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Once a Week

<h3>A FAREWELL TOUR</h3> This is positively Chum's last appearance in print—for his own sake no less than for yours. He is conceited enough as it is, but if once he got to know that people are always writing about him in books his swagger would be unbearable. However, I have said good-bye to him now; I have no longer any rights in him. Yesterday I saw him off to his new home, and when we meet again it will be on a different footing. "Is that your dog?" I shall say to his master. "What is he? A Cocker? Jolly little fellows, aren't they? I had one myself once." As Chum refused to do the journey across London by himself, I met him at Liverpool Street. He came up in a crate; the world must have seemed very small to him on the way. "Hallo, old ass," I said to him through the bars, and in the little space they gave him he wriggled his body with delight. "Thank Heaven there's one of 'em alive," he said. "I think this is my dog," I said to the guard, and I told him my name. He asked for my card. "I'm afraid I haven't one with me," I explained. When policemen touch me on the shoulder and ask me to go quietly; when I drag old gentlemen from underneath motor-'buses, and they decide to adopt me on the spot; on all the important occasions when one really wants a card, I never have one with me. "Can't give him up without proof of identity," said the guard, and Chum grinned at the idea of being thought so valuable. I felt in my pockets for letters. There was only one, but it offered to lend me £10,000 on my note of hand alone. It was addressed to "Dear Sir," and though I pointed out to the guard that I was the "Sir," he still kept tight hold of Chum. Strange that one man should be prepared to trust me with £10,000, and another should be so chary of confiding to me a small black spaniel. "Tell the gentleman who I am," I said imploringly through the bars. "Show him you know me." "He's really all right," said Chum, looking at the guard with his great honest brown eyes. "He's been with us for years." And then I had an inspiration. I turned down the inside pocket of my coat; and there, stitched into it, was the label of my tailor with my name written on it. I had often wondered why tailors did this; obviously they know how stupid guards can be. "I suppose that's all right," said the guard reluctantly. Of course, I might have stolen the coat. I see his point. "You—you wouldn't like a nice packing-case for yourself?" I said timidly. "You see, I thought I'd put Chum on the lead. I've got to take him to Paddington, and he must be tired of his shell by now. It isn't as if he were really an armadillo." The guard thought he would like a shilling and a nice packing-case. Wood, he agreed, was always wood, particularly in winter, but there were times when you were not ready for it. "How are you taking him?" he asked, getting to work with a chisel. "Underground?" "Underground?" I cried in horror. "Take Chum on the Underground? Take—— Have you ever taken a large live conger-eel on the end of a string into a crowded carriage?" The guard never had. "Well, don't. Take him in a taxi instead. Don't waste him on other people." The crate yawned slowly, and Chum emerged all over straw. We had an anxious moment, but the two of us got him down and put the lead on him. Then Chum and I went off for a taxi. "Hooray," said Chum, wriggling all over, "isn't this splendid? I say, which way are you going? I'm going this way?... No, I mean the other way." Somebody had left some of his milk-cans on the platform. Three times we went round one in opposite directions and unwound ourselves the wrong way. Then I hauled him in, took him struggling in my arms and got into a cab. The journey to Paddington was full of interest. For a whole minute Chum stood quietly on the seat, rested his fore-paws on the open window and drank in London. Then he jumped down and went mad. He tried to hang me with the lead, and then in remorse tried to hang himself. He made a dash for the little window at the back; missed it and dived out of the window at the side; was hauled back and kissed me ecstatically in the eye with his sharpest tooth.... "And I thought the world was at an end," he said, "and there were no more people. Oh, I am an ass. I say, did you notice I'd had my hair cut? How do you like my new trousers? I must show you them." He jumped on to my lap. "No, I think you'll see them better on the ground," he said, and jumped down again. "Or no, perhaps you would get a better view if——" he jumped up hastily, "and yet I don't know——" he dived down, "though, of course, if you—— Oh lor! this is a day," and he put both paws lovingly on my collar. Suddenly he was quiet again. The stillness, the absence of storm in the taxi was so unnatural that I began to miss it. "Buck up, old fool," I said, but he sat motionless by my side, plunged in thought. I tried to cheer him up. I pointed out King's Cross to him; he wouldn't even bark at it. I called his attention to the poster outside the Euston Theatre of The Two Biffs; for all the regard he showed he might never even have heard of them. The monumental masonry by Portland Road failed to uplift him. At Baker Street he woke up and grinned cheerily. "It's all right," he said, "I was trying to remember what happened to me this morning—something rather miserable, I thought, but I can't get hold of it. However, it's all right now. How are you?" And he went mad again. At Paddington I bought a label at the bookstall and wrote it for him. He went round and round my leg looking for me. "Funny thing," he said as he began to unwind, "he was here a moment ago. I'll just go round once more. I rather think ... Ow! Oh, there you are!" I stepped off him, unravelled the lead and dragged him to the Parcels Office. "I want to send this by the two o'clock train," I said to the man the other side of the counter. "Send what?" he