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Once a Week

<h2>HOME AFFAIRS</h2> <hr /> <h3>AN INSURANCE ACT</h3> Of course, I had always known that a medical examination was a necessary preliminary to insurance, but in my own case I had expected the thing to be the merest formality. The doctor, having seen at a glance what a fine, strong, healthy fellow I was, would look casually at my tongue, apologise for having doubted it, enquire genially what my grandfather had died of, and show me to the door. This idea of mine was fostered by the excellent testimonial which I had written myself at the Company's bidding. "Are you suffering from any constitutional disease?—No. Have you ever had gout?—No. Are you deformed?—No. Are you of strictly sober and temperate habits?—No," I mean Yes. My replies had been a model of what an Assurance Company expects. Then why the need of a doctor? However, they insisted. The doctor began quietly enough. He asked, as I had anticipated, after the health of my relations. I said that they were very fit; and, not to be outdone in politeness, expressed the hope that his people, too, were keeping well in this trying weather. He wondered if I drank much. I said, "Oh, well, perhaps I will," with an apologetic smile, and looked round for the sideboard. Unfortunately he did not pursue the matter.... "And now," he said, after the hundredth question, "I should like to look at your chest." I had seen it coming for some time. In vain I had tried to turn the conversation—to lead him back to the subject of drinks or my relations. It was no good. He was evidently determined to see my chest. Nothing could move him from his resolve. Trembling, I prepared for the encounter. What terrible disease was he going to discover? He began by tapping me briskly all over in a series of double knocks. For the most part one double-knock at any point appeared to satisfy him, but occasionally there would be no answer and he would knock again. At one spot he knocked four times before he could make himself heard. "This," I said to myself at the third knock, "has torn it. I shall be ploughed," and I sent an urgent message to my chest, "For 'eving's sake do something, you fool! Can't you hear the gentleman?" I suppose that roused it, for at the next knock he passed on to an adjacent spot.... "Um," he said, when he had called everywhere, "um." "I wonder what I've done," I thought to myself. "I don't believe he likes my chest." Without a word he got out his stethoscope and began to listen to me. As luck would have it he struck something interesting almost at once, and for what seemed hours he stood there listening and listening to it. But it was boring for me, because I really had very little to do. I could have bitten him in the neck with some ease ... or I might have licked his ear. Beyond that, nothing seemed to offer. I moistened my lips and spoke. "Am I dying?" I asked in a broken voice. "Don't talk," he said. "Just breathe naturally." "I am dying," I thought, "and he is hiding it from me." It was a terrible reflection. "Um," he said and moved on. By and by he went and listened behind my back. It is very bad form to listen behind a person's back. I did not tell him so, however. I wanted him to like me. "Yes," he said. "Now cough." "I haven't a cough," I pointed out. "Make the noise of coughing," he said severely. Extremely nervous, I did my celebrated imitation of a man with an irritating cough. "H'm! h'm! h'm! h'm!" "Yes," said the doctor. "Go on." "He likes it," I said to myself, "and he must obviously be an excellent judge. I shall devote more time to mimicry in future. H'm! h'm! h'm!..." The doctor came round to where I could see him again. "Now cough like this," he said. "Honk! honk!" I gave my celebrated imitation of a sick rhinoceros gasping out its life. It went well. I got an encore. "Um," he said gravely, "um." He put his stethoscope away and looked earnestly at me. "Tell me the worst," I begged. "I'm not bothering about this stupid insurance business now. That's off, of course. But—how long have I? I must put my affairs in order. Can you promise me a week?" He said nothing. He took my wrists in his hands and pressed them. It was evident that grief over-mastered him and that he was taking a silent farewell of me. I bowed my head. Then, determined to bear my death-sentence like a man, I said firmly, "So be it," and drew myself away from him. However, he wouldn't let me go. "Come, come," I said to him, "you must not give way"; and I made an effort to release one of my hands, meaning to pat him encouragingly on the shoulder. He resisted.... I realized suddenly that I had mistaken his meaning, and that he was simply feeling my pulses. "Um," he said, "um," and continued