Your name has been given to me as an expert in the matter of publicity.
I shall be glad if you will call here at 10.30 to-morrow with regard to
a matter of considerable importance.
I am, Yours faithfully,
B. LLEWELLYN JOHN.
Angell Herald was overwhelmed. Mr. Llewellyn John, who had held office
for years with the Waightensea Ministry, and had just formed a
Government of his own, was sending for him, Angell Herald, Publicity
Agent, and furthermore had signed the letter himself. It was
bewildering. What could it mean?
Angell Herald, turning to Pearl and, pulling himself together, announced
casually:
"I shall probably be some time, Pearl. I have an engagement with"--and
he mouthed the words--"Mr. Llewellyn John, at Downing Street, at 10.30,
which will probably occupy me some time."
The burnt bacon, the cold coffee, Mrs. Wiggins' notice; all were
forgotten in the dropping of Pearl's jaw. It was a delight to his chief
to see the clerk's surprise.
At 10.25 sharp, Angell Herald was enquiring for Mr. Llewellyn John at
110 Downing Street. It was clear that he was expected. He was led along
a corridor, through a wide hall, and eventually into a large room. From
the further corner a little man, with generous grey hair or a more than
conventional length and a smile of bewildering sunniness, rose and came
towards him.
"Mr. Angell Herald?" he enquired.
Angell Herald bowed. He had momentarily lost the power of speech. The
Prime Minister held out his hand, Angell Herald grasped it. He was
prepared to grasp anything to make up for his silence.
"Pray, sit down," said the Prime Minister. "I want to have a
confidential chat with you."
Angell Herald sat down. He twirled his hat in his hands. He was
conscious of the perfume of his rose, and that he was behaving like an
ass. He looked round the room. He felt he could do anything in the
world save look at this great little man, who sat smiling opposite to
him. It was Mr. Llewellyn John who broke the silence.
"Now, Mr. Herald. I hear you are an expert of publicity methods."
Angell Herald bowed.
"You may be wondering why I sent for you?"
Angell Herald muttered something to the effect that he was.
"Well," said the Prime Minister deliberately, "it is because I have
decided to advertise."
"To what, sir?" blurted out the astonished publicity agent.
"To advertise. Why should not a Government be advertised just as a
pill, a concert-singer, or a rubber-tyre? Everybody advertises, and we
must advertise. Those who don't will go to the wall--or in Opposition,
which is the same thing."
Angell Herald introduced a tactful little laugh. It was a success.
"Certainly," he replied, beginning to feel more at ease. "Quite
naturally, I agree with you. Now, an inspired article, for instance, in
_The Age_, an illustrated interview in _The Briton_, with pictures of
yourself playing with dogs, children and things, a----"
"My dear sir, those are obsolete methods. We are living in a new age, an
age that requires novelty. If you advertise in the right way, you will
get your public; but you have to hit it very hard to make it look. My
friend Mr. Chappledale, for instance, he advertises; but there is no
originality in his methods. Sir Lomas Tipton, he advertises; but how?
I might endeavour to get together a football team to 'lift' the English
Cup; but what good would that do?"
"Quite so," was the dazed response, "quite so."
"Take the late Lord Range, for instance," continued Mr. Llewellyn John.
"He understood modern methods. Instead of stating, as some antiquated
Minister might, that the King and country needed 300,000 high-explosive
shells, he said: 'Lord Range calls for 300,000 high-explosive shells.'
He was up to date, and he got them. A magnificent fellow Range. Didn't
care a--ahem! for anybody. Was even rude to me," he muttered
reminiscently. "I liked him for it.
"Now take the Cyrils, that famous Parliamentary family dating back for
centuries. They do not know how to advertise. Ten years hence there
won't be a Cyril in the House of Commons. There may be a few in the
House of Lords--that depends on democracy.
"Then there's my old friend Waightensea. He did not advertise as the
needs of the political situation demanded he should, and the result is
that he has had to go. It does not matter who you are in these
days--bishop or blacksmith, Prime Minister or pierrot--you've got to
advertise--the war has brought us this!"
Hitherto Angell Herald had regarded himself as second to none in the
advertising world; but Mr. Llewellyn John made him feel a child at the
game.
"The most far-seeing man in Europe has been the Kaiser. He was the
first who understood the true value of advertisement, and he ran it for
all he was worth. We laughed at him, but we listened. Some people
think he overdid it a little," this with a smile; "but still among
monarchs he certainly was the first to appreciate that you have got to
run a monarchy rather as you have a patent medicine, spend ninety per
cent. of your money on advertising, and the other ten per cent. on the
article itself--less if possible."
Again the Prime Minister flashed upon his visitor that bewildering
smile. Angell Herald hinted that this would be a very big business,
involving many thousands of pounds.
"Quite so," remarked Mr. Llewellyn John. "Now, the point is, what can
this additional expenditure be charged up against? It can't be
travelling expenses, because even a Prime Minister could not spend five
figures a year on travelling. Secret Service would be difficult.
Personally I rather lean to the Naval Estimates."
"The Naval Estimates!" cried Angell Herald.
"Exactly," was the reply. "We are always a little inclined to be
penurious over the Army; but if there is one thing that an Englishman is
generous about--always excepting the question of meals--it is the Naval
Estimates. Yes," he continued, as if to himself, "I think we might
charge it up against the Naval Estimates.
