There is no doubt that Ernest was to blame. I know, of course, that he
meant well. But a passion for fresh air, unless it is checked in time,
is bound to lead one into all sorts of trouble.
You see, Ernest suffers so from theories. He has theories about eating,
sleeping and waking, talking and thinking; but those on fresh air are
the worst (or perhaps I ought to say the best) of all. Not that we, who
constitute his family, would object to his theories if he didn't get us
involved in them as well; but that is exactly what does happen. There
was, for example, the camping-out proposition.
It began with Mother sitting at a table one evening in the early autumn
and jotting down figures. Her brow was troubled. "We really can't afford
a holiday this year, girls," she said, "though I suppose we shall _have_
to. What with the price of everything just now and--" She then went on
to speak with hostility of things like the Government and Sir ERIC
GEDDES, though she is a peaceable woman as a rule.
Whereupon Ernest, who was at the open window engaged in a little quiet
biceps-training (we won't allow him to do the more rowdy muscular
exercises in the living-room), remarked, "But why should we be subjected
to these eternal trammels of civilisation? Isn't the open country man's
rightful heritage?"
"I see the prices have gone up at the select boarding-house where we
stayed last year and met such nice people," went on Mother, ignoring
Ernest. "It's five guineas a week each now."
"Monstrous," put in Ernest again. "Five guineas a week just to breathe
the pure air of Heaven."
"Oh, they give you more than that," said Mother, "though I suspect the
meat isn't English."
Ernest laughed sardonically. "Now let me tell you of my plan," he said,
taking a newspaper cutting from his pocket. "Here is my solution to the
holiday problem, and it certainly doesn't cost five guineas a week. Why
not adopt it?"
"Why, it's an umbrella," commented Mother, feeling for her glasses. "But
surely you don't expect it to rain all the time?"
"That is not an umbrella, it is an illustration of a portable tent,"
explained Ernest. "The canvas folds up and can be carried in the pocket,
while the pole also folds and is convertible into a walking-stick by
day. Thus you are able to camp where you will; throw off the shackles of
convention----"
"It may be all right for throwing off the shackles of convention,"
remarked Mother, "but nothing would induce me to undress in a thing like
that."
"But when it's erected it's perfectly solid----"
"So am I," said Mother, "and I like room to turn round. No, Ernest, I am
as fond of fresh air as anyone--you know I always have my bedroom window
open at least two inches at night--but air is not everything. Give me a
comfortable bed and good catering if I am to go on holiday and enjoy it.
_You_ can please yourself."
That is the mistake Mother made. Ernest ought not to be allowed to
please himself. He doesn't know what is good for him. And, when he
departed on his walking tour accompanied by his tent, his sponge-bag, a
copy of OMAR KHAYYAM, but very little else, Mother felt uneasy.
"What will happen if you get your feet wet?" she asked. "I'm sure you
ought to take more things with you, Ernest."
"What more do I want?" he demanded, "'A loaf of bread beneath the
bough----'"
"A loaf of bread indeed!" echoed Mother. "Fiddlesticks! Mind you get at
least three good meals a day." She then gave him the address of the
boarding-house where we had finally decided to spend our holidays and
told him to send her a wire at once if he got a cold in the head.
* * *
It was the hour of dinner at the Select Boarding Establishment (sep.
tables, 3 mins. sea, elec. lt., mod.) where we had spent ten days of our
entirely select holiday. Everyone was assembled in the lounge hall
waiting for the gong to announce the meal. Mother, basking her soul in
the atmosphere of gentility, was chatting with the half-sister of a
bishop, who was just remarking that Mother must call on her in town,
when a strange _fracas_ was heard at the back of the hall; a moment
later a strange figure thrust itself in our midst and looked wildly
round.
"Ernest!" murmured Mother faintly. She was a wise woman to know her own
child under the circumstances. Perhaps she identified the tent-pole to
which he was still clinging. Otherwise he was scarcely recognisable. His
hair was wild and unkempt, his clothing torn and damaged. His boots
clung to his feet by the uppers only and were held together by fragments
of a sponge-bag.
"Mother!" said Ernest, singling her out from amongst the gay throng. The
moment was dramatic.
"I--I was arrested," went on Ernest. He spoke in a purely conversational
tone, but it's surprising how far the human voice will carry at times.
Everybody about the place, including the lift-boy and the Belgian
waiter, seemed to hear that remark.
"Arrested?" whispered Mother in reverberating tone-waves.
"Yes. How was I to know that I had pitched my tent on private property
and was unwittingly trespassing? They would have prosecuted me if I
hadn't----"
"You had better come up to my room and explain there," interposed
Mother; and we followed her, a broken woman, to the lift. People fell
aside to make a passage for us.
Mother held up until she got to her own room. Then she sat down and
cried. "Why did you disgrace us like this?" she asked at last of Ernest.
"Was it necessary for you to come _here_?"
"I had to," said Ernest apologetically. "You see I hadn't any money."
Mother looked up quickly. "But what of the extra ten pounds I insisted
on your taking with you in case of emergency?"
Ernest appeared slightly shame-faced. "Well, when those fatuous asses
hauled me up for trespassing they left me in the charge of a gamekeeper
while they 'phoned for the police. I induced the chap to let me go, and
I had to square him with a tenner."
There was a long pause. Mother's mind seemed to be working at some
abstruse calculation. Then she dried her eyes and looked up with the
triumphant smile of the woman who gets the last word and wins her point.
"And so, Ernest," she said, "it _did_ cost you five guineas a week to
'breathe the pure air of Heaven' after all."
* * * * *
Illustration: "SORRY TO HEAR YOUR HUSBAND IS LAID UP AGAIN, MRS.
GRIGGS."
"YES. THE TROUBLE IS HE BE AN OLD MAN, AND HE _WILL_ TURN A DEAF EAR TO
THE WRITIN' ON THE WALL."
* * * * *