When Jackson first joined the jolly old B.E.F. he smoked a pipe. He
carried it anyhow. Loose in his pocket, mind you. A pipe-bowl at his
pocket's brim a simple pipe-bowl was to him, and it was nothing more. Of
course no decent B.E.F. mess could stand that. Jackson was told that a
pipe was _anathema maranatha_, which is Greek for _no bon._
"What will I smoke then?" said Jackson, who was no Englishman. We waited
for the Intelligence Officer to reply. We knew him. The Intelligence
Officer said nothing. He drew something from his pocket. It was a parcel
wrapped in cloth-of-gold. He removed the cloth-of-gold and there was
discovered a casket, which he unlocked with a key attached to his
identity disc. Inside the casket was a padlocked box, which he opened
with a key attached by gold wire to his advance pay-book. Inside the box
was a roll of silk. To cut it all short, he unwound puttee after puttee
of careful wrapping till he reached a chamois-leather chrysalis, which
he handled with extreme reverence, and from this he drew something with
gentle fingers, and set it on the table-cloth before the goggle-eyed
Jackson.
"A pipe," said Jackson.
There was a shriek of horror. The Intelligence Officer fainted. Here was
wanton sacrilege.
"Man," said the iron-nerved Bombing Officer, "it's a Brownhill."
"What's a Brownhill?" asked Jackson.
We gasped. How could we begin to tell him of that West End shrine from
which issue these lacquered symbols of a New Religion?
The Intelligence Officer was reviving. We looked to him.
"The prophet Brownhill," he said, "was once a tobacconist--an ordinary
tobacconist who sold pipes."
We shuddered.
"He discovered one day that man wants more than mere pipes. He wants
a--a super-pipe, something to reverence and--er--look after, you know,
as well as to smoke. So he invented the Brownhill. It is an _affaire de
coeur_--an affair of art," translated the I.O. proudly. "It is as glossy
as a chestnut in its native setting, and you can buy furniture polish
from the prophet Brownhill which will keep it always so. It has its
year, like a famous vintage, it has a silver wind-pipe, and it costs
anything up to fifty guineas."
"D'you smoke it'?" asked Jackson, brutally.
We gave him up. In awful silence each of us produced his wrappings and
his caskets, extracted the shining briar, smeared it with cosmetics, and
polished it more reverently than a peace time Guardsman polishes his
buttons when warned for duty next day at "Buck."
* * * * *
And Jackson smoked his pipe in secret. He would take no leaf from the
book of the Sassenachs.
And the War went on.
* * * * *
Jackson went on leave. To his deep disgust he had to wait a few hours in
London on his way to more civilised parts, and fate led him idling to
Brownhill's. He flattened his Celtic nose on the window and stared
fascinated at the array of super-pipes displayed there. After a furtive
glance along the street he crept into the temple. A white-coated priest
met him.
"I--I'm wantin'--a--a pipe," said Jackson. He saw the priest reel and
turn pale to the lips. "I should say a--a Brownhill," he added hastily.
The other man gulped, steadied himself with an effort, and gave a
ghastly smile. If you had walked into a temple at Thibet and planked
down sixpence and asked for an idol wrapped up in brown paper you could
not have done a more dreadful thing than Jackson had done; but the
priest forgave him and produced in silence a trayful of Brownhills. Then
was Jackson like unto ELIA'S little Chinese boy with "the crackling." He
touched a briar and was converted. He stroked them as though they were
kittens, bought ten of them, a pound of polish, fifty silver wind-pipes
and a bale of chamois-leather. The priest took a deep breath.
"You are a full-blooded man, Sir," said he, "if you will excuse me
saying so, and you should smoke in your new Brownhills a mixture which
has a proportion of Latakia to Virginian of one to nineteen--a small
percentage of glycerine and cucumber being added because you have red
hair, and the whole submitted to a pressure of eighteen hundred
foot-pounds to the square millimetre, under violet rays. This will be
known as 'Your Mixture,' Number 56785-6/11, and will be supplied to no
one else on earth, except under penalty of death.
"I will take a ton," said Jackson with glazing eyes.
This was a man after the priest's own heart. He took another deep breath
and dived into the strong-room. He returned under the escort of ten
armed men, each of them chained by the wrist to an iron box, which he
unlocked with difficulty. Inside the iron box was a thing which Jackson
a few months ago would have called a pipe. He knew better now. In awful
silence the priest lifted it from its satin bed. "This," he whispered,
"was once smoked by Brownhill himself."
Jackson put out a hand to take it. The priest hesitated, then laid it
gently on his customer's palm.
And Jackson dropped it.
Jackson has never been heard of since.
* * * * *