ASKING FOR IT.

Squire."Well, Matthew, and how are you now?"Convalescent."Thankee, Sir, I be better than I were, but I beant as well as I were afore I was as bad as I be now."

Squire."Well, Matthew, and how are you now?"

Convalescent."Thankee, Sir, I be better than I were, but I beant as well as I were afore I was as bad as I be now."

The big clock in the station pointed three minutes to the hour, and my train went at one minute past, so I didn't waste words with the man in the booking-office.

"Third r'turn, Wat'loo."

Nothing happened. He was there all right, but he neither spoke nor made any attempt to give me my ticket; he merely looked.

"Third r'turn, Wat'loo," I repeated, and again, inserting my face as far as possible into the window, very firmly, distinctly and offensively. "Third re-turn, Wat-er-loo."

Then he spoke, slowly. "Sorry, Sir, I can't do it. You have hit on the one station to which we don't issue tickets. Any other one I could manage for you, but——"

"Look here," I said sternly, "you don't seem to know your business. If you haven't got a printed ticket, can't you make one out on paper? Hurry up, man; my train leaves in a minute or two."

"Yes," he said more slowly than ever, "I could do that—we have blank forms for that purpose; but all the same I won't do it."

"Oh, you won't? And why?"

"Well, I don't know what the fare is. I——"

"All right," I said. "You don't appear to be drunk, so I imagine you're trying to be funny. As your sense of humour doesn't correspond with mine I shall take great pleasure in reporting you to the station-master;" and I prepared to stalk off.

"Wait a moment, please," he said, leaning a bit forward and dropping his voice to a confidential whisper, "I'll give you a tip. You don't want a ticket at all, Sir; you can get there for nothing."

"What do you mean?" said I.

"It needn't cost you a halfpenny," he went on, smiling. "It's not many lines that have a station like this, but we——"

And then, but not until then, did I realise where I was.

"Oh," I said, "er—third return—er—Surbiton."

I don't think railway ticket-mongers ought to be allowed to have a sense of humour.

Mr. Punchventures to remind his readers that the Centenary dinner of the Artists' General Benevolent Institution is to be held on May 6th, under the chairmanship ofH.R.H. Prince Arthur of Connaught. This Institution devotes itself to the relief of artists, and the orphans of artists, who are in need.Mr. Punch, who is to be represented among the Stewards at the dinner by his Art Editor, begs to return his most sincere thanks for the generous gifts he has already received from his readers, and will be very grateful for any further contributions addressed to Mr.F. H. Townsend, "Punch" Office, 10, Bouverie Street, E.C.

"The King this morning received the Bishop of Sheffield, who was introduced to Mr. McKenna (Home Secretary), and did homage upon appointment."—Birmingham Daily Post.

Mr.McKenna(accepting homage). "And now what do you think of my Welsh Disestablishment Bill?"

A DIVERSION.Burglar George."IT'S YOUR MONEY I WANT!"John Bull."MY DEAR FELLOW, IT'S POSITIVELY A RELIEF TO SEE YOU. I'VE JUST BEEN HAVING SUCH AHORRIBLEDREAM!"

Burglar George."IT'S YOUR MONEY I WANT!"

John Bull."MY DEAR FELLOW, IT'S POSITIVELY A RELIEF TO SEE YOU. I'VE JUST BEEN HAVING SUCH AHORRIBLEDREAM!"

(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)

"THE INQUEST OF THE NATION."Mr.Asquith(to Jury ofAsquiths). "Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the prisonerAsquithplead 'Not Guilty.' This should be sufficient evidence to enable you to arrive at a unanimous verdict of acquittal."[Prisoner leaves court without a stain on his character.

Mr.Asquith(to Jury ofAsquiths). "Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the prisonerAsquithplead 'Not Guilty.' This should be sufficient evidence to enable you to arrive at a unanimous verdict of acquittal."

[Prisoner leaves court without a stain on his character.

House of Commons, Monday, April 10.—Lively half-hour with Questions. Cluster on printed Paper indefinitely extended by supplementaries. Only once didSpeakerinterpose. ColonelGreig, sternly regarding badgeredPremier, asked, "Has the attention of the right hon. gentleman been directed to No. 453 of the King's Regulations?"

This too much forSpeaker. If it had been the odd 53 it might not have been unreasonable.

"The right hon. gentleman," he remarked, "cannot be expected to carry all the Regulations in his head. The hon. member had better give notice."

Cannonade of Questions which opened along full length of Opposition Benches was concerned with the Plot.

"The Plot!"Member for Sarksavagely repeated. "That's the ineffective heading in the newspapers. In order to keep up their circulation in parsonages, board-rooms of directors, and suchlike fastidious quarters they are reticent with adjectives. It's only Mrs.Patrick Campbellwho could select the appropriate one and give it due emphasis."

