on yer door.' The shock of it took the breath out o' me entirely. So I sat up on the counter to think.

"''Tis a matther,' says I, 'that concerns the Rig'mint, a rig'mint that was niver bate yet.' An' I explained about the Gin'ral an' what the O.C. tould me. An' thin I tuk the notes from me pocket an' put thim on the counther undher his eyes.

"'Ach,' says he, ''tisn't money I want from ye, but to hilp a frind.' Then he folded his arms an' his forehead wint up into a puzzle o' wrinkles.

"'An' why wouldn't white wine do?' says he.

"'Is it offer white wine to a Gin'ral an' him wid a taste for red?' says I. 'It might rouse him terrible. Now, Achille,' says I, 'would there be no way of makin' the white red?'"

O'Reilly put a persuasiveness into the last words that revealed Achille to me as an honest merchant confronted with the most subtle of temptations.

"O'Reilly," I said, "was that fair?"

"Maybe not, but I'd the Gin'ral an' the honour o' the Rig'mint fixed in me mind. 'That's a good joke, very good,' says Achille; but thore was niver a smile on his face.

"'I 'd no intintion to make anny joke,' says I. 'Come, Achille, you're a knowin' man. Would there be no way at all?'

"Now it happened that he'd lift the door o' the little room open, an' I could see a bit o' a garden through the window. 'What's the shtuff growin' out there,' says I, 'wid the dark red leaves to it, or maybe ye'd call thim purple?'

"'That's beet,' says he with a kind of a groan.

"'Beet,' says I. 'An' isn't beet a red kind of a thing an' mighty full o' juice?'

"'It is that,' says he, wid the eyes of him almost out o' his head.

"'Then how would it be,' says I, 'to touch up the white wine wid some o' that same juice?'

"'The thought was in me mind, God help me,' says he, an' wid that he sat up on the counther forninst me, an' we shtared into the garden like two men in a play.

"'Would it make the wine cloudy?' says I.

"'I could filter it so's it'd come as clear as sunshine,' says he.

"'An' how would it be for taste?' says I.

"Achille put a hand on me arm an' I could feel him shakin' like a man wid the ague.

"'Heaven forgive me,' says he, 'but ye might say it was the wine o' the counthry, an' that taste was the mark of it.' 'Tis my belief he was near cryin', for he was an honest man, an' 'twas for me he was lowerin' himself to deceit."

"You were a nice pair," I said.

"'Twas a beautiful schame," O'Reilly went on. "I was niver concerned in a betther."

"Did it come off?" I asked.

"To a turn," said O'Reilly. "We was docthorin' that blissed wine for the best part o' the day, an' I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp. The O.C. was hangin' round, as anxious as a dog for his master.

"'Have ye the wine, O'Reilly?' says he.

"'I have, sorr,' says I; 'but I'd be glad if ye'd ask me no questions about it.'

"'Not for the world,' says he, givin' me a queer look, an' was off like a mountain hare."

"Did the General recover?" I asked.

"That wine made a new man of him. He praised the Rig'mint up to the heighths. We was the pink o' the Army, bedad! The throuble was he wanted to know where he'd get more o' that same wine.

"'There's no more to be had,' says I to the O.C., for I was done wid the job.

"'He says it has a powerful bouquet,' says the O.C.

"'That may be,' says I, 'but he'll niver taste the like of it agin. 'Twas an ould wine o' the counthry, an' there's niver been the match of it before or since.'

"'Couldn't it be managed annyhow?' says the O.C.

"'Not for all the Gin'rals in the British army,' says I. 'Twas for the love o' the Rig'mint I got that wine, an' I 'm done wid the job.'"

"Is that the end?" I asked.

"Barrin' this," said O'Reilly. And he produced from his pocket a silver cigarette case, inside which was engraved, "To Sergeant Dennis O'Reilly, who saved the situation, October 15th, 1917."

* * * * *

_Ex-Air-Mechanic (in difficulties)._ "SEEMS TO BE A RARE OLD BUS FOR NOSE-DIVING."]

* * * * *

"No, thank you; I hate publicity.--Lord Jellicoe, in reply to a
request for a farewell massage."--_Provincial Paper_.

We agree with the gallant Admiral that such operations are better conducted in private.