"It is of no use making speeches, no one reads them. We don't care for
politics. We are a nation of grumblers in search of scapegoats. As you
know, I broke into epigrammatic utterances. Look at their success. You
will remember what a sensation I created with that clarion call of mine,
'Now we sha'n't be long!' the cables and Marconi installations thrilled
and stuttered it throughout the habitable globe. I followed it with
''Arf a mo',' which was even more popular. My greatest cry, however,
was 'Pip-pip!' which has been translated into two hundred and
eighty-seven languages and dialects."
Angell Herald smiled sympathetically. He had never felt so much like a
schoolboy undergoing instruction than as he listened to this remarkable
man, who was teaching him his own business.
"And now, for the future," continued Mr. Llewellyn John, "we are going
to strike out a new line. I intend to advertise my Ministry, advertise
it as no ministry has ever been advertised before. I will make the
Kaiser look parochial and Mr. Moosephalt provincial. Now let us get
down to brass tacks. America is wonderfully apt in her expressions. I
only discovered this after she joined the Allies. Have you a notebook
with you, Mr. Herald?"
"Yes, sir," replied Angell Herald, hastily drawing one from his pocket,
relieved at having something to do.
"Now listen," the Prime Minister continued. "I propose to have pages in
the principal newspapers devoted to separate subjects. One will be, for
instance, 'The Home Life of England.' There will be pictures of myself
and family enjoying the home life, entertaining my friends at home,
golfing, playing hop-scotch with my children----"
"But," interrupted Angell Herald, "isn't the Home Life stunt a little
played out?"
"Exactly, my dear Mr. Herald, exactly. That is just what I was coming
to. There will also be pictures showing me entertaining guests at the
Ritz-Carlton, at the Opera, at the pantomime, at the theatre, at the
races, at Westminster Abbey, at boxing matches."
"But," interrupted Angell Herald, "how is this to be called 'The Home
Life?'"
"My dear sir, the Larger Home Life, the Larger Home Life. Get that well
into your mind. I am appealing to the great public, not the relics of
the early Victorian Era, the Little Home-Lifers, sitting one on either
side of silly artistic fireplaces, gaping into each other's stupid eyes,
and looking and feeling unutterably bored. Let us have the Large
Home-Lifers. Occasionally, when the weather is warm, I shall put in an
appearance at the public swimming-baths; my figure will stand it."
"Excellent!" Angell Herald murmured. "Wonderful!" He was thrilled by
this man's genius.
"Then another would be 'The Fleet'--Great Britain's Love for Her Navy.'
It's a fine call, it's a thrilling call. I shall have myself
photographed entering the train, lunching in the train, getting out of
the train, being received by the local authorities. Then I shall see
myself pictured with Sir Goliath Maggie on board _The Aluminium Earl_.
I shall make a speech about the Nelson touch, dragging in the
_Chesapeake_ and _Shannon_, and touching lightly upon the story of the
_Revenge_. No, on second thoughts I cannot do that. America has come
in, and Spain may at any moment. No," he added musingly, "that will not
do. They say I lack statesmanship, and that would give them an
admirable peg. No, we'll let that go."
"Then again I shall deal with the Woman Question, from a new point of
view. I shall speak more or less sympathetically upon the subject of
revolutionary propaganda and sedition. Here I shall bring in another
famous epigram I have prepared. 'The Hand that rocks the Empire rules
the World.' I shall be photographed receiving flowers, having my hat
knocked off by an irate woman, possibly being embraced by another woman
in a moment of political ecstasy. That will appeal to the public
tremendously."
"Excellent!" murmured the bewildered publicity agent, conscious of the
inadequacy of the word.
"But there is one important thing. To each of these huge scale
advertisements there must be a moral. There must be something that will
appeal to the imagination of the Briton, and, as you and I know, nothing
so appeals to him as that which touches his pocket. It is Democracy
that will rule the world in future. Now in the case of the Home Life of
England, for instance, I shall comment upon the unnecessary extravagance
that I have observed in certain quarters, notably the gorgeous uniforms
of the officials at the Ritz-Carlton. I shall pass a Bill quickly
through the House taxing silk stockings for men and the wearing of
calves. That will please the public.
"Then with regard to the Navy, I shall call attention to the enormous
amount of brass-work. I shall incidentally refer to the fact that
something like a quarter of a million per annum is spent on brass-polish
for the Navy. I shall give the necessary orders through the First Lord
that all brass-work shall in future be japanned, and so on."
"Mr. Llewellyn John," Angell Herald burst out, "what a loss you are to
the advertising world!"
The Prime Minister smiled, and continued:
"Then there comes the personal question. There must be little paragraphs
about myself constantly in the papers. For instance, as I am leaving
this place I slip in getting into my car, and have to be led back into
the house. There will be photographs of the policeman who rushes up, the
look of solicitude on his face. There will also be photographs of the
policeman's wife and the policeman's daughter--possibly a son or nephew
serving at the front. My family will be photographed at the windows,
looking out anxiously to see what has happened. There can also be a few
personal particulars about my chauffeur.
"Later I shall be photographed limping out of the house and being helped
into the car by three secretaries, four policemen and my chauffeur. In
the press there will be comments upon my stoicism. How, in spite of
being in obvious pain, I put the affairs of the Empire before those of
my own person. Later, possibly there may be an attempt to abduct my
daughter. Another time there can be an attempt on my life."
"On your life, sir?"