to finger my wrists. Clenching my teeth, and with the veins starting out on my forehead, I worked my pulses as hard as I could. <hr class="min" /> "Ah," he said, as I finished tying my tie; and he got up from the desk where he had been making notes of my disastrous case, and came over to me. "There is just one thing more. Sit down." I sat down. "Now cross your knees." I crossed my knees. He bent over me and gave me a sharp tap below the knee with the side of his hand. My chest may have disappointed him.... He may have disliked my back.... Possibly I was a complete failure with my pulses.... But I knew the knee-trick. This time he should not be disappointed. I was taking no risks. Almost before his hand reached my knee, my foot shot out and took him fairly under the chin. His face suddenly disappeared. "I haven't got that disease," I said cheerily. <hr /> <h3>BACHELOR RELICS</h3> "Do you happen to want," I said to Henry, "an opera hat that doesn't op? At least it only works on one side." "No," said Henry. "To any one who buys my opera hat for a large sum I am giving away four square yards of linoleum, a revolving book-case, two curtain rods, a pair of spring-grip dumb-bells, and an extremely patent mouse-trap." "No," said Henry again. "The mouse-trap," I pleaded, "is unused. That is to say, no mouse has used it yet. My mouse-trap has never been blooded." "I don't want it myself," said Henry, "but I know a man who does." "Henry, you know everybody. For Heaven's sake introduce me to your friend. Why does he particularly want a mouse-trap?" "He doesn't. He wants anything that's old. Old clothes, old carpets, anything that's old he'll buy." He seemed to be exactly the man I wanted. "Introduce me to your fellow clubman," I said firmly. That evening I wrote to Henry's friend, Mr. Bennett. "Dear Sir," I wrote, "if you would call upon me to-morrow I should like to show you some really old things, all genuine antiques. In particular I would call your attention to an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship and a mouse-trap of chaste and handsome design. I have also a few yards of Queen Anne linoleum of a circular pattern which I think will please you. My James the First spring-grip dumb-bells and Louis Quatorze curtain-rods are well known to connoisseurs. A genuine old cork bedroom suite, comprising one bath-mat, will also be included in the sale. Yours faithfully." On second thoughts I tore the letter up and sent Mr. Bennett a postcard asking him to favour the undersigned with a call at 10.30 prompt. And at 10.30 prompt he came. I had expected to see a bearded patriarch with a hooked nose and three hats on his head, but Mr. Bennett turned out to be a very spruce gentleman, wearing (I was sorry to see) much better clothes than the opera hat I proposed to sell him. He became businesslike at once. "Just tell me what you want to sell," he said, whipping out a pocket-book, "and I'll make a note of it. I take anything." I looked round my spacious apartment and wondered what to begin with. "The revolving book-case," I announced. "I'm afraid there's very little sale for revolving book-cases now," he said, as he made a note of it. "As a matter of fact," I pointed out, "this one doesn't revolve. It got stuck some years ago." He didn't seem to think that this would increase the rush, but he made a note of it. "Then the writing-desk." "The what?" "The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth-century escritoire." "Walnut?" he said, tapping it. "Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing-desk, however, lies not in the wood but in the literary associations." "Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still—whose was it?" "Mine," I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of my coat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to a Bell-push,' my 'Thoughts on Asia,' my——" "Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpet, curtains——" "Nothing else," I said coldly. We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasm returned to me. "The linoleum," I said, with a wave of the hand. "Very much worn," said Mr. Bennett. I called his attention to the piece under the bed. "Not under there," I said. "I never walk on that piece. It's as good as new." He made a note. "What else?" he said. I showed him round the collection. He saw the Louis Quatorze curtain-rods, the cork bedroom suite, the Cæsarian nail-brush (quite bald), the antique shaving-mirror with genuine crack—he saw it all. And then we went back into the other rooms and found some more things for him. "Yes," he said, consulting his note-book. "And now how would you like me to buy these?" "At a large price," I said. "If you have brought your cheque-book I'll