"Well," said the Squire, with a hearty laugh, "it's time for bed."
One by one they filed off, saying what a delightful evening they had had.Jack Ellison was particularly emphatic, for the beautiful Miss Holdenhad promised to be his wife. He, for one, will never forget Christmas atHappy-Thought Hall.
I am become an Authority on Birds. It happened in this way.
The other day we heard the Cuckoo in Hampshire. (The next morning the papers announced that the Cuckoo had been heard in Devonshire—possibly a different one, but in no way superior to ours except in the matter of its Press agent.) Well, everybody in the house said, "Did you hear the Cuckoo?" to everybody else, until I began to get rather tired of it; and, having told everybody several times that Ihadheard it, I tried to make the conversation more interesting. So, after my tenth "Yes," I added quite casually:
"But I haven't heard the Tufted Pipit yet. It's funny why it should be so late this year."
"Is that the same as the Tree Pipit?" said my hostess, who seemed to know more about birds than I had hoped.
"Oh, no," I said quickly.
"What's the difference exactly?"
"Well, one is tufted," I said, doing my best, "and the other—er—climbs trees."
"Oh, I see."
"And of course the eggs are more speckled," I added, gradually acquiring confidence.
"I often wish I knew more about birds," she said regretfully. "You must tell us something about them now we've got you here."
And all this because of one miserable Cuckoo!
"By all means," I said, wondering how long it would take to get a book about birds down from London.
However, it was easier than I thought. We had tea in the garden that afternoon, and a bird of some kind struck up in the plane-tree.
"There, now," said my hostess, "what's that?"
I listened with my head on one side. The bird said it again.
"That's the Lesser Bunting," I said hopefully.
"The Lesser Bunting," said an earnest-looking girl; "I shall always remember that."
I hoped she wouldn't, but I could hardly say so. Fortunately the bird lesser-bunted again, and I seized the opportunity of playing for safety.
"Or is it the Sardinian White-throat?" I wondered. "They have very much the same note during the breeding season. But of course the eggs are more speckled," I added casually.
And so on for the rest of the evening. You see how easy it is.
However, the next afternoon a more unfortunate occurrence occurred. A real Bird Authority came to tea. As soon as the information leaked out, I sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had got him safely out of the place; but it was not granted. Our feathered songster in the plane-tree broke into his little piece.
"There," said my hostess—"there's that bird again." She turned to me."What did you say it was?"
I hoped that the Authority would speak first, and that the others would then accept my assurance that they had misunderstood me the day before; but he was entangled at that moment in a watercress sandwich, the loose ends of which were still waiting to be tucked away.
I looked anxiously at the girl who had promised to remember, in case she wanted to say something, but she also was silent. Everybody was silent except that miserable bird.
Well, I had to have another go at it. "Blackman's Warbler," I said firmly.
"Oh, yes," said my hostess.
"Blackman's Warbler; I shall always remember that," lied the earnest-looking girl.
The Authority, who was free by this time, looked at me indignantly.
"Nonsense," he said; "it's the Chiff-chaff."
Everybody else looked at me reproachfully. I was about to say that "Blackman's Warbler" was the local name for the Chiff-chaff in our part of Somerset, when the Authority spoke again.
"The Chiff-chaff," he said to our hostess with an insufferable air of knowledge.
I wasn't going to stand that.
"SoIthought when I heard it first," I said, giving him a gentle smile. It was now the Authority's turn to get the reproachful looks.
"Are they very much alike?" my hostess asked me, much impressed.
"Very much. Blackmail's Warbler is often mistaken for the Chiff-chaff, even by so-called experts"—and I turned to the Authority and added, "Have another sandwich, won't you?"—"particularly so, of course, during the breeding season. It is true that the eggs are more speckled, but—"
"Bless my soul," said the Authority, but it was easy to see that he was shaken, "I should think I know a Chiff-chaff when I hear one."
"Ah, but do you know a Blackman's Warbler? One doesn't often hear them in this country. Now in Algiers—"
The bird said "Chiff-chaff" again with an almost indecent plainness of speech.
"There you are!" I said triumphantly. "Listen," and I held up a finger."You notice the difference?Obviouslya Blackman's Warbler."
Everybody looked at the Authority. He was wondering how long it would take to