Short of that, Opposition did pretty well in denunciation of the Plot and condemnation of dastardly Government responsible for its planning.Chaloneropened fire with demand that judicial enquiry should be ordered into "allegations as to an unauthorised plot to over-awe Ulster by armed occupation."Butcher,Worthington Evans,Helmsley,Archer-Shee,Locker-Lampson,Kinloch-Cooke—what was itGrandolph,à proposofSclater-Booth, said of men who "had double-barrelled names"?—blazed away. Sometimes in succession; occasionally in platoons. In each case imperturbablePremiergave the short reply that did not turn away wrath. On the contrary, angry passions rose.

Member for East Edinburgh, as usual going the wholeHogge, suggested arraignment ofBonar Lawon charge of high treason.Kellaway, anxious to get to business, enquired "whether these Questions might not be addressed to the spies in the service of the Opposition." At end of half-hour even temper ofPremierwas ruffled. Asked a tenth Supplementary Question byButcher, he sharply replied:—

"I decline to answer any such enquiry."

Ironical applause of Opposition drowned in burst of angry cheering from Ministerialists.

Sark, as mentioned, unusually roused. As a rule successfully affects attitude of one "who cares for none of these things." To-day moved to unsuspected depths.

"Here," he says, "is Ulster, for two years arming with avowed intention offorcibly resisting the law of the land. The Constitutional Party in this country, bulwark of Law and Order, who, when the Southern Counties of Ireland were in revolt, applaudedPrince Arthur'sCromwellian command, 'Don't hesitate to shoot,' backs them up, in my opinion very properly.Carsonhas developed Napoleonic genius in reviewing troops on parade.F. E. Smithhas, with startling effect, 'galloped' along their massed ranks.Londonderryhas pledged his knightly word to be in the firing line when the trumpet sounds. All the while, to the bewilderment of onlookers from the Continent, who confess they are further off than ever from understanding John Bull, to the creation of ominous restlessness among their own supporters, the Ministry, Brer Rabbit of established Governments, have 'lain low and said nuffin',' much less have they done anything. Suddenly, without word of warning, they take steps for the protection of military stores in Armagh, Omagh, and Carrickfergus.

"That's their account of the transaction. We know better. It was a carefully devised Plot to takeCarson'shundred thousand armed and drilled men at their word and compel them to fight. Not since war began has there been such unjustifiable—don't wish to use strong language, but must say—such really rude procedure on part of a so-called civilised Government."

Business done.—McKennamoves Second Heading of Welsh Church Disestablishment Bill.

Tuesday.—Wholesome spirit of enquiry animates House just now.Bonner Lawleads off with demand for judicial inquiry into "the Plot." Fact that its appointment would establish novel precedent in constitutional procedure adds interest to situation.Premier, with emphatic thump of the table that reminds it ofGladstonein his prime, stands by constitutional practice.

"If," he said, "the right hon. gentleman is prepared to make and sustain his allegation of dishonourable conduct on part of the Ministers, I will give him the earliest possible day to bring it forward. But," and here came the thump on the long-suffering table, "he must make it in this House."

Inspired by this high principle of getting at bottom of shady things,RichardsonhasChief Whipup and sternly questions him about appointment of certain public auditors under Industrial and Provident Acts.

Position ofChief Whip, though dignified and important, has inevitable result of withdrawing him from participation in debate.Illingworthnow has his chance. Made the most of it. Head paper of prodigious length containing memoirs of the two gentlemen concerned, together with succinct history of the birth and progress of the Hetton Downs Co-operative Society, county Durham, of which one of them had been secretary.

House entranced. Rounds of cheering marked progress of narrative, concluding passages inconveniently rendered inaudible by tumultuous applause.

Apprehension in some quarters that this will be the ruin of a really capable, universally popular Whip.Edmund Talbotgoes so far as to hint at apprehension thatIllingworthwill turn up every afternoon at Question time and give us another speech.

Fear exaggerated.Illingwortha shrewd Yorkshireman; knows very well brilliant success of to-day was due to concatenation of accidental circumstance. Not likely to risk suddenly acquired reputation by hasty repetition of exploit.

Business done.—Welsh Church Disestablishment Bill passes Second Reading by majority of 84.

Thursday.—Spirit of enquiry alluded to above manifests itself in fresh direction. The other dayCharles Pricewanted to know all about political pensions granted to ex-Ministers. Intrigued by disclosure of particulars of estate of our old friendGrand Cross. It appears he left property valued at £91,617. That a pleasant incident closing a worthy life. But, as Member for Central Edinburgh points out, he had for twenty-two years been in receipt of pension of £2,000 a year, a dole from public funds obtainable, asPrime Ministeradmits, only upon statutory declaration of a state of poverty incompatible with the maintenance of position proper to an ex-Minister.

