My darling young lady, I reply, your letter has made a deep impression
on me. Dr. JOHNSON did, as you say, live many years ago; so many years
ago, in fact, that (as a little friend of _Mr. Punch_ once said, with
a sigh, on hearing that someone would have been one hundred and fifty
years old if he had been alive at the present day) he must be “a orfle
old angel now.” The word “lunch” is short, crisp, and appetising. The
word “luncheon” is of a certain pomposity, which, though it may suit
the mansions of the great, is out of place when applied to the meals
of active sportsmen. So we will continue, if you please, to speak
of “lunch.” And now for your question. My charming ROSE, this little
treatise does not profess to do anything more than teach young
sportsmen how to converse. I assume that they have learnt shooting
from other instructors. And as to the details of shooting-parties,
how they should be composed, what they should do or avoid, and how
they should bear themselves generally—the subject is too great, too
solemn, too noble to be entered upon with a light heart. At any rate,
that is not my purpose here. It was rude—_very_ rude—of FRED to
say you were a bore—and I am sure it wasn’t true. I can picture
you tripping daintily along with your pretty companions to the lunch
_rendezvous_. You are dressed in a perfectly fitting, tailor-made
dress, cut short in the skirt, and displaying the very neatest and
smallest pair of ankles that ever were seen. And your dear little nose
is just a leetle—not red, no, certainly not red, but just delicately
pink on its jolly little tip, having gallantly braved the north wind
without a veil. To call _you_ a bore is absurd. But men are _such_
brutes, and it is as certain as that two and two (even at our public
schools) make four, that ladies are—what shall I say?—not so popular
as they always ought to be when they come amongst shooters engaged
in their sport. Even at lunch they are not _always_ welcomed with
enthusiasm. This is, perhaps, wrong, for, after all, they can do no
harm there.
But, darling ROSE, I am sure FRED was perfectly right to send you home
again directly the meal was over, though it must have wrung his manly
heart to part from EMILY RAYBURN. Even, I, the veteran sportsman
_Punch_, have qualms when a poor bird has been merely wounded, or
when a maimed hare shrieks as the dog seizes it. I cannot, as I say,
discuss the ethics of the question. The good shot is the merciful
shot. But, after all, in killing of every kind, whether by the gun or
the butcher’s knife, there is an element of cruelty. And therefore,
my pretty ROSE, _you_ must keep away from the shooting. Besides, have
I not seen a good shot “tailor” half-a-dozen pheasants in succession,
merely because a chattering lady—not a dear, pleasant little lump of
delight like you, ROSE—had posted herself beside him, and made him
nervous? By all means come to lunch if you must, but, equally by all
means, leave the guns to themselves afterwards. As for ladies who
themselves shoot, why the best I can wish them is, that they should
promptly shoot themselves. I can’t abide them. Away with them!
But, in order that the purpose of this work may be fulfilled,
and the conversational method inculcated, I here give a short
“Ladies-at-lunch-dialogue,” phonographically recorded, as a party of
five guns was approaching the place of lunch, at about 1:30 P.M.
_First Sportsman_ (_addressing his companion_). Now then, TOMMY, my
son, just smarten yourself up a bit, and look pretty. The ladies are
coming to lunch.
_Tommy_ (_horror—struck._) _What?_ The women coming to lunch? No,
hang it all, you’re joking. Say you are—do!
_First Sp._ Joking? Not I! I tell you six solid women are going to
lunch with us. I heard ’em all talking about it after breakfast, and
thinking it would be, _oh_, such fun! By the way, I suppose you know
you’ve got a hole in your knickerbockers.
_Tommy_ (_looking down, and perceiving a huge and undisguisable
rent_). Good Heavens! so I have. I must have done it getting over the
last fence. Isn’t it awful? I can’t show like this. Have you got any
pins?
[_The_ Keeper _eventually promises that there shall be pins at
the farm-house._
_Another Sportsman_ (_bringing up the rear with a companion_). Hope
we shan’t be long over lunch. There’s a lot of ground to cover this
afternoon, and old SYKES tells me they’ve got a splendid head of birds
this year, I always think—(_He breaks off suddenly; an expression of
intense alarm comes over his face._) Why, what’s that? No, it can’t
be. Yes, by Jingo, it is. It’s the whole blessed lot of women come out
to lunch, my wife and all. Well, poor thing, she couldn’t help it.
Had to come with the rest, I suppose. But it’s mean of CHALMERS—I
swear it is. He ought not to have allowed it. And then, never to
let on about it to us. Well, my day’s spoilt, if they come on with
us afterwards. I couldn’t shoot an ostrich sitting with a woman
chattering: to me. Miss CHICKWEED’s got her eye on you. LLOYD. She’s
marked you. No good trying to do a ramp. You’re nailed, my boy,
nailed!
_Lloyd._ Hang Miss CHICKWEED! She half killed me last night with all
kinds of silly questions. Asked me to be sure and bring her home a
rocketing rabbit, because she’d heard they were very valuable. Why
can’t the women stay at home?
[_They walk on moodily._
_A few minutes later. Lunch has just begun._
_Miss Chickweed_ (_middle-aged, but skittish_). Oh, you naughty men,
how long you have kept us waiting! Now, Captain LLOYD, did you shoot
really well? Or, were you thinking of—Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to
say. See how discreet I am. But do tell me, all of you, _exactly_ how
many birds you shot—I do so like to hear about it. You begin, Captain
LLOYD. How many did you shoot? (_Without waiting for an answer._) I’m
sure you must have shot a dozen. Yes, I guess a dozen. And, oh, do
give me a feather for my hat! It will be so nice to have a _real_
feather to put in it. And we’ve got such a treat for you. MARY, you
tell them. No, I’ll tell them myself. If you’re all _very_ good at
lunch, we’re going to walk with you a little afterwards. There!
[_But, at this awful prospect, consternation seizes the men._
CHALMERS _(the host) makes frantic signs to his wife, who
(having, somehow, been “squared”) affects not to see. A few
desperate attempts are made to express a polite joy; but the
lunch languishes, and, darkness closes over the melancholy
scene._
* * * * *
A NAVAL INQUIRY.—_The Howe_ and the why?
* * * * *