‘I’d like your ruling on that point, sir. And it’s quite impartial,
because I am not competing myself this time.’
‘Not competing?’ said the chairman. ‘Might I ask what stopped you?
Hitherto you have been one of the keenest and most sporting of our
members, in spite of your air of—er—lassitude.’
‘What stopped me,’ said Jimmy simply, ‘was breakfast. Breakfast is bad
enough at any time, especially if you’ve been rather late and busy the
night before. But to breakfast with an absolute stranger on chance
food, and to go out and dig for the invitation first—well, it was
unthinkable. I’m sorry to spoil old Wildersley’s score, and if he’d
bunged me one of his sketches instead of chucking them about the
suburbs I might have been able to stifle the voice of conscience. As
it is, I feel bound to raise the objection that he gave remuneration
for the breakfast and luncheon—to wit, two sketches.’
‘The gift of the sketches was precedent to the meals and was
unconditional, as we see by the fact that the third sketch produced no
meal. The sketches were a lure, and the use of a lure is not
prohibited. They were not remuneration given in return for a meal. I
should not even say that the meals were remuneration for the sketches;
they were merely an expression of gratitude. Mr Feldane’s objection is
disallowed.’
That habitual non-starter Mr Harding Pope, M.P., was now asked if he
had made his choice between competition or resignation.
‘I have competed, of course. But I have only the most dismal of
failures to record. I was down at my constituency, and I picked out
three new residents on whom I had a plausible excuse for calling. I
’phoned the first to ask if he could see me at nine, apologising for
the earliness of the hour. He said that the time suited him very well,
and that, as a matter of fact, he always breakfasted at seven, so as
to begin work early. The man whom I called on at lunch-time could only
give me ten minutes, he said, as he was lunching out. The third did
ask me to dinner, but not on that day. And probably all three have put
me down as a man who calls at tactless and inconvenient times. I can
only say that I am ready to suffer far worse things for the privilege
of retaining my membership.’
Sir Charles Bunford had perhaps shown rather more strategy, but had
only one degree less of failure to report. He had obtained letters of
introduction to three noted food-cranks, all of them ardent
proselytisers. To the first he represented himself as suffering from a
list of symptoms. Sir Charles had memorised them carefully from the
advertisement of a patent pill. He said that he was sorry to call at
so early an hour, but after a night of suffering he had determined
that he would begin on a new system of diet at once.
‘For instance,’ he said, ‘what ought I to have for breakfast this
morning? What do you have yourself?’
The food-crank said that he would not only tell him; he would ask him
to share his simple but healthful fare.
At this point in his narrative the chairman interposed.
‘This is a case where the question of definition may arise. I must ask
you to tell us, Sir Charles, what the food-crank gave you for
breakfast.’
‘It was not so much breakfast as a premature dessert with a hospital
flavour to it. It consisted of uncooked fruit and lessons in the
difficult art of mastication. With that we drank a special sort of
coffee, from which all deleterious matter, including the taste of
coffee, had been entirely removed. But the question of definition need
not worry you, as I can’t claim to have won. The second food-crank,
whom I visited at lunch-time, told me that his chief secret was never
to eat in the middle of the day. The third, whom I tackled in the
evening, was so ascetic in his conversation and so extremely anxious
to keep me out of his dining-room, that I formed a suspicion, perhaps
unworthy, that the man’s practice differed somewhat from his
preaching. So I’ve failed, but it was quite an amusing day.’
That great epicure, Mr Matthews, had not competed, and gave his
reasons with a solemnity that contrasted with his usual cheeriness.
‘Thank Heaven,’ he said, ‘I have a sophisticated appetite! Thank
Heaven again I have an over-educated palate! Starvation for
twenty-four hours I might have possibly faced. But the horrors of
casual hospitality were more than I could risk.’
‘Ah, well,’ said the chairman, ‘I must turn to Mr Pusely-Smythe, who
is acting as secretary for us to-night. I presume he has added one
more to his list of triumphs.’
‘The pangs of failure,’ said that saturnine gentleman, ‘are increased
by the jeers of the learned chairman. I ought to have won. I claim to
have won. But I confess that it will not surprise me if I am reduced
to an equality with my artist friend. I shall have a melancholy
pleasure in sharing the prize with him. He tried to work upon
gratitude, and so did I. The particular brand of gratitude that I
decided to exploit for my purpose was the gratitude that a woman feels
for the return of her lost pet dog. It seems to vary inversely as the
value of the dog, but it is always great.
‘You will perhaps remember that about a year ago Leonard set us a
peculiarly sinful problem, which he styled the Substitution Problem,
and that in the complicated and unjustifiable operations by which I
succeeded in winning the prize I made the acquaintance of James Tigg,
and did him a good turn. Now James, known to his intimate friends as
“Kidney,” is by profession a French polisher, but does not practice,
and his favourite occupation is the appropriation of dogs, his gifts
in that direction amounting almost to genius.
‘I sent for James. I told him that I thought it likely that three
ladies, living in different suburbs, would lose their pet dogs and
that I should know where to find them, and should be enabled by the
address on the dog-collar to return each of the little darlings to its
owner. At the same time I put five golden sovereigns on the table.
‘“Likely?” said James. “It’s a ruddy certainty.” He then picked up the
coins in an absent-minded way and instructed me as to details.