Pricewants to know in the interests of the overburdened taxpayer whether aggregate sum drawn by the noble pensioner may not be recovered from his estate?Premierthinks not.

Price, undaunted, returns to the attack to-day. Cites cases of two other ex-Ministers drawing political pensions in supplement of private estate and fees derived from manifold directorships in public companies. Wants to know if payment can be stopped?

Premiersays it is a matter of personal honour. Must be left to consideration of noble lords concerned.

Business done.—Committee of Supply.

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD."Harrowing tales were told about churchyards being seized, ploughed up and let as allotments."—SirAlfred Mondon Nonconformist protest against the Disendowment of the Welsh Church.

"Harrowing tales were told about churchyards being seized, ploughed up and let as allotments."—SirAlfred Mondon Nonconformist protest against the Disendowment of the Welsh Church.

Sir Archibald and Lady BayneHave struggled up to town again,Leaving the gentle Shropshire airFor London dust and London glare,And just that London folk may seeTheir lumpish daughter, Dorothy.Sir Archie, in the club all day,Thinks of the bills he'll have to pay.His wife is bored, and hates the smellOf cooking in a cheap hotel.She also very much deploresThe lack of likely bachelors.While Dolly, in the season's swing,Longs for the Shropshire woods in springAnd a dog chained up at home, poor thing!

Sir Archibald and Lady BayneHave struggled up to town again,

Sir Archibald and Lady Bayne

Have struggled up to town again,

Leaving the gentle Shropshire airFor London dust and London glare,

Leaving the gentle Shropshire air

For London dust and London glare,

And just that London folk may seeTheir lumpish daughter, Dorothy.

And just that London folk may see

Their lumpish daughter, Dorothy.

Sir Archie, in the club all day,Thinks of the bills he'll have to pay.

Sir Archie, in the club all day,

Thinks of the bills he'll have to pay.

His wife is bored, and hates the smellOf cooking in a cheap hotel.

His wife is bored, and hates the smell

Of cooking in a cheap hotel.

She also very much deploresThe lack of likely bachelors.

She also very much deplores

The lack of likely bachelors.

While Dolly, in the season's swing,Longs for the Shropshire woods in springAnd a dog chained up at home, poor thing!

While Dolly, in the season's swing,

Longs for the Shropshire woods in spring

And a dog chained up at home, poor thing!

"Members of the Oxford University 'relay' tea are in fine shape."—Daily Citizen.

The one whose business it is to take up the running at the muffin stage is particularly rotund.

"He would rather he went for three years, for one could readily understand that for the first year he simply touched the fungi of the Council business."—Hexham Herald.

Motto for rival town council: "There's no moss onus."

Sandy(newly arrived in the Canadian forest land). "Whatna beast's yon?"Native."A young moose."Sandy."Och, haud yer tongue! If that's a young moose I'd like to see ane o' yer auld rats!"

Sandy(newly arrived in the Canadian forest land). "Whatna beast's yon?"

Native."A young moose."

Sandy."Och, haud yer tongue! If that's a young moose I'd like to see ane o' yer auld rats!"

As a concrete protest against Jumbomania, or the worship of mammoth dimensions, the prodigious success of Tiny Titus, America's latest wonder-child, is immensely reassuring. In the Albert Hall, where he made hisdébutamid scenes of corybantic enthusiasm last week, the diminutivevirtuosowas hardly visible to the naked eye. (As a matter of fact he is only 21 inches high and weighs just under 11 lb.) Yet by his colossal personality he dominated the vast assemblage and inspired the orchestra to such feats of dynamic diabolism as entirely eclipsed the most momentous achievements of any full-grown conductor fromNerotoNikisch.

What renders the performance of this tremendous tot so awe-inspiring is the fact that he is not merely a musical illiterate, who cannot yet read a note of music, but that he has received no education of any kind! Born at Tipperusalem, Oklahoma, on the 15th of March, 1912, he has for parents a clerk in the Eagle Bakery and a Lithuanian laundress. He never touches meat, not even baked eagles, but subsists entirely on peaches and popcorn. He has been compared toMozart, but the comparison is ridiculous, forMozartwas carefully trained by his father, and at the age of four was a finished executant. But it is quite otherwise with Tiny Titus, who knows no music, and yet by the sole power of his genius comprehends the musical heights unattainable by adults.Mozart, in short, was an explicable miracle, while Tiny Titus is an insoluble Sphinx.

