"Miss ---- looked sweetly pretty in an emerald-green satin
(very short) skirt, white blouse, and emerald handkerchief
tied over her head--an Irish Colleen, and a bonie one
too!"--_Colonial Paper_.
* * * * *
"According to a Vienna message, the Government has
introduced a Bill dealing with the former reigning Mouse of
Austria."--_Provincial Paper_.
Alas, poor KARL! _Ridiculus mus_.
* * * * *
"Wanted one hour daily from ten to eleven morning at
convenience an English Talking Family for practice of talking.
Remuneration twenty rupees per mensem."--_Times of India_.
We know one or two "talking families" that we should be glad to
export.
* * * * *
"In finding the defendant £3, Mr. Price told the defendant
that he would get into serious trouble if he persisted in his
conduct."--_Evening Paper_.
And he may not meet such a generous magistrate next time.
* * * * *
"Englishman, well educated, desires afternoon engagement;
experienced in the care of children; good needlewoman; or
would assist light housework."--_Canadian Paper_.
We hope we shall hear no further complaints from Canada that
Englishmen are not adaptable.
* * * * *
COMMUNICATIONS.
I was sitting in the Club, comfortably concealed by sheets of a
well-known journal, when two voices, somewhere over the parados of the
deep arm-chair, broke in upon my semi-consciousness.
"... Then poor old Tubby, who hasn't recovered from his 1918 dose of
shell-shock, got a go of claustrophobia and felt he simply had to get
out of the train."
The speaker paused and I heard the clink of glass.
"Well?" said the other voice.
"So, before we could flatten him out, he skipped up and pulled the
communicator thing and stopped the train; consequently we ran into
Town five minutes behind time. There was the deuce of a buzz about
it."
"What's five minutes in this blissful land of lotus-eaters? Why, I've
known the Calais-Wipers express lose itself for half-a-day without a
murmur from anyone, unless the Brigadier had run out of bottled Bass."
"But, my dear fellow," the first voice expostulated, "this was the
great West of England non-stop Swallowtail; runs into Town three
minutes ahead of time every trip. Habitués of the line often turn an
honest penny by laying odds on its punctuality with people who are
strangers to the reputation of this flier."
"A pretty safe thing to bet on, eh?" said the other voice. Again there
was the faint clink of glass and then the voices drifted into other
topics, to which, having re-enveloped myself in my paper, I became
oblivious.
A few days later I was called away from London, with Mr. Westaby
Jones, to consult in a matter of business. Mr. Westaby Jones is a
member of the Stock Exchange and, amongst other trivial failings, he
possesses one which is not altogether unknown in his profession. He
cannot resist a small wager. On several occasions he has gambled with
me and shown himself to be a gentleman of considerable acumen.
Our business was finished and we were on the way back to Town by the
great West of England non-stop Swallowtail. We had lunched well and
discussed everything there was to discuss. It was a moment for rest. I
unfolded my paper and proceeded to envelop myself in the usual way.
I seemed to hear the chink of glasses ... a voice murmured, "A pretty
safe thing to bet on."
Then in a dreamy sort of manner I realised that Fate had delivered
Westaby Jones into my hands. When we were within twenty miles of
London I opened the campaign. I grossly abused the line on which we
were travelling and suggested that anybody could make a fortune by
assuming that its best train would roll in well after the scheduled
time.
Westaby Jones, having privily ascertained that the engine-driver had
a minute or so in hand, immediately pinned me down to what he thought
(but wisely did not say) were the wild inaccuracies of an imbecile.
He did it to the extent of twenty-five pounds, and I sat back with the
comfortable feeling of a man who will shortly have a small legacy to
expend. At the moment which I had calculated to be most auspicious I
suddenly threw off the semblance of boredom, rose up, lurched across
the carriage and pulled the communication cord. (For the benefit
of those who have not done this I may say that the cord comes away
pleasantly in the hand and, at the same time, gives one a piquant
feeling of unofficial responsibility.) Westaby Jones was, for a
stockbroker, obviously astonished.
"What on earth are you doing?" he exclaimed.
"Sit down," I said; "this is my improved exerciser."
"But you'll stop the train," he shouted.
"Never mind," I replied; "what's a fine of five pounds compared to
physical fitness? Besides," I added significantly, "it may be a good
investment after all."
For perhaps twenty seconds there was the silent tension of expectation
in the air and then I realised with a shock that the train did not
show any signs of slackening speed. It was, if anything, going faster.
I snatched frantically at the cord and pulled about half-a-furlong
into the carriage. We flashed past Ealing like a rocket, and I
desperately drew in coils and coils of the communicator until I and
Westaby Jones resembled the Laocoon. It was no good. Smoothly and
irresistibly we glided into the terminus and drew up at the platform
three minutes ahead of time.
I have paid Westaby Jones, who was unmannerly enough to look pleased.
I have also corresponded with the railway company, claiming damages
on the grounds of culpable negligence. Unfortunately they require more
evidence than I am prepared to supply of the reasonable urgency of my
action.
* * * * *