CHAPTER VII

ALL OVER

"May I have a dance?" I asked Miss Blair.

She put her head on one side and considered.

"One, two, three--the next but _five_," she said.

"Thank you. That sounds a lot; is it only one?"

"You may have two running then, if you like."

"What about two running, and one hopping, and one really gliding?

Four altogether."

"We'll see," said Miss Blair gravely.

Myra, who was being very busy, came up and dragged me away.

"I want to introduce you to somebody. I say, have you seen Thomas?"

"It's no earthly good introducing me to Thomas again."

"He's so important because he thinks the dance was his idea; of

course I'd meant to have it all along. There she is--her name's Dora

Dalton. I think it's Dora."

"I shall call her Dora, anyhow."

I was introduced, and we had a very jolly waltz together. She danced

delightfully; and when we had found a comfortable corner she began to

talk.

She said, "Do you play cricket?"

I was rather surprised, but I kept quite cool, and said, "Yes."

"My brother's very fond of it. He is very good too. He was playing

here yesterday against Mr Mannering's team, and made six, and then

the umpire gave him out; but he wasn't out really, and he was very

angry. I don't wonder, do you?"

I had a sudden horrible suspicion.

"Did you say your name was Dora--I mean his name was Dalton?"

"Yes. And just because he was angry, which anybody would be, the

wicket-keeper was very rude, and told him to go home and--and bake

his head."

"Not bake," I said gently, my suspicion having now become almost a

certainty. "Boil."

"Go home, and boil his head," she repeated indignantly.

"And did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Er--did he understand--I mean, don't you think your brother may have

misunderstood? I can't believe that a wicket-keeper would ever

demean himself by using the word 'boil.' Not as you might say boil.

'Cool his head' was probably the expression--it was a very hot day, I

remember. And ... ah, there's the music beginning again. Shall we

go back?"

I am afraid Miss Dalton's version of the incident was not quite

accurate.

What had happened was this: I had stumped the fellow, when he was

nearly a mile and a half outside his crease; and when he got back to

it some minutes later, and found the umpire's hand up, he was

extremely indignant and dramatic about it. Quite to myself, _sotto

voce_ as it were, I murmured, "Oh, go home!" and I may have called

attention in some way to the "bails." But as to passing any remarks

about boiling heads--well, it simply never occurred to me.

I had a dance with Myra shortly after this. She had been so busy and

important that I felt quite a stranger. I adapted my conversation

accordingly.

"It's a very jolly floor, isn't it?" I said, as I brought her an ice.

"Oh yes!" said Myra in the same spirit.

"Have you been to many floors--I mean dances, lately?"

"Oh yes!"

"So have I. I think dances have been very late lately. I think when

the floor's nice it doesn't matter about the ices. Don't you think

the band is rather too elastic--I mean keeps very good time? I think

so long as the time is good it doesn't matter about the floor."

"Oh, _isn't_ it?" said Myra enthusiastically.

There was a pleasant pause while we both thought of something else to

say.

"Have you," we began.

"I beg your pardon," we said at once.

"I was going to say," Myra went on, "have you read any nice books

lately, or are you fonder of tennis?"

"I like reading nice books _about_ tennis," I said. "If they _are_

nice books, and are really about tennis. Er--do you live in London?"

"Yes. It is so handy for the theatres, isn't it? There is no place

exactly like London, is there? I mean it's so different."

"Well, of course, up in Liverpool we do get the trams, you know,

now.... I say, I'm tired of pretending I've only just met you.

Let's talk properly."

At this moment we heard a voice say, "Let's try in here," and Archie

and Dahlia appeared.

"Hallo! here's the happy pair," said Myra.

They came in and looked at us diffidently. I leant back and gazed at

the ceiling.

"Were you just going?" said Archie.

"We were not," I said.

"Then we'll stay and talk to you."

"We were in the middle of an important conversation."

"Oh, don't mind us."

"Thank you. It's really for your benefit, so you'd better listen.

Let me see, where were we? Oh yes, 'One pound of beef, ninepence;

three pounds of potatoes, fourpence; one piece of emery paper for the

blanc-mange, tuppence; one pound of india-rubber----'"

"'Dahlia _darling_,'" interrupted Myra, in a fair imitation of

Archie's voice, "'how often have I told you that we _can't_ afford

india-rubber in the cake? Just a few raisins and a cherry is really

all you want. You _mustn't_ be so extravagant.'"

"'Dearest, I do try; and after all, love, it wasn't _I_ who fell into

the cocoa last night.'"

"'I didn't fall in, I simply dropped my pipe in, and it was you

insisted on pouring it away afterwards. And then, look at this--_One

yard, of lace_, 4s. 6d. That's for the cutlets, I suppose. For

people in our circumstances paper frillings are _quite_ sufficient.'"

Archie and Dahlia listened to us with open mouths. Then they looked

at each other, and then at us again.

"Is there any more?" asked Archie.

"There's lots more, but we've forgotten it."

"You aren't ill or anything?"

"We are both perfectly well."

"How's Miss Dalton?"

"Dora," I said, "is also well. So is Miss Fortescue and so is

Thomas. We are all well."

"I thought, perhaps----"

"No, there you are wrong."

"I expect it's just the heat and the excitement," said Dahlia, with a

smile. "It takes some people like that."

"I'm afraid you miss our little parable," said Myra.

"We do. Come on, Dahlia."

"You'll pardon me, Archibald, but Miss Blair is dancing this with me."

Archie objected strongly, but I left, him with Myra, and took Miss

Blair away. We sat on the stairs and thought.

"It has been a lovely week," said Dahlia.

"It has," I agreed.

"Perhaps more lovely for me than for you."

"That's just where I don't agree with you. You know, we think it's

greatly over-rated. Falling in love, I mean."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Myra and I. We've been talking it over. That's why we rather dwelt

upon the sordid side of it just now. I suppose we didn't move you at

all?"

"No," said Dahlia, "we're settled."

"That's exactly it," I said. "I should hate to be settled. It's so

much more fun like this. Myra quite agrees with me."

Dahlia smiled to herself. "But perhaps some day," she began.

"I don't know. I never look more than a week ahead. 'It has been

great fun this week, and it will probably be great fun next week.'

That's my motto."

"Well, ye--es," said Miss Blair doubtfully.

PART II

CHAPTER I

ONE OF THE PLAYERS

"Do I know everybody?" I asked Myra towards the end of the dinner,

looking round the table.

"I think so," said Myra. "If there's anybody you don't see in the

window ask for him."

"I can see most of them. Who's that tall handsome fellow grinning at

me now?"

"Me," said Archie, smiling across at us.

"Go away," said Myra. "Gentlemen shouldn't eavesdrop. This is a

perfectly private conversation."

"You've got a lady on each side of you," I said heatedly, "why don't

you talk to _them_? It's simply scandalous that Myra and I can't get

a moment to ourselves."

"They're both busy; they won't have anything to say to me."

"Then pull a cracker with yourself. Surely you can think of

something, my lad."

"He has a very jealous disposition," said Myra, "and whenever

Dahlia---- Bother, he's not listening."

I looked round the table again to see if I could spy a stranger.

"There's a man over there--who's he? Where this orange is pointing."

"Oranges don't point. Waggle your knife round. Oh, him? Yes, he's

a friend of Archie's--Mr Derry."

"Who is he? Does he do anything exciting?"

"He does, rather. You know those little riddles in the Christmas

crackers?"

"Yes?"

"Yes. Well, he couldn't very well do those, because he's an

electrical engineer."

"But why----"

"No, I didn't. I simply asked you if you knew them. And he plays

the piano beautifully, and he's rather a good actor, and he never

gets up till about ten. Because his room is next to mine, and you

can hear everything, and I can hear him not getting up."

"That doesn't sound much like an electrical engineer. You ask him

suddenly what amperes are a penny, and see if he turns pale. I

expect he makes up the riddles, after all. Simpson only does the

mottoes, I know. Now talk to Thomas for a bit while I drink my

orange."

Five minutes elapsed, or transpired (whichever it is), before I was

ready to talk again. Generally, after an orange, I want to have a

bath and go straight off to bed, but this particular one had not been

so all-overish as usual.

"Now then," I said, as I examined the crystallised fruit, "I'm with

you in one minute."

Myra turned round and looked absently at me.

"I don't know how to begin," she said to herself.

"The beginning's easy enough," I explained, as I took a dish of green

sweets under my charge, "it's the knowing when to stop."

"Can you eat those and listen to something serious?"

"I'll try.... Yes, I can eat them all right. Now, let's see if I

can listen.... Yes, I can listen all right."

"Then it's this. I've been putting it off as long as I can, but

you've got to be told to-night. It's--well--do you know why you're

here?"

"Of course, I do. Haven't I just been showing you?"

"Well, why are you here?"

"Well, frankly, because I'm hungry, I suppose. Of course, I know

that if I hadn't been I should have come in to dinner, just the same,

but---- Hang it, I mean that's the root idea of a dining-room, isn't

it? And I am hungry. At least I was."

"Stave it off again with an almond," said Myra, pushing them along to

me. "What I really meant was why you're here in the house."

This was much more difficult. I began to consider possible reasons.

"Because you all love me," I started; "because you put the wrong

address on the envelope; because the regular boot-boy's ill; because

you've never heard me sing in church; because--stop me when I'm

getting warm--because Miss Fortescue refused to come unless I was

invited; because----"

"Stop," said Myra. "That was it. And, of course, you know I didn't

mean that at all."

"What an awful lot of things you don't mean to-night. Be brave, and

have it right out this time."

"All right, then, I will. One, two, three--we're going to act a play

on Saturday."

She leant forward, and regarded me with apprehension.

"But why not? I'll promise to clap."

"You can't, because, you see, you're going to act too. Isn't it

jolly?" said Myra breathlessly.

I gave what, if I hadn't just begun the last sweet, would have been a

scornful laugh.

"Me act? Why, I've never--I don't do it--it isn't done--I don't

act--not on Saturdays. How absurd!"

"Have you told him, Myra?" Dahlia called out suddenly.

"I'm telling him now. I think he's taking it all right."

"Don't talk about me as 'him'!" I said angrily. "And I'm not taking

it all right. I'm not taking it at all."

"It's only such a very small part--we're all doing something, you

know. And your costume's ordered and everything. But how awfully

sporting of you."

After that, what could I say?

"Er--what am I?" I asked modestly.

"You're a--a small rat-catcher," said Myra cheerfully.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A rat-catcher."

"You said a small one. Does that mean that I'm of diminutive size,

or that I'm in a small way of business, or that my special line is

young ones?"

"It means that you haven't much to say."

"I see. And would you call it a tragic or a pathetic part?"

"It's a comic part, rather. You're Hereditary Grand Rat-Catcher to

the Emperor Bong. Bong the Second. Not the first Bong, the Dinner

Bong."

"Look here. I suppose you know that I've never acted in my life, and

never been or seen a rat-catcher in my life. It is therefore useless

for you to tell me to be perfectly natural."

