Part II
Chapter I One of the Players
“Do I know everybody?” I asked Myra towards the end of the dinner, looking round the table.
“I think so,” said Myra. “If there’s anybody you don’t see in the window ask for him.”
“I can see most of them. Who’s that tall handsome fellow grinning at me now?”
“Me,” said Archie, smiling across at us.
“Go away,” said Myra. “Gentlemen shouldn’t eavesdrop. This is a perfectly private conversation.”
“You’ve got a lady on each side of you,” I said heatedly, “why don’t you talk to them? It’s simply scandalous that Myra and I can’t get a moment to ourselves.”
“They’re both busy; they won’t have anything to say to me.”
“Then pull a cracker with yourself. Surely you can think of something, my lad.”
“He has a very jealous disposition,” said Myra, “and whenever Dahlia—— Bother, he’s not listening.”
I looked round the table again to see if I could spy a stranger.
“There’s a man over there—who’s he? Where this orange is pointing.”
“Oranges don’t point. Waggle your knife round. Oh, him? Yes, he’s a friend of Archie’s—Mr Derry.”
“Who is he? Does he do anything exciting?”
“He does, rather. You know those little riddles in the Christmas crackers?”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Well, he couldn’t very well do those, because he’s an electrical engineer.”
“But why——”
“No, I didn’t. I simply asked you if you knew them. And he plays the piano beautifully, and he’s rather a good actor, and he never gets up till about ten. Because his room is next to mine, and you can hear everything, and I can hear him not getting up.”
“That doesn’t sound much like an electrical engineer. You ask him suddenly what amperes are a penny, and see if he turns pale. I expect he makes up the riddles, after all. Simpson only does the mottoes, I know. Now talk to Thomas for a bit while I drink my orange.”
Five minutes elapsed, or transpired (whichever it is), before I was ready to talk again. Generally, after an orange, I want to have a bath and go straight off to bed, but this particular one had not been so all-overish as usual.
“Now then,” I said, as I examined the crystallised fruit, “I’m with you in one minute.”
Myra turned round and looked absently at me.
“I don’t know how to begin,” she said to herself.
“The beginning’s easy enough,” I explained, as I took a dish of green sweets under my charge, “it’s the knowing when to stop.”
“Can you eat those and listen to something serious?”
“I’ll try.... Yes, I can eat them all right. Now, let’s see if I can listen.... Yes, I can listen all right.”
“Then it’s this. I’ve been putting it off as long as I can, but you’ve got to be told to-night. It’s—well—do you know why you’re here?”
“Of course, I do. Haven’t I just been showing you?”
“Well, why are you here?”
“Well, frankly, because I’m hungry, I suppose. Of course, I know that if I hadn’t been I should have come in to dinner, just the same, but—— Hang it, I mean that’s the root idea of a dining-room, isn’t it? And I am hungry. At least I was.”
“Stave it off again with an almond,” said Myra, pushing them along to me. “What I really meant was why you’re here in the house.”
This was much more difficult. I began to consider possible reasons.
“Because you all love me,” I started; “because you put the wrong address on the envelope; because the regular boot-boy’s ill; because you’ve never heard me sing in church; because—stop me when I’m getting warm—because Miss Fortescue refused to come unless I was invited; because——”
“Stop,” said Myra. “That was it. And, of course, you know I didn’t mean that at all.”
“What an awful lot of things you don’t mean to-night. Be brave, and have it right out this time.”
“All right, then, I will. One, two, three—we’re going to act a play on Saturday.”
She leant forward, and regarded me with apprehension.
“But why not? I’ll promise to clap.”
“You can’t, because, you see, you’re going to act too. Isn’t it jolly?” said Myra breathlessly.
I gave what, if I hadn’t just begun the last sweet, would have been a scornful laugh.
“Me act? Why, I’ve never—I don’t do it—it isn’t done—I don’t act—not on Saturdays. How absurd!”
“Have you told him, Myra?” Dahlia called out suddenly.
“I’m telling him now. I think he’s taking it all right.”
“Don’t talk about me as ‘him’!” I said angrily. “And I’m not taking it all right. I’m not taking it at all.”
“It’s only such a very small part—we’re all doing something, you know. And your costume’s ordered and everything. But how awfully sporting of you.”
After that, what could I say?
“Er—what am I?” I asked modestly.
“You’re a—a small rat-catcher,” said Myra cheerfully.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A rat-catcher.”
“You said a small one. Does that mean that I’m of diminutive size, or that I’m in a small way of business, or that my special line is young ones?”
“It means that you haven’t much to say.”
“I see. And would you call it a tragic or a pathetic part?”
“It’s a comic part, rather. You’re Hereditary Grand Rat-Catcher to the Emperor Bong. Bong the Second. Not the first Bong, the Dinner Bong.”
“Look here. I suppose you know that I’ve never acted in my life, and never been or seen a rat-catcher in my life. It is therefore useless for you to tell me to be perfectly natural.”
“You have so little to do; it will be quite easy. Your great scene is where you approach the Emperor very nervously——”
“I shall do the nervous part all right.”
“And beg him to spare the life of his mother-in-law.”
“Why? I mean, who is she?”
“Miss Fortescue.”
“Yes, I doubt if I can make that bit seem quite so natural. Still, I’ll try.”
“Hooray. How splendid!”
“A rat-catcher,” I murmured to myself. “Where is the rat? The rat is on the mat. The cat is on the rat. The bat is on the cat. The——”
“Mr Derry will go through your part with you to-morrow. Some of it is funnier than that.”
“The electrical engineer? What do they know about rat-catching?”
“Nothing, only——”
“Aha! Now I see who your mysterious Mr Derry is. He is going to coach us.”
“He is. You’ve found it out at last. How bright green sweets make you.”
“They have to be really bright green sweets. Poor man! What a job he’ll have with us all.”
“Yes,” said Myra, as she prepared to leave me. “Now you know why he doesn’t get up till ten.”
“In the rat-catching business,” I said thoughtfully, as I opened the door, “the real rush comes in the afternoon. Rat-catchers in consequence never get up till ten-thirty. Do you know,” I decided, “I am quite beginning to like my little part.”
Chapter II — Alarms and Excursions
I was, I confess, very late the next morning, even for a rat-catcher. Mr Derry was in the middle of his breakfast; all the others had finished. We saluted, and I settled down to work.
“There is going to be a rehearsal at eleven o’clock, I believe,” said Derry. “It must be nearly that now.”
“I shall be there,” I said, “if I have to bring the marmalade with me. You’re going to coach us?”
“Well, I believe I said I would.”
“Though I have never assumed the buskin myself,” I went on, “I have, of course, heard of you as an amateur actor.” (Liar.) “And if you could tell me how to act, while I am finishing my bacon, I should be most awfully obliged.”
“Haven’t you really done any?”
“Only once, when I was very small. I was the heroine. I had an offer, but I had to refuse it, I said, ‘Alath, dear heart, I may not, I am married already.’”
“Very right and proper,” murmured Derry.
“Well, as it turned out, I had made a mistake. It was my first who had been married already. The little play was full of surprises like.”
Derry coughed, and took out his pipe. “Let me see,” he began, “what’s your part?”
“I am—er—a rodent-collector.”
“Oh yes—the Emperor’s rat-catcher.”
“Grand hereditary,” I said stiffly. “It had been in the family for years.”
“Quite so.”
I was about to enlarge upon the advantages of the hereditary principle when the door opened suddenly to admit Myra and Archie.
“You don’t say you’re down at last!” said Myra, in surprise.
“I hardly say anything at breakfast, as a rule,” I pointed out.
“What an enormous one you’re having. And only last night——”
“On the contrary, I’m eating practically nothing—a nut and one piece of parsley off the butter. The fact is, I glanced at my part before I went to bed, and there seemed such a lot of it I hardly slept at all.”
“Why, you don’t come on very much,” said Archie. “Neither do I. I’m a conjuror. Can any gentleman here oblige me with a rabbit?... No, sir, I said a rabbit. Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you were coming up on to the stage.... Any gentleman——”
“Have some jam instead. What do you mean by saying I don’t come on very much?” I took the book out of my pocket, and began to turn the leaves. “Here you are, nearly every page—‘Enter R.,’ ‘Exit R.,’ ‘Enter L.’—I don’t know who he is—‘Exeunt R.,’—why, the rat-catcher’s always doing something. Ah, here they’re more explicit—‘Enter R.C.’ Hallo, that’s funny, because I’d just—— Oh, I see.”
“One of our oldest and most experienced mimes,” said Archie to Derry. “You must get him to talk to you.”
“No secret of the boards is hid from him,” added Myra.
“Tell us again, sir, about your early struggles,” begged Archie.
“He means your early performances on the stage,” explained Myra.
“There’s one very jolly story about Ellen Terry and the fireproof curtain. Let me see, were you Macbeth then, or Noise of Trumpets? I always forget.”
I drank my last cup of tea, and rose with dignity.
“It is a humorous family,” I apologised to Derry. “Their grandfather was just the same. He would have his little joke about the first steam-engine.”
Outside, in the hall, there was a large crowd of unemployed, all talking at once. I caught the words “ridiculous” and “rehearsal,” and the connection between the two seemed obvious and frequent. I singled out Thomas, abstracted his pouch, and began to fill up.
“What is all this acting business?” I asked. “Some idea about a little play, what? Let’s toddle off, and have a game of billiards.”
“They’ve let me in for a bally part,” said Thomas, “and you needn’t think you’re going to get out of it. They’ve got you down, all right.”
“Thomas, I will be frank with you. I am no less a person than the Emperor Bong’s Hereditary (it had been in the family for years) Grand Rat-catcher. The real rush, however, comes in the afternoon. My speciality is young ones.”
“I’m his executioner.”
“And he has a conjuror too. What a staff! Hallo, good morning, Simpson. Are you anything lofty?”
“‘Oh, I am the Emperor Bong,’” said Simpson gaily; “‘I am beautiful, clever and strong——’”
“Question,” said Thomas.
“‘’Tis my daily delight to carouse and to fight, and at moments I burst into song.’”
I looked at him in amazement.
“Well, just at present,” I said, “all I want is a match.... A lucifer, Emp. A pine vesta, Maj. Thanks.... Now tell me—does anybody beside yourself burst into song during the play? Any bursting by Thomas or myself, for instance?”
“Nobody sings at all. My little poem is recitative.”
“If you mean it’s very bad, I agree with you,” said Thomas.
“I made it up myself. It was thought that my part should be livened up a little.”
“Well, why hasn’t it been?”
“If you will give me two minutes, Simpson,” I said, “I will liven up my own part better than that. What rhymes with rat-catcher?”
“Cat-catcher.”
“Wait a bit.... Yes, that’s got it.
“‘Oh, I’m on the Emperor’s staff
I’m a rodent-collector (don’t laugh)—
My record (in braces)
Of rats and their races
Is a thousand and eight and a half.’”
“May we have that again?” said Myra, appearing suddenly.
“‘Oh, I’m on——’”
“No,” said Thomas.
“‘Oh, I’m on——’”
“No,” said Simpson.
“There is no real demand, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I did just hear it before,” said Myra. “I wish you’d make up one for me. I think we might all announce ourselves like that, and then the audience will have no difficulty in recognising us.”
“They’ll recognise Thomas if he comes on with an axe. They won’t think he’s just trotted round with the milk. But what are you, Myra?”
“The Emperor’s wife’s maid.”
“Another member of the highly trained staff. Well, go on, Simpson.”
“‘Oh, I am her Majesty’s maid,’” declared Simpson. “We all begin with ‘Oh,’ to express surprise at finding ourselves on the stage at all. ‘Oh, I am her Majesty’s maid, I’m a sad little flirt, I’m afraid.’”
“I’m respectable, steady and staid,” corrected Myra.
“No,” I said; “I have it—”
“‘Oh, I am her Majesty’s maid!
And her charms are beginning to fade,
I can sit in the sun
And look just twenty-one,
While she’s thirty-six in the shade.’”
Myra made a graceful curtsey.
“Thank you, sir. You’ll have to pay me a lot more of those before the play is over.”
“Will I really?”
“Well, seeing as the Grand Hereditary One is supposed to be making up to her Majesty’s confidential attendant——”
Miss Fortescue came pushing up to us.
“It is too ridiculous,” she complained; “none of us know our parts yet, and if we have a rehearsal now—what do you think about it?”
I looked at Myra and smiled to myself. “I’m all for a rehearsal at once,” I said.
Chapter III — A Rehearsal
“Now this is a very simple trick,” said Archie, from the centre of the stage. “For this little trick all I want is, a hippopotamus and a couple of rubies. I take the hippopotamus in one hand—so—and cover it with the handkerchief. Then, having carefully peeled the rubies——”
Thomas put the last strip of silver paper on to his axe, and surveyed the result proudly.
“But how splendid!” said Myra, as she hurried past. “Only you want some blood.” And she jumped over the footlights and disappeared.
“Good idea. Archie, where do you keep the blood?”
“Hey, presto! it’s gone. And now, sir, if you will feel in your waistcoat pockets you will find the hippopotamus in the right-hand side and the red ink in the left. No? Dear, dear, the hippopotamus must have been a bad one.”
“Be an artist, Thomas,” I said, “and open a vein or two. Do the thing properly, Beerbohm. But soft, a winsome maid, in sooth; I will approach her. I always forget that sooth bit. But soft, a win——”
“Why don’t we begin?” asked Simpson; “I can’t remember my part much longer. Oh, by the way, when you come up to me and say, ‘Your Majesty e’en forgets the story of the bull’s-eye and the revolving bookcase——”
“Go away; I don’t say anything so silly.”