* * * * *

"It was stated that the cow took ill, and died on 23rd June last,
and the purser now claimed the value of the animal, namely, £5O,
and also a further sum of £5, being the loss which he sustained
through the want of milk, butter, and cheese, supplied by said
cow from the date of her death to the date of the raising of the
action."--_Scots Paper_.

"Faithful unto death"--and a bit over.

* * * * *

THE DUKE OF WESSEX WELCOMES THE LEADING FINANCIAL MAGNATE OF A FRIENDLY NATION ON HIS ARRIVAL AT VICTORIA STATION.

UPPER-CUT BILL OF STEPNEY, THE WEST OF EUROPE HEAVYWEIGHT, WELCOMES BASHER SCROGGINS OF VALPARAISO ON HIS ARRIVAL AT LIVERPOOL.]

* * * * *

THE ART OF LEAVING.

If I had a son one of the first things I should teach him would be the art of leaving. I would have him swift in all ways, but swiftest when the time came to go. And when he went he should go absolutely. For although the people who leave slowly are bad enough, they are as nothing compared with the people who make false exits and return with afterthoughts.

The other day the necessity came for me to visit a house agent. Life has these chequered moments. There is something of despatch and order wanting about most house-agents, possibly the result of their very odd and difficult business, which is for the greater part carried on with people who don't know their own minds and apparently are least likely to take an eligible residence when they most profess satisfaction with it. Be that as it may, house agents' offices in general have a want of definiteness unknown to, say, banks or pawnbrokers'. There is no exact spot for you to stand or sit; you are unaware as to which of the clerks is going to attend to you, and the odds are heavy that the one you approach will transfer you to another. There is also a certain air of familiarity or friendliness: not, of course, approaching the camaraderie of the dealer in motor cars, who leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets and talks to customers through a cigarette; but something much more human than the attitude of a female clerk in a post-office.

Being pressed for time and having only the very briefest transaction to perform, it follows that I was kept waiting for my turn with "our Mr. Plausible," in whose optimistic hands my affairs at the moment repose.

Occupying his far too tolerant ear was another client, whose need was a country house surrounded by enough grass-land for a small stud farm.

This is what happened (he had, by the way, the only chair at that desk):--

_Our Mr. Plausible (for the fortieth time)._ I understand perfectly. A nice house, out-buildings and about twenty acres of meadow.

_Client_. Twenty to thirty.

_Our Mr. P_. Yes, or thirty.

_C_. You see, what I want is to breed stock--cattle and horses too.

_Our Mr. P_. Exactly. Well, the three places I have given you are all well-adapted.

_C_. When a man gets to my age and has put a little money by he may just as well take it quietly as not. I don't want a real farm; I want just a smallish place where I can play at raising pedigree animals.

_Our Mr. P_. That's just the kind of place I've given you. The one near Newbury is probably the most suitable. I should see that first, and then the one near Alton.

_C_. You understand, I don't want a big farm. Anybody else can have the arable. Just a comfortable house and some meadows; about twenty acres or even thirty.

_Our Mr. P_. The biggest one I've given you is thirty. The place near Newbury is twenty-three.

_C_. Well, I'11 go and see them as soon as I can. _[Gets up_.

_Our Mr. P_. The sooner the better, I should advise. There's a great demand for country-houses just now.

_C.(sitting solidly down again)._ Ah, yes, but this is different. What I want is not so much a country-house in the ordinary meaning of the term as a farm-house, but without possessing a farm. Just enough buildings and meadow-land to breed a few shorthorns and a yearling or two. The house must be comfortable, you know, roomy, but not anything pretentious. _[Gets up again_.

_Our Mr.P._ I quite understand. That's just what I've given you.

_C. (again seating himself)._ The whole scheme may be foolishness. My wife says it is. But _(here I believe I groaned audibly; at any rate all the other clerks looked up)_ there it is. When a man has enough to retire on and pay the piper he's entitled to call the tune; isn't he?

_[At this point I resist the temptation to take him by the shoulders and push him out_.

_Our Mr. P_. Quite, quite. Well, Sir, if you take my advice you'11 go to Newbury as quickly as you can. It's a first-rate place--most highly recommended.

_[Here the client very deliberately puts the three "orders to view" in his inside pocket and slowly buttons his coat. I flutter on tiptoe, eager for his chair._

_C_. If these won't do you'11 find me some more?