"You have so little to do; it will be quite easy. Your great scene

is where you approach the Emperor very nervously----"

"I shall do the nervous part all right."

"And beg him to spare the life of his mother-in-law."

"Why? I mean, who is she?"

"Miss Fortescue."

"Yes, I doubt if I can make that bit seem quite so natural. Still,

I'll try."

"Hooray. How splendid!"

"A rat-catcher," I murmured to myself. "Where is the rat? The rat

is on the mat. The cat is on the rat. The bat is on the cat.

The----"

"Mr Derry will go through your part with you to-morrow. Some of it

is funnier than that."

"The electrical engineer? What do they know about rat-catching?"

"Nothing, only----"

"Aha! Now I see who your mysterious Mr Derry is. He is going to

coach us."

"He is. You've found it out at last. How bright green sweets make

you."

"They have to be really bright green sweets. Poor man! What a job

he'll have with us all."

"Yes," said Myra, as she prepared to leave me. "Now you know why he

doesn't get up till ten."

"In the rat-catching business," I said thoughtfully, as I opened the

door, "the real rush comes in the afternoon. Rat-catchers in

consequence never get up till ten-thirty. Do you know," I decided,

"I am quite beginning to like my little part."

CHAPTER II

ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS

I was, I confess, very late the next morning, even for a rat-catcher.

Mr Derry was in the middle of his breakfast; all the others had

finished. We saluted, and I settled down to work.

"There is going to be a rehearsal at eleven o'clock, I believe," said

Derry. "It must be nearly that now."

"I shall be there," I said, "if I have to bring the marmalade with

me. You're going to coach us?"

"Well, I believe I said I would."

"Though I have never assumed the buskin myself," I went on, "I have,

of course, heard of you as an amateur actor." (_Liar_.) "And if you

could tell me how to act, while I am finishing my bacon, I should be

most awfully obliged."

"Haven't you really done any?"

"Only once, when I was very small. I was the heroine. I had an

offer, but I had to refuse it, I said, 'Alath, dear heart, I may not,

I am married already.'"

"Very right and proper," murmured Derry.

"Well, as it turned out, I had made a mistake. It was my first who

had been married already. The little play was full of surprises

like."

Derry coughed, and took out his pipe. "Let me see," he began,

"what's your part?"

"I am--er--a rodent-collector."

"Oh yes--the Emperor's rat-catcher."

"Grand hereditary," I said stiffly. "It had been in the family for

years."

"Quite so."

I was about to enlarge upon the advantages of the hereditary

principle when the door opened suddenly to admit Myra and Archie.

"You don't say you're down at last!" said Myra, in surprise.

"I hardly say anything at breakfast, as a rule," I pointed out.

"What an enormous one you're having. And only last night----"

"On the contrary, I'm eating practically nothing--a nut and one piece

of parsley off the butter. The fact is, I glanced at my part before

I went to bed, and there seemed such a lot of it I hardly slept at

all."

"Why, you don't come on very much," said Archie. "Neither do I. I'm

a conjuror. Can any gentleman here oblige me with a rabbit? ... No,

sir, I said a rabbit. Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you were

coming up on to the stage.... Any gentleman----"

"Have some jam instead. What do you mean by saying I don't come on

very much?" I took the book out of my pocket, and began to turn the

leaves. "Here you are, nearly every page--'_Enter R._,' '_Exit R._,'

'_Enter L._'--I don't know who _he_ is--'_Exeunt R._,'--why, the

rat-catcher's always doing something. Ah, here they're more

explicit--'_Enter R.C._' Hallo, that's funny, because I'd just----

Oh, I see."

"One of our oldest and most experienced mimes," said Archie to Derry.

"You must get him to talk to you."

"No secret of the boards is hid from him," added Myra.

"Tell us again, sir, about your early struggles," begged Archie.

"He means your early performances on the stage," explained Myra.

"There's one very jolly story about Ellen Terry and the fireproof

curtain. Let me see, were you _Macbeth_ then, or _Noise of

Trumpets_? I always forget."

I drank my last cup of tea, and rose with dignity.

"It is a humorous family," I apologised to Derry. "Their grandfather

was just the same. He _would_ have his little joke about the first

steam-engine."

Outside, in the hall, there was a large crowd of unemployed, all

talking at once. I caught the words "ridiculous" and "rehearsal,"

and the connection between the two seemed obvious and frequent. I

singled out Thomas, abstracted his pouch, and began to fill up.

"What is all this acting business?" I asked. "Some idea about a

little play, what? Let's toddle off, and have a game of billiards."

"They've let me in for a bally part," said Thomas, "and you needn't

think you're going to get out of it. They've got you down, all

right."

"Thomas, I will be frank with you. I am no less a person than the

Emperor Bong's Hereditary (it had been in the family for years) Grand

Rat-catcher. The real rush, however, comes in the afternoon. My

speciality is young ones."

"I'm his executioner."

"And he has a conjuror too. What a staff! Hallo, good morning,

Simpson. Are you anything lofty?"

"'Oh, I am the Emperor Bong,'" said Simpson gaily; "'I am beautiful,

clever and strong----'"

"Question," said Thomas.

"''Tis my daily delight to carouse and to fight, and at moments I

burst into song.'"

I looked at him in amazement.

"Well, just at present," I said, "all I want is a match.... A

lucifer, Emp. A pine vesta, Maj. Thanks.... Now tell me--does

anybody beside yourself burst into song during the play? Any

bursting by Thomas or myself, for instance?"

"Nobody sings at all. My little poem is recitative."

"If you mean it's very bad, I agree with you," said Thomas.

"I made it up myself. It was thought that my part should be livened

up a little."

"Well, why hasn't it been?"

"If you will give me two minutes, Simpson," I said, "I will liven up

my own part better than that. What rhymes with rat-catcher?"

"Cat-catcher."

"Wait a bit.... Yes, that's got it.

"'Oh, I'm on the Emperor's staff

I'm a rodent-collector (don't laugh)--

My record (in braces)

Of rats and their races

Is a thousand and eight and a half.'"

"May we have that again?" said Myra, appearing suddenly.

"'Oh, I'm on----'"

"No," said Thomas.

"'Oh, I'm on----'"

"No," said Simpson.

"There is no real demand, I'm afraid."

"Well, I did just hear it before," said Myra. "I wish you'd make up

one for me. I think we might all announce ourselves like that, and

then the audience will have no difficulty in recognising us."

"They'll recognise Thomas if he comes on with an axe. They won't

think he's just trotted round with the milk. But what are you, Myra?"

"The Emperor's wife's maid."

"Another member of the highly trained staff. Well, go on, Simpson."

"'Oh, I am her Majesty's maid,'" declared Simpson. "We all begin

with 'Oh,' to express surprise at finding ourselves on the stage at

all. 'Oh, I am her Majesty's maid, I'm a sad little flirt, I'm

afraid.'"

"I'm respectable, steady and staid," corrected Myra.

"No," I said; "I have it--"

"'Oh, I am her Majesty's maid!

And her charms are beginning to fade,

I can sit in the sun

And look _just_ twenty-one,

While _she's_ thirty-six in the shade.'"

Myra made a graceful curtsey.

"Thank you, sir. You'll have to pay me a lot more of those before

the play is over."

"Will I really?"

"Well, seeing as the Grand Hereditary One is supposed to be making up

to her Majesty's confidential attendant----"

Miss Fortescue came pushing up to us.

"It is too ridiculous," she complained; "none of us know our parts

yet, and if we have a rehearsal now--what do you think about it?"

I looked at Myra and smiled to myself. "I'm all for a rehearsal at

once," I said.

CHAPTER III

A REHEARSAL

"Now this is a very simple trick," said Archie, from the centre of

the stage. "For this little trick all I want is, a hippopotamus and

a couple of rubies. I take the hippopotamus in one hand--so--and

cover it with the handkerchief. Then, having carefully peeled the

rubies----"

Thomas put the last strip of silver paper on to his axe, and surveyed

the result proudly.

"But how splendid!" said Myra, as she hurried past. "Only you want

some blood." And she jumped over the footlights and disappeared.

"Good idea. Archie, where do you keep the blood?"

"Hey, presto! it's gone. And now, sir, if you will feel in your

waistcoat pockets you will find the hippopotamus in the right-hand

side and the red ink in the left. No? Dear, dear, the hippopotamus

must have been a bad one."

"Be an artist, Thomas," I said, "and open a vein or two. Do the

thing properly, Beerbohm. But soft, a winsome maid, in sooth; I will

approach her. I always forget that sooth bit. But soft, a win----"

"Why don't we begin?" asked Simpson; "I can't remember my part much

longer. Oh, by the way, when you come up to me and say, 'Your

Majesty e'en forgets the story of the bull's-eye and the revolving

bookcase----"

"Go away; I don't say anything so silly."

"Oh, of course it's Blair. Blair, when you come up to me and

say----" They retired to the back of the stage to arrange a very

effective piece of business.

"Any card you like, madam, so long as it is in the pack. The Queen

of Hearts? Certainly. Now I take the others and tear them up--so.

The card remaining will be yours. Ah, as I thought--it is the Queen

of Hearts."

"Archie, you're talking too much," said Dahlia, "and none of it comes

into your part really."

"I'm getting the atmosphere. Have you an old top hat on you, dear,

because if so we'll make a pudding. No top hat? Then pudding is

horf."

"But stay, who is this approaching? Can it be--I say, mind the

footlights. When are we going to begin?"

"There!" said Thomas proudly. "Anybody would know that was blood."

"But how perfectly lovely," said Myra. "Only you want some notches."

"What for?"

"To show where you executed the other men, of course. You always get

a bit off your axe when you execute anybody."

"Yes, I've noticed that too," I agreed. "Notches, Thomas, notches."

"Why don't you do something for a change? What about the trap or

whatever it is you catch your bally rats with? Why don't you make

that?"

"It isn't done with a trap, Thomas dear. It's partly the power of

the human eye and partly kindness. I sit upon a sunny bank and sing

to them."

"Which is that?"

"If we don't begin soon," began Simpson----

"Hallo, Emperor, what's that you're saying? Quite so, I agree with

you. I wonder if your High Fatness can lend me such a thing as a

hard-boiled egg. Simpkins, when this rehearsal is over--that is to

say, to-morrow--I'll take you on at juggling; I'm the best----"

Deny finished his conversation with Miss Fortescue and turned to the

stage.

"Now then, please, _please_," he said. "We'll just take the First

Act. Scene, The Emperor's Palace. Enter Rat-catcher. You come on

from the left."

I coughed and came on.

My part was not a long one, but it was a very important one. I was

the connecting link between the different episodes of the play, and

they wanted some connecting. Whenever anybody came on to the stage,

I said (supposing I was there, and I generally was--the rat-catcher

of those days corresponding to the modern plumber)--I said, "But who

is this?" or "Hush, here comes somebody." In this way, the attention

of the wakeful part of the audience was switched on to the new

character, and continuity of action was preserved.

I coughed and came on.

"No," said Derry, "you must come on much more briskly."