said. I looked down. Chum was making himself very small and black in the shadow of the counter. He was completely hidden from the sight of anybody the other side of it. "Come out," I said, "and show yourself." "Not much," he said. "A parcel! I'm not going to be a jolly old parcel for anybody." "It's only a way of speaking," I pleaded. "Actually you are travelling as a small black gentleman. You will go with the guard—a delightful man." Chum came out reluctantly. The clerk leant over the counter and managed to see him. "According to our regulations," he said, and I always dislike people who begin like that, "he has to be on a chain. A leather lead won't do." Chum smiled all over himself. I don't know which pleased him more—the suggestion that he was a very large and fierce dog, or the impossibility now of his travelling with the guard, delightful man though he might be. He gave himself a shake and started for the door. "Tut, tut, it's a great disappointment to me," he said, trying to look disappointed, but his back would wriggle. "This chain business—silly of us not to have known—well, well, we shall be wiser another time. Now let's go home." Poor old Chum; I had known. From a large coat pocket I produced a chain. "Dash it," said Chum, looking up at me pathetically, "you might almost want to get rid of me." He was chained, and the label tied on to him. Forgive me that label, Chum; I think that was the worst offence of all. And why should I label one who was speaking so eloquently for himself; who said from the tip of his little black nose to the end of his stumpy black tail, "I'm a silly old ass, but there's nothing wrong in me, and they're sending me away!" But according to the regulations—one must obey the regulations, Chum. I gave him to the guard—a delightful man. The guard and I chained him to a brake or something. Then the guard went away, and Chum and I had a little talk.... After that the train went off. Good-bye, little dog. <hr /> <h3>THE TRUTH ABOUT HOME RAILS</h3> Imagine us, if you can, sitting one on each side of the fire, I with my feet on the mantelpiece, Margery curled up in the blue arm-chair, both of us intent on the morning paper. To me, by good chance, has fallen the sporting page; to Margery the foreign, political, and financial intelligence of the day. "What," said Margery, "does it mean when it says——" She stopped and spelt it over to herself again. I put down my piece of the paper and prepared to explain. The desire for knowledge in the young cannot be too strongly encouraged, and I have always flattered myself that I can explain in perfectly simple language anything which a child wants to know. For instance, I once told Margery what "Miniature Rifle Shooting" meant; it was a head-line which she had come across in her paper. The explanation took some time, owing to Margery's preconceived idea that a bird entered into it somewhere; several times, when I thought the lesson was over, she said, "Well, what about the bird?" But I think I made it plain to her in the end, though maybe she has forgotten about it now. "What," said Margery, "does it mean when it says 'Home Rails Firm'?" I took up my paper again. The Cambridge fifteen, I was glad to see, were rapidly developing into a first-class team, and—— "'Home Rails Firm,'" repeated Margery, and looked up at me. My mind worked rapidly, as it always does in a crisis. "What did you say?" I asked in surprise. "What does 'Home Rails Firm' mean?" "Where does it say that?" I went on, still thinking at lightning speed. "There. It said it yesterday too." "Ah, yes." I made up my mind. "Well, that," I said—"I think that is something you must ask your father." "I did ask him yesterday." "Well, then——" "He told me to ask Mummy." Coward! "You can be sure," I said firmly, "that what Mummy told you would be right," and I returned to my paper. "Mummy told me to wait till you came." Really, these parents! The way they shirk their responsibilities nowadays is disgusting. "'Home Rails Firm,'" said Margery, and settled herself to listen. It is good that children should be encouraged to take an interest in the affairs of the day, but I do think that a little girl might be taught by her father (or if more convenient, mother) which part of a newspaper to read. Had Margery asked me the difference between a bunker and a banker, had she demanded an explanation of "ultimatum" or "guillotine," I could have done something with it; but to let a child of six fill her head with ideas as to the firmness or otherwise of Home Rails is hardly nice. However, an explanation had to be given. "Well, it's like this, Margery," I said at last. "Supposing—well, you see, supposing—that is to say, if I——" and then I stopped. I had a sort of feeling—intuition, they call it—that I was beginning in the wrong way. "Go on," said Margery. "Perhaps I had better put it this way. Supposing you were to—— Well, we'd better begin further back than that. You know what—— No, I don't suppose you do know that. Well, if I—that is to say, when a man—you know, it's rather difficult to explain this, Margery." "Are you explaining it now?" "I'm just going to begin." "Thank you, Uncle." I lit my pipe slowly, while I considered again how best to approach the matter. "'Home Rails Firm,'" said Margery. "Isn't it a funny thing to say?" It was. It was a very silly thing to say. Whoever said it first might have known what it would lead to. "Perhaps I can explain it best like this, Margery," I said, beginning on a new tack. "I suppose you know what 'firm' means?" "What does it mean?" "Ah, well, if you don't know that," I said, rather pleased, "perhaps I had better explain that first. 