_Our Mr. P_. With pleasure.

_C_. Very well; good morning.

_[Moves away. I have just begun to speak when he returns._

_C_. Don't forget what I want it for. And not too far from London or my wife will dislike it.

_Our Mr. P_. Yes, you told me that. I've got a note of it here.

_C_. And you won't forget about the acreage?

_Our Mr. P_. No."

_C.(addressing me)._ I'm afraid I've kept you waiting.

_I (like the craven liar I am)._ It's all right.

_[Client ultimately withdraws, but still with reluctance, and after two or three hesitations and half-turns back_.

And the tragic part of it is that his name is Legion.

That is why if I had a boy I should teach him the art of leaving. Almost nothing else matters.

* * * * *

OFFICIAL EUPHEMISM.

DR. ADDISON has stated that for some time past it has been the practice riot to use the word "pauper" in official documents when it was possible to use another expression; and no well-conditioned person will cavil at the spirit which has prompted the use of a less invidious substitute. But surely the process might be carried a good deal further. The practice of giving a dog a bad name is not only condemned by the proverbial philosophy of the ancients but by the most emancipated of the orthopsychical educationists of to-day.

If you keep on calling a man a "criminal," you will end by making him one. How much wiser it would be to refer to the impulses which occasionally bring him into conflict with the custodians of law and order as emanating from a dynamic individualism! In that way you may very possibly convert him into a static individualist and sterilize his potential malignance by a subliminal _serum._.

The amount of harm done by disparaging nomenclature is incalculable. Take the word "thief," for example. Its meaning can be expressed with infinitely greater precision and delicacy in the phrase, "one who is unable to discriminate between _meum_ and _tuum_." Here you have in place of one mean little word a well-cadenced phrase of ten. Euphony as well as humanity prompts the variation.

Classical writers may have objected to the use of sesquipedalian words, but we know better, and Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S famous synonym for "lie" is permanently enshrined in the annals of circumlocution. One of the most offensive words in the language is "idiot"; yet it can be shorn of nearly all its sting when replaced by the definition, "a person of infra-normal mentality."

* * * * *

_Private_. "I DON'T KNOW, SIR. I WAS A TURF ACCOUNTANT."

_Demobilisation Officer_. "AH! AGRICULTURE--GROUP 1."]

* * * * *

"London, Dec. 16.--At a meeting of the County Cricket Advisory
Committee it was decided to run the County Championship during
1919, the matches to be limited to two days. There will be no
change in the number of balls in the over.--Reuter's.

The Soviets are preparing the sharpest
counter-measure.--Reuter's."--_Canton Times_.

But we are confident that whatever the Soviets' little game is it will not be cricket.

* * * * *

STATE LOTTERIES.

[An Equality Theatre is being-run in Munich, where the public pays
a fixed price and is allotted by chance a seat in the stalls or
the gallery.]

The Equality plan we will run if we can
So that never a man or a woman need grumble--
If theatres, should the idea not include
Books, clothing and food for the great and the humble?
You will pay a fixed sum and accept what may come,
Be it loser or plum; and, to shun all that vexes,
We'll even eliminate what modern women hate,
And will not discriminate as to the sexes.

The question of dress may at first, I confess,
Make a sort of a mess of our smart Small-and-Earlies,
Where the First Footman John wears the garb of a don,
And Lord CURZON comes on from the House in his pearlies;
But when our char kneels on the steps and reveals
The last word in "Lucilles," will she not put her heart more
And more in her duties while great social beauties
Slink by in "pampooties" and arrows from Dartmoor?

Our tastes and our breeding no more will be leading
The paths of our reading; we'll read what we've got to
(And it _will_ be a sell for Mamma if her Nell
Gets the last ETHEL DELL, when Mamma told her _not_ to);
It may be a worry to poor GILBERT MURRAY
To read Hints on Curry and Blouses and Batter
In _Home Chat_, it's true; but still more of a stew
_The Occult Review_ may appear to his hatter.

In the matter of meals, since the rations one feels
Hedonistic ideals have so soundly been shaken
That even the swankiest Duke might say, "Thankee!"
For Hodge's red hanky of bread and cold bacon;
But if in the sequel all chances are equal
You'll have to see me quell a volume of curses
When our "jobs" they allot, and I _still_ have to swot,
If I like it or not, writing topical verses.