"I can't. I've been bitten by a rat."

"It doesn't say so anywhere."

"Well, that's how I read the part. Hang it, I ought to know if I've

been bitten or not. But I won't show it if you like; I'll come on

briskly."

I went out, and came on very briskly.

"That's better," said Derry.

"'His Majesty ordered me to be here at the stroke of noon,'" I said.

"'Belike he has some secret commands to lay upon me, or perchance it

is nought but a plague of rats. But who is this?'"

"'Oh,'" said Myra, coming in suddenly, "'I had thought to be alone.'"

"'Nay, do not flee from me, pretty one. It is thus that----' I say,

Myra, it's no good my saying do not flee if you don't flee."

"I was just going to. You didn't give me a chance. There, now I'm

fleeing."

"Oh, all right. 'It is thus that the rats flee when they see me

approaching. Am I so very fearsome?'"

"'Orrid," said Archie to himself from the wings.

"One moment," said Derry, and he turned round to speak to somebody.

"Puffickly 'orrid," said Archie again.

"Nay, do not frown," Myra went on, "'tis only my little brother, who

is like unto a codfish himself, and jealous withal."

"Ay, ay, and I thought it _was_ a codfish. So that I had e'en

brought the egg-sauce with me."

"Trouble not thyself for that," said Archie. "For verily the

audience will supply thee with all the eggs thou wantest. I say, we

_are_ being funny."

"I'm not, I'm quite serious, I really did think it was a co---- 'But

tell me, fair one,'" I said hurriedly, "'for what dost the Emperor

want me?'"

"Yes, yes," said Derry, "I'm sorry I had to interrupt you. I think

perhaps we had better begin again. Yes, from the beginning."

The rehearsal rolled on.

* * * * * * *

"I think it went splendidly," said Myra. "If only we had known our

parts and come in at the right moments and been more serious over it."

"If there's any laughing to be done it will have to be done by _us_.

The audience won't laugh."

"'Mr Derry having explained that the author was not in the house, the

audience collected their cauliflowers and left quietly.' I think

it's a rotten play."

"Well, it isn't frightfully funny," said Myra, "but we can put that

in ourselves."

"It's so jolly hard to say the lines properly--they're so unnatural,"

complained Thomas. "'Truly thou hast created a favourable impression

with the damsel'--well, I mean, it's absurd. Any ordinary person

would say 'Truly thou art amongst them, old spot,' or something of

that kind."

"Well, you say that, Thomas; you'll be all right,"

"We might put a few songs in," said Dahlia, "and a dance or two."

"I think you've forgotten that we've done only Act I.," remarked

Archie. "His Majesty's conjuror doesn't really let himself go till

Act II. Still, I'm all for a song and a dance. Simpson, come and

Apache with me."

They dashed at each other fiercely.

"Oh, _we'll_ make it go all right," said Myra.

CHAPTER IV

LAST MOMENTS

"Has anybody here seen Kelly?" asked Dahlia, putting her head in at

the billiard-room door. "I mean Archie."

"I'm waiting here for Kate," I said. "I mean Myra."

"Oughtn't you to be dressing? It doesn't matter about me--I'm not on

for a long time."

"A rat-catcher's best suit is not an elaborate one; I can put it on

in about five minutes. It is now seven-thirty, we begin at

eight-thirty--hence the billiard cue. More chalk."

"Oh, why aren't you nervous? How you can stand calmly there----"

"I am nervous. Look." I aimed carefully and put the red into a

pocket some miles away. "There you are. Have you ever seen me do

that in real life? Of course not. If my hand had been steady I

should have been a foot to the right. Still more chalk."

"Well, I want Archie, and I shall cry if I don't find him. That's

how I feel." She sat down and got up again.

"My dear Dahlia," I said solemnly, "now you can understand a father's

feelings--I mean, now, you see what you women have brought on

yourselves. Who suggested a play? The women. Who dragged me into

it? The women. Who said rat-catchers always wore whiskers? The

women. Who is designing me a pair of whiskers at this moment? The

wom----Simpson. Who but for whom (this is going to be a very

difficult sentence) who but for whom, would be just thinking of

dressing leisurely for dinner, instead of which we had a hasty snack,

and have now got to put on heaven knows what? The women. Well, it

serves you right."

"Don't be horrid. I want Archie." She got up for the third time and

drifted out of the room.

I chalked my cue and went into a pocket without touching anything.

When I say I went in I mean that the ball I was playing with went in.

You do see that? Very well, then. I took it out and began to squint

along my cue again, when two hands came suddenly over my eyes and a

voice said; "Guess who is is."

"The Queen of Sheba," I tried.

"Right," said Myra.

I turned and looked at her.

"Golly, you do, you really do!" I said at last. "Did they always

dress like that in the Bong era? Short skirts, long pigtail, bare

arms--lovely!"

"'I can sit in the sun and look just twenty-one,'" sang Myra as she

dropped into the sofa.

"Well, just at present you're sitting in the billiard-room and

looking about fifteen.... How are you getting on with your French

this term? I had a very bad report in the holidays from your

governess. The extra ninepence a week seems to have been simply

thrown away."

"Aren't you excited?" said Myra, looking at me with sparkling eyes.

"As for calisthenics, well, what I say is, 'My daughter is Church of

England, and if you don't like it, she can come away. I'm not going

to have her stuffed up with all that nonsense.'"

Myra jumped up. "Aren't you excited?" she insisted.

"Feel my tongue--I mean my pulse, it's quite normal. And why?

Because I've forgotten my part, and I'm going to bed."

"It's a great responsibility our beginning the play."

"It is. Have you ever thought that, if we refused to begin, the play

couldn't continue, and then the audience would be able to go home?

My idea was to tackle the people as they arrive, and come to terms

with them. I'm sure there's money in it."

"You aren't bothering, are you?"

"Of course, I am. I'd give a hundred pounds to be out of it. No, I

wouldn't--I'd give a hundred pounds if you'd always wear that frock

and do your hair like that. Will you? And you shall go on with your

French, child."

Myra curtsied prettily.

"And I'll go on with my whiskers. You haven't seen me in those yet,

have you?" There was a loud noise without. "Here they are, coming

in."

It was not the whiskers, however, but Archie and Thomas in full

costume; Archie in green and Thomas in black.

"Hallo," said Archie, "I feel just like a conjuror."

"You look just like a grasshopper," said Thomas.

"My dear friend," said Archie, patting him kindly on his shoulder,

"is that you? But you oughtn't to be here, you know. You came up

the hot-water pipe, I suppose? Yes, yes, but they misdirected

you--the blackbeetle department is in the basement. Well, well, it

will be easier going down."

"Archie, Dahlia's looking for you."

"It's all right, she found me. She was nearly in tears. She said,

'Is that my Archibald or an onion?' I said 'Fear not, fair one, 'tis

but the early crocus.' Myra, don't you think they've overdone the

green rather? To be quite frank, I don't see why a conjuror should

be dressed in green at all."

"To distinguish him from the rat-catcher in brown, the executioner in

black, and the Master of the Gold Fish in red."

"I had thought that perhaps a certain aptitude for legerdemain might

so distinguish him. But I perceive that I am wrong. Hallo, why

aren't you in brown then?"

"I'm coming on like this," I explained. "I was going to have

changed, but now I've seen you two, I don't think I will. With my

ordinary clothes, one whisker--probably the starboard one--and a

little insouciance, I shall be a great success."

"What annoys me," said Thomas, "is that in the early Bong age they

had no bally pockets. I've simply got nowhere to keep a

handkerchief."

"Keep it behind the scenes; and then, if you blow your nose

immediately before the execution, and again immediately after it, you

ought to be all right."

"It isn't for that. It's in case I want to cry."

"It's all right for me," said Archie. "I've simply got to say, 'Now

can anybody in the audience oblige me with a handkerchief?' and I

shall get dozens."

"Then I shall probably touch you for one. Great Irvings! is this

really Simpson?"

The Emperor Bong was making a splendid entry, looking (except for his

spectacles) exactly like an emperor.

"Rise, rise," he said. "Stop grovelling. Oh, look here, you

fellows, when I say 'On the stomach!' then you must----Oh, I beg your

pardon, Miss Mannering, I didn't see you were there."

"Where are my whiskers?" I asked sternly.

"My dear old chap, I couldn't do them; there wasn't enough to go

round. I made two nice little eyebrows instead--you'll find them on

your dressing-table. 'Oh, I am the Emperor Bong, I am beautiful,

clever and strong. I am beauti----' Do you think I ought to wear my

spectacles or not?"

There was a loud shout of "No!"

"Oh, all right. But I shall probably fall over the sunset or

something. Thomas, if you see me wandering into a new moon, tap me

on the head with your axe. Why isn't my rat-catcher dressed?"

"He was waiting for his whiskers."

"That's perfectly absurd. You could have grown a pair in the time.

Go and dress at once."

"I refuse to do anything till a quarter-past eight," I said. "If I

get into my things now, all the atmosphere will have worn off by the

time we begin."

"It's worn off me a long time ago," said Thomas dismally.

"And me," said Myra, with a shiver.

"Well, we're all very miserable," said Archie; "let's have a bottle

of something. What? Oh, hush! Simpson, just ring the bell, and

I'll show you a little conjuring trick. There's nothing on the table

at present, is there? No. Well, now, you watch."

CHAPTER V

THE NIGHT

The play was a great success; I know, because many of the audience

told me so afterwards. Had they but guessed what was going on behind

the scenes, the congratulations would have been even more

enthusiastic. For as near as a touch we had to drop the eggproof

curtain and hand the money back.

I am going to give you the opening scene as it was actually said--not

as it was heard across the footlights--and then you will understand.

As you may remember, the _Rat-catcher_ (Me) and the _Maid_ (Myra)

take the stage first, and they introduce themselves in the usual way

to the audience and each other. The scene is the palace of the

_Emperor Bong_ (Simpson). Very well then.

_Maid_ (_sweetly_). Truly his Majesty is a handsome man, and I

wonder not that his people love him.

_Rat-catcher_ (_rather nervous_). Thou surprisest me. I saw him in

the wings--in the winter garden just now--that is to say, anon--and

thought him plain. But hush, here he comes.

(_They salaam, or whatever you call it, and stay there._)

_Rat-catcher_ (_still salaaming_). What's the silly ass waiting for?

I can't stick this much longer; the blood's all going to my head like

anything.

_Maid_ (_in a similar position_). He must have forgotten his cue.

Can't you say, "Hush, here he comes" again?

_Rat-catcher_. I can't say anything out loud in this position. Do

you think I might come up for a breath?

_Maid_ (_loudly_). His Majesty tarries.

_Rat-catcher_ (_sotto voce_). He does. You've got it.

_Maid_. Whatever shall we do? Do think of something.

_Rat-catcher_. Well, I'm going to rise to the surface. I'm tired of

being a submarine. (_They both stand up_.)

_Maid_ (_brilliantly_). Perchance it was a rat we heard and not his

Majesty.