“Oh, of course it’s Blair. Blair, when you come up to me and say——” They retired to the back of the stage to arrange a very effective piece of business.
“Any card you like, madam, so long as it is in the pack. The Queen of Hearts? Certainly. Now I take the others and tear them up—so. The card remaining will be yours. Ah, as I thought—it is the Queen of Hearts.”
“Archie, you’re talking too much,” said Dahlia, “and none of it comes into your part really.”
“I’m getting the atmosphere. Have you an old top hat on you, dear, because if so we’ll make a pudding. No top hat? Then pudding is horf.”
“But stay, who is this approaching? Can it be—I say, mind the footlights. When are we going to begin?”
“There!” said Thomas proudly. “Anybody would know that was blood.”
“But how perfectly lovely,” said Myra. “Only you want some notches.”
“What for?”
“To show where you executed the other men, of course. You always get a bit off your axe when you execute anybody.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that too,” I agreed. “Notches, Thomas, notches.”
“Why don’t you do something for a change? What about the trap or whatever it is you catch your bally rats with? Why don’t you make that?”
“It isn’t done with a trap, Thomas dear. It’s partly the power of the human eye and partly kindness. I sit upon a sunny bank and sing to them.”
“Which is that?”
“If we don’t begin soon,” began Simpson——
“Hallo, Emperor, what’s that you’re saying? Quite so, I agree with you. I wonder if your High Fatness can lend me such a thing as a hard-boiled egg. Simpkins, when this rehearsal is over—that is to say, to-morrow—I’ll take you on at juggling; I’m the best——”
Deny finished his conversation with Miss Fortescue and turned to the stage.
“Now then, please, please,” he said. “We’ll just take the First Act. Scene, The Emperor’s Palace. Enter Rat-catcher. You come on from the left.”
I coughed and came on.
My part was not a long one, but it was a very important one. I was the connecting link between the different episodes of the play, and they wanted some connecting. Whenever anybody came on to the stage, I said (supposing I was there, and I generally was—the rat-catcher of those days corresponding to the modern plumber)—I said, “But who is this?” or “Hush, here comes somebody.” In this way, the attention of the wakeful part of the audience was switched on to the new character, and continuity of action was preserved.
I coughed and came on.
“No,” said Derry, “you must come on much more briskly.”
“I can’t. I’ve been bitten by a rat.”
“It doesn’t say so anywhere.”
“Well, that’s how I read the part. Hang it, I ought to know if I’ve been bitten or not. But I won’t show it if you like; I’ll come on briskly.”
I went out, and came on very briskly.
“That’s better,” said Derry.
“‘His Majesty ordered me to be here at the stroke of noon,’” I said. “‘Belike he has some secret commands to lay upon me, or perchance it is nought but a plague of rats. But who is this?’”
“‘Oh,’” said Myra, coming in suddenly, “‘I had thought to be alone.’”
“‘Nay, do not flee from me, pretty one. It is thus that——’ I say, Myra, it’s no good my saying do not flee if you don’t flee.”
“I was just going to. You didn’t give me a chance. There, now I’m fleeing.”
“Oh, all right. ‘It is thus that the rats flee when they see me approaching. Am I so very fearsome?’”
“‘Orrid,” said Archie to himself from the wings.
“One moment,” said Derry, and he turned round to speak to somebody.
“Puffickly ’orrid,” said Archie again.
“Nay, do not frown,” Myra went on, “’tis only my little brother, who is like unto a codfish himself, and jealous withal.”
“Ay, ay, and I thought it was a codfish. So that I had e’en brought the egg-sauce with me.”
“Trouble not thyself for that,” said Archie. “For verily the audience will supply thee with all the eggs thou wantest. I say, we are being funny.”
“I’m not, I’m quite serious, I really did think it was a co—— ‘But tell me, fair one,’” I said hurriedly, “‘for what dost the Emperor want me?’”
“Yes, yes,” said Derry, “I’m sorry I had to interrupt you. I think perhaps we had better begin again. Yes, from the beginning.”
The rehearsal rolled on.
“I think it went splendidly,” said Myra. “If only we had known our parts and come in at the right moments and been more serious over it.”
“If there’s any laughing to be done it will have to be done by us. The audience won’t laugh.”
“‘Mr Derry having explained that the author was not in the house, the audience collected their cauliflowers and left quietly.’ I think it’s a rotten play.”
“Well, it isn’t frightfully funny,” said Myra, “but we can put that in ourselves.”
“It’s so jolly hard to say the lines properly—they’re so unnatural,” complained Thomas. “‘Truly thou hast created a favourable impression with the damsel’—well, I mean, it’s absurd. Any ordinary person would say ‘Truly thou art amongst them, old spot,’ or something of that kind.”
“Well, you say that, Thomas; you’ll be all right,”
“We might put a few songs in,” said Dahlia, “and a dance or two.”
“I think you’ve forgotten that we’ve done only Act I.,” remarked Archie. “His Majesty’s conjuror doesn’t really let himself go till Act II. Still, I’m all for a song and a dance. Simpson, come and Apache with me.”
They dashed at each other fiercely.
“Oh, we’ll make it go all right,” said Myra.
Chapter IV — Last Moments
“Has anybody here seen Kelly?” asked Dahlia, putting her head in at the billiard-room door. “I mean Archie.”
“I’m waiting here for Kate,” I said. “I mean Myra.”
“Oughtn’t you to be dressing? It doesn’t matter about me—I’m not on for a long time.”
“A rat-catcher’s best suit is not an elaborate one; I can put it on in about five minutes. It is now seven-thirty, we begin at eight-thirty—hence the billiard cue. More chalk.”
“Oh, why aren’t you nervous? How you can stand calmly there——”
“I am nervous. Look.” I aimed carefully and put the red into a pocket some miles away. “There you are. Have you ever seen me do that in real life? Of course not. If my hand had been steady I should have been a foot to the right. Still more chalk.”
“Well, I want Archie, and I shall cry if I don’t find him. That’s how I feel.” She sat down and got up again.
“My dear Dahlia,” I said solemnly, “now you can understand a father’s feelings—I mean, now, you see what you women have brought on yourselves. Who suggested a play? The women. Who dragged me into it? The women. Who said rat-catchers always wore whiskers? The women. Who is designing me a pair of whiskers at this moment? The wom——Simpson. Who but for whom (this is going to be a very difficult sentence) who but for whom, would be just thinking of dressing leisurely for dinner, instead of which we had a hasty snack, and have now got to put on heaven knows what? The women. Well, it serves you right.”
“Don’t be horrid. I want Archie.” She got up for the third time and drifted out of the room.
I chalked my cue and went into a pocket without touching anything. When I say I went in I mean that the ball I was playing with went in. You do see that? Very well, then. I took it out and began to squint along my cue again, when two hands came suddenly over my eyes and a voice said; “Guess who is is.”
“The Queen of Sheba,” I tried.
“Right,” said Myra.
I turned and looked at her.
“Golly, you do, you really do!” I said at last. “Did they always dress like that in the Bong era? Short skirts, long pigtail, bare arms—lovely!”
“‘I can sit in the sun and look just twenty-one,’” sang Myra as she dropped into the sofa.
“Well, just at present you’re sitting in the billiard-room and looking about fifteen.... How are you getting on with your French this term? I had a very bad report in the holidays from your governess. The extra ninepence a week seems to have been simply thrown away.”
“Aren’t you excited?” said Myra, looking at me with sparkling eyes.
“As for calisthenics, well, what I say is, ‘My daughter is Church of England, and if you don’t like it, she can come away. I’m not going to have her stuffed up with all that nonsense.’”
Myra jumped up. “Aren’t you excited?” she insisted.
“Feel my tongue—I mean my pulse, it’s quite normal. And why? Because I’ve forgotten my part, and I’m going to bed.”
“It’s a great responsibility our beginning the play.”
“It is. Have you ever thought that, if we refused to begin, the play couldn’t continue, and then the audience would be able to go home? My idea was to tackle the people as they arrive, and come to terms with them. I’m sure there’s money in it.”
“You aren’t bothering, are you?”
“Of course, I am. I’d give a hundred pounds to be out of it. No, I wouldn’t—I’d give a hundred pounds if you’d always wear that frock and do your hair like that. Will you? And you shall go on with your French, child.”
Myra curtsied prettily.
“And I’ll go on with my whiskers. You haven’t seen me in those yet, have you?” There was a loud noise without. “Here they are, coming in.”
It was not the whiskers, however, but Archie and Thomas in full costume; Archie in green and Thomas in black.
“Hallo,” said Archie, “I feel just like a conjuror.”
“You look just like a grasshopper,” said Thomas.
“My dear friend,” said Archie, patting him kindly on his shoulder, “is that you? But you oughtn’t to be here, you know. You came up the hot-water pipe, I suppose? Yes, yes, but they misdirected you—the blackbeetle department is in the basement. Well, well, it will be easier going down.”
“Archie, Dahlia’s looking for you.”
“It’s all right, she found me. She was nearly in tears. She said, ‘Is that my Archibald or an onion?’ I said ‘Fear not, fair one, ’tis but the early crocus.’ Myra, don’t you think they’ve overdone the green rather? To be quite frank, I don’t see why a conjuror should be dressed in green at all.”
“To distinguish him from the rat-catcher in brown, the executioner in black, and the Master of the Gold Fish in red.”
“I had thought that perhaps a certain aptitude for legerdemain might so distinguish him. But I perceive that I am wrong. Hallo, why aren’t you in brown then?”
“I’m coming on like this,” I explained. “I was going to have changed, but now I’ve seen you two, I don’t think I will. With my ordinary clothes, one whisker—probably the starboard one—and a little insouciance, I shall be a great success.”
“What annoys me,” said Thomas, “is that in the early Bong age they had no bally pockets. I’ve simply got nowhere to keep a handkerchief.”
“Keep it behind the scenes; and then, if you blow your nose immediately before the execution, and again immediately after it, you ought to be all right.”
“It isn’t for that. It’s in case I want to cry.”
“It’s all right for me,” said Archie. “I’ve simply got to say, ‘Now can anybody in the audience oblige me with a handkerchief?’ and I shall get dozens.”
“Then I shall probably touch you for one. Great Irvings! is this really Simpson?”
The Emperor Bong was making a splendid entry, looking (except for his spectacles) exactly like an emperor.
“Rise, rise,” he said. “Stop grovelling. Oh, look here, you fellows, when I say ‘On the stomach!’ then you must——Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Mannering, I didn’t see you were there.”
“Where are my whiskers?” I asked sternly.
“My dear old chap, I couldn’t do them; there wasn’t enough to go round. I made two nice little eyebrows instead—you’ll find them on your dressing-table. ‘Oh, I am the Emperor Bong, I am beautiful, clever and strong. I am beauti——’ Do you think I ought to wear my spectacles or not?”
There was a loud shout of “No!”
“Oh, all right. But I shall probably fall over the sunset or something. Thomas, if you see me wandering into a new moon, tap me on the head with your axe. Why isn’t my rat-catcher dressed?”
“He was waiting for his whiskers.”
“That’s perfectly absurd. You could have grown a pair in the time. Go and dress at once.”
“I refuse to do anything till a quarter-past eight,” I said. “If I get into my things now, all the atmosphere will have worn off by the time we begin.”
“It’s worn off me a long time ago,” said Thomas dismally.
“And me,” said Myra, with a shiver.
“Well, we’re all very miserable,” said Archie; “let’s have a bottle of something. What? Oh, hush! Simpson, just ring the bell, and I’ll show you a little conjuring trick. There’s nothing on the table at present, is there? No. Well, now, you watch.”
Chapter V — The Night
The play was a great success; I know, because many of the audience told me so afterwards. Had they but guessed what was going on behind the scenes, the congratulations would have been even more enthusiastic. For as near as a touch we had to drop the eggproof curtain and hand the money back.
I am going to give you the opening scene as it was actually said—not as it was heard across the footlights—and then you will understand. As you may remember, the Rat-catcher (Me) and the Maid (Myra) take the stage first, and they introduce themselves in the usual way to the audience and each other. The scene is the palace of the Emperor Bong (Simpson). Very well then.
Maid (sweetly). Truly his Majesty is a handsome man, and I wonder not that his people love him.
Rat-catcher (rather nervous). Thou surprisest me. I saw him in the wings—in the winter garden just now—that is to say, anon—and thought him plain. But hush, here he comes.
(They salaam, or whatever you call it, and stay there.)
Rat-catcher (still salaaming). What’s the silly ass waiting for? I can’t stick this much longer; the blood’s all going to my head like anything.
Maid (in a similar position). He must have forgotten his cue. Can’t you say, “Hush, here he comes” again?
Rat-catcher. I can’t say anything out loud in this position. Do you think I might come up for a breath?
Maid (loudly). His Majesty tarries.
Rat-catcher (sotto voce). He does. You’ve got it.
Maid. Whatever shall we do? Do think of something.
Rat-catcher. Well, I’m going to rise to the surface. I’m tired of being a submarine. (They both stand up.)
Maid (brilliantly). Perchance it was a rat we heard and not his Majesty.
Rat-catcher (with equal brilliance). Fear not, fair damsel. Behold, I will investigate. (Proceeds to back of stage.)
Archie (from wings). Come off, you idiot.
Rat-catcher (always the gentleman—to Maid). Tarry a while, my heart, what time I seek assistance. (Exit.)
Maid (confidentially to audience—to keep the thing going). Truly he is a noble youth, though he follows a lowly profession. ’Tis not the apparel that proclaims the man. Me thinks....
