THE BARGAIN.

THE BARGAIN."Look here, old chap, I'll dance twice with your ugly little sister if you'll take my mater down to grub."

"Look here, old chap, I'll dance twice with your ugly little sister if you'll take my mater down to grub."

The Paris Academy of Dancing Masters, according to a contemporary, announce a real successor to the Tango in the "Ta-tao." This dance is at any rate of respectable antiquity, as it has been popular in China since the year 2450B.C.We anticipate an influx of slit-eyed professors from the Middle Kingdom, and are therefore brushing up our pidgin English in order thatMr. Punch'sreaders may be able to deal with the situation in the ball-rooms and at Ta-tao teas. Thus:—

Student.Chin-chin, Mr. Dance-pidgin-man!

Plofessor.Chin-chin, sah!

Student.You jussee now come this-side?

Plofessor.My hab jussee come Luntun.

Student.You talkee Yin-ke-li?

Plofessor.Can do. My sabby Englishee allo same you. My talkee tlue pidgin, no talkee lie pidgin.

Student.That b'long first chop! My wantchee catchee you teachee my, allo same same you dancee ta-tao.

Plofessor.My teachee numbah one plopah!

Student.So-fashion eh? How muchee plice?

Plofessor.My no makee squeeze-pidgin. My teachee velly well. S'pose you talkee plice....

Student.S'pose you catchee two dollah one-piecee time? Can do?

Plofessor.No can! My wantchee save face! My plice ten dollah, by'mby twenty dollah one-piecee time, allo same tango fashion.

Student.That ting no b'long leason! You b'long clevah inside—understand? My sabby heap foleign debble.... You catchee plenty cumshah!

Plofessor.. My no lose face....

etc., etc.,da capo.

Nut.You-piecee here? Chin-chin!

Noisette.. Allo same you. You sabby plenty girl-chilo here?

Nut.Mydon'ttink. Who-man b'long that boy-chilo you jussee talkee down-side?

Noisette.That b'longmypidgin!

Nut.Solly! S'pose you wantchee one-piecee dance? My b'long numbah one good boy!

Noisette.Can do first chop.

Nut.You sabby-dancee ta-tao?

Noisette.Can do two-piecee step so-fashion, one-piecee stepso-fashion....

Nut.You b'long quite top-side.... I say, this lingo is about the edge. Put me down for the chow-chow—I mean supper, what!

Noisette.Sorry. Full up. Ta-tao!

Zig-Zag.

THE PRICE OF ADMIRALTY.Mr. Punch."YOU SEEM A LITTLE ANXIOUS, MADAM."Britannia."YES; I'M WAITING TO KNOW WHETHER I'M TO LAY DOWN THE SHIPS I WANT——"Mr. Punch."OR LAY DOWN YOUR TRIDENT!"

Mr. Punch."YOU SEEM A LITTLE ANXIOUS, MADAM."

Britannia."YES; I'M WAITING TO KNOW WHETHER I'M TO LAY DOWN THE SHIPS I WANT——"

Mr. Punch."OR LAY DOWN YOUR TRIDENT!"

Mrs. A as "Furthest North."Mr. B as "A Bath."Mr. C as "The Duke of Marlborough."Miss D as "A Comfy Winter Evening."Mr. E as "A Country Squire".The Brothers F as "A Baby Grand."Theatre and Tyre Companies are no longer going to be allowed a monopoly in advertising at fancy balls. From private information we are able to anticipate some novelties for the next carnival.

Mrs. A as "Furthest North."

Mr. B as "A Bath."

Mr. C as "The Duke of Marlborough."

Miss D as "A Comfy Winter Evening."

Mr. E as "A Country Squire".

The Brothers F as "A Baby Grand."

Theatre and Tyre Companies are no longer going to be allowed a monopoly in advertising at fancy balls. From private information we are able to anticipate some novelties for the next carnival.

"Master, it was long ago you rode me;Master, you were careful of me then;Never was there anyone bestrode meEqual to my master among men.When we flew the hedge and ditch together—'Good lass!'—how it made me prick my ear!Horn and hound, bright steel and polished leather,Long ago—if you but saw me here!"Pitiless wind and heaving surge,A fevered foot and a running sore,The siren's shriek for a funeral dirge,And a hobble to death on the further shore."Master, it was long ago you bought me;Master, you were proud to see me strain,Matching all my might as nature taught meWith the loaded burden of the wain.When I drew the harvest waggon single—'Good lad!'—how I turned my head to see!Chain and hames and brasses all a-jingle,Long ago—do you remember me?"Pitiless surge and driving hail,A ship a-roll in a dazing roar,A shoulder split on an iron rail,And a hobble to death on the further shore."Master, you were saddened when we parted,Begged of my new master to be kind;Divers owners since and divers-heartedLeave me old and weary, lame and blind.Voices in the tempest passing over—'Good lass!'—I can scarcely turn my head.Oats and deep-strewn stall and rack of clover,Long ago—and oh that I were dead!"Piteous fate—too long to live,Piteous end for a friend of yore;Was it too much of a boon to giveA merciful death on the nearer shore?

