"So it's ----'s birthday to-day," said Fortescue (naming a very
well-known politician) as he looked up from his newspaper. "You'll
call and wish him many happy returns, of course, Ferguson?"
We who travel up together each morning by this train are pretty well
agreed about ----.
"Don't mention that man to me!" cried Ferguson. "He's absolutely the
biggest liar on earth. I can't imagine how he faces the world as he
does after having been exposed so many times. You'd think he would
want to crawl away into a hole somewhere. He can't have the least
sense of shame."
"Pardon me," interrupted the burly stranger seated in the corner.
"Pardon me; there is reason why he should. It is not _his_ fault if
he is addicted to inexactitude. He was predestined to it. It is the
irresistible influence of the day on which he was born. Every man born
on this day must inevitably grow up to be a liar; it is his fate, from
which there can be no escape."
"Oh, come!" protested Ferguson. "That sounds rather far-fetched, you
know, for these days."
"My dear Sir," retorted the other, brushing up his moustache
aggressively and glaring at Ferguson, "I happen to be President of the
Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon Character,
so I presume I may claim to know what I am talking about."
So truculent was his demeanour that nobody ventured to speak.
"My Society," he continued after a pause, "has conducted its
researches over a period of many years. I am going to give you just
a few examples out of thousands we have collected. Let us take a
significant date, February 29th. A man born on that day is a coward.
It is inevitable. Pusillanimity is born in him and can never be
eradicated.
"We had before us a month or two ago the case of a gentleman living
in a country town--a quiet, shy, studious recluse--born on this fatal
day. By some mischance he happened to pick up a journal in which was
an article on the Government by Mr. ARNOLD WHITE. He read it. He was
so terrified that he expired from heart failure. That sounds to you
incredible, but real life is often incredible. That is one of the
discoveries of our Society.
"I will give you a more remarkable instance still. A well-to-do
gentleman with the same birthday, whose case we have recorded in
our journals, is now, though perfectly healthy, bed-ridden under the
following amazing circumstances. He accidentally discovered that his
tailor, who had clothed him since boyhood, was an anarchist. After
this he was afraid to have any further dealings with the man, while,
on the other hand, he lacked sufficient courage to face the ordeal
of being fitted by a fresh tailor. For some time he used to sit up at
night and secretly sew patches into his trousers. Naturally this could
not go on for ever, and at last, when his garments were dropping to
pieces, he had to take to his bed.... You smile, Sir. Perhaps you
think I am exaggerating?"
His eyes flashed and his voice vibrated with such anger that I jumped
six inches out of my seat.
"Not at all--not at all," I stammered. "Only it occurred to
me--er--that he might have--er--b-bought them ready-made."
"Your knowledge of human nature must be singularly slight," replied
the other icily, "if you imagine that a man without sufficient courage
to be fitted by a tailor would be brave enough to wear ready-made
clothes."
"It seems to me, Sir," said Dean, coming to the rescue, "that your two
instances prove little, if anything. They may be mere coincidence."
The stranger leaned forward, frowned heavily and wagged his forefinger
at Dean, who wilted visibly.
"The Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon
Character," he said, "does not seek to build up a theory upon
isolated and arbitrarily selected examples. We deal with the subject
scientifically. To continue with this date, February 29th. After
several cases similar to those I have recounted had come to our
notice, we made out a list of two hundred and fifty men born on
this day. To each of them we sent a representative to ask for a
subscription to the Society. Though they had never heard of it before,
_every one of those two hundred and fifty was easily intimidated into
subscribing._
"Now let us consider another date--March 3rd. Several striking
instances had led us to suspect that a person born on March 3rd comes
into the world with an ineradicable passion for gambling. I will give
you just one of these. A gentleman one day imagined he was seriously
ill and called in a doctor. The latter laughed at his fears and
offered to bet him that he would live to be seventy. The temptation
was too great. The gambler closed with the offer, and on the eve of
his seventieth birthday drowned himself."
At this point Empson sniggered audibly. The speaker turned his head
and fixed his terrifying glance upon the delinquent. Poor Empson grew
very red, and endeavoured to cover his lapse by coughing noisily. The
other waited patiently till he had finished.
"Perhaps you wish to say something, Sir," he remarked coldly.
"N-no," said Empson. "Most interesting."
The President made a gesture which indicated that Empson was beneath
contempt and renewed his discourse.
"Continuing the same method of research," he said, "we compiled a list
of nearly four hundred persons born on March 3rd. To each of these we
sent particulars of a Derby Sweepstake. _Every one of them, gentlemen,
applied for a ticket by return of post._"
There was an impressive pause. The President looked round the carriage
defiantly as if challenging suspicion.
"One of our tests with regard to to-day's date--liars' day," he
continued presently, "was rather amusing. We hired a room in the City
for a week and sent out over three hundred letters to persons born
on that day. Our notepaper was headed, 'Short, Stay and Hoppett,
Solicitors,' and the letters were in identical terms. They said that
we had been endeavouring for some time to trace the relatives of one
Davy Jones, who, after acquiring a large fortune in Australia, had
died intestate, and we had that morning been given to understand that
the gentleman with whom we wore corresponding was a nephew of the
deceased, etc., etc. You guess what happened. _Every one of them
without exception claimed as his uncle this millionaire who never
existed._"
The train began to slow down, and the President rose to his feet.
"I get out here," he said. "I'm sorry. I should like to have
discussed the subject further. You, Sir"--he pointed threateningly at
Ferguson--"will doubtless in future refrain from blaming Mr. ---- for
a failing for which, as you see, he is in no way responsible."
Ferguson quaked and said nothing.
The President brushed up his moustache still higher and looked round
in triumph. All of us were completely cowed--all of us, except little
Windsor.
"Just a moment, Sir," said the latter gently. "Before you leave us
will you kindly accept this?"
He took out his tie-pin and laid it in the other's hand.
For the first time the burly one's confidence deserted him. He
reddened slightly and looked embarrassed.
"It's very kind of you," he said, "but really I--I don't quite
understand."
"It's a birthday present for you," said Windsor sweetly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Humorous Artist._ "I'VE BROUGHT YOU AN ORIGINAL FUNNY
JOKE THIS TIME. A FRIEND OF MINE THOUGHT OF IT."
_Editor_ (after reading it). "YES, IT _IS_ FUNNY; BUT I PREFER THE
DRAWING THAT WAS PUBLISHED WITH IT IN THE 'SEVENTIES!"]
* * * * *