Me (annoyed). Who’s an idiot?
Archie. Didn’t you see me wink? That ass Simpson’s banged his nose against a door-post and is bleeding like a pig. Says it’s because he hadn’t got his spectacles.
Me (still annoyed). More likely the champagne.
Archie. They’re dropping keys down his back as hard as they can. Will you and Myra gag a bit, till he’s ready?
Me (excitedly). My good fool, how on earth——
Myra (coming to back of stage). But behold he returns. (Frowns imperiously.)
Rat-catcher (coming on again very unwillingly). Ah, fair maid, ’tis thee. I bring thee good tidings. I met one in the ante-room, a long-legged, scurvy fellow, who did tell me that his Majesty was delayed on some business.
Maid. That must have been his Conjuror—I know him well. (Aside.) What’s happened?
Rat-catcher. Let us then rest a while, an it please thee. (Seizing her by the arm.) Over here. That ass Simpson’s hurt himself. We’ve got to amuse the audience till he’s finished bleeding.
Maid (sitting down with her back to audience). I say, is it really serious?
Rat-catcher. Not for him; it is for us. Now then, talk away.
Maid. Er—h’m. (Coyly.) Wilt not tell me of thy early life, noble sir, how thou didst become a catcher of rats?
Rat-catcher (disgusted). You coward! (Aloud.) Nay, rather let me hear of thine own life. (Aside.) Scored.
Maid. That’s not fair. I asked you first. (Modestly.) But I am such a little thing, and you are so noble a youth.
Rat-catcher. True. (Having a dash at it.) ’Twas thus. My father, when I was yet a child, didst—did—no, didst—apprentice me to a salad binger——
Maid (with interest). How dost one bing salads?
Rat-catcher (curtly). Ballad singer. And I would frequent the market-place at noon, singing catches and glees, and receiving from the entranced populace divers coins, curses, bricks and other ornaments. One morn, as I was embarked upon a lovely ballad, “Place me amidst the young gazelles,” I was seized right suddenly from behind. (Bored to death.) I’m sick of this. We’re supposed to be amusing the audience.
Maid. Oh, go on, I’m getting awfully amused.
Emperor (audibly from green-room). Confound it, it’s begun again.
Executioner (bitterly). And to think that I spent hours putting red ink on my axe!
Maid (with great presence of mind). What’s that? Surely that was a rat.
Rat-catcher (greatly relieved). It was. (Getting up.) Let’s have Archie on, and see if he can amuse them a bit more. (Aloud.) I must finish my tale anon. Stay here, sweet child, what time I fetch my trusty terrier. (Exit.)
Maid. ’Tis a strange story he tells. How different from my own simple life. Born of proud but morbid parents....
Archie. What’s up? Stick to it.
Me. Have you got such a thing as a trusty terrier on you?
Archie (feeling up his sleeve). No.
Me. Well, the audience will be extremely disappointed if I don’t bring one back. I practically promised them I would. Look here, why don’t you come on and help? Everybody is getting horribly bored with us.
Archie (delightedly). Oh, all right.
Enter Rat-catcher and Conjuror.
Maid. But behold he returns again!
Rat-catcher (excitedly). Great news, fair lady, which this long-legged, scurvy fellow I told you of will impart to us.
Maid. Why, ’tis the Conjuror. Have you news for us, sir?
Conjuror (with no illusions about the Oriental style). Absolutely stop press. What is it you want to know? Racing? The Bong Selling Plate was won by Proboscis, McSimp up. Immense enthusiasm. Bank rate unchanged—quite right this cold weather. Excuse me a moment, sir, your moustache is coming off. No, the left wing—allow me to lend you a postage stamp. Do you prefer red or green?
Maid (biting her lip). Will you not give us news of the Emperor?
Conjuror. I will. His Majesty has met with a severe accident whilst out hunting this morning, being bitten by a buffalo.
Maid. Alas, what will my mistress say?
Conjuror. She has already said everything that was necessary. Her actual words were: “Just like Bong.”
Rat-catcher (seizing the opportunity). His Majesty ordered me to meet him here at noon. Methinks I had better withdraw and return anon. (Makes off hurriedly.)
Conjuror (seizing him). Not so. He bade me command you to stay and sing to us. (Sensation.)
Rat-catcher (huskily). Alas, I have forgotten my voice—that is, I have left my music at home. I will go and fetch it. (Has another dash.)
Conjuror. Stay! Listen! (They all listen.)
Simpson (in wings). Thanks, thanks, that will be all right now. Oh no, quite, thanks. Oh, is this your key? Thanks, thanks. No, it doesn’t matter about the other ones, they don’t feel at all uncomfortable, thanks. Yes, I think it really did stop it, thanks.
Conjuror. I’m off! (Aloud.) His Majesty has regained consciousness. (Exit.)
Simpson (apologetically). Oh, Archie, I’ve got the billiard-room key in my——
Rat-catcher (very loudly to Maid). Hush, here he comes! (They salaam.)
(Enter the Emperor Bong.)
Chapter VI — The Curtain Goes Down
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Simpson at the supper-table, glass in hand, “it is my pleasant duty——”
“Bother!” murmured Myra. “Drinking healths always makes me feel funny.”
“Silence for McSimp,” shouted Archie. “Now then, pass along there, please. There’s no need to push, you’ll all be able to hear. Gentlemen, the O’Sumph is addressing us impromptu, not to say unasked.”
“It is my pleasant duty,” continued Simpson, “as your late Emperor (Half-an-hour-late. How’s the probosc?), to propose the health of the Rabbits Dramatic Company. (Hooray!) Great as we are on the cricket-field (Wide!)—great, I say, as we are on the cricket-field (Pitch ’em up, Simpson), we are, I think, still greater in the halls of Thespis. (Don’t know the lady.) Gentlemen, I knew Irving. (Liar!) I have heard tell of Garrick (Good! Ever heard of Shakespeare?), but to-night has been a new experience for me. (I will—give you—the kee—eys of——.) Ladies and gentlemen, I propose our very good healths, coupled with the name of our hostess Miss Mannering.” (Loud Cheers.)
“That’s me,” said Myra.
“I single out Miss Mannering,” added Simpson, “because I’m sure we should all like to hear her make a speech.”
“Oh, Samuel,” said Myra, shaking her head at him, “and I thought it was because you loved me.”
“The Rabbits! Myra!” we cried.
“Miss Mannering will now address you,” announced Archie. “She will be glad to answer any questions afterwards; but anyone who interrupts will be hurled out. I appeal to you, as Englishmen, to give her a fair hearing.”
Myra stood on a chair, looking lovely, but very lonely, and waited till we were silent.
“My dear good friends,” she began, and then she caught Thomas’s eye. “Hallo, Tommy,” she said wistfully.... “My dear good friends, but why should you say I’m a jolly good fellow, when it isn’t my birthday or anything? But how silly of you! Why, of course, we’re all jolly good fellows—and jolly good actors too. It has been fun, hasn’t it?... Oh, Archie, dear.... I hope we shall all be here in the summer, don’t you? Well, you can’t very well say you don’t, now I’ve asked you, can you? You’ll have to pretend your uncles are very ill, and then you needn’t come.... Oh, please—don’t look at me like that, you make me want to cry, and I only want to laugh to-night.... Archie, may I get down?”
“She is a dear,” Dahlia whispered to me. “How you can go on——”
It was Simpson who saved the situation and made us merry and bright again. He hastily trotted out the suggestion that we should tour the country in the summer, playing cricket in the day and Bong the Second at night. Archie backed him up at once.
“Only I’m off Bong Two altogether,” he said. “Of course, what we want is a cricket play. We shall have to write one ourselves, I expect; there aren’t any really good ones about. Act I. Rupert Vavasour, a dashing bat and the last descendant of an ancient but impoverished house, is in love with the beautiful but equally impoverished Millicent. Milly is being pursued by a rich villain of the name of Jasper Fordyce, the said Jasper being a bowler of extreme swiftness, with a qualification for Essex.... Go on, Simpson.”
“In order to restore the fallen fortunes of the house, Rupert plays for Kent as a professional—Binks (R.)—and secures talent money in six successive matches. Jasper hears of it, and (Act II.) assassinates the scorer, bribing a hireling of his own to take the deceased’s place. In the next match Rupert only scores forty-nine.”
“Rupert,” continued Thomas, “who had been counting his own jolly score, and made it eighty-seven, was furious, and determined at all costs to foil the villain. Accordingly he went on to bowl in the next innings and took five wickets for two hundred and thirty-nine, thus obtaining talent money.”
“A little love interest, please, Dahlia,” said Archie.
“Now the captain, who was in the secret,” said Dahlia, “was in love with Rupert’s sister, which was why he put Binks (R.) on to bowl. As soon as Binks had collected his five wickets, Blythe went on, and took the other five for three runs. In this way Kent just managed to win, and so Rupert got more talent money.”
“The next match was against Essex—Act III., the great act of the play—and Jasper Fordyce was playing for the Leyton brigade. As he put on his spurs before taking the field, and brushed his sleek black hair, he smiled sardonically to himself. Had he not overnight dug holes in the pitch at the pavilion end, and was not the wicket fiery, and he notoriously an erratic bowler?”
“Everything points to Simpson playing Jasper,” I said, and continued:
“‘Heads,’ cried Jasper. It was heads. ‘I put you in,’ he remarked calmly. ‘What!’ said the other in amazement. Ten minutes later Binks (R.) and Humphreys were at the wicket. Binks took first ball with a touch of nervousness at his heart. All depended on this match. If only he could make four hundred and fifty to-day, he would be able to pay off the mortgage and marry his Millicent.... ‘Play.’ Jasper rushed up to the wicket and delivered the ball. Then before anybody could see how it happened, Rupert was stretched full-length upon the sward!”
“I had rather thought of playing Rupert myself,” said Archie. “But I’m not so sure now.”
“Five for two hundred and thirty-nine,” I reminded him. “The part was written for you.”
“But what of Millicent?” said Myra. “Fearing lest some evil should overtake her lover she had attended the match clad in a long ulster, and now she flung this off, revealing the fact that she was in flannels. With her hair tucked up beneath her county cap she looked a slim and handsome boy. To rush on to the field and take the injured one’s place was the work of a moment. ‘Who is this?’ said the umpires in amazement. ‘Fear not,’ whispered Millicent to Humphreys, ‘I have a birth qualification for the county, and the gardener coached me for an hour last night.’”
“Once more Jasper rushed up to the crease, and the spectators held their breath.”
“I’m going to be a spectator,” I said, “with a breath-holding part. Sorry—go on, Blair.”
“Then Millicent’s bat flashed, and, behold! the ball was on the boundary! A torrent of cheers rent the air. Again he bowled, again the bat flashed. Jasper ground his teeth.”
“The curtain goes down here to represent the passing of an hour. When it rises again, Millicent’s score is four hundred and twenty-three. There was dead silence for a moment. Then Millicent swung her bat. And at that the cheers broke out, such cheering as had never been heard before. Maclaren’s record score was beaten at last! ‘Now surely he will knock his wickets down,’ said the spectators. Little did they know that until four hundred and fifty was upon the tins the mortgage could not be paid off! Four hundred and thirty—four hundred and forty—four hundred and forty-nine—a sharply run single—four hundred and fifty! From the pavilion Rupert heard the cheers and fainted again.”
“It was ‘over,’ and Millicent had the bowling. Jasper delivered the ball, a fast half-volley——”
(“Oh, Simpson simply must play Jasper.”)
“—and Millicent drove it back hard and true. Jasper tried to duck, but it was too late. He was dead.”
“Act IV. All his money went to Rupert, who was a distant cousin. He married Millicent, and they lived happily ever after. But, though they are always to be seen at the Tonbridge and Canterbury weeks, they have never played cricket again. Curtain.”
“And bedtime,” said Myra suddenly. “Good-night, everybody.”
Margery
My dear Margery,—When I heard that you really had arrived, I got out the broken tea-cup, filled it at the bath, and drank “To my niece!” with the greatest enthusiasm possible. Had I been on the stage I should then have hurled the cup over my shoulder; and later on the scene-shifter would have come and collected the bits. As it was, I left that part out; and you will forgive me, will you not, dear baby, when you hear that it was your uncle’s last cup, and he in a bad way financially.
Personally I was all for coming to see you at once. But you wrote that you would prefer me to postpone my visit for a week; at the end of which time you would have settled down, and I should be more in a position to do you justice—the critic, rather than the mere reporter. I don’t know if those were quite your words, but that at any rate was the idea. So, baby, here I am—a week later, and just returned from seeing you. What, you wish to know, were my impressions?
It is like your cool way, asking me what I think of you. It was you who were to have been interviewed by me. You were a stranger, one short week on our shores; and I wanted to ask you what you thought of the English ladies, what were your views on our climate and (above all) what was your opinion of the English press. My editor had heard of your landing, and those were the things he wished to know. Well, I shall say that your views were undecided. Two kicks, a cry, and something very like a sneeze—you haven’t quite got the hang of our language yet.
You know, Margery, there was at one time some talk of your being a boy; and, in that case, your father and I had decided that you were to play for Kent. I was to have bowled to you every evening, and he would have stood by and said, “You should have come forward to that one, sir.” At the public schools they call this “coaching.” However, that dream is over now, and the most we can hope for is that you should marry someone in the eleven. Your father and I were discussing it last night (in front of you—oh, what would Mrs Grundy say?), and we had almost fixed on Woolley; but your mother objected because he was a professional. A trivial reason, dear Margery, but you know what women are. You gave a little cry just at that moment, and I know you meant, “Well, why not Mr Hutchings then?” Well, we had thought of him, only your mother says he will be too old. I do hope, baby, that when you grow up you will be guided by what your heart says, and not by what your mother says....
