There were three of us--a soldier, a _flâneur_ and myself, who am
neither but would like to be either. We were talking about the strange
appearance--a phenomenon of the day--of French wine in German bottles,
and this led to the re-expression of my life-long surprise that
bottles should exist in such numbers as they do--bottles everywhere,
all over the world, with wine and beer in them, and no one under any
obligation to save and return them.
"Well," said the soldier (who may or may not have known that I was one
of those writing fellows), "that has never struck me as odd. Of course
there are lots of bottles. Bottles are necessary. But what beats me is
the number of books. New books and old books, books in shops and books
on stalls, and books in houses; and on top of all that--libraries.
That's rum, if you like. I most cordially hope," he added, "that there
are more bottles than books in the world."
"I don't care how many there are of either," said the _flâneur_; "but
I know this--another book's badly wanted."
"Oh, come off it," said the enemy of authorship. "How can another book
be needed? Have you ever seen the British Museum Reading Room? It's
simply awful. It's a kind of disease. I was taken there once by an
aunt when I was a boy, and it has haunted me ever since. Books by the
million all round the room, and the desks crowded with people writing
new ones. Men _and_ women. Mixed writing, you know. Terrible!"
"All that may be true," said the _flâneur_, "but the fact remains that
another book is still needed."
"Impossible," said the soldier, "unless it's a cheque-book. There I'm
with you."
"No, a book--a real book. Small, I admit, but real. And I believe I
can make you agree with me. I'm full of it, because I discovered the
need of it only this last week-end."
"Well, what is it to be called?" the sceptic asked.
"I think a good title would be, _Have I Put Everything in?_"
"Sounds like a manual of bayonet exercise," said the soldier, and he
made imaginary lunges at imaginary Huns.
"Very well then, to prevent ambiguity call it _Have I Left Anything
Out?_ The sub-title would be 'A Guide to Packing,' or 'The
Week-Ender's Friend.'"
"Ah!" said the other, beginning to be interested.
"With such a book," the _flâneur_ continued, "you could never, as
I did on Saturday, arrive at a house without any pyjamas, because
you would find pyjamas in the list, and directly you came to them
you would shove them in. That would be the special merit of the
book--that you would get, out of wardrobes and drawers and off the
dressing-table, the things it mentioned as you read them and shove
them in."
"You would hold the book in the left hand," said the soldier, with
almost as much excitement as though he were the author, "and pack with
the right. That's the way."
"Yes, that's the way. It would be only a little book--like a
vest-pocket diary--but it would be priceless. It would be divided into
sections covering the different kinds of visit to be paid--week-end,
week, fortnight, and so on. Then the kind of place--seaside, river,
shooting, hunting, and so on. Foreign travel might come in as well."
"Yes," said the soldier, "lists of things for Egypt, India, Nairobi."
"That's it," said the _flâneur._ "And there would be some unexpected
things too. I guess you could help me there with all your wide
experience."
"A corkscrew, of course," said the soldier.
"I said unexpected things," said the _flâneur_ reprovingly, "such
as--well, such as a screw-driver for eye-glasses--most useful. And a
carriage key. And--"
His pause was my opportunity. "I'll tell you another thing," I said,
"something for which I'd have given a sovereign in that gale last week
when I was at the seaside--window-wedges. Never again shall I travel
without window-wedges."
"By Jove!" said the soldier, "that's an idea. Put down window-wedges
at once. It's a great book this," he went on. "And needed--I should
jolly well say so. You ought to compile it at once--before any of us
has time to go away again. Personally I don't know how I've lived
without it. Why, just talking about it makes me feel quite a literary
character."
"Let me see," I said sweetly, "what do you call this monumental
work? Oh yes, I remember--_Are There Any Important Omissions from my
Saturday-to-Monday Equipment?_"
"Rubbish!" said the soldier. "The title is--_Have I Put Everything
in?_"
* * * * *