When Elizabeth presented me with my first safety razor we were both
extremely hopeful about the future. She, fresh from the influence of a
chemist's assistant, was convinced that breakfast would receive my
attentions at more nearly its official hour; while I, reading folded
eulogies that had nestled mid the dismembered parts of the razor itself,
was looking forward to quite ten minutes extra in bed each morning.
Incidentally we were both disappointed.
For some time everything went well. And then the disused razor blades
began to collect!
Now, one of the duties of our seventh housemaid (the seventh this year)
was to light gas and things in the bedrooms when it became dark. And one
evening, when she was groping about with her hands and snatching at
things on the dressing-table in the hope of finding matches, she
clutched a group of discarded razor-blades by mistake, strewed them and
her blood over Elizabeth's best blue carpet, and gave notice the next
morning.
"_Now_, what is to be done?" said Elizabeth next day as she sat on the
floor and massaged the blue Axminster. "No housemaid, and a bedroom
carpet disguised as a third-rate murder clue."
"Either get a red carpet, or apply for your next housemaid to a Society
for Destitute Aristocrats, blue blood guaranteed," I suggested.
Elizabeth left off massaging and gazed searchingly at the murder clue.
"All because you didn't throw away those wretched razor blades," she
said. "Hughie, I hate you! Throw them away at once!"
"Unhate me first," I stipulated.
Elizabeth unhated me, ruffling my newly-made hair in the process.
It took but two strides to reach the dressing-table; it was the work of
hardly one minute to collect that ever-growing herd of assertive "has
beens," and then ... I began to wonder where I was going to throw them.
Where did one generally throw away things? Out of the window?
I turned my head away in horror. Who was I that I should shower razor
blades on that passing archdeacon?
The waste-paper basket?
My housemaid's life was too valuable.
The dust-bin?
But there again the dustman might delve; the Employers' Liability Act is
a tricky business and I am only insured against my own death--which
always seems to me silly.
"Look here," I said, "it's not so easy to throw these things away as you
appear to think. Where am I to throw them?"
Elizabeth opened her mouth to suggest places. Then she shut it again
without speaking and became thoughtful.
"Yes," she admitted at length, "it is a little difficult. One can't even
bury them in the garden in case they should damage the potatoes."
"There," I cried triumphantly--"they've floored you too!"
Elizabeth gathered together her pails and sponges and held out a hand to
be helped up.
"Not at all," she said. "All you've got to do is to put them in a
cardboard box and make them into a nice parcel, and I'll write a label."
"Now," she said, when she had finished attaching it, "let's take the
dogs for a walk, just to the end of the road. This parcel contains
things that are dangerous to the public welfare, doesn't it? Very well,
then, I shall make sure that it's taken into safe custody by the nearest
policeman."
"Look here, Elizabeth," I said firmly, "I'll have nothing to do with
your silly ass tricks. If we draw blood from the police----"
"Oh, that'll be all right," she remarked cheerfully as we reached the
end of the road. "We shan't wait to explain. Quick! There _is_ a
policeman coming! Here's the parcel. Put it down just at the bottom of
the letter-box."
As I stooped with it, "He won't get hurt," said Elizabeth. "He'll open
it too gingerly to cut himself. He'll think it's a bomb."
"Why?" said I.
And then first I saw the writing on the label. It said, VOTES FOR WOMEN.
* * * * *
Illustration: "OLE BILL YONDER'S GOT A JOB. THINKS HE'S GOIN' TO SET
THE THAMES ON FIRE."
"NOT 'IM; 'E TAKES 'ARF A BOX O' MATCHES TO LIGHT A WOODBINE."
* * * * *
"IPSWICH
ELECTION
RESULT.
WORDS AND MUSIC OF
'DON'T YOU MIND IT, HONEY.'"
_"Reynolds" poster._
This has cheered Mr. MASTERMAN up a good deal.
* * * * *
"He left to his eldest son to devolve as an heirloom his picture by
Velasquez of a girl with a bird on her finger and a boy and a basket of
limes and L500 to the Foundling Hospital."--_Times._
No doubt the Hospital will be grateful for its three legacies.
* * * * *