Probably no member of the Problem Club enjoyed his evening of
chairmanship more than Mr Quillian, K.C., who occupied the chair at
the forty-fifth meeting. He liked the position of authority, and he
liked the opportunity to exercise the nicety and precision of his
legal mind. In the Free Meal Problem, on which he was to adjudicate,
the ingenious head-waiter Leonard had made the following demand:—
‘It is required within the space of twenty-four consecutive hours to
be the guest of one person at breakfast, of another at luncheon, and
of a third at dinner, the host being in each case a person whom the
competitor has not to his knowledge seen, and with whom he has held no
communication, previous to the sunrise preceding the meal. No direct
request for a meal may be made, and no remuneration may be given in
return for any meal.’
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mr Quillian, when he had read this out, ‘this
is a problem where the question of definition may arise. For instance,
a child in a railway carriage offers a traveller a small piece of
deteriorated bun. We will suppose that the hour is eight in the
morning and that the traveller has not partaken of food since the
previous midnight. In the improbable event of his consuming
the—er—proffered dainty, he has undoubtedly broken his fast. But can
he be said to have breakfasted? All I can say is that if the question
of definition should arise to-night I will do my best to deal with it
on common-sense lines, accurately but without pedantry.’
The chairman then called upon Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., to give his
experiences.
Wildersley was a man of middle age who, like many artists, retained
something of the child in his composition. He was a big, good-tempered
man of rather rugged appearance. The cigars provided by the club, good
though they were, had no attraction for him. He was a pipe-smoker, and
between his sentences he contrived to keep his pipe alight.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I mayn’t be a winner, but I can’t be far out. I’ll
tell you how I set about it. You may have noticed that chaps in the
country with little places—three or four acres—are often very keen
about them. In fact, the smaller the place the keener they are. My
frame-maker, who lives near Harrow, used to spend most of his Sunday
afternoon sitting behind a curtain with the window open, listening to
what passers-by had to say about the godetias in his front garden. His
daughter sometimes sits for me, and she told me that if the
compliments on the garden came in nicely it put him in such a good
temper that he used to let the family off church in the evening. I
decided to work on the pride that the owner or tenant has in his
place. I went down to the outer suburban belt—the part that they call
the real country—and put up at an hotel. Then bright and early one
morning I started out with my painting contraptions. I very soon
spotted a place that I knew must be picturesque, because it had got
some clipped yews and a sun-dial; besides, as the gate informed me, it
was called the Dream House, and that proved it. So in I went, pitched
my easel half-way up the drive, and got to work. An old gardener came
up and asked me if I knew that I was trespassing. So I gave him a
shilling, my card, and my apologies. I told him to keep the shilling
and to deliver the card and apologies to his master as soon as that
gentleman got down. That seemed to meet the case. In half an hour I
had knocked off something showy, and then down the drive towards me
came the owner, all smiles and Norfolk jacket, with a Cocker spaniel
trailing behind him. I gave him the sketch, and he was as pleased as
Punch about it. He took me round the garden to point out other
picturesque spots, and then brought me into the house to introduce me
to his family. Nice people, very. Almost before I knew it I was
breakfasting with them, and being hungry I was pleased to find that
they took breakfast seriously. They’d have kept me there all day if I
could have stopped, but the business of this problem required me to
move on.
‘At half-past twelve I played the same trick again six miles up the
road. Once more it worked perfectly. My hostess was an old lady of the
almost extinct type that knows how to live. Everything about the place
was just exactly. The luncheon was just exactly. And she gave me a
very fine old Amontillado—a wine that we don’t see enough of nowadays.
I can’t say whether it was the sherry or the success, but when I left
I felt that I had got the club’s cheque for one hundred and ten pounds
in my pocket and was listening to the chairman’s kindly words of
congratulation. My mistake, of course. Begin well, but not too well.
If you begin too well, mistrust it.
‘About seven that evening I was painting a garden which was really
rather good in that light. (I’d sent in my card and got permission.)
As I was finishing the job and rather wrapped up in it I heard a
Scotch accent behind me, saying that the sketch was “no bad” and
“verra like.” He and I discussed the comparative merits of painting
and photography. For accuracy he “prefaired the photograph, but then
it didna give the colours.” As before, I presented the sketch, and I
still think that he was pleased with it. He asked me to sign it, so as
to prove to his friends that he “wasna lying” when he said that it was
by a professed painter, and admitted that he would not grudge the
money it would cost for framing and glazing. He then said he made no
doubt I would be hurrying home for my dinner, and he would wish me
good-evening. And so, in a manner of speaking, I fell at the last
hurdle. Still, I suppose I score the breakfast and luncheon.’