Your mother—I think you must be careful in your dealings with that woman. Above all, do not let her prejudice you against your uncle. At one time yesterday we were discussing your personal features. “Her grannie’s mouth,” said somebody; “her father’s nose,” volunteered another. “Look at the darling’s eyes, just like her loving mummy’s,” was that shameless person’s own contribution. Then I in haste, “But, I say, what about her uncle?”
Margery, your mother looked at you thoughtfully. She looked at you every way. And then suddenly, in triumph, she cried, “Why, nurse! Of course! Her uncle’s hair!”
They tell me, Margery, that as a matter of fact your name is Marjorie; and they say that the other reminds them too much of Margarine. That just shows how ignorant they are. I looked up “margarine,” in the dictionary, and it is called so because of its “pearly lustre.” If that isn’t good enough for them, they must be a very proud couple. Anyhow, you are Margery to me: I hope I have a mind above your commonplace Marjories.
There are many things that I have to say to you, but I feel quite sure that your mother reads your letters; so perhaps I had better wait till I can see you alone. I want you always to insist on wearing shoes, as a little girl, and not those ghastly thirty-nine-button boots; also on going to one of the very big schools if you go to a boarding school at all. And I want—but I must talk to your father about it. I like to think he is still my ally. Time was when he too knew all about the bringing up of children, and though he has handicapped himself by marrying, yet now and then, when we are alone together, he is almost sensible on the subject.
Good-bye. Give my love to your mother. Perhaps we can trust her more than we thought, after all. Ever your loving UNCLE
TO HER UNCLE—FROM MARGERY
My dear Uncle,—Thank you for your letter. I was just as glad when they told me about you! And I said to myself, “I must be very nice to him, because mother and I have been here for years and years simply, and he’s quite new.” And it’s unkind of you to say I kicked, I was only stretching, and one must stretch or one will never grow. I heard nurse tell mother that, and you know you’d like to have a tall niece.
I think I shall like you, if you’re sure you won’t mind my being only a girl. I don’t think father minds, although he looks very sad about something every now and then. He came back late from the office the other day, and mother told me he’d done such a lot of work, and was so tired, and I cried all night about it, I was so sorry for him.
Mother is a funny person. This morning I did my trick of opening one eye and keeping the other shut, and she got fearfully excited, and called out “Nurse, nurse, what’s the matter with baby, she can’t open one of her eyes!” And then I simply had to open it, so as I could wink at nurse to show her what a silly mother we had. But I have given up my other joke, of pretending to be dead. I used to do it every night, and she would creep out of bed, and come and listen at my cradle, and.... Well, I’m only a girl, and I shall never go to a public school, but still I know when a joke ceases to be a joke and becomes bad form. So I have given it up.
Oh, talking of bad form, some chemists who had read about me in the papers sent me a sample of tooth powder. In rather doubtful taste, I thought....
I want you to come and see me have my bath. Mother asks all her friends, so why shouldn’t I ask mine? Of course, I would rather keep it private, but if mother is going to make a show of it we may as well have the right people there. Do you know, uncle, they actually do it in a basin, although there’s a proper bath just next door! I know I’m small, but is it quite fair always to be harping on the fact? (Twice a day, if you will believe me.) Of course, mother and nurse are only women, and they wouldn’t understand this. But I am sure you, uncle, would be more careful of people’s feelings.
I am sorry, dear, but I don’t think I shall be able to marry either Mr Hutchings or Mr Woolley; you see they are rather old for me, aren’t they? Mother told me yesterday that there is a dear little boy of four or five playing about somewhere, who will come for me one day and take me right away from her and father. Fancy! What fun!
About my name. Well, I’m afraid it will have to be Marjorie after all. Of course, I should prefer it to be Margery, but mother assures me that the owner of the name is never consulted, so I can’t say anything. But I will always be Margery to you, and we won’t say anything more about it to the others. Do you see, dear?
And now I must say good-bye, as mother says I want to go to sleep. She is writing this for me, and some of the things she didn’t want to say at all, but I threatened her with my joke, and then she did. But we both send our love. Your affectionate niece, MARGERY
P.S. 1.—I was weighed yesterday. I weigh quite a lot of pounds.
P.S. 2.—Come to-morrow at four, and I will show you my toes.
Margery’s Sock
When Margery was three months old I wrote a letter to her mother:
“DEAR MADAM,—If you have a copy in Class D at 1s. 10d. net, I shall be glad to hear from you. I am, THE BABY’S UNCLE”
On Tuesday I got an answer by the morning post:
“DEAR SIR,—In reply to yours: How dare you insult my child? She is in Class A1, priceless, and bought in by the owner. Four months old and two days on Christmas Day. Fancy! I am,
“THE BABY’S MOTHER”
Margery had been getting into an expensive way of celebrating her birthday every week. Hitherto I had ignored it. But now I wrote:
“DEAR MADAM,—Automatically your baby should be in Class D by now. I cannot understand why it is not so. Perhaps I shall hear from you later on with regard to this. Meanwhile I think that the extraordinary coincidence (all but two days) of the baby’s birthday with Christmas Day calls for some recognition on my part. What would Margery like? You, who are in constant communication with her, should be able to tell me. I hear coral necklaces well spoken of. What do you think? I remember reading once of a robber who ’killed a little baby for the coral on its neck’—which shows at any rate that they are worn. Do you know how coral reefs are made? It is a most fascinating business.
“Then there is a silver mug to be considered. The only thing you can drink out of a mug is beer; yet it is a popular present. Perhaps you, with your (supposed) greater knowledge of babies, will explain this. Meanwhile I am,
“THE BABY’S UNCLE”
“P.S.—Which is a much finer thing than a mother.”
To which her mother:
“MY DEAR BOY,—It is too sweet of you to say you would like to get baby something. No, I don’t know how coral reefs are made, and I don’t want to. I think it is wicked of you to talk like that; I’m sure I sha’n’t dare to let her wear anything valuable now. And I don’t think she really wants a mug.
“I’m sure I don’t know what she does want, except to see her uncle (There!), but it ought to be something that she’ll value when she grows up. And of course we could keep it for her in the meantime.
“Her father has smoked his last cigar to-day. Isn’t it awful? I have forbidden him to waste his money on any more, but he says he must give me five hundred for a Christmas present. If he does, I shall give him that sideboard that I want so badly, and then we shall both go to prison together. You will look after baby, won’t you? I am,
“THE BABY’S MOTHER”
“P.S.—Which she isn’t proud, but does think it’s a little bit classier than an uncle.”
And so, finally, I;
“DEAR CHILD,—I’ve thought of the very thing. I am, THE BABY’S UNCLE”
That ends Chapter I. Here we go on to
CHAPTER II
Chapter II finds me in the toy department of the Stores.
“I want,” I said, “a present for a child.”
“Yes, sir. About how old?”
“It must be quite new,” I said sternly. “Don’t be silly. Oh, I see. Well, the child is only a baby.”
“Ah, yes. Now here—if it’s at all fond of animals——”
“I say, you mustn’t call it ‘IT.’ I get in an awful row if I do. Of course, I suppose it’s all right for you, only—well, be careful, won’t you?”
The attendant promised, and asked whether the child was a boy or a girl.
“And had you thought of anything for the little girl?”
“Well, yes. I had rather thought of a sideboard.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A sideboard.”
“The Sideboard Department is upstairs. Was there anything else for the little girl?”
“Well, a box of cigars. Rather full, and if you have any——”
“The Cigar Department is on the ground floor.”
“But your Lord Chamberlain told me I was to come here if I wanted a present for a child.”
“If you require anything in the toy line——”
“Yes, but what good are toys to a baby of four months? Do be reasonable.”
“What was it you suggested? A sideboard and a cigar?”
“That was my idea. It may not be the best possible, but at least it is better than perfectly useless toys. You can always blow smoke in its face, or bump its head against the sideboard. Experto crede, if you have the Latin.”
Whereupon with great dignity I made my way to the lift.
In the Sideboard Department I said: “I want a sideboard for a little girl of four months, and please don’t call her ‘IT.’ I nearly had a row with one of your downstairs staff about that.”
“I will try to be careful, sir,” he replied. “What sort of a one?”
“Blue eyes, and not much hair, and really rather a sweet smile.... Was that what you wanted to know?”
“Thank you, sir. But I meant what sort of a sideboard?”
I took him confidentially by the arm.
“Look here,” I said, “you know how, when one is carrying a baby about, one bumps its head on all the corners? Well, not too much of that. The mothers don’t really like it, you know. They smile at the time, but... Well, not too many corners.... Yes, I like that very much. No, I won’t take it with me.”
The attendant wrote out the bill.
“Number, sir?”
“She’s the first. That’s why I’m so nervous. I’ve never bought a sideboard for a child before.”
“Your Stores number, I mean, sir.”
“I haven’t got one. Is it necessary?”
“Must have a number, sir.”
“Then I’ll think of a nice one for you.... Let’s see—12345, now does that strike you?”
“And the name?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that. You must look that up for yourself. Good-day.”
Downstairs I bought some cigars.
“For a little girl of four months,” I said, “and she likes them rather full. Please don’t argue with me. All your men chatter so.”
“I must,” said the attendant. “It’s like this. If she is only four months, she is obviously little. Your observation is therefore tautological.”
“As a matter of fact,” I said hotly, “she is rather big for four months.”
“Then it was a lie.”
“Look here, you give me those cigars, and don’t talk so much. I’ve already had words with your Master of the Sideboards and your Under-Secretary for the Toy Department.... Thank you. If you would kindly send them.”
CHAPTER III
So there it is. I have given the spirit, rather than the actual letter, of what happened at the Stores. But that the things have been ordered there is no doubt. And when Margery wakes up on Christmas Day to find a sideboard and a box of cigars in her sock I hope she will remember that she has chiefly her mother to thank for it.
How to Play the Pianola
(FOREWORD.—Margery wishes me to publish the following correspondence, which has recently passed between us. It occurs to me that the name under which I appear in it may perhaps need explanation. I hate explanations, but here it is.
When Margery was eight months old she was taught to call me “Uncle.” I must suppose that at this time I was always giving her things—things she really wanted, such as bootlaces, the best china, evening papers, and so on—which had been withheld by those in authority. Later on these persons came round to my way of thinking, and gave her—if not the best china, at any rate cake and bread-and-butter. Naturally, their offerings, being appreciated at last, were greeted with the familiar cry of “Uncle.” “No, dear, not ‘Uncle,’—‘Thank-you’” came the correction.)
I
DEAR THANKYOU,—I’ve some wonderful news for you! Guess what it is, but no, you never will. Well, I’ll tell you. I can walk! Really and really.
It is most awfully interesting. You put one foot out to the right, and then you bring the left after it. That’s one walk, and I have done seven altogether. You have to keep your hands out in front of you, so as to balance properly. That’s all the rules—the rest is just knack. I got it quite suddenly yesterday. It is such fun; I wake up about five every morning now, thinking of it.
Of course, I fall down now and then. You see, I’m only beginning. When I fall, mother comes and picks me up. That reminds me. I don’t want you to call me “baby” any more, now I can walk. Babies can’t walk, they just get carried about and put in perambulators. I was given a lot of names a long time ago, but I forget what they were. I think one was something rather silly, like Margery, but I have never had it used lately. Mother always calls me O.D. now.
Good-bye. Write directly you get this. Your loving O.D.
II
MY DEAR O.D.,—I was so glad to get your letter, because I was just going to write to you. What do you think? No, you’ll never guess—shall I tell you?—no—yes—no; well, I’ve bought a pianola!
It’s really rather difficult to play it properly. I know people like Paderewski and—I can only think of Paderewski for the moment—I know that sort of person doesn’t think much of the pianola artist; but they are quite wrong about it all. The mechanical agility with the fingers is nothing, the soul is everything. Now you can get the soul, the con molto expressione feeling, just as well in the pianola as in the piano. Of course you have to keep a sharp eye on the music. Some people roll it off just like a barrel-organ; but when I see Allegro or Andante or anything of that kind on the score, I’m on it like a bird.
No time for more now, as I’ve just got a new lot of music in. Your loving THANKYOU
P.S.—When are you coming to hear me play? I did “Mumbling Mose” just now, with one hand and lots of soul. (Signed) PADEREWSKI
P.P.S.—I am glad you can walk.
III
DEAR THANKYOU,—I am rather upset about my walking. You remember I told you I had done seven in my last? Well, this morning I couldn’t do a single one! Well, I did do one, as a matter of fact, but I suppose some people would say it didn’t count, because I fell down directly after, though I don’t see that that matters—do you, Thankyou? But even with that one it was only one, and yet I know I did seven the day before. I wonder why it is. I do it the right way, I’m sure, and I keep my hands out so as to balance, so perhaps it’s the shoes that are wrong. I must ask mother to get me a new pair, and tell the man they’re for walks.
Now do write me a nice long letter, Thankyou, because I feel very miserable about this. It is right, isn’t it, when you have the right leg out, only to bring the left one just up to it, and not beyond? And does it matter which foot you start with? Let me know quickly, because father is coming home to-morrow and I want to show him. Your loving
O.D.
P.S.—I am glad you like your pianola.