'Firm' means that—that is to say, you call a thing firm if it—well, if it doesn't—that is to say, a thing is firm if it can't move." "Like a house?" "Well, something like that. This chair, for instance," and I put my hand on her chair, "is firm because you can't shake it. You see, it's quite—— Hallo, what's that?" "Oh, you bad Uncle, you've knocked the castor off again," cried Margery, greatly excited at the incident. "This is too much," I said bitterly. "Even the furniture is against me." "Go on explaining," said Margery, rocking herself in the now wobbly chair. I decided to leave "firm." It is not an easy word to explain at the best of times, and when everything you touch goes and breaks itself it becomes perfectly impossible. "Well, so much for that," I said. "And now we come to 'rails.' You know what rails are?" "Like I've got in the nursery?" This was splendid. I had forgotten these for the moment. "Exactly. The rails your train goes on. Well then, 'Home Rails' would be rails at home." "Well, I've got them at home," said Margery in surprise. "I couldn't have them anywhere else." "Quite so. Then 'Home Rails Firm' would mean that—er—home rails were—er—firm." "But mine aren't, because they wobble. You know they do." "Yes, but——" "Well, why do they say 'Home Rails Firm' when they mean 'Home Rails Wobble'?" "Ah, that's just it. The point is that when they say 'Home Rails Firm,' they don't mean that the rails themselves are firm. In fact, they don't mean at all what you think they mean. They mean something quite different." "What do they mean?" "I am just going to explain," I said stiffly. <hr class="min" /> "Or perhaps I had better put it this way," I said ten minutes later. "Supposing—— Oh, Margery, it is difficult to explain." "I must know," said Margery. "Why do you want to know so badly?" "I want to know a million million times more than anything else in the whole world." "Why?" "So as I can tell Angela," said Margery. I plunged into my explanation again. Angela is three, and I can quite see how important it is that she should be sound on the question. <hr /> <h3>THE KING'S SONS</h3> <div class="blockquot">"Tell me a story," said Margery. "What sort of a story?" "A fairy story, because it's Christmas-time." "But you know all the fairy stories." "Then tell me a new fairy story." "Right," I said. </div> Once upon a time there was a King who had three sons. The eldest son was a very thoughtful youth. He always had a reason for everything he did, and sometimes he would say things like "Economically it is to the advantage of the State that——" or "The civic interests of the community demand that——" before doing something specially horrid. He didn't want to be unkind to anybody, but he took what he called a "large view" of things; and if you happened to ask for a third help of plum-pudding he took the large view that you would be sorry about it next morning—and so you didn't have your plum-pudding. He was called Prince Proper. The second son was a very wise youth. You couldn't catch him anyhow. If you asked him whether he knew the story of the three wells, or "Why does a chicken cross the road?" or anything really amusing like that, he would always say, "Oh, I heard that years ago!"—and whenever you began "Adam and Eve and Pinchme" he would pinch you at once without waiting like a gentleman until you had got to the end of the verse. He was called Prince Clever. And the third son was just wonderfully beautiful. He had the most marvellously pink cheeks and long golden hair that you have ever seen. I don't much care for that style myself, but in the country in which he lived it was admired more than I can tell you. He was called Prince Goldenlocks. I'll give you three guesses why. Now the King had reigned a long time, so long that he was tired of being king, and he often used to wonder which of his sons ought to succeed him. Of course, nowadays they never wonder, and the eldest son becomes king at once, and quite right too; but in those days it was generally left to the sons to prove which among themselves was the most worthy. Sometimes they would all be sent out to find the magic Dragon's Tooth, and only one would come back alive, which would save a lot of trouble; or else, after a lot of discussion, they would be told to go and find beautiful Princesses for themselves, and the one which brought back the most beautiful Princess—but very often that would lead to another discussion. The best way of all was to call in a Fairy to help. A Fairy has all sorts of tricks for finding out about you, and her favourite plan is to pretend to be something else and see what you do. So the King called in a Fairy and said, "To-morrow I am sending out my three sons into the world to seek their fortune. I want you to test them for me and find out which is the most fitted to succeed to my throne. If it should happen to be Prince Goldenlocks—but, of course, I don't want to influence you in any way." "Leave it to me," said the Fairy. "You agree, no doubt, that the quality most desirable in a king is love and kindliness——" "Y-yes," said the King doubtfully. "I was sure of it. Well, I have a way of putting this quality to the test which has never yet failed." And with that she vanished. She could have gone out at the door quite easily, but she preferred to vanish. I expect you know what her way was. You have read about it often in your fairy books. On the next day, as Prince Proper was coming along the road, she appeared suddenly in front of him in the shape of a poor old woman. "Please give me something to buy a crust of bread, pretty gentleman," she pleaded. "I'm starving." Prince Proper looked at her sternly. "Economically," he said, "it is to the advantage of the State that the submerged classes should be a charge on the State itself and not on individuals. The civic interests of the community demand that promiscuous charity should be sternly discouraged. Surely you see that for yourself?" The Fairy didn't quite. The language had taken her by surprise. In all her previous adventures of this kind, two of the young Princes had refused her roughly, and the third had shared his last piece of bread with her. This adventure