WEDDED
[And now, dear readers, I am in a difficulty. How shall the story go on?
The editor of _The Seaside Library_ asks quite frankly for a murder.
His idea was that the Lady Beltravers should be found dead in the park
next morning and that Gwendolen should be arrested. This seems to me
both crude and vulgar. Besides I want a murder for No. XCIX of the
series--The Severed Thumb.
No, I think I know a better way out.]
* * * * *
Old John French sat beneath a spreading pear-tree and waited. Early that
morning a mysterious note had been brought to him, asking for an
interview on a matter of the utmost importance. This was the
trysting-place.
"I have come," said a voice behind him, "to ask you to beg your
daughter----"
"_I have come_" cried the Lady Beltravers, "_to ask you_----"
"I HAVE COME," shouted her ladyship, "TO----"
John French wheeled round in amazement. With a cry the Lady Beltravers
shrank back.
"Eustace," she gasped--"Eustace, Earl of Turbot!"
"Eliza!"
"What are you doing here? I came to see John French."
"What?" he asked, with his hand to his ear.
She repeated her remark loudly several times.
"I am John French," he said at last. "When you refused me and married
Beltravers I suddenly felt tired of Society; and I changed my name and
settled down here as a simple farmer. My daughter helps me on the farm."
"Then your daughter is----"
"Lady Gwendolen Hake."
* * * * *
A beautiful double wedding was solemnised at Beltravers in October, the
Earl of Turbot leading Eliza, Lady Beltravers, to the altar, while Lord
Beltravers was joined in matrimony to the beautiful Lady Gwendolen Hake.
There were many presents on both sides, which partook equally of the
beautiful and the costly.
Lady Gwendolen Beltravers is now the most popular hostess in the county;
but to her husband she always seems the simple English milkmaid that he
first thought her. Ah!
OUT-OF-DOORS
XXII. THE FIRST OF SPRING
There may be gardeners who can appear to be busy all the year
round--doing even in the winter, their little bit under glass. But for
myself I wait reverently until the 22nd of March is here. Then, Spring
having officially arrived, I step out on to the lawn and summon my
head-gardener.
"James," I say, "the winter is over at last. What have we got in that
big brown-looking bed in the middle there?"
"Well, Sir," he says, "we don't seem to have anything do we, like?"
"Perhaps there's something down below that hasn't pushed through yet?"
"Maybe there is."
"I wish you knew more about it," I say angrily; "I want to bed out the
macaroni there. Have we got a spare bed, with nothing going on
underneath?"
"I don't know, Sir. Shall I dig 'em up and have a look?"
"Yes, perhaps you'd better," I say.
Between ourselves, James is a man of no initiative. He has to be told
everything.
However mention of him brings me to my first rule for young gardeners--
"_Never sow Spring Onions and New
Potatoes in the same bed._"
I did this by accident last year. The fact is, when the onions were
given to me, I quite thought they were young daffodils; a mistake any
one might make. Of course I don't generally keep daffodils and potatoes
together; but James swore that the hard round things were tulip bulbs.
It is perfectly useless to pay your head-gardener half-a-crown a week if
he doesn't know the difference between potatoes and tulip bulbs. Well,
anyhow, there they were, in the Herbaceous Border together, and they
grew up side by side; the onions getting stronger every day, and the
potatoes more sensitive. At last, just when they were ripe for picking,
I found that the young onions had actually brought tears to the eyes of
the potatoes--to such an extent that the latter were too damp for baking
or roasting, and had to be mashed. Now, as everybody knows, mashed
potatoes are beastly.
THE RHUBARB BORDER
gives me more trouble than all the rest of the garden. I started it a
year ago with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations. It
acted excellently, and the complexion of the flowers improved tenfold.
Then one day I discovered James busily engaged in pulling up the
rhubarb.
"What are you doing?" I cried. "Do you want the young carnations to go
all brown?"
"I was going to send some in to the cook," he grumbled.
"To the cook! What do you mean? Rhubarb isn't a vegetable."
"No, it's a fruit."
I looked at James anxiously. He had a large hat on, and the sun couldn't
have got to the back of his neck.
"My dear James," I said, "I don't pay you half-a-crown a week for being
funny. Perhaps we had better make it two shillings in future."
However, he persisted in his theory that in the spring people stewed
rhubarb in tarts, and ate it!
Well, I have discovered since that this is actually so. People really do
grow it in their gardens, not with the idea of keeping the sun off the
young carnations, but under the impression that it is a fruit.
Consequently I have found it necessary to adopt a firm line with my
friends' rhubarb. On arriving at any house for a visit, the first thing
I say to my host is, "May I see your rhubarb bed? I have heard such a
lot about it."
"By all means," he says, feeling rather flattered, and leads the way
into the garden.
"What a glorious sunset," I say, pointing to the west.
"Isn't it?" he says, turning round; and then I surreptitiously drop a
pint of weed-killer on the bed.
Next morning I get up early and paint the roots of the survivors with
iodine.
Once my host, who for some reason had got up early too, discovered me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Just painting the roots with iodine," I said, "to prevent the rhubarb
falling out."
"To prevent what?"
"To keep the green fly away," I corrected myself. "It's the new French
intensive system."
But he was suspicious, and I had to leave two or three stalks untreated.
We had those for lunch that day. There was only one thing for a
self-respecting man to do. I obtained a large plateful of the weed and
emptied the sugar basin and cream jug over it. Then I took a mouthful of
the pastry, gave a little start, and said, "Oh, is this rhubarb? I'm
sorry, I didn't know." Whereupon I pushed my plate away and started on
the cheese.
ASPARAGUS
Asparagus wants watching very carefully. It requires to be tended like a
child. Frequently I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if
James has remembered to put the hot-water bottle in the asparagus bed.
Whenever I get up to look I find that he has forgotten.
He tells me to-day that he is beginning to think that the things which
are coming up now are not asparagus after all, but young hyacinths. This
is very annoying. I am inclined to fancy that James is not the man he
was. For the sake of his reputation in the past I hope he is not.
POTTING OUT
I have spent a very busy morning potting out the nasturtiums. We have
them in three qualities, mild, medium, and full. Nasturtiums are
extremely peppery flowers, and take offence so quickly that the utmost
tact is required to pot them successfully. In a general way all the red
or reddish flowers should be potted as soon as they are old enough to
stand it, but it is considered bad form among horticulturists to pot the
white.
James has been sowing the roses. I wanted all the pink ones in one bed,
and all the yellow ones in another, and so on; but James says you never
can tell for certain what colour a flower is going to be until it comes
up. Of course, any fool could tell then.
"You should go by the picture on the outside of the packet," I said.
"They're very misleading," said James.
"Anyhow, they must be all brothers in the same packet."
"You might have a brother with red hair," says James.
I hadn't thought of that.
GRAFTING
Grafting is when you try short approaches over the pergola in somebody
else's garden, and break the best tulip. You mend it with a ha'penny
stamp and hope that nobody will notice; at any rate not until you have
gone away on the Monday. Of course in your own garden you never want to
graft.
I hope, at some future time to be allowed--even encouraged--to refer to
such things as The Most Artistic Way to Frame Cucumbers, How to Stop
Tomatoes Blushing (the homoeopathic method of putting them next to the
French beans is now discredited), and Spring Fashions in Fox Gloves. But
for the moment I have said enough. The great thing to remember in
gardening is that flowers, fruits and vegetables alike can only be
cultivated with sympathy. Special attention should be given to backward
and delicate plants. They should be encouraged to make the most of
themselves. Never forget that flowers, like ourselves, are particular
about the company they keep. If a hyacinth droops in the celery bed, put
it among the pansies.
But above all, mind, a firm hand with the rhubarb.
XXIII. THE COMING OF THE CROCUS
"It's a bootiful day again, Sir," said my gardener, James, looking in at
the study window.
"Bootiful, James, bootiful," I said, as I went on with my work.
"You might almost say as Spring was here at last, like."
"Cross your fingers quickly, James, and touch wood. Look here, I'll be
out in a minute and give you some orders, but I'm very busy just now."
"Thought you'd like to know there's eleven crocuses in the front
garden."
"Then send them away--we've got nothing for them."
"Crocuses," shouted James.
I jumped up eagerly and climbed through the window.
"My dear man," I said, shaking him warmly by the hand, "this is indeed a
day. Crocuses! And in the front gar--on the South Lawn! Let us go and
gaze at them."
There they were--eleven of them. Six golden ones, four white, and a
little mauve chap.
"This is a triumph for you, James. It's wonderful. Has anything like
this ever happened to you before?"
"There'll be some more up to-morrow, I won't say as not."
"Those really are growing, are they? You haven't been pushing them in
from the top? They were actually born on the estate?"
"There'll be a fine one in the back bed soon," said James proudly.
"In the back--my dear James! In the spare bed on the North-east terrace,
I suppose you mean? And what have we done in the Dutch Ornamental
Garden?"
"If I has to look after ornamental gardens and South aspics and all, I
ought to have my salary raised," said James, still harping on his one
grievance.
"By all means raise some celery," I said coldly. "Take the spade and
raise some for lunch. I shall be only too delighted."
"This here isn't the season for celery, as you know well. This here's
the season for crocuses, as any one can see if they use their eyes."
"James, you're right. Forgive me. It is no day for quarrelling."
It was no day for working either. The sun shone upon the close-cropped
green of the deer park, the sky was blue above the rose garden, in the
tapioca grove a thrush was singing. I walked up and down my estate and
drank in the good fresh air.
"James!" I called to my head-gardener.
"What is it now?" he grumbled.
"Are there no daffodils, to take the winds of March with beauty?"
"There's these eleven croc----"
"But there should be daffodils, too. Is not this March?"
"It may be March, but 'tisn't the time for daffodils--not on three
shillings a week."
"Do you only get three shillings a week? I thought it was three
shillings an hour."
"Likely an hour!"
"Ah well, I knew it was three shillings. Do you know, James, in the
Scilly Islands there are fields and fields and fields of nodding
daffodils out now."
"Lor'!" said James.
"Did you say 'lor'' or 'liar'?" I asked suspiciously.
"To think of that now," said James cautiously.
He wandered off to the tapioca grove, leant against it in thought for a
moment, and came back to me.
"What's wrong with this little bit of garden--this here park," he began,
"is the soil. It's no soil for daffodils. Now what daffodils like is
clay."
"Then for heaven's sake get them some clay. Spare no expense. Get them
anything they fancy."
"It's too alloovial--that's what's the matter. Too alloovial. Now
crocuses like a bit of alloovial. That's where you have it."
The matter with James is that he hasn't enough work to do. The rest of
the staff is so busily employed that it is hardly ever visible. William,
for instance, is occupied entirely with what I might call the poultry;
it is his duty, in fact, to see that there are always enough ants' eggs
for the gold-fish. All these prize Leghorns you hear about are the
merest novices compared with William's _protegées_. Then John looks
after the staggery; Henry works the coloured fountain; and Peter paints
the peacocks' tails. This keeps them all busy, but James is for ever
hanging about.
"Almost seems as if they were yooman," he said, as we stood and listened
to the rooks.
"Oh, are you there, James? It's a beautiful day. Who said that first? I
believe you did."
"Them there rooks always make a place seem so home-like. Rooks and
crocuses I say; and you don't want anything more."
"Yes; well, if the rooks want to build in the raspberry canes this year,
let them, James. Don't be inhospitable."
"Course, some do like to see primroses, I don't say. But----"
"Primroses--I knew there was something. Where are they?"
"It's too early for them," said James hastily. "You won't get primroses
now before April."
"Don't say 'now,' as if it were my fault. Why didn't you plant them
earlier? I don't believe you know any of the tricks of your profession,
James. You never seem to graft anything or prune anything, and I'm sure
you don't know how to cut a slip. James, why don't you prune more? Prune
now--I should like to watch you. Where's your pruning-hook? You can't
possibly do it with a rake."
James spends most of his day with a rake--sometimes leaning on it,
sometimes working with it. The beds are always beautifully kept. Only
the most hardy annual would dare to poke his head up and spoil the
smooth appearance of the soil. For those who like circles and rectangles
of unrelieved brown, James is undoubtedly the man.
As I stood in the sun I had a brilliant idea.
"James," I said, "we'll cut the croquet lawn this afternoon."
"You can't play croquet to-day, it's not warm enough."
"I don't pay you to argue, but to obey. At the same time I should like
to point out that I never said I was going to play croquet. I said that
we, meaning you, would cut the lawn."
"What's the good of that?"
"Why, to encourage the wonderful day, of course. Where is your
gratitude, man? Don't you want to do something to help? How can we let a
day like this go past without some word of welcome? Out with the mower,
and let us hail the passing of winter."