"Master, it was long ago you rode me;

Master, you were careful of me then;

Never was there anyone bestrode me

Equal to my master among men.

When we flew the hedge and ditch together—

'Good lass!'—how it made me prick my ear!

Horn and hound, bright steel and polished leather,

Long ago—if you but saw me here!"

Pitiless wind and heaving surge,A fevered foot and a running sore,The siren's shriek for a funeral dirge,And a hobble to death on the further shore.

Pitiless wind and heaving surge,

A fevered foot and a running sore,

The siren's shriek for a funeral dirge,

And a hobble to death on the further shore.

"Master, it was long ago you bought me;Master, you were proud to see me strain,Matching all my might as nature taught meWith the loaded burden of the wain.When I drew the harvest waggon single—'Good lad!'—how I turned my head to see!Chain and hames and brasses all a-jingle,Long ago—do you remember me?"

"Master, it was long ago you bought me;

Master, you were proud to see me strain,

Matching all my might as nature taught me

With the loaded burden of the wain.

When I drew the harvest waggon single—

'Good lad!'—how I turned my head to see!

Chain and hames and brasses all a-jingle,

Long ago—do you remember me?"

Pitiless surge and driving hail,A ship a-roll in a dazing roar,A shoulder split on an iron rail,And a hobble to death on the further shore.

Pitiless surge and driving hail,

A ship a-roll in a dazing roar,

A shoulder split on an iron rail,

And a hobble to death on the further shore.

"Master, you were saddened when we parted,Begged of my new master to be kind;Divers owners since and divers-heartedLeave me old and weary, lame and blind.Voices in the tempest passing over—'Good lass!'—I can scarcely turn my head.Oats and deep-strewn stall and rack of clover,Long ago—and oh that I were dead!"

"Master, you were saddened when we parted,

Begged of my new master to be kind;

Divers owners since and divers-hearted

Leave me old and weary, lame and blind.

Voices in the tempest passing over—

'Good lass!'—I can scarcely turn my head.

Oats and deep-strewn stall and rack of clover,

Long ago—and oh that I were dead!"

Piteous fate—too long to live,Piteous end for a friend of yore;Was it too much of a boon to giveA merciful death on the nearer shore?

Piteous fate—too long to live,

Piteous end for a friend of yore;

Was it too much of a boon to give

A merciful death on the nearer shore?

"'I passed through several drawing-rooms,' she says. 'I saw ladies who were so shy that they couldn't utter a word before me, but who suddenly put a ribbon round my wrist to measure it'—you know, of course, by reputation Polaire's 15-inch wrist."—Sunday Chronicle.

If the biceps is in proportion, BandsmanBlakeshould tremble.

Though the Gallery, on the night when I attended, received it with rapt interest rather than delirious enthusiasm,The Darling of the Godspromises once more to justify its title. The play has undergone very little modification since it was produced a decade ago. It remains pure melodrama incidentally set in a Japanese dress, and sprinkled with a few Japanese words. Here and there it may reproduce the Japanese attitude of mind, as distinct from details of custom, but the general spirit of it follows the traditional Anglo-Saxon lines. Anybody who knows no more of Japan than may be gathered from the pages ofLafcadio Hearnwill at least have learned that her youth is taught to regard the love-interest of an ordinary English novel as an indecency; and so will recognise the improbability of the romantic element in the play. Still, all that is of little consequence, for there must have been very few who went to His Majesty's to improve their acquaintance with comparative ethnology.

The play has pleasant things for the eye; and one of the best of them was the face of Mr.George RelphasKara, leader of the Samurai. But there were horrors, too; notably the senile amorousness ofZakkuriand the offensive little figure ofIt, his shadow—an interpolation in the bill of fare. A properly qualified dwarf I might have welcomed; but this precocious babe with the false moustache and the sham bald crown and the cynical giggle, who ought to have been in the nursery instead of serving his master with liquid stimulants and assisting in all sorts of wickedness, was a peculiarly nauseating object, and got on my nerves far more than the terrors of the torture-chamber. This painful business was done off, and indeed most of the bloody work was carried on out of sight—a curious economy in a play where there was so much talk of lethal tools. It is true that an arrow once flopped on to the stage, but it only brought a note from a friend's hand. Swords, too, were now and then raised to strike, but were always arrested in mid-air. Even in the last stand of the Samurai, where one might reasonably have hoped for some hand-to-hand play, nothing happened except one fatal shot from an unseen musket, and even then the stricken body fell into the wings. If it hadn't been for the throttling of a spy and a touch or two of hara-kiri in the dark of the Bamboo Forest we should have had practically no corpses at all.