From the innumerable tributes which have been paid to the genius of this unprecedented phenomenon we can only make a brief and inadequate selection. Prince Boris Ukhtomsky writes, "When I listen to this infinitesimal giant of conductors I dream that mankind is dancing on the edge of a precipice. Tiny Titus is—the 32nd of the month." Mme. Jelly Tartakoff, the famous singer, writes: "I have been deeply shaken by Tiny Titus's concert. He is the limit." Of the homages in verse, perhaps the most touching is the beautiful poem by Signor Ocarini, the charm of which we fear is but inadequately rendered in our halting translation:—

Leaving his pop-gun and his ball,He goes into the concert hall,No more a baby, and proceedsTo do electrifying deeds.Wielding a wizard's wondrous skill,He leads us captive at his will,But only, mark you, to delight us,Unlike the cruel EmperorTitus.O'ercome by harmony's aroma,I sink into a blissful coma,Until, my ecstasy to crown,The infant lays his baton down.From the Equator to the PolesThy fame in widening circles rolls;But once the audience leave the hallThy pop-gun claims thee, or thy ball.Imagination's wildest flightPants far behind this wondrous mite,AndSt. CeciliaandSt. VitusAre vanquished by our Tiny Titus.

Leaving his pop-gun and his ball,He goes into the concert hall,No more a baby, and proceedsTo do electrifying deeds.

Leaving his pop-gun and his ball,

He goes into the concert hall,

No more a baby, and proceeds

To do electrifying deeds.

Wielding a wizard's wondrous skill,He leads us captive at his will,But only, mark you, to delight us,Unlike the cruel EmperorTitus.

Wielding a wizard's wondrous skill,

He leads us captive at his will,

But only, mark you, to delight us,

Unlike the cruel EmperorTitus.

O'ercome by harmony's aroma,I sink into a blissful coma,Until, my ecstasy to crown,The infant lays his baton down.

O'ercome by harmony's aroma,

I sink into a blissful coma,

Until, my ecstasy to crown,

The infant lays his baton down.

From the Equator to the PolesThy fame in widening circles rolls;But once the audience leave the hallThy pop-gun claims thee, or thy ball.

From the Equator to the Poles

Thy fame in widening circles rolls;

But once the audience leave the hall

Thy pop-gun claims thee, or thy ball.

Imagination's wildest flightPants far behind this wondrous mite,AndSt. CeciliaandSt. VitusAre vanquished by our Tiny Titus.

Imagination's wildest flight

Pants far behind this wondrous mite,

AndSt. CeciliaandSt. Vitus

Are vanquished by our Tiny Titus.

The Evening Newson the Crystal Palace ground:—

"The roof, back and sides of the stand have been taken away so that people standing on 'Spion Kop,' the hill at the back ... will have an uninterested view of the whole length of the field of play."

This, together with a nicely crowded journey both ways, makes up a pleasant afternoon.

Strange Conduct of Fashionable Audience.

Professor Splurgeson delivered the first of his Claridge Lectures at the theatre of the Mayfair University yesterday. The auditorium was crowded to its utmost extent, ladies largely predominating.

Professor Peterson Prigwell, in a brief introductory speech, said that the achievements of Professor Splurgeson beggared the vocabulary of eulogy. More than any other thinker he had succeeded in reconciling high life with high thinking.

Professor Splurgeson, speaking in fluent American, began by alluding to the numerous links which bound together his country with that of his audience, and pointed out that nowhere was this affinity more pronounced than in their philosophies. Both showed a concrete cosmopolitanism indissolubly wedded to an idealistic particularism; both agreed that truth, no matter how abysmally profound, could be expressed in language sufficiently simple to attract large audiences of fashionable women; both, finally, made it clear that Pragmatism, unless allied with Feminism, was destined to be relegated to the limbo of the obsolete. (Cheers.)

Professor Splurgeson then went on to say that nowhere was this happy element of intellectual compromise more needful than in discussing the problem of personality. That problem comprised three questions: What are we? What do we think of ourselves? and What do others think of us? In regard to the first question, the philosophic pitch had been queered by the conflicting combinations of all thinkers from Corcorygus the Borborygmatic down toWilliam James. (Applause.) Man had been defined as a gelastic apteryx, but in view of the attitude of women towards the Plumage Bill the definition could hardly be allowed to fit the requirements of the spindle side of creation. The danger of endeavouring to find some unifying concept in a multiplicity of conflicting details was only equalled by that of recognizing the essential diversity which underlay a superficial homogeneity. (Loud cheers.)

At this point the Professor paused for a few minutes while kümmel and caviare sandwiches were handed round.

Resuming, Professor Splurgeson discussed with great eloquence the secular duel between the Will and the Understanding. It wasex hypothesiimpossible for the super-man,à fortiorithe super-woman, to yield to the dictates of the understanding. The question arose whether we might not profitably invert metaphysic and, instead of trying to locate personality in totality, begin with personality and work outwards. (Applause.) Otherwise the process of endeavouring to effect a synthesis of centripetal and centrifugal tendencies would invariably result in an indefinite deadlock.