James looked at me in disgust.
"Gratitude!" he said indignantly to Heaven. "And there's my eleven
crocuses in the front all a-singing together like anything on three bob
a week!"
XXIV. THE LANDSCAPE GARDENER
Really I know nothing about flowers. By a bit of luck, James, my
gardener, whom I pay half-a-crown a week for combing the beds, knows
nothing about them either; so my ignorance remains undiscovered. But in
other people's gardens I have to make something of an effort to keep up
appearances. Without flattering myself I may say that I have acquired a
certain manner; I give the impression of the garden lover, or the man
with shares in a seed-company, or--or something.
For instance, at Creek Cottage, Mrs. Atherley will say to me, "That's an
_Amphilobertus Gemini_," pointing to something which I hadn't noticed
behind a rake.
"I am not a bit surprised," I say calmly.
"And a _Gladiophinium Banksii_ next to it."
"I suspected it," I confess in a hoarse whisper.
Towards flowers whose names I know I adopt a different tone.
"Aren't you surprised to see daffodils out so early?" says Mrs. Atherley
with pride.
"There are lots out in London," I mention casually. "In the shops."
"So there are grapes," says Miss Atherley.
"I was not talking about grapes," I reply stiffly.
However at Creek Cottage just now I can afford to be natural; for it is
not gardening which comes under discussion these days, but
landscape-gardening, and any one can be an authority on that. The
Atherleys, fired by my tales of Sandringham, Chatsworth, Arundel, and
other places where I am constantly spending the week-end, are
re-adjusting their two-acre field. In future it will not be called "the
garden," but "the grounds."
I was privileged to be shown over the grounds on my last visit to Creek
Cottage.
"Here," said Mrs. Atherley, "we are having a plantation. It will keep
the wind off; and we shall often sit here in the early days of summer.
That's a weeping ash in the middle. There's another one over there.
They'll be lovely, you know."
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a bit of black stick on the left;
which, even more than the other trees, gave the impression of having
been left there by the gardener while he went for his lunch.
"That's a weeping willow."
"This is rather a tearful corner of the grounds," apologised Miss
Atherley. "We'll show you something brighter directly. Look
there--that's the oak in which King Charles lay hid. At least, it will
be when it's grown a bit."
"Let's go on to the shrubbery," said Mrs. Atherley. "We are having a new
grass path from here to the shrubbery. It's going to be called Henry's
Walk."
Miss Atherley has a small brother called Henry. Also there were eight
Kings of England called Henry. Many a time and oft one of those nine
Henrys has paced up and down this grassy walk, his head bent, his hands
clasped behind his back; while behind his furrowed brow, who shall say
what world-schemes were hatching? Is it the thought of Wolsey which
makes him frown--or is he wondering where he left his catapult? Ah! who
can tell us? Let us leave a veil of mystery over it ... for the sake of
the next visitor.
"The shrubbery," said Mrs. Atherley proudly, waving her hand at a couple
of laurel bushes, and a--I've forgotten its name now, but it is one of
the few shrubs I really know.
"And if you're a gentleman," said Miss Atherley, "and want to get asked
here again, you'll always _call_ it the shrubbery."
"Really, I don't see what else you could call it," I said, wishing to be
asked down again.
"The patch."
"True," I said. "I mean, Nonsense."
I was rather late for breakfast next morning; a pity on such a lovely
spring day.
"I'm so sorry," I began, "but I was looking at the shrubbery from my
window and I quite forgot the time."
"Good," said Miss Atherley.
"I must thank you for putting me in such a perfect room for it," I went
on, warming to my subject. "One can actually see the
shrubs--er--shrubbing. The plantation too seems a little thicker to me
than yesterday."
"I expect it is."
"In fact, the tennis lawn----" I looked round anxiously. I had a sudden
fear that it might be the new deer-park. "It still is the tennis lawn?"
I asked.
"Yes. Why, what about it?"
"I was only going to say the tennis lawn had quite a lot of shadows on
it. Oh, there's no doubt that the plantation is really asserting
itself."
Eleven o'clock found me strolling in the grounds with Miss Atherley.
"You know," I said, as we paced Henry's Walk together, "the one thing
the plantation wants is for a bird to nest in it. That is the hallmark
of a plantation."
"It's Mother's birthday to-morrow. Wouldn't it be a lovely surprise for
her?"
"It would indeed. Unfortunately this is a matter in which you require
the co-operation of a feathered friend."
"Couldn't you try to persuade a bird to build a nest in the weeping ash?
Just for this once."
"You're asking me a very difficult thing," I said doubtfully. "Anything
else I would do cheerfully for you; but to dictate to a bird on such a
very domestic affair---- No, I'm afraid I must refuse."
"It need only just begin to build one," pleaded Miss Atherley, "because
Mother's going up town by your train to-morrow. As soon as she's out of
the house the bird can go back to anywhere else it likes better."
"I will put that to any bird I see to-day," I said, "but I am doubtful."
"Oh, well," sighed Miss Atherley, "never mind."
* * * * *
"What do you think?" cried Mrs. Atherley as she came in to breakfast
next day. "There's a bird been nesting in the plantation!"
Miss Atherley looked at me in undisguised admiration. I looked quite
surprised--I know I did.
"Well, well!" I said.
"You must come out afterwards and see the nest and tell me what bird it
is. There are three eggs in it. I am afraid I don't know much about
these things."
"I'm glad," I said thankfully. "I mean, I shall be glad to."
We went out eagerly after breakfast. On about the only tree in the
plantation with a fork to it a nest balanced precariously. It had in it
three pale-blue eggs splotched with light-brown. It appeared to be a
black-bird's nest with another egg or two to come.
"It's been very quick about it," said Miss Atherley.
"Of our feathered bipeds," I said, frowning at her, "the blackbird is
notoriously the most hasty."
"Isn't it lovely?" said Mrs. Atherley.
She was still talking about it as she climbed into the trap which was to
take us to the station.
"One moment," I said, "I've forgotten something." I dashed into the
house and out by a side door, and then sprinted for the plantation. I
took the nest from the weeping and overweighted ash and put it carefully
back in the hedge by the tennis-lawn. Then I returned more leisurely to
the house.
If ever you want a job of landscape-gardening thoroughly well done, you
can always rely upon me.
XXV. PAT-BALL
"You'll play tennis?" said my hostess absently. "That's right. Let me
introduce you to Miss--er--um."
"Oh, we've met before," smiled Miss--I've forgotten the name again now.
"Thank you," I said gratefully. I thought it was extremely nice of her
to remember me. Probably I had spilt lemonade over her at a dance, and
in some way the incident had fixed itself in her mind. We do these
little things, you know, and think nothing of them at the moment, but
all the time----
"Smooth," said a voice.
I looked up and found that a pair of opponents had mysteriously
appeared, and that my partner was leading the way on to the court.
"I'll take the right-hand side, if you don't mind," she announced. "Oh,
and what about apologising?" she went on. "Shall we do it after every
stroke, or at the end of each game, or when we say good-bye, or never?
I get so tired of saying 'sorry.'"
"Oh, but we shan't want to apologise; I'm sure we're going to get on
beautifully together."
"I suppose you've played a lot this summer?"
"No, not at all yet, but I'm feeling rather strong, and I've got a new
racquet. One way and another, I expect to play a very powerful game."
Our male opponent served. He had what I should call a nasty swift
service. The first ball rose very suddenly and took my partner on the
side of the head. ("Sorry," she apologised. "It's all right," I said
magnanimously.) I returned the next into the net; the third clean bowled
my partner; and off the last I was caught in the slips. (_One, love._)
"Will you serve?" said Miss--I wish I could remember her surname. Her
Christian name was Hope or Charity or something like that; I know, when
I heard it, I thought it was just as well. If I might call her Miss Hope
for this once? Thank you.
"Will you serve?" said Miss Hope.
In the right-hand court I use the American service, which means that I
never know till the last moment which side of the racquet is going to
hit the ball. On this occasion it was a dead heat--that is to say, I got
it in between with the wood; and the ball sailed away over beds and beds
of the most beautiful flowers.
"Oh, is _that_ the American service?" said Miss Hope, much interested.
"South American," I explained. "Down in Peru they never use anything
else."
In the left-hand court I employ the ordinary Hampstead Smash into the
bottom of the net. After four Hampstead Smashes and four Peruvian
Teasers (_love, two_) I felt that another explanation was called for.
"I've got a new racquet I've never used before," I said. "My old one is
being pressed; it went to the shop yesterday to have the creases taken
out. Don't you find that with a new racquet you--er--exactly."
In the third game we not only got the ball over the net but kept it
between the white lines on several occasions--though not so often as our
opponents (_three, love_); and in the fourth game Miss Hope served
gentle lobs, while I, at her request, stood close up to the net and
defended myself with my racquet. I warded off the first two shots amidst
applause (_thirty, love_), and dodged the next three (_thirty, forty_),
but the last one was too quick for me and won the cocoanut with some
ease. (_Game. Love, four._)
"It's all right, thanks," I said to my partner; "it really doesn't hurt
a bit. Now then, let's buck up and play a simply dashing game."
Miss Hope excelled herself in that fifth game, but I was still unable to
find a length. To be more accurate, I was unable to find a shortness--my
long game was admirably strong and lofty.
"Are you musical?" said my partner at the end of it. (_Five, love._) She
had been very talkative all through.
"Come, come," I said impatiently, "you don't want a song at this very
moment. Surely you can wait till the end of the set?"
"Oh, I was only just wondering."
"I quite see your point. You feel that Nature always compensates us in
some way, and that as----"
"Oh, no!" said Miss Hope in great confusion. "I didn't mean that at
all."
She must have meant it. You don't talk to people about singing in the
middle of a game of tennis; certainly not to comparative strangers who
have only spilt lemonade over your frock once before. No, no. It was an
insult, and it nerved me to a great effort. I discarded--for it was my
serve--the Hampstead Smash; I discarded the Peruvian Teaser. Instead, I
served two Piccadilly Benders from the right-hand court and two
Westminster Welts from the left-hand. The Piccadilly Bender is my own
invention. It can only be served from the one court, and it must have a
wind against it. You deliver it with your back to the net, which makes
the striker think that you have either forgotten all about the game, or
else are apologising to the spectators for your previous exhibition.
Then with a violent contortion you slue your body round and serve,
whereupon your opponent perceives that you _are_ playing, and that it is
just one more ordinary fault into the wrong court. So she calls "Fault!"
in a contemptuous tone and drops her racquet ... and then adds
hurriedly, "Oh, no, sorry, it wasn't a fault, after all." That being
where the wind comes in.
The Westminster Welt is in theory the same as the Hampstead Smash, but
goes over the net. One must be in very good form (or have been recently
insulted) to bring this off.
Well, we won that game, a breeze having just sprung up; and, carried
away by enthusiasm and mutual admiration, we collected another. (_Five,
two._) Then it was Miss Hope's serve again.
"Good-bye," I said; "I suppose you want me in the forefront again?"
"Please."
"I don't mind _her_ shots--the bottle of scent is absolutely safe; but
I'm afraid he'll win another packet of woodbines."
Miss Hope started off with a double, which was rather a pity, and then
gave our masculine adversary what is technically called "one to kill." I
saw instinctively that I was the one, and I held my racquet ready with
both hands. Our opponent, who had been wanting his tea for the last two
games, was in no mood of dalliance; he fairly let himself go over this
shot. In a moment I was down on my knees behind the net ... and the next
moment I saw through the meshes a very strange thing. The other man,
with his racquet on the ground, was holding his eye with both hands!
"Don't you think," said Miss Hope (_two, five--abandoned_) "that your
overhead volleying is just a little severe?"
XXVI. TEN AND EIGHT
The only event of importance last week was my victory over Henry by ten
and eight. If you don't want to hear about that, then I shall have to
pass on to you a few facts about his motor-bicycle. You'd rather have
the other? I thought so.
The difference between Henry and me is that he is what I should call a
good golfer, and I am what everybody else calls a bad golfer. In
consequence of this he insults me with offers of bisques.
"I'll have ten this time," I said, as we walked to the tee.
"Better have twelve. I beat you with eleven yesterday."
"Thank you," I said haughtily, "I will have ten." It is true that he
beat me last time, but then owing to bad management on my part I had
nine bisques left at the moment of defeat simply eating their heads off.
Henry teed up and drove a "Pink Spot" out of sight. Henry swears by the
"Pink Spot" if there is anything of a wind. I use either a "Quo Vadis,"
which is splendid for going out of bounds, or an "Ostrich," which has a
wonderful way of burying itself in the sand. I followed him to the green
at my leisure.
