"Ha! Someone has been sitting on it," cried Father William, snatching a
flattened object off the piano-stool in high irritation. "It's
abominable, you know," turning to me. "There are any number of cushions.
The house is stuffed with cushions. Why people should always pounce upon
this one and manhandle it in this way"--He put it on the table and began
punching and squeezing and puffing and smoothing it till it had expanded
to its full extent. Then he flicked the dust off it with his
handkerchief. "I'll put it back in its box under the sofa," he said. "I
can't understand how it ever got out."
He dropped into an armchair and instantly recovered his equanimity.
"And why should they spare that one?" I asked.
"That," said the old man solemnly, "is my bazaar cushion."
"I thought it looked as if it had escaped from a bazaar," said I.
"It came back only last night," he went on. "Are you a judge of
cushions? How do you like it? Pretty nice piece of work, eh?"
"Yes," said I cautiously. "Looks to me pretty well put together and all
that; but it's rather--well, hideous, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes," said Father William. "I suppose it's the colour you object
to. I confess it's a bit of an eyesore. But of course it has to be like
that. It's a case of protective colouring, you know."
I didn't quite follow his line of thought and there was a short pause.
"You would hardly think to look at it," the old man went on at last,
"that that cushion has stood between me and all the trials and
persecutions incidental to bazaars for nearly half a century. Perhaps
the plague is not quite so bad as it was in the old days when I was in
my first City parish, but I must say they were particularly active last
summer. They have taken to holding them outside now, with Chinese
lanterns, so that there is no close season at all. I had the wit at the
very outset to see that the thing must be grappled with. They used to
badger me in two separate ways. I was always expected to send some sort
of contribution--and then I had to go and buy things. That was the worst
of it. I used to dive about, harassed and pursued, searching in vain for
the price of my freedom, always confronted by smoking-caps and
impossible needlework. It was a fearful ordeal."
"I know," said I, with sympathy. "I know all about it."
"But I found a way out, thanks to my cushion. I bought it at a Sale of
Work for Waifs and Strays nearly forty-seven years ago, and I think you
will agree with me that it is a fairly good cushion yet. Of course it
has been re-covered more than once. It was getting altogether too well
known in Streatham at one time. It used to be blue with horrid little
silver spangles."
"And how does it work?"
"It is beautifully simple. I am told that a bazaar is contemplated and
asked if I will assist. Very well, I send my cushion. That is quite good
enough; no one would expect me to do more. Then I go, on the appointed
day, buy the cushion, and walk out with an enormous parcel for all the
world to see that I have done my duty. Then it goes back in its box. The
only bazaars that I am unable to assist are those which occur (as they
sometimes do) when my cushion happens to be out."
"And is it never sold?"
"Well, _look_ at it!" said Father William. "Of course it had to be of
such a nature that there was no danger of its going off too quick. I
used always to go early on the first day to make sure. But since the
last time it was re-covered I have had more confidence in its staying
powers. I find there is no particular hurry."
"Do you put a price on it?" I asked.
"Oh, no. I don't like to do that. That might put me in an awkward
position if it came out. But I find it fairly exciting on each occasion
to discover what I shall have to pay for it. It is generally more
expensive now than it used to be in the old days. I suppose it is the
rise in the cost of living. But I am seldom satisfied, either way. If it
is too cheap I naturally feel rather slighted, seeing that it was I who
sent it; and if it is too dear of course I am annoyed because I have to
buy it. And it fluctuates extraordinarily. I have more than once bought
it in at half-a-crown and come home burning with indignation, and, if
you will believe me, there was a blackguard at that big Sale of Work for
the Territorials in the autumn who had the effrontery to charge me a
guinea and a half. I was furious with him."
"I wish you would lend it to me, Father William," said I, after a pause.
"We are getting up a Jumble Sale in Little Sudbury."
"No," said Father William firmly, "no. Little Sudbury is barred. The
last time it was there on sale there was a very painful scene. I had
arrived rather late, I remember, and I found my cushion actually being
sold by auction along with a pair of worsted slippers and a woolly door
mat--in one lot. I thought it showed very poor taste. Besides, it is
already booked to appear six times in the next fortnight."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Dear Old Lady._ "You have a picture in the window marked
ten-and-six, by a Mr. Holbein. Could you tell me if that is an original
painting or merely a print?"]
* * * * *