Professor Splurgeson then proceeded to give a brief outline of what we usually think of ourselves. It was true that the expression of the face held a great place in the idea we had of other personalities, but how was it that in the idea of ourselves it played so small a part? The reason was that we did not know our own countenances. (Sensation.) If we were to meet ourselves in the street we should infallibly pass without a recognition. More than that, we did not wish to know them. (Murmurs.) Whenever we looked at ourselves in the glass we systematically ignored the most individual features—(cries of dissent)—and that was why we never, or very seldom, agreed that a photograph resembled or rendered justice to us. The explanation was to be found in the fact that we thought it undesirable to have too individual features, just as we thought it undesirable to wear too individual clothes.

At this point a violent uproar broke out, many of those present protesting against these statements as involving a libel on the entire female sex. It being impossible to restore order, Professor Splurgeson had to be escorted to his hotel by policemen, the date of his second lecture being indefinitely postponed.

"REJECTED": ANOTHER MOVING PICTURE TRAGEDY.

'Twas harvest time and close and warm,A day when tankards foam,But when there came the thunder-stormWe'd got the last load home;We'd knocked off work—as custom is—Though 'twern't but four o'clock,And turned in to Jim Stevens's,That keeps "The Fighting-Cock."The rain roared down in thunder-thresh,And roared itself away,And left the earth as sweet and freshAs though 'twas only May;And from outside came stock and cloveAnd half-a-dozen more;And then up steps a piping cove,A-piping at the door.We tumbles out to hear him blow,Tu-wit, he blew,tu-wee,On rummy pipes o' reeds a-rowTheir likes I never see;And as he blew he shook a limbAnd capered like a goat,And us bold lads we looks at himLike rabbits at a stoat.An oddly chap and russet red,He capered and he hopped,A bit o' sacking on his headAlthough the rain had stopped:Tu-weehe blew, he blewtu-wit,All in the clean sunshine,And oh, the creepy charm of itWent crawling up my spine.I don't know if the others dreamed—'Cos why, they never tell—But in a little bit it seemedI knew the tune quite well;It seemed to me I'd heard it onceIn woods away and dim,Where someone with a hornéd sconceCame capering like him.It held me tight, that tune o' his,It crawled on scalp and skin,Till sudden—'long o' choir-practice—The belfry bells swung in;The piping cove he turned and passed,Till through the golden broomA mile along we saw him lastGo lone-like up the coombe.The belfry bells they rang—one—two;The spell was lift from me,The spell the oddly piper blew—Tu-wit, he went,tu-wee;The spell was lift that he had laid,But still—tu-wee,tu-wit—I can't forget the tune he played,And that's the truth of it.

'Twas harvest time and close and warm,

A day when tankards foam,

But when there came the thunder-storm

We'd got the last load home;

We'd knocked off work—as custom is—

Though 'twern't but four o'clock,

And turned in to Jim Stevens's,

That keeps "The Fighting-Cock."

The rain roared down in thunder-thresh,And roared itself away,And left the earth as sweet and freshAs though 'twas only May;And from outside came stock and cloveAnd half-a-dozen more;And then up steps a piping cove,A-piping at the door.

The rain roared down in thunder-thresh,

And roared itself away,

And left the earth as sweet and fresh

As though 'twas only May;

And from outside came stock and clove

And half-a-dozen more;

And then up steps a piping cove,

A-piping at the door.

We tumbles out to hear him blow,Tu-wit, he blew,tu-wee,On rummy pipes o' reeds a-rowTheir likes I never see;And as he blew he shook a limbAnd capered like a goat,And us bold lads we looks at himLike rabbits at a stoat.

We tumbles out to hear him blow,

Tu-wit, he blew,tu-wee,

On rummy pipes o' reeds a-row

Their likes I never see;

And as he blew he shook a limb

And capered like a goat,

And us bold lads we looks at him

Like rabbits at a stoat.

An oddly chap and russet red,He capered and he hopped,A bit o' sacking on his headAlthough the rain had stopped:Tu-weehe blew, he blewtu-wit,All in the clean sunshine,And oh, the creepy charm of itWent crawling up my spine.

An oddly chap and russet red,

He capered and he hopped,

A bit o' sacking on his head

Although the rain had stopped:

Tu-weehe blew, he blewtu-wit,

All in the clean sunshine,

And oh, the creepy charm of it

Went crawling up my spine.

I don't know if the others dreamed—'Cos why, they never tell—But in a little bit it seemedI knew the tune quite well;It seemed to me I'd heard it onceIn woods away and dim,Where someone with a hornéd sconceCame capering like him.

I don't know if the others dreamed—

'Cos why, they never tell—

But in a little bit it seemed

I knew the tune quite well;

It seemed to me I'd heard it once

In woods away and dim,

Where someone with a hornéd sconce

Came capering like him.

It held me tight, that tune o' his,It crawled on scalp and skin,Till sudden—'long o' choir-practice—The belfry bells swung in;The piping cove he turned and passed,Till through the golden broomA mile along we saw him lastGo lone-like up the coombe.