was going all wrong. "Let me explain it to you more fully," went on Proper, and for an hour and twenty-seven minutes he did so. Then he went on his way, leaving a dazed Fairy behind him. By and by Prince Clever came along. Suddenly he saw a poor old woman in front of him. "Please give me something to buy a crust of bread," she pleaded. "I'm starving." Prince Clever burst into a roar of laughter. "You don't catch me," he said. "I've read about this a hundred times. You're not an old woman at all; you're a Fairy." "W-what do you mean?" she stammered. "This is a silly test of Father's. Well, you can tell him he's got one son who's clever enough to see through him." And he went on his way. By and by Prince Goldenlocks came along. I need not say that he did all that you would expect of a third and youngest son who had pink cheeks, long golden hair, and (as I ought to have said before) a very loving nature. He shared his last piece of bread with the poor old woman.... (Surely he will get the throne!) But the Fairy was an honest Fairy. She did understand Proper's point of view; she had to admit that, if Clever saw through her deception, it was honourable of him to have said so. And though, of course, her loving heart was all for Prince Goldenlocks, she felt that it would not be fair to award the throne to him without a further trial. So she did another thing that she was very fond of doing. She changed herself into a pretty little dove and—right in front of Prince Proper—she flew with a hawk in pursuit of her. "Now we shall see," she said to herself, "which of the three youths has the softest heart." You can guess what Proper said. "Life," he said, "is one constant battle. Nature," he said, "is ruthless, and the weakest must go to the wall. If I kill the hawk," he said, "I am kind to the dove, but am I," he said, and I think there was a good deal in this—"am I kind to the caterpillar or whatever it is that the dove eats?" Of course, you know, there is that to be thought of. Anyhow, after soliloquizing for forty-seven minutes Prince Proper went on his way; and by and by Prince Clever came along. You can guess what Clever said. "My whiskers!" he said, "this is older than the last. I knew this in my cradle." With one of those nasty sarcastic laughs that I hate so much he went on his way; and by and by Prince Goldenlocks came along. (Now then, Goldenlocks, the throne is almost yours!) You can guess what Goldenlocks said. "Poor little dove," he said. "But I can save its life." Rapidly he fitted an arrow to his bow and with careful aim let fly at the pursuing hawk.... I say again that Prince Goldenlocks was the most beautiful youth you have ever seen in your life, and he had a very loving nature. But he was a poor shot. He hit the dove.... <div class="blockquot">"Is that all?" said Margery. "That's all," I said. "Good night." </div> <hr /> <h3>DISAPPOINTMENT</h3> My young friend Bobby (now in the early thirteens) has been making his plans for the Christmas holidays. He communicated them to me in a letter from school:— "I am going to write an opera in the holidays with a boy called Short, a very great and confident friend of mine here. I am doing the words and Short is doing the music. We have already got the title; it is called 'Disappointment.'" Last week, on his return to town, he came to see me at my club, and when the waiter had brought in drinks, and Bobby had refused a cigar, I lighted up and prepared to talk shop. His recent discovery that I write too leads him to treat me with more respect than formerly. "Now then," I said, "tell me about it. How's it going on?" "Oo, I haven't done much yet," said Bobby. "But I've got the plot." "Let's have it." Bobby unfolded it rapidly. "Well, you see, there's a chap called Tommy—he's the hero—and he's just come back from Oxford, and he's awfully good-looking and decent and all that, and he's in love with Felicia, you see, and there's another chap called Reynolds, and, you see, Felicia's really the same as Phyllis, who's going to marry Samuel, and that's the disappointment, because Tommy wants to marry her, you see." "I see. That ought to be all right. You could almost get two operas out of that." "Oo, do you think so?" "Well, it depends how much Reynolds comes in. You didn't tell me what happened to him. Does he marry anybody?" "Oo, no. He comes in because I want somebody to tell the audience about Tommy when Tommy isn't there." (How well Bobby has caught the dramatic idea.) "I see. He ought to be very useful." "You see, the First Act's in a very grand restaurant, and Tommy comes in to have dinner, and he explains to Reynolds how he met Felicia on a boat, and she'd lost her umbrella, and he said, 'Is this your umbrella?' and it was, and they began to talk to each other, and then he was in love with her. And then he goes out, and then Reynolds tells the audience what an awfully decent chap Tommy is." "Why does he go out?" "Well, you see, Reynolds couldn't tell everybody what an awfully decent chap Tommy is if Tommy was there." (Of course he couldn't.) "And where's Felicia all this time?" "Oo, she doesn't come on: She's in the country with Samuel. You see, the Second Act is a grand country wedding, and Samuel and Phyllis are married, and Tommy is one of the guests, and he's very unhappy, but he tries not to show it, and he shoots himself." "Reynolds is there too, I suppose?" "Oo, I don't know yet." (He'll have to be, of course. He'll be wanted to tell the audience how unhappy Tommy is.) "And how does it end?" I asked. "Well, you see, when the wedding's over, Tommy sings a song about Felicia, and it ends up, 'Felicia, Felicia, Felicia,' getting higher each time—Short has to do that part, of course, but I've told him about it—and then the curtain comes down." "I see. And has Short written any of the music yet?" "He's got some of the notes. You see, I've only just got the plot, and I've written about two pages. I'm