petty officers having the space further aft set apart for them;
but this advantage is not without its little drawbacks. Witness an
incident experienced by the writer.
He was seated by a ventilator playing chess--a favourite game--with
a comrade. The fleet was about to enter Vigo, and a heavy sea was
running, drenching the fo'c'sle and the other side of the deck, but
leaving the space where the players were seated dry as a bone. They
were just congratulating themselves on their comfortable quarters,
when the ship, suddenly altering course to make the entrance to the
bay, slewed round to port, and a heavy sea came neatly in and caught
them as they sat. Chessmen, board, and players went suddenly floating
about the deck in picturesque confusion, to the great amusement of the
onlookers, who were expecting some diversion. Going below to change
his clothes--for he was wet to the skin--the writer had the bad luck
to stand directly under the same ventilator, and no sooner had he
donned dry clothes than another malevolent and illfavoured sea came
carefully down the ventilator shaft and rendered him as wet again. He
tenderly avoided that ventilator during the remainder of the cruise.
Thursday afternoon is the recognised time for the opening of the
mysterious and voracious "Scran-bag."
On board a man-of-war tidiness is a matter of great importance, and
with a view to enforcing it an officer--on Sundays and Thursdays the
puissant captain himself--makes a tour of the entire ship at certain
hours. Woe betide the luckless man who has left out of its place the
smallest article! For when the decks are being cleared up for the
"Rounds" (as the inspection is termed), here a towel that has been
inadvertently left on a rack instead of being stowed away in its
appointed place, the kit-bag--here a book, or a coat, or a pound
of tobacco, stowed away out of sight behind a scuttle cover, and
discovered by the insinuative, far-reaching hand of the "Crusher," as
the ship's corporal is familiarly termed, a hand that has a pleasant
knack of exploring out-of-the-way nooks and corners--in short, any
article that is left about is confiscated, and placed within a huge
canvas bag, the "Scran-bag."
Every Thursday it is opened, and there gathers around it an excited
knot of men who overhaul its contents thoroughly, a ship's corporal
standing by to see that no man claims "what isn't his'n." But before
the owner is allowed to take away his article he is mulcted in one
penny for each article, to be put in the poor-box, or else he has to
provide a piece of soap to be used in scrubbing decks.
Nearly everyone has seen "Ship's tobacco" in some form or other, but
few know how the sailor prepares it for use. It is served out to him
monthly, at the same time as his soap, in packages of 1 lb., for which
he pays 1_s._ 1_d._, being allowed it duty free. It is a dark, rich
leaf, and the first thing done is to remove the stems. This done, some
water is sprinkled on the loose leaves (the old salt will prefer rum,
to add to its strength and flavour), and the whole is enclosed in
a piece of canvas and tightly bound with twine until it assumes a
cigar-like shape, pointed at each end. Next some fine line is taken,
one end secured to the tobacco and the other made fast to some strong
support. One or two men now sit astride the line, and the tobacco is
wound round and round, the weight of the men compressing it to about
half its original bulk. When entirely covered with line it is tightly
secured, and in two or three days is ready for use.
At night the men's time may fairly be considered their own. On certain
evenings fresh water is served out for the washing of clothes, for
Jack is his own washerwoman as well as tailor. That the marine is no
less handy than his sailor brother may be gathered from the fact that
the ship's cobbler usually belongs to that immensely useful branch of
the service so aptly described by Kipling as "soldier and sailor too."
[Illustration: _Photo. R. Thiele & Co._
JACK AS TAILOR--MAKING AND MENDING HIS CLOTHES.]
A number of men who are handy with razor and scissors make a good
addition to their pay by attending to the tonsorial wants of their
less gifted brethren, and shave and cut hair in a heavy sea-way with
the ship rolling and pitching all over the place as easily as they do
in harbour with an immovable deck to stand on.
[Illustration: _Photo. R. Thiele & Co._
A SKILFUL MACHINIST.]
"All work and no play"--the proverb was made for Jack; and though the
bluejacket has to make his own amusement he does it as thoroughly as
he does all else he puts his hand to. Nearly every ship in the navy
has its nigger troupe or theatrical party, and some really clever
performances are given; the make-up and dress are good, and would be
no disgrace to a professional company. The fair sex, though absent,
are hardly conspicuous thereby; few uninitiated eyes would detect
in the female characters a middle-aged able-seaman or a cheeky young
ordinary.
