DEAR MR. PUBLISHER--You won't remember me, though once I came
to your office with father to see you. You may recall the
circumstance, because it was the first day your son went to
college. I was quite a little chap then, and did not know what
it was to be the son of an author with the habit of making
people believe that he is writing about his own family, when
half the time he is just making up. Or, as like as not, it was
his own very self that did the things he blames on us. Anyway,
a fellow has to be pretty stiff on his pins and pretty handy
with his knuckles to be a good author's son in a big school. I
came through right-side-up, however, but sometimes it must come
hard on the little chaps.
You see, the fellows want to know all the time if you really
said or did some fool thing or other that father has stuffed
into the books, and of which you are as innocent as Abel was of
the murder of Cain. (He was. It's all right--only sounds rum!)
But of course a fellow does not go back on his father at
school. He can't afford to let anything like that pass. So of
course there's a row--sometimes bigger, sometimes shorter,
according to the length of time it takes the other fellow to
decide about crying, "Hold, enough!" as they do in plays. Or,
as we call it at school, "backing down."
Well, I put my time through at school, and by and by the
fellows got to know--that is, after several little difficulties
had been adjusted. Not that I like having to fight. It is right
to be patient just as long as ever you can. And then, when you
can't--why, the best way and the quickest is to let her rip.
Finish it good, once and for all. As father says, "Keep the
peace, my boy! But if the other fellow won't, why, make him!
First have your quarrel just, and then remember to open with
your left!"
Yes, of course, at school I back up what father has written,
every word. It is what I am there for, and I mean to do it.
That's playing the game. But what I did not bargain for was the
whole family chipping in, and making a kind of lop-sided,
ice-cream-freezer hero of a chap. Sis had no business with what
is _my_ business--about Cissy Carter, I mean. At any rate she
knows nothing about it really. Girls imagine all sorts of
nonsense, of course. You can't stop them imagining, and if you
think you can, why, you're a fool. That's all in the day's
work, and I am not whining. But with regard to anything or
person not "girlie-girl," I, Hugh John Picton Smith, give due
notice that the first chap who turns up to me anything that Sis
has imagined about Miss Cissy Carter, and especially about Miss
Elizabeth Fortinbras, is going to get a calm and peaceful
surprise--that may or may not confine him to his room for a day
or two, but which, in any case, will afford him matter for
reflection.
Oh, I don't in the least want to queer Sis, or to say that she
has put down anything not quite true, as far as _she_
understands it. It isn't that I did not _do_ these things. But
Sis being a girl, and the safety-valves of her
imagination-boiler shut tight, and "Full Steam Ahead"
ordered--why, I would rather have father on the job any day. He
at least only puts things down (or invents them). He does not
try to explain what's going on in a chap's inside. Besides, I
don't see that it is anybody's business--and after this, on the
whole, it had better not be. That "glacial reserve" (wasn't
it?) which Sis yarned about might break up, and somebody who
wasn't insured get hurt with the pieces. Please put this at the
end, Mr. Publisher, to prevent mistakes. And if ever I write a
book you shall publish it, and then at last the world will know
the right and the wrong of things. Excuse bad writing. Our
chaps played Smasherhampton on Saturday. It was pretty thick in
the second half. The Smashers got me down and rolled me about a
bit on the hardish ground. My arm is still in a sling, but it
will be all right for Saturday fortnight, when we play a return
on our own ground. _I_ am going to play a return match too, for
I know the fellow that did it.
(Signed) HUGH JOHN PICTON SMITH.
LETTER NO. 2. FROM CADET GEORGE PERCIVAL PICTON SMITH, R. N., ROYAL
NAVAL COLL., DARTBOURNE.
DEAR MR. PUBLISHER--You can print any ...[3] thing you like
about me--true or not, it does not matter. Only in the latter
case it will come a little dearer. I am called Toady Lion, and
I have stood this sort of thing ever since I can remember.
Though I must say father has been awfully decent about it, and
I got a Rudge-Whitworth "free-wheel" out of him two years
running on the strength of what you sent him. But there's no
hope of coming that with Sis, who is always "stony," anyway,
and won't believe what an awfully expensive place the Coll. is.
My "bike" is going to be awfully dangerous this year--that is,
if I don't get a new one somehow. It is only my second best,
and much too small for me. I might get killed, very likely, and
then you couldn't publish any more books about me! _I suppose
you don't feel as if you could_ ... No? That means "Yes," but
don't let on to father. For, you see, last summer, when I had
measles or something, I sold my best machine to a poor boy who
hadn't any. Just think of that--the cruelty of it! But as I
have never let my left hand know what my right hand does, I
don't want father to do so either. So you won't give me away.
(Signed) G. P. PICTON SMITH, R. N.
P. S.--I might get a pretty good one for a tenner, but if it
_could_ possibly run to fifteen, I know where I could pick up
an awfully swell "two-speed-gear" like what some of the masters
have at our Coll. But, dear Mr. Publisher, this is only a
suggestion.--T. Lion.
P. S. No. 2.--If _you_ did see your way to the 2-Speed, I tell
you what--you could make up any old thing you liked about
me--such as that I killed my grand-aunt Jane, and hid the
remains in my Black Sea Chest. I've got one, honor bright. Only
no grand-aunt Jane. So the crime could never, never be
discovered; and I would never deny it a bit, but back you up
like fun. Of course it is understood between gentlemen that
this last is on the two-speed-basis, as above.
T. LION,
Now Cadet G. P. Picton Smith, R. N.
(Postal Notes Preferred.)
[Footnote 3: The word "blooming" is scored out here, as being too
nautical for present publication.--Ed.]