* * * * *

A HARDY ANNUAL.

The butler, John Binns, who is an old and faithful retainer to this household, is now suffering from his annual cough. It is a terrific cough, capable of disputing supremacy with all other coughs of which the world has heard. The special points about this cough are (1) its loudness; (2) its combination of the noises made by all other coughs; (3) its depth; (4) its shriek of despair as it trembles and reverberates through the house; (5) its capacity to repel and annihilate sympathy. It is true that I have interviewed Binns with regard to his cough--it is an annual interview and is expected of me. I have urged him as he values our friendship not to neglect his cough, and he has assured me in return that the doctor has prepared for him a draught which possesses the supreme quality of being absolutely unable to effect the purpose for which it was devised.

"I shall drink 'is stuff," says Binns, "but I 'aven't any 'opes of its doing me any good. It doesn't seem to get me _be'ind_ the eough. If once I could really get be'ind it I should soon finish it. But yon can't expect to do anything with a cough unless you're be'ind it."

"Have you tried chloraline?" I venture to suggest, mentioning not by that name, but by another, a much-advertised specific.

"I've been living on chloraline--that is when I wasn't taking camphor lozenges. But my symptoms are too strong for that kind o' stuff. Besides, I find that it's no use to fill yerself up with remedies, because they only weigh down the cough unnaturally, and then when it does bust out it's fit to tear yer throat in pieces. But none of them get be'ind it--no, not once."

It will be observed that Binns has almost a superstition in regard to "getting be'ind." If he got rid of his cough with everything still in front, he would take no satisfaction whatever in his malady; but as it is he feels a legitimate pride in it. He has been a member of this household for forty years, and punctually on the Kalends of March in every year his cough turns up. It never reduces his efficiency, but, while it alienates affection, it makes him more valuable to himself as being one who has symptoms capable of being related at full length to Mrs. Hankinson, the cook, or to any of the maids who have not yet experienced it and must be made aware that they belong to an establishment which has the high merit of accommodating John Binns's annual cough.

It is something to have a butler who has coughed his irresistible way through two-and-a-half generations. It is a perfectly harmless affliction, but it gets on nerves in the same way as it did when first it huicked and honked and strangled and choked in the seventies of last century. I can see no decrease in its vigour or its variety. It deserves the chance of immortality that I hereby offer it, thus giving it a place beside the cough that _Johnson_ coughed at _Dr. Blimber's_ famous establishment. It will be remembered that, when the _Doctor_ began an excursus on the Romans, _Johnson_, "who happened to be drinking and who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him through the side of his tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments and in the sequel ruined Dr. Blimber's point." He struggled gallantly, but had in the end to give way to an overwhelming paroxysm of coughing. It was a good cough, but an isolated one, and was perhaps, after all, not equal to Binns's.

* * * * *

THE GOOD OLD TIMES.

Captain Reginald Jones _and_ Captain James Smith, _demobilised, meet accidentally in the waiting-room of a Government office. Their acquaintanceship had originated in a shell-hole near Plum-Tree Farm in 1916._

_Reggie_. Cheerio, old egg.

_Jimmy_. Same to you. Doing anything?

_Reggie_. Lord, yes! I've been pushed on to the directorate of the pater's firm.

_Jimmy_. Congrats!

_Reggie_. Stow it, old man; I'm simply worried to death. The whole cabush is on strike.

_Jimmy_. The blighters! What bunch are they?

_Reggie_. Stone-breakers.

_Jimmy_. Not the stone-breakers, surely?

_Reggie_. Yes, the stone-breakers, perish them!

_Jimmy_. And are you here about it?

_Reggie_. Sure. The junior director gets all the dirty work to do.

_Jimmy_. What a coincidence! I'm on the same stunt, old thing.

_Reggie_. Board of Trade?

_Jimmy_. Rats! Organising secretary of the Stone-breakers' Union.

_Reggie (after, gasp of surprise)._ Lucky devil.

_Jimmy_. Rot! I'd chuck it if I could afford to. Don't you wish sometimes you were back at Plum-Tree Farm?

_Reggie_. Crumbs, Jimmy; but weren't those the glorious days?

* * * * *

"EX-CROWN PRINCE'S HORSE TO RUN."--_Heading in "The Times_."

Like master like horse.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)