"Five," said Henry.
"Seven," said I; "and if I take three bisques it's my hole."
"You must only take one at a time," protested Henry.
"Why? There's nothing in Baedeker about it. Besides, I will only take
one at a time if it makes it easier for you. I take one, and that brings
me down to six, and then another one and that brings me down to five,
and then another one and that brings me down to four. There! And as you
did the hole in five, I win."
"Well, of course, if you like to waste them all at the start----"
"I'm not wasting them, I'm creating a moral effect. Behold, I have won
the first hole; let us be photographed together."
Henry went to the next tee slightly ruffled and topped his ball into the
road. I had kept mine well this side of it and won in four to five.
"I shan't take any bisques here," I said. "Two up."
At the third tee my "Quo Vadis" darted off suddenly to the left and
tried to climb the hill. I headed it off and gave it a nasty dent from
behind when it wasn't looking, and with my next shot started it rolling
down the mountains with ever-increasing velocity. Not until it was
within a foot of the pin did it condescend to stop. Henry, who had
reached the green with his drive and had taken one putt too many, halved
the hole in four. I took a bisque and was three up.
The fourth hole was prettily played by both of us, and with two bisques
I had it absolutely stiff. Unnerved by this, Henry went all out at the
fifth and tried to carry the stream in two. Unfortunately (I mean
unfortunately for him) the stream was six inches too broad in the
particular place at which he tried to carry it. My own view is that he
should either have chosen another place or else have got a narrower
stream from somewhere. As it was I won in an uneventful six, and took
with a bisque the short hole which followed.
"Six up," I pointed out to Henry, "and three bisques left. They're jolly
little things, bisques, but you want to use them quickly. _Bisque dat
qui cito dat._ Doesn't the sea look ripping to-day?"
"Go on," growled Henry.
"I once did a two at this hole," I said, as I teed my ball. "If I did a
two now and took a bisque, you'd have to do it in nothing in order to
win. A solemn thought."
At this hole you have to drive over a chasm in the cliffs. My ball made
a bee line for the beach, bounced on a rock, and disappeared into a
cave. Henry's "Pink Spot," which really seemed to have a chance of
winning a hole at last, found the wind too much for it and followed me
below.
"I'm in this cave," I said, when we had found Henry's ball; and with a
lighted match in one hand and a niblick in the other I went in and tried
to persuade the "Ostrich" to come out. My eighth argument was too much
for it, and we reappeared in the daylight together.
"How many?" I asked.
"Six," he said, as he hit the top of the cliff once more, and shot back
on to the beach.
I left him and chivied my ball round to where the cliffs are lowest;
then I got it gradually on to a little mound of sand (very delicate
work, this), took a terrific swing and fairly heaved it on to the
grass. Two more strokes put me on to the green in twenty. I lit a pipe
and waited for Henry to finish his game of rackets.
"I've played twenty-five," he shouted.
"Then you'll want some of my bisques," I said. "I can lend you three
till Monday."
Henry had one more rally and then picked his ball up. I had won seven
holes and I had three bisques with which to win the match. I was a
little doubtful if I could do this, but Henry settled the question by
misjudging yet again the breadth of the stream. What is experience if it
teaches us nothing? Henry must really try to enlarge his mind about
rivers.
"Dormy nine," I said at the tenth tee, "and no bisques left."
"Thank Heaven for that," sighed Henry.
"But I have only to halve one hole out of nine," I pointed out.
"Technically I am on what is known as velvet."
"Oh, shut up and drive."
I am a bad golfer, but even bad golfers do holes in bogey now and then.
In the ordinary way I was pretty certain to halve one of the nine holes
with Henry, and so win the match. Both the eleventh and the seventeenth,
for instance, are favourites of mine. Had I halved one of those, he
would have admitted cheerfully that I had played good golf and beaten
him fairly. But as things happened----
What happened, put quite briefly, was this. Bogey for the tenth is four.
I hooked my drive off the tee and down a little gully to the left, put a
good iron shot into a bunker on the right, and then ran down a
hundred-yard putt with a niblick for a three. One of those difficult
down-hill putts.
"Luck!" said Henry, as soon as he could speak.
"I've been missing those lately," I said.
"Your match," said Henry; "I can't play against luck like that."
It was true that he had given me ten bisques, but, on the other hand, I
could have given him a dozen at the seventh and still have beaten him.
However, I was too magnanimous to point that out. All I said was, "Ten
and eight."
And then I added thoughtfully, "I don't think I've ever won by more than
that."
XXVII. AN INLAND VOYAGE
Thomas took a day off last Monday in order to play golf with me. For
that day the Admiralty had to get along without Thomas. I tremble to
think what would have happened if war had broken out on Monday. Could a
Thomasless Admiralty have coped with it? I trow not. Even as it was,
battleships grounded, crews mutinied, and several awkward questions in
the House of Commons had to be postponed till Tuesday.
Something--some premonition of this, no doubt--seemed to be weighing on
him all day.
"Rotten weather," he growled, as he came up the steps of the club.
"I'm very sorry," I said. "I keep on complaining to the secretary about
it. He does his best."
"What's that?"
"He taps the barometer every morning, and says it will clear up in the
afternoon. Shall we go out now, or shall we give it a chance to stop?"
Thomas looked at the rain and decided to let it stop. I made him as
comfortable as I could. I gave him a drink, a cigarette, and _Mistakes
with the Mashie_. On the table at his elbow I had in reserve _Faulty
Play with the Brassy_ and a West Middlesex Directory. For myself I
wandered about restlessly, pausing now and again to read enviously a
notice which said that C.D. Topping's handicap was reduced from 24 to
22. Lucky man!
At about half-past eleven the rain stopped for a moment, and we hurried
out.
"The course is a little wet," I said apologetically, as we stood on the
first tee, "but with your naval experience you won't mind that. By the
way, I ought to warn you that this isn't all casual water. Some of it is
river."
"How do you know which is which?"
"You'll soon find out. The river is much deeper. Go on--your drive."
Thomas won the first hole very easily. We both took four to the green.
Thomas in addition having five splashes of mud on his face while I only
had three. Unfortunately the immediate neighbourhood of the hole was
under water. Thomas, the bounder, had a small heavy ball which he
managed to sink in nine. My own, being lighter, refused to go into the
tin at all, and floated above the hole in the most exasperating way.
"I expect there's a rule about it," I said, "if we only knew, which
gives me the match. However, until we find that out, I suppose you must
call yourself one up."
"I shall want some dry socks for lunch," he muttered, as he splashed off
to the tee.
"Anything you want for lunch you can have, my dear Thomas. I promise you
that you shall not be stinted. The next green is below sea level
altogether, I'm afraid. The first in the water wins."
Honours, it turned out, were divided. I lost the hole, and Thomas lost
his ball. The third tee having disappeared, we moved on to the fourth.
"There's rather a nasty place along here," I said. "The secretary was
sucked in the other day, and only rescued by the hair."
Thomas drove a good one. I topped mine badly, and it settled down in the
mud fifty yards off. "Excuse me," I shouted, as I ran quickly after it,
and I got my niblick on to it, just as it was disappearing. It was a
very close thing.
"Well," said Thomas, as he reached his ball, "that's not what I call a
brassy lie."
"It's what we call a corkscrew lie down here," I explained. "If you
haven't got a corkscrew you'd better dig round it with something, and
then when the position is thoroughly undermined--Oh, good shot!"
Thomas had got out of the fairway in one, but he still seemed unhappy.
"My eye," he said, bending down in agony; "I've got about half Middlesex
in it."
He walked round in circles saying strange nautical things, and my
suggestions that he should (1) rub the other eye and (2) blow his nose
suddenly were received ungenerously.
"Anything you'd like me to do with my ears?" he asked bitterly. "If
you'd come and take some mud out for me, instead of talking rot----"
I approached with my handkerchief and examined the eye carefully.
"See anything?" asked Thomas.
"My dear Thomas, it's _full_ of turf. We mustn't forget to replace this
if we can get it out. What the secretary would say--There! How's that?"
"Worse than ever."
"Try not to think about it. Keep the _other_ eye on the ball as much as
possible. This is my hole, by the way. Your ball is lost."
"How do you know?"
"I saw it losing itself. It went into the bad place I told you about.
It's gone to join the secretary. Oh, no, we got him out, of course; I
keep forgetting. Anyhow, it's my hole."
"I think I shall turn my trousers up again," said Thomas, bending down
to do so. "Is there a local rule about it?"
"No; it is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the
members. Naturally a little extra license is allowed on a very muddy
day. Of course, if--Oh, I see. You meant a local rule about losing your
ball in the mud? No, I don't know of one, unless it comes under the
heading of casual land. Be a sportsman, Thomas, and don't begrudge me
the hole."
The game proceeded, and we reached the twelfth tee without any further
_contretemps_; save that I accidentally lost the sixth, ninth and tenth
holes, and that Thomas lost his iron at the eighth. He had carelessly
laid it down for a moment while he got out of a hole with his niblick,
and when he turned round for it the thing was gone.
At the twelfth tee it was raining harder than ever. We pounded along
with our coat-collars up and reached the green absolutely wet through.
"How about it?" said Thomas.
"My hole, I think, and that makes us all square."
"I mean how about the rain? And it's just one o'clock."
"Just as you like. Well, I suppose it is rather wet. All right, let's
have lunch."
We had lunch. Thomas had it in the only dry things he had brought with
him--an ulster and a pair of Vardon cuffs, and sat as near the fire as
possible. It was still raining in torrents after lunch, and Thomas, who
is not what I call keen about golf, preferred to remain before the fire.
Perhaps he was right. I raked up an old copy of _Stumers with the
Niblick_ for him, and read bits of the Telephone Directory out aloud.
After tea his proper clothes were dry enough in places to put on, and as
it was still raining hard, and he seemed disinclined to come out again.
I ordered a cab for us both.
"It's really rotten luck," said Thomas, as we prepared to leave, "that
on the one day when I take a holiday, it should be so beastly."
"Beastly, Thomas?" I said in amazement. "The _one_ day? I'm afraid you
don't play inland golf much?"
"I hardly ever play round London."
"I thought not. Then let me tell you that to-day's was the best day's
golf I've had for three weeks."
"Golly!" said Thomas.
XXVIII. ONE OF OUR SUFFERERS
There is no question before the country of more importance than that of
National Health. In my own small way I have made something of a study of
it, and when a Royal Commission begins its enquiries, I shall put before
it the evidence which I have accumulated. I shall lay particular stress
upon the health of Thomson.
"You'll beat me to-day," he said, as he swung his club stiffly on the
first tee; "I shan't be able to hit a ball."
"You should have some lessons," I suggested.
Thomson gave a snort of indignation.
"It's not that," he said. "But I've been very seedy lately, and----"
"That's all right; I shan't mind. I haven't played a thoroughly well man
for a month, now."
"You know, I think my liver----"
I held up my hand.
"Not before my caddie, please," I said severely, "he is quite a child."
Thomson said no more for the moment but hit his ball hard and straight
along the ground.
"It's perfectly absurd," he said with a shrug; "I shan't be able to give
you a game at all. Well, if you don't mind playing a sick man----"
"Not if you don't mind being one," I replied, and drove a ball which
also went along the ground, but not so far as my opponent's. "There! I'm
about the only man in England who can do that when he's quite well."
The ball was sitting up nicely for my second shot, and I managed to put
it on the green. Thomson's, fifty yards farther on, was reclining in the
worst part of a bunker which he had forgotten about.
"Well, really," he said, "there's an example of luck for you. Your
ball----"
"I didn't do it on purpose," I pleaded. "Don't be angry with me."
He made two attempts to get out and then picked his ball up. We walked
in silence to the second tee.
"This time," I said, "I shall hit the sphere properly," and with a
terrific swing I stroked it gently into a gorse bush. I looked at the
thing in disgust and then felt my pulse. Apparently I was still quite
well. Thomson, forgetting about his liver, drove a beauty. We met on the
green.
"Five," I said.
"Only five?" asked Thomson suspiciously.
"Six," I said, holing a very long putt.
Thomson's health had a relapse. He took four short putts and was down in
seven.
"It's really rather absurd," he said, in a conversational way, as we
went to the next tee, "that putting should be so ridiculously important.
Take that hole, for instance. I get on the green in a perfect three; you
fluff your drive completely and get on in--what was it?"
"Five," I said again.
"Er--five. And yet you win the hole. It is rather absurd, isn't it?"
"I've often thought so," I admitted readily. "That is to say, when I've
taken four putts. I'm two up."
