He entered the train at St. James' Park--a dark-eyed young Belgian
wearing the new khaki uniform of KING ALBERT'S heroic Army. I had
watched him hobbling along the platform, and my own boots and puttees
being coated with mud after a day's trench-digging in Surrey I drew them
in as he took the corner seat opposite mine, stretching out rather
stiffly before him the leg which had no doubt stopped a Bosch's bullet.
Here was the opportunity for an interesting exchange of views. I was
mentally rehearsing a few bright opening sentences in French when the
train again stopped. Half twisting in his seat he peered uncertainly out
of window.
"Victoria," I informed him; but he obviously didn't understand. I raised
my voice.
"Victoria Station," I told him again. "Er--er, _Victoire_."
His stick fell clattering to the floor, his mouth broadened into a
fraternal smile and, seizing both my hands, he worked them like
pump-handles.
"_Ah, bon, bon! À la victoire! Vivent les Alliés!_"
* * * * *
"BRAZIL.--The British Consul at Porto Alegre states that there
appears to be a prospect of the work of repaying the town being
carried out in the near future. The contract provides for the
repaving of an area of 500,000 square miles at a total cost of
£223,200." _Morning Paper._
If these figures are correct Porto Alegre must have the record for cheap
paving, always excepting an even warmer place where good intentions are
the material employed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sergeant-Major (lecturing the young officers of a new
battalion of an old regiment_). "YOU 'AVEN'T GOT TO MAKE TRADITIONS;
YOU'VE ONLY GOT TO KEEP 'EM. YOU WAS THE BLANKSHIRE REGIMENT IN 1810.
YOU ARE THE BLANKSHIRE REGIMENT IN 1916. NEVER MORE CLEARLY 'AS 'ISTORY
REPEATED ITSELF.".]
* * * * *
"CONKY'S" UNCLE.
There are some men whose patronymics are swallowed up in their
nicknames, and my friend "Conky" is one of these. He has quite a
decorative surname of his own, but it never counted. For the rest he is
the possessor of a big booming bass voice, which he uses with more gusto
than art. He is, apart from a certain pride in his musical
accomplishments, a very good fellow; and so is Mrs. "Conky"--an amiable
and agreeable woman, whose only fault is an excessive anxiety for the
comfort of her guests, leading her at times to forget, in the words of
the Chinese proverb, that "inattention is often the highest form of
civility."
They are a devoted couple, and the only cloud on their happiness was
caused by Conky's expectations from a mysterious and eccentric uncle.
For a long time I was inclined to disbelieve in his existence, as he
never "materialised." But I was converted from my scepticism, some three
years ago, when, on meeting Conky, I was informed that Uncle Joseph had
invited himself on a short visit. My friend betrayed a certain
agitation. "You know," he said, "it is twenty years since I saw him
last, when he came to look me up at school, and rather frightened me."
"Frightened you! But how?"
"Well, you see, he's got a way of thinking aloud, and it's rather
embarrassing. I don't mind being called 'Conky,' as you know, but it was
rather trying to hear him say, 'I hope his nose has stopped growing.'
However, I couldn't very well put him off now. I'm his only nephew; he's
an old man, and said to be very rich." Conky sighed, but added more
hopefully, "Anyhow, I'm sure Marjorie will rise to the occasion."
Personally I was by no means so sure. I felt that Marjorie might overdo
it: also that Conky, who loved the sound of his voice, might be tempted
to soothe the old man with intempestive gusts of song.
Unhappily my misgivings were realised. A few weeks later, on my way home
from the club, I called in late one afternoon on the Conkys. They
greeted me cordially as usual, but I could see something was amiss, and
soon it all came out. The visit had been a fiasco. Uncle Joseph had been
very friendly and even courteous, but at intervals he thought aloud with
devastating frankness. Marjorie had exhausted herself in the labours of
hospitality, but all in vain. Conky had sung, but the voice of the
charmer had failed. And just as Uncle Joseph was going he observed in a
final burst of candour, "Goo-ood people, very goo-ood people; but
_she_'s a second-rate Martha, and _he_ sings like a bank-holiday
trombone-player on Blackpool sands."
From that day till a week ago I never heard Conky or his wife allude to
Uncle Joseph. The memory was too painful. And yet it is impossible to
deny that the experience was salutary. Marjorie is certainly less
overwhelming in her hospitality, and Conky less prodigal of song. And
when Conky told me last week that Uncle Joseph had died and left him
£10,000, I felt that the old man had atoned handsomely for his
unconscious indulgence in a habit for which, after all, a good deal was
to be said.
* * * * *