TEA was over, a clearing was made of the articles of more fragile
virtue, and Timothy, entering in state, was off-loaded from his nurse's
arms into his mother's.
"Isn't he looking sweet to-day?" said Suzanne. "It's really time we had
him photographed."
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, why do people as a rule get photographed?"
"That," I said, "is a question I have often asked myself, but without
finding a satisfactory answer. What do you propose to do with the
copies?"
"There are dozens of people who'll be only too glad to have them. Aunt
Caroline, for instance----"
"Aunt Caroline one day took me into her confidence and showed me what
she called her scrap-heap. It was a big box full of photographs that had
been presented to her from time to time, and she calculated that if she
had had them all framed, as their donors had doubtless expected, it
would have cost her some hundreds of pounds. While her back was turned I
looked through the collection. Your photograph was there--and mine,
Suzanne."
"Anyhow, we shall want one to keep ourselves. Think what a pleasure it
will be to him when he grows up to see what he looked like as a tiny
baby."
I called to mind an ancestral album belonging to my own family that I
had carefully kept guarded from Suzanne precisely for the reason that it
contained various presentments of myself at early ages in
mirth-compelling garments and attitudes; but of course I could not now
urge that chamber of horrors in opposition to her demand.
"Besides," she went on, "we needn't buy any copies at all if we don't
like them. Snapper and Klick are continually worrying me to have Baby
taken. Once a week regularly, ever since the announcement of his birth
appeared, they've rung me up to ask when he will give them a sitting.
Sometimes it's Snapper and sometimes it's Klick; I don't know which is
which, but one of them has adenoids. We can't do any harm by taking him
there, because they say in their circulars they present two copies free
and there's no obligation to purchase any."
"I wonder how they make that pay?"
"Oh," said Suzanne, "they keep the copyright, you know, and then when he
does anything famous they send it round to the illustrated papers, which
pay them no end of money for permission to reproduce it."
"But by the time _he_ does anything famous," I objected, "won't this
photograph be a trifle out of date? Supposing, for instance, in twenty
or thirty years' time he marries a Movie Queen----"
Just then the telephone-bell rang, and Suzanne, as is her wont, rushed
to answer it, dropping Timothy into my arms on the way.
"Hello!" I heard her say. "Yes; speaking. Yes, I was just going to
write. Yes; that will do quite well. What? Yes, about eleven. Good-bye."
"Not another appointment with the dressmaker?" I inquired.
"No. Curiously enough it was Klick again--or Snapper--and his adenoids
are worse than ever; I suppose it's the damp weather gets into them. So
I said we'd take Baby to-morrow."
"I don't quite see the connection," I said. "Besides, aren't they
catching?"
"Now you're being funny again. Save that up for to-morrow."
"What do you mean?" I asked in some alarm. "And why did you say _we'd_
take Baby?"
"Why, of course you've got to come too. You can always make him laugh
better than anyone else; it's your _metier_. And I do want his delicious
little dimples to come out."
"Do I understand that I'm to go through my _repertoire_ in cold blood
and under the unsympathetic gaze of Messrs. Snapper and Klick? Suzanne,
it can't be done."
"Oh, nonsense! You've only got to sing _Pop Goes the Weasel_ in a
falsetto voice and make one of those comic faces you do so well, and
he'll gurgle at once. Well, that's settled. We start at half-past ten
to-morrow."
The coming ordeal so preyed upon my mind that I spent a most restless
night, during which, so Suzanne afterwards told me, I announced at
frequent intervals the popping of the weasel. The day dawned with a
steady drizzle of rain, and, after a poor attempt at breakfast, I
scoured the neighbourhood for a taxi. Having at last run one to earth, I
packed the expedition into it--Suzanne, Timothy, Timothy's nurse and
Barbara (who begged so hard to be allowed to "come and see Father make
faces at Baby" that Suzanne weakly consented).
Arrived at our destination, Suzanne bade the driver wait. "We shall
never find another cab to take us home in this downpour," she said, "and
we shan't be kept long."
We were ushered into the studio by a gentleman I now know to have been
Mr. Klick. He aroused my distrust at once by the fact that he did not
wear a velvet coat, and I pointed out this artistic deficiency in a
whisper to Suzanne.
"Never mind," she whispered back; "we needn't buy any if they're not
good."
Timothy, who had by now been put straight by his attendant, was
carefully placed on all-fours on a pile of cushions, which he promptly
proceeded to chew. Mr. Klick, on attempting to correct the pose, was
received with a hymn of hate that compelled him to bury his head hastily
in the camera-cloth, and Suzanne arranged the subject so that some of
his more recognisable features became visible.