lend you a pen." "You want me to make you an offer? Otherwise I should sell them by auction for you, deducting ten per cent commission." "Not by auction," I said impulsively. "I couldn't bear to know how much, or rather how little, my Georgian bureau fetched. It was there, as I think I told you, that I wrote my Guide to the Round Pond. Give me an inclusive price for the lot, and never, never let me know the details." He named an inclusive price. It was something under a hundred and fifty pounds. I shouldn't have minded that if it had only been a little over ten pounds. But it wasn't. "Right," I agreed. "And, oh, I was nearly forgetting. There's an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship, which——" "Ah, now, clothes had much better be sold by auction. Make a pile of all you don't want and I'll send round a sack for them. I have an auction sale every Wednesday." "Very well. Send round to-morrow. And you might—er—also send round a—er—cheque for—quite so. Well, then, good morning." When he had gone I went into my bedroom and made a pile of my opera hat. It didn't look very impressive—hardly worth having a sack specially sent round for it. To keep it company I collected an assortment of clothes. It pained me to break up my wardrobe in this way, but I wanted the bidding for my opera hat to be brisk, and a few preliminary suits would warm the public up. Altogether it was a goodly pile when it was done. The opera hat perched on the top, half of it only at work. <hr class="min" /> To-day I received from Mr. Bennett a cheque, a catalogue, and an account. The catalogue was marked "Lots 172-179." Somehow I felt that my opera hat would be Lot 176. I turned to it in the account. "Lot 176—Six shillings." "It did well," I said. "Perhaps in my heart of hearts I hoped for seven and sixpence, but six shillings—yes, it was a good hat." And then I turned to the catalogue. "Lot 176—Frock-coat and vest, dress-coat and vest, ditto, pair of trousers and opera hat." "And opera hat." Well, well. At least it had the position of honour at the end. My opera hat was starred. <hr /> <h3>LORDS TEMPORAL</h3> We have eight clocks, called after the kind people who gave them to us. Let me introduce you: William, Edward, Muriel, Enid, Alphonse, Percy, Henrietta, and John—a large family. "But how convenient," said Celia. "Exactly one for each room." "Or two in each corner of the drawing-room. I don't suggest it; I just throw out the idea." "Which is rejected. How shall we arrange which goes into which room? Let's pick up. I take William for the drawing-room; you take John for your workroom; I take——" "Not John," I said gently. John is—— John overdoes it a trifle. There is too much of John; and he exposes his inside—which is not quite nice. "Well, whichever you like. Come on, let's begin. William." As it happened, I particularly wanted William. He has an absolutely noiseless tick, such as is suitable to a room in which work is to be done. I explained this to Celia. "What you want for the drawing-room," I went on, "is a clock which ticks ostentatiously, so that your visitors may be reminded of the flight of time. Edward is a very loud breather. No guest could fail to notice Edward." "William," said Celia firmly. "William has a very delicate interior," I pleaded. "You could never attend to him properly. I have been thinking of William ever since we had him, and I feel that I understand his case." "Very well," said Celia, with sudden generosity; "Edward. You have William; I have Alphonse for the dining-room; you have John for your bedroom; I have Enid for mine; you——" "Not John," I said gently. To be frank, John is improper. "Well, Percy, then." "Yes, Percy. He is young and fair. He shall sit on the chest of drawers and sing to my sock-suspenders." "Then Henrietta had better go in the spare room, and Muriel in Jane's." "Muriel is much too good for Jane," I protested. "Besides, a servant wants an alarm clock to get her up in the morning." "You forget that Muriel cuckoos. At six o'clock she will cuckoo exactly six times, and at the sixth 'oo' Jane brisks out of bed." I still felt a little doubtful, because the early morning is a bad time for counting cuckoos, and I didn't see why Jane shouldn't brisk out at the seventh "oo" by mistake one day. However, Jane is in Celia's department, and if Celia was satisfied I was. Besides, the only other place for Muriel was the bathroom; and there is something about a cuckoo-clock in a bathroom which—well, one wants to be educated up to it. "And that," said Celia gladly, "leaves the kitchen for John." John, as I think I have said, displays his inside in a lamentable way. There is too much of John. "If Jane doesn't mind," I added. "She may have been strictly brought