"Oh, yes, yes," he continued airily. "These things can always be
arranged. You see, I can be walking in some lonely place, and you can
come up and--well, knock me down."
"Me!" gasped Angell Herald in ungrammatical horror.
"Exactly," he replied, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the
world for a publicity-agent to knock down a Prime Minister. "A great
sensation would be created, and it would extend to the ends of the
earth. We could suggest that the Kaiser was deeply involved in the
plot.
"Again, I can slip on a banana skin, and run a shirt Bill through the
House providing that everyone who eats bananas must carry about the
skins until he gets home, where they must be put in the dust-bin. This
would gain for me the vote of every human being who has ever slipped on
a banana skin.
"Finally we come to the epigrammatic phrases. There is one I have in
mind that should create a sensation. It is: 'One of these days you'll
see what you won't wait for.' I got it from one of the furniture men
who assisted when I moved into No. 110; a droll fellow, an exceedingly
droll fellow. His name was--let me see, yes, Joseph Bindle. I thought
of asking him to join my Ministry, but I remembered the prejudice that
one has to fight in this country in all matters affecting innovation.
Another phrase that may be useful to us is: 'All is not cult that
kulturs.'
"Oh! by the way, couldn't we run 'The Twenty-three Gentlemen who are
always too late' on the lines of 'Ten Little Nigger Boys?' I think
there's something in that.
"But we must first have some refreshment. Ah! here it is."
A maid entered with a tray on which were two glasses of milk and three
small oatmeal biscuits. Angell Herald took the milk, but refused the
biscuits. Mr. Llewellyn John took the other glass and a biscuit, which
he put on the table beside him. When the maid had retired he explained
with a laugh:
"My official lunch, the photographer and cinema operator will be here in
a minute. We expect great things from both the photograph and the film.
'An Ascetic Premier' we are calling it. Now drink your milk."
Angell Herald gulped down a mouthful of the unaccustomed fluid, and put
down the glass well out of reach.
"Yes," continued Mr. Llewellyn John, "there is a vast field before us.
Now, Mr. Herald, will you or will you not throw yourself wholeheartedly
into this project? It is a chance of a lifetime. Will you become the
first Head of my Publicity Bureau? You can name your own terms. I want
you to do the thing thoroughly, and no expense will be spared."
For some reason or other Angell Herald found himself dumb. He could do
nothing but gaze at Mr. Llewellyn John in bewilderment. He strove to
speak. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. Mr.
Llewellyn John looked at him in surprise.
"Do you hear me, sir? Do you hear me, sir?" he vociferated, banging his
hand on the table. "Do you hear me, sir?"
Then something seemed to happen. The scene faded, and Angell Herald
found that it was not Mr. Llewellyn John's voice, but that of Mrs.
Wiggins; and he was in bed, and somebody was knocking outside his door,
obviously Mrs. Wiggins.
"Do you hear me, sir?" she repeated. "It is eight o'clock, and I've
knocked three times."
"An' you dreamt all that, sir?" enquired Bindle of Angell Herald.
"Every word of it," Herald replied as if scorning to lay claim to
imagination.
"Wonderful!" was all Bindle said, and the eye that looked over the brim
of his pewter caught mine and the lid slowly drooped and then raised
itself again. There is a world of expression in Bindle's eyes--when
taken singly.
The story had really been a "rag" planned by Dick Little and Dare, whom
Angell Herald had told that he dreamed he had been asked by Mr.
Llewellyn John to become Minister of Publicity, and we had looked
forward with some interest to see how he would take the yarn. He had
accepted it, without comment.
"That chap would accept anything that he thought increased his own
importance," said Carruthers after Angell Herald's departure.
"Fancy them a-knowin' all about me at Downin' Street," remarked Bindle
as he rose to go.
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE BOY*
The "Assassins," as Carruthers called Tims' men, were all-powerful at
the Night Club. They were always in sufficient strength to form a
majority; but in reality Bindle exercised a sort of unconscious
despotism. When a question arose, we instinctively looked to Bindle,
who in turn looked to Sallie.
"When I first 'eard that frogs come out o' tadpoles, I couldn't 'ardly
believe it," Bindle once remarked, "but when I looks at the Assassins
an' remembers that they'll become doctors in top 'ats, with a
you-leave-it-to-me-an'-I'll-save-yer-if-I-can look, well, after that
I'll believe anythink."
"What's the matter with us?" enquired Roger Blint, a little dark man
with a quiet manner and a violent soul.
"Well, as far as I can see, there ain't nothink wrong wi yer as men; but
doctors--!" Bindle shook his head despondently. "I wouldn't trust my
young life to one of yer."
Bindle fixed his gaze on Jim Colman, the recognised leader of all
demonstrations, physical and vocal. Colman has the instincts of a
mob-leader, but the most delicate "touch" among the younger men at Tims.
He is destined for Harley Street and a baronetcy.
"Look at Mr. Colman," continued Bindle. "'Ow'd jer like to 'ave 'im
'oldin' yer 'and an' tellin' yer to get ready for an 'arp?"
"Well, what about Bill?" enquired Colman. "He looks harmless
enough--what?"
Bill Simmonds is a little sandy fellow, with a bald, conical head, who
beams upon the world through gold-rimmed spectacles, which give him a
genial, benevolent expression. He looks for all the world like "a
clever egg," as Dare once described him.