IV
DEAR O.D.,—Very glad to get yours. If you really want a long letter, you shall have one; only I warn you that, if once I begin, nothing less than an earthquake can stop me. Well, first then, I played the “Merry Widow Waltz” yesterday to Mrs Polacca, who is a great authority on music, and in with all the Queen’s Hall set, and she said that my touch reminded her of—I’ve forgotten the man’s name now, which is rather sickening, because it spoils the story a bit, but he was one of the real tip-toppers who make hundreds a week, and, well—that was the sort of man I reminded her of. If I can do that with a waltz, it stands to reason that with something classic there’d be no holding me. I think I shall give a recital. Tickets 10s. 6d. No free seats. No emergency exit. It is a great mistake to have an emergency exit at a recital....
(Three pages omitted.)
Really, O.D., you must hear me doing the double F in the “Boston Cake Walk” to get me at my best. You’ve heard Kubelik on the violin? Well, it’s not a bit like that, and yet there’s just that something which links great artists together, no matter what their medium of expression. Your loving
THANKYOU
P.S.—Glad you’re getting on so well with your walking.
V
DEAREST THANKYOU,—Hooray, hooray, hooray—I did twenty-five walks to-day! Father counted. He says my style reminds him of Cancer Vulgaris rather. How many times can he do it? Not twenty-five on the third day, I’m sure.
Isn’t it splendid of me? I see now where I was wrong yesterday. I got the knack again suddenly this morning, and I’m all right now. To-morrow, I shall walk round the table. It is a longish way, and there are four turns, which I am not sure about. How do you turn? I suppose you put the right hand out? Your very loving O.D.
VI
DEAR O.D.,—I am rather hurt by your letters. I have written several times to tell you all about my new pianola, and you don’t seem to take any interest at all. I was going to have told you this time that the man in the flat below has sent me a note, just as if it had been a real piano. He says he doesn’t mind my playing all day, so long as I don’t start before eight in the morning, as he is in his bath then, and in listening to the music quite forgets to come out sometimes, which, I can see, might be very awkward. Write to yours affectionately, THANKYOU
VII
DARLING THANKYOU,—I am so sorry, dear, and I will come and hear your pianola to-morrow, and I think it lovely, and you must be clever to play so well; but you mustn’t be angry with me because I am so taken up with my walking. You see, it is all so new to me. I feel as though I want everybody to know all about it.
Your pianola must be lovely, Thankyou. Dear Thankyou, could you, do you think, put all the letters we wrote to each other about my walking in some book, so that other people would know how to do it the way I do? You might call it “Letters on Walking,” or “How to Walk,” or—but you could get a better title than I could. Do! Your very loving O.D.
P.S.—I’m so glad about the pianola, and do you mind if I just tell you that I did walk round the table, corners and all?
VIII
DEAREST O.D.,—Right you are. I will think of a good title. Your loving THANKYOU
The Knight of the Chimney-piece
We don’t know his real name, but we have decided to call him Arthur. (“Sir Arthur,” I suppose he would be.) He stands in bronze upon the chimney-piece, and in his right hand is a javelin; this makes him a very dangerous person. Opposite him, but behind the clock (Coward!), stands the other fellow, similarly armed. Most people imagine that the two are fighting for the hand of the lady on the clock, and they aver that they can hear her heart beating with the excitement of it; but, to let you into the secret, the other fellow doesn’t come into the story at all. Only Margery and I know the true story. I think I told it to her one night when she wouldn’t go to sleep—or perhaps she told it to me.
The best of this tale (I say it as the possible author) is that it is modern. It were easy to have invented something more in keeping with the knight’s armour, but we had to remember that this was the twentieth century, and that here in this twentieth century was Sir Arthur on the chimney-piece, with his javelin drawn back. For whom is he waiting?
“It all began,” I said, “a year ago, when Sir Arthur became a member of the South African Chartered Incorporated Co-operative Stores Society Limited, Ten per cents at Par (Men only). He wasn’t exactly a real member, having been elected under Rule Two for meritorious performances, Rule One being that this club shall be called what I said just now; but for nearly a year he enjoyed all the privileges of membership, including those of paying a large entrance fee and a still larger subscription. At the end of a year, however, a dreadful thing happened. They made a Third Rule—to wit, that no member should go to sleep on the billiard-table.
“Of course, Sir Arthur, having only got in under Rule Two, had to resign. He had already paid his large entrance fee, and (as it happened) his second year’s subscription in advance. Naturally, he was annoyed....
“And that, in fact, is why he stands on the chimney-piece with his javelin drawn back. He is waiting for the secretary. Sir Arthur is considered to be a good shot, and the secretary wants all the flowers to be white.”
At this point, Margery said her best word, “Gorky,” which means “A thousand thanks for the verisimilitude of your charming and interesting story, but is not the love element a trifle weak?” (Margery is a true woman.)
“We must leave something to the imagination,” I pleaded. “The secretary no doubt had a delightful niece, and Sir Arthur’s hopeless passion for her, after he had hit her uncle in a vital spot, would be the basis of a most powerful situation.”
Margery said “Gorky,” again, which, as I have explained, means, “Are such distressing situations within the province of the Highest Art?”
When Margery says “Gorky” twice in one night it is useless to argue. I gave in at once. “Butter,” I said, “placed upon the haft of the javelin would make it slip, and put him off his shot. He would miss the secretary and marry the niece.” So we put a good deal of butter on Sir Arthur, and for the moment the secretary is safe. I don’t know if we shall be able to keep it there; but in case jam does as well, Margery has promised to stroke him every day.
However, I anticipate. As soon as the secretarial life was saved, Margery said “Agga,” which is, as it were, “Encore!” or “Bis!” so that I have her permission to tell you that story all over again. Indeed, I should feel quite justified in doing so. Instead I will give you the tragedy of George, the other fellow (no knight he), as she told it to me afterwards.
“George was quite a different man from Sir Arthur. So far from being elected to anything under Rule Two, he got blackballed for the St John’s Wood Toilet Club. Opinions differed as to why this happened; some said it was his personal unpopularity (he had previously been up, without success, for membership of the local Ratepayers Association); others (among them the proprietor), that his hair grew too quickly. Anyhow, it was a great shock to George, and they had to have a man in to break it to him. (It’s always the way when you have a man in.)
“George was stricken to the heart. This last blow was too much for what had always been a proud nature. He decided to emigrate. Accordingly he left home, and moved to Kilburn. Whether he is still there or not I cannot say; but a card with that postmark reached his niece only this week. It was unsigned, and bore on the space reserved for inland communications these words: The old old wish—A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”
“But what about the javelin?” I asked Margery. (This fellow had a javelin too, you remember.)
“Gorky,” said Margery, for the third time which means—
Well, upon my word, I don’t know what it means. But it would explain it all.
Meanwhile, Sir Arthur (he was in my story, you know) is still waiting for the secretary. In case the butter gives out, have I mentioned that the secretary wants all the flowers to be white?
The Art of Conversation
“In conversation,” said somebody (I think it was my grandfather), “there should always be a give and take. The ball must be kept rolling.” If he had ever had a niece two years old, I don’t think he would have bothered.
“What’s ’at?” said Margery, pointing suddenly.
“That,” I said, stroking it, “is dear uncle’s nose.”
“What’s ’at?”
“Take your finger away. Ah, yes, that is dear uncle’s eye. The left one.”
“Dear uncle’s left one,” said Margery thoughtfully. “What’s it doing?”
“Thinking.”
“What’s finking?”
“What dear uncle does every afternoon after lunch.”
“What’s lunch?”
“Eggs, sardines, macaroons—everything.”
With a great effort Margery resisted the temptation to ask what “everything” was (a difficult question), or what everything was doing (a still more difficult one), and made a statement of her own.
“Santa Claus bring Margie a balloon from daddy,” she announced.
“A balloon! How jolly!” I said with interest. “What sort are you having? One of those semi-detached ones with the gas laid on, or the pink ones with a velvet collar?”
“Down chimney,” said Margery.
“Oh, that kind. Do you think—I mean, isn’t it rather——”
“Tell Margie a story about a balloon.”
“Bother,” I murmured.
“What’s bovver?”
“Bother is what you say when relations ask you to tell them a story about a balloon. It means, ‘But for the fact that we both have the Montmorency blood in our veins, I should be compelled to decline your kind invitation, all the stories I know about balloons being stiff ’uns.’ It also means, ‘Instead of talking about balloons, won’t you sing me a little song?’”
“Nope,” said Margery.
“Bother, she’s forgotten her music.”
“What did you say, uncle dear, what did you say?”
I sighed and began.
“Once upon a time there was a balloon, a dear little toy balloon, and—and——”
“What’s ’at?” asked Margery, making a dab at my chest. “What’s ’at, uncle dear?”
“That,” I said, “is a button. More particularly, a red waistcoat button. More particularly still, my top red waistcoat button.”
“What’s ’at?” she asked, going down one.
“That is a button. Description: second, red, waistcoat. Parents living: both. Injections diseases: scarlet fever slightly once.”
“What’s ’at?”
“That’s a—ah, yes, a button. The third. A good little chap, but not so chubby as his brothers. He couldn’t go down to Margate with them last year, and so, of course—— Well, as I was saying, there was once a balloon, and——”
“What’s ’a-a-at?” said Margery, bending forward suddenly and kissing it.
“Look here, you’ve jolly well got to enclose a stamped addressed envelope with the next question. As a matter of fact, though you won’t believe me, that again is a button.”
“What’s ’at?” asked Margery, digging at the fifth button.
“Owing to extreme pressure on space,” I began.... “Thank you. That also is a button. Its responsibility is greater than that of its brethren. The crash may come at any moment. Luckily it has booked its passage to the—— Where was I? Oh yes—well, this balloon——”
“What’s ’at?” said Margery, pointing to the last one.
“I must have written notice of that question. I can’t tell you offhand.”
“What’s ’at, uncle dear?”
“Well, I don’t know, Margie. It looks something like a collar stud, only somehow you wouldn’t expect to find a collar-stud there. Of course it may have slipped.... Or could it be one of those red beads, do you think? N-no, no, it isn’t a bead.... And it isn’t a raspberry; because this is the wrong week for raspberries. Of course it might be a—— By Jove, I’ve got it! It’s a button!”
I gave the sort of war-whoop with which one announces these discoveries, and Margery whooped too.
“A button!” she cried. “A dear little button!” She thought for a moment. “What’s a button?”
This was ridiculous.
“You don’t mean to say,” I reproached her, “that I’ve got to tell you now what a button is? That,” I added severely, pointing to the top of my waistcoat, “is a button.”
“What’s ’at?” said Margery, pointing to the next one.
I looked at her in horror. Then I began to talk very quickly.
“There was once a balloon,” I said rapidly, “a dear little boy balloon, I mean toy balloon, and this balloon was a jolly little balloon just two minutes old, and he wasn’t always asking silly questions, and when he fell down and exploded himself they used to wring him out and say, ‘Come, come, now, be a little airship about it,’ and so——”
“What’s ’at?” asked Margery, pointing to the top button.
There was only one way out of it. I began to sing a carol in a very shrill voice.
All the artist rose in Margery.
“Don’t sing,” she said hurriedly. “Margie sing. What will Margie sing, uncle?”
Before I could suggest anything, she was off. It was a scandalous song. She began by announcing that she wanted to be among the boys, and (guessing that I should object) assured me that it was no good kicking up a noise, because it was no fun going out when there weren’t any boys about, you were so lonely-onely-onely...
Here the tune became undecided; and, a chance word recalling another context to her mind, she drifted suddenly into a hymn, and sang it with the same religious fervour as she had sung the other, her fair head flung back and her hazel eyes gazing into heaven...
I listened carefully. This was a bit I didn’t recognise.... The tune wavered for a moment... and out of it these words emerged triumphant,
“Talk of me to the boys you meet,
Remember me kindly to Regent Street,
And give them my love in the——”
“What’s ’at, uncle?”
“That,” I said, stroking it, “is dear uncle’s nose.”
“What’s——”
By the way, would you like it all over again? No? Oh, very well.
Afternoon Sleep
“In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.”
I am like Napoleon in that I can go to sleep at any moment; I am unlike him (I believe) in that I am always doing so. One makes no apology for doing so on Sunday afternoon—the apology, indeed, should come from the others, the wakeful parties.
“Uncle?”
“Margery.”
“Will you come and play wiv me?”
“I’m rather busy just now,” I said, with closed eyes. “After tea.”
“Why are you raver busy just now? My baby’s only raver busy sometimes.”
“Well, then, you know what it’s like; how important it is that one shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“But you must be beturbed when I ask you to come and play wiv me.”
“Oh, well... what shall we play at?”
“Trains,” said Margery eagerly.
When we play trains I have to be a tunnel. I don’t know if you have ever been a tunnel? No; well, it’s an over-rated profession.
“We won’t play trains,” I announced firmly, “because it’s Sunday.”
“Why not because it’s Sunday?”
(Oh, you little pagan!)
“Hasn’t mummy told you all about Sunday?”
“Oh yes, Maud did tell me,” said Margery casually. Then she gave an innocent little smile. “Oh, I called mummy Maud,” she said in pretended surprise. “I quite fought I was upstairs!”
I hope you follow. The manners and customs of good society must be observed on the ground floor where visitors may happen; upstairs one relaxes a little.
“Do you know,” Margery went on with the air of a discoverer, “you mustn’t say ‘prayers’ downstairs. Or ‘corsets.’”
“I never do,” I affirmed. “Well, anyhow I never will again.”
“Why mayn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I said sleepily.
“Say prehaps.”
“Well—prehaps it’s because your mother tells you not to.”
“Well, ’at’s a silly fing to say,” said Margery scornfully.