SirHerbert Treewas again the most likely exotic, and played his revolting part with great gusto and a permissible amount of humour. MissMarie Löhr, whose delicate grace of feature and colouring lost something by her dusky disguise, was sufficiently Japanese in the first scene, and did the right twittering with her feet; but when the virgin light-heartedness ofYo-Sanwas changed to tragic despair she mislaid her Orientalism and reverted to her attractive English self. She brought a true pathos into the scene where she is left out of mind by her lover, to whom, at a pinch, all that is unfair to love was fair in war. I shall never, by the way, quite understand howKaraso far forgot his manners and obligations as to threaten her with death for a betrayal to which he owed his own life and with it the opportunity of killing her. With this reservation,Karais a brave and noble figure, and Mr.Relphmade him look like it.

I was disappointed that Mr.Philip Merivaleshould have had no better chance than was afforded by the part of a dumb servant for the display of that delightful personality which so shone in hisCassioand hisDoughty; but he was quietly admirable in the most thrilling scene of all—outside the Shoji ofYo-San. One missed the fine performance of MissHildyardas the outcast Geisha, with its suggestion ofSadi Yakko's manner.

The play was again admirably mounted, and the final scene of reunion in the clouds (reached after an interval where every minute, by Greenwich time, was a hundred years) contrived to escape the banality which commonly attends these transfigurations. I was glad, too, to observe that, in the code of etiquette which prevails in "the first Celestial Heaven," the European habit of osculation is recognised; though it seems that you have to go through a very hell of a time before you get to it.

O. S.

Burglar(holding jewel-case). "Sorry to trouble yer, Mum, but would yer mind helping me choose a present for the Missus? It's her birthday termorrer."

As these things go, I reckon our sale went pretty well. Just before closing time we held a rubbish auction, with Ginger in the chair. Ginger would make an absolute Napoleon among auctioneers. He can bully, lie, despair, wheedle and take you into his confidence in one breath.

He had sold four table-centres and a pair of babies' boots for songs when Mrs. James Allen came up to his platform and explained a parcel which she handed up in agitated whispers.

Ginger accepted it with a whistle that was not without its moral effect on the mass. He released it from its wrappings reverently and, after a short scrutiny, spake out.

"We have here, ladies and gentlemen, what I have no hesitation in regarding as the gem of the sale. It has by a highly unfortunate mischance lain hidden up to five minutes ago. It is nothing less, in fact, than an indisputably genuine Van Ruiter—(sensation)—which Colonel Allen has very nobly consented to sacrifice for—for the splendid cause which has assembled us here to-day. (Applause.) This little canvas, ladies and gentlemen, apart from being an authenticated example of such an artist as Van Ruiter, is a possession which any man might be proud of. It is called 'The Two Windmills' and is, I hope, known to most of you by reputation. What shall we say for this, ladies and gentlemen?"

"Sevenpence," said a humourist.

"Mr. Archer is pleased to be amusing," said Ginger with more than his usual asperity. "Mr. Archer says seven-pence. Well, I'll say five guineas. Any advance on five guineas, ladies and gentlemen? Going, going—"

Now I shouldn't have thought there were sixteen shillings left in the bazaar grounds outside the stall boxes. But before the hammer showed any signs of descent a still small voice from the background said, "Six pounds."

It was Mrs. Newman. She is worth anything between five and six figures, and hunts the antique indiscriminately.

Ginger bowed comprehendingly and began talking again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, six pounds offered for asignedVan Ruiter. Look, you can see the signature. Is this to go at six pounds? There's no reserve. Van Ruiter's 'Two Windmills' going at six pounds. Any advance? Sir Robert, a man of your taste—"

Sir Robert Firley had been looking on waveringly. He is a man of no taste at all except it be in the matter of old brandy; but he hates Mrs. Newman and he wavered no longer.

"Six guineas," he said.

"Seven pounds," said Mrs. Newman.

"Guineas," growled Sir Robert.

"Eight pounds," said Mrs. Newman.

"Guineas," from Sir Robert.

"Ten pounds," said Mrs. Newman more shrilly.

"Guineas." Sir Robert was now well set and looked good for a century.

Mrs. Newman hesitated. Ginger gave her the right sort of look. To speak was to break the spell. She set her teeth.

"Fifteen pounds," she said through them.

"Guineas," said Sir Robert with his unfailing originality.

Amid furious but suppressed excitement the struggle went on. It was only at seventy-five pounds that Sir Robert began to feel silly and the prize fell to Mrs. Newman.

"I congratulate you, madam," said Ginger warmly. "Even as it is you have got it at a remarkable price."

She went away happy.

Afterwards I approached Ginger.

"Wasthat a genuine Van Ruiter, really?" I asked.

"Sure," said Ginger carelessly.

"But—er—" I asked, "who is Van Ruiter? What's his school? I don't know much about these Dutchmen."

"Van Ruiter," said Ginger severely, "is a painter in oils. His work has been known to fetch as much as seventy-five pounds. As for his school, therewasa man of that name at Marlborough with me. And as the canvas of 'The Two Windmills' is dated 1912 it might be him."

Chauffeur of Large Car(who has been admonished for taking up too much of the narrow road). "Garn! If there ain't enough room for yer, put that thing on yer foot and roller-skate with it on the pavement."

The Evening Newscalled attention to the following as one of the "special features" of a recent issue:—

"FORECASTS OF SPRING MILLINERYBy Miss Bessie Ascough (Age 7)."