"Well," remarked Bindle, judicially, examining Bill Simmonds' face, "I
might be prepared to trust 'im wi' my soul; but as for my body, well,
give me Mr. Dennett or Mr. Smith. I'm like Mrs. B.; I like 'em big."
Hugh Dennett is an international three-quarter who has made football
history, whereas Archie Smith was the amateur champion heavy-weight when
the war broke out.
"I ain't got anythink to say against you as sports," said Bindle
encouragingly; "but as doctors, well, well!" And again he shook his
head with mournful conviction.
Tims' men never talk "shop," but from scraps of conversation among
themselves that I have overheard, theirs is a strenuous life. Sometimes
they do not see their beds for three consecutive nights; yet they are
always cheery and regard whatever they have to do as their "bit." One
complaint they have, that they are not allowed to go to the front.
All seem to find in the Night Club relaxation from strenuous days and
sleepless nights. According to Bindle, who is a recognised authority
upon such matters, they are a cheer-o! crowd. It was they who had been
loudest in their support of Sallie's election, and when "the Boy's"
story came to be told, they were equally definite in their view that he
must be invited to join our exclusive circle. These were the only two
instances of stories told at the Night Club resulting in our membership
being increased. Incidentally the Boy fell in love with Sallie, and
this formed an additional bond of sympathy between him and us.
*I*
To his brother officers he was always "The Boy." The men, with more
directness of speech, referred to him as "The Kid," whilst at Whitehall
he was known as Second Lieut. Richard St. John Custance Summers, of the
8th Service Battalion Westshire Regiment.
How he managed to secure his commission no one ever knew.
"Must 'a been 'is bloomin' smile," was the opinion of the platoon
sergeant, expressed to the company-sergeant-major. "The men make fools
o' theirselves about the Kid."
Chubby-faced, languid of manner, forgetful and "frightfully sorry"
afterwards, even in his khaki he did not look more than sixteen. At mess
he sat as if he had collapsed from sheer lack of bone necessary to keep
him rigid. He literally lolled through life.
In carrying out his duties, such as he was unsuccessful in evading, he
gave the impression of being willing in spirit, but finding great
difficulty in getting his body to respond to his wishes.
One day the Colonel, a big blue-eyed man, whom the men called "the Kid's
nurse," had told him that he had "the spirit of a martinet, but the body
of a defaulter," which was not a bad description for the C.O., who did
not incline to epigram.
When given an order, the Boy would salute, with that irresistible smile
of his that got him out of some scrapes and into others, then off he
would lounge, all legs and arms, like a young colt, although as a matter
of fact he was below medium height. When he made a mistake the N.C.O.'s
and men contrived to correct it, with the result that his was the
smartest platoon in the battalion. The Senior Major had once said to
him:
"Boy, you're the slackest young cub I've ever met, yet you get more out
of the men than the Colonel and I combined. How is it?"
"I suppose, sir," replied the Boy with great seriousness, "they see I'm
such an awful ass that they're sorry for me."
The Boy got more leave and took more leave than any other officer in the
division, and no one seemed to resent it. He never did anything in
quite the same way as another youngster would, and he was a constant
source of interest to his brother officers.
One roystering night he had returned to his quarters in a state
ill-befitting "an officer and a gentleman," and the
company-sergeant-major, aided by a corporal, had put him to bed and they
had mutually sworn eternal secrecy. In the morning, although the two
non-coms. had managed to convey to him that only they knew of the
episode, the Boy had gone to the Colonel, and before the other officers
said:
"I returned to barracks last night drunk, sir. I was very drunk and I
think I was singing. I'm sorry. It sha'n't occur again."
The Colonel asked who had seen him, and on being told that only the
company-sergeant-major and a corporal knew of the incident, he burst out
with:
"Then why the devil do you tell me about it?"
"I wanted you to know, sir. It was rather rotten of me. I know you
hate it, sir, and it's a bad example."
The C.O. turned aside to hide a smile. The idea of the Boy being an
example to anyone or anything amused him; but being a disciplinarian,
and understanding something of the Boy's nature, he stopped a week-end
leave due some ten days hence, and from the Boy's smile as he saluted he
saw that he had done the right thing.
One day the Boy was given charge of his company in a sham fight, at
which as everybody knew the Brigadier was to be present.
With his command, the Boy was like a kitten with a skein of wool. He
got it hopelessly tangled. Perspiring and swearing N.C.O.'s strove in
vain to evolve order and find out exactly where they were.
Suddenly, with a yell to fix bayonets and charge, the Boy darted forward
followed by the men in a manner that would have broken the heart of a
drill-sergeant. They had blundered upon an enemy field battery in the
act of limbering up, and the Boy returned to camp with six guns and a
stream of prisoners, and the Brigadier had spoken to the Colonel of the
exploit.
"Talk about luck! Blimey! That Kid'll save the bloomin' regiment one
o' these days," grinned a private, as the boy marched with rather a
bored air at the head of his day's bag.
The Boy continued to avoid as if by instinct all the duties he possibly
could. Indeed, he was apparently aided and abetted by officers and men
alike. When at last the word arrived to prepare to entrain for an
unknown destination, the Boy's chief concern had been about his kit.
The C.O.'s instructions had been definite and incisively expressed. He
ordered that nothing be taken that was not absolutely necessary, and had
added that he did not want to see France lumbered up with cast-off
articles of kit of the 8th Westshires.
