My name's "Scottie." I'm a collie and wear a box in which I collect
contributions for the National Relief Fund. Probably you've met
me--and, I hope, contributed. Not long ago, so Mabel told a friend
the other day, a few of my early experiences were published in a book
called _Punch_. I've had heaps more since then. I'm getting quite an
old hand at the piteous "Won't-you-spare-me-something?" look. For one
thing, I've learnt to let people put _anything_ into my box. Once I got
a penny (from a little girl) that turned out, when the box was opened,
to be chocolate. A bit cocoa-y by then, but still eatable. But my best
haul was during my--and Mabel's--weekend by the sea.
We went down in a corridor train, where I collected quite a lot of
money. When the train stopped half-way there, I jumped out for a
mouthful of air, and there, on the platform, was a black retriever
wearing a collecting box like mine! I asked him what he meant by it,
and, as he didn't explain himself, I went for him, and stood him upside
down; and in the scrimmage half a crown fell out of his collecting box.
Everybody thought that it had fallen out of mine; Mabel was _sure_ it
had; so it was given to me. You should have seen that retriever when I
smiled at him from the carriage window.
We reached the sea at last. The Serpentine's a puddle by comparison.
The very first morning I tore across the shingle with two two-shilling
pieces in my box rattling like eighteen-pence in copper. Such a time
I had, though my box was dreadfully heavy, being full of sand and sea
water. Presently, joy! the bottom fell out. But the public later seemed
quite satisfied, until a horrid nurse-girl gave the show away--and of
course Mabel had it mended.
The very day we came away I met the millionaire man. It was a wild wet
day, and I was draining in an alcove underneath the promenade when
he appeared. He didn't look rich, and he was running and panting and
glancing over his shoulder in a hunted manner. No sooner did he see me
than he whispered, "Blimy, 'ere's a chance! Good dawg, then--'old yer
'ed up," and at once crammed a heap of "goblins" (Mabel's word) and
lots of crackley paper into my box. He followed this up with about two
yards of shiny chain and things that winked so that I had to wink as
well. Then came lots of things like goblins with their middles bitten
out; and hardly had he given me the last before two monstrous men in
blue rushed round the corner. I don't remember exactly what happened,
but the millionaire man said, Blimy, couldn't he run after his hat wot
the wind blown off? and the blue men said why, yes he could, but they
were sure he hadn't. Then _he_ said, Blimy, they could "turn him over,"
straight they could, and _they_ said straight they would. But they
didn't. Instead they felt in all his pockets, and only found a clay
pipe and some cheese wrapped up in newspaper. Then things became so
uninteresting that I sauntered back to Mabel.
The day after our home-coming my box and I were marched to the
committee. I've had some bad times there, but nothing quite so bad
before. The way an old girl gushed about the "darlings" (whoever they
were) parting with their jewellery simply wearied me. As soon as Mabel
felt strong enough to walk we went home. She seemed to forget that
the haul was entirely due to me. Yet she's a wonderful memory for
some things. Ever since breakfast to-day she's done nothing but talk
about a daring robbery at Winklebeach, and looks at me in the most
extraordinary manner. I don't know what Winklebeach may be, but it's as
clear as daylight that she's thinking of the six sweet biscuits that I
stole behind her back at her last "At home." But how did she find out?
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