A more athletic relaxation is boxing, which is--as it should be--a
favourite amusement aboard. Many a good man has the Royal Marines or
the navy supplied to the professional ring.
While the men are amusing themselves in various ways their superiors
are likewise killing time, and will often indulge in cricket on the
quarter-deck, which is screened with canvas to avoid losing the ball
overboard. The game can only be played at sea, for in harbour the
quarter-deck is required for more serious work. The ball is usually
a soft tennis-ball. The officers don flannels, and many an exciting
game, such as Ward-room _v._ Gun-room, is played, and continued at
every opportunity till the match is finished.
Every officer aboard takes an interest in these matches, captain and
commander often coming on deck to encourage their juniors with their
august presence, and many a match won by the navy ashore has been due
to the practice aboard. For if a man can play cricket with a sloping
and mobile deck beneath him he can surely do better on a well-rolled
pitch.
On Saturday nights, on such ships as carry one, the band discourses
sweet dance-music for the delectation of the men; and these
proverbially ardent lovers of Terpsichore are true to their goddess,
even though the wind is howling great guns, and the ship rolling and
pitching in such a way that none but true sons of Neptune could even
walk upright, to say nothing of dancing.
When no band is carried, a miscellaneous collection of blue-jacket and
marine musical amateurs supply the deficiency; and their music, though
not perhaps up to the standard of Mr. Dan Godfrey, amply fulfils its
requirements.
[Illustration: _Photo. R. Thiele & Co._
SAILORS CLAIMING THEIR ARTICLES ON THE OPENING OF THE "SCRAN-BAG."]
When the ship is in harbour, leave is often allowed, and in connection
with shore-going there is an interesting formality not generally
known. It is one of the most heinous crimes in the naval decalogue
to attempt to smuggle any intoxicant aboard; and to obviate such
a possibility every man on returning from shore is searched by the
corporal of the gangway, a ship's corporal standing by, book in hand,
to enter the names of the offenders in the "black list," to be dealt
with next day by the commander.
[Illustration: _Photo. R. Thiele & Co._
"JACK IS HIS OWN WASHERWOMAN."]
The corporal of the gangway is usually an experienced Marine told off
for the duty, and under his hands it would be difficult for even the
most crafty smuggler to conceal any liquor about his person.
But to the credit of our navy be it said that cases of smuggling are
extremely rare.
As a general rule Jack Tar and Joe the Marine, though certainly
sometimes labouring under conditions trying to even the most
law-abiding civilian, conform to regulations and discipline with that
breezy cheerfulness and brave good-will which makes them, as they
always have been and it is to be hoped always will be, the idols of
their countrymen, the proud boast of their nation, and a standing
menace to her enemies.
[Illustration: _Photo. R. Thiele & Co._
OFFICERS PLAYING CRICKET ON THE QUARTER DECK.]
CRICKET SKETCHES.
_Two Pages by Mr. "Rip."_
[Illustration: MR. K. J. KEY--A STATELY PROCESSION OF ONE.]
[Illustration: AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE FOR THE GREAT ARTHUR SHREWSBURY.]
[Illustration: AN ELEGANT BAT--MR. F. G. J. FORD.]
[Illustration: "RANJI" MAKES A BRILLIANT CATCH.]
[Illustration: LITTLE "BOBBY" ABEL GETTING AWAY WITH AN AWKWARD ONE.]
[Illustration: FIREWORKS! AN OVER BY MR. JESSOP.]
[Illustration: PHILLIPS, THE INTERNATIONAL UMPIRE.]
[Illustration: BIG TOM RICHARDSON--READY TO KNOCK UP A BRISK DOZEN OR
SO.]
HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY.
A COMEDY IN AN OMNIBUS.
BY CLARENCE ROOK; ILLUSTRATED BY B. E. MINNS.
The gloom was gathering. Ten minutes ago the conductor had leaned from
his step, taken the lamp from some unseen hand, and stuck it up in
its place by the door. The bus lurched round the corner into Bishop's
Road. It was a Bayswater bus, and the old gentleman who was changing
his seat drove his elbow into my hat.
[Illustration: "DROVE HIS ELBOW INTO MY HAT."]
"Bless me! I'm always doing that. Most extraordinary! I'm sure I beg
your pardon."