There had been rather a heated argument between the Boy and his captain
as to the interpretation of the word "necessaries."
"My boot-trees and manicure set," said the Boy, "are as necessary to me
as your trousers are to you."
"Rot!" the captain had replied. "You'll be thinking more of your skin
than of your nails when you get out there."
The Boy had compromised by leaving the boot-trees and taking a pocket
manicure set.
In the trenches he was the same imperturbable, languid half boy, half
man he had been in England. He was as indifferent to shells and bullets
as to the grins of the men as he lolled against the parados polishing
his nails. Sometimes he would bewail the lost boot-trees as he surveyed
his hopeless-looking foot-gear.
At first the uncleanliness of trench life had roused him from his
accustomed languor, but later he accepted this and what it entailed, not
with philosophic calm, but because protest involved effort.
Even when towards the end of the September that culminated in Loos it
became known that the 8th Westshires were to take part in "the big
push," and whilst officers and men were eagerly discussing their
chances, he remained his sunny, imperturbable self.
On the night before the charge, the Colonel had sent for him to go to
his dug-out, and there had told him that early in the morning he was to
go back with an important message to Divisional headquarters and await a
reply, which he was to bring back after the action. Without a word the
Boy gave the necessary acknowledgment and saluted, but there was a
mutinous look in his eyes as he wheeled round and left the Colonel's
dug-out.
He spoke to no one, although many of his brother officers watched him to
see how he would take it. The C.O. had conferred with the Senior Major,
and decided that he could not risk the Boy's life, a view that was
entirely endorsed by every officer and man in the regiment.
For hours the Boy stood brooding and polishing his nails. Then, just
before "stand-to" he disappeared. His captain was the first to discover
the fact, and enquiry was made along the whole line of trenches, but no
one had seen the Boy for at least half an hour.
*II*
The guns had opened their brazen throats in a frenzy of hate. Overhead
shells whistled and hissed, lumbered and howled as they tore towards the
enemy trenches, a hurricane of screaming hate. Gusts of shrapnel spat
death from above, and rifle and machine-gun bullets buried themselves
impotently in the sandbags amid little puffs of dust. Slowly dawn
shivered into day--a day of greyness and of death.
In the assembly-trench the 8th Westshires were waiting. Heavy-eyed and
silent they gazed towards the enemy lines, hidden by a curtain of dense
yellow smoke. Against the parapet scaling ladders were placed ready.
At a word, a short snapping sound barked along the trench, the ladders
suddenly became alive, as men scrambled up and passed over the top, or
fell backward with a dull thud.
"No rushing, a steady advance in open order," had been the Colonel's
last words to his officers.
The 8th Westshires formed up and, as steady as on parade, advanced.
They had not proceeded more than thirty yards when with a sigh a breeze
swept past them and carried the yellow gas beyond the first enemy
trench, like a curtain of fairy gauze.
Machine-guns and rifles poured a merciless fire into the Westshires.
Everywhere men were dropping, silently or with little coughs of
surprise. They advanced a further twenty yards and then faltered. With
a shout the Colonel dashed on waving his stock. The moment of
uncertainty seemed to pass, when suddenly the Colonel dropped.
"My God!" muttered the Senior Major, as he saw the indecision pass like
a wave along the line; he also noticed several men had turned and were
stealing back to the trenches they had just left.
"They'll--they'll----" and there was a sob in his voice.
Just at the moment when retreat seemed inevitable, a figure rose from a
small shell-crater, and with a yell that no one heard waved on the
Westshires.
"It's the Boy," gasped an officer. "Where the hell----"
"It's the bloomin' Kid. Well I'm damned!" roared the colour sergeant.
"'Ere, come on, or they'll nab 'im."
This was enough for the Westshires. Capture the Kid? Not if they knew
it. With a howl they raced for the enemy trench, overtaking the Boy two
yards from the sand-bags. The men's blood was up. They tumbled into the
first trench, and with a sickening "sog sog" their bayonets got to work.
Little coughs and grunts told of men doubled up. Everywhere cries of
"Kamerad" were heard.
"It's no use yellin', sonny," one man was heard to say. "You've got to
'ave it--you've go to 'ave it!" and he drove his bayonet into a German's
massive loins.
The Boy had come through untouched. Like a moth he flitted about from
place to place, and wherever he was, there the fighting would be at its
fiercest. Not only had the second line of trenches been taken in
accordance with instructions, but the Westshires had crushed all
resistance in the first, which they should have left to a following
battalion. The work done, the Boy called two stretcher-bearers, and
went back in search of the Colonel.
*III*
That night the Colonel sat in a German dugout, with a heavily bandaged
leg. He had refused to go to the rear. He must first see the Boy.
When he entered, the Boy saluted and stood as if waiting for something
that he knew would happen, but in which he was not particularly
interested.
"What have you to say?" the Colonel enquired with unsmiling eyes. In
the 8th Westshires officers and men alike dreaded the absence of that
smile which seemed so much a part of the Colonel's eyes.
The Boy hung his head. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, in a low, husky
voice.
"You remember my orders?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yet you absented yourself without leave."
"It was----" the Boy stopped; his voice seemed suddenly to forsake him.
Then after a moment's pause the words came in a rush.
"It was the old dad, sir. I've never let him know I'm such a rotter.
If he knew I was sent to rear before the charge it would have crocked
him. He--he--thinks no end of me."