On the third tee Thomson's health became positively alarming. He missed
the ball altogether.
"It's ridiculous to try to play," he said with a forced laugh. "I can't
see the ball at all."
"It's still there," I assured him.
He struck at it again and it hurried off into a ditch.
"Look here," he said, "wouldn't you rather play the pro.? This is not
much of a match for you."
I considered. Of course a game with the pro. would be much pleasanter
than a game with Thomson, but ought I to leave him in his present
serious condition of health? His illness was approaching its critical
stage, and it was my duty to pull him through if I could.
"No, no," I said. "Let's go on. The fresh air will do you good."
"Perhaps it will," he said hopefully. "I'm sorry I'm like this, but I've
had a cold hanging about for some days, and that on the top of my
liver----"
"Quite so," I said.
The climax was reached at the next hole, when, with several strokes in
hand, he topped his approach shot into a bunker. For my sake he tried to
look as though he had meant to run it up along the ground, having
forgotten about the intervening hazard. It was a brave effort to hide
from me the real state of his health, but he soon saw that it was
hopeless. He sighed and pressed his hand to his eyes. Then he held his
fingers a foot away from him, and looked at them as if he were trying
to count them correctly. His state was pitiable, and I felt that at any
cost I must save him.
I did. The corner was turned at the fifth, where I took four putts.
"You aren't going to win _all_ the holes," he said grudgingly, as he ran
down his putt.
Convalescence set in at the sixth when I got into an impossible place
and picked up.
"Oh, well, I shall give you a game yet," he said. "Two down."
The need for further bulletins ceased at the seventh hole, which he
played really well and won easily.
"A-ha, you won't beat me by much," he said, "in spite of my liver."
"By the way, how is the liver?" I asked.
"Your fresh-air cure is doing it good. Of course it may come on again,
but----" He drove a screamer. "I think I shall be all right," he
announced.
"All square," he said cheerily at the ninth. "I fancy I'm going to beat
you now. Not bad, you know, considering you were four up. Practically
speaking, I gave you a start of four holes."
I decided that it was time to make an effort again, seeing that
Thomson's health was now thoroughly re-established. Of the next seven
holes I managed to win three and halve two. It is only fair to say,
though (as Thomson did several times), that I had an extraordinary
amount of good luck, and that he was dogged by ill-fortune throughout.
But this, after all, is as nothing so long as one's health is above
suspicion. The great thing was that Thomson's liver suffered no relapse;
even though, at the seventeenth tee, he was one down and two to play.
And it was on the seventeenth tee that I had to think seriously how I
wanted the match to end. Thomson at lunch when he has won is a very
different man from Thomson at lunch when he has lost. The more I thought
about it, the more I realised that I was in rather a happy position. If
I won, I won--which was jolly; if I lost, Thomson won--and we should
have a pleasant lunch.
However, as it happened, the match was halved.
"Yes, I was afraid so," said Thomson; "I let you get too long a start.
It's absurd to suppose that I can give you four holes up and beat you.
It practically amounts to giving you four bisques. Four bisques is
about six strokes; I'm not really six strokes better than you."
"What about lunch?" I suggested.
"Good; and you can have your revenge afterwards." He led the way into
the pavilion. "Now I wonder," he said, "what I can safely eat. I want to
be able to give you _some_ sort of a game this afternoon."
Well, if there is ever a Royal Commission upon the national physique I
shall insist on giving evidence. For it seems to me that golf, far from
improving the health of the country, is actually undermining it.
Thomson, at any rate, since he has taken to the game, has never been
quite fit.
XXIX. CHUM
It is Chum's birthday to-morrow and I am going to buy him a little whip
for a present, with a whistle at the end of it. When I next go into the
country to see him I shall take it with me and explain it to him. Two
day's firmness would make him quite a sensible dog. I have often
threatened to begin the treatment on my very next visit, but somehow it
has been put off; the occasion of his birthday offers a last
opportunity.
It is rather absurd, though, to talk of birthdays in connection with
Chum, for he has been no more than three months old since we have had
him. He is a black spaniel who has never grown up. He has a beautiful
astrachan coat which gleams when the sun is on it; but he stands so low
in the water that the front of it is always getting dirty, and his ears
and the ends of his trousers trail in the mud. A great authority has
told us that, but for three white hairs on his shirt (upon so little do
class distinctions hang), he would be a Cocker of irreproachable birth.
A still greater authority has sworn that he is a Sussex. The family is
indifferent--it only calls him a Silly Ass. Why he was christened Chum I
do not know; and as he never recognises the name it does not matter.
When he first came to stay with us I took him a walk round the village.
I wanted to show him the lie of the land. He had never seen the country
before and was full of interest. He trotted into a cottage garden and
came back with something to show me.
"You'll never guess," he said. "Look!" and he dropped at my feet a chick
just out of the egg.
I smacked his head and took him into the cottage to explain.
"My dog," I said, "has eaten one of your chickens."
Chum nudged me in the ankle and grinned.
"_Two_ of your chickens," I corrected myself, looking at the fresh
evidence which he had just brought to light.
"You don't want me any more?" said Chum, as the financial arrangements
proceeded. "Then I'll just go and find somewhere for these two."
And he picked them up and trotted into the sun.
When I came out I was greeted effusively.
"This is a wonderful day," he panted, as he wriggled his body. "I didn't
know the country was like this. What do we do now?"
"We go home," I said, and we went.
That was Chum's last day of freedom. He keeps inside the front gate now.
But he is still a happy dog; there is plenty doing in the garden. There
are beds to walk over, there are blackbirds in the apple-tree to bark
at. The world is still full of wonderful things. "Why only last
Wednesday," he will tell you, "the fishmonger left his basket in the
drive. There was a haddock in it, if you'll believe me, for Master's
breakfast, so of course I saved it for him. I put it on the grass just
in front of his study window, where he'd be _sure_ to notice it. Bless
you, there's always _something_ to do in this house. One is never idle."
And even when there is nothing doing he is still happy, waiting
cheerfully upon events until they arrange themselves for his amusement.
He will sit for twenty minutes opposite the garden bank, watching for a
bumble bee to come out of its hole. "I saw him go in," he says to
himself, "so he's bound to come out. Extraordinary interesting world."
But to his inferiors (such as the gardener) he pretends that it is not
pleasure but duty which keeps him. "Don't talk to me, fool. Can't you
see that I've got a job on here?"
Chum has found, however, that his particular mission in life is to purge
his master's garden of all birds. This keeps him busy. As soon as he
sees a blackbird on the lawn he is in full cry after it. When he gets to
the place and finds the blackbird gone he pretends that he was going
there anyhow; he gallops round in circles, rolls over once or twice, and
then trots back again. "You didn't _really_ think I was such a fool as
to try to catch a _blackbird_?" he says to us. "No, I was just taking a
little run--splendid thing for the figure."
And it is just Chum's little runs over the beds which call aloud for
firmness--which, in fact, have inspired my birthday present to him. But
there is this difficulty to overcome first. When he came to live with
us, an arrangement was entered into (so he says) by which one bed was
given to him as his own. In that bed he could wander at will, burying
bones and biscuits, hunting birds. This may have been so, but it is a
pity that nobody but Chum knows definitely which is the bed.
"Chum, you bounder," I shout, as he is about to wade through the
herbaceous border.
He takes no notice; he struggles through to the other side. But a sudden
thought strikes him, and he pushes his way back again.
"Did you call me?" he says.
"How _dare_ you walk over the flowers?"
He comes up meekly.
"I suppose I've done _something_ wrong," he says, "but I can't _think_
what."
I smack his head for him. He waits until he is quite sure I have
finished and then jumps up with a bark, wipes his paws on my trousers
and trots into the herbaceous border again.
"Chum!" I cry.
He sits down in it and looks all round him in amazement.
"My own bed!" he murmurs. "_Given_ to me!"
I don't know what it is in him which so catches hold of you. His way of
sitting, a reproachful statue, motionless outside the window of whomever
he wants to come out and play with him--until you can bear it no longer,
but must either go into the garden or draw down the blinds for one day;
his habit when you _are_ out, of sitting up on his back legs and
begging you with his front paws to come and _do_ something--a trick
entirely of his own invention, for no one would think of teaching him
anything; his funny nautical roll when he walks, which is nearly a
swagger, and gives him always the air of having just come back from some
rather dashing adventure; beyond all this there is still something. And
whatever it is, it is something, which every now and then compels you to
bend down and catch hold of his long silky ears, to look into his honest
eyes and say----
"You silly old ass! You _dear_ old _silly_ old ass!"
XXX. "UNDER ENTIRELY NEW MANAGEMENT"
I know a fool of a dog who pretends that he is a Cocker Spaniel, and is
convinced that the world revolves round him wonderingly. The sun rises
so it may shine on his glossy morning coat; it sets so his master may
know that it is time for the evening biscuit; if the rain falls it is
that a fool of a dog may wipe on his mistress's skirts his muddy boots.
His day is always exciting, always full of the same good thing; his
night a repetition of his day, more gloriously developed. If there be a
sacred moment before the dawn when he lies awake and ponders on life, he
tells himself confidently that it will go on for ever like this--a life
planned nobly for himself, but one in which the master and mistress whom
he protects must always find a place. And I think perhaps he would want
a place for me too in that life, who am not his real master but yet one
of the house. I hope he would.
What Chum doesn't know is this: his master and mistress are leaving
him. They are going to a part of the world where a fool of a dog with no
manners is a nuisance. If Chum could see all the good little London
dogs, who at home sit languidly on their mistress's lap, and abroad take
their view of life through a muff much bigger than themselves; if he
could see the big obedient dogs, who walk solemnly through the Park
carrying their master's stick, never pausing in their impressive march
unless it be to plunge into the Serpentine and rescue a drowning child,
he would know what I mean. He would admit that a dog who cannot answer
to his own name and pays but little more attention to "Down, idiot," and
"Come here, fool," is not every place's dog. He would admit it, if he
had time. But before I could have called his attention to half the good
dogs I had marked out, he would have sat down beaming in front of a
motor-car ... and then he would never have known what now he will know
so soon--that his master and mistress are leaving him.
It has been my business to find a new home for him. It is harder than
you think. I can make him sound lovable, but I cannot make him sound
good. Of course I might leave out his doubtful qualities, and describe
him merely as beautiful and affectionate; I might ... but I couldn't. I
think Chum's habitual smile would get larger, he would wriggle the end
of himself more ecstatically than ever if he heard himself summed up as
beautiful and affectionate. Anyway, I couldn't do it, for I get carried
away when I speak of him and I reveal all his bad qualities.
"I am afraid he is a snob," I confessed to one woman of whom I had
hopes. "He doesn't much care for what he calls the lower classes."
"Oh?" she said.
"Yes, he hates badly dressed people. Corduroy trousers tied up at the
knee always excite him. I don't know if any of your family--no, I
suppose not. But if he ever sees a man with his trousers tied up at the
knee he goes for him. And he can't bear tradespeople; at least not the
men. Washer-women he loves. He rather likes the washing-basket too.
Once, when he was left alone with it for a moment, he appeared shortly
afterwards on the lawn with a pair of--well, I mean he had no business
with them at all. We got them away after a bit of a chase, and then they
had to go to the wash again. It seemed rather a pity when they'd only
just come back. Of course I smacked his head for him; but he looks so
surprised and reproachful when he's done wrong that you never feel it's
quite his fault."
"I doubt if I shall be able to take him after all," she said. "I've just
remembered----"
I forget what it was she remembered, but it meant that I was still
without a new home for Chum.
"What does he eat?" somebody else asked me. It seemed hopeful; I could
see Chum already installed.
"Officially," I said, "he lives on puppy biscuits; he also has the
toast-crusts after breakfast and an occasional bone. Privately he is
fond of bees; I have seen him eat as many as six bees in an afternoon.
Sometimes he wanders down to the kitchen-garden and picks the
gooseberries; he likes all fruit, but gooseberries are the things he can
reach best. When there aren't any gooseberries about, he has to be
content with the hips and haws from the rose-trees. But really, you
needn't bother, he can eat anything. The only thing he doesn't like is
whitening. We were just going to mark the lawn one day, and while we
were busy pegging it out he wandered up and drank the whitening out of
the marker. It is practically the only disappointment he has ever had.
He looked at us, and you could see that his opinion of us had gone down.
'What did you _put_ it there for, if you didn't mean me to drink it?' he
said reproachfully. Then he turned and walked slowly and thoughtfully
back to his kennel. He never came out till next morning."
"Really?" said my man. "Well, I shall have to think about it. I'll let
you know."
Of course, I knew what that meant.