"Now then," she said to me, "make him smile."
With a furtive glance at Mr. Klick, who fortunately was still playing
the ostrich, I essayed a well-tried "face" that had almost invariably
evoked a chuckle from Timothy, even when visitors were present. On this
occasion, however, it failed to produce anything more than a woebegone
pucker that foreshadowed something worse. Hastily I switched off into
another expression, but with no better result.
"Go on, Father," encouraged Barbara, who had been taking a breathless
interest in these proceedings; "try your funny voice."
Mr. Klick had emerged from cover and was standing expectantly with his
hand on the cap.
Dear reader, have you ever been called upon to sing _Pop Goes the
Weasel_ in a falsetto voice before a fractious baby, a small but
intensely critical child, a stolidly contemptuous nurse, an agitated
mother and a gaping photographer, with the knowledge that success or
failure hangs upon your lips, and that all the time a diabolical machine
in the street below is scoring threepence against you every minute or
so? Of course you haven't; but possibly you may be able to enter into my
feelings in this hour of trial. With a prickly heat suffusing my whole
body and a melting sensation at the collar I struggled through the
wretched lyric once. Timothy regarded me first with scorn and then with
positive distaste. In desperation I squeaked it out again and yet again,
but each succeeding "pop" only registered another scowl on the face of
my offspring and another threepence on that of the cabman's clock.
I was maddened now, and Suzanne sought to restrain me; but I shook her
off violently and went on again _da capo_, and was just giving vent for
about the seventeenth time to a particularly excruciating "pop" when the
door of the studio opened and a benevolent-looking old gentleman
entered. He gazed at us all in wonderment, and, overcome by mingled
shame and exhaustion, I sank into a chair and popped no more.
"Ah, Mr. Snapper," said Mr. Klick, "we were just trying to get this
young gentleman amused."
Mr. Snapper, who, I should imagine, was the adenoid victim, looked first
at me and next at Timothy, and then blew his nose vigorously. It was not
an ordinary blast, but had a peculiarly musical _timbre_, very much like
the note of a mouth-organ. It certainly attracted Timothy's attention,
for he at once looked round and the glimmer of a smile appeared upon his
tear-stained face.
"That's it!" cried Barbara excitedly. "Do it again."
"Oh, _please_ do," entreated Suzanne.
Mr. Snapper, adenoids or no adenoids, was a sportsman. He quickly
understood what was required of him and blew his nose again and again.
And with each blow Timothy's smile became wider, the dimples grew
deeper, and Mr. Klick at the camera was pushing in and pulling out
plates for all he was worth. At last Mr. Snapper could blow no more, and
with profuse thanks we gathered ourselves, together and departed. On our
arrival home the cabman, fortunately, was induced to accept a cheque in
payment.
The photographs have turned out a great success. One in particular,
which shows the first smile breaking through Timothy's tears, is of a
very happy character, and Mr. Snapper has asked and received permission
to send it to the illustrated Press under the title, "Sunshine and
Shower"; and Aunt Caroline has not only been given a copy, _but has had
it framed_.
Now, when I am called upon to produce a laugh from Timothy, I no longer
make faces or "pop." I have discovered how to blow my nose like a
mouth-organ. It's trying work, but the effect is magical.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Y' EVER HAD A BARF, BILLY?"
"YUS, I ONST FELL IN THE SERPENTINE."]
* * * * *
Redintegratio Amoris.
"The Public is hereby notified that myself and my Wife
Millicent ---- is together again. I got hasty and
advertised her with no just cause. FITZ ----."--_West
Indian Paper._
* * * * *
"This telegram had been preceded by others, which were,
unfortunately, contrary to instructions at the Post
Office, delivered at this office, which was closed, and,
therefore, not opened."--_Irish Paper._
That, of course, would be so.
* * * * *
"At a meeting of the Child Study Society on Thursday,
April 29th, at 6 p.m., Sir A. E. Shipley, G.B.E., D.Sc.,
F.R.S., will give a lecture, illustrated by lantern
slides, on biting insects and children."
_British Medical Journal._
And we had always thought him such a kind man!
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Gloomy Artist._ "YES, I GAVE HER ALL MY
LAST YEAR'S SKETCHES FOR HER JUMBLE-SALE IN THE
EAST-END. TOLD HER TO GET RID OF THEM FOR ANYTHING SHE
LIKED--HALF-A-CROWN OR A COUPLE OF BOB----" (_Pauses for
exclamations of horror at the sacrifice._)
_Friend._ "AND DID THEY SELL?"]
* * * * *