writing it in an exercise-book." A shadow passed suddenly across the author's brow. "And the sickening thing," he said, as he leant back in his chair and sipped his ginger-beer, "is that on the cover of it I've spelt Disappointment with two 's's.'" (The troubles of this literary life!) "Sickening," I agreed. <hr class="min" /> If there is one form of theft utterly unforgivable it is the theft by a writer of another writer's undeveloped ideas. Borrow the plot of Sir J. M. Barrie's last play, and you do him no harm; you only write yourself down a plagiarist. But listen to the scenario of his next play (if he is kind enough to read it to you) and write it up before he has time to develop it himself, and you do him a grievous wrong; for you fix the charge of plagiarism on him. Surely, you say, no author could sink so low as this. And yet, when I got home, the plot of "Disappointment" (with one "s") so took hold of me that I did the unforgivable thing; I went to my desk and wrote the opera. I make no excuses for myself. I only point out that Bobby's opera, as performed at Covent Garden in Italian, with Short's music conducted by Richter, is not likely to be belittled by anything that I may write here. I have only written in order that I may get the scenario—which had begun to haunt me—off my chest. Bobby, I know, will understand and forgive; Short I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but I believe he is smaller than Bobby. <div class="blockquot"> Act I. Scene—A grand restaurant. Enter Tommy, a very handsome man, just back from Oxford. Tommy sings: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Felicia, I love you, By all the stars above you I swear you shall be mine!— And now I'm going to dine. </div> </div> [He sits down and orders a bottle of ginger-beer and some meringues. Waiter. Your dinner, Sir. Tommy. Thank you. And would you ask Mr. Reynolds to come in, if you see him? (To the audience) A week ago I was crossing the Channel—(enter Reynolds)—Oh, here you are, Reynolds! I was just saying that a week ago I was crossing the Channel when I saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen who had lost her umbrella. I said, "Excuse me, but is this your umbrella?" She said, "Yes." Reynolds, I sat down and fell in love with her. Her name was Felicia. And now I must go and see about something.    [Exit. Reynolds. Poor Tommy! An awfully decent chap if ever there was one. But he will never marry Felicia, because I happen to know her real name is Phyllis, and she is engaged to Samuel. (Recitative.) <div class="cpoem"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy, He does not know she's fond of Samuel. He will be disappointed when he knows. </div> </div></div> Curtain. Act II. Scene—A beautiful country wedding. Tommy (in pew nearest door, to Reynolds). Who's the bride? Reynolds. Phyllis. She's marrying Samuel. Enter Bride. Tommy. Heavens, it's Felicia! Reynolds (to audience). Poor Tommy! How disappointed he must be! (Aloud) Yes, Felicia and Phyllis are really the same girl. She's engaged to Samuel. Tommy. Then I cannot marry her! Reynolds. No. Tommy sings: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Good-bye, Felicia, good-bye, I'm awfully disappointed, I Am now, in fact, about to die, Felicia, Felicia, Felicia! </div> </div> [Shoots himself. Curtain. </div> <hr class="min" /> That is how I see it. But no doubt Bobby and Short, when they really get to work, will make something better of it. It is an engaging theme, but, of course, the title wants to be spelt properly. <hr /> <h3>AMONG THE ANIMALS</h3> Jeremy was looking at a card which his wife had just passed across the table to him. "'Lady Bendish. At Home,'" he read. "'Pets.' Is this for us?" "Of course," said Mrs. Jeremy. "Then I think 'Pets' is rather familiar. 'Mr. and Mrs. J. P. Smith' would have been more correct." "Don't be silly, Jeremy. It means it's a Pet party. You have to bring some sort of pet with you, and there are prizes for the prettiest, and the most intelligent, and the most companionable, and so on." She looked at the fox-terrier curled up in front of the fire-place. "We could take Rags, of course." "Or Baby," said Jeremy. "We'll enter her in the Fat Class." But when the day arrived Jeremy had another idea. He came in from the garden with an important look on his face, and joined his wife in the hall. "Come on," he said. "Let's start." "But where's Rags?" "Rags isn't coming. I'm taking Hereward instead." He opened his cigarette-case and disclosed a small green animal. "Hereward," he said. "Why, Jeremy," cried his wife, "it's—why, it's blight from the rose-tree!" "It isn't just blight, dear; it's one particular blight. A blight. Hereward, the Last of the Blights." He wandered round the hall. "Where's the lead?" he asked. "Jeremy, don't be absurd." "My dear, I must have something to lead him up for his prize on. During the parade he can sit on my shoulder informally, but when we come to the prize-giving, 'Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward,' must be led on properly." He pulled open a drawer. "Oh, here we are. I'd better take the chain; he might bite through the leather one." They arrived a little late, to find a lawn full of people and animals; and one glance was sufficient to tell Jeremy that in some of the classes at least his pet would have many dangerous rivals. "If there's a prize for the biggest," he said to his wife, "my blight has practically lost it already. Adams has brought a cart-horse. Hullo, Adams," he went on, "how are you? Don't come too close or Hereward may do your animal a mischief." "Who's Hereward?" Jeremy opened his cigarette-case. "Hereward," he said. "Not the woodbine; that's quite wild. The blight. He's much more domesticated, but there are moments when he gets out of hand and becomes unmanageable. He gave me the slip coming here, and I had to chase him through the churchyard; that's