With a third dog-lover to whom I spoke the negotiations came to grief,
not apparently because of any faults of Chum's but because, if you will
believe it, of my own shortcomings. At least, I can suppose nothing
else. For this man had been enthusiastic about him. He had revelled in
the tale of Chum's wickedness; he had adored him for being so conceited.
He had practically said that he would take him.
"Do," I begged, "I'm sure he'd be happy with you. You see, he's not
everybody's dog; I mean I don't want any odd man whom I don't know to
take him. It must be a friend of mine, so that I shall often be able to
see Chum afterwards."
"So that--what?" he asked anxiously.
"So that I shall often be able to see Chum afterwards. Week-ends, you
know, and so on. I couldn't bear to lose the silly old ass altogether."
He looked thoughtful; and, when I went on to speak about Chum's fondness
for chickens, and his other lovable ways, he changed the subject
altogether. He wrote afterwards that he was sorry he couldn't manage
with a third dog. And I like to think he was not afraid of Chum--but
only of me.
But I have found the right man at last. A day will come soon when I
shall take Chum from his present home to his new one. That will be a
great day for him. I can see him in the train, wiping his boots
effusively on every new passenger, wriggling under the seat and out
again from sheer joy of life; I can see him in the taxi, taking his one
brief impression of a world that means nothing to him; I can see him in
another train joyous, eager, putting his paws on my collar from time to
time and saying excitedly, "What a day this is!" And if he survives the
journey; if I can keep him on the way from all delightful deaths he
longs to try; if I can get him safely to his new house, then I can see
him----
Well, I wonder. What will they do to him? When I see him again, will he
be a sober little dog, answering to his name, careful to keep his muddy
feet off the visitor's trousers, grown up, obedient, following to heel
round the garden, the faithful servant of his master? Or will he be the
same old silly ass, no use to anybody, always dirty, always smiling,
always in the way, a clumsy, blundering fool of a dog who knows you
can't help loving him? I wonder....
Between ourselves, I don't think they _can_ alter him now.... Oh, I hope
they can't.
XXXI. A FAREWELL TOUR
This is positively Chum's last appearance in print--for his own sake no
less than for yours. He is conceited enough as it is, but if once he got
to know that people are always writing about him in books his swagger
would be unbearable. However, I have said good-bye to him now; I have no
longer any rights in him. Yesterday I saw him off to his new home, and
when we meet again it will be on a different footing. "Is that your
dog?" I shall say to his master. "What is he? A Cocker? Jolly little
fellows, aren't they? I had one myself once."
As Chum refused to do the journey across London by himself, I met him at
Liverpool Street. He came up, in a crate; the world must have seemed
very small to him on the way. "Hallo, old ass," I said to him through
the bars, and in the little space they gave him he wriggled his body
with delight. "Thank Heaven there's _one_ of 'em alive," he said.
"I think this is my dog," I said to the guard, and I told him my name.
He asked for my card.
"I'm afraid I haven't one with me," I explained. When policemen touch me
on the shoulder and ask me to go quietly; when I drag old gentlemen from
underneath motor-'buses, and they decide to adopt me on the spot; on all
the important occasions when one really wants a card, I never have one
with me.
"Can't give him up without proof of identity," said the guard, and Chum
grinned at the idea of being thought so valuable.
I felt in my pockets for letters. There was only one, but it offered to
lend me £10,000 on my note of hand alone. It was addressed to "Dear
Sir," and though I pointed out to the guard that I was the "Sir," he
still kept tight hold of Chum. Strange that one man should be prepared
to trust me with £10,000, and another should be so chary of confiding to
me a small black spaniel.
"Tell the gentleman who I am," I said imploringly through the bars.
"Show him you know me."
"He's _really_ all right," said Chum, looking at the guard with his
great honest brown eyes. "He's been with us for years."
And then I had an inspiration. I turned down the inside pocket of my
coat, and there, stitched into it, was the label of my tailor's with my
name written on it. I had often wondered why tailors did this; obviously
they know how stupid guards can be.
"I suppose that's all right," said the guard reluctantly. Of course I
might have stolen the coat. I see his point.
"You--you wouldn't like a nice packing case for yourself?" I said
timidly. "You see, I thought I'd put Chum on the lead. I've got to take
him to Paddington, and he must be tired of his shell by now. It isn't as
if he were _really_ an armadillo."
The guard thought he would like a shilling and a nice packing case.
Wood, he agreed, was always wood, particularly in winter, but there were
times when you were not ready for it.
"How are you taking him?" he asked, getting to work with a chisel.
"Underground?"
"Underground?" I cried in horror. "Take Chum on the Underground?
Take---- Have you ever taken a large live conger-eel on the end of a
string into a crowded carriage?"
The guard never had.
"Well, don't. Take him in a taxi instead. Don't waste him on other
people."
The crate yawned slowly, and Chum emerged all over straw. We had an
anxious moment, but the two of us got him down and put the lead on him.
Then Chum and I went off for a taxi.
"Hooray," said Chum, wriggling all over, "isn't this splendid? I say,
which way are you going? I'm going this way.... No, I mean the other
way."
Somebody had left some of his milk-cans on the platform. Three times we
went round one in opposite directions and unwound ourselves the wrong
way. Then I hauled him in, took him, struggling, in my arms and got into
a cab.
The journey to Paddington was full of interest. For a whole minute Chum
stood quietly on the seat, rested his fore-paws on the open window and
drank in London. Then he jumped down and went mad. He tried to hang me
with the lead, and then in remorse tried to hang himself. He made a dash
for the little window at the back; missed it and dived out of the window
at the side, was hauled back and kissed me ecstatically in the eye with
his sharpest tooth.... "And I thought the world was at an end," he
said, "and there were no more people. Oh, I am an ass. I say, did you
notice I'd had my hair cut? How do you like my new trousers? I must show
you them." He jumped on to my lap. "No, I think you'll see them better
on the ground," he said, and jumped down again. "Or no, perhaps you
_would_ get a better view if----" he jumped up hastily, "and yet I don't
know----" he dived down, "though of course, if you---- Oh lor'! this
_is_ a day," and he put both paws lovingly on my collar.
Suddenly he was quiet again. The stillness, the absence of storm in the
taxi, was so unnatural that I began to miss it. "Buck up, old fool," I
said, but he sat motionless by my side, plunged in thought. I tried to
cheer him up. I pointed out King's Cross to him; he wouldn't even bark
at it. I called his attention to the poster outside Euston Theatre of
The Two Biffs; for all the regard he showed he might never even have
heard of them. The monumental masonry by Portland Road failed to uplift
him.
At Baker Street he woke up, and grinned cheerily. "It's all right," he
said, "I was trying to remember what happened to me this
morning--something rather miserable, I thought, but I can't get hold of
it. However it's all right now. How are _you_?" And he went mad again.
At Paddington I bought a label at the book-stall and wrote it for him.
He went round and round my leg looking for me. "Funny thing," he said,
as he began to unwind, "he was here a moment ago. I'll just go round
once more. I rather think.... _Ow_! Oh, there you are!" I stepped off
him, unravelled the lead and dragged him to the Parcels Office.
"I want to send this by the two o'clock train," I said to the man the
other side of the counter.
"Send what?" he said.
I looked down. Chum was making himself very small and black in the
shadow of the counter. He was completely hidden from the sight of
anybody the other side of it.
"Come out," I said, "and show yourself."
"Not much," he said. "A parcel! I'm not going to be a jolly old parcel
for anybody."
"It's only a way of speaking," I pleaded. "Actually you are travelling
as a small black gentleman. You will go with the guard--a delightful
man."
Chum came out reluctantly. The clerk leant over the counter and managed
to see him.
"According to our regulations," he said, and I always dislike people
who begin like that, "he has to be on a chain. A leather lead won't do."
Chum smiled all over himself. I don't know which pleased him more--the
suggestion that he was a very large and fierce dog, or the impossibility
now of his travelling with the guard, delightful man though he might be.
He gave himself a shake and started for the door.
"Tut, tut, it's a great disappointment to me," he said, trying to look
disappointed, but his back _would_ wriggle. "This chain business--silly
of us not to have known--well, well, we shall be wiser another time. Now
let's go home."
Poor old Chum; I _had_ known. From a large coat pocket I produced a
chain.
"_Dash_ it," said Chum, looking up at me pathetically, "you might almost
_want_ to get rid of me."
He was chained, and the label tied on to him. Forgive me that label,
Chum; I think that was the worst offence of all. And why should I label
one who was speaking so eloquently for himself; who said from the tip of
his little black nose to the end of his stumpy black tail, "I'm a silly
old ass, but there's nothing wrong in me, and they're sending me away!"
But according to the regulations--one must obey the regulations, Chum.
I gave him to the guard--a delightful man. The guard and I chained him
to a brake or something. Then the guard went away, and Chum and I had a
little talk....
After that the train went off.
Good-bye, little dog.
INDOORS
XXXII. PHYSICAL CULTURE
"Why don't you sit up?" said Adela at dinner, suddenly prodding me in
the back. Adela is old enough to take a motherly interest in my figure,
and young enough to look extremely pretty while doing so.
"I always stoop at meals," I explained; "it helps the circulation. My
own idea."
"But it looks so bad. You ought----"
"Don't improve me," I begged.
"No wonder you have----"
"Hush! I haven't. I got a bullet on the liver in the campaign of '03,
due to over smoking; and sometimes it hurts me a little in the cold
weather. That's all."
"Why don't you try the Hyperion?"
"I will. Where is it?"
"It isn't anywhere; you buy it."
"Oh, I thought you dined at it. What do you buy it for?"
"It's one of those developers with elastics and pulleys and so on.
Every morning early, for half an hour before breakfast----"
"You _are_ trying to improve me," I said suspiciously.
"But they are such good things," went on Adela earnestly. "They really
do help to make you beautiful----"
"I _am_ beautiful."
"Well, much more beautiful, and strong----"
"Are you being simply as tactful as you can be?"
"--and graceful."
"It isn't as though you were actually a relation," I protested.
Adela continued, full of her idea.
"It would do you so much good, you know. Would you promise me to use it
every day if I sent you mine?"
"Why don't you want yours any more? Are you perfect now?"
"You can easily hook it to the wall----"
"I suppose," I reflected, "there is a limit of beauty beyond which it is
dangerous to go. After that either the thing would come off its hook,
or----"
"Well," said Adela suddenly, "aren't I looking well?"
"You're looking radiant," I said appreciatively; "but it may only be
because you're going to marry Billy next month."
She smiled and blushed. "Well, I'll send it to you," she said. "And you
try it for a week, and then tell me if you don't feel better. Oh, and
don't do all the exercises to begin with; start with three or four of
the easy ones."
"Of course," I said.
* * * * *
I undid the wrappings eagerly, took off the lid of the box, and was
confronted with (apparently) six pairs of braces. I shook them out of
the box and saw I had made a mistake. It was one pair of braces for
Magog. I picked it up, and I knew that I was in the presence of the
Hyperion. In five minutes I had screwed a hook into the bedroom wall and
attached the beautifier. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at
it.
There was a tin plate fastened to the top, with the word "LADIES" on it.
I got up, removed it with a knife, and sat down again. Everything was
very dusty, and I wondered when Adela had last developed herself.
By-and-by I went into the other room to see if I had overlooked
anything. I found on the floor a chart of exercises, and returned
triumphantly with it.
There were thirty exercises altogether, and the chart gave you:
(1) A detailed explanation of how to do each particular exercise;
(2) A photograph of a lady doing it.
"After all," I reassured myself, after the first bashful glance, "it is
Adela who has thrust this upon me; and she must have known." So I
studied it.
Nos. 10, 15 and 28 seemed the easiest; I decided to confine myself to
them. For the first of these you strap yourself in at the waist, grasp
the handles, and fall slowly backwards until your head touches the
floor--all the elastic cords being then at full stretch. When I had got
very slowly halfway down, an extra piece of elastic which had got
hitched somewhere came suddenly into play, and I did the rest of the
journey without a stop, finishing up sharply against the towel-horse.
The chart had said, "Inhale going down," and I was inhaling hard at the
moment that the towel-horse and two damp towels spread themselves over
my face.
"So much for Exercise 10," I thought, as I got up. "I'll just get the
idea to-night, and then start properly to-morrow. Now for No. 15."
Somehow I felt instinctively that No. 15 would cause trouble. For No. 15
you stand on the right foot, fasten the left foot to one of the cords,
and stretch it out as far as you can....
What--officially--you do then, I cannot say....
Some people can stand easily upon the right foot when the left is
fastened to the wall ... others cannot.... It is a gift....