_Rat-catcher_ (_with equal brilliance_). Fear not, fair damsel.

Behold, I will investigate. (_Proceeds to back of stage_.)

_Archie_ (_from wings_). Come off, you idiot.

_Rat-catcher_ (_always the gentleman--to Maid_). Tarry a while, my

heart, what time I seek assistance. (_Exit._)

_Maid_ (_confidentially to audience--to keep the thing going_).

Truly he is a noble youth, though he follows a lowly profession.

'Tis not the apparel that proclaims the man. Me thinks....

_Me_ (_annoyed_). Who's an idiot?

_Archie_. Didn't you see me wink? That ass Simpson's banged his

nose against a door-post and is bleeding like a pig. Says it's

because he hadn't got his spectacles.

_Me_ (_still annoyed_). More likely the champagne.

_Archie_. They're dropping keys down his back as hard as they can.

Will you and Myra gag a bit, till he's ready?

_Me_ (_excitedly_). My good fool, how on earth----

_Myra_ (_coming to back of stage_). But behold he returns. (_Frowns

imperiously._)

_Rat-catcher_ (_coming on again very unwillingly_). Ah, fair maid,

'tis thee. I bring thee good tidings. I met one in the ante-room, a

long-legged, scurvy fellow, who did tell me that his Majesty was

delayed on some business.

_Maid_. That must have been his Conjuror--I know him well.

(_Aside._) What's happened?

_Rat-catcher_. Let us then rest a while, an it please thee.

(_Seizing her by the arm._) Over here. That ass Simpson's hurt

himself. We've got to amuse the audience till he's finished bleeding.

_Maid_ (_sitting down with her back to audience_). I say, is it

really serious?

_Rat-catcher_. Not for him; it is for us. Now then, talk away.

_Maid_. Er--h'm. (_Coyly._) Wilt not tell me of thy early life,

noble sir, how thou didst become a catcher of rats?

_Rat-catcher_ (_disgusted_). You coward! (_Aloud._) Nay, rather let

me hear of thine own life. (_Aside._) Scored.

_Maid_. That's not fair. I asked you first. (_Modestly._) But I am

such a little thing, and you are so noble a youth.

_Rat-catcher_. True. (_Having a dash at it._) 'Twas thus. My

father, when I was yet a child, didst--did--no, didst--apprentice me

to a salad binger----

_Maid_ (_with interest_). How dost one bing salads?

_Rat-catcher_ (_curtly_). Ballad singer. And I would frequent the

market-place at noon, singing catches and glees, and receiving from

the entranced populace divers coins, curses, bricks and other

ornaments. One morn, as I was embarked upon a lovely ballad, "Place

me amidst the young gazelles," I was seized right suddenly from

behind. (_Bored to death._) I'm sick of this. We're supposed to be

amusing the audience.

_Maid_. Oh, go on, I'm getting awfully amused.

_Emperor_ (_audibly from green-room_). Confound it, it's begun again.

_Executioner_ (_bitterly_). And to think that I spent hours putting

red ink on my axe!

_Maid_ (_with great presence of mind_). What's that? Surely that

was a rat.

_Rat-catcher_ (_greatly relieved_). It was. (_Getting up._) Let's

have Archie on, and see if he can amuse them a bit more. (_Aloud._)

I must finish my tale anon. Stay here, sweet child, what time I

fetch my trusty terrier. (_Exit._)

_Maid_. 'Tis a strange story he tells. How different from my own

simple life. Born of proud but morbid parents....

_Archie_. What's up? Stick to it.

_Me_. Have you got such a thing as a trusty terrier on you?

_Archie_ (_feeling up his sleeve_). No.

_Me_. Well, the audience will be extremely disappointed if I don't

bring one back. I practically promised them I would. Look here, why

don't you come on and help? Everybody is getting horribly bored with

us.

_Archie_ (_delightedly_). Oh, all right.

_Enter _Rat-catcher_ and Conjuror_.

_Maid_. But behold he returns _again_!

_Rat-catcher_ (_excitedly_). Great news, fair lady, which this

long-legged, scurvy fellow I told you of will impart to us.

_Maid_. Why, 'tis the Conjuror. Have you news for us, sir?

_Conjuror_ (_with no illusions about the Oriental style_).

Absolutely stop press. What is it you want to know? Racing? The

Bong Selling Plate was won by Proboscis, McSimp up. Immense

enthusiasm. Bank rate unchanged--quite right this cold weather.

Excuse me a moment, sir, your moustache is coming off. No, the left

wing--allow me to lend you a postage stamp. Do you prefer red or

green?

_Maid_ (_biting her lip_). Will you not give us news of the Emperor?

_Conjuror_. I will. His Majesty has met with a severe accident

whilst out hunting this morning, being bitten by a buffalo.

_Maid_. Alas, what will my mistress say?

_Conjuror_. She has already said everything that was necessary. Her

actual words were: "Just like Bong."

_Rat-catcher_ (_seizing the opportunity_). His Majesty ordered me to

meet him here at noon. Methinks I had better withdraw and return

anon. (_Makes off hurriedly._)

_Conjuror_ (_seizing him_). Not so. He bade me command you to stay

and sing to us. (_Sensation._)

_Rat-catcher_ (_huskily_). Alas, I have forgotten my voice--that is,

I have left my music at home. I will go and fetch it. (_Has another

dash._)

_Conjuror_. Stay! Listen! (_They all listen._)

_Simpson_ (_in wings_). Thanks, thanks, that will be all right now.

Oh no, quite, thanks. Oh, is this your key? Thanks, thanks. No, it

doesn't matter about the other ones, they don't feel at all

uncomfortable, thanks. Yes, I think it really did stop it, thanks.

_Conjuror_. I'm off! (_Aloud._) His Majesty has regained

consciousness. (_Exit._)

_Simpson_ (_apologetically_). Oh, Archie, I've got the billiard-room

key in my----

_Rat-catcher_ (_very loudly to _Maid__). Hush, here he comes!

(_They salaam._)

(_Enter the Emperor Bong._)

CHAPTER VI

THE CURTAIN GOES DOWN

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Simpson at the supper-table, glass in

hand, "it is my pleasant duty----"

"Bother!" murmured Myra. "Drinking healths always makes me feel

funny."

"Silence for McSimp," shouted Archie. "Now then, pass along there,

please. There's no need to push, you'll all be able to hear.

Gentlemen, the O'Sumph is addressing us impromptu, not to say

unasked."

"It is my pleasant duty," continued Simpson, "as your late Emperor

(_Half-an-hour-late. How's the probosc?_), to propose the health of

the Rabbits Dramatic Company. (_Hooray!_) Great as we are on the

cricket-field (_Wide!_)--great, I say, as we are on the cricket-field

(_Pitch 'em up, Simpson_), we are, I think, still greater in the

halls of Thespis. (_Don't know the lady._) Gentlemen, I knew

Irving. (_Liar!_) I have heard tell of Garrick (_Good! Ever heard

of Shakespeare?_), but to-night has been a new experience for me.

(_I will--give you--the kee--eys of----._) Ladies and gentlemen, I

propose our very good healths, coupled with the name of our hostess

Miss Mannering." (_Loud Cheers._)

"That's me," said Myra.

"I single out Miss Mannering," added Simpson, "because I'm sure we

should all like to hear her make a speech."

"Oh, Samuel," said Myra, shaking her head at him, "and I thought it

was because you loved me."

"The Rabbits! Myra!" we cried.

"Miss Mannering will now address you," announced Archie. "She will

be glad to answer any questions afterwards; but anyone who interrupts

will be hurled out. I appeal to you, as Englishmen, to give her a

fair hearing."

Myra stood on a chair, looking lovely, but very lonely, and waited

till we were silent.

"My dear good friends," she began, and then she caught Thomas's eye.

"Hallo, Tommy," she said wistfully.... "My dear good friends, but

why should you say _I'm_ a jolly good fellow, when it isn't my

birthday or anything? But how _silly_ of you! Why, of course, we're

_all_ jolly good fellows--and jolly good actors too. It _has_ been

fun, hasn't it? ... Oh, Archie, dear.... I hope we shall all be

here in the summer, don't you? Well, you can't very well say you

don't, now I've asked you, can you? You'll have to pretend your

uncles are very ill, and then you needn't come.... Oh,

_please--don't_ look at me like that, you make me want to cry, and I

only want to laugh to-night.... Archie, may I get down?"

"She _is_ a dear," Dahlia whispered to me. "How you can go on----"

It was Simpson who saved the situation and made us merry and bright

again. He hastily trotted out the suggestion that we should tour the

country in the summer, playing cricket in the day and _Bong the

Second_ at night. Archie backed him up at once.

"Only I'm off Bong Two altogether," he said. "Of course, what we

want is a cricket play. We shall have to write one ourselves, I

expect; there aren't any really good ones about. Act I. Rupert

Vavasour, a dashing bat and the last descendant of an ancient but

impoverished house, is in love with the beautiful but equally

impoverished Millicent. Milly is being pursued by a rich villain of

the name of Jasper Fordyce, the said Jasper being a bowler of extreme

swiftness, with a qualification for Essex.... Go on, Simpson."

"In order to restore the fallen fortunes of the house, Rupert plays

for Kent as a professional--Binks (R.)--and secures talent money in

six successive matches. Jasper hears of it, and (Act II.)

assassinates the scorer, bribing a hireling of his own to take the

deceased's place. In the next match Rupert only scores forty-nine."

"Rupert," continued Thomas, "who had been counting his own jolly

score, and made it eighty-seven, was furious, and determined at all

costs to foil the villain. Accordingly he went on to bowl in the

next innings and took five wickets for two hundred and thirty-nine,

thus obtaining talent money."

"A little love interest, please, Dahlia," said Archie.

"Now the captain, who was in the secret," said Dahlia, "was in love

with Rupert's sister, which was why he put Binks (R.) on to bowl. As

soon as Binks had collected his five wickets, Blythe went on, and

took the other five for three runs. In this way Kent just managed to

win, and so Rupert got more talent money."

"The next match was against Essex--Act III., the great act of the

play--and Jasper Fordyce was playing for the Leyton brigade. As he

put on his spurs before taking the field, and brushed his sleek black

hair, he smiled sardonically to himself. Had he not overnight dug

holes in the pitch at the pavilion end, and was not the wicket fiery,

and he notoriously an erratic bowler?"

"Everything points to Simpson playing Jasper," I said, and continued:

"'Heads,' cried Jasper. It was heads. 'I put you in,' he remarked

calmly. 'What!' said the other in amazement. Ten minutes later

Binks (R.) and Humphreys were at the wicket. Binks took first ball

with a touch of nervousness at his heart. All depended on this

match. If only he could make four hundred and fifty to-day, he would

be able to pay off the mortgage and marry his Millicent.... 'Play.'

Jasper rushed up to the wicket and delivered the ball. Then before

anybody could see how it happened, Rupert was stretched full-length

upon the sward!"

"I had rather thought of playing Rupert myself," said Archie. "But

I'm not so sure now."