It held me tight, that tune o' his,

It crawled on scalp and skin,

Till sudden—'long o' choir-practice—

The belfry bells swung in;

The piping cove he turned and passed,

Till through the golden broom

A mile along we saw him last

Go lone-like up the coombe.

The belfry bells they rang—one—two;The spell was lift from me,The spell the oddly piper blew—Tu-wit, he went,tu-wee;The spell was lift that he had laid,But still—tu-wee,tu-wit—I can't forget the tune he played,And that's the truth of it.

The belfry bells they rang—one—two;

The spell was lift from me,

The spell the oddly piper blew—

Tu-wit, he went,tu-wee;

The spell was lift that he had laid,

But still—tu-wee,tu-wit—

I can't forget the tune he played,

And that's the truth of it.

Why is it that Miss birdie Montressor (of the Palaceum)

attends the Artists' Ball at Covent Garden like this?

While Mrs. Dumperley-Browne (of West Kensington)

appears as above?

I was reading proofs in my corner of the compartment, as I often do, and every time that I looked up I noticed the little shabby pathetic man with his eyes fixed upon me.

After a while I finished and put the proofs away with a sigh of relief.

"So you're an author too?" he said.

"Yes," I said, though I didn't want to talk at all.

"You wouldn't have thought I was one," he went on, "would you? What would you have said I did for a living?"

I am too old to guess such things. One nearly always gives offence. Moreover, I have seen too many authors to show any surprise.

"I'm not only a writer," he said, "but I dare say I'm better known than you."

"That's not difficult," I said.

"I am read by thousands—very likely millions—every day."

"This is very strange," I said. "Millions? Who are you, then? Not—no, you can't be. You haven't a red beard; you are not in knickerbockers; you don't recallShakspeare. Nor can you be Mrs.Barclay. And yet, of course, I must have heard your name. Might I hear it again, now?"

"My name is unknown," he said. "All my work is anonymous."

"Not advertisements?" I said. "Not posters'? You didn't write the 'Brown Cat's thanks,' or 'Alas, my poor brother,' or——"

"Certainly not," he replied. "My line is literature. Do you ever go to cinemas?"

"Now and then," I said, "when it rains, or I have an unexpected hour, or it is too late for a play."

"Then you have read me," he said. "I write for cinemas."

"There isn't much writing there," I suggested.

"Oh, isn't there!" he answered. "Haven't you ever noticed in a cinema how letters are always being brought in on trays?"

"Yes, I have."

"And then the hero or the villain or the victim opens them and reads them?"

"Yes."

"And then the audience has to read them?"

"Yes; there's no doubt about that."

"Well, those are all written by me. I mean, of course, all those that a certain film company requires."

"Marvellous," I said.

"I not only compose them—and it requires thought and compression, I can tell you—but I copy them out for the photographer too."

"Is that why they're always in the same handwriting?" I asked.

"Yes, that's it," he said. "It's mine."

"Then you can tell me something I have always wanted to know," I said. "I have noticed that when a letter written, say, by the Duke of Pemmican is thrown on the screen it is always signed 'Duke of Pemmican.' Why is that? In real life wouldn't he sign it 'Pemmican'?"

"He might," said my companion. "I don't know; but what I do know is that the cinema public expects a duke to call himself a duke; and we pride ourselves on giving them what they want."

"If you were makingKing Georgewrite a letter," I said, "would he sign himself 'King George'?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Why not? That's a good idea, anyway. A film with a letter from theKingin it would go. As it is, his only place in a cinema has been to indicate—by the appearance of his portrait on the screen—that the show is over. It isn't fair that he should come to be looked upon as a spoil-sport like that. It has a bad effect on the young. Many thanks for your suggestion. I'll give him a show with a letter."

"Permit me, Sir, to pass you the potatoes."

"After you," I inclined.

My fellow-passenger helped himself, shrugging his eyebrows. It was a provocative shrug—a shrug I could not leave at that.

"You shrug your eyebrows," I challenged.

"A thousand pardons," he answered; "but one never escapes it."

He courted interrogation. "What is it that one never escapes?" I asked.

"The elaborate unselfishness of the age," he replied a little petulantly. "I had two friends who starved to death of it."

"Indeed!" I offered him the salt.

"Observe," said my fellow-passenger, "that when you offer me the salt I accept it. Why should I deprive you of one of the little complacencies of unselfishness? You see, my dear Sir, either you are to feel smug all over, or I am. Now, if I take the salt—so—I perform a true act of courtesy; but, if I postpone the salt, saying 'After you,' I at once enter into the lists, jousting with you for the prize of self-satisfaction. With my two friends it was, if I remember, a matter of Lancashire relish. It appears to me one of the ironies of Fate that they should have starved to death for want of a sauce. I am reminded of an epicure who starved to death for want of seasoning in his Julienne. But doubtless you are more interested in my two friends. I bow to your impatience. Hugh said, 'Allow me to offer you the Lancashire relish.' Arthur said, 'After you.' Hugh was piqued at this attempt to cheat his conscience out of a good mark. 'By no means,' he insisted. But Arthur, with a firm smile of politeness, only repeated, 'After you.'