Having recovered from my spontaneous rendering of No. 15 I turned to No.
28. This one, I realised, was extremely important. I would do it twelve
times.
You begin by lying flat on the floor roped in at the waist, and with
your hands (grasping the elastic cords) held straight up in the air. The
tension on your waist is then extreme but on your hands only moderate.
Then taking a deep breath you pull your arms slowly out until they lie
along the floor. The tension becomes terrific, the strain on every part
of you is immense. While I lay there, taking a deep breath before
relaxing, I said to myself, "The strain will be too much for me." I was
wrong. It was too much for the hook. The hook whizzed out, everything
flew at me at once, and I remembered no more....
As I limped into bed, I trod heavily upon something sharp. I shrieked
and bent down to see what had bitten me. It was a tin plate bearing the
word "LADIES."
* * * * *
"Well?" said Adela a week later.
I looked at her for a long time. "When did you last use the Hyperion?" I
asked.
"About a year ago."
"Ah!... You don't remember the chart that went with it?"
"Not well. Except, of course, that each exercise was arranged for a
particular object, according to what you wanted."
"Exactly. So I discovered yesterday. It was in very small type, and I
missed it at first."
"Well, how many did you do?"
"I limited myself to exercises 10, 15 and 28. Do you happen to remember
what those are for?"
"Not particularly."
"No. Well, I started with No. 10. No. 10 you may recall is one of the
most perilous. I nearly died over No. 10. And when I had been doing it
for a week I discovered what its particular object was."
"What?"
"_'To round the forearm'!_ Yes, madam," I said bitterly, "I have spent a
week of agony ... and I have rounded one forearm."
"Why didn't you try another?"
"I did. I tried No. 15. Six times in the pursuit of No. 15 have I been
shot up to the ceiling by the left foot ... and what for, Adela? _'To
arch the instep'!_ Look at my instep! Why should I _want_ to arch it?"
"I wish I could remember which chart I sent you," said Adela, wrinkling
her brow.
"It was the wrong one," I said....
There was a long silence.
"Oh," said Adela suddenly, "you never told me about No. 28."
"Pardon me," I said, "I cannot bear to speak of 28."
"Why, was it even more unsuitable than the other two?"
"I found, when I had done it six times that its object was stated to be,
_'To remove double chin.'_ That, however, was not the real effect. And,
so I crossed out the false comment and wrote the true one in its place."
"And what is that?" asked Adela.
"_To remove the hook_," I said gloomily.
XXXIII. AN INSURANCE ACT
Of course I had always known that a medical examination was a necessary
preliminary to insurance, but in my own case I had expected the thing to
be the merest formality. The doctor, having seen at a glance what a fine
strong healthy fellow I was, would look casually at my tongue, apologise
for having doubted it, enquire genially what my grandfather had died of,
and show me to the door. This idea of mine was fostered by the excellent
testimonial which I had written myself at the Company's bidding. "Are
you suffering from any constitutional disease?--_No._ Have you ever had
gout?--_No._ Are you deformed?--_No._ Are you of strictly sober and
temperate habits?--- _No_, I mean _Yes._" My replies had been a model of
what an Assurance Company expects. Then why the need of a doctor?
However, they insisted.
The doctor began quietly enough. He asked, as I had anticipated, after
the health of my relations. I said that they were very fit; and not to
be outdone in politeness, expressed the hope that his people, too, were
keeping well in this trying weather. He wondered if I drank much. I
said, "Oh, well, perhaps I will," with an apologetic smile, and looked
round for the sideboard. Unfortunately he did not pursue the matter....
"And now," he said, after the hundredth question, "I should like to look
at your chest."
I had seen it coming for some time. In vain I had tried to turn the
conversation--to lead him back to the subject of drinks or my relations.
It was no good. He was evidently determined to see my chest. Nothing
could move him from his resolve.
Trembling, I prepared for the encounter. What terrible disease was he
going to discover?
He began by tapping me briskly all over in a series of double-knocks.
For the most part one double-knock at any point appeared to satisfy him,
but occasionally there would be no answer and he would knock again. At
one spot he knocked four times before he could make himself heard.
"This," I said to myself at the third knock, "has torn it. I shall be
ploughed," and I sent an urgent message to my chest. "For 'eving's sake
do something, you fool. Can't you hear the gentleman?" I suppose that
roused it, for at the next knock he passed on to an adjacent spot....
"Um," he said when he called everywhere, "um."
"I wonder what I've done," I thought to myself. "I don't believe he
likes my chest."
Without a word he got out his stethoscope and began to listen to me. As
luck would have it, he struck something interesting almost at once, and
for what seemed hours he stood there listening and listening to it. But
it was boring for me, because I really had very little to do. I could
have bitten him in the neck with some ease ... or I might have licked
his ear. Beyond that, nothing seemed to offer.
I moistened my lips and spoke.
"Am I dying?" I asked in a broken voice.
"Don't talk," he said. "Just breathe naturally."
"I am dying," I thought, "and he is hiding it from me." It was a
terrible reflection.
"Um," he said, and moved on.
By-and-by he went and listened behind my back. It is very bad form to
listen behind a person's back. I did not tell him so however. I wanted
him to like me.
"Yes," he said. "Now cough."
"I haven't a cough," I pointed out.
"Make the noise of coughing," he said severely.
Extremely nervous, I did my celebrated imitation of a man with an
irritating cough.
"H'm! h'm! h'm! h'm!"
"Yes," said the doctor. "Go on."
"He likes it," I said to myself, "and he must obviously be an excellent
judge. I shall devote more time to mimicry in future. H'm! h'm! h'm!..."
The doctor came round to where I could see him again.
"Now cough like this," he said. "Honk! Honk!"
I gave my celebrated imitation of a sick rhinoceros gasping out its
life. It went well. I got an encore.
"Um," he said gravely, "um." He put his stethoscope away and looked
earnestly at me.
"Tell me the worst," I begged. "I'm not bothering about this stupid
insurance business now. That's off, of course. But--how long have I? I
must put my affairs in order. Can you promise me a week?"
He said nothing. He took my wrists in his hands and pressed them. It was
evident that grief over-mastered him and that he was taking a silent
farewell of me. I bowed my head. Then, determined to bear my
death-sentence like a man, I said firmly, "So be it," and drew myself
away from him.
However, he wouldn't let me go.
"Come, come," I said to him, "you must not give way," and I made an
effort to release one of my hands meaning to pat him encouragingly on
the shoulder.
He resisted....
I realised suddenly that I had mistaken his meaning, and that he was
simply feeling my pulses.
"Um," he said, "um," and continued to finger my wrists.
Clenching my teeth, and with the veins staring out on my forehead, I
worked my pulses as hard as I could.
* * * * *
"Ah," he said, as I finished tying my tie; and he got up from the desk
where he had been making notes of my disastrous case, and came over to
me. "There is just one thing more. Sit down."
I sat down.
"Now cross your knees."
I crossed my knees. He bent over me and gave me a sharp tap below the
knee with the side of his hand.
My chest may have disappointed him.... He may have disliked my back....
Possibly I was a complete failure with my pulses.... But I knew the
knee-trick.
This time he should not be disappointed.
I was taking no risks. Almost before his hand reached my knee, my foot
shot out and took him fairly under the chin. His face suddenly
disappeared.
"I haven't got _that_ disease," I said cheerily.
XXXIV. GETTING THE NEEDLE
He was a pale, enthusiastic young man of the name of Simms; and he held
forth to us at great length about his latest hobby.
"Now I'll just show you a little experiment," he wound up, "one that I
have never known to fail. First of all I want you to hide a needle
somewhere, while I am out of the room. You must stick it where it can be
seen--on a chair--or on the floor if you like. Then I shall come back
blindfolded and find it."
"Oh, Mr. Simms!" we all said.
"Now, which one of you has the strongest will?"
We pushed Jack forward. Jack is at any rate a big man.
"Very well. I shall want you to take my hand when I come in, and look
steadily at the needle--concentrate all your thoughts on it. I, on the
other hand, shall make my mind a perfect blank. Then your thoughts will
gradually pass into my brain, and I shall feel myself as it were,
dragged in the direction of the needle."
"And I shall feel myself, as it were, dragged after you?" said Jack.
"Yes; you mustn't put any strain on my arm at all. Let me go just where
I like, only _will_ me to go in the right direction. Now then."
He took out his handkerchief, put it hastily back, and said: "First I
shall want to borrow a handkerchief or something."
Well, we blindfolded him, and led him out of the room. Then Muriel got a
needle, which, after some discussion, was stuck into the back of the
Chesterfield. Simms returned and took Jack's left hand.
They stood there together, Jack frowning earnestly at the needle, and
Simms swaying uncertainly at the knees. Suddenly his knees went in
altogether, and he made a little zig-zag dash across the room, as though
he were taking cover. Jack lumbered after him, instinctively bending his
head, too. They were brought up by the piano, which Simms struck with
great force. We all laughed, and Jack apologised.
"You told me to let you go where you liked, you know," he said.
"Yes, yes," said Simms rather peevishly, "but you should have willed me
not to hit the piano."
As he spoke he tripped over a small stool and, flinging out an arm to
save himself, swept two photograph frames off an occasional table.
"By Jove," said Jack, "that's jolly good. I saw you were going to do
that, and I willed that the flower vase should be spared. I'm getting
on."
"I think you had better start from the door again," I suggested. "Then
you can get a clear run."
They took up their original positions.
"You must think hard, please," said Simms again. "My mind is a perfect
blank, and yet I can feel nothing coming."
Jack made terrible faces at the needle. Then, without warning, Simms
flopped on to the floor at full length, pulling Jack after him.
"You mustn't mind if I do that," he said, getting up slowly.
"No," said Jack, dusting himself.
"I felt irresistibly compelled to go down," said Simms.
"So did I," said Jack.
"The needle is very often hidden in the floor, you see. You are sure you
are looking at it?"
They were in a corner with their back to it; and Jack, after trying in
vain to get it over his right shoulder or his left, bent down and
focussed it between his legs. This must have connected the current; for
Simms turned right round and marched up to the needle.
"There!" he said triumphantly, taking off the bandage.
We all clapped, while Jack poured himself out a whisky. Simms turned to
him.
"You have a very strong will indeed," he said, "one of the strongest I
have met. Now, would one of the ladies like to try?"
"Oh, I'm sure I couldn't," said all the ladies.
"I should like to do it again," said Simms modestly. "Perhaps you, Sir?"
"All right, I'll try," I said.
When Simms was outside I told them my idea.
"I'll hold the needle in my other hand," I said, "and then I can always
look at it easily, and it will always be in a different place, which
ought to muddle him."
We fetched him in, and he took my left hand....
"No, it's no good," he said at last. "I don't seem to get it. Let me try
the other hand."
I had no time to warn him. He clasped the other hand firmly; and from
the shriek that followed it seemed that he got it. There ensued the
"perfect blank" that he had insisted on all the evening. Then he pulled
off the bandage, and showed a very angry face.
Well, we explained how accidental it was, and begged him to try again.
He refused rather sulkily.
Suddenly Jack said: "I believe I could do it blindfolded. Miss Muriel,
will you look at the needle, and see if you can will me?"
Simms bucked up a bit, and seemed keen on the idea. So Jack was
blindfolded, the needle hid, and Muriel took his hand.
"Now is your mind a perfect blank?" said Simms to Jack.
"It always is," said Jack.
"Very well then. You ought soon to feel in a dreamy state, as though you
were in another world. Miss Muriel, you must think only of the needle."
Jack held her hand tight, and looked most idiotically peaceful. After
three minutes Simms spoke again.
"Well?" he said, eagerly.
"I've got the dreamy, other-world state perfectly," said Jack, and then
he gave at the knees, just for the look of the thing.
"This is silly," said Muriel, trying to get her hand away.
Jack staggered violently, and gripped her hand again.
"Please, Miss Muriel," implored Simms. "I feel sure he is just going to
do it."
Jack staggered again, sawed the air with his disengaged hand, and then
turned right round and marched for the door, dragging Muriel behind him.
The door slammed after them.
* * * * *
There is a little trick of sitting on a chair and picking a pin out of
it with the teeth. I started Simms--who was all eagerness to follow the
pair, and find out the mysterious force that was drawing them--upon this
trick, for Jack is one of my best friends. When Jack and Muriel came
back from the billiard-room and announced that they were engaged, Simms
was on his back on the floor with the chair on the top of
him--explaining, for the fourth time, that if the thing had not
overbalanced at the critical moment he would have secured the object.
There is much to be said for this view.
XXXV. DRESSING UP
"Then you really are coming?" said Queen Elizabeth.
