"By the way, Lorna was there this morning," said Celia. "Her brother's
in the War Office."
"And what did KITCHENER tell him when they last had lunch together?" I
asked.
"Well," smiled Celia, "he does say that----"
I get all my best news from Celia nowadays. When I meet you in the City
and mention that I know for a fact that the KAISER is in hiding at
Liverpool, you may be sure that Celia saw Vera yesterday morning, and
that Vera's uncle is somebody important on the Liverpool Defence
Committee.
Twice a week Celia ties up parcels for the Fleet. Ordinary people
provide the blankets, sea-boots, chocolate, periscopes and so forth;
Celia looks after the brown paper and string, which always seems to me
the most tricky part. There are a dozen of them, all working together;
and you can imagine (or, anyhow, _I_ can) Vera or Kitty or Isobel, her
mouth full of knot, gossiping away about her highly-placed relations,
while Beryl or Evelyn or Lorna looks up from the parcel she is kneeling
on and interrupts, "Well, my _brother_ heard----I say, where did you
put my scissors?"
"Well," smiled Celia, "Lorna's brother in the War Office says the war
will be over by Christmas."
"Hooray," I said; and I went out and looked at my cigar.
This cigar arrived at my house in a case of samples last July. The
samples went up from right to left in order of importance, each in his
own little bed--until you got to Torpedo Jimmy at the end, who had a
double bed to himself. Starting with _Cabajo fino_ in the right-hand
corner, the prices ranged from about nine a penny to five pounds apiece,
the latter being the approximate charge for T. James or any of his
brethren.
Celia was looking over my shoulder when I opened the case, and she
surveyed my brown friends with interest.
"When are you going to smoke _that_ one?" she asked, touching Torpedo
Jimmy's cummerbund with the tip of her finger.
"On your birthday," I said.
"Bother, then I shan't see much of you. Couldn't you smoke it on two
ordinary days instead?"
"You can only smoke a cigar that size after a very good dinner," I
explained.
"What was the matter with the tapioca pudding last night?" said Celia
sternly.
"I mean you must have champagne and bands and lots of lights, and
managers bowing all round you, and pretty people in the distance,
and--all that sort of thing. You can't do that at home. Besides, I shall
want a waiter or two to hold the far end of it while I'm smoking. It'll
be all right going there; we can put it on the top of a cab."
"Of course it will be lovely going out with you," said Celia, "but Jane
will be very disappointed. She'd have liked to hear it buzzing."
"I hope it won't buzz," I said.
"Couldn't you smoke it now, and then we'd go out next week and celebrate
your recovery." She sighed. "My birthday's a long way off," she said
wistfully, thinking of the band and the lights and the pretty people in
the distance--and not necessarily in the distance either.
"Well, p'raps we'll think of another excuse. Anyhow it will be a very
great day, and if I survive we shall often look back upon it."
Celia stroked it again.
"It's just like a torpedo, isn't it?" she said. And so we called it
Torpedo Jimmy. A torpedo is actually a little bit bigger. Not much,
however.
That was July. When August came we knew that there would be no excuse
before the birthday and that the birthday would be no excuse. The great
dinner was postponed. It didn't matter, because we forgot about the
great dinner.
But towards the end of September Celia came across the sample case
again. All the beds were empty now but one. Torpedo James still lay in
his four-poster, brown and inscrutable.
"Better put him away," she said, "and on the day that peace is signed
you can take us both out."
And so Torpedo Jimmy became a symbol. The more I long for peace, the
more I long for that historic smoke. When Louisa's brother or Nora's
uncle has a long pessimistic talk with KITCHENER, then I look sadly at
my cigar; but when FRENCH and JOFFRE unbend to Vera's stepfather or
Beryl's cousin and give him words of cheer, then I take it out and pinch
it fondly, and already I see the waiter coming round with a torch to
light it.
I have been looking at it to-day, and I see that it is giving a little
at one end. I fancy that the moth has been getting at it. Well, if it
does not last till peace is signed, it will be a peace that I shall not
believe in. For a stable peace, as all our eminent novelists keep
pointing out in all the papers, many things are necessary, and one of
them is that I should smoke my cigar happily on the first night of it.
Torpedo Jimmy must do himself justice. No premature explosions; no moths
flying out from the middle of it; no unauthorised ventilation. The exact
moment must be chosen by the Allies. My cigar must be ripe ... and yet
not too ripe.
Celia says she is sure it will be just lovely. So sure is she that she
suggests hanging the cigar in the hall and tapping it to see how the war
is going. "When it taps exactly right, then we shall know the war is
just over."
But I think we shall know that anyhow. EDWARD GREY will break it to
Beryl's nephew all right; Celia will climb down off her parcel and rush
home to me with the news; I shall ring up the restaurant and order
dinner ... and at eight o'clock, in great spirits, we shall get into our
taxi and drive off together--Celia and I and Torpedo Jimmy.