‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the chairman, Lord Herngill, ‘you have been
required to purchase a copy of the current issue of _The Pig-Keepers’
Friend_. It is generally published on the seventh of every month, but
if the talented editor happens to be thinking about something else at
the time—as occasionally happens—it may come out a few days later. It
is published according to the law, but it cannot be said to court
circulation. It is exposed for sale in certain places, but I doubt if
any copy has been purchased by the general public for the last year—at
any rate, not until the members of this club went on the hunt for it.
How did you get on, Major Byles?’
‘Wish I’d never gone in for it,’ snapped the Major. ‘I told my regular
newsagent to get me a copy. He said he hadn’t heard of it, but would
make inquiries. At the end of a week he came to me with a story that,
as far as he had been able to learn, the paper had discontinued
publication a year before. I knew that was a lie, of course, and told
him so, and said I’d finished with him. There’s only one other
newsagent near me, and I had to go to him. His beastly boy leaves the
wrong papers at the house every morning, and seems to think I’m a
Socialist like himself. The end of it will be that I shall have to eat
my own words and go back to the other man. Destroys all discipline,
that kind of thing.’
Dr Alden, Pusely-Smythe, and several others had hunted trade lists and
directories in vain. Mr Matthews had lavished money on advertisements,
offering a sovereign for a copy of the current issue of _The
Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, and had received no reply.
Sir Charles Bunford had written to an old friend who held a high
position at the British Museum, asking him to get hold of some recent
number of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, and let him have the address at
which it was published. After some delay the friend replied that he
had seen a copy of the periodical, and that it appeared to be the work
of a lunatic, and that the address given in it was ‘The Impersonation
Society, Boswell Court, Fleet Street.’
‘It certainly looked to me,’ said Sir Charles, ‘as if I had got hold
of the right end of the stick. I found the office, which appeared to
occupy the whole of the top floor of the building. The name of the
society was painted on the outer door, and underneath was the legend,
“Hours, Ten to Four.” It was then eleven in the morning. I knocked and
rang, and could get no answer at all, and I could hear no sound of any
activity within. I came back at three in the afternoon with the same
result. I then sent a letter, saying that I required a copy of the
current number of the paper, and wished to know what amount I should
forward for the purpose; and to make it quite certain I enclosed a
stamped and addressed envelope. Well, I got a reply, with an illegible
signature. It said that no retail business was done at the office, but
that I could apply for the copy through the usual channels. I still
thought that I was on the right line, and gave the address to my
newsagent and set him to work. The answer he got was that the current
issue was out of print, all copies having been allocated. So there I
stuck.’
‘You came rather near to it, though,’ said the chairman. ‘Suppose we
shorten matters. Does any member claim to have won this competition?
Our friend Jimmy has been looking rather pleased with himself all the
evening.’
‘Have I?’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, I don’t mind admitting that I’ve jolly
good reason to be pleased with myself just now, quite apart from the
competition. I’ve won that too, as it happens. But I don’t take much
credit for it. Of course, you could say that it was due to the
improved habits and all that, and I suppose that was so, more or less,
but the fact remains that I wasn’t even thinking about the thing at
the time, and if I hadn’t forgotten my cigarette-case it would never
have happened. So if you don’t call it luck, what are you to call it?’
‘Mr Feldane,’ said the chairman, with great gravity, ‘you are
beginning your story at the wrong end—that is, with the criticism of
it. I must ask you to tell us simply what happened from the very
commencement, and as coherently as possible.’
‘Certainly,’ said Jimmy indulgently, ‘any old way that you happen to
fancy. Well, to start with, though as a matter of fact it had been
going on for more than a week before, they asked me to dine with them
at the house on Wimbledon Common. So naturally I jumped at it. I won’t
say I had always been addicted to the scenery of Wimbledon, but there
were certain private reasons.’
‘Private reasons for dining at Wimbledon?’ said Hesseltine
reflectively. ‘I think I know her name, don’t I?’