"Yes, I really am," I sighed.
"What as?"
"I don't know at all--something with a cold. I leave it to you, partner,
only don't go a black suit."
"What about Richelieu?"
"I should never be able to pronounce that," I confessed. "Besides, I
always think that these great scientists--I should say philos--that is,
of course, that these generals--er, which room is the Encyclopedia in?"
"You might go as one of the Kings of England. Which is your favourite
King?"
"William and Mary. Now that would be an original costume. I should
have----"
"Don't be ridiculous. Why not Henry VIII?"
"Do you think I should get a lot of partners as Henry VIII? Anyhow, I
don't think it's a very becoming figure."
"But you don't wear fancy dress simply because it's becoming."
"Well, that is rather the point to settle. Are we going to enhance my
natural beauty, or would you like it--er--toned down a little? Of
course, I could go as the dog-faced man, only----"
"Very well then, if you don't like Henry, what about Edward I?"
"But why do you want to thrust royalty on me? I'd much sooner go as
Perkin Warbeck. I should wear a brown perkin--I mean jerkin."
"Jack is going as Sir Walter Raleigh."
"Then I shall certainly touch him for a cigarette," I said, as I got up
to go.
* * * * *
It was a week later that I met Elizabeth in Regent Street.
"Well," she said, "have you got your things?"
"I haven't," I confessed.
"I forgot who you said you were going as?"
"Somebody who had black hair," I said. "I have been thinking it over and
I have come to the conclusion that I should have knocked them rather if
I had had black hair. Instead of curly eyes and blue hair. Can you
think of anybody for me?"
Queen Elizabeth regarded me as sternly as she might have regarded--Well,
I'm not very good at history.
"Do you mean to say," she said at last, "that that is as far as you have
got? Somebody who had black hair?"
"Hang it," I protested, "it's something to have been measured for the
wig."
"Have you been measured for your wig?"
"Well--er--no. That is to say, not exactly what you might call measured.
But--well, the fact is that I was just going along now, only--I say,
where do I get a wig?"
"You've done nothing," said Elizabeth, "absolutely nothing."
"I say, don't say that," I began nervously, "I've done an awful lot,
really. I've practically got the costume, I'm going as Harold the Boy
Earl, or Jessica's last--Hallo, there's my bus; I've got a cold, I
mustn't keep it waiting. Good-bye." And I fled.
* * * * *
"I am going," I said, "as Julius Cæsar. He was practically bald. Think
how cool that will be."
"Do you mean to say," cried Elizabeth, "that you have altered again?"
"Don't be rough with me or I shall cry. I've got an awful cold."
"Then you've no business to go as Julius Cæsar."
"I say, now you're trying to unsettle me. And I was going to-morrow to
order the clothes."
"What! You haven't----"
"I was really going this afternoon, only--only it's early closing day.
Besides, I wanted to see if my cold would get better. Because if it
didn't---- Look here, I'll be frank with you. I am going as
Charlemagne."
"Oh!"
"Charlemagne in half-mourning, because Pepin the Short had just died.
Something quiet in grey, with a stripe I thought. Only half-mourning
because he only got half the throne. By-the-way, I suppose all these
people wore pumps and white kid gloves all right? Yes, I thought so. I
wonder if Charlemagne really had black hair. Anyhow, they can't prove he
didn't, seeing when he lived. He flourished about 770, you know. As a
matter of fact 770 wasn't actually his most flourishing year because the
Radicals were in power then and land went down so. Now 771--Yes. Or
else as Winston Churchill.
"Anyhow," I added indignantly a minute later, "I swear I'm going
somehow."
* * * * *
"Hallo," I said cheerfully, as I ran into Her Majesty in Piccadilly.
"I've just been ordering--that is to say, I've been going--I mean I'm
just going to---- Let's see, it's next week, isn't it?"
For a moment Elizabeth was speechless--not at all my idea of the
character.
"Now then," she said at last, "I am going to take you in hand. Will you
trust yourself entirely to me?"
"To the death, Your Majesty. I'm sickening for something as it is."
"How tall are you?"
"Oh, more than that," I said quickly. "Gents' large medium, I am."
"Then I'll order a costume for you and have it sent round. There's no
need for you to be anything historical; you might be a butcher."
"Quite--blue is my colour. In fact, I can do you the best end of the
neck at tenpence, madam, if you'll wait a moment while I sharpen the
knife. Let's see; you like it cut on the cross, I think? Bother,
they've forgotten the strop."
"Well, it may not be a butcher," said Elizabeth; "it depends what
they've got."
* * * * *
That was a week ago. This morning I was really ill at last; had hardly
any breakfast; simply couldn't look a poached in the yolk. A day on the
sofa in a darkened room and bed at seven o'clock was my programme. And
then my eye caught a great box of clothes, and I remembered that the
dance was to-night. I opened the box. Perhaps dressed soberly as a
black-haired butcher I could look in for an hour or two ... and----
Help!
A yellow waistcoat, pink breeches, and--no, it's not an eider-down, it's
a coat.
A yellow--Pink br----
I am going as Joseph.
I am going as a humming bird.
I am going--yes, that's it, I am going back to bed.
XXXVI. THE COMPLETE KITCHEN
I sat in the drawing-room after dinner with my knees together and my
hands in my lap, and waited for the game to be explained to me.
"There's a pencil for you," said somebody.
"Thank you very much," I said and put it carefully away. Evidently I had
won a forfeit already. It wasn't a very good pencil, though.
"Now, has everybody got pencils?" asked somebody else. "The game is
called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' It's quite easy. Will somebody think of a
letter?" She turned to me. "Perhaps _you'd_ better."
"Certainly," I said, and I immediately thought very hard of N. These
thought-reading games are called different things, but they are all the
same, really, and I don't believe in any of them.
"Well?" said everybody.
"What?... Yes, I have. Go on.... Oh, I beg your pardon," I said in
confusion. "I thought you--N is the letter."
"N or M?"
I smiled knowingly to myself.
"My godfather and my godmother," I went on cautiously----
"It was N," interrupted somebody. "Now then, you've got five minutes in
which to write down everything you can beginning with N. Go." And they
all started to write like anything.
I took my pencil out and began to think. I know it sounds an easy game
to you now, as you sit at your desk surrounded by dictionaries; but when
you are squeezed on to the edge of a sofa, given a very blunt pencil and
a thin piece of paper, and challenged to write in five minutes (on your
knees) all the words you can think of beginning with a certain
letter--well, it is another matter altogether. I thought of no end of
things which started with K, or even L; I thought of "rhinoceros" which
is a very long word and starts with R; but as for----
I looked at my watch and groaned. One minute gone.
"I must keep calm," I said and in a bold hand I wrote _Napoleon_. Then
after a moment's thought, I added _Nitro-glycerine_, and _Nats_.
"This is splendid," I told myself. "_Nottingham, Nobody and Noon._ That
makes six."
At six I stuck for two minutes. I did worse than that in fact; for I
suddenly remembered that gnats were spelt with a G. However, I decided
to leave them, in case nobody else remembered. And on the fourth minute
I added _Non-sequitur_.
"Time!" said somebody.
"Just a moment," said everybody. They wrote down another word or two
(which isn't fair), and then began to add up. "I've got thirty," said
one.
"Thirty-two."
"Twenty-five."
"Good Heavens," I said, "I've only got seven."
There was a shout of laughter.
"Then you'd better begin," said somebody. "Read them out."
I coughed nervously, and began.
"Napoleon."
There was another shout of laughter.
"I am afraid we can't allow that."
"Why ever not?" I asked in amazement.
"Well, you'd hardly find him in a kitchen, would you?"
I took out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. "I don't want to find him
in a kitchen," I said nervously. "Why should I? As a matter of fact
he's dead. I don't see what the kitchen's got to do with it. Kitchens
begin with a K."
"But the game is called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' You have to make a list
of things beginning with N which you would find in a kitchen. You
understood that, didn't you?"
"Y-y-yes," I said. "Oh, y-y-y-yes. Of course."
"So Napoleon----"
I pulled myself together with a great effort.
"You don't understand," I said with dignity. "The cook's name was
Napoleon."
"Cooks aren't called Napoleon," said everybody.
"This one was. Carrie Napoleon. Her mistress was just as surprised at
first as you were, but Carrie assured her that----"
"No, I'm afraid we can't allow it."
"I'm sorry," I said; "I'm wrong about that. Her name was Carrie Smith.
But her young man was a soldier, and she had bought a Life of Napoleon
for a birthday present for him. It stood on the dresser waiting for her
next Sunday out."
"Oh! Oh, well, I suppose that is possible. Go on."
"Gnats," I went on nervously and hastily. "Of course I know that----"
"Gnats are spelt with a G," they shrieked.
"These weren't. They had lost the G when they were quite young, and
consequently couldn't bite at all, and Cook said that----"
"No; I'm afraid not."
"I'm sorry," I said resignedly. "I had about forty of them--on the
dresser. If you won't allow any of them, it pulls me down a lot.
Er--then we have Nitro-glycerine."
There was another howl of derision.
"Not at all," I said haughtily. "Cook had chapped hands very badly, and
she went to the chemist's one evening for a little glycerine. The
chemist was out, and his assistant--a very nervous young fellow--gave
her nitro-glycerine by mistake. It stood on the dresser, it did,
really."
"Well," said everybody very reluctantly, "I suppose----"
I went on hastily.
"That's two. Then Nobody. Of course, you might easily find nobody in the
kitchen. In fact you would pretty often, I should say. Three. The next
is Noon. It could be noon in the kitchen as well as anywhere else. Don't
be narrow-minded about that."
"All right. Go on."
"Non-sequitur," I said doubtfully.
"What on earth----"
"It's a little difficult to explain, but the idea is this. At most
restaurants you can get a second help of anything for half-price, and
that is technically called a 'follow.' Now, if they didn't give you a
follow, that would be a Non-sequitur.... You do see that, don't you?"
There was a deadly silence.
"Five," I said cheerfully. "The last is Nottingham. I must confess," I
added magnanimously, "that I am a bit doubtful whether you would
actually find Nottingham in a kitchen."
"You don't say so!"
"Yes. My feeling is that you would be more likely to find the kitchen in
Nottingham. On the other hand, it is just possible that as Calais was
found engraven on Mary's heart, so--Oh, very well. Then it remains at
five."
* * * * *
Of course you think that as I only had five, I came out last. But you
are wrong. There is a pleasing rule in this game that, if you have any
word in your list which somebody else has, you cannot count it. And as
all the others had the obvious things--such as a nutmeg-grater or a
neck of mutton, or a nomlette--my five won easily. And you will note
that if only I had been allowed to count my gnats, it would have been
forty-five.
XXXVII. AN INFORMAL EVENING
Dinner was a very quiet affair. Not a soul drew my chair away from under
me as I sat down, and during the meal nobody threw bread about. We
talked gently of art and politics and things; and when the ladies left
there was no booby trap waiting for them at the door. In a word, nothing
to prepare me for what was to follow.
We strolled leisurely into the drawing-room. A glance told me the worst.
The ladies were in a cluster round Miss Power, and Miss Power was on the
floor. She got up quickly as we came in.
"We were trying to go underneath the poker," she explained. "Can you do
it?"
I waved the poker back.
"Let me see you do it again," I said. "I missed the first part."
"Oh, I can never do it. Bob, you show us."
Bob is an active young fellow. He took the poker, rested the end on the
floor, and then twisted himself underneath his right arm. I expected to
see him come up inside out, but he looked much the same after it.
However, no doubt his organs are all on the wrong side now.
"Yes, that's how I should do it," I said hastily.
But Miss Power was firm. She gave me the poker. I pressed it hard on the
floor, said good-bye to them all, and dived. I got half-way round, and
was supporting myself upside down by one toe and the slippery end of the
poker, when it suddenly occurred to me that the earth was revolving at
an incredible speed on its own axis, and that, in addition, we were
hurtling at thousands of miles a minute round the sun. It seemed
impossible in these circumstances that I should keep my balance any
longer; and as soon as I realised this the poker began to slip. I was in
no sort of position to do anything about it, and we came down heavily
together.
"Oh, what a pity!" said Miss Power. "I quite thought you'd done it."
"Being actually on the spot," I said, "I knew that I hadn't."
"Do try again."
"Not till the ground's a little softer."
"Let's do the jam-pot trick," said another girl.
"I'm not going under a jam-pot for anybody," I murmured.