up." "She'll love him. John lacks reserve, but he is a good time-keeper." And so our eight friends were settled. But, alas, not for long. Our discussion had taken place on the eve of Jane's arrival; and when she turned up next day she brought with her, to our horror, a clock of her own—called, I think, Mother. At any rate, she was fond of it and refused to throw it away. "And it's got an alarm, so it goes in her bedroom," said Celia, "and Muriel goes into the kitchen. Jane loves it, because she comes from the country, and the cuckoo reminds her of home. That still leaves John eating his head off." "And, moreover, showing people what happens to it," I added severely. (I think I have already mentioned John's foible.) "Well, there's only one thing for it; he must go under the spare-room bed." I tried to imagine John under the spare-room bed. "Suppose," I said, "we had a nervous visitor ... and she looked under the bed before getting into it ... and saw John.... It is a terrible thought, Celia." However, that is where he is. It is a lonely life for him, but we shall wind him up every week, and he will think that he is being of service to us. Indeed, he probably imagines that our guests prefer to sleep under the bed. Now, with John at last arranged for, our family should have been happy; but three days ago I discovered that it was William who was going to be the real trouble. To think of William, the pride of the flock, betraying us! As you may remember, William lives with me. He presides over the room we call "the library" to visitors and "the master's room" to Jane. He smiles at me when I work. Ordinarily, when I want to know the time, I look at my watch; but the other morning I happened to glance at William. He said "twenty minutes past seven." As I am never at work as early as that, and as my watch said eleven-thirty, I guessed at once that William had stopped. In the evening—having by that time found the key—I went to wind him up. To my surprise he said "six-twenty-five." I put my ear to his chest and heard his gentle breathing. He was alive and going well. With a murmured apology I set him to the right time ... and by the morning he was three-quarters of an hour fast. Unlike John, William is reticent to a degree. With great difficulty I found my way to his insides, and then found that he had practically none to speak of at all. Certainly he had no regulator. "What shall we do?" I asked Celia. "Leave him. And then, when you bring your guests in for a smoke, you can say, 'Oh, don't go yet; this clock is five hours and twenty-three minutes fast.'" "Or six hours and thirty-seven minutes slow. I wonder which would sound better. Anyhow, he is much too beautiful to go under a bed." So we are leaving him. And when I am in the mood for beauty I look at William's mahogany sides and am soothed into slumber again ... and when I want to adjust my watch (which always loses a little), I creep under the spare-room bed and consult John. John alone of all our family keeps the correct time, and it is a pity that he alone must live in retirement. <hr /> <h3>THE MISSING CARD</h3> What I say is this: A man has his own work to do. He slaves at the office all day, earning a living for those dependent on him, and when he comes home he may reasonably expect not to be bothered with domestic business. I am sure you will agree with me. And you would go on to say, would you not, that, anyhow, the insuring of his servants might safely be left to his wife? Of course you would! Thank you very much. I first spoke to Celia about the insuring of the staff some weeks ago. Our staff consists of Jane Parsons the cook, the first parlourmaid (Jane) and Parsons the upper housemaid. We call them collectively Jane. "By the way," I said to Celia, "I suppose Jane is insured all right?" "I was going to see about it to-morrow," said Celia. I looked at her in surprise. It was just the sort of thing I might have said myself. "I hope she won't be unkind about it," I went on. "If she objects to paying her share, tell her I am related to a solicitor. If she still objects, er—tell her we'll pay it ourselves." "I think it will be all right. Fortunately, she has no head for figures." This is true. Jane is an excellent cook, and well worth the £75 a year or whatever it is we pay her; but arithmetic gives her a headache. When Celia has finished dividing £75 by twelve, Jane is in a state of complete nervous exhaustion, and is only too thankful to take the nine-and-sixpence that Celia hands over to her, without asking any questions. Indeed, anything that the Government wished deducted from Jane's wages we could deduct with a minimum of friction—from income-tax to a dog-licence. A threepenny insurance would be child's play. Three