Poor Jones! I often think of him--a patriot of the super-dreadnought
type, with an apoplectic conviction that the whole conduct of the
War, on the part of the Allies, had been from the outset a series of
gigantic mistakes. "I don't believe in all this spade and chess-board
work," he used to growl; "up and at'em, that's my motto. Magnificent
fighting material we've got at the Front, but what we want is brains,
Sir, brains to use it." And then (though I could never understand why
he did this) he would tap his own forehead.
At the end of October we all agreed not to argue with Jones any more.
Peters, who in his younger days very nearly qualified for the medical
profession, said that for short-necked, wine-coloured persons like our
friend anything in the nature of a heated discussion might easily lead
to fatal results. So partly out of consideration for the Empire, which
we felt could not afford in the present crisis to lose a single man,
even Jones, partly out of consideration for Mrs. Jones (though here
we were perhaps influenced by a sentiment of mistaken kindness), and
partly out of consideration for ourselves we decided to avoid the topic
of the War when conversing with Jones.
It proved very difficult to carry out our resolution. When a man is
determined to discuss the War, the whole War, and nothing but the
War, with everybody he meets, it is hard to side-track him. You can,
of course, after listening to his views on coast defences, endeavour
to turn the conversation by saying, "Yes, certainly; and by the way,
speaking of Sheringham, I have an uncle, a retired minor canon of
Exeter, who still deprecates the custom of mixed bathing"; or, "I quite
agree with you, and that reminds me, have you heard that all the best
people on the Essex coast are insuring against twins this season?" But
even efforts like these are often of little avail. There is only one
really effective course to pursue, and that is to avoid your adversary
altogether. This was what we had to do with poor Jones.
One morning during the second week in November I was walking down the
High Street, when I espied Jones conversing with a friend outside the
butcher's. He was gesticulating with a newspaper in his hand and wore
an angry expression. Knowing that there was not a moment to be lost, I
dived into the nearest shop.
"Yes, Sir?"
There are, I doubt not, some who find a peculiar charm in the voice
of the young female haberdasher; but I am not of them. It is a
dreadful thing to be alone in a ladies' and children's outfitter's;
these establishments are apt to contain so many articles that no
self-respecting man should know anything about. As I realised where I
was I shuddered.
"Yes, Sir?" said the voice again.
I gazed stonily from the fair young thing across the counter to a group
of her sisters in the background, who had paused in their play to watch
in silent reproach the rude disturber of their maiden peace.
"Yes, Sir?" said the voice once more. There was a note of weariness in
it now, a far-off hint of unshed tears.
Suddenly my eye caught a label on a bale. I decided to plunge.
"A yard of cream wincey," I said firmly.
The ice was broken. She smiled; her sisters in the background smiled;
and I sank relieved upon the nearest chair. Obviously I had picked
a winner; it seemed that cream wincey was a thing no man need blush
to buy. I watched her fold up the material and enclose it in brown
paper, and resolved to send it to my married sister at Ealing. And then
a terrible thing happened. As I rose to take my parcel I saw Jones
standing just outside on the pavement, talking earnestly to the Vicar.
I sat down again.
"And the next thing?" murmured the voice seductively.
I looked at her in despair. But even as I did so my second inspiration
came. "A yard of cream wincey," I said.
One fleeting, startled, curious glance she gave me; then without a word
she proceeded to comply with my request. I waited, with one eye on her
deftly-moving fingers, the other on Jones and the Vicar. And, as I
waited, I resolved, come what might, to see the thing through.
She finished all too soon, handed me my second parcel and repeated her
question. I repeated my order.
I have never spoken to anyone of what I went through during the next
three-quarters of an hour. My own recollection of it is very vague.
Through a sort of mist I see a figure in a chair facing a damsel who
cuts off and packs up endless yards of cream wincey till there rises
between them on the counter a stockade of brown-paper parcels. I see
the other young female haberdashers, her companions, gathering timidly
round, an awed joy upon their faces. Finally I see the figure rise and
stumble blindly into the street beneath an immense burden of small
packages all identical in size and shape. I can remember no more.
On the following day I went down to Devonshire for a rest, and stayed
there till my system was clear of cream wincey. The first man I met on
my return was Peters.
"Have you heard about Jones?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"He's gone," said Peters solemnly.
A thrill of hope shot through me. "To the Front?" I asked.
"No, not exactly; to a convalescent home."
"Dear, dear!" I exclaimed, "how very sudden! What was it?"
"German measles," said Peters, "and a mistake in tactics. If he had
only waited to let them come out into the open the beggars could have
been cut off all right in detachments. But you remember Jones's theory;
he never believed in _finesse_. So he went for them to suppress them
_en masse_, and they retreated into the interior, concentrated their
forces and compelled him to surrender on their own terms."
"Poor old Jones!" I murmured sadly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WAR'S REFINING INFLUENCE.
_Englishman_ (_accidentally trodden on_). "WHAT THE---- D--N YOU, SIR!
CAN'T YOU----
"----OH, PARDON, MONSIEUR! _VIVE LA BELGIQUE!_"]
* * * * *