William, my hitherto unventuresome friend William, is going abroad. I
cannot be certain why. Perhaps he no longer feels his heroism equal
to the strain of living in a country fit for heroes. It may be that
he has unwittingly incubated a bacillus which figures in novels as the
"Call of the Wild." Anyhow, William is going abroad--so much so that,
if he went any farther, he would be on his way home again.
I need not say that I felt called upon to help William through this
trying period, and our preparations proceeded satisfactorily until the
clever geographers who arrange these things nowadays discovered that
William could fetch the Far East by way of the Far West. Then the
international complications set in. First, William's passport--a
healthy enough document at the start--had to be carried round the
diplomatic quarter of London until it broke out into a thick rash of
supplementary _visas_. Next we sought out the moneychangers in their
dens, to transmute William's viaticum bit by bit into four foreign
currencies. Then a Great Power through whose territory William will
have to pass apparently was nervous of his approach and instituted
a grand inquisition into the status and antecedents of the Alien
(William).
We unfolded the paper on our table and stared at it aghast. Its area
was rather less than a square yard; in colour it favoured the yolk of
bad eggs; while all over its broad expanse were ruled compartments,
half of them filled with questions that no gentleman would ask
another, the other half left blank for William's indignant replies. We
managed with great difficulty to squeeze into the panel provided all
his baptismal titles--there are four of these besides "William"--and
then attacked the first real poser:--
_Are you in possession of 100 dollars, or less? If less, by how much?_
William groaned. "Reach me down Todhunter's Arithmetic, will you?"
said he.
I did so, and turned up the Money Market page of our daily paper.
Nothing was heard for the next five minutes but grunts and sighs of
despair. We then gave it up on the understanding that William must
make a point of winning heavily at bridge--or would it be euchre?--on
the way across.
_Have you ever been in the territory of the Great Power before?_
"No," breathed William devoutly, "and, please Heaven, it shan't occur
again!"
_What is your reason for coming now?_
"I suppose I'd better tell the truth," he said; "they'll never
believe me if I say I've come to put DEMPSEY up to that right drive of
CARPENTIER'S."
_Were you ever in prison, an almshouse, or an institution for the
treatment of the insane? If so, which?_
"Take your time, William," I said; "think carefully."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Do they want to know _all_ the gaols and
asylums I've been in," he asked, "or only the more recent?"
_Are you a polygamist?_
William turned deathly pale. He then fixed me with a terrible stare of
accusation and reproach.
"No, no, William," I protested frantically, "I assure you on my honour
that _I_ haven't been talking."
This assurance calmed him somewhat. Bit by bit the colour came back to
his cheeks and at length he was able to remark more hopefully: "Well,
there's this to be said for it, most of my wives are sportswomen. I
don't _think_ they'll give me away."
_Are you an anarchist?_
"No," answered William frankly, "but I possess a brother-in-law who
has leanings towards Rosicrucianism. Next, please."
The next was a very searching, legally-worded inquiry. It demanded at
great length to be informed whether William was a person who advocated
the overthrow by force or violence of the Government of the
Great Power, or all forms of Law, or believed in the propriety of
assassinating any or every officer of the Great Power because of his
official character.
William took up the paper-knife with an expression of sheer animal
ferocity. "Yes," he hissed, "the whole lot. Torturing them, too!"--and
fell back into his chair with peal upon peal of maniacal laughter.
* * * * * * *
William was practically a wreck before the inquisition came to an end.
He had not even sufficient spirit left to fly at me for entering
his distinguishing marks as "a general air of honesty, tempered by a
slight inward squint."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Runner._ "BEAUTIFUL SCENT IN COVER TO-DAY, SIR."
_Post-War Sportsman._ "OH--ER--IS THERE? I HAVEN'T NOTICED IT, BUT
I'VE GOT A COLD IN MY HEAD."]
* * * * *
"The Board of Trade have awarded a silver cup to Mr. John
Bruce, D.S.C., skipper of the steam drifter _Pansy_, of Wick,
in recognition of the promptitude and ability with which
he rescued the domestic servant, Strawberry Bank, Hardgate,
pleaded guilty to having bemusic, stolen a gold safety pin,
a fountain pen, two pairs of gloves, two blouses and several
other articles of clothing."--_Fishing News._
We never believe these fishing stories.
* * * * *