"FORECASTS OF SPRING MILLINERY

By Miss Bessie Ascough (Age 7)."

I am not legal adviser to Miranda's family; nevertheless she came to see me on business the other day. I saw at once by her serious air that it was something of first-rate importance.

"I want a will," she said; "one of those things that people leave when they die."

"Some people leave them and some don't," I said.

"I mean the things that show who is to have your belongings."

"Undoubtedly you mean wills."

"Do you sell them?"

"Sometimes."

"I should like to see some."

"What size?" I asked facetiously.

"Sixes—long ones," said Miranda, looking at her hands.

"I remember," I murmured.

Miranda looked up with a start and assumed her severest expression.

"I'm afraid you're not treating the matter seriously. Perhaps I had better go to father's solicitor; he's older and quite serious. But then he's rather bald and uninteresting. I think he takes snuff."

I retorted in my most professional manner. "I beg your pardon; I think you must have misunderstood me. I meant that all wills are not quite the same; some are longer than others."

"Not too long, then," she said. "You might show me some medium size ones. I should like to do the thing fairly well."

"We don't exactly stock them; they're generally made to order."

"I'm sorry; I wanted one at once. You know I was twenty-one the other day." (I knew it to my cost.) "Father says that everyone over twenty-one ought to make a will."

"Your father's views on the subject are very sound. If you'll give me your instructions, I'll make you one." I spread a sheet of paper in front of me.

"But surely you can make a will without my help?"

"Not very easily. It's something like being measured for a gown. I must know what you have to leave and to whom you wish to leave it."

"But I don't want anybody to know."

"I'm not anybody."

"I know. I don't think, though, that I quite care to tell you."

"Then I'm afraid there'll be some little difficulty about executing your wishes in the matter."

"How much do wills cost?" she asked irrelevantly.

"It depends on the length."

"How much a yard?"

"We mostly sell them by the folio, not by the yard."

"How many feet are there in a folio?"

"You'll have to ask a law-stationer that."

"How much would a medium-sized will cost? Half-a-crown?"

"More than that," I said.

"Much more?" She turned over some coins in her purse.

"A good deal more."

"But I saw some in a chemist's for ninepence. Perhaps I'd better buy one of those."

"You might," I said doubtfully.

"You said that as though you didn't think that chemists sell very good wills."

"There's nothing really the matter with them. They consist of some printed words and spaces—mostly spaces. If you happen to execute them the right way the Judge afterwards decides what they mean."

"But how does he know?"

"He doesn't. That's what makes it so interesting. After a number of barristers have explained what they might mean, the Judge says what they ought to mean, and they mean that."

"So there would have to be a law-suit?"

"Almost inevitably."

"And you make good wills?"

"My wills are all of the very best quality."

"Then I suppose I must let you make me one. What sort of things do people leave?"

"All sorts of things. Anything they've got and quite often things they haven't got."

"Animals? Dogs? Can I will away Bobs, for instance?"

"Yes."

"Can I leave anything to anyone I like?"

"Yes, to anyone you like or don't like." I was thinking of Bobs. He is not a very amiable dog and no friend of mine.

"I think I'll leave Bobs to you." I had felt it coming.

"But I might die before Bobs. Bobs being a specific legacy would then lapse and fall into residue," I hurriedly explained.

"That doesn't sound nice."

"It isn't nice. Bobs would never be happy there. You had better leave him to some one younger."

After we had settled Bobs on a young cousin we got on quite quickly. We left her old dance programmes and several unimportant things of doubtful ownership to her greatest rival; her piano (with three notes missing), on which she had learnt to play as a child, to her Aunt in Australia, said Aunt to pay carriage and legacy duty; her violin to the people in the next flat; her French novels to the church library; her golf clubs and tennis racket to her old nurse; her Indian clubs to the Olympic Games Committee; her early water-colour sketches to the Nation. We divided up all her goods. Everybody got something appropriate. It was a good will. And when I suggested that there should be no immediate charge, but that the cost should be paid out of the estate in due season, Miranda very cheerfully agreed; and even went so far as to express a generous hope that I should outlive her.

January23, 1914.

Who is the happy tradesman? Who is he?

I mean in this peculiarly horrible weather?

The chemist.

There is no happier tradesman than he. He stands all day long, and a large part of the night, among his bottles and boxes and jars and jarlets and pots and potlets and tabloids and capsules, selling remedies for colds and coughs and sore throats and rheumatism and neuralgia.

The colder it is the more he is on velvet, the chemist.

In America he is called a "druggist," but "chemist" is better, even though it confuses a mere peddler of ammoniated quinine with SirWilliam Ramsayand SirWilliam Crookes.

The old-fashioned spelling was "chymist," and there are still one or two shops in London where this spelling holds, but I think it's affectation.

Meanwhile the chemist (or chymist) is coining money.

Not even his lavish expenditure of clean white paper and red, red sealing wax, and the gas that burns always to melt that red, red sealing-wax, can make his profits look ridiculous.

