Petherby recommended route-marching; said he used to suffer from
sensations of repletion after heavy meals, just as I did, but, after a
series of Saturday afternoons spent in route-marching through our
picturesque hill country (Herne, Brixton, Denmark and so forth), the
distressing symptoms completely vanished, and he now felt as right as
a trivet.
I hadn't a ghost of a notion what a trivet was, nor yet what degree of
rectitude was expected of it; but I nevertheless determined to try the
route-march cure. Bismuth and pepsin should henceforth be drugs in the
market as far as I was concerned. The only doubt in my mind was
whether, technically speaking, I could perform a route-march all by
myself. Somehow I thought etiquette demanded the presence of a band,
or at any rate a drum and fife _obbligato_. But Petherby thought not,
and declared it would prove just as effective rendered as a solo.
"Besides," he added, "if you want music to invigorate you, you can
whistle or hum. Moreover, you can switch the music on or off at will."
I resolved to start the treatment the following Saturday afternoon,
and certainly should have done so but for the weather, which was very
moist. If there's one thing I hate more than dyspepsia it's
rheumatism. The next Saturday was fine--fine for a Saturday, that is;
but a well-meant gift of tickets for a _matinée_, which it would have
been churlish of me to refuse, robbed me of my prospective enjoyment.
However, Saturday of the week after was also fine. Nothing stood in
the way of my pleasurable tramp, and I determined to route-march home
from the City.
I spent two hours in ill-concealed impatience--the marker told me he
had never seen me put up such a poor game--waiting to see if the
weather would change. But as at the expiration of that time it had
apparently got stuck I decided to risk it.
Softly humming to myself, "Here we are again," I route-marched out of
the hotel into Bishopsgate in fine style, and got on to a bus bound
for the Bank (I did this to save time). Arrived at the Bank I took
another bus to Blackfriars (I did this to save more time. I thought it
would be nice to commence the march from the Embankment). When I
reached Blackfriars I remembered that all the big walks started from
the political end, so as I did not wish to assume any superiority
which I did not strictly possess I took the tram to Westminster. There
I alighted and was about to set off over Westminster Bridge when it
occurred to me that I hadn't had any tea. To route-march on an empty
stomach was, I felt sure, the height of folly. I therefore repaired to
a tea-shop in the vicinity, where I encountered young Pilkington. We
discussed KITCHENER and crumpets, training and tea, the KAISER and
cake, and with a little adroitness I managed to bring in the subject
of the medicinal value of route-marching. When I rose to go Pilkington
inquired my destination.
"Norbury," I told him.
"That's lucky," he said; "I shall be able to give you a lift in a taxi
as far as Kennington."
In vain I expostulated with him, and urged that I was route-marching,
not route-cabbing. But he wouldn't listen.
"Anyhow," he concluded, "it's most dangerous to march just after a
crumpet tea. Haven't you read your 'Infantry Training'?"
The upshot of the matter was that we taxied to Kennington, where at
last I managed to leave him. And then I began to feel tired. True, I
hadn't done any marching, but it was none the less true that I felt as
tired as if I had. However, I succeeded in struggling on for about
fifty yards (to the tune of HANDEL'S _Largo_), and then I boarded a
tram. It had only proceeded a quarter-of-a-mile or so when the current
failed and we all had to get out. I waited half-an-hour for a fresh
batch of current to arrive, but none came, and I realised that my best
course would be to walk to Brixton Station and procure a cab.
Accordingly, to the melody of "I don't expect to do it again for
months and months and months," I put my best foot foremost. It was a
moot point which of my two feet merited this distinction; they both
felt deplorably senile. Then it began to rain--no mere niggardly
sprinkling, but a lavish week-end cataclysm. I reached the station in
the condition known to chemists as a saturated solution, only to find
that there was not a cab on the rank. I was therefore compelled to
adopt the only means of transport left to me--to route-march home....
I ultimately staggered in at my gate at an advanced hour of the
evening to the strains of the opening bars of TSCHAIKOWSKY'S Pathetic
Symphony, whistled mentally. I was far beyond making the actual
physical effort.
That night I wrote a postcard to Petherby. It ran as follows:--"Have
just completed your course of treatment. Am cured."
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN AWFUL WARNING.
AUSTRIA (TO RUMANIA). "NOW, BE CAREFUL! REMEMBER WHAT I DID TO
SERBIA!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Territorial_ (_giving himself away to proprietor of
coal-heap_). "COULD YOU LEND US A BUCKET OF COAL UNTIL IT'S DARK?"]
* * * * *