‘Wish you wouldn’t interrupt just at the moment when I’m being
coherent. I was going to dine at Wimbledon, and it takes some doing to
get there. My own little car was in hospital, and the natural way
seemed to be to take a taxi, and let it tick up the twopences until I
wanted to go back. Then I reflected that I had decided to give up all
silly extravagance, and on inquiry I found that there was a place
called Waterloo Station from which I could book to Wimbledon. So I did
so. I didn’t smoke on my way out, which must have been a kind of
absent-mindedness. It was on my way back that I found that I had
forgotten my cigarette-case. Now nothing makes you feel you must smoke
so much as the knowledge that you can’t. I hopped out at Vauxhall and
found a taxi right away—I’d got all the luck in the world that night.
I told the driver where to go and to stop at a tobacconist’s, and do
it soon. The shop he stopped at, in a back street off a side street,
didn’t look up to much, but I was desperate and ready to smoke
anything that was called a Turkish cigarette. Behind the counter I
found a fat, middle-aged man reading a book. He gave me something that
would do, took my money, and called me sir. But he was no more a
tobacconist than I am.
‘Tobacconists may do a lot of funny things, but they don’t read the
_Agamemnon_ of Æschylus in the original Greek, which is what this
blighter was doing. Nor do they have manicured nails and an Oxford
intonation—his attempt at a Cockney accent was one of the most
pathetic failures I’ve ever met. However, that’s not the point. The
point is that on the counter was a small pile of copies of the current
number of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_. The number consisted of sixteen
pages, and they were very small pages, and the price was one pound,
but I did not hesitate. I bought my copy, and I have it in my pocket
now. I’ll hand it up to our chairman. I’ve had a glance at it myself,
and I’m inclined to agree with that Museum johnnie. It’s got nothing
to do with pigs. It’s mostly poetry and the rest is foolishness. It
beats me altogether.’
The chairman examined the copy of the paper which had been handed to
him. ‘There is no doubt about it,’ he said. ‘This is a copy of the
current issue, and Mr Feldane assures us that he bought it. No other
claim is put forward. The club’s cheque for one hundred and ten pounds
will therefore be drawn to the order of Mr Feldane. Has any member
anything to add?’
‘I have,’ said Mr Matthews. ‘The whole thing wants clearing up, and I
hope our chairman will clear it. Is our problem-setter really a
lunatic? What is he doing with this weird paper of his? What’s the
Impersonation Society? Who was the over-educated tobacconist? We’d
like the whole story.’
And to this there was general assent.
‘I’ve no objection,’ said Lord Herngill. ‘Willy Bunting has empowered
me to tell you anything I like about him, including the truth. The
fact is that in this problem the members of this club have come up
against another organisation, the Impersonation Society, which is one
of Bunting’s curious inventions.
‘I first knew him as an undergraduate. I thought a good deal of his
ability both as a poet and as an amateur actor. He was also no end of
a lark. He was not a lunatic, but he had endless eccentricities. He
had no ambitions, a contempt for public opinion, and a determination
to do just as he liked. He was sent down for impersonating one of the
proctors. He was beautifully made up, and looked exactly like that
proctor, but he had the misfortune to meet the original in Trumpington
Street.
‘This disaster did not greatly trouble him. He had more money than was
good for him and was not intending to take up any profession. He came
to London, and shortly afterwards he started the Impersonation
Society. His theory was that the ordinary holiday is a mistake, and
that what a tired man or woman wants is not only a change of place but
a change of personality. In order to get a complete rest you must, for
the time being, be somebody else. You must dress and live like the
character you have assumed and you must even try to think like him. I
am by no means sure that there is not something to be said for the
idea. There must be plenty of people who think so, for the membership
of the society has increased every year, and includes some of the very
last people that you would expect to find in such an organisation.