Not even the constant loss of small articles from the counter, such as manicure sticks, and digestive tablets, and jujubes, and face cream and smokers' cachous, which never ought to be spread about there at all, because they are so easily conveyed by the dishonest customer into pocket or muff, can seriously upset the smiling side of the chemist's ledger.

Every night, when at last, laden with gold, he climbs to his bed, he hopes piously that the morrow may be colder.

And it usually is.

He will soon be a millionaire.

It is only a warm wind that can blow the chemist no good.

I wish I was a chemist, but it is now too late.

Still, I wish I was a chemist.

Aunt."I can't think of letting you two girls go alone, and as I shall not be able to go your Uncle will look after you."Niece."That's very kind of him, Auntie; but I hope you don't expect us to cling to his apron strings all the time."

Aunt."I can't think of letting you two girls go alone, and as I shall not be able to go your Uncle will look after you."

Niece."That's very kind of him, Auntie; but I hope you don't expect us to cling to his apron strings all the time."

Of G. K. C. a tale I tell, ofGilbert Chesterton,And how he metGambrinusonce and how they carried on.Each roared a lusty challenge out, as only topers can,And sat him down and called for beer, and then the bout began.One had aSeidelto his hand, and one a pewter pot;They drank potations pottle deep, in fact they drank a lot.And as they drank the barrels dry they rolled them on the floor,And sang a stave and drained a quart and called aloud for more.Their glowing souls o'ertopped the stars; they had their hearts' desire,The while the world spun round and round its busy track of fire."I've lived for this," said G. K. C. and tossed his flaming head;"Der Kerl ist stark, das Bier ist gut," was whatGambrinussaid.The sun looked on, the moon looked on, the comets all stood stillTo see this stout and jolly pair who never had their fill.And still they drained their beer as if they'd only just begun;And no one dared to interfere to settle which had won.

Of G. K. C. a tale I tell, ofGilbert Chesterton,

And how he metGambrinusonce and how they carried on.

Each roared a lusty challenge out, as only topers can,

And sat him down and called for beer, and then the bout began.

One had aSeidelto his hand, and one a pewter pot;They drank potations pottle deep, in fact they drank a lot.And as they drank the barrels dry they rolled them on the floor,And sang a stave and drained a quart and called aloud for more.

One had aSeidelto his hand, and one a pewter pot;

They drank potations pottle deep, in fact they drank a lot.

And as they drank the barrels dry they rolled them on the floor,

And sang a stave and drained a quart and called aloud for more.

Their glowing souls o'ertopped the stars; they had their hearts' desire,The while the world spun round and round its busy track of fire."I've lived for this," said G. K. C. and tossed his flaming head;"Der Kerl ist stark, das Bier ist gut," was whatGambrinussaid.

Their glowing souls o'ertopped the stars; they had their hearts' desire,

The while the world spun round and round its busy track of fire.

"I've lived for this," said G. K. C. and tossed his flaming head;

"Der Kerl ist stark, das Bier ist gut," was whatGambrinussaid.

The sun looked on, the moon looked on, the comets all stood stillTo see this stout and jolly pair who never had their fill.And still they drained their beer as if they'd only just begun;And no one dared to interfere to settle which had won.

The sun looked on, the moon looked on, the comets all stood still

To see this stout and jolly pair who never had their fill.

And still they drained their beer as if they'd only just begun;

And no one dared to interfere to settle which had won.

Why, crystalliser of the world's diurnalExperience, why plunge my soul in gloomWith tidings that are ghastly and infernal?Why dim my morning eye with tales of doom,Of flood and fire, of pestilence and drouth—Leaving me down, distinctly, in the mouth?Why stun me with: "Explosion in a Larder:Cook and Policeman Blown to Bits";"The GirlThat Poisoned Half a Parish"; "Weather HarderAnd Death Rate Rising"; "Poacher Brains an Earl";Why blazon blackly forth such blighting news,Nor give a glimpse of life's less dismal hues?Why not proclaim such gladness as the following:"Twins Born in Tooting: Trio Doing Well";"Chelsea Churchwarden much Improved, and SwallowingBeef-Tea With Ease"; "A Famous Barking BelleGets Off at Last"; "A Navvy's Love of Greek";"Young Poet Earns a Guinea in a Week"?

Why, crystalliser of the world's diurnal

Experience, why plunge my soul in gloom

With tidings that are ghastly and infernal?

Why dim my morning eye with tales of doom,

Of flood and fire, of pestilence and drouth—

Leaving me down, distinctly, in the mouth?

Why stun me with: "Explosion in a Larder:Cook and Policeman Blown to Bits";"The GirlThat Poisoned Half a Parish"; "Weather HarderAnd Death Rate Rising"; "Poacher Brains an Earl";Why blazon blackly forth such blighting news,Nor give a glimpse of life's less dismal hues?

Why stun me with: "Explosion in a Larder:

Cook and Policeman Blown to Bits";"The Girl

That Poisoned Half a Parish"; "Weather Harder

And Death Rate Rising"; "Poacher Brains an Earl";

Why blazon blackly forth such blighting news,

Nor give a glimpse of life's less dismal hues?