"Five for two hundred and thirty-nine," I reminded him. "The part

was written for you."

"But what of Millicent?" said Myra. "Fearing lest some evil should

overtake her lover she had attended the match clad in a long ulster,

and now she flung this off, revealing the fact that she was in

flannels. With her hair tucked up beneath her county cap she looked

a slim and handsome boy. To rush on to the field and take the

injured one's place was the work of a moment. 'Who is this?' said

the umpires in amazement. 'Fear not,' whispered Millicent to

Humphreys, 'I have a birth qualification for the county, and the

gardener coached me for an hour last night.'"

"Once more Jasper rushed up to the crease, and the spectators held

their breath."

"I'm going to be a spectator," I said, "with a breath-holding part.

Sorry--go on, Blair."

"Then Millicent's bat flashed, and, behold! the ball was on the

boundary! A torrent of cheers rent the air. Again he bowled, again

the bat flashed. Jasper ground his teeth."

"The curtain goes down here to represent the passing of an hour.

When it rises again, Millicent's score is four hundred and

twenty-three. There was dead silence for a moment. Then Millicent

swung her bat. And at that the cheers broke out, such cheering as

had never been heard before. Maclaren's record score was beaten at

last! 'Now surely he will knock his wickets down,' said the

spectators. Little did they know that until four hundred and fifty

was upon the tins the mortgage could not be paid off! Four hundred

and thirty--four hundred and forty--four hundred and forty-nine--a

sharply run single--four hundred and fifty! From the pavilion Rupert

heard the cheers and fainted again."

"It was 'over,' and Millicent had the bowling. Jasper delivered the

ball, a fast half-volley----"

("Oh, Simpson simply _must_ play Jasper.")

"--and Millicent drove it back hard and true. Jasper tried to duck,

but it was too late. He was dead."

"Act IV. All his money went to Rupert, who was a distant cousin. He

married Millicent, and they lived happily ever after. But, though

they are always to be seen at the Tonbridge and Canterbury weeks,

they have never played cricket again. _Curtain_."

"And bedtime," said Myra suddenly. "Good-night, everybody."

MARGERY

TO MARGERY--FROM HER UNCLE

My dear Margery,--When I heard that you really had arrived, I got out

the broken tea-cup, filled it at the bath, and drank "To my niece!"

with the greatest enthusiasm possible. Had I been on the stage I

should then have hurled the cup over my shoulder; and later on the

scene-shifter would have come and collected the bits. As it was, I

left that part out; and you will forgive me, will you not, dear baby,

when you hear that it was your uncle's last cup, and he in a bad way

financially.

Personally I was all for coming to see you at once. But you wrote

that you would prefer me to postpone my visit for a week; at the end

of which time you would have settled down, and I should be more in a

position to do you justice--the critic, rather than the mere

reporter. I don't know if those were quite your words, but that at

any rate was the idea. So, baby, here I am--a week later, and just

returned from seeing you. What, you wish to know, were my

impressions?

It is like your cool way, asking me what I think of you. It was you

who were to have been interviewed by _me_. You were a stranger, one

short week on our shores; and I wanted to ask you what you thought of

the English ladies, what were your views on our climate and (above

all) what was your opinion of the English press. My editor had heard

of your landing, and those were the things he wished to know. Well,

I shall say that your views were undecided. Two kicks, a cry, and

something very like a sneeze--you haven't quite got the hang of our

language yet.

You know, Margery, there was at one time some talk of your being a

boy; and, in that case, your father and I had decided that you were

to play for Kent. I was to have bowled to you every evening, and he

would have stood by and said, "You should have come forward to that

one, sir." At the public schools they call this "coaching."

However, that dream is over now, and the most we can hope for is that

you should marry someone in the eleven. Your father and I were

discussing it last night (in front of you--oh, what would Mrs Grundy

say?), and we had almost fixed on Woolley; but your mother objected

because he was a professional. A trivial reason, dear Margery, but

you know what women are. You gave a little cry just at that moment,

and I know you meant, "Well, why not Mr Hutchings then?" Well, we

had thought of him, only your mother says he will be too old. I do

hope, baby, that when you grow up you will be guided by what your

heart says, and not by what your mother says....

Your mother--I think you must be careful in your dealings with that

woman. Above all, do not let her prejudice you against your uncle.

At one time yesterday we were discussing your personal features.

"Her grannie's mouth," said somebody; "her father's nose,"

volunteered another. "Look at the darling's eyes, just like her

loving mummy's," was that shameless person's own contribution. Then

I in haste, "But, I say, what about her uncle?"

Margery, your mother looked at you thoughtfully. She looked at you

every way. And then suddenly, in triumph, she cried, "Why, nurse!

Of course! Her uncle's hair!"

They tell me, Margery, that as a matter of fact your name is

Marjorie; and they say that the other reminds them too much of

Margarine. That just shows how ignorant they are. I looked up

"margarine," in the dictionary, and it is called so because of its

"pearly lustre." If that isn't good enough for them, they must be a

very proud couple. Anyhow, you are Margery to me: I hope I have a

mind above your commonplace Marjories.

There are many things that I have to say to you, but I feel quite

sure that your mother reads your letters; so perhaps I had better

wait till I can see you alone. I want you always to insist on

wearing shoes, as a little girl, and not those ghastly

thirty-nine-button boots; also on going to one of the very big

schools if you go to a boarding school at all. And I want--but I

must talk to your father about it. I like to think he is still my

ally. Time was when he too knew all about the bringing up of

children, and though he has handicapped himself by marrying, yet now

and then, when we are alone together, he is almost sensible on the

subject.

Good-bye. Give my love to your mother. Perhaps we can trust her

more than we thought, after all. Ever your loving UNCLE

TO HER UNCLE--FROM MARGERY

My dear Uncle,--Thank you for your letter. I was just as glad when

they told me about _you_! And I said to myself, "I must be very nice

to him, because mother and I have been here for years and years

simply, and he's quite new." And it's unkind of you to say I kicked,

I was only stretching, and one must stretch or one will never grow.

I heard nurse tell mother that, and you _know_ you'd like to have a

tall niece.

I think I shall like you, if you're sure you won't mind my being only

a girl. I don't think father minds, although he looks very sad about

something every now and then. He came back late from the office the

other day, and mother told me he'd done such a lot of work, and was

so tired, and I cried all night about it, I was so sorry for him.

Mother _is_ a funny person. This morning I did my trick of opening

one eye and keeping the other shut, and she got fearfully excited,

and called out "Nurse, nurse, what's the matter with baby, she can't

open one of her eyes!" And then I simply _had_ to open it, so as I

could wink at nurse to show her what a silly mother we had. But I

have given up my other joke, of pretending to be dead. I used to do

it every night, and she would creep out of bed, and come and listen

at my cradle, and.... Well, I'm only a girl, and I shall never go to

a public school, but still I know when a joke ceases to be a joke and

becomes bad form. So I have given it up.

Oh, talking of bad form, some chemists who had read about me in the

papers sent me a sample of _tooth_ powder. In rather doubtful taste,

I thought....

I want you to come and see me have my bath. Mother asks all her

friends, so why shouldn't I ask mine? Of course, I would rather keep

it private, but if mother is going to make a show of it we may as

well have the right people there. Do you know, uncle, they actually

do it in a _basin_, although there's a proper bath just next door! I

know I'm small, but is it quite fair always to be harping on the

fact? (Twice a day, if you will believe me.) Of course, mother and

nurse are only women, and they wouldn't understand this. But I am

sure you, uncle, would be more careful of people's feelings.

I am sorry, dear, but I don't think I shall be able to marry either

Mr Hutchings or Mr Woolley; you see they _are_ rather old for me,

_aren't_ they? Mother told me yesterday that there is a dear little

boy of four or five playing about somewhere, who will come for me one

day and take me right away from her and father. _Fancy_! What fun!

About my name. Well, I'm afraid it will have to be _Marjorie_ after

all. Of course, I should prefer it to be _Margery_, but mother

assures me that the owner of the name is _never_ consulted, so I

can't say anything. But I will always be Margery to you, and we

won't say anything more about it to the others. Do you see, dear?

And now I must say good-bye, as mother says I want to go to sleep.

She is writing this for me, and some of the things she didn't want to

say at all, but I threatened her with my joke, and then she did. But

we both send our love. Your affectionate niece, MARGERY

P.S. 1.--I was weighed yesterday. I weigh quite a lot of pounds.

P.S. 2.--Come to-morrow at four, and I will show you my toes.

MARGERY'S SOCK

CHAPTER I

When Margery was three months old I wrote a letter to her mother:

"DEAR MADAM,--If you have a copy in Class D at 1s. 10d. net, I shall

be glad to hear from you. I am, THE BABY'S UNCLE"

On Tuesday I got an answer by the morning post:

"DEAR SIR,--In reply to yours: How dare you insult my child? She is

in Class A1, priceless, and bought in by the owner. Four months old

and two days on Christmas Day. Fancy! I am,

"THE BABY'S MOTHER"

Margery had been getting into an expensive way of celebrating her

birthday every week. Hitherto I had ignored it. But now I wrote:

"DEAR MADAM,--Automatically your baby should be in Class D by now. I

cannot understand why it is not so. Perhaps I shall hear from you

later on with regard to this. Meanwhile I think that the

extraordinary coincidence (all but two days) of the baby's birthday

with Christmas Day calls for some recognition on my part. What would

Margery like? You, who are in constant communication with her,

should be able to tell me. I hear coral necklaces well spoken of.

What do you think? I remember reading once of a robber who 'killed a

little baby for the coral on its neck'--which shows at any rate that

they are worn. Do you know how coral reefs are made? It is a most

fascinating business.

"Then there is a silver mug to be considered. The only thing you can

drink out of a mug is beer; yet it is a popular present. Perhaps

you, with your (supposed) greater knowledge of babies, will explain

this. Meanwhile I am,

"THE BABY'S UNCLE"

"_P.S._--Which is a much finer thing than a mother."

To which her mother:

"MY DEAR BOY,--It is too sweet of you to say you would like to get

baby something. No, I don't know how coral reefs are made, and I

don't want to. I think it is wicked of you to talk like that; I'm

sure I sha'n't dare to let her wear anything valuable now. And I

don't think she really wants a mug.

"I'm sure I don't know what she does want, except to see her uncle

(There!), but it ought to be something that she'll value when she

grows up. And of course we could keep it for her in the meantime.

"Her father has smoked his last cigar to-day. Isn't it awful? I

have forbidden him to waste his money on any more, but he says he

_must_ give me five hundred for a Christmas present. If he does, I

shall give him that sideboard that I want so badly, and then we shall

both go to prison together. You will look after baby, won't you? I

am,

"THE BABY'S MOTHER"

"_P.S._--Which she isn't proud, but does think it's a little bit

classier than an uncle."

And so, finally, I;

"DEAR CHILD,--I've thought of the very thing. I am, THE BABY'S UNCLE"

That ends Chapter I. Here we go on to

CHAPTER II

Chapter II finds me in the toy department of the Stores.