‘For instance, the man that Jimmy found in the tobacconist’s shop in
the Vauxhall neighbourhood, is in reality the head master and
proprietor of a large and successful private school. All through
term-time he is treated with intense respect. Little boys call him
sir, and tremble before him. His assistant masters treat him with a
deference which they are probably very far from feeling. He lives in
an atmosphere of sickening and insincere flattery, and smoking is
strictly prohibited. So in his holiday he becomes a tobacconist’s
assistant, smokes all day, goes about in his shirt-sleeves, treats
customers with respect, is respected by nobody himself, professes no
more virtues than he really has, and thoroughly enjoys it. He says
that it keeps him sane. The shop itself is, of course, the property of
the society, and a resident manager trains those members who wish to
take a holiday there.
‘I should perhaps explain why Sir Charles Bunford was unable to obtain
entrance to the rooms of the society. He misinterpreted the legend on
the door. The hours are ten to four, but they are from ten at night to
four in the morning. I may add that it was once raided by the police,
to the intense disappointment of the police and to the great joy of
the members, particularly Willy Bunting.
‘But I must tell you something of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_. Willy’s
nearest relative is an irascible uncle, who told him that he was
wasting his life. Willy said that, on the contrary, he was enjoying
it. The uncle maintained that Willy did nothing, and Willy replied
that he wrote poetry. Then the indignant uncle did a foolish thing. He
said that he was prepared to bet a hundred pounds that Willy never had
a poem accepted by the editor of any existing periodical published in
London. Willy jumped at that bet. That moribund monthly, _The
Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ was at that time in the market. It had lost its
circulation and had never had advertisements. The wretched enthusiast
who had brought it into being was heartily sick of it. Willy offered a
fiver for it, which was more than it was worth, and instantly became
the proprietor. He then appointed himself editor, and in his editorial
capacity accepted one of his own poems and printed it in the next
issue. A prefatory note said that the editor had no doubt that the
weary pig-keeper would be glad to beguile his hours of leisure with
the following poem by his esteemed contributor, William Bunting. Willy
sent a copy of it to his uncle, received his hundred, and was cut out
of the uncle’s last will and testament.
‘Having acquired the magazine, Willy proceeded to make it the organ of
the Impersonation Society. He still printed his own poems in it, and
occasionally mine, but it was principally devoted to the cryptic
record of the many strange activities of the Impersonation Society.
The original title was retained, and occasional references to pigs and
pig-keeping will be found in it. For instance, in the current number
there are a number of spoof inquiries from agonised pig-keepers
seeking the expert advice of the editor in their difficulties. One of
them asks how, in the event of his pigs swarming, he is to know which
of them is the queen. The editor’s replies are humorous and in some
cases, I regret to say, Rabelaisian.
‘The present issue of the paper was on sale at the tobacconist’s. It
has also been offered in the public streets by a supposed newsvender
every day for the last month. The only copy purchased was bought by
Jimmy, who found it by accident. As the paper is sold only by members,
Mr Matthews will understand why his advertisements failed to get any
result. And now that I’ve answered your questions, I’d like to put one
to our prize-winner.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Jimmy.
‘How many times have you dined at Wimbledon in the last week?’
‘Four times, as it happens. You see, the views there over the Common
are really——’
‘You needn’t continue. You’ve said enough. I am sure that I may offer
you the hearty congratulations of the club on your engagement.’
‘Well, I’m blest,’ said Jimmy. ‘I am engaged, I’m pleased and proud to
say, but how on earth did you know?’
‘In many ways, and I’ll tell you one. Only one thing on earth could
have made you forget your cigarette-case.’
And naturally the next thing to do was to drink to the health of Jimmy
and his future bride. And it was done with great enthusiasm.
And here the chronicles of the Problem Club must come to an end. The
story of how Willy Bunting became a member of the club and
subsequently retired from it, and how the solution of one problem
brought the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe into the police-court, and how the
solution of another made Mr Matthews miss his dinner, and how a negro
failed to get into the club, and how a girl of seventeen was actually
elected—these things with many others must remain hidden in the club
archives.