Why not proclaim such gladness as the following:"Twins Born in Tooting: Trio Doing Well";"Chelsea Churchwarden much Improved, and SwallowingBeef-Tea With Ease"; "A Famous Barking BelleGets Off at Last"; "A Navvy's Love of Greek";"Young Poet Earns a Guinea in a Week"?

Why not proclaim such gladness as the following:

"Twins Born in Tooting: Trio Doing Well";

"Chelsea Churchwarden much Improved, and Swallowing

Beef-Tea With Ease"; "A Famous Barking Belle

Gets Off at Last"; "A Navvy's Love of Greek";

"Young Poet Earns a Guinea in a Week"?

"Velour Hat, pretty blue, trimmed large elephant."—Advt.

A small seagull looks prettier and is less in the way atmatinées.

A sudden jolt as we thundered over some points caused me to shoot a piece of bread-and-butter on to the floor. I stooped to pick it up.

"Stop a moment, please!" cried my companion. He jumped to his feet and examined it. "Ah," said he, "buttered side downward!"

"It's always the same," I said, as I jerked the thing viciously out of the window. "It'salwaysbuttered side downward."

"No, there you fall into a common error," protested the other. "You may take it that fifty-seven per cent. fall buttered side upward, and only forty-three per cent. buttered side downward."

"H'm," I said dubiously.

"You must pardon me for my officiousness," he went on, "especially as I have now no reason to be interested in such things. But habits are strong."

I looked at him curiously. "Habits?" I said.

"Yes, habits. For years I kept an accurate record of every slice of bread-and-butter I saw fall to the ground. I had better explain myself. Nearly all my life, you must understand, I have maintained the view that the generally accepted theory of the 'cussedness of things' is all wrong. You know that to most people 'cussedness' is the governing factor of life."

"Rather!" I agreed.

"Well, I disbelieved it, and I set to work to collect materials for a book which was to prove my case. For years I incessantly gathered statistics on the subject. Do I bore you?"

"Not at all," I assured him.

"The results were extraordinary. Take, for example, catching trains. It is highly important that you should catch a train at short notice. In nine cases out of ten, you will say, your taxicab breaks down, or your tram is held up by a block in the traffic, or the current fails on the Underground."

"Certainly it does."

"On the contrary—I am speaking from memory, but I think my figures are accurate—the taxicab only breaks down in 1.5 per cent. of cases; with the tram the percentage rises to 1.8; with the Underground it falls to .2."

I gasped.

"Or take the case of studs," he went on. "You drop a stud, and it promptly and inevitably rolls away into some quite impossible hiding-place. So most of us believe. As a matter of fact it only does so approximately three times out of a hundred. Or bootlaces. If you are exceptionally late in the morning; your bootlace always snaps, you say. Not at all. It breaks in such circumstances only four times out of a possible hundred. And with bicycles, to take another example. If ever you get a puncture, you fancy that it always occurs on some occasion when you are sorely pressed for time. Again, not at all. Out of a hundred punctures only seventeen are sustained at such unfortunate moments."

"You seem to have studied the subject pretty deeply," I remarked.

"Oh, my dear Sir, I cannot myself recall a tithe of the material I collected. I carried out my inquiries in every conceivable direction. Suppose we take the obscure case of a—let me see—of a burglar. This was one of my most difficult researches. A burglar will assure you, if you happen to be in his confidence, that every time he enters a house, at a moment when absolute quiet is from his point of view essential, a door slams, or a pot of jam falls off a shelf, or a—a canary commences to sing loudly, or there occurs one of a hundred other unlucky noises he will name. As you may imagine, my investigations into this problem were extraordinarily difficult. But the result was a triumph. In only .375 per cent. of cases is our burglar disturbed by an unexpected noise for which he is not himself responsible. As for the specific examples given, the results here are even more striking. The pot of jam, for instance, only falls down in, I think, .0025 per cent. of cases, the canary bursts into song in only .00175 per cent., and so on."

"It is astonishing," I admitted. "I must certainly obtain a copy of your book. Perhaps——"

"I never published it," he interrupted. "As a matter of fact I became converted."

"Converted?" I exclaimed in amazement. "In the face of all your statistics?"

"Yes," he said meditatively. "I remember the occasion well. It happened a few months ago, in early Spring. I had just completed the last chapter of my book, and I laid down my pen with a sigh. There before me lay all the statistics I had so laboriously collected, neatly tabulated and arranged with the proper explanatory notes and diagrams. It was finished after all these years! I can assure you it was an emotional moment. I don't know if you have ever brought a great work to a successful conclusion; if so, you can understand my feelings."

"I can imagine them," I said.

"Well, I opened the French windows and stepped out into the garden to calm myself. It was a lovely March day, I remember, sunny and fresh, and I paced up and down the garden till my emotions subsided and I gradually recovered my self-control. Then I went indoors again."

The train slowed down and he began to gather his things together. "While I was gone," he said sadly, "the wind blew my manuscript and the best part of my notes into the fire."