The Boy stopped again and looked at the Colonel. "I crept out this
morning, and lay in a small crater near our trench until the advance. I
was going to join up and I thought I should get killed. He would sooner
have me dead than not there. I'm sorry, sir--I'm----" The Boy's voice
trailed off into a sob.
"You know what you did to-day?" enquired the Colonel. The smile was
back in his eyes, but the Boy did not see it.
"Deserted!" The word came out with a jerk.
"Yes, you deserted--that is, technically--but you saved the whole
battalion from being cut up and--possibly disgraced."
The Boy looked at the C.O. in wonder. He blinked his eyes uncertainly.
"I--I don't----"
"Listen, Boy! You were sent out by my orders on listening-patrol, and
told to join up with the Battalion when it advanced. You did so, do you
understand?"
"But listening-patrols aren't sent out under bombardment, sir."
"Damn you, Boy, what the devil do you mean? Am I C.O. or you?" The
Colonel wanted to laugh and simulated anger to preserve his authority.
"I'm sorry, sir; but----"
"Well, never mind about listening-patrol. I shall send an account of
your services to the General that will get you the D.S.O., possibly the
V.C. I will write to the--er--old dad myself." The Colonel's voice was
husky.
"Now, get out, Boy, damn it--get out at once!"
And the Boy got out.
There was the vigour of conviction in Bindle's play with his mallet, and
the hum of talk at the conclusion of the story made it obvious that the
Boy had considerably enlarged the circle of his friends.
"He's a dear!" Sallie blinked her eyes vigorously. They were
suspiciously moist.
"'Ere, 'ere, miss," agreed Bindle. As a matter of fact Bindle always
agrees with anything that Sallie says.
"I say, Windover, couldn't you bring him round one night?" enquired Dick
Little.
"I'll try," said Windover. "He's stationed at Wimbledon now."
"And did he get the V.C.?" enquired the practical-minded Angell Herald.
"No, the D.S.O.," replied Windover, "with promotion to a first
lieutenancy."
"What a shame," said Sallie, and turning to Windover she said, "You will
bring him, Winnie, won't you?" Sallie and Windover are old friends.
And that is how the Boy became a "Night-Clubber." He is a strange
combination of impudence and innocence; but there is one way of bringing
him to heel. It was quite by accident that I discovered it.
One evening he had been roasting poor Angell Herald rather badly, and
although that astute person was sublimely unaware of what was taking
place, both Dick Little and I thought things had gone far enough.
I happened to have with me the manuscript of the story of how the Boy
got his D.S.O. Without a word I started reading from it in a loud voice.
I had not got six lines down the page before he slowly dragged himself
out of the armchair in which he was lounging, his face crimson, and,
walking towards the door, remarked:
"You'll find me on the mat when you've done reading rot."
That is the Boy all over.
*CHAPTER V*
*THE BARABBAS CLUB*
I have some acquaintance with authors; but of all I have encountered
Jocelyn Dare is in many ways the most remarkable. Careless, generous,
passionate, he is never so happy as when narrating the enormities of
publishers. His white, delicate fingers will move nervously, his long
black locks fall over his alabaster forehead, and his black eyes flash
as he describes the doings of these "parasites" and "pariahs," as he
calls them.
He is a thoroughly good fellow in spite of this eccentricity, never
withholding a helping hand from anyone. I believe he would succour even
a publisher if he found one in need of help; but he can no more resist
denouncing the fraternity than he can keep the flood of raven hair from
falling over his eyes when he becomes excited.
Bindle likes him, and that is a testimonial. They have something in
common, as Dare's heart, like Bindle's "various" veins, is a bar to his
doing his bit, and Dare feels it as much as does Bindle.
"I like to listen to Mr. Gawd Blast 'ammerin' tacks into publishers,"
Bindle would remark appreciatively. "An' don't 'e know some words too!"
Dare's vocabulary is almost unique. He is a master of the English
tongue. At rhetorical invective I have never heard his equal, and I
have encountered a Thames lighterman in one of his inspired moments.
Bindle would sit in mute admiration, watching Dare as he flung the
mantle of obloquy over "that cancer polluting the face of God's fair
earth."*
*To those who are not authors it should be explained that Dare refers to
publishers as a whole.
It was Dare who told us the story of the author who, unable to extract
his royalties from a publisher, seized him by the beard and swore he
would hang on until the money was forthcoming. "And that," he
concluded, "is why not one publisher in a hundred wears a beard."
It was Dare, too, who told us of the author who went to a certain
well-known publisher with a manuscript, saying, "My previous books have
been published by--(and he mentioned the names of three honoured
firms)--and they were rogues to a man, did me right and left, only I
could never catch them, not even with the help of the Society of
Authors. So I've brought my new book to you, Mr. Blank."
The publisher was delighted at the compliment and, smiling in his most
winning manner, enquired, "And may I ask why you come to me, sir?"
He waited expectantly, his lips still bearing the after-glow of the
smile.
"I come to you, Mr. Blank," the author replied impressively, "because
you are an honest man."
And the publisher fainted.
Dare would laugh with the joyousness of a schoolboy when telling these
yarns. But there is no malice in him. He is as mischievous as a puppy;
but as soft-hearted as a woman.
There is something strangely lovable about Dare. Certain of his
mannerisms are in themselves feminine; yet he is never effeminate. One
of these mannerisms is what might be called the fugitive touch, which is
with a woman a caress. He will lay his hand upon your coatsleeve just
for a second, or put it across your shoulders, a slight brushing
movement, which betokens comradeship.