"I want," I said, "a present for a child."

"Yes, sir. About how old?"

"It must be quite new," I said sternly. "Don't be silly. Oh, I see.

Well, the child is only a baby."

"Ah, yes. Now here--if it's at all fond of animals----"

"I say, you mustn't call it 'IT.' _I_ get in an awful row if _I_ do.

Of course, I suppose it's all right for you, only--well, be careful,

won't you?"

The attendant promised, and asked whether the child was a boy or a

girl.

"And had you thought of anything for the little girl?"

"Well, yes. I had rather thought of a sideboard."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A sideboard."

"The Sideboard Department is upstairs. Was there anything else for

the little girl?"

"Well, a box of cigars. Rather full, and if you have any----"

"The Cigar Department is on the ground floor."

"But your Lord Chamberlain told me I was to come here if I wanted a

present for a child."

"If you require anything in the toy line----"

"Yes, but what good are toys to a baby of four months? Do be

reasonable."

"What was it _you_ suggested? A sideboard and a cigar?"

"That was my idea. It may not be the best possible, but at least it

is better than perfectly useless toys. You can always blow smoke in

its face, or bump its head against the sideboard. _Experto crede_,

if you have the Latin."

Whereupon with great dignity I made my way to the lift.

In the Sideboard Department I said: "I want a sideboard for a little

girl of four months, and please don't call her 'IT.' I nearly had a

row with one of your downstairs staff about that."

"I will try to be careful, sir," he replied. "What sort of a one?"

"Blue eyes, and not much hair, and really rather a sweet smile....

Was that what you wanted to know?"

"Thank you, sir. But I meant what sort of a sideboard?"

I took him confidentially by the arm.

"Look here," I said, "you know how, when one is carrying a baby

about, one bumps its head on all the corners? Well, not too much of

that. The mothers don't really like it, you know. They smile at the

time, but ... Well, not too many corners.... Yes, I like that very

much. No, I won't take it with me."

The attendant wrote out the bill.

"Number, sir?"

"She's the first. That's why I'm so nervous. I've never bought a

sideboard for a child before."

"Your Stores number, I mean, sir."

"I haven't got one. Is it necessary?"

"Must have a number, sir."

"Then I'll think of a nice one for you.... Let's see--12345, now

does that strike you?"

"And the name?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that. You must look that up for yourself.

Good-day."

Downstairs I bought some cigars.

"For a little girl of four months," I said, "and she likes them

rather full. Please don't argue with me. All your men chatter so."

"I must," said the attendant. "It's like this. If she is only four

months, she is obviously little. Your observation is therefore

tautological."

"As a matter of fact," I said hotly, "she is rather big for four

months."

"Then it was a lie."

"Look here, you give me those cigars, and don't talk so much. I've

already had words with your Master of the Sideboards and your

Under-Secretary for the Toy Department.... Thank you. If you would

kindly send them."

CHAPTER III

So there it is. I have given the spirit, rather than the actual

letter, of what happened at the Stores. But that the things have

been ordered there is no doubt. And when Margery wakes up on

Christmas Day to find a sideboard and a box of cigars in her sock I

hope she will remember that she has chiefly her mother to thank for

it.

HOW TO PLAY THE PIANOLA

(FOREWORD.--Margery wishes me to publish the following

correspondence, which has recently passed between us. It occurs to

me that the name under which I appear in it may perhaps need

explanation. I hate explanations, but here it is.

When Margery was eight months old she was taught to call me "Uncle."

I must suppose that at this time I was always giving her

things--things she really wanted, such as bootlaces, the best china,

evening papers, and so on--which had been withheld by those in

authority. Later on these persons came round to my way of thinking,

and gave her--if not the best china, at any rate cake and

bread-and-butter. Naturally, their offerings, being appreciated at

last, were greeted with the familiar cry of "Uncle." "No, dear, not

'Uncle,'--'Thank-you'" came the correction.)

I

DEAR THANKYOU,--I've some wonderful news for you! Guess what it is,

but no, you never will. Well, I'll tell you. _I can walk!_ Really

and really.

It is most awfully interesting. You put one foot out to the right,

and then you bring the left after it. That's one walk, and I have

done seven altogether. You have to keep your hands out in front of

you, so as to balance properly. That's all the rules--the rest is

just knack. I got it quite suddenly yesterday. It is such fun; I

wake up about five every morning now, thinking of it.

Of course, I fall down now and then. You see, I'm only beginning.

When I fall, mother comes and picks me up. That reminds me. I don't

want you to call me "baby" any more, now I can walk. Babies can't

walk, they just get carried about and put in perambulators. I was

given a lot of names a long time ago, but I forget what they were. I

think one was something rather silly, like Margery, but I have never

had it used lately. Mother always calls me O.D. now.

Good-bye. Write directly you get this. Your loving O.D.

II

MY DEAR O.D.,--I was so glad to get your letter, because I was just

going to write to you. What do you think? No, you'll never

guess--shall I tell you?--no--yes--no; well, I've bought a pianola!

It's really rather difficult to play it properly. I know people like

Paderewski and--I can only think of Paderewski for the moment--I know

that sort of person doesn't think much of the pianola artist; but

they are quite wrong about it all. The mechanical agility with the

fingers is nothing, the soul is everything. Now you can get the

soul, the _con molto expressione_ feeling, just as well in the

pianola as in the piano. Of course you have to keep a sharp eye on

the music. Some people roll it off just like a barrel-organ; but

when I see _Allegro_ or _Andante_ or anything of that kind on the

score, I'm on it like a bird.

No time for more now, as I've just got a new lot of music in. Your

loving THANKYOU

P.S.--When are you coming to hear me play? I did "Mumbling Mose"

just now, with one hand and lots of soul. (Signed) PADEREWSKI

P.P.S.--I am glad you can walk.

III

DEAR THANKYOU,--I am rather upset about my walking. You remember I

told you I had done seven in my last? Well, this morning I couldn't

do a single one! Well, I did do one, as a matter of fact, but I

suppose some people would say it didn't count, because I fell down

directly after, though I don't see that that matters--do you,

Thankyou? But even with that one it was only one, and yet I know I

did seven the day before. I wonder why it is. I do it the right

way, I'm sure, and I keep my hands out so as to balance, so perhaps

it's the shoes that are wrong. I must ask mother to get me a new

pair, and tell the man they're for walks.

Now _do_ write me a nice long letter, Thankyou, because I feel very

miserable about this. It _is_ right, isn't it, when you have the

right leg out, only to bring the left one just up to it, and not

beyond? And does it matter which foot you start with? Let me know

quickly, because father is coming home to-morrow and I want to show

him. Your loving

O.D.

P.S.--I am glad you like your pianola.

IV

DEAR O.D.,--Very glad to get yours. If you really want a long

letter, you shall have one; only I warn you that, if once I begin,

nothing less than an earthquake can stop me. Well, first then, I

played the "Merry Widow Waltz" yesterday to Mrs Polacca, who is a

great authority on music, and in with all the Queen's Hall set, and

she said that my touch reminded her of--I've forgotten the man's name

now, which is rather sickening, because it spoils the story a bit,

but he was one of the real tip-toppers who make hundreds a week, and,

well--that was the sort of man I reminded her of. If I can do that

with a waltz, it stands to reason that with something classic there'd

be no holding me. I think I shall give a recital. Tickets 10s. 6d.

No free seats. No emergency exit. It is a great mistake to have an

emergency exit at a recital....

(_Three pages omitted._)

Really, O.D., you must hear me doing the double F in the "Boston Cake

Walk" to get me at my best. You've heard Kubelik on the violin?

Well, it's not a bit like that, and yet there's just that something

which links great artists together, no matter what their medium of

expression. Your loving

THANKYOU

_P.S._--Glad you're getting on so well with your walking.

V

DEAREST THANKYOU,--Hooray, hooray, hooray--I did twenty-five walks

to-day! Father counted. He says my style reminds him of _Cancer

Vulgaris_ rather. How many times can _he_ do it? Not twenty-five on

the third day, I'm sure.

Isn't it splendid of me? I see now where I was wrong yesterday. I

got the knack again suddenly this morning, and I'm all right now.

To-morrow, I shall walk round the table. It is a longish way, and

there are four turns, which I am not sure about. How _do_ you turn?

I suppose you put the right hand out? Your very loving O.D.

VI

DEAR O.D.,--I am rather hurt by your letters. I have written several

times to tell you all about my new pianola, and you don't seem to

take any interest at all. I was going to have told you this time

that the man in the flat below has sent me a note, just as if it had

been a real piano. He says he doesn't mind my playing all day, so

long as I don't start before eight in the morning, as he is in his

bath then, and in listening to the music quite forgets to come out

sometimes, which, I can see, might be very awkward. Write to yours

affectionately, THANKYOU

VII

DARLING THANKYOU,--I am so sorry, dear, and I will come and hear your

pianola to-morrow, and I think it lovely, and you must be clever to

play so well; but you mustn't be angry with me because I am so taken

up with my walking. You see, it is all so new to me. I feel as

though I want everybody to know all about it.

Your pianola must be lovely, Thankyou. _Dear_ Thankyou, could you,

do you think, put all the letters we wrote to each other about my

walking in some book, so that other people would know how to do it

the way I do? You might call it "Letters on Walking," or "How to

Walk," or--but you could get a better title than I could. _Do!_

Your very loving O.D.

P.S.--I'm so glad about the pianola, and do you mind if I just tell

you that I _did_ walk round the table, corners and all?

VIII

DEAREST O.D.,--Right you are. I will think of a good title. Your

loving THANKYOU

THE KNIGHT OF THE CHIMNEY-PIECE

We don't know his real name, but we have decided to call him Arthur.

("Sir Arthur," I suppose he would be.) He stands in bronze upon the

chimney-piece, and in his right hand is a javelin; this makes him a

very dangerous person. Opposite him, but behind the clock (Coward!),

stands the other fellow, similarly armed. Most people imagine that

the two are fighting for the hand of the lady on the clock, and they

aver that they can hear her heart beating with the excitement of it;

but, to let you into the secret, the other fellow doesn't come into

the story at all. Only Margery and I know the true story. I think I

told it to her one night when she wouldn't go to sleep--or perhaps

she told it to me.

The best of this tale (I say it as the possible author) is that it is

modern. It were easy to have invented something more in keeping with

the knight's armour, but we had to remember that this was the

twentieth century, and that here in this twentieth century was Sir

Arthur on the chimney-piece, with his javelin drawn back. For whom

is he waiting?

"It all began," I said, "a year ago, when Sir Arthur became a member

of the South African Chartered Incorporated Co-operative Stores

Society Limited, Ten per cents at Par (Men only). He wasn't exactly

a real member, having been elected under Rule Two for meritorious

performances, Rule One being that this club shall be called what I

said just now; but for nearly a year he enjoyed all the privileges of

membership, including those of paying a large entrance fee and a

still larger subscription. At the end of a year, however, a dreadful

thing happened. They made a Third Rule--to wit, that no member

should go to sleep on the billiard-table.