I told him that it was of little consequence, and another swing of
the bus seated him suddenly beside the tired-looking girl with a music
portfolio in her hand. She opened her eyes for a moment, and then
closed them again. The woman beyond shifted her baby to the other
arm--the arm furthest removed from the old gentleman--and continued to
rock it mechanically.
The old gentleman evinced a restlessness which was not suggested
by his mild aspect and his white hair, though a closer examination
revealed a certain furtive look in his eyes. Four separate times he
had shifted his seat since I had taken my place in the corner next
the door at Oxford Circus. A slight irritation at his want of repose
caused me to shoot a protesting glance at him over the top of
my evening paper, for few things annoy me so much as purposeless
activity. Old gentlemen should be glad enough to sit still when they
have the chance. But I could not find it in my heart to be angry with
such a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
It was just then, as my eyes were returning to my paper, that the
demon of suspicion took tentative hold upon my mind. "Why," I asked
myself, "do nice-looking old gentlemen, with white hair and shifting
eyes, want to change their place in a bus?"
The suspicion came--and went, for the kindly and venerable face gave
no hold for doubt. But I laid down my paper upon my knees and leant
back in the corner to watch him, speculating whether he would change
his place again before we came to Westbourne Grove. The driver's
whip-lash sounded on the middle pane opposite to me, and the bus
slowed down to take up a passenger who, after a glance inside, mounted
to the roof.
The conductor shoved his parcel up after him, pulled the string and
resumed his position against the side of the door, where, upon that
mysterious block which is kept in a receptacle over the entrance,
he was apparently making sketches of the passengers inside. Mentally
commending his diligence, I turned my eyes again to the old gentleman,
who met my glance for a moment, and seemed to deprecate my displeasure
by the lifting of his brows and a turn of his head.
As the bus quickened up again, the tired-looking girl swayed slightly,
and her head sank upon the shoulder of the old gentleman. The old
gentleman glanced sideways at the closed eyes of his neighbour, and,
as a kindly smile stole over his face, his arm slid round the girl's
waist. The pair made quite a pretty picture. The conductor at my elbow
turned slightly, to get a better light upon his sketching block.
And then I noticed a curious disturbance--only a momentary rise and
fall--in the dress of the sleeping girl. No one, so far as I could
tell, had moved. The girl's hands were lying in her lap, precariously
clasping her music portfolio. The disturbance occurred on the right
side of the dress, which was the side furthest from the old gentleman
in whose kindly embrace the girl lay.
The explanation came to me in a flash. In so sudden a flash that I
turned in the same instant to the conductor and found his sidelong
glance meeting mine.
"See that?" he muttered, under the clatter of the bus.
"I should think I did," I said, "he's picked her pocket."
"I've 'ad a eye on the old josser for the last month," he said. "I'll
make it a fair cop this time. You're my witness."
"Well," I said, "I'm not awfully keen on being mixed up----"
"Bit of high-spyin' now," he said. "What's the matter with a little
bit o' high-spyin', eh?"
[Illustration: "THE TIRED-LOOKING GIRL SWAYED SLIGHTLY."]
The conductor mounted the steps to the roof. The tired girl, awakened
suddenly to her position, straightened herself and peered anxiously
through the window of the bus as though to make certain that she
had not been carried to Wormwood Scrubs in her sleep. Reassured, she
gathered up her portfolio in a firmer grasp with one hand, and with
the other searched the back of her head for errant pins.
Round the edge of my paper I watched the old gentleman, whose eyes
were now fixed obliquely upon the woman on his left. I distinctly saw
his eyes travel down from the woman's face to her black cloth jacket,
and stop at the outside pocket, from which her omnibus ticket was
peeping. The pocket was on a level with, and almost touching his
elbow, and his hand, his left hand, which was resting upon his knee,
began slowly to travel towards the pocket of the tired-looking woman.
The baby was kicking, grasping at the stuffy air with crinkled
fingers, and threatened to give voice, and the tired-looking woman,
rocking more anxiously than before, looked timidly from one neighbour
to another as though in apology for the wrath to come.
At that moment my glance was attracted to a point above the old
gentleman's head, where I met the eyes of the conductor, pressed close
against the window-pane. A little higher was the tip of his nose,
whitened by the pressure, and above that his stubby red moustache,
underneath which a mouth gaped with inquiry. For a moment or two I
was fascinated by the inverted face, which seemed to belong to some
other-world creature which had tumbled from extra-mundane space and
stuck fast upon the window of the Bayswater bus.