"Hugh stuck out, and Arthur remained adamant. The contest lasted for nine days. On the first day Hugh was studiedly courteous. It was, 'I could not dream, my dear Arthur,' et-cetera. On the second day he was visibly aggravated. It was, 'But, my dear Arthur, confess now, was it not I who offered you the Lancashire relish first?' On the third day he was ominously calm. It was, 'You had better help yourself to the Lancashire relish, Arthur.' On the fourth day he was frankly fierce. It was, 'By heaven, Arthur, if you don't take some Lancashire relish...." And the only words in Arthur's vocabulary all that time wore, 'After you! After you!' On the fifth day they came to grips on the floor, and through the sixth day and the seventh they swayed without separating. I suspect that the strain of this tussle assisted starvation to its victory. On the eighth day they were too weak for combat; they could only glare at each other passionately from opposite corners of the room; and on the ninth day came the end.

"Arthur held out the longer—he had, you see, wasted less breath. When he saw Hugh gasping in the penultimate throes of death, he mustered sufficient strength to clutch the bottle, and even to crawl over to his friend's side. Hugh saw him coming and shut his teeth. Arthur was too feeble to prize them open with his hands, but he had no difficulty in knocking out a couple with the butt end of the bottle, and with a faint groan of triumph he succeeded in pouring the contents down the cavity just before Hugh breathed his last.

"The exertion naturally hastened his own end. He made an effort to reach the well-stocked table of viands, but expired on the way, murmuring a final and, as it strikes me, rather too dramatic 'After you!'"

"When you have quite done with the cabbage," I rapped out....

"Our illustration is of an exclusive model which we can fake in the latest fabrics for 3½ guineas."Advt. in "Dewsbury District News."

"Our illustration is of an exclusive model which we can fake in the latest fabrics for 3½ guineas."

Advt. in "Dewsbury District News."

A FAIR WARNING.Barber(turning sharply round, to the grave discomfiture of his client's nose). "Don't go, Sir; it's your turn next."

Barber(turning sharply round, to the grave discomfiture of his client's nose). "Don't go, Sir; it's your turn next."

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

The consideration of Fear seems to have a special appeal for theBensonBros. Only the other day didRobert Hughwrite a clever and hauntingly horrible story round it, and now here isArthur Christopherdiscoursing at large upon the same theme inWhere No Fear Was(Smith, Elder). It is a book that you will hardly expect me to criticise. One either likes those gentle monologues of Mr.Bensonor is impatient under them—and in any case the comments of a third party would be superfluous. Personally, I should call this one of the most charming of those many hortatory volumes that have come from his prolific pen; he has a subject that interests him, and is naturally therefore at his best in speaking of it. Many kinds of fear are treated in the book—those common to us all in childhood and youth and age; and there are chapters dedicated to men and women who have notably striven with and overcome the dragon—JohnsonandCharlotte BrontëandCarlyle, and that friend of his,John Sterling, whose letter from his death-bed the author quotes and rightly calls "one of the finest human documents." So now you see what kind of book it is, and whether you yourself are likely to respond to its appeal. It will, I am firmly persuaded, bring encouragement to many and add to the already large numbers who owe a real debt of gratitude to the writer. Somewhere he has a passing reference to the time when first he began to receive letters from unknown correspondents. It set me thinking that it was no slight achievement to have said so many human and helpful things so unpriggishly. And certainly no one could callWhere No Fear Wasa pedantic work; its qualities of gentle humour and, above all, of sincerity absolve it from this charge and should commend it even to those who, as a rule, suffer counsel unwillingly.

Forrard, so to speak, in Mr.Cutcliffe Hyne'slatest book you shall discover the three redoubtable stokers from whom it derives its title ofFiremen Hot(Methuen). Combining the stedfast affection and loyalty of theThree Musketeersor the imperishable soldiers of Mr.Kiplingwith a faculty, when planning an escapade, for faultless English, only equalled by that of the flustered client explaining what has happened to the lynx-eyed sleuth, they are as stout a trio as ever thrust coal into a furnace or fist into a first mate's jaw. English, American and Scotch (and this would seem to be another injustice to the Green Island), in many ports and on many seas they have many wild yet not wicked adventures, knowing, with an instinctive delicacy born perhaps of the perusal of monthly magazines, where (even whilst crossing it) to draw the line. Aft, you shall come across once more the evergreenCaptain Kettle, with his sartorial outfit unimpaired, his endless tobacco reserves not withered by a single leaf from their former glory. About wind-jammers and tramp-steamers and the harbours of all the world the author writes familiarly as usual, and has several ingenious plots to unfold, together with one or two that are not so good; and I suppose that the whisky drunk in the pages ofFiremen Hotwould float a small battleship, and the men laid outwith lefts to the jaw, if set end to end, stretch from Hull to Plymouth Docks. I sometimes wonder whether Mr.Cutcliffe Hyneever in an idle hour picks up a book by Mr.Conrad, and, if so, what he thinks of it.