"Of course, Sir Arthur, having only got in under Rule Two, had to

resign. He had already paid his large entrance fee, and (as it

happened) his second year's subscription in advance. Naturally, he

was annoyed....

"And that, in fact, is why he stands on the chimney-piece with his

javelin drawn back. He is waiting for the secretary. Sir Arthur is

considered to be a good shot, and the secretary wants all the flowers

to be white."

At this point, Margery said her best word, "Gorky," which means "A

thousand thanks for the verisimilitude of your charming and

interesting story, but is not the love element a trifle weak?"

(Margery is a true woman.)

"We must leave _something_ to the imagination," I pleaded. "The

secretary no doubt had a delightful niece, and Sir Arthur's hopeless

passion for her, after he had hit her uncle in a vital spot, would be

the basis of a most powerful situation."

Margery said "Gorky," again, which, as I have explained, means, "Are

such distressing situations within the province of the Highest Art?"

When Margery says "Gorky" twice in one night it is useless to argue.

I gave in at once. "Butter," I said, "placed upon the haft of the

javelin would make it slip, and put him off his shot. He would miss

the secretary and marry the niece." So we put a good deal of butter

on Sir Arthur, and for the moment the secretary is safe. I don't

know if we shall be able to keep it there; but in case jam does as

well, Margery has promised to stroke him every day.

However, I anticipate. As soon as the secretarial life was saved,

Margery said "Agga," which is, as it were, "_Encore!_" or "_Bis!_" so

that I have her permission to tell you that story all over again.

Indeed, I should feel quite justified in doing so. Instead I will

give you the tragedy of George, the other fellow (no knight he), as

she told it to me afterwards.

"George was quite a different man from Sir Arthur. So far from being

elected to anything under Rule Two, he got blackballed for the St

John's Wood Toilet Club. Opinions differed as to why this happened;

some said it was his personal unpopularity (he had previously been

up, without success, for membership of the local Ratepayers

Association); others (among them the proprietor), that his hair grew

too quickly. Anyhow, it was a great shock to George, and they had to

have a man in to break it to him. (It's always the way when you have

a man in.)

"George was stricken to the heart. This last blow was too much for

what had always been a proud nature. He decided to emigrate.

Accordingly he left home, and moved to Kilburn. Whether he is still

there or not I cannot say; but a card with that postmark reached his

niece only this week. It was unsigned, and bore on the space

reserved for inland communications these words: _The old old wish--A

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year._"

"But what about the javelin?" I asked Margery. (This fellow had a

javelin too, you remember.)

"_Gorky_," said Margery, for the third time which means--

Well, upon my word, I don't know what it means. But it would explain

it all.

Meanwhile, Sir Arthur (he was in my story, you know) is still waiting

for the secretary. In case the butter gives out, have I mentioned

that the secretary wants all the flowers to be white?

THE ART OF CONVERSATION

"In conversation," said somebody (I think it was my grandfather),

"there should always be a give and take. The ball must be kept

rolling." If he had ever had a niece two years old, I don't think he

would have bothered.

"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing suddenly.

"That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle's nose."

"What's 'at?"

"Take your finger away. Ah, yes, that is dear uncle's eye. The left

one."

"Dear uncle's left one," said Margery thoughtfully. "What's it

doing?"

"Thinking."

"What's finking?"

"What dear uncle does every afternoon after lunch."

"What's lunch?"

"Eggs, sardines, macaroons--everything."

With a great effort Margery resisted the temptation to ask what

"everything" was (a difficult question), or what everything was doing

(a still more difficult one), and made a statement of her own.

"Santa Claus bring Margie a balloon from daddy," she announced.

"A balloon! How jolly!" I said with interest. "What sort are you

having? One of those semi-detached ones with the gas laid on, or the

pink ones with a velvet collar?"

"Down chimney," said Margery.

"Oh, _that_ kind. Do you think--I mean, isn't it rather----"

"Tell Margie a story about a balloon."

"Bother," I murmured.

"What's bovver?"

"Bother is what you say when relations ask you to tell them a story

about a balloon. It means, 'But for the fact that we both have the

Montmorency blood in our veins, I should be compelled to decline your

kind invitation, all the stories I know about balloons being stiff

'uns.' It also means, 'Instead of talking about balloons, won't you

sing me a little song?'"

"Nope," said Margery.

"Bother, she's forgotten her music."

"What did you say, uncle dear, what did you say?"

I sighed and began.

"Once upon a time there was a balloon, a dear little toy balloon,

and--and----"

"What's 'at?" asked Margery, making a dab at my chest. "What's 'at,

uncle dear?"

"That," I said, "is a button. More particularly, a red waistcoat

button. More particularly still, my top red waistcoat button."

"What's _'at_?" she asked, going down one.

"That is a button. _Description_: second, red, waistcoat. _Parents

living_: both. _Injections diseases_: scarlet fever slightly once."

"What's _'at_?"

"That's a--ah, yes, a button. The third. A good little chap, but

not so chubby as his brothers. He couldn't go down to Margate with

them last year, and so, of course---- Well, as I was saying, there

was once a balloon, and----"

"What's 'a-a-at?" said Margery, bending forward suddenly and kissing

it.

"Look here, you've jolly well got to enclose a stamped addressed

envelope with the next question. As a matter of fact, though you

won't believe me, that again is a button."

"What's 'at?" asked Margery, digging at the fifth button.

"Owing to extreme pressure on space," I began.... "Thank you. That

also is a button. Its responsibility is greater than that of its

brethren. The crash may come at any moment. Luckily it has booked

its passage to the---- Where was I? Oh yes--well, this balloon----"

"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the last one.

"I must have written notice of that question. I can't tell you

offhand."

"What's 'at, uncle dear?"

"Well, I don't know, Margie. It looks something like a collar stud,

only somehow you wouldn't expect to find a collar-stud there. Of

course it may have slipped.... Or could it be one of those red

beads, do you think? N-no, no, it isn't a bead.... And it isn't a

raspberry; because this is the wrong week for raspberries. Of course

it might be a---- By Jove, I've got it! It's a button!"

I gave the sort of war-whoop with which one announces these

discoveries, and Margery whooped too.

"A button!" she cried. "A dear little button!" She thought for a

moment. "What's a button?"

This was ridiculous.

"You don't mean to say," I reproached her, "that I've got to tell you

now what a button is? _That_," I added severely, pointing to the top

of my waistcoat, "is a button."

"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the next one.

I looked at her in horror. Then I began to talk very quickly.

"There was once a balloon," I said rapidly, "a dear little boy

balloon, I mean toy balloon, and this balloon was a jolly little

balloon just two minutes old, and he wasn't always asking silly

questions, and when he fell down and exploded himself they used to

wring him out and say, 'Come, come, now, be a little airship about

it,' and so----"

"What's 'at?" asked Margery, pointing to the top button.

There was only one way out of it. I began to sing a carol in a very

shrill voice.

All the artist rose in Margery.

"Don't sing," she said hurriedly. "Margie sing. What will Margie

sing, uncle?"

Before I could suggest anything, she was off. It was a scandalous

song. She began by announcing that she wanted to be among the boys,

and (guessing that I should object) assured me that it was no good

kicking up a noise, because it was no fun going out when there

weren't any boys about, you were so lonely-onely-onely ...

Here the tune became undecided; and, a chance word recalling another

context to her mind, she drifted suddenly into a hymn, and sang it

with the same religious fervour as she had sung the other, her fair

head flung back and her hazel eyes gazing into heaven ...

I listened carefully. This was a bit I didn't recognise.... The

tune wavered for a moment ... and out of it these words emerged

triumphant,

"Talk of me to the boys you meet,

Remember me kindly to Regent Street,

And give them my love in the----"

"What's 'at, uncle?"

"That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle's nose."

"What's----"

By the way, would you like it all over again? No? Oh, very well.

AFTERNOON SLEEP

"In the afternoon they came unto a land

In which it seemed always afternoon."

I am like Napoleon in that I can go to sleep at any moment; I am

unlike him (I believe) in that I am always doing so. One makes no

apology for doing so on Sunday afternoon--the apology, indeed, should

come from the others, the wakeful parties.

"Uncle?"

"Margery."

"Will you come and play wiv me?"

"I'm rather busy just now," I said, with closed eyes. "After tea."

"Why are you raver busy just now? My baby's only raver busy

sometimes."

"Well, then, you know what it's like; how important it is that one

shouldn't be disturbed."

"But you must be beturbed when I ask you to come and play wiv me."

"Oh, well ... what shall we play at?"

"Trains," said Margery eagerly.

When we play trains I have to be a tunnel. I don't know if you have

ever been a tunnel? No; well, it's an over-rated profession.

"We won't play trains," I announced firmly, "because it's Sunday."

"Why not because it's Sunday?"

(Oh, you little pagan!)

"Hasn't mummy told you all about Sunday?"

"Oh yes, Maud did tell me," said Margery casually. Then she gave an

innocent little smile. "Oh, I called mummy Maud," she said in

pretended surprise. "I quite _fought_ I was upstairs!"

I hope you follow. The manners and customs of good society must be

observed on the ground floor where visitors may happen; upstairs one

relaxes a little.

"Do you know," Margery went on with the air of a discoverer, "you

mustn't say 'prayers' downstairs. Or 'corsets.'"

"I never do," I affirmed. "Well, anyhow I never will again."

"Why mayn't you?"

"I don't know," I said sleepily.

"Say prehaps."

"Well--_prehaps_ it's because your mother tells you not to."

"Well, 'at's a _silly_ fing to say," said Margery scornfully.

"It is. I'm thoroughly ashamed of it. I apologise. Good-night."

And I closed my eyes again.

"I fought you were going to play wiv me, Mr Bingle," sighed Margery

to herself.

"My name is _not_ Bingle," I said, opening one eye.

"Why isn't it Bingle?"

"The story is a very long and sad one. When I wake up I will tell it

to you. Good-night."

"Tell it to me now."

There was no help for it.

"Once upon a time," I said rapidly, "there was a man called Bingle,

Oliver Bingle, and he married a lady called Pringle. And his brother

married a lady called Jingle. And his other brother married a Miss

Wingle. And his cousin remained single.... That is all."

"Oh, I see," said Margery doubtfully. "Now will you play wiv me?"

How can one resist the pleading of a young cheild?

"All right," I said. "We'll pretend I'm a little girl, and you're my

mummy, and you've just put me to bed.... Good-night, mummy dear."

"Oh, but I must cover you up." She fetched a tablecloth, and a

pram-cover, and _The Times_, and a handkerchief, and the cat, and a

doll's what-I-mustn't-say-downstairs, and a cushion; and she covered

me up and tucked me in.

"'Ere, 'ere, now go to sleep, my darling," she said, and kissed me

lovingly.

"Oh, Margie, you dear," I whispered.

"You called me 'Margie'!" she cried in horror.

"I meant 'Mummy.' Good-night."

One, two, three seconds passed rapidly.

"It's morning," said a bright voice in my ear. "Get up."