weeks later I said to Celia— "Has an inspector been to see Jane's card yet?" "Jane's card?" she asked blankly. "The insurance card with the pretty stamps on." "No.... No.... Luckily." "You mean——" "I was going to see about it to-morrow," said Celia. I got up and paced the floor. "Really," I murmured, "really." I tried the various chairs in the room, and finally went and stood with my back to the fire-place. In short, I behaved like a justly incensed master-of-the-house. "You know what happens," I said, when I was calm again, "if we neglect this duty which Parliament has laid upon us?" "No." "We go to prison. At least, one of us does. I'm not quite sure which." "I hope it's you," said Celia. "As a matter of fact I believe it is. However, we shall know when the inspector comes round." "If it's you," she went on, "I shall send you in a file, with which you can cut through your chains and escape. It will be concealed in a loaf of bread, so that your gaolers shan't suspect." "Probably I shouldn't suspect either, until I had bitten on it suddenly. Perhaps you'd better not bother. It would be simpler if you got Jane's card to-morrow instead." "But of course I will. That is to say, I'll tell Jane to get it herself. It's her cinema evening out." Once a week Jane leaves us and goes to a cinema. Her life is full of variety. Ten days elapsed, and then one evening I said—— At least I didn't. Before I could get it out Celia interrupted: "No, not yet. You see, there's been a hitch." I curbed my anger and spoke calmly. "What sort of a hitch?" "Well, Jane forgot last Wednesday, and I forgot to remind her this Wednesday. But next Wednesday——" "Why don't you do it yourself?" "Well, if you'll tell me what to do I'll do it." "Well—er—you just—you—I mean—well, they'll tell you at the post-office." "That's exactly how I keep explaining it to Jane," said Celia. I looked at her mournfully. "What shall we do?" I asked. "I feel quite hopeless about it. It seems too late now to do anything with Jane. Let's get a new staff and begin again properly." "Lose Jane?" cried Celia. "I'd sooner go to prison—I mean I'd sooner you went to prison. Why can't you be a man and do something?" Celia doesn't seem to realize that I married her with the sole idea of getting free of all this sort of bother. As it is, I nearly die once a year in the attempt to fill up my income-tax form. Any traffic in insurance cards would, my doctor says, be absolutely fatal. However, something had to be done. Last week I went into a neighbouring post-office in order to send a telegram. The post-office is an annexe of the grocer's where the sardines come from on Jane's cinema evening. Having sent the telegram, I took a sudden desperate resolve. I—I myself—would do something. "I want," I said bravely, "an insurance stamp." "Sixpenny or sevenpenny?" said the girl, trying to put me off my balance at the very beginning. "What's the difference?" I asked. "You needn't say a penny, because that is obvious." However, she had no wish to be funny. "Sevenpenny for men-servants, sixpenny for women," she explained. I wasn't going to give away our domestic arrangements to so near a neighbour. "Three sixpenny and four sevenpenny," I said casually, flicking the dust off my shoes with a handkerchief. "Tut, tut, I was forgetting Thomas," I added. "Five sevenpenny." I took the stamps home and showered them on Celia. "You see," I said, "it's not really difficult." "Oh, you angel! What do I do with them?" "Stick them on Jane," I said grandly. "Dot them about the house. Stamp your letters with them—I can always get you plenty more." "Didn't you get a card too?" "N-no. No, I didn't. The fact is, it's your turn now, Celia. You get the card." "Oh, all right. I—er—suppose you just ask for a—a card?" "I suppose so. And—er—choose a doctor, and—er—decide on an approved society, and—er—explain why it is you hadn't got a card before, and—er—— Well, anyhow, it's your turn now, Celia." "It's really still Jane's turn," said Celia, "only she's so stupid about it." But she turned out to be not so stupid as we thought. For yesterday there came a ring at the bell. Feeling instinctively that it was the inspector, Celia and I got behind the sofa ... and emerged some minutes later to find Jane alone in the room. "Somebody come to see about an insurance card or something," she said. "I said you were both out, and would he come to-morrow." Technically I suppose we were both out. That is, we were not receiving. "Thank you, Jane," I said stiffly. I turned to Celia. "There you are," I said. "To-morrow something must be done." "I always said I'd do it to-morrow," said Celia. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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