The benevolent old gentleman, quite unconscious of the watchful eyes
behind his head, was regarding with a bland smile the advertisements
on the window behind me. And as my eyes fell again on the spot where I
had last seen his hand, I saw that it was not there. There never was a
more unskilful performance. For there sat the old gentleman before my
eyes, looking calmly over my head, with two fingers inserted into the
pocket of the woman who was rocking the baby. As though it knew the
wrong that was being done, the baby gave vent to the threatened yell,
and the mother, patting it, and rocking it, and speaking to it in
unknown tongues, saw nothing and felt nothing else.
[Illustration: "APPARENTLY MAKING SKETCHES OF THE PASSENGERS."]
Suddenly, as I watched, the benevolent old gentleman dropped his eyes
from the advertisements, and mine arrested them as they fell. Never
was an old gentleman so vastly perturbed. I almost felt sorry for him;
for an aged criminal who has not learned the art of escaping detection
and is therefore hopelessly incompetent, is a pathetic sight.
The omnibus stopped with a jerk just as we came within the range
of the lamps at the corner, and the old gentleman, so evil were his
deeds, seemed to shrink from the light. I was not quite certain of the
etiquette with pickpockets. Ought I to leap upon him then and there
and to denounce him? That would be melodramatic, I reflected; and I
hate a scene; so I only raised myself from my seat, borrowed support
from the handrail above my head, and waited upon events.
[Illustration: "TOWARDS THE POCKET OF THE TIRED-LOOKING WOMAN."]
The tired girl bestirred herself and looked round, the woman with the
baby changed her burden again from one arm to the other and peered
anxiously at the door.
"Royal Oak," I said, answering her look of inquiry.
She sank back in her seat and closed her eyes, and at the same moment
the old gentleman jumped up and shambled towards the door, while the
other passengers carefully drew in their toes.
By this time I noticed that the conductor's face had detached
itself from the window. Three people had risen to leave; but the old
gentleman was first, being clearly in a hurry; and as he found himself
unable to pass me, half-standing and half-sitting, with my hand on
the overhead rail, he looked pleadingly at me, as though imploring my
silence. I hesitated a moment. It was none of my business to arrest
criminals. But I did not mind giving a passive support to the cause
of justice, so I stayed where I was. And then the conductor appeared,
blocking the doorway.
"No, yer don't," he said.
"My good man," began the old gentleman, "I sincerely trust I have
given no offence. I only----"
"I see yer," said the conductor, looking over his shoulder towards the
public-house, and jerking his head.
"Then kindly oblige me," said the old gentleman, "by not making a
fuss. If a sovereign now----"
"Oh, stow it," said the conductor. "You've done it once too often,
that's what you 'ave. I see yer right enough this time, and you're
going to be give in chawge, that's what you are. Strite."
The old gentleman looked helplessly round him. Impatient passengers
began to remonstrate from the step; others from the kerb.
"'Old on," said the conductor, "we're all goin' 'ome to tea."
A policeman crossed from the opposite corner.
"'Igher up there!" he remarked, dispassionately.
"Look 'ere, constable," said the conductor, "'ere's a job in your
line." Then his tone became official. "I 'ereby give this man in
chawge for picking pockets."
"Oh," said the policeman, scattering the bunch of people gathered
round the step.
[Illustration: "AS I WATCHED."]
"I see him--and this gentleman 'ere see him," said the conductor.
"'Tain't the first time, neither. Old 'and, he is; that's what _he_
is."
The doorway was now blocked by the policeman's form.
"That ain't good enough for me," he said. "Any of you ladies and
gentlemen lost anything?"
"I see 'is 'and in that lydy's pocket," said the conductor, pointing
over the constable's shoulder at the woman with the baby. "You feel in
your pocket, lydy."
[Illustration: "'I GIVE THIS MAN IN CHARGE FOR PICKING POCKETS.'"]
Then ensued a general searching of pockets, while a rival omnibus
swept by triumphantly and gathered up such passengers as were too
impatient to await the outcome of the situation.
I leaned forward and said in an undertone to the girl with the
portfolio, who alone of the passengers shewed no interest in the
contents of her pocket, "You had better look in your pocket, I feel
convinced it was picked while you were asleep upon his shoulder."
"I wasn't," she said, abruptly. Then, reflecting apparently that she
was rude as well as tired, she added, "I've nothing worth stealing,
thank you all the same."