"I'm very ill," I pleaded; "I want to stay in bed all day."

"But your dear uncle," said Margery, inventing hastily, "came last

night after you were in bed, and stayed 'e night. Do you see? And

he wants you to sit on his chest in bed and talk to him."

"Where is he? Show me the bounder."

"'Ere he is," said Margery, pointing at me.

"But look here, I can't sit on my own chest and talk to myself. I'll

take the two parts if you insist, Sir Herbert, but I can't play them

simultaneously. Not even Irving----"

"Why can't you play vem simrulaleously?"

"Well, I can't. Margie, _will_ you let me go to sleep?"

"Nope," said Margery, shaking her head.

"You should say, 'No, thank you, revered and highly respected uncle.'"

"No _hank_ you, Mr Cann."

"I have already informed you that my name is not Bingle; and I have

now to add that neither is it Cann."

"Why neiver is it Cann?"

"That isn't grammar. You should say, 'Why can it not either?'"

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Say prehaps."

"No, I can't even say prehaps."

"Well, say I shall understand when I'm a big girl."

"You'll understand when you're a big girl, Margery," I said solemnly.

"Oh, I see."

"That's right. Now then, what about going to sleep?"

She was silent for a moment, and I thought I was safe. Then----

"Uncle, just tell me--why was 'at little boy crying vis morning?"

"Which little boy?"

"Ve one in 'e road."

"Oh, that one. Well, he was crying because his uncle hadn't had any

sleep all night, and when he tried to go to sleep in the

afternoon----"

"Say prehaps again."

My first rejected contribution! I sighed and had another shot.

"Well, then," I said gallantly, "it must have been because he hadn't

got a sweet little girl of three to play with him."

"Yes," said Margery, nodding her head thoughtfully, "'at was it."

TO JOCK

(ON CHOOSING A PROFESSION)

When, Jock, I saw you, debonair and bland,

Shin perilously up the cottage grand

Piano, with the bread-knife in your hand;--

When I observed your friendly little stare,

Your guileless baby face, your general air

Of "Golly, how on earth did I get _there_?"--

When I remarked how cheerfully you crashed

Down on the tea-things, not the least abashed

To see the same (_my_ wedding present) _smashed_!--

Then as we wondered (having wiped the tea

From off this waistcoat) "What's he going to be?"

I knew at once why father thought, "The sea."

* * * * * *

There are who sit and languidly dictate

Letters beginning "Yours of even date"--

Each one designed to rope in six-and-eight;

Wherefore each letter carefully postpones

The moment when the other party owns

His case is badly dished by "_Rex v. Jones_."

There are who daily in the safe retreat

Of some Department gather round and bleat

Scandal and Art, until it's time to eat;

Return at three, and, having written "Dear

Sir, your communication of last year

Duly received and noted"--disappear.

There are who do not hesitate to shove

Their views of Babes and Budgets, Life and Love

On paper--as it might be up above;

Who, fearless fellows, are not found to flinch

When some Proprietor essays to pinch

Their holiest thoughts at eightpence for the inch.

* * * * * *

Such, Jock, as these are we who bear your name

Content (well, almost) with the good old game

Of moderate Fortune unrelieved by Fame.

But there are Nobler Souls about the place,

Such spirits as have built our Island Race,

Heroes who must, who simply must, have _space_.

'Twas not to serve the pen that Nature gave

To these their love of all that's large and brave;

For Them an ampler life upon the Wave!

* * * * * *

So when your father (while I mop the tea)

Says that he rather thinks you'll go to sea,

Dear Jock, sweet Jock, your uncle _must_ agree.

MORE CRICKET

TO AN OLD BAT

_When Vesper trails her gown of grey

Across the lawn at six or seven

The diligent observer may_

(_Or may_) _see, athwart the heaven,

An aimless rodent on the wing. Well, that

Is_ (_probably_) _a Bat....

In any case I shall not sing of that._

--------

O Willow, in our hours of ease

(That is to say, throughout the Winter),

I take you sometimes on my knees,

And careless of the frequent splinter,

Caress you tenderly, and sigh, and say,

"Ye Gods, how long till May?"

And so as soon as April's here

I do not sob for Spring to show its

Pale daffodils and all the dear

Old flowers that keep the minor poets;

I sing it just because a month (about)

Will find you fairly out.

Revered, beloved, O you whose job

Is but to serve throughout the season--

To make, if so it be, the Blob,

And not (thank heaven!) to ask the reason--

To stand, like Mrs Hemans' little friend,

Undoubting to the end:

Old Willow, what a tale to tell--

Our steady rise, from small beginnings,

_Ab ovo usque--usque_--well,

To eighty-four, our highest innings;

(Ah me, that crowded hour of glorious lives--

Ten of them, all from drives!)

Once only have you let me in,

Through all the knocks we've had together;

That time when, wanting four to win,

I fairly tried to tonk the leather--

And lo! a full-faced welt, without the least

Warning, went S.S.E.

A painful scene. In point of fact

I'm doubtful if I ought to hymn it;

Enough to say you went and cracked,

And left me thinking things like "Dimmit"

(And not like "Dimmit"), as I heard Slip call

"Mine!" and he pouched the ball.

Do you remember, too, the game

One August somewhere down in Dorset

When, being told to force the same,

We straightway started in to force it....

For half-an-hour or so we saw it through,

And scratched a priceless two;

Or how the prayer to play for keeps

And hang the runs, we didn't need 'em,

So stirred us, we collected heaps

With rather more than usual freedom;

Fifteen in fourteen minutes--till a catch

Abruptly closed the match?

* * * * * *

Well, well--the coming years (if fine)

Shall see us going even stronger;

So pouring out the oil and wine,

Let's sit and drink, a little longer;

_Here's to a decent average of ten!_

(Yours is the oil. Say when....)

----------

_When Morning on the heels of Night

Picks up her shroud at five and after,

The diffident observer might

(Or might not) see, beneath a rafter,

A pensive rodent upside down. Well, that

Is (possibly) a Bat....

In any case I have not sung of that._

A SCRATCH LOT

I. THE CHOOSING OF THE DAY

As soon as I had promised to take an eleven down to Chartleigh I knew

that I was in for trouble; but I did not realise how great it would

be until I consulted Henry Barton. Henry is a first-class cricketer,

and it was my idea that he should do all the batting for us, and such

of the bowling as the laws allowed. I had also another idea, and

this I explained to Henry.

"As you are aware," I said, "the ideal side contains five good bats,

four good bowlers, a wicket-keeper, and Henry Barton."

"Quite so," agreed Henry.

"That is the principle on which one selects an eleven. Now, I intend

to strike out a line of my own. My team shall consist of three

authors or journalists, two solicitors, four barristers, a couple

from the Stock Exchange, some civil servants and an artist or two.

How many is that?"

"Nineteen."

"Well, that's the idea, anyhow."

"It's a rotten idea."

"No, it's a splendid idea. I wonder nobody has thought of it before.

I send a solicitor and a journalist in first. The journalist uses

the long handle, while the solicitor plays for keeps."

"And where does the artist come in?"

"The artist comes in last, and plays for a draw. You are very slow

to-day, Henry."

Henry, the man of leisure, thought a moment.

"Yes, that's all very well for you working men," he said at last,

"but what do I go as? Or am I one of the barristers?"

"You go as 'with Barton.' Yes. If you're very good you shall have

an 'H' in brackets after you. 'With Barton (H)'"

The method of choosing my team being settled, the next thing was the

day. "Any day in the first week in July," the Chartleigh captain had

said. Now at first sight there appear to be seven days in the week,

but it is not really so. For instance, Saturday. Now there's a good

day! What could one object to in a Saturday?

But do you imagine Henry Barton would let it pass?

"I don't think you'll get eleven people for the Saturday," he said.

"People are always playing cricket on Saturday."

"Precisely," I said. "Healthy exercise for the London toiler.

That's why I'm asking 'em."

"But I mean they'll have arranged to play already with their own

teams. Or else they'll be going away for week-ends."

"One can spend a very pretty week-end at Chartleigh."

"H'm, let me think. Any day in the week, isn't it?"

"Except, apparently, Saturday," I said huffily.

"Let's see now, what days are there?"

I mentioned two or three of the better-known ones.

"Yes. Of course, some of those are impossible, though. We'd better

go through the week and see which is best."

I don't know who Barton is that he should take it upon himself to

make invidious distinctions between the days of the week.

"Very well, then," I said. "Sunday."

"Ass."

That seemed to settle Sunday, so we passed on to Monday.

"You won't get your stockbroker on Monday," said Henry. "It's

Contanger day or something with them every Monday."

"Stocktaking, don't you mean?"

"I dare say. Anyhow, no one in the House can get away on a Monday."

"I must have my stockbrokers. Tuesday."

Tuesday, it seemed, was hopeless. I was a fool to have thought of

Tuesday. Why, everybody knew that Tuesday was an impossible day

for----

I forget what spoilt Tuesday's chance. I fancy it was a busy day for

Civil Servants. No one in the Home Civil can get away on a Tuesday.

I know that sounds absurd, but Henry was being absurd just then. Or

was it barristers? Briefs get given out on a Tuesday, I was made to

understand. That brought us to Wednesday. I hoped much from

Wednesday.

"Yes," said Henry. "Wednesday might do. Of course most of the

weeklies go to press on Wednesday. Rather an awkward day for

journalists. What about Thursday?"

I began to get annoyed.

"Thursday my flannel trousers go to the press," I said--"that is to

say, they come back from the wash then."

"Look here, why try to be funny?"

"Hang it, who started it? Talking about Contanger-days.

Contanger--it sounds like a new kind of guano."

"Well, if you don't believe me----"

"Henry, I do. Thursday be it, then."

"Yes, I suppose that's all right," said Henry doubtfully.

"Why not? Don't say it's sending-in day with artists," I implored.

"Not _every_ Thursday?"

"No. Only there's Friday, and----"

"Friday is _my_ busy day," I pleaded--"my one ewe lamb. Do not rob

me of it."

"It's a very good day, Friday. I think you'd find that most people

could get off then."

"But why throw over Thursday like this? A good, honest day, Henry.

Many people get born on a Thursday, Henry. And it's a marrying day,

Henry. A nice, clean, sober day, and you----"

"The fact is," said Henry, "I've suddenly remembered I'm engaged

myself on Thursday."

This was too much.

"Henry," I said coldly, "you forget yourself--you forget yourself

strangely, my lad. Just because I was weak enough to promise you an

'H' after your name. You seem to have forgotten that the 'H' was to

be in brackets."

"Yes, but I'm afraid I really am engaged."

"Are you really? Look here--I'll leave out the 'with' and you shall

be one of us. There! Baby, see the pretty gentlemen!"

Henry smiled and shook his head.

"Oh, well," I said, "we must have you. So if you say Friday, Friday

it is. You're quite sure Friday is all right for solicitors? Very

well, then."

So the day was settled for Friday. It was rather a pity, because, as

I said, in the ordinary way Friday is the day I put aside for work.