He adores children. I have seen him, when exquisitely turned out in top
hat and morning coat, pick up a howling youngster that had come a
cropper, brush it down, stay its cries and stop its tears, and send it
home wreathed in rainbow smiles, clutching a generous-sized bag of
sweets. Such is Jocelyn Dare.
When the time came for a story, he told that of the Barabbas Club. For
some time I hesitated to write it up for the Night Club. I regarded it
as too limited in its appeal. At last, however, I decided to let the
Club judge for itself. Dare took great interest in the writing of the
story, and himself read and corrected the typescript.
*I*
"My dear fellow," said Jocelyn Dare, "the Seven-headed Beast of the
Apocalypse is nothing to it. It's absolutely unique."
With the air of a man who has completed a life's work, Dare tapped some
sheets of manuscript that lay upon the table, selected a cigarette from
the box with a care and deliberation usually bestowed upon cigars, and
proceeded: "You are a doctor, whose mission in life is to purge and
purify the human body; I am a novelist whose purpose it is to perform
the same office for the human soul."
From the depths of a particularly comfortable easy-chair, Dick Little
looked up good-humouredly at his friend.
"You're a queer devil, Dare. One of these days you'll get a
shock--poseurs always do."
Dare laughed easily, and Dick Little continued. "But what have
publishers to do with the human soul? That's what puzzles me."
"There is only one thing, my poor Little," replied Dare, looking down at
the other with a smile of pity, "that makes friendship between you and
me at all possible."
"And that is?"
"Your incomparable understanding of my corpus, which you persist in
calling my liver. I give you all credit for this. You know my
constitution to a nicety, and in a way you are responsible for my
novels."
"Good God!" ejaculated Dick Little, sitting up in his chair with an
expression of alarm upon his features. "I hope not."
"Listen!" said Dare. "A publisher is an obstacle to intellectual
progress. He is a parasite, battening upon the flower of genius. That
is why we founded the Barabbas Club. It frankly encourages authors to
quarrel with their publishers. No one is eligible for membership who
cannot prove conclusively to the Committee that he has been extremely
rude to at least one publisher. I myself have been grossly insulting to
seventeen different publishers, on several occasions before their own
clerks. I have taken three into Court--I confess I lost each case--and
I horsewhipped him who published _The Greater Purity_ because he failed
to advertise it sufficiently."
"And what happened?" queried Dick Little, who had heard the story a
score of times.
"I was summonsed for assault. The magistrate was a creature entirely
devoid of literary perception. He fined me five guineas, plus five
guineas damages, and two guineas costs. But wait! Now here comes the
shameful part of the story. Later I discovered that I had been wrong
about the advertising. I wrote to that worm, that foul weed who is
poisoning the slopes of Parnassus, apologising for whipping him, and
will you believe it, he absolutely refused to return the five guineas
damages?"
Dick Little laughed. He always laughed to see Dare upon his
hobby-horse.
"The result of that case was an addition to the rules of the Barabbas
Club, by which it was provided that, whenever an author horsewhipped a
publisher, with or without justification, the president of the club
should resign, and his place be automatically filled by the
horsewhipper."
Dick Little rose from his chair, stretched himself lazily, lighted
another cigarette and prepared to take his departure.
"One moment, my dear fellow," remarked Dare, "I must tell you something
about this, _The Damning of a Soul_." He tapped the manuscript upon the
table. "It gives a picture of a publisher, so vivid, so horrible, so
convincing, that I shudder when I think that anything so vile can be
permitted to exist by our most gracious sovereign lady, Nature. It
tells of the gradual intellectual murder of a great genius through lack
of proper advertising by his publisher. 'It is a masterly picture of
the effect of advertising matter upon imaginative mind.' I quote the
words of our President. It will create a sensation."
"But what about libel?" enquired Dick Little, whose more cautious nature
saw in this same masterpiece a considerable danger to its author.
"There is my master-stroke. My Beast, which transcends that of the
Apocalypse in horror-compelling reality, is, as was that, a composite
creature. I have drawn upon the whole of the seventeen publishers with
whom I have had differences. One supplies 'a nervous, deceitful cough,'
another 'an overbearing manner,' a third 'a peculiar habit of crossing
and recrossing his legs,' a fourth 'a swindling propensity when the day
of reckoning arrives,' a fifth 'a thoroughly unclean and lascivious
life,' a sixth 'a filthy habit of spitting into the fireplace from every
conceivable angle of his room,' a seventh----"
"Enough! I must be off," laughed Dick Little. "I suppose it's all
right; but one of these days you'll get yourself into a bit of a mess.
There may be the devil to pay over this even."
Dare smiled indulgently as he shook hands.
"Good-bye, my AEsculapius," he said. "If there's trouble, I have behind
me the whole of the members of the Barabbas Club, representing eight
hundred and thirteen volumes, and the brains of the country. Good-bye."
There was a note of weariness about Dare's voice. Materialism was
exceedingly tedious.
"Well, it's his affair, not mine," muttered Dick Little to himself as he
descended the stairs of Dare's flat; "but they don't fight with books in
the King's Bench Division."
*II*
Three weeks later, on returning from a fortnight's holiday in Scotland,
Dick Little found awaiting him at his chambers the following note from
Dare:--
"Come round at once. There is not the Devil, but the publishers to pay.