why we're late." "Does he take meals with the family?" asked Adams with a grin. "No, no; he has them alone in the garden. You ought to see him having his bath. George, our gardener, looks after him. George gives him a special bath of soapy water every day. Hereward simply loves it. George squirts on him, and Hereward lies on his back and kicks his legs in the air. It's really quite pretty to watch them." He nodded to Adams, and wandered through the crowd with Mrs. Jeremy. The collection of animals was remarkable; they varied in size from Adams's cart-horse to Jeremy's blight; in playfulness from the Vicar's kitten to Miss Trehearne's chrysalis; and in ability for performing tricks from the Major's poodle to Dr. Bunton's egg of the Cabbage White. "There ought to be a race for them all," said Mrs. Jeremy. "A handicap, of course." "Hereward is very fast over a short distance," said Jeremy, "but he wants encouragement. If he were given ninety-nine yards, two feet, and eleven inches in a hundred, and you were to stand in front of him with a William Allan Richardson, I think we might pull it off. But, of course, he's a bad starter. Hullo, there's Miss Bendish." Miss Bendish, hurrying along, gave them a word as she went past. "They're going to have the inspection directly," she said, "and give the prizes. Is your animal quite ready?" "I should like to brush him up a bit," said Jeremy. "Is there a tent or anywhere where I could prepare him? His eyebrows get so matted if he's left to himself for long." He took out a cigarette and lit it. "There's a tent, but you'll have to hurry up." "Oh, well, it doesn't really matter," said Jeremy, as he walked along with her. "Hereward's natural beauty and agility will take him through." On the south lawn the pets and their owners were assembling. Jeremy took the leash out of his pocket and opened his cigarette-case. "Good heavens!" he cried. "Hereward has escaped! Quick! Shut the gates!" He saw Adams near and hurried up to him. "My blight has escaped," he said breathlessly, holding up the now useless leash. "He gnawed through the chain and got away. I'm afraid he may be running amok among the guests. Supposing he were to leap upon Sir Thomas from behind and savage him—it's too terrible." He moved anxiously on. "Have you seen my blight?" he asked Miss Trehearne. "He has escaped, and we are rather anxious. If he were to get the Vicar down and begin to worry him——" He murmured something about "once getting the taste for blood" and hurried off. The guests were assembled, and the judges walked down the line and inspected their different animals. They were almost at the end of it when Jeremy sprinted up and took his place by the last beast. "It's all right," he panted to his wife, "I've got him. Silly of me to mislay him, but he's so confoundedly shy." He held out his finger as the judges approached, and introduced them to the small green pet perching on the knuckle. "A blight," he said. "Hereward, the Chief Blight. Been in the family for years. A dear old friend." Jeremy went home a proud man. "Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward," had taken first prize in the All-round class. <hr class="min" /> "Yes," he admitted to his wife at dinner, "there is something on my mind." He looked at the handsome cigarette-box on the table in front of him and sighed. "What is it, dear? You enjoyed yourself this afternoon, you know you did, and Hereward won you that beautiful cigarette-box. You ought to be proud." "That's the trouble. Hereward didn't win it." "But they said—they read it out, and——" "Yes, but they didn't know. It was really Elspeth who won it." "Elspeth?" "Yes, dear." Jeremy sighed again. "When Hereward escaped and I went back for him, I didn't find him as I—er—pretended. So I went to the rose garden and—and borrowed Elspeth. Fortunately no one noticed it was a lady blight ... they all took it for Hereward.... But it was really Elspeth—and belonged to Lady Bendish." He helped himself to a cigarette from the box. "It's an interesting point," he said. "I shall go and confess to-morrow to Sir Thomas, and see what he thinks about it. If he wants the box back, well and good." He refilled his glass. "After all," he said, "the real blow is losing Hereward. Elspeth—Elspeth is very dear to me, but she can never be quite the same." <hr /> <h3>A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA</h3> William Bales—as nice a young man as ever wore a cummerbund on an esplanade—was in despair. For half an hour he and Miss Spratt had been sitting in silence on the pier, and it was still William's turn to say something. Miss Spratt's last remark had been, "Oh, Mr. Bales, you do say things!" and William felt that his next observation must at all costs live up to the standard set for it. Three or four times he had opened his mouth to speak, and then on second thoughts had rejected the intended utterance as unworthy. At the end of half an hour his mind was still working fruitlessly. He knew that the longer he waited the more brilliant he would have to be, and he told himself that even Bernard Shaw or one of those clever writing fellows would have been hard put to it now. William was at odds with the world. He was a romantic young man who had once been told that he nearly looked like Lewis Waller when he frowned, and he had resolved that his holiday this year should be a very dashing affair indeed. He had chosen the sea in the hopes that some old gentleman would fall off the pier and let himself be saved by—and, later on, photographed with—William Bales, who in a subsequent interview would modestly refuse to take any credit for the gallant rescue. As his holiday had progressed he had felt the need for some such old gentleman more and more; for only thus, he realised, could he capture the heart of the wayward Miss Spratt. But so far it had been a dull season; in a whole fortnight nobody had gone out of his way