I had done the second hole (from the vegetable-marrow frame to the
mulberry-tree) in two, and was about to proceed to the third hole by the
potting-shed when I thought I would go in and convey the glad news to
Joan. I found her seated at the table in the breakfast-room with what
appeared to be a heap of tea spread out upon a newspaper in front of
her. Little slips of torn tissue-paper littered the floor, and on a
chair by her side were several empty cardboard boxes. The sight was so
novel that I forgot the object of my errand.
"What's all that tea for, and what are you doing with it?" I asked.
"It isn't tea; it's tobacco," Joan replied, "and I'm making cigarettes
for the soldiers at the front."
"Where on earth did you get that tobacco from, if it _is_ tobacco?" I
went on.
"Let me see now," mused Joan, pausing to lick a cigarette-paper--"was it
from the greengrocer's or the butcher's? Ah! I remember. It was from the
tobacconist's."
Joan gets like that sometimes, but I do not encourage her.
"But what made you choose this Hottentot stuff?" I enquired.
"The soldiers like it strong," Joan replied, "and this looked about the
strongest he'd got."
"What does it call itself?"
"It was anonymous when I bought it, but you'll no doubt see its name on
the bill when it comes in."
"Thanks very much," I said. "That's what I should call forcible
fleecing. Not that I mind in a good cause----"
"Isn't it ingenious?" interrupted Joan. "You just put the tobacco in
between the rollers, and twiddle this button round until--until you've
twiddled it round enough; then you slip in a cigarette-paper--like
that--moisten the edge of it--twiddle the button round once more--open
the lid--and shake out the finished article--_comme ça!_"
An imperfect cylindrical object fell on to the floor. I stooped to pick
it up and the inside fell out. I collected the _débris_ in the palm of
my hand.
"How many of these have you made?" I asked.
"Only three thoroughly reliable ones, including _that_ one," she
replied. "I've rolled ever so many more, but the tobacco _will_ fall
out."
"Here, let me give you a hand," I suggested. "I'll roll and you lick."
"No," said Joan kindly but firmly. "You don't quite grasp the situation.
I want to do something. I can't make shirts or knit comforters. I've
tried and failed. My shirts look like pillow-cases, and anything more
comfortless than my comforters I couldn't imagine. I wouldn't ask a
beggar to wear an article I had made, much less an Absent-Minded
Beggar."
"What about that tie you knitted for me last Christmas?" I said.
"Yes," said Joan; "what about it? That's what I want to know. You
haven't worn it once."
It was true, I hadn't. The tie in question was an attempt to hybridise
the respective colour-schemes of a tartan plaid and a Neapolitan ice.
"That," I explained, "is because I've never had a suit which would set
it off as it deserves to be set off. However, if I can't help I won't
hinder you. I only came in to say that I had done the second hole in
two. I thought you would like to know I had beaten bogey." And I
retired, taking with me the little heap of tobacco and the hollow tube
of paper.
When I reached the seclusion of the mulberry-tree I found that the paper
had become ungummed, so I placed the tobacco in it and succeeded after a
while in rolling it up. The result, though somewhat attenuated, was
recognisably a cigarette. I lit it, and when I had finished coughing I
came to the conclusion that if only I could induce Joan to present her
gift to the German troops instead of to our Tommies it would precipitate
our ultimate triumph. I had to eat several mulberries before I felt
capable of proceeding to the third hole. When I got there (in two) I
found it occupied by a squadron of wasps while reinforcements were
rapidly coming up from a hole beneath the shed. Being hopelessly
outnumbered I contented myself with a strategical movement necessitating
several stiff rearguard actions.
* * *
Joan, growing a little more proficient, had in a couple of days made 500
cigarettes. I had undertaken to despatch them, and one morning she came
to me with a neatly-tied-up parcel.
"Here they are," she said; "but you must ask at the Post Office how they
should be addressed. I've stuck on a label."
I went out, taking the parcel with me, and walked straight to the
tobacconist's.
"Please pack up 1,000 Hareems," I said, "and post them to the British
Expeditionary Force. Mark the label 'Cigarettes for the use of the
troops.' And look here, I owe you for a pound of tobacco my wife bought
the other day. I'll square up for that at the same time. By-the-by, what
tobacco was it?"
"Well, Sir," the man replied, "I hardly like to admit it in these times,
but it was a tobacco grown in German East Africa. It really isn't fit to
smoke, and is only good for destroying wasps' nests or fumigating
greenhouses, which I thought your lady wanted it for, seeing as how she
picked it out for herself. Some ladies nowadays know as much about
tobacco as what we do."
I left the shop hurriedly. The problem of the disposal of Joan's
well-meaning gift was now solved. I returned home and furtively stole up
the side path into the garden. Under cover of the summer-house I undid
the parcel and proceeded rapidly to strip the paper from those of the
cigarettes that had not already become hollow mockeries. When I had
collected all the tobacco I went in search of the gardener, and
encountered him returning from one of his numerous meals.
"Wilkins," I said, "there is a wasps' nest on the third green, and here
is some special wasp-eradicator. Will you conduct the fumigation?"
As Joan and I were walking round the garden that evening before dinner
Joan said--
"I don't want to blush to find it fame, but--do you know--I prefer doing
good by stealth."
A faint but unmistakable odour was borne on the air from the direction
of the third green.
"So do I," I said.
* * * * *