‘Two days later, at an early hour in the morning, I called on Lady
Pingle at her house at Epsom with her ladyship’s alleged Pekingese
under my arm. I told her how I had found the poor little thing
wandering on Wimbledon Common late the night before almost in a state
of collapse, had given it food and shelter, and had taken the earliest
opportunity to relieve her anxiety by its return.
‘Her gratitude was almost frantic. She kissed the dog ardently, and at
one moment I was almost afraid she was going to kiss me too. She did
not do that, but she did insist on my breakfasting with her, and I
accepted. And let me tell that over-educated sybarite Matthews, with
his sneers at casual hospitality, that he himself never breakfasted
better.
‘I lunched with Mrs Hastonbury at her residence at Leatherhead. In
this way she showed her gratitude for the return of “Bimby”—a
chocolate-coloured Pom with a short temper. But I must confess that
she was not nearly as quick off the mark as Lady Pingle. I had to
inquire about hotels in the neighbourhood before she saw which way her
duty lay.
‘The third dog that I had to deliver, a mouldy little pug, belonged to
the wife of a curate living much nearer home. She was grateful and she
was hospitable. She said that they never dined but that they were just
sitting down to high tea, and she hoped I would join them. It was an
evening meal substituted for dinner, and I contend that I am entitled
to count it as dinner.’
‘Kindly tell us what you had,’ said the chairman.
‘What? The internal evidence? Certainly. I had cocoa, scrambled eggs,
and seed-cake. And I hope you will take a lenient view of it.’
‘Your hostess herself maintained that it was not dinner, and the
internal evidence, as you call it, entirely supports her view. Your
career of crime will only give you a score of two. The high tea is
disallowed. I will now call upon Major Byles.’
‘The sacrifice that I made to luck on the occasion of our last
competition,’ said Major Byles, ‘has brought me success at last. I
claim to be a winner, and await your decision with confidence. It
happened that two of my friends both wanted a furnished house at
Brightgate for the winter, and did not want the bother of going down
to make their selection. I saw my chance at once. I might never have
thought of it, but I didn’t miss it when it was shoved at me. I said
at once that I was thinking of running down to Brightgate for a day or
two, and that it always interested me to look over houses. They told
me their requirements and let me take on the job for them.
‘The house-agent at Brightgate had only six houses on his books that
were at all suitable. He gave me orders to view, and I started
business at eight one morning. I started badly.
‘At the first house a proud but pretty parlour-maid told me that it
was not usual to show furnished houses at that hour, but I could call
again at eleven. At the second house there was only a caretaker. That
left me with, so to speak, four cartridges and three birds to kill. I
hurried on to the third house, which was half a mile away. By a bit of
luck I met the owner on the doorstep, and told him my alleged
business.
‘“You’re very early,” he said. “Why, we haven’t had breakfast yet.”
‘“No more have I,” I said. “But last year I lost a good house through
being too late, and I thought I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.”
‘He was a genial old chap. He said the best thing I could do was to
come in and breakfast with him, and by the time I had finished the
servants would have got the bedrooms tidied up. I did my best to
accept with decent hesitation.
‘At lunch-time I tried the fourth house on my list and struck another
caretaker. I couldn’t afford another miss. I got lunch at the fifth
house, but I had to be no end complimentary before I could get them up
to the point. In fact, it wasn’t till I told the woman that her
pimply-faced son was a fine upstanding young fellow that she decided
to order the extra chop.
‘But at the sixth house I had no trouble about dinner. The owner
turned out to be a friend of a friend of mine. He fetched up a bottle
of the ’87 in my honour and insisted on my stopping the night.
‘They were all _pukka_ meals, and all the conditions were observed. Am
I a winner, Mr Chairman?’
‘Certainly. Does anybody else claim to be a winner?’
‘I do,’ said Dr Alden. ‘The day before yesterday a doctor rang me up
and asked me to see a patient of his—a woman with a wealthy, devoted,
and very nervous husband. That was at eight in the morning. My car
happened to be at the door, and it suited me to go right away. I saw
the patient, was able to reassure the husband, and had breakfast with
him. Later in the morning a man was introduced to me who was
interested in old glass and had heard of me as a collector. He was
very keen that I should lunch with him and see what he had got. He was
a pleasant chap and I accepted. When I got back, a doctor, quite an
old pal of mine, said that he was going to take me to dine that night
with a man I had never seen before. It seemed that the stranger had
staying with him for one night a French specialist in my own line. The
Frenchman was anxious to meet me, and his host was anxious to please
him. So he had tried to arrange it through a mutual friend. I was
myself keen to meet that Frenchman, and so he succeeded.
‘Of course, I didn’t arrange all this—couldn’t have arranged it. As a
matter of fact, I had never intended to compete this time. But destiny
decided to take a hand in this competition. I claim to be a winner.’
‘An interesting point,’ said the chairman. ‘Can a man be said to win
who has never competed? I shall decide in Dr Alden’s favour. Leonard
says nothing of intention. He only demands certain facts. And these
facts the doctor by an amazing stroke of luck has been able to
provide. The prize of one hundred and ten pounds will be divided
equally between him and Major Byles, unless there is any further
claim.’
No further claim was forthcoming. The chairman then announced that Mr
Matthews would preside at the next meeting, and read out the problem
set for the following month, called ‘The Win-and-Lose Problem,’ and
there was a general feeling that it would take some doing.
No. IV.