Bring a hypodermic syringe and a pint of morphia.--"J.D."
Dick Little had been out of the world, and he had forgotten all about
_The Damning of a Soul_ and his own misgivings. Having seen a few of
his more important patients, he walked round to his friend's flat and
found Dare in a pathetic state of gloom.
"Have you brought the hypodermic syringe and the morphia?" he asked
without troubling to greet his visitor.
"What! Tired of life?" questioned Dick Little smiling.
"I am tired of a civilization that is rotten, and which makes injustice
possible."
"What has happened?"
"I published _The Damning of a Soul_ in _The Cormorant_, and arranged
with the editor for a copy to be sent to every publisher in the country.
Ye gods!" and Dare laughed mirthlessly.
"And what happened!" asked Dick Little.
"Twenty-five writs for libel up to date," groaned Dare, "and God knows
how many more to come."
Dick Little laughed loud and long.
"How many publishers went to the making of your Beast of Parnassus?" he
asked.
"Only seventeen; that's the peculiarly damnable part of it.
"And what do they say at _The Cormorant_?"
"Well, I've kept away from the offices, where all the writs have been
served by the way, and I've written a formal protest to the
Postmaster-General against the use of the telephone for language that is
entirely unfit for even the smoking-room of a woman's club. _Now_ they
write; but as I don't read the letters, it doesn't matter so much."
"The editor is in a passion, I suppose?"
"No; he's in a nursing-home. He's a master of diplomacy," replied Dare
wearily. "I'd do the same, only I can't afford the fees. It's the
general-manager who telephones. I'm going to put him in my next novel,
curse him!"
"In addition to a writ," Dare proceeded, "each publisher has written me
a letter, 'without prejudice' and with considerable heat."
"What about?" enquired Dick Little, thoroughly interested in the curious
situation that had arisen out of Dare's unfortunate story.
"The man who crosses and recrosses his legs says that he is the only
publisher in the world with that characteristic, and that I accuse him
of unclean morals, as if a publisher had any morals, clean or otherwise.
He of the nervous cough objects to the adjective 'deceitful,' and is
having his books examined by an accountant He who salivates into the
fireplace from impossible angles, is producing the testimony of three
specialists to prove that he has chronic bronchitis, and that it is
neither infectious nor contagious, and so on." Dare's voice trailed off
drearily.
"And what do you propose to do?" questioned Dick Little.
"Do?" enquired the other, listlessly throwing himself into a chair and
lighting a cigarette. "Do? Why, nothing. That's why I want the
morphia. I'm the imperfect, not the present tense. I'm done."
"How about the Barabbas Club?" asked Dick Little.
"Dissolved."
Dick Little whistled.
"Dissolved," continued Dare, "because its work is accomplished, vide the
Presidential valediction. I don't see how; but it's too tedious to
bother about."
Dick Little went to the sideboard and poured out some water into a
glass, then emptying into it the contents of a small phial that he took
from his pocket, returned to where Dare sat and bade him drink.
"What is it--a death potion?" enquired Dare lazily as he swallowed the
dose.
"Wait and see!" replied the other.
For a quarter of an hour they smoked in silence. Suddenly Dare bounded
into the air, and rushed to the telephone.
"Piccadilly 1320, quickly," he shouted. Then a minute later, "That _The
Cormorant_? I want the general-manager. Yes; it's me. Oh, shut up!
I've got a plan. Coming round. Three more writs? Wish it were thirty.
We'll do 'em yet--'bye."
Snatching up his hat and entirely oblivious of his friend's presence,
Dare rushed out of the room; and a moment later the bang of the front
door told that he had left the flat.
"Never saw strychnine act so before," muttered Dick Little as he picked
up his hat and gloves and prepared to go.
*III*
Ten days later as Dick Little sat in the consulting-room of his surgery,
waiting for seven o'clock to strike that the first patient might be
admitted, Jocelyn Dare burst through the door followed by the protesting
parlour-maid.
"Sorry, old man; but I had to tell you. We've won. It's a triumph for
Letters, and all due to your science and my brain. As I said before,
your understanding of my corpus is incomparable."
"It's five minutes to seven," remarked Dick Little evenly, "and the
first patient enters at seven."
"Of course. Well, three minutes will suffice. I found a scapegoat."
"A what?"
"A scapegoat. You see if I could prove that my publisher was some
particular person, we should have only one action to defend; but if that
publisher were dead, and we could square his relatives, then we were
safe.
"I set about discovering a dead publisher, and you would be astonished
to find how rare they are. They seem to be immortal, like their asinine
brothers. At last I lighted upon Sylvester Mylton, who died a bankrupt
nearly a year ago. By great good luck I ran his wife to earth. She was
in terrible straits, almost starving, poor woman."
"But what----"
"Wait a moment. I showed her the article, and told her that I felt that
I had done a dishonourable thing in writing about the dead as I had
done, and would she accept five pounds as compensation. Heavens! I
don't think the money pleased her so much as the knowledge that the
iniquitous Mylton had been pilloried. He had made her life a curse."
"So far so good. I had to remind her of a few of his characteristics;
but she's a shrewd woman, and hunger you know. Now read this." Dare
held out a copy of the current issue of _The Cormorant_, pointing to a
page bordered by the portraits of thirty publishers. Within the
pictorial frame appeared the following:--