In a desultory way she began fumbling in the pocket of her dress. The
old gentleman stood by the policeman. His face had grown very red; his
eyes, wandering from one passenger to another, became suddenly fixed,
and his face was redder than ever. It was sufficiently obvious that he
was very uneasy. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw the baby's
head hanging at an alarming angle over the woman's arm. The mother
was leaning towards the light and looking at the contents of her free
hand--a bus ticket, two pennies, a farthing, and a sovereign.
"Now, then! lost anything, mem?" asked the conductor.
"No, _I_ ain't lost nothing," she began, slowly.
The old gentleman nodded to her pleasantly.
"Though," she continued, "I don't rightly understand why----"
"I think this must belong to you, sir," said the girl with the
portfolio, suddenly, holding out a sovereign to the old gentleman.
"Not at all, my dear; nothing to do with me, nothing whatever," he
said, nodding his head at her. "Old enough to be your grandfather,
too!"
"Now then, what's all that?" asked the policeman.
"Only this gentleman must have been putting a sovereign into my
pocket, and I insist--oh! I insist----"
"Look here, constable," said the old gentleman, "can't you see that
you are embarrassing the young lady? Any little transaction between
her and me is none of your business, or anyone else's either."
The old gentleman stamped impotently upon the floor of the omnibus.
"He's been giving money away," said the policeman over his shoulder to
the conductor, "looks like."
"And why not, why not?" said the old gentleman. "What's the good of
having money if you can't make people happy with it?"
The constable looked reflectively at him.
"I dunno," he said. "I'd better take your name and address."
The old gentleman looked apprehensively round. Then he took a card
from his pocket and gave it to the policeman.
"Please don't read it out," he said.
The policeman looked at the card, put it into his pocket-book, and
made a note in pencil. Then he swung himself off the omnibus and
looked hard at the old gentleman as he descended slowly.
"You go home," he said. "You want to be took care of, you do."
[Illustration: "'YOU GO HOME,' HE SAID."]
The conductor stood upon the kerb with his hand on the rail, looking
after the old gentleman as he trudged off towards Royal Oak Station.
"'Urry up there," said the constable. "Wastin' my time," he added, as
he turned his back.
The conductor rang the bell and leaned dolefully against the stairway
as the bus started away from the dispersing crowd.
The girl with the portfolio was regarding her sovereign thoughtfully,
holding it between her thumb and forefinger; then she returned it with
her handkerchief to her pocket, looked doubtfully round and blushed
slightly.
The woman with the baby was biting something, which, as she caught my
eye, she hurriedly slipped into her jacket pocket. "Not that I'd be
be'olden to anybody," she remarked at large, rocking her baby with
much energy, "me 'usband earning good money, thanks be. But peliteness
is peliteness----"
"You _may_ think yer know yer way abart," said the conductor, looking
at me and jerking his head up and down, "but now and then you find
you're left--badly left. Now, think o' that! Droppin' sovereigns all
over the place. Well, I wish I'd a'knowed!"
[Illustration: _Photo by Landor, Ealing_
THE HEAVENLY TWINS.]
[Illustration]
LITTLE DARLINGS.
HALF A MILLION PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHILDREN.
_Words by Somers J. Summers. Photographic Illustrations by W. J.
Byrne._
[Illustration: SUNSHINE.]
Locked away in the breast of Mr. W. J. Byrne, the children's
photographer, is a secret which, when she has read this article, every
mother of children will want to know. Let it be said at once, however,
that her curiosity will have to go unsatisfied; Mr. Byrne has his
secret, and wild interviewers cannot drag it from him.
Ability to pose adults gracefully and naturally before the camera is
an accomplishment admittedly rare; in the case of children, with the
difficulties increased tenfold, it must be a gift. It is one thing to
dump a subject into a chair and obtain a likeness, another to make a
picture as well. And when a man has taken half a million photographs
of little sitters, in as many poses, he may be held to be something
of an authority on the subject. That is Mr. Byrne's record; he is to
children what Rosa Bonheur is to animals, save that he uses neither
pencils nor brush; he is a veritable artist with the camera. Some of
the examples of his skill here seen represent, it is not difficult to
realise, an infinity of painstaking and experimenting, while others
tell of patient waiting, followed by considerable alacrity at the
moment of a fleeting expression which he desired to preserve. Mr.
Byrne's method is very simple; one half of his secret is soon told.
[Illustration: SHADOW.]