[Illustration: Mr. Anchor always wears a moustache for the soup course
whenever his uncle, the general (from whom he has expectations), dines
with him.]
* * * * *
"DASH."
"There's no book like it," said A. "Get it at once."
"You must read _Dash_," said B.
"If you take my advice," said C., "and you know I'm not easily pleased
by modern fiction, you'll get _Dash_ and simply peg away till you've
finished it. It's marvellous."
"I suppose you've read Darnock's _Dash_?" said D. "It's by far his best
thing."
At dinner my partner on each side gurglingly wished to know how I liked
_Dash_, taking it for granted that I knew it more or less by heart.
So having read some of Darnock's earlier work and thought it good, I
acquired a copy of _Dash_ and settled down to it.
I had not read more than two pages when it occurred to me that I ought
to know what the other books in the library parcel were; so I went to
look at them. One was a series of episodes in the career of a wonderful
blind policeman who, in spite of his infirmity, performed prodigies of
tact on point duty, and by the time I had finished glancing through this
it was bed-time. I put _Dash_ under my arm, for I always read for
half-an-hour or so in bed. How it happened I cannot imagine, but when I
picked up the book and began to read I found, much to my surprise, that
it was the other library novel.
"Have you begun _Dash_ yet?" B. asked me at lunch.
"Oh, yes, rather," I said.
"I envy you," he replied. "How far have you got?"
"Not very far yet," I said.
"It's fine, isn't it?" he remarked.
"Fine."
The next evening I had just taken up _Dash_ again when I remembered that
that other novel must be finished if it was to be changed on the morrow,
so I turned dutifully to that instead. It was a capital story about a
criminal who murdered people in an absolutely undetectable way by
lending them a poisoned pencil which would not mark until the point was
moistened. I enjoyed it thoroughly.
The next evening I was getting on famously with the fifth page of _Dash_
when the library parcel again arrived, containing two new books for
those I had returned in the morning.
Meeting C. the next day he asked me if I did not think _Dash_ the finest
thing I had ever read.
I said yes, but asked him if he had not found it a little difficult to
get into.
"Possibly," he said, "possibly. But what a reward!"
"You like books all in long conversations?" I asked.
"I love _Dash_," he said, "anyway."
"Did you read every word?" I asked.
"Well, not perhaps every word," he replied, "but I got the sense of
every page. I read like that, you know--synthetically."
"Yes, of course," I said.
The next day I changed the two library books that were finished for two
more, but it was _Dash_ which I took up first. There is no doubt about
its being a very remarkable book, but I had had a rather heavy day and
my brain was not at its best. What extraordinary novels people do write
nowadays! Fancy making a whole book, as the author of _Hot Maraschino_
has done, out of the Elberfeldt talking horses! In this book, which has
an excellent murder in a stable in it, the criminal is given away by a
horse who tells her master (it is a mare) what she saw. I couldn't lay
the story down.
That night I dined out and heard more about _Dash_. In fact, I myself
started one long conversation on that topic with an idle lady who really
had read every word. I went on to recommend it right and left. "You must
read _Dash_," I said at intervals; "it's extraordinarily good."
"Some one was telling me he couldn't get on with it at all," said one of
my partners.
"Not really?" I said, and clicked my tongue reproachfully.
"Yes, he says it's so involved and rambling."
"Ah, well," I said, "one must persevere. Books mustn't be too easy. For
my part----Yes, champagne, please."
"I'll get it, anyway," she said. "I feel sure your judgment is sound."
Looking in at the club later I found D. playing snooker. After missing
an easy shot he turned the talk to _Dash_.
"Tip-top, isn't it?" he said.
"Which is your favourite chapter?" I asked.
His face told me I had him.
"Oh, well, that's difficult to say," he replied.
"Surely you think that one about the stevedore's spaniel, towards the
end, is terrific?" I said.
"Of course that's fine," he replied, "but I was just wondering
whether----"
But I didn't stop to listen. There is no stevedore and no spaniel in the
whole book, as I had carefully ascertained.
The next day I had A., B. and C. with the same device.
Meanwhile I am plodding away with _Dash_. I have now reached page 27. A
great book, as all agree. But the books that I shall read while I am
reading it will make a most interesting list.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Scene--_Arrivals at Fancy Dress Ball_.
_Policeman._ "Now then, come along there, come along."
_Taxi-Driver._ "'Arf a jiff, Copper; I think they've stitched Romeo's
money into 'is backbone."]
* * * * *