“It is. I’m thoroughly ashamed of it. I apologise. Good-night.” And I closed my eyes again.
“I fought you were going to play wiv me, Mr Bingle,” sighed Margery to herself.
“My name is not Bingle,” I said, opening one eye.
“Why isn’t it Bingle?”
“The story is a very long and sad one. When I wake up I will tell it to you. Good-night.”
“Tell it to me now.”
There was no help for it.
“Once upon a time,” I said rapidly, “there was a man called Bingle, Oliver Bingle, and he married a lady called Pringle. And his brother married a lady called Jingle. And his other brother married a Miss Wingle. And his cousin remained single.... That is all.”
“Oh, I see,” said Margery doubtfully. “Now will you play wiv me?”
How can one resist the pleading of a young cheild?
“All right,” I said. “We’ll pretend I’m a little girl, and you’re my mummy, and you’ve just put me to bed.... Good-night, mummy dear.”
“Oh, but I must cover you up.” She fetched a tablecloth, and a pram-cover, and The Times, and a handkerchief, and the cat, and a doll’s what-I-mustn’t-say-downstairs, and a cushion; and she covered me up and tucked me in.
“’Ere, ’ere, now go to sleep, my darling,” she said, and kissed me lovingly.
“Oh, Margie, you dear,” I whispered.
“You called me ‘Margie’!” she cried in horror.
“I meant ‘Mummy.’ Good-night.”
One, two, three seconds passed rapidly.
“It’s morning,” said a bright voice in my ear. “Get up.”
“I’m very ill,” I pleaded; “I want to stay in bed all day.”
“But your dear uncle,” said Margery, inventing hastily, “came last night after you were in bed, and stayed ’e night. Do you see? And he wants you to sit on his chest in bed and talk to him.”
“Where is he? Show me the bounder.”
“’Ere he is,” said Margery, pointing at me.
“But look here, I can’t sit on my own chest and talk to myself. I’ll take the two parts if you insist, Sir Herbert, but I can’t play them simultaneously. Not even Irving——”
“Why can’t you play vem simrulaleously?”
“Well, I can’t. Margie, will you let me go to sleep?”
“Nope,” said Margery, shaking her head.
“You should say, ‘No, thank you, revered and highly respected uncle.’”
“No hank you, Mr Cann.”
“I have already informed you that my name is not Bingle; and I have now to add that neither is it Cann.”
“Why neiver is it Cann?”
“That isn’t grammar. You should say, ‘Why can it not either?’”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Say prehaps.”
“No, I can’t even say prehaps.”
“Well, say I shall understand when I’m a big girl.”
“You’ll understand when you’re a big girl, Margery,” I said solemnly.
“Oh, I see.”
“That’s right. Now then, what about going to sleep?”
She was silent for a moment, and I thought I was safe. Then——
“Uncle, just tell me—why was ’at little boy crying vis morning?”
“Which little boy?”
“Ve one in ’e road.”
“Oh, that one. Well, he was crying because his uncle hadn’t had any sleep all night, and when he tried to go to sleep in the afternoon——”
“Say prehaps again.”
My first rejected contribution! I sighed and had another shot. “Well, then,” I said gallantly, “it must have been because he hadn’t got a sweet little girl of three to play with him.”
“Yes,” said Margery, nodding her head thoughtfully, “’at was it.”
To Jock
When, Jock, I saw you, debonair and bland,
Shin perilously up the cottage grand
Piano, with the bread-knife in your hand;—
When I observed your friendly little stare,
Your guileless baby face, your general air
Of “Golly, how on earth did I get there?”—
When I remarked how cheerfully you crashed
Down on the tea-things, not the least abashed
To see the same (my wedding present) smashed!—
Then as we wondered (having wiped the tea
From off this waistcoat) “What’s he going to be?”
I knew at once why father thought, “The sea.”
There are who sit and languidly dictate
Letters beginning “Yours of even date”—
Each one designed to rope in six-and-eight;
Wherefore each letter carefully postpones
The moment when the other party owns
His case is badly dished by “Rex v. Jones.”
There are who daily in the safe retreat
Of some Department gather round and bleat
Scandal and Art, until it’s time to eat;
Return at three, and, having written “Dear
Sir, your communication of last year
Duly received and noted”—disappear.
There are who do not hesitate to shove
Their views of Babes and Budgets, Life and Love
On paper—as it might be up above;
Who, fearless fellows, are not found to flinch
When some Proprietor essays to pinch
Their holiest thoughts at eightpence for the inch.
Such, Jock, as these are we who bear your name
Content (well, almost) with the good old game
Of moderate Fortune unrelieved by Fame.
But there are Nobler Souls about the place,
Such spirits as have built our Island Race,
Heroes who must, who simply must, have space.
’Twas not to serve the pen that Nature gave
To these their love of all that’s large and brave;
For Them an ampler life upon the Wave!
So when your father (while I mop the tea)
Says that he rather thinks you’ll go to sea,
Dear Jock, sweet Jock, your uncle must agree.
More Cricket
When Vesper trails her gown of grey
Across the lawn at six or seven
The diligent observer may
(Or may) see, athwart the heaven,
An aimless rodent on the wing. Well, that
Is (probably) a Bat....
In any case I shall not sing of that.
O Willow, in our hours of ease
(That is to say, throughout the Winter),
I take you sometimes on my knees,
And careless of the frequent splinter,
Caress you tenderly, and sigh, and say,
“Ye Gods, how long till May?”
And so as soon as April’s here
I do not sob for Spring to show its
Pale daffodils and all the dear
Old flowers that keep the minor poets;
I sing it just because a month (about)
Will find you fairly out.
Revered, beloved, O you whose job
Is but to serve throughout the season—
To make, if so it be, the Blob,
And not (thank heaven!) to ask the reason—
To stand, like Mrs Hemans’ little friend,
Undoubting to the end:
Old Willow, what a tale to tell—
Our steady rise, from small beginnings,
Ab ovo usque—usque—well,
To eighty-four, our highest innings;
(Ah me, that crowded hour of glorious lives—
Ten of them, all from drives!)
Once only have you let me in,
Through all the knocks we’ve had together;
That time when, wanting four to win,
I fairly tried to tonk the leather—
And lo! a full-faced welt, without the least
Warning, went S.S.E.
A painful scene. In point of fact
I’m doubtful if I ought to hymn it;
Enough to say you went and cracked,
And left me thinking things like “Dimmit”
(And not like “Dimmit”), as I heard Slip call
“Mine!” and he pouched the ball.
Do you remember, too, the game
One August somewhere down in Dorset
When, being told to force the same,
We straightway started in to force it....
For half-an-hour or so we saw it through,
And scratched a priceless two;
Or how the prayer to play for keeps
And hang the runs, we didn’t need ’em,
So stirred us, we collected heaps
With rather more than usual freedom;
Fifteen in fourteen minutes—till a catch
Abruptly closed the match?
Well, well—the coming years (if fine)
Shall see us going even stronger;
So pouring out the oil and wine,
Let’s sit and drink, a little longer;
Here’s to a decent average of ten!
(Yours is the oil. Say when....)
When Morning on the heels of Night
Picks up her shroud at five and after,
The diffident observer might
(Or might not) see, beneath a rafter,
A pensive rodent upside down. Well, that
Is (possibly) a Bat....
In any case I have not sung of that.
A Scratch Lot
As soon as I had promised to take an eleven down to Chartleigh I knew that I was in for trouble; but I did not realise how great it would be until I consulted Henry Barton. Henry is a first-class cricketer, and it was my idea that he should do all the batting for us, and such of the bowling as the laws allowed. I had also another idea, and this I explained to Henry.
“As you are aware,” I said, “the ideal side contains five good bats, four good bowlers, a wicket-keeper, and Henry Barton.”
“Quite so,” agreed Henry.
“That is the principle on which one selects an eleven. Now, I intend to strike out a line of my own. My team shall consist of three authors or journalists, two solicitors, four barristers, a couple from the Stock Exchange, some civil servants and an artist or two. How many is that?”
“Nineteen.”
“Well, that’s the idea, anyhow.”
“It’s a rotten idea.”
“No, it’s a splendid idea. I wonder nobody has thought of it before. I send a solicitor and a journalist in first. The journalist uses the long handle, while the solicitor plays for keeps.”
“And where does the artist come in?”
“The artist comes in last, and plays for a draw. You are very slow to-day, Henry.”
Henry, the man of leisure, thought a moment.
“Yes, that’s all very well for you working men,” he said at last, “but what do I go as? Or am I one of the barristers?”
“You go as ‘with Barton.’ Yes. If you’re very good you shall have an ‘H’ in brackets after you. ‘With Barton (H)’”
The method of choosing my team being settled, the next thing was the day. “Any day in the first week in July,” the Chartleigh captain had said. Now at first sight there appear to be seven days in the week, but it is not really so. For instance, Saturday. Now there’s a good day! What could one object to in a Saturday?
But do you imagine Henry Barton would let it pass?
“I don’t think you’ll get eleven people for the Saturday,” he said. “People are always playing cricket on Saturday.”
“Precisely,” I said. “Healthy exercise for the London toiler. That’s why I’m asking ’em.”
“But I mean they’ll have arranged to play already with their own teams. Or else they’ll be going away for week-ends.”
“One can spend a very pretty week-end at Chartleigh.”
“H’m, let me think. Any day in the week, isn’t it?”
“Except, apparently, Saturday,” I said huffily.
“Let’s see now, what days are there?”
I mentioned two or three of the better-known ones.
“Yes. Of course, some of those are impossible, though. We’d better go through the week and see which is best.”
I don’t know who Barton is that he should take it upon himself to make invidious distinctions between the days of the week.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Sunday.”
“Ass.”
That seemed to settle Sunday, so we passed on to Monday.
“You won’t get your stockbroker on Monday,” said Henry. “It’s Contanger day or something with them every Monday.”
“Stocktaking, don’t you mean?”
“I dare say. Anyhow, no one in the House can get away on a Monday.”
“I must have my stockbrokers. Tuesday.”
Tuesday, it seemed, was hopeless. I was a fool to have thought of Tuesday. Why, everybody knew that Tuesday was an impossible day for——
I forget what spoilt Tuesday’s chance. I fancy it was a busy day for Civil Servants. No one in the Home Civil can get away on a Tuesday. I know that sounds absurd, but Henry was being absurd just then. Or was it barristers? Briefs get given out on a Tuesday, I was made to understand. That brought us to Wednesday. I hoped much from Wednesday.
“Yes,” said Henry. “Wednesday might do. Of course most of the weeklies go to press on Wednesday. Rather an awkward day for journalists. What about Thursday?”
I began to get annoyed.
“Thursday my flannel trousers go to the press,” I said—“that is to say, they come back from the wash then.”
“Look here, why try to be funny?”
“Hang it, who started it? Talking about Contanger-days. Contanger—it sounds like a new kind of guano.”
“Well, if you don’t believe me——”
“Henry, I do. Thursday be it, then.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s all right,” said Henry doubtfully.
“Why not? Don’t say it’s sending-in day with artists,” I implored. “Not every Thursday?”
“No. Only there’s Friday, and——”
“Friday is my busy day,” I pleaded—“my one ewe lamb. Do not rob me of it.”
“It’s a very good day, Friday. I think you’d find that most people could get off then.”
“But why throw over Thursday like this? A good, honest day, Henry. Many people get born on a Thursday, Henry. And it’s a marrying day, Henry. A nice, clean, sober day, and you——”
“The fact is,” said Henry, “I’ve suddenly remembered I’m engaged myself on Thursday.”
This was too much.
“Henry,” I said coldly, “you forget yourself—you forget yourself strangely, my lad. Just because I was weak enough to promise you an ‘H’ after your name. You seem to have forgotten that the ‘H’ was to be in brackets.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I really am engaged.”
“Are you really? Look here—I’ll leave out the ’with’ and you shall be one of us. There! Baby, see the pretty gentlemen!”
Henry smiled and shook his head.
“Oh, well,” I said, “we must have you. So if you say Friday, Friday it is. You’re quite sure Friday is all right for solicitors? Very well, then.”
So the day was settled for Friday. It was rather a pity, because, as I said, in the ordinary way Friday is the day I put aside for work.
II. THE SELECTION COMMITTEE
The committee consisted of Henry and myself. Originally it was myself alone, but as soon as I had selected Henry I proceeded to co-opt him, reserving to myself, however, the right of a casting vote in case of any difference of opinion. One arose, almost immediately, over Higgins. Henry said:
(a) That Higgins had once made ninety-seven.
(b) That he had been asked to play for his county.
(c) That he was an artist, and we had arranged to have an artist in the team.
In reply I pointed out:
(a) That ninety-seven was an extremely unlikely number for anyone to have made.
(b) That if he had been asked he evidently hadn’t accepted, which showed the sort of man he was: besides which, what was his county?
(c) That, assuming for the moment he had made ninety-seven, was it likely he would consent to go in last and play for a draw, which was why we wanted the artist? And that, anyhow, he was a jolly bad artist.
(d) That hadn’t we better put it to the vote?
This was accordingly done, and an exciting division ended in a tie.
Those in favour of Higgins 1
Those against Higgins 1
The Speaker gave his casting vote against Higgins.
Prior to this, however, I had laid before the House the letter of invitation. It was as follows (and, I flatter myself, combined tact with a certain dignity):—
“DEAR——, I am taking a team into the country on Friday week to play against the village eleven. The ground and the lunch are good. Do you think you could manage to come down? I know you are very busy just now with
Contangers,
Briefs,
Clients,
Your Christmas Number,
Varnishing Day,
(Strike out all but one of these)
but a day in the country would do you good. I hear from all sides that you are in great form this season. I will give you all particulars about trains later on. Good-bye. Remember me to——. How is——? Ever yours.
