Ginger, I once bought a mine from that man. His name was Algernon Maddox
Cholmondely _then_, and he was homeward bound to assume the ancestral
acres in Flint. He escorted me down the hole and displayed visible gold
sparkling all along the reef. A week after he had gone I found that he
had put it there with a shot-gun--an old "salter's" trick, but new to me
at the time. You are not likely to be seeing Patrick Algernon Terence
Maddox O'Ryan-Cholmondely again, but, if you should, remember me to him,
please--with the business end of a pick-axe. Always delighted to keep in
touch with old friends.
Ginger, _you never can tell_. This is not an original remark. One of our
brainy boys--George Bernard, unless I err--thought of it before I did;
went away into the wilderness, wrapped his grey-matter in wet Jaeger
bandages, subsisted on a diet of premasticated grape-nuts and produced
this aphorism. And there's a world of truth in it, my son. You certainly
never can.
One fine morning last August (yes, there was _one_), I stepped out of my
diggings in an obscure Cornish fishing-village to find a gentleman
busily engaged strangling a lady on the cliff side. He had her by the
throat and was gradually forcing her over the edge. Once in Bristol I
interposed in a slogging contest between husband and wife and was very
properly chastised for my interference, not only by the happy pair but
by the entire street, who had valuable bets laid on the event. That, you
say, should have been a lesson to me. But you know me, Ginger,
impetuous, chivalrous, brave; I simply couldn't stand there and watch a
defenceless woman--moreover a good-looking woman--foully done to death
like that. I flung myself upon the villain--that is to say I spoke to
him about it.
"Oh, dash it, old bean," I said, "draw it mild!"
Somebody shouted something behind me, but I didn't catch its purport for
the sufficient reason that at that moment the long-suffering cliff gave
way and we all went overboard, all three of us, he, she and it--me.
Fortunately the drop wasn't terrific--not more than four feet or so--and
the tide happened to be in at the time, which was very decent of it. My
first thought as I came to the surface--or, at any rate, _one_ of my
first thoughts--was "What of the woman?" I struck out for the poor
creature. At the same moment she struck out for me, and, what is more,
she got me too, clean between the eyes--a straight left-hander.
"Out of my way, fathead!" she hissed and went on for the shore under
her own steam at about forty knots an hour. I was washed up myself,
along with a quantity of other jetsam, a few minutes later, to be met by
a small furious man with a heliotrope complexion and white spats who
wagged bunches of typescript under my nose and informed me that I had
absolutely ruined about twenty million feet of the Flickerscope
Company's five-reel paralyser, "The Smuggler's Bride."
Of course you say that you saw what was coming all along. Of course you
did. But wait a moment.
Yesterday afternoon I was strolling down a certain fashionable street
when a loud explosion occurred in a near-by shop and a cloud of acrid
grey smoke came rolling out. Being by nature as inquisitive as a
chipmunk I was on the point of shoving my head round the door-jamb to
see what was up when caution prompted me to turn round. Yes, there they
were, of course, a tall, thin youth winding away at a cine-camera like
an Italian at a barrel-organ, and beside him a heavy-weight Israelite,
dancing a war-dance, waving bunches of typescript and howling at me to
stand clear. I had very near ruined a further mile or two of film.
I sprang out of range, and then, wishing to atone for my previous
blunders and prove that I really had no malevolent intentions towards a
struggling industry, I went round and assisted the caracoling producer
in stemming the crowd. Among others I stemmed a pushful policeman. I
didn't notice he was a policeman until he was biting the dust, with my
stick between his legs. However an instantaneous application of palm-oil
made it all right between us, and he squatted half-stunned on the kerb,
nursing his brow with one hand, my five bob with the other and took no
further interest in the proceedings. And very interesting they were,
too.
Three masked men dashed out of the shop laden with booty and were
pursued by a fourth, whom they knocked on the head and left lying for
dead on the pavement. Most realistic. The crowd, led by me, cheered like
mad. Then the thieves jumped into a waiting car and were whirled away.
That done, the photographer and his step-dancing friend leapt into a
second car and were whirled away also. Once more we cheered. I made a
short speech to the effect that everything was all right with the
British Cinema business and, after leading a few more cheers for myself,
came home.
"Well," you say, "all very jolly and so on, but what about it?"
There's this about it, old companion, just this, that I am very probably
spending a meditative winter in gaol. The charge is that I did aid and
abet a peculiarly ingenious gang of desperadoes to blow a jeweller's
safe, knock the jeweller on the head and get safely away with the stuff.
I am even accused of obstructing the police. An inspector has been round
to see me this morning and he tells me there is practically no hope. He
advises me, as between friends, to make a clean breast of it, return the
boodle, betray my accomplices, plead mental deficiency and trust to the
clemency of the Court. It's pretty rough, after making all arrangements
for spending a cheerful Christmas in Algiers, to have it changed to cold
porridge in Parkhurst or Princetown. Of the two I hope it'll be
Parkhurst, for Princetown, so _habitues_ tell me, is no place for a
growing lad when the wintry winds do blow.
Thine, _de profundis_ PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mistress._ "WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO OUT THIS AFTERNOON,
MABEL?"
_Mabel._ "I _AM_ GOING OUT."]
* * * * *
Rhymes of Unrest.
There was a young miner of Ayr
Who gave himself up to despair;
For he said, "If we're paid
On our 'get,' I'm afraid
That I canna ca' canny no mair."
"Strike while the iron is hot,"
Said the wise old saw of old;
But the miners say, "What rot!
Strike while the weather's cold."
* * * * *
"The art of decoration is alien to painting in this--that you must
mix your colours with your brains."--_Daily Paper._
We await a reply from the intellectuals of Chelsea.
* * * * *
"There is one building now being erected, within a few miles of
Manchester as the cock crows."--_Provincial Paper._
We are unfamiliar with this method of mensuration.
* * * * *