to oblige William, and to-morrow he must return to the City as unknown and as unloved as when he left it. "Got to go back to-morrow," he said at last. As an impromptu it would have served, but as the result of half an hour's earnest thought he felt that it did not do him justice. "So you said before," remarked Miss Spratt. "Well, it's still true." "Talking about it won't help it," said Miss Spratt. William sighed and looked round the pier. There was an old gentleman fishing at the end of it, his back turned invitingly to William. In half an hour he had caught one small fish (which he had had to return as under the age limit) and a bunch of seaweed. William felt that there was a wasted life; a life, however, which a sudden kick and a heroic rescue by W. Bales might yet do something to justify. At the Paddington Baths, a month ago, he had won a plate-diving competition; and though there is a difference between diving for plates and diving for old gentlemen he was prepared to waive it. One kick and then ... Fame! And, not only Fame, but the admiration of Angelina Spratt. It was perhaps as well for the old gentleman—who was really quite worthy, and an hour later caught a full-sized whiting—that Miss Spratt spoke at this moment. "Well, you're good company, I must say," she observed to William. "It's so hot," said William. "You can't say I asked to come here." "Let's go on the beach," said William desperately. "We can find a shady cave or something." Fate was against him; there was to be no rescue that day. "I'm sure I'm agreeable," said Miss Spratt. They walked in silence along the beach, and, rounding a corner of the cliffs, they came presently to a cave. In earlier days W. Bales could have done desperate deeds against smugglers there, with Miss Spratt looking on. Alas for this unromantic age! It was now a place for picnics, and a crumpled sheet of newspaper on the sand showed that there had been one there that very afternoon. They sat in a corner of the cave, out of the sun, out of sight of the sea, and William prepared to renew his efforts as a conversationalist. In the hope of collecting a few ideas as to what the London clubs were talking about he picked up the discarded newspaper, and saw with disgust that it was the local Herald. But just as he threw it down, a line in it caught his eye and remained in his mind: "High tide to-day—3.30." William's heart leapt. He looked at his watch; it was 2.30. In one hour the waves would be dashing remorselessly into the cave, would be leaping up the cliff, what time he and Miss Spratt—— Suppose they were caught by the tide.... Meanwhile the lady, despairing of entertainment, had removed her hat. "Really," she said, "I'm that sleepy—— I suppose the tide's safe, Mr. Bales?" It was William's chance. "Quite, quite safe," he said earnestly. "It's going down hard." "Well then, I almost think——" She closed her eyes. "Wake me up when you've thought of something really funny, Mr. Bales." William was left alone with Romance. He went out of the cave and looked round. The sea was still some way out, but it came up quickly on this coast. In an hour ... in an hour.... He scanned the cliffs, and saw the ledge whither he would drag her. She would cling to him crying, calling him her rescuer.... What should he do then? Should he leave her and swim for help? Or should he scale the mighty cliff? He returned to the cave and, gazing romantically at the sleeping Miss Spratt, conjured up the scene. It would go like this, he thought. Miss Spratt (wakened by the spray dashing over her face). Oh, Mr. Bales! We're cut off by the tide! Save me! W. Bales (lightly). Tut-tut, there's no danger. It's nothing. (Aside) Great Heavens! Death stares us in the face! Miss Spratt (throwing her arms around his neck). William, save me; I cannot swim! W. Bales (with Waller face). Trust me, Angelina. I will fight my way round yon point and obtain help. (Aside) An Englishman can only die once. Miss Spratt. Don't leave me! W. Bales. Fear not, sweetheart. See, there is a ledge where you will be beyond the reach of the hungry tide. I will carry you thither in my arms and will then—— At this point in his day-dream William took another look at the sleeping Miss Spratt, felt his biceps doubtfully, and went on—— W. Bales. I will help you to climb thither, and will then swim for help. Miss Spratt. My hero! Again and again William reviewed the scene to himself. It was perfect. His photograph would be in the papers; Miss Spratt would worship him; he would be a hero in his City office. The actual danger was slight, for at the worst she could shelter in the far end of the cave; but he would not let her know this. He would do the thing heroically—drag her to the ledge on the cliff, and then swim round the point to obtain help. The thought struck him that he could conduct the scene better in his shirt-sleeves. He removed his coat, and then went out of the cave to reconnoitre the ledge. <hr class="min" /> Miss Spratt awoke with a start and looked at her watch. It was 4.15. The cave was empty save for a crumpled page of newspaper. She glanced at this idly and saw that it was the local Herald ... eight days old. Far away on the horizon William Bales was throwing stones bitterly at the still retreating sea. <hr /> <h3>OLD FRIENDS</h3> "It was very nice of you to invite me to give you lunch," I said, "and if only the waiter would bring the toast I should be perfectly happy. I can't say more." "Why not?" said Miss Middleton, looking up. "Oh, I see." "And now," I said, when I had finished my business with a sardine, "tell me all about it. I know something serious must have brought you up to London. What is it? Have you run away from home?" Miss Middleton nodded. "Sir Henery," she added dramatically, "waits for me in his yacht at Dover. My parents would not hear of the marriage, and immured me in the spare room. They tried to turn me against my love, and told