I confess to being both weary and a little sceptical of heroines (in novels) who leap from the obscurity of mountain glens to fame and a five-figure income as dancers. The latest example is the young person who fills the titlerôleinBelle Nairn(Melrose), and of her I must say that she displays almost all the faults of her kind. She certainly did carry on! On the first page she ran away from the humble cot of her virtuous parents to seek the protection of an aunt whom she supposed (I could not discover on what grounds) to be wealthy. However, so far from this, the aunt turned out to be even worse-housed than the parents, and in point of fact to keep what you might call a gambling-cot on her side of the mountains, where a select circle met to drink smuggled spirits and entertain themselves in other ways that are at least sufficiently indicated in the text. SoBelleshook off the dust of the aunt also; and soon afterwards found herself in an open boat, which was run down by the yacht of some real live lords, to one of whom she made violent eyes; at the same time giving an estimate of her social position that went considerably beyond what was warranted by the facts. It was about here that I found that my credulity with regard toBellewas becoming over-taxed, though it may be that Mr.Roy Meldrum, her creator, believed in her; he has at least a solemnity and sincerity of style that carries him, apparently unwitting, through every peril of the grotesque. Of courseBellecomes to town, smashes all booking records at the Basilica, and establishes herself as the idol of society. Later on, I regret to add, she becomes, so to speak, tinged with wine. Perhaps this unfortunate failing is the most credible thing about her. So, while I envy those readers who will doubtless follow her progress with delicious thrills, I can only repeat that it left me entirely unconvinced.

If I had to classifyOh, Mr. Bidgood(Lane), then I should call it a confused comedy, but I should want to add that Mr.Peter Blundellwrites with such delightful irresponsibility that the confusion does not make much difference. To explain exactly what occurred during the voyage of theSusan Dalefrom Ceylon until she was "in distress" off the Borneo coast is not within my scope of intellect, but I can draw up a short list of her passengers (she was not supposed to carry any). I shall giveMr. Toddpride of place, partly because he owned her, but chiefly because sea-sickness incited him to deeds of gallantry. Then there were two skittish nurses, who got on board because one of them knew the second engineer; there wasColonel Tingle(swashbuckler);Señor Canaba(scamp), who had bribed both the captain and the chief engineer (Mr. Bidgood); and lastly a brace of crafty Malays, who were the second mate's contribution to the batch, and made a very reluctant appearance upon the scene. Quite as important, however, as this human freight wasSusan'scargo of five hundred kegs of gunpowder, shipped as pickled pork, and a wonderful picture which at one timeMr. Bidgoodwas induced to wear (it was unframed) as extra underclothing. This expedient was not devised to prevent him from catching cold, but to save the picture from being stolen. Indeed, if anyone or anything had to be protected,Bidgood, for better or worse, undertook the responsibility. A more engaging old ruffian I have seldom encountered; among all the philanderings, conspiracies and mutinies of this wild voyage he remains a master of volcanic versatility. And his humour is of the rightJacobsbrand.

The really stupid thing aboutMr. Fergus Rowleywas that he had never been to seeThe Great Adventure. That popular play must have been running for a considerable while (and the story appeared in book-form of course much earlier) before he decided to "fake" a suicide from the deck of the linerTransellaand leave his large possessions to an unknown and penniless nephew.It Will Be All Right(Hutchinson) is the sanguine title which Mr.Tom Gallonhas given to his latest novel; but whether he refers merely toMr. Rowley'soptimism or to the further possibility of his readers sharing that gentleman's ignorance of current drama, is more than I can say. Anyhow,Mr. Rowleydisappeared, and his nephew succeeded to an estate largely impoverished by the depredations ofGabriel Thurston, a fraudulent solicitor and unmitigated rogue after Mr.Gallon'sown heart (and mine). Meanwhile,Mr. Rowleywas reduced to playing butler in his own house and thereby saving some of the most precious of his curios from the double waste of a spendthrift heir and an unscrupulous lawyer. There was also—need I mention it?—a Circe in the case.It Will Be All Rightis an exercise in the picaresque school, lacking none of the author's usual raciness and vigour; but, if at the end we findMr. Fergus Rowleystill unable to reinstate himself, and left with no better consolation than the "Heigho" of his famous great-uncleAnthony, the fault, I feel, was his own. He ought to have looked in at the Kingsway Theatre and provided himself with the indispensable mole.

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