“P.S.—Old Henry is playing for us. He has strained himself a little and probably won’t bowl much, so I expect we shall all have a turn with the ball.”
Or, “I don’t think you have ever met Henry Barton, the cricketer. He is very keen on meeting you. Apparently he has seen you play somewhere. He will be turning out for us on Friday.
“P.P.S.—We might manage to have some bridge in the train.”
“That,” I said to Henry, “is what I call a clever letter.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It is all clever,” I said modestly. “But the cleverest part is a sentence at the end. ‘I will give you all particulars about trains later on.’ You see I have been looking them up, and we leave Victoria at seven-thirty A.M. and get back to London Bridge at eleven-forty-five P.M.”
The answers began to come in the next day. One of the first was from Bolton, the solicitor, and it upset us altogether. For, after accepting the invitation, he went on: “I am afraid I don’t play bridge. As you may remember, I used to play chess at Cambridge, and I still keep it up.”
“Chess,” said Henry. “That’s where White plays and mates in two moves. And there’s a Black too. He does something.”
“We shall have to get a Black. This is awful.”
“Perhaps Bolton would like to do problems by himself all the time.”
“That would be rather bad luck on him. No, look here. Here’s Carey. Glad to come, but doesn’t bridge. He’s the man.”
Accordingly we wired to Carey: “Do you play chess? Reply at once.” He answered, “No. Why?”
“Carey will have to play that game with glass balls. Solitaire. Yes. We must remember to bring a board with us.”
“But what about the chess gentleman?” asked Henry.
“I must go and find one. We’ve had one refusal.”
There is an editor I know slightly, so I called upon him at his office. I found him writing verses.
“Be brief,” he said, “I’m frightfully busy.”
“I have just three questions to ask you,” I replied.
“What rhymes with ‘yorker’?”
“That wasn’t one of them.”
“Yorker—corker—por——”
“Better make it a full pitch,” I suggested. “Step out and make it a full pitch. Then there are such lots of rhymes.”
“Thanks, I will. Well?”
“One. Do you play bridge?”
“No.”
“Two. Do you play chess?”
“I can.”
“Three. Do you play cricket? Not that it matters.”
“Yes, I do sometimes. Good-bye. Send me a proof, will you? By the way, what paper is this for?”
“The Sportsman, if you’ll play. On Friday week. Do.”
“Anything, if you’ll go.”
“May I have that in writing?”
He handed me a rejection form.
“There you are. And I’ll do anything you like on Friday.”
I went back to Henry and told him the good news.
“I wonder if he’ll mind being black,” said Henry. “That’s the chap that always gets mated so quickly.”
“I expect they’ll arrange it among themselves. Anyhow, we’ve done our best for them.”
“It’s an awful business, getting up a team,” said Henry thoughtfully. “Well, we shall have two decent sets of bridge, anyway. But you ought to have arranged for twelve aside, and then we could have left out the chess professors and had three sets.”
“It’s all the fault of the rules. Some day somebody will realise that four doesn’t go into eleven, and then we shall have a new rule.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Henry. “I don’t fancy ‘Wanderer’ would allow it.”
III. IN THE TRAIN
If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is ingratitude. Take the case of Carey. Carey, you may remember, professed himself unable to play either bridge or chess; and as we had a three-hour journey before us it did not look as though he were going to have much of a time. However, Henry and I, thinking entirely of Carey’s personal comfort, went to the trouble of buying him a solitaire board, with glass balls complete. The balls were all in different colours.
I laid this before Carey as soon as we settled in the train.
“Whatever’s that?”
“The new game,” I said. “It’s all the rage now, the man tells me. The Smart Set play it every Sunday. Young girls are inveigled into lonely country houses and robbed of incredible sums.”
Carey laughed scornfully.
“So it is alleged,” I added. “The inventor claims for it that in some respects it has advantages which even cricket cannot claim. As, for instance, it can be played in any weather: nay, even upon the sick bed.”
“And how exactly is it played?”
“Thus. You take one away and all the rest jump over each other. At each jump you remove the jumpee, and the object is to clear the board. Hence the name—solitaire.”
“I see. It seems a pretty rotten game.”
That made me angry.
“All right. Then don’t play. Have a game of marbles on the rack instead.”
Meanwhile Henry was introducing Bolton and the editor to each other.
“Two such famous people,” he began.
“Everyone,” said Bolton, with a bow, “knows the editor of——”
“Oh yes, there’s that. But I meant two such famous chess players. Bolton,” he explained to the editor, “was twelfth man against Oxford some years ago. Something went wrong with his heart, or he’d have got in. On his day, and if the board was at all sticky, he used to turn a good deal from QB4.”
“Do you really play?” asked Bolton eagerly. “I have a board here.”
“Does he play! Do you mean to say you have never heard of the Trocadero Defence?”
“The Sicilian Defence——”
“The Trocadero Defence. It’s where you palm the other man’s queen when he’s not looking. Most effective opening.”
They both seemed keen on beginning, so Henry got out the cards for the rest of us.
I drew the younger journalist, against Henry and the senior stockbroker. Out of compliment to the journalist we arranged to play half-a-crown a hundred, that being about the price they pay him. I dealt, and a problem arose immediately. Here it is.
“A deals and leaves it to his partner B, who goes No Trumps. Y leads a small heart. B’s hand consists of king and three small diamonds, king and one other heart, king and three small clubs, and three small spades. A plays the king from Dummy, and Z puts on the ace. What should A do?”
Answer. Ring communication-cord and ask guard to remove B.
“Very well,” I said to Dummy. “One thing’s pretty clear. You don’t bowl to-day. Long-leg both ends is about your mark. Somewhere where there’s plenty of throwing to do.”
Later on, when I was Dummy, I strolled over to the chess players.
“What’s the ground like?” said the editor, as he finessed a knight.
“Sporting. Distinctly sporting.”
“Long grass all round, I suppose?”
“Oh, lord, no. The cows eat up all that.”
“Do you mean to say the cows are allowed on the pitch?”
“Well, they don’t put it that way, quite. The pitch is allowed on the cows’ pasture land.”
“I suppose if we make a hundred we shall do well?” asked somebody.
“If we make fifty we shall declare,” I said. “By Jove, Bolton, that’s a pretty smart move.”
I may not know all the technical terms, but I do understand the idea of chess. The editor was a pawn up and three to play, and had just advanced his queen against Bolton’s king, putting on a lot of check side as it seemed to me. Of course, I expected Bolton would have to retire his king; but not he! He laid a stymie with his bishop, and it was the editor’s queen that had to withdraw. Yet Bolton was only spare man at Cambridge!
“I am not at all sure,” I said, “that chess is not a finer game even than solitaire.”
“It’s a finer game than cricket,” said Bolton, putting his bishop back in the slips again.
“No,” said the editor. “Cricket is the finest game in the world. For why? I will tell you.”
“Thanks to the glorious uncertainty of our national pastime,” began the journalist, from his next Monday’s article.
“No, thanks to the fact that it is a game in which one can produce the maximum of effect with the minimum of skill. Take my own case. I am not a batsman, I shall never make ten runs in an innings, yet how few people realise that! I go in first wicket down, wearing my M.C.C. cap. Having taken guard with the help of a bail, I adopt Palairet’s stance at the wicket. Then the bowler delivers: either to the off, to leg, or straight. If it is to the off, I shoulder my bat and sneer at it. If it is to leg, I swing at it. I have a beautiful swing, which is alone worth the money. Probably I miss, but the bowler fully understands that it is because I have not yet got the pace of the wicket. Sooner or later he sends down a straight one, whereupon I proceed to glide it to leg. You will see the stroke in Beldam’s book. Of course, I miss the ball, and am given out l.b.w. Then the look of astonishment that passes over my face, the bewildered inquiry of the wicket-keeper, and finally the shrug of good-humoured resignation as I walk from the crease! Nine times out of ten square-leg asks the umpire what county I play for. That is cricket.”
“Quite so,” I said, when he had finished. “There’s only one flaw in it. That is that quite possibly you may have to go in last to-day. You’ll have to think of some other plan. Also on this wicket the ball always goes well over your head. You couldn’t be l.b.w. if you tried.”
“Oh, but I do try.”
“Yes. Well, you’ll find it difficult.”
The editor sighed.
“Then I shall have to retire hurt,” he said.
Bolton chuckled to himself.
“One never retires hurt at chess,” he said, as he huffed the editor’s king. “Though once,” he added proudly, “I sprained my hand, and had to make all my moves with the left one. Check.”
The editor yawned, and looked out of the window.
“Are we nearly there?” he asked.
IV. IN THE FIELD
It is, I consider, the duty of a captain to consult the wishes of his team now and then, particularly when he is in command of such a heterogeneous collection of the professions as I was. I was watching a match at the Oval once, and at the end of an over Lees went up to Dalmeny, and had a few words with him. Probably, I thought, he is telling him a good story that he heard at lunch; or, maybe, he is asking for the latest gossip from the Lobby. My neighbour, however, held other views.
“There,” he said, “there’s ole Walter Lees asking to be took off.”
“Surely not,” I answered. “Dalmeny had a telegram just now, and Lees is asking if it’s the three-thirty winner.”
Lees then began to bowl again.
“There you are,” I said triumphantly, but my neighbour wouldn’t hear of it.
“Ole Lees asked to be took off, and ole Dalmeny” (I forget how he pronounced it, but I know it was one of the wrong ways)—“ole Dalmeny told him he’d have to stick on a bit.”
Now that made a great impression on me, and I agreed with my friend that Dalmeny was in the wrong.
“When I am captaining a team,” I said, “and one of the bowlers wants to come off, I am always ready to meet him half-way, more than half-way. Better than that, if I have resolved upon any course of action, I always let my team know beforehand; and I listen to their objections in a fair-minded spirit.”
It was in accordance with this rule of mine that I said casually, as we were changing, “If we win the toss I shall put them in.”
There was a chorus of protest.
“That’s right, go it,” I said. “Henry objects because, as a first-class cricketer, he is afraid of what The Sportsman will say if we lose. The editor naturally objects—it ruins his chance of being mistaken for a county player if he has to field first. Bolton objects because heavy exercise on a hot day spoils his lunch. Thompson objects because that’s the way he earns his living at the Bar. His objection is merely technical, and is reserved as a point of law for the Court of Crown Cases Reserved. Markham is a socialist and objects to authority. Also he knows he’s got to field long-leg both ends. Gerald——”
“But why?” said Henry.
“Because I want you all to see the wicket first. Then you can’t say you weren’t warned.” Whereupon I went out and lost the toss.
As we walked into the field the editor told me a very funny story. I cannot repeat it here for various reasons. First, it has nothing to do with cricket; and, secondly, it is, I understand, coming out in his next number, and I should probably get into trouble. Also it is highly technical, and depends largely for its success upon adequate facial expression. But it amused me a good deal. Just as he got to the exciting part, Thompson came up.
“Do you mind if I go cover?” he asked.
“Do,” I said abstractedly. “And what did the vicar say?”
The editor chuckled. “Well, you see, the vicar, knowing, of course, that——”
“Cover, I suppose,” said Gerald, as he caught us up.
“What? Oh yes, please. The vicar did know, did he?”
“Oh, the vicar knew. That’s really the whole point.”
I shouted with laughter.
“Good, isn’t it?” said the editor. “Well, then——”
“Have you got a cover?” came Markham’s voice from behind us.
I turned round.
“Oh, Markham,” I said, “I shall want you cover, if you don’t mind. Sorry—I must tell these men where to go—well, then, you were saying——”
The editor continued the story. We were interrupted once or twice, but he finished it just as their first two men came out. I particularly liked that bit about the——
“Jove,” I said suddenly, “we haven’t got a wicket-keeper. That’s always the way. Can you keep?” I asked the editor.
“Isn’t there anyone else?”
“I’m afraid they’re all fielding cover,” I said, remembering suddenly. “But, look here, it’s the chance of a lifetime for you. You can tell ’em all that——”
But he was trotting off to the pavilion.
“Can anybody lend me some gloves?” he asked. “They want me to keep wicket. Thing I’ve never done in my life. Of course I always field cover in the ordinary way. Thanks awfully. Sure you don’t mind? Don’t suppose I shall stop a ball though.”
“Henry,” I called, “you’re starting that end. Arrange the field, will you? I’ll go cover. You’re sure to want one.”
Their first batsman was an old weather-beaten villager called George. We knew his name was George because the second ball struck him in the stomach and his partner said, “Stay there, George,” which seemed to be George’s idea too. We learnt at lunch that once, in the eighties or so, he had gone in first with Lord Hawke (which put him on a level with that player), and that he had taken first ball (which put him just above the Yorkshireman).
There the story ended, so far as George was concerned; and indeed it was enough. Why seek to inquire if George took any other balls besides the first?
In our match, however, he took the second in the place that I mentioned, the third on the back of the neck, the fourth on the elbow, and the fifth in the original place; while the sixth, being off the wicket, was left there. Nearly every batsman had some pet stroke, and we soon saw that George’s stroke was the leg-bye. His bat was the second line of defence, and was kept well in the block. If the ball escaped the earthwork in front, there was always a chance that it would be brought up by the bat. Once, indeed, a splendid ball of Henry’s which came with his arm and missed George’s legs, snicked the bat, and went straight into the wicket-keeper’s hands. The editor, however, presented his compliments, and regretted that he was unable to accept the enclosed, which he accordingly returned with many thanks.