"How excessively unfortunate!" I murmured sympathetically. "And this converted you to the 'cussedness' theory?"

"Yes," said he, as he stepped down to the platform. "It was the only book I ever wrote, and it was burned practically to a cinder. It works out you see, at exactly 100 per cent...."

What boots it, Sir, to boggle atThe truth? So be it saidQuite candidly, our Thomas-cat,McCorquodale, is dead.When winds from East and North conspireTo freeze the very breath,To you it means the mere desireTo skate or sit too near the fire,To him 'twas sudden death.The cat that leaves the hearth and straysAbroad is over-bold;McCorquodale would go his ways,Despite the frost. To use a phraseBelittled in these careless days,He caught his death of cold.'Twas not from native lack of furThat his demise was such.We did not see the end occur,But, though it be to cast a slurUpon humanity, infer(And you will catch our meaning, Sir)He had a coat too much.

What boots it, Sir, to boggle atThe truth? So be it saidQuite candidly, our Thomas-cat,McCorquodale, is dead.

What boots it, Sir, to boggle at

The truth? So be it said

Quite candidly, our Thomas-cat,

McCorquodale, is dead.

When winds from East and North conspireTo freeze the very breath,To you it means the mere desireTo skate or sit too near the fire,To him 'twas sudden death.

When winds from East and North conspire

To freeze the very breath,

To you it means the mere desire

To skate or sit too near the fire,

To him 'twas sudden death.

The cat that leaves the hearth and straysAbroad is over-bold;McCorquodale would go his ways,Despite the frost. To use a phraseBelittled in these careless days,He caught his death of cold.

The cat that leaves the hearth and strays

Abroad is over-bold;

McCorquodale would go his ways,

Despite the frost. To use a phrase

Belittled in these careless days,

He caught his death of cold.

'Twas not from native lack of furThat his demise was such.We did not see the end occur,But, though it be to cast a slurUpon humanity, infer(And you will catch our meaning, Sir)He had a coat too much.

'Twas not from native lack of fur

That his demise was such.

We did not see the end occur,

But, though it be to cast a slur

Upon humanity, infer

(And you will catch our meaning, Sir)

He had a coat too much.

And now, when Northern winds are bluffAnd veering to the East,And Beauty shuns their rude rebuffBy hiding hands (and powder-puff)Inside her Russian sable muff,We tell ourselves, "Why, sure enoughThere goes, disguised as better stuff,McCorquodale deceased!"

And now, when Northern winds are bluff

And veering to the East,

And Beauty shuns their rude rebuff

By hiding hands (and powder-puff)

Inside her Russian sable muff,

We tell ourselves, "Why, sure enough

There goes, disguised as better stuff,

McCorquodale deceased!"

"January 20, at Kenyon-road, Wavertree, to Mr. and Mrs. Oswald Unsworth, a son (bath well)."—Liverpool Echo.

"Artists in Gentlemen's Headwear."—Advt.

This always creates surprise. Somehow still expects to see them in sombreros.

THE HUNT BALL SEASON.First Nut."It's Miss Smith-Brown. She's all right—they're lookin' after her."Second Nut(pulling up). "Good gracious, my dear chap, it's my Tango partner!"

First Nut."It's Miss Smith-Brown. She's all right—they're lookin' after her."

Second Nut(pulling up). "Good gracious, my dear chap, it's my Tango partner!"

Looking about among the very bestclichés(my own and others)—"supersubtle analysis," "intimate psychology," "masterly handling," "incomparable artistry"—I found nothing that it didn't seem a sort of impertinence to apply toJoseph Conrad'sChance, whichMethuenhas just had the good luck to publish. For the whole thing is much nearer wizardry than workmanship. I put the book down with a gasp, so close had I been to realities as conjured up by one to whom realism is a servant and not a master. I had come to know, in that piecemeal way in which one actually gets to know one's fellows—waiting for later experience to confirm or modify earlier impressions—the hapless, tragicFlora; her father,de Barral, the pseudo-financier, fraudulent through unimaginative stupidity rather than criminal intent; the kindly-cruel pair ofFynes; that perfect, chivalrous knight of the sea,Captain Anthony,Flora'sfiery-patient lover; his splendidly staunch second officer,Powell, and the analyticMarlow, also a sailor-man, who acts in the capacity of ultra-modern chorus to this tragedy of chance. The central idea is the old wonder that such vast issues can hang upon such trivial happenings, not merely in the outer realm of fact but on the inner stage of character. And, this being his theme, perhaps Mr.Conradought to have been more scrupulously careful to use no such strained coincidence asPowell'sdetection ofde Barral'sattempt at revenge on his fancied enemy,Anthony. But this is indeed a slight defect in a work of brilliantly sustained imagination and superb craftsmanship. I wonder if the author's magic has so seduced my judgment as to make me feel that the somewhat shadowy characters ofCaptain Anthonyandde Barralare deliberately suggested in fainter outline just becauseMarlowhas in fact not known them personally, but only through the reports of others. I am prepared to believe the author ofTyphoonsubtle enough for that, or for anything else, and I have this only grudge against him, that he intrigued me to the point of feverishly "skipping," out of sheer excitement to know if and how the deplorable misunderstanding betweenFloraand her quixoticCaptain Anthonywas to be cleared up, just like any ordinary decent library-subscriber, instead of the case-hardened critical fellow I naturally take myself to be.