However, it turned out that this trick was quite different. You place a
book (Macaulay's _Essays_ or what not) on the jam-pot and sit on the
book, one heel only touching the ground. In the right hand you have a
box of matches, in the left a candle. The jam-pot, of course, is on its
side, so that it can roll beneath you. Then you light the candle ... and
hand it to anybody who wants to go to bed.
I was ready to give way to the ladies here, but even while I was bowing
and saying, "Not at all," I found myself on one of the jam-pots with Bob
next to me on another. To balance with the arms outstretched was not so
difficult; but as the matches were then about six feet from the candle
and there seemed no way of getting them nearer together the solution of
the problem was as remote as ever. Three times I brought my hands
together, and three times the jam-pot left me.
"Well played, Bob," said somebody. The bounder has done it.
I looked at his jam-pot.
"There you are," I said. "'Raspberry--1909.' Mine's 'Gooseberry--1911,'
a rotten vintage. And look at my book, _Alone on the Prairie_; and
you've got _The Mormon's Wedding_. No wonder I couldn't do it."
I refused to try it again as I didn't think I was being treated fairly;
and after Bob and Miss Power had had a race at it, which Bob won, we got
on to something else.
"Of course you can pick a pin out of a chair with your teeth?" said Miss
Power.
"Not properly," I said. "I always swallow the pin."
"I suppose it doesn't count if you swallow the pin," said Miss Power
thoughtfully.
"I don't know. I've never really thought about that side of it much.
Anyhow, unless you've got a whole lot of pins you don't want, don't ask
me to do it to-night."
Accordingly we passed on to the water-trick. I refused at this, but Miss
Power went full length on the floor with a glass of water balanced on
her forehead and came up again without spilling a single drop.
Personally I shouldn't have minded spilling a single drop; it was the
thought of spilling the whole glass that kept me back. Anyway it is a
useless trick, the need for which never arises in an ordinary career.
Picking up _The Times_ with the teeth, while clasping the left ankle
with the right hand, is another matter. That might come in useful on
occasions; as, for instance, if, having lost your left arm on the field
and having to staunch with the right hand the flow of blood from a
bullet wound in the opposite ankle, you desired to glance through the
Financial Supplement while waiting for the ambulance.
"Here's a nice little trick," broke in Bob, as I was preparing myself in
this way for the German invasion.
He had put two chairs together, front to front, and was standing over
them, if that conveys it to you. Then he jumped up, turned round in the
air, and came down facing the other way.
"Can _you_ do it?" I said to Miss Power.
"Come and try," said Bob to me. "It's not really difficult."
I went and stood over the chairs. Then I moved them apart and walked
over to my hostess.
"Good-bye," I said; "I'm afraid I must go now."
"Coward!" said somebody, who knew me rather better than the others.
"It's much easier than you think," said Bob.
"I don't think it's easy at all," I protested. "I think it's
impossible."
I went back and stood over the chairs again. For some time I waited
there in deep thought. Then I bent my knees preparatory to the spring,
straightened them up, and said.$1hat happens if you just miss it?"
"I suppose you bark your shins a bit."
"Yes, that's what I thought."
I bent my knees again, worked my arms up and down, and then stopped
suddenly and said:
"What happens if you miss it pretty easily?"
"Oh, _you_ can do it, if Bob can," said Miss Power kindly.
"He's practised. I expect he started with two hassocks and worked up to
this. I'm not afraid, but I want to know the possibilities. If it's only
a broken leg or two, I don't mind. If it's permanent disfigurement I
think I ought to consult my family first."
I jumped up and came down again the same way for practice.
"Very well," I said. "Now I'm going to try. I haven't the faintest hope
of doing it, but you all seem to want to see an accident, and anyhow,
I'm not going to be called a coward. One, two, three...."
"Well done," cried everybody.
"Did I do it?" I whispered, as I sat on the floor and pressed a cushion
against my shins.
"Rather!"
"Then," I said, massaging my ankles, "next time I shall try to miss."
XXXVIII. A BILLIARD LESSON
I was showing Celia a few fancy strokes on the billiard table. The other
members of the house-party were in the library, learning their parts for
some approaching theatricals--that is to say, they were sitting round
the fire and saying to each other, "This _is_ a rotten play." We had
been offered the position of auditors to several of the company, but we
were going to see _Parsifal_ on the next day, and I was afraid that the
constant excitement would be bad for Celia.
"Why don't you ask me to play with you?" she asked. "You never teach me
anything."
"There's ingratitude. Why, I gave you your first lesson at golf only
last Thursday."
"So you did. I know golf. Now show me billiards."
I looked at my watch.
"We've only twenty minutes. I'll play you thirty up."
"Right-o. What do you give me--a ball or a bisque or what?"
"I can't spare you a ball, I'm afraid. I shall want all three when I get
going. You may have fifteen start, and I'll tell you what to do."
"Well, what do I do first?"
"Select a cue."
She went over to the rack and inspected them.
"This seems a nice brown one. Now then, you begin."
"Celia, you've got the half-butt. Put it back and take a younger one."
"I thought it seemed taller than the others." She took another. "How's
this? Good. Then off you go."
"Will you be spot or plain?" I said, chalking my cue.
"Does it matter?"
"Not very much. They're both the same shape."
"Then what's the difference?"
"Well, one is more spotted than the other."
"Then I'll be less spotted."
I went to the table.
"I think," I said, "I'll try and screw in off the red." (I did this once
by accident and I've always wanted to do it again.) "Or perhaps," I
corrected myself, as soon as the ball had left me, "I had better give a
safety miss."
I did. My ball avoided the red and came swiftly back into the left-hand
bottom pocket.
"That's three to you," I said without enthusiasm.
Celia seemed surprised.
"But I haven't begun yet," she said. "Well, I suppose you know the
rules, but it seems funny. What would you like me to do?"
"Well, there isn't much on. You'd better just try and hit the red ball."
"Right." She leant over the table and took long and careful aim. I held
my breath.... Still she aimed.... Then keeping her chin on the cue, she
slowly turned her head and looked up at me with a thoughtful expression.
"Oughtn't there to be three balls on the table?" she said, wrinkling her
forehead.
"No," I answered shortly.
"But why not?"
"Because I went down by mistake."
"But you said that when you got going, you wanted---- I can't argue
bending down like this." She raised herself slowly. "You said----Oh, all
right, I expect you know. Anyhow, I have scored some already, haven't
I?"
"Yes. You're eighteen to my nothing."
"Yes. Well, now I shall have to aim all over again." She bent slowly
over her cue. "Does it matter where I hit the red?"
"Not much. As long as you hit it on the red part."
She hit it hard on the side, and both balls came into baulk.
"Too good," I said.
"Does either of us get anything for it?"
"No." The red and white were close together, and I went up the table and
down again, on the off-chance of a cannon. I misjudged it, however.
"That's three to you," I said stiffly, as I took my ball out of the
right-hand bottom pocket. "Twenty-one to nothing."
"Funny how I'm doing all the scoring," said Celia meditatively. "And
I've practically never played before. I shall hit the red hard now and
see what happens to it."
She hit, and the red coursed madly about the table, coming to rest near
the top right-hand pocket and close to the cushion. With a forcing shot
I could get in.
"This will want a lot of chalk," I said pleasantly to Celia, and gave it
plenty. Then I let fly....
"Why did that want a lot of chalk?" said Celia with interest.
I went to the fireplace and picked my ball out of the fender.
"That's three to you," I said coldly. "Twenty-four to nothing."
"Am I winning?"
"You're leading," I explained. "Only, you see, I may make a twenty at
any moment."
"Oh!" She thought this over. "Well, I may make my three at any moment."
She chalked her cue and went over to her ball.
"What shall I do?"
"Just touch the red on the right-hand side," I said, "and you'll go into
the pocket."
"The right-hand side? Do you mean my right-hand side or the ball's?"
"The right-hand side of the ball, of course; that is to say, the side
opposite your right-hand."
"But its right-hand side is opposite my left hand, if the ball is facing
this way."
"Take it," I said wearily, "that the ball has its back to you."
"How rude of it," said Celia, and hit it on the left-hand side, and
sank it. "Was that what you meant?"
"Well ... it's another way of doing it."
"I thought it was. What do I give you for that?"
"You get three."
"Oh, I thought the other person always got the marks. I know the last
three times----"
"Go on," I said freezingly. "You have another turn."
"Oh, is it like rounders?"
"Something. Go on, there's a dear. It's getting late."
She went, and left the red over the middle pocket.
"A-ha!" I said. I found a nice place in the "D" for my ball. "Now then.
This is the Grey stroke, you know."
I suppose I was nervous. Anyhow, I just nicked the red ball gently on
the wrong side and left it hanging over the pocket. The white travelled
slowly up the table.
"Why is that called the Grey stroke?" asked Celia with great interest.
"Because once, when Sir Edward Grey was playing the German
Ambassador--but it's rather a long story. I'll tell you another time."
"Oh! Well, anyhow, did the German Ambassador get anything for it?"
"No."
"Then I suppose I don't. Bother." "But you've only got to knock the red
in for game."
"Oh!... There, what's that?"
"That's a miscue. I get one."
"Oh!... Oh, well," she added magnanimously, "I'm glad you've started
scoring. It will make it more interesting for you."
There was just room to creep in off the red, leaving it still over the
pocket. With Celia's ball nicely over the other pocket there was a
chance of my twenty break. "Let's see," I said, "how many do I want?"
"Twenty-nine," replied Celia.
"Ah," I said ... and I crept in.
"That's three to you," I said icily. "Game."
XXXIX. BACHELOR RELICS
"Do you happen to want," I said to Henry, "an opera hat that doesn't op?
At least it only works one side."
"No," said Henry.
"To any one who buys my opera hat for a large sum I am giving away four
square yards of linoleum, a revolving bookcase, two curtain rods, a pair
of spring-grip dumb-bells and an extremely patent mouse-trap."
"No," said Henry again.
"The mouse-trap," I pleaded, "is unused. That is to say, no mouse has
used it yet. My mouse-trap has never been blooded."
"I don't want it myself," said Henry, "but I know a man who does."
"Henry, you know everybody. For Heaven's sake introduce me to your
friend. Why does he particularly want a mouse-trap?"
"He doesn't. He wants anything that's old. Old clothes, old carpets,
anything that's old he'll buy."
He seemed to be exactly the man I wanted.
"Introduce me to your fellow clubman," I said firmly.
That evening I wrote to Henry's friend, Mr. Bennett. "Dear Sir," I
wrote, "if you would call upon me to-morrow I should like to show you
some really old things, all genuine antiques. In particular I would call
your attention to an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship, and a
mouse-trap of chaste and handsome design. I have also a few yards of
Queen Anne linoleum of a circular pattern which I think will please you.
My James the First spring-grip dumb-bells and Louis Quatorze
curtain-rods are well known to connoisseurs. A genuine old cork bedroom
suite, comprising one bath-mat, will also be included in the sale. Yours
faithfully."
On second thoughts I tore the letter up and sent Mr. Bennett a postcard
asking him to favour the undersigned with a call at 10.30 prompt. And at
10.30 prompt he came.
I had expected to see a bearded patriarch with a hooked nose and three
hats on his head, but Mr. Bennett turned out to be a very spruce
gentleman, wearing (I was sorry to see) much better clothes than the
opera hat I proposed to sell him. He became businesslike at once.
"Just tell me what you want to sell," he said, whipping out a
pocket-book, "and I'll make a note of it. I take anything."
I looked round my spacious apartment and wondered what to begin with.
"The revolving bookcase," I announced.
"I'm afraid there's very little sale for revolving bookcases now," he
said, as he made a note of it.
"As a matter of fact," I pointed out, "this one doesn't revolve. It got
stuck some years ago."
He didn't seem to think that this would increase the rush, but he made a
note of it.
"Then the writing-desk."
"The what?"
"The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth-century escritoire."
"Walnut?" he said, tapping it.
"Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing-desk, however, lies not in
the wood but in the literary associations."
"Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still--whose was
it?"
"Mine!" I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of my
coat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to a
Bell-push,' my 'Thoughts on Asia,' my----"
"Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpets, curtains----"
"Nothing else," I said coldly.
We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasm
returned to me.
"The linoleum," I said, with a wave of the hand.
"Very much worn," said Mr. Bennett.
I called his attention to the piece under the bed.
"Not under there," I said. "I never walk on that piece. It's as good as
new."
He made a note. "What else?" he said.
I showed him round the collection. He saw the Louis Quatorze
curtain-rods, the cork bedroom suite, the Cæsarian nail-brush (quite
bald), the antique shaving-mirror with genuine crack--he saw it all. And
then we went back into the other rooms and found some more things for
him.
"Yes," he said, consulting his notebook. "And now how would you like me
to buy these?"