There was an unwritten law that George could not be l.b.w. I cannot say how it arose—possibly from a natural coyness on George’s part about the exact significance of the “l.” Henry, after appealing for the best part of three overs, gave it up, and bowled what he called “googlies” at him. This looked more hopeful, because a googly seems in no way to be restricted as to the number of its bounces, and at each bounce it had a chance of doing something. Unfortunately it never did George. Lunch came and the score was thirty-seven—George having compiled in two hours a masterly nineteen; eighteen off the person, but none the less directly due to him.
“We must think of a plan of campaign at lunch,” said Henry. “It’s hopeless to go on like this.”
“Does George drink?” I asked anxiously. It seemed the only chance.
But George didn’t. And the score was thirty seven for five, which is a good score for the wicket.
V. AT THE WICKETS
At lunch I said: “I have just had a wire from the Surrey committee to say that I may put myself on to bowl.”
“That is good hearing,” said Henry.
“Did they hear?” asked Gerald anxiously, looking over at the Chartleigh team.
“You may think you’re very funny, but I’ll bet you a—a—anything you like that I get George out.”
“All right,” said Gerald. “I’ll play you for second wicket down, the loser to go in last.”
“Done,” I said, “and what about passing the salad now?”
After lunch the editor took me on one side and said: “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“Then why did you have so much?” I asked.
“I mean the wicket. It’s dangerous. I am not thinking of myself so much as of——”
“As of the reading public?”
“Quite so.”
“You think you—you would be missed in Fleet Street—just at first?”
“You are not putting the facts too strongly. I was about to suggest that I should be a ‘did not bat.’”
“Oh! I see. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I was talking just now to the sister of their captain.”
The editor looked interested.
“About the pad of the gardener?” he said.
“About you. She said—I give you her own words—‘Who is the tall, handsome man keeping wicket in a M.C.C. cap?’ So I said you were a well-known county player, as she would see when you went in to bat.”
The editor shook my hand impressively.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “I shall not fail her. What county did you say?”
“Part of Flint. You know the little bit that’s got into the wrong county by mistake? That part. She had never heard of it; but I assured her it had a little bit of yellow all to itself on the map. Have you a pretty good eleven?”
The editor swore twice—once for me and once for Flint. Then we went out into the field.
My first ball did for George. I followed the tactics of William the First at the Battle of Hastings, 1066. You remember how he ordered his archers to shoot into the air, and how one arrow fell and pierced the eye of Harold, whereupon confusion and disaster arose. So with George. I hurled one perpendicularly into the sky, and it dropped (after a long time) straight upon the batsman. George followed it with a slightly contemptuous eye... all the way....
All the way. Of course, I was sorry. We were all much distressed. They told us afterwards he had never been hit in the eye before.... One gets new experiences.
George retired hurt. Not so much hurt as piqued, I fancy. He told the umpire it wasn’t bowling. Possibly. Neither was it batting. It was just superior tactics.
The innings soon closed, and we had sixty-one to win, and, what seemed more likely, fifty-nine and various other numbers to lose. Sixty-one is a very unlucky number with me—oddly enough I have never yet made sixty-one; like W.G. Grace, who had never made ninety-three. My average this season is five, which is a respectable number. As Bolton pointed out—if we each got five to-day, and there were six extras, we should win. I suppose if one plays chess a good deal one thinks of these things.
Harold, I mean George, refused to field, so I nobly put myself in last and substituted for him. This was owing to an argument as to the exact wording of my bet with Gerald.
“You said you’d get him out,” said Gerald.
“I mean ‘out of the way,’ ‘out of the field,’ ‘out of——’”
“I meant ’out’ according to the laws of cricket. There are nine ways. Which was yours, I should like to know?”
“Obstructing the ball.”
“There you are.”
I shifted my ground.
“I didn’t say I’d get him out,” I explained. “I said I’d get him. Those were my very words. ‘I will get George.’ Can you deny that I got him?”
“Even if you said that, which you didn’t, the common construction that one puts upon the phrase is——”
“If you are going to use long words like that,” I said, “I must refer you to my solicitor Bolton.”
Whereupon Bolton took counsel’s opinion, and reported that he could not advise me to proceed in the matter. So Gerald took second wicket, and I fielded.
However, one advantage of fielding was that I saw the editor’s innings from start to finish at the closest quarters. He came in at the end of the first over, and took guard for “left hand round the wicket.”
“Would you give it me?” he said to Bolton. “These country umpires.... Thanks. And what’s that over the wicket? Thanks.”
He marked two places with the bail.
“How about having it from here?” I suggested at mid-on. “It’s quite a good place and we’re in a straight line with the church.”
The editor returned the bail, and held up his bat again.
“That ‘one-leg’ all right? Thanks.”
He was proceeding to look round the field when a gentle voice from behind him said: “If you wouldn’t mind moving a bit, sir, I could bowl.”
“Oh, is it over?” said the editor airily, trying to hide his confusion. “I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon.”
Still he had certainly impressed the sister of their captain, and it was dreadful to think of the disillusionment that might follow at any moment. However, as it happened, he had yet another trick up his sleeve. Bolton hit a ball to cover, and the editor, in the words of the local paper, “most sportingly sacrificed his wicket when he saw that his partner had not time to get back. It was a question, however, whether there was ever a run possible.”
Which shows that the reporter did not know of the existence of their captain’s sister.
When I came in, the score was fifty-one for nine, and Henry was still in. I had only one ball to play, so I feel that I should describe it in full. I have four good scoring strokes—the cut, the drive, the hook and the glance. As the bowler ran up to the crease I decided to cut the ball to the ropes. Directly, however, it left his hand, I saw that it was a ball to hook, and accordingly I changed my attitude to the one usually adopted for that stroke. But the ball came up farther than I expected, so at the last moment I drove it hard past the bowler. That at least was the idea. Actually, it turned out to be a beautiful glance shot to the leg boundary. Seldom, if ever, has Beldam had such an opportunity for four action photographs on one plate.
Henry took a sixer next ball, and so we won. And the rest of the story of my team, is it not written in the journals of The Sportsman and The Chartleigh Watchman, and in the hearts of all who were privileged to compose it? But how the editor took two jokes I told him in the train, and put them in his paper (as his own), and how Carey challenged the engine-driver to an eighteen-hole solitaire match, and how... these things indeed shall never be divulged.
Ex Nihilo fit Multum
I should like to explain just what happened to the ball. In the first place it was of an irreproachable length, and broke very sharply and cleverly from the leg. (The bowler, I am sure, will bear me out in this.) Also it rose with great suddenness... and, before I had time to perfect any adequate system of defence, took me on the knee, and from there rolled on to the off-stump. There was a considerable amount of applause on the part of the field, due, no doubt, to the feeling that a dangerous batsman had been dismissed without scoring. I need hardly add that I did not resent this appreciation.
What I really wished to say to the wicket-keeper was (1) that it was the first fast wicket I had played on this summer; (2) that it was my first nought this season, and, hang it, even Fry made noughts sometimes; and (3) that personally I always felt that it didn’t matter what one made oneself so long as one’s side was victorious. What I actually said was shorter; but I expect the wicket-keeper understood just as well. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
After that, I walked nine miles back to the pavilion.
The next man was brushing his hair in the dressing-room.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said truthfully.
“But you’re out, aren’t you?”
“I mean that nothing has eventuated—accrued, as it were.”
“Blob? Bad luck. Is my parting straight?”
“It curls a bit from leg up at the top, but it will do. Mind you make some. I always feel that so long as one’s side is victorious——”
But he was gone. I brushed my own hair very carefully, lit a cigarette, and went outside to the others. I always think that a nought itself is nothing—the way one carries it off is everything. A disaster, not only to himself but also to his side, should not make a man indifferent to his personal appearance.
“Bad luck,” said somebody. “Did it come back?”
“Very quickly. We both did.”
“He wasn’t breaking much when I was in,” said some tactless idiot.
“Then why did you get out?” I retorted.
“L.b.w.”
I moved quickly away from him, and sat next to a man who had yet to go in.
“Bad luck,” he said. “Second ball, wasn’t it? I expect I shall do the same.”
I thought for a moment.
“What makes you think you will have a second?” I asked.
“To judge from the easy way in which those two are knocking the bowling about, I sha’n’t even have a first,” he smiled.
I moved on again.
“Hallo,” said a voice. “I saw you get out. How many did you make?”
“None,” I said wearily.
“How many?”
I went and sat down next to him.
“Guess,” I said.
“Oh, I can’t.”
“Well, think of a number.”
“Yes.”
“Double it. Divide by two. Take away the number you first thought of. What does that make?”
“A hundred.”
“You must have done it wrong,” I said suspiciously.
“No, I am sure I didn’t.... No, it still comes to a hundred.”
“Well, then, I must have made a hundred,” I said excitedly. “Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?”
“Quite.”
“Then I’d better go and tell the scorer. He put me down a blob—silly ass.”
“He’s a bad scorer, I know.”
“By the way,” I said, as I got up, “what number did you think of?”
“Well, it’s like this. When you asked me to guess what you had made I instinctively thought of blob, only I didn’t like to say so. Then when you began that number game I started with a hundred—it’s such an easy number. Double—two hundred. Divided by two—one hundred. Take away the number you first thought of—that’s blob, and you have a hundred left. Wasn’t that right?”
“You idiot,” I said angrily. “Of course it wasn’t.”
“Well, don’t get sick about it. We all make mistakes.”
“Sick, I’m not sick. Only just for the moment.... I really thought.... Well, I shall never be so near a century again.”
At lunch I sat next to one of their side.
“How many did you make?” he asked.
“Not very many,” I said.
“How many?”
“Oh, hardly any. None at all, practically.”
“How many actually?”
“And actually,” I said. (“Fool.”)
After lunch a strange man happened to be talking to me.
“And why did you get out?” he asked.
It was a silly question and deserved a silly answer. Besides, I was sick of it all by this time.
“Point’s moustache put me off,” I said.
“What was wrong with Point’s moustache?”
“It swerved the wrong way.”
“I was fielding point,” he said.
“I’m very sorry. But if you had recognised me, you wouldn’t have asked why I got out, and if I had recognised you I shouldn’t have told you. So let’s forgive and forget.”
I hoped that the subject was really closed this time. Of course, I knew that kind friends and relations would ask me on the morrow how many I had made, but for that day I wanted no more of it. Yet, as it happened, I reopened the subject myself.
For with five minutes to play their ninth wicket fell. Mid-off sauntered over towards me.
“Just as well we didn’t stay in any longer.”
“That’s just what I thought,” I said triumphantly, “all along.”
An Average Man
Of Tomkins as a natural cricketer
It frequently has been remarked—that IF
He’d had more opportunities of bowling,
And rather more encouragement in batting,
And IF his averages, so disclosed,
Batting and bowling, had been interchanged;
And IF the field as usually set
Contained some post (at the pavilion end)
Whose presence rather than a pair of hands
Was called for; then, before the season finished,
Tomkins would certainly have played for Kent.
All this, however, is beside the mark.
Just now I wish to hymn the glorious day
(Ignored by those who write the almanacs,
Unnoticed by the calendar compilers),
That Wednesday afternoon, twelve months ago
When Tomkins raised his average to two.
Thanks to an interval of accidents
(As “Tomkins did not bat”—and “not out 0,”
But this more rarely) Tomkins’ average
Had long remained at 1.3.
(Though Tomkins, sacrificing truth to pride,
Or both to euphony, left out the dot—
Left out the little dot upon the three,
Only employing it to justify
A second three to follow on the first.
Thus, if a stranger asked his average
Tomkins would answer “One point thirty-three”—
Nor lay the stress unduly on the “one”...).
A curious thing is custom! There are men—
Plum Warner is, of course, a case in point—
Who cannot bat unless they go in first.
Others, as Hayes and Denton, have their place
First wicket down; while Number Six or so
Is suited best to Jessop. As for Tomkins
His place was always one above the Byes,
And three above the Wides. So Custom willed.
Upon this famous Wednesday afternoon
Wickets had fallen fast before the onslaught
Of one who had, as Euclid might have put it,
No length, or break, but only pace; and pace
Had been too much for nine of them already.
Then entered Tomkins the invincible.
Took guard as usual, “just outside the leg,”
Looked round the field, and mentally decided
To die—or raise his average to two.
Whereon—for now the bowler was approaching,
He struck a scientific attitude,
Advanced the left leg firmly down the pitch,
And swung his bat along the line AB
(See Ranjitsinhji’s famous book of cricket).
And when the bat and leg were both at B
(Having arrived there more or less together),
Then Tomkins, with his usual self-effacement,
Modestly closed his eyes, and left the rest
To Providence and Ranjy and the bowler
(Forming a quorum); two at least of whom
Resolved that he should neatly glide the ball
Somewhere between the first and second slips.
So Tomkins did compile a chanceless two.
Once more the bowler rushed upon the crease,
While Tomkins made a hasty calculation
(Necessitating use of decimals)
And found his average was 1.5.
So lustily he smote and drove the ball
Loftily over long stop’s head for one;
Which brought the decimal to seventy-five,
And Tomkins, puffing, to the other end.
Then, feeling that the time for risks was come,
He rolled his sleeves up, blew upon his hands,
And played back to a yorker, and was bowled.
Every position has its special charm.
You go in first and find as a reward
The wicket at its best; you go in later
And find the fielders slack, the bowling loose.
Tomkins, who went in just above the Byes,
Found one of them had slipped into his score.
’Tis wise to take the good the gods provide you—
And Tomkins has an average of two.