I was rather glad to spend my eighteenth birthday in Germany, because I
knew my people would make a special effort in the matter of presents.
They did, and I turned the other girls at the _pension_ green with envy
when I wore them. The only thing that spoilt my day was that there was
nothing at all from Cecil, which was rather a blow.
However, the next morning I received an official document referring to a
parcel waiting for me at the Customs House, and lost no time in getting
there.
It was a long, low building, strewn with packing cases, cardboard boxes
and dirt, with a row of pigeon-holes--some big enough to take an
ostrich--on one side, and a counter defending a row of haughty officials
on the other. Several people were wandering aimlessly about, but no one
took the least notice of me, or appeared to realize I was in my
nineteenth year. So I approached an official in a green uniform with
brass buttons, standing behind the counter. He was tall and stout, and
his hair, being about one millimetre long, showed his head shining
through. He had a fierce fair moustache, and, owing to overwork or
influenza coming on, was perspiring freely.
Trusting he would prove more fatherly than he looked, I held out my
paper. He drew back haughtily, ejaculating: "_Nein!_" and jerked his
head towards a kind of letter-box on the counter. I pushed my paper in
the slot, hoping the etiquette of the thing was all right now; and, as
apparently it was, in his own good time he took the paper from the back
of the box, looked at it, glanced sternly at me, looked at the paper
again, and said severely:
"_Vee--ta--hay--ad?_"
I didn't know what he was driving at till I remembered my name was
Whitehead. So I replied, "_Ja_," thinking his pronunciation not bad for
the first shot. He turned to a pigeon-hole and laid a small square
parcel on the counter addressed to me in Cecil's scrawl. I held out my
hand, but he ignored it, and, picking up a fearsome-looking instrument
consisting of blades, hooks and points--which turned out to be the
official cutter--severed the silly little bit of string, unwrapped the
paper and disclosed a white wooden box with a sliding lid.
I bent forward, but he glared at me and moved it further away, slid back
the lid, removed some shavings and looked inside. His official manner
underwent a change; such a look of sudden human interest showed on his
fat clammy face that I thought he must have found some quite new kind of
sausage. But instead he drew out very gingerly a curious square black
box with a sloping front, two round holes at one side, and a handle at
the other. He put it down on the counter and glared at me.
"_Was ist das?_" he demanded.
"_Ich weiss nicht_," I replied, shaking my head.
It was clear he didn't believe me, and he kept it out of my reach,
turning it carefully about, and in response to a jerk of his chin two or
three of his colleagues came up and glared, first, at me, and than at
the suspicious object. However, he would not let them touch it, but,
squaring his chin and taking a deep breath, he turned the handle.
There was a faint ticking noise, but nothing happened, and I suggested
timidly that he should look through the peep-holes and see what was
going on inside. He frowned at my interference, but taking my advice all
the same, raised the box nearer his fierce eye and turned the handle
once more and with greater force. Instantly there was a loud whirr, and
a bright green trick-serpent leapt through the lid, caught him full on
the nose and sent him back sprawling among his packing cases, carrying
two of his friends with him.
I gave a bit of a squeak, but it was lost among the "_Ach Gotts_" and
"_Himmels_" all round me. Cecil in his wildest dreams had never hoped
for this. Whatever the consequences might be I meant to have my snake,
and while I was collecting it from the floor and cramming it back in the
box I discovered my defence.
Smiling my very best smile, I turned and faced the angry officials the
other side of the counter and, holding the box towards them, pointed to
three printed words underneath: "Made in Germany."
* * * * *
"The Prime Minister left Cupar by the 5.29 train.... The motor
arrived at the station at 5.55 and the party went in leisurely
fashion down the station steps."--_Glasgow Herald._
What it is to be a Prime Minister! Ordinary mortals arrive at 5.28 and
go down the steps three at a time.
* * * * *
"It is, of course, impossible to dogmatise without conclusive
evidence."--_Times._
You should hear our curate.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FIGHT FOR THE BANNER.
JOHN BULL. "THIS TIRES ME. WHY CAN'T YOU CARRY IT BETWEEN YOU? NEITHER
OF YOU CAN CARRY IT ALONE."]
[Illustration: "AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MOSES?"
"PLEASE, TEACHER, IT'S MY FIRST SUNDAY HERE AND I DON'T KNOW ANYBODY."]
* * * * *