There are two things for which I have a special affection. One is an old friend who has often persuaded me that this world is rather a place for smiles than for gloom; and the other is a new book of stories which have life in them, which make their effect with a seemingly artless certainty and leave the pleased reader with the impression that they are, if anything, a shade or so too short. Both these things I have obtained inOne Kind and Another(Secker), by Mr.Barry Pain. "The Journal of Aura Lovel," with which Mr.Painleads off, is a delightful performance. It has freshness and charm and its sentiment seems to me to be exactly right—the sentiment of an eager and attractive young girl relating the feelings of her heart in the tenderest and prettiest style as far removed from preciosity as it is from a silly simplicity. All the stories have the essential merits of brightness and lightness, and most of them have that peculiar kind of ingenuity which is one of Mr.Pain's strong points. Suddenly they land you at a point which isnowhere near to that to which you thought you were travelling. The characters, even when they are engaged in paradoxical and preposterous actions, are real men and women, such as you could meet almost anywhere in a day's walk, and they are set off with Mr.Pain's fancy so as to become additionally lifelike. Many things have struck me in the reading of this book. One is that Mr.Pain's new novel is overdue. Another is that he has an uncanny familiarity with the ways of solicitors. "There is," he says, "no historical instance of a solicitor after the age of forty having made any change whatever in the manner of his clothing."

I will confess that it took a little time—say four chapters or so—for the peculiar charm ofSimple Simon(Lane) to take hold upon me. It is not, I quite honestly think, that I object to being laughed at. Goodness knows we ordinary folk get enough of that nowadays at the hands of these clever young satiricals; and most of us have enough common honesty to appreciate our tormentors. It is that, just for a time, I was troubled with a genuine doubt whether Mr.A. Neil Lyonswas not becoming too satirical to be sincere, and allowing his gift for facetiousness to betray him. The device of inventing a simple-minded young enthusiast, and making him ask perpetual questions to the undoing of all those who accept blindly the beliefs which Mr.Lyonsis out to ridicule—well, there was nothing specially enlivening in that. Briefly, youngSimon Honeyballin his parents' home threatened to weary me. But later, when he had migrated with his money and his extraordinary collection ofprotégésto Silverside, E., and there set up his preposterous household, and become a Guardian (with what devastating municipal results you may guess!) I found myself the grateful admirer of bothSimonand his creator. Mr.Lyons'sympathetic drawing of certain odd London characters is a thing that I have often admired; he has no better portraits in his gallery than these of the quaint objects ofSimon'sSilverside hospitality. Specially did I likeMargaret, the wholly ungrateful young woman whom he had befriended, and the trenchant speech with which she expressed her resulting opinion of his sagacity. She and others are also depicted in some very attractive drawings which illustrate (for once the right word) a book that, while perhaps not for every reader (parents please take note), will certainly delight those who can appreciate it.

Lean, clean, brown Englishmen bear the stamp of the Public Schools upon them and have made England what she is. Smug-faced missionaries grow fat on the spoils they have collected from smug-faced church-and-chapel-goers at home. Labour Members are in the pay of Germany and frequent infamous flats in the West-End. Liberal Cabinet Ministers—sometimes, more shame to them, of decent birth—wince consciously when reminded of the taint of their association with plebeian colleagues. These things, and many more of equal moment, I have learnt from Mr.Stanley Portal Hyatt, who inThe Way of the Cardines(Werner Laurie) describes howSir Gerald, of that famous family, captured, with reckless profusion of local blood, the independent island of Katu. Katu is in the Malay Archipelago. Of vital importance as a key to the Eastern trade route it is eagerly sought after by Germany, and to Germany's protection, afterSir Gerald'sexploit, a pusillanimous and almost more than Liberal English Government basely ceded it. But what could you expect whenSir Joseph Darkin, smug-faced hypocrite (I am sorry, but almost everybody in this book except theCardineshad a smug face), was a member of our Cabinet? Were it not that Mr.Hyattwrites with a distinct sense of style and some power of narrative, I should boldly labelThe Way of the Cardinesas one of the most amazingly humorous books I have read for a long time. In the circumstances my amusement was mingled with a certain amount of respectful sorrow.Sir Gerald Cardinetook morphia tablets freely; on the essence of what strange herb Mr.Stanley Portal Hyatthad been browsing before he began to writeThe Way of the CardinesI simply dare not think. I should recommend readers to mitigate the crudity of his opinions, as I did, by softening the C ofSir Gerald'sperpetually reiterated surname all through. The story sounds even more beautiful so. And I like to think that, when the hour of England's need comes, a Sir Pilchard of the historic house, and reared in some famous school, will not be found wanting.

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