wicked stories about him, vowing that he smoked five non-throat cigarettes in a day. Er—would you pass the pepper, please?" "Go on," I begged. "Never mind the pepper." "But, of course, I really came to see you," said Miss Middleton briskly. "I want you to do something for me." "I knew it." "Oh, do say you'd love to." I drained my glass and felt very brave. "I'd love to," I said doubtfully. "At least, if I were sure that——" I lowered my voice: "Look here—have I got to write to anybody?" "No," said Miss Middleton. "Let me know the worst. Have I—er—have I got to give advice to anybody?" "No." There was one other point that had to be settled. I leant across the table anxiously. "Have I got to ring anybody up on the telephone?" I asked in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, nothing like that at all," said Miss Middleton. "Dash it," I cried, "then of course I'll do anything for you. What is it? Somebody you want killed? I could kill a mayor to-day." Miss Middleton was silent for a moment while allowing herself to be helped to fish. When the waiters had moved away, "We are having a jumble sale," she announced. I shook my head at her. "Your life," I said, "is one constant round of gaiety." "And I thought as I was coming to London I'd mention it to you. Because you're always saying you don't know what to do with your old things." "I'm not always saying it. I may have mentioned it once or twice when the conversation was flagging." "Well, mention it now, and then I'll mention my jumble sale." I thought it over for a moment. "It will mean brown paper and string," I said hopelessly, "and I don't know where to get them." "I'll buy some after lunch for you. You shall hold my hand while I buy it." "And then I should have to post it, and I'm rotten at posting things." "But you needn't post it, because you can meet me at the station with it, and I'll take it home." "I don't think it's quite etiquette for a young girl to travel alone with a big brown-paper parcel. What would Mrs. Middleton say if she knew?" "Mother?" cried Miss Middleton. "But, of course, it's her idea. You didn't think it was mine?" she said reproachfully. "The shock of it unnerved me for a moment. Of course, I see now that it is Mrs. Middleton's jumble sale entirely." I sighed and helped myself to salt. "How do I begin?" "You drive me to my dressmaker and leave me there and go on to your rooms. And then you collect a few really old things that you don't want and tie them up and meet me at the 4.40. I'm afraid," she said frankly, "it is a rotten way of spending an afternoon; but I promised mother." "I'll do it," I said. My parcel and I arrived promptly to time. Miss Middleton didn't. "Don't say I've caught the wrong train," she said breathlessly, when at last she appeared. "It does go at 4.40, doesn't it?" "It does," I said, "and it did." "Then my watch must be slow." "Send it to the jumble sale," I advised. "Look here—we've a long time to wait for the next train; let's undress my parcel in the waiting-room, and I'll point out the things that really want watching. Some are absolutely unique." It was an odd collection of very dear friends, Miss Middleton's final reminder having been that nothing was too old for a jumble sale. "Lot One," I said. "A photograph of my house cricket eleven, framed in oak. Very interesting. The lad on the extreme right is now a clergyman." "Oh, which is you?" said Miss Middleton eagerly. I was too much wrapped up in my parcel to answer. "Lot Two," I went on. "A pink-and-white football shirt; would work up into a dressy blouse for adult, or a smart overcoat for child. Lot Three. A knitted waistcoat; could be used as bath-mat. Lot Four. Pair of bedroom slippers in holes. This bit is the slipper; the rest is the hole. Lot Five. Now this is something really good. Truthful Jane—my first prize at my Kindergarten." "Mother is in luck. It's just the sort of things she wants," said Miss Middleton. "Her taste is excellent. Lot Six. A pair of old grey flannel trousers. Lot Seven. Lot Seven forward. Where are you?" I began to go through the things again. "Er—I'm afraid Lot Seven has already gone." "What about Lot Eight?" "There doesn't seem to be a Lot Eight either. It's very funny; I'm sure I started with more than this. Some of the things must have eaten each other on the way." "Oh, but this is heaps. Can you really spare them all?" "I should feel honoured if Mrs. Middleton would accept them," I said with a bow. "Don't forget to tell her that in the photograph the lad on the extreme right——" I picked up the photograph and examined it more carefully. "I say, I look rather jolly, don't you think? I wonder if I have another copy of this anywhere." I gazed at it wistfully. "That was my first year for the house, you know." "Don't give it away," said Miss Middleton suddenly. "Keep it." "Shall I? I don't want to deprive—— Well, I think I will if you don't mind." My eyes wandered to the shirt. "I've had some fun in that in my time," I said thoughtfully. "The first time I wore it——" "You really oughtn't to give away your old colours, you know." "Oh, but if Mrs. Middleton," I began doubtfully—"at least, don't you—what?—oh, all right, perhaps I won't." I put the shirt on one side with the photograph, and picked up the dear old comfy bedroom slippers. I considered them for a minute and then I sighed deeply. As I looked up I caught Miss Middleton's eye.... I think she had been smiling. "About the slippers," she said gravely. <hr class="min" /> "Good-bye," I said to Miss Middleton. "It's been jolly to see you." I grasped my parcel firmly as the train began to move. "I'm always glad to help Mrs. Middleton, and if ever I can do so again be sure to let me know." "I will," said Miss Middleton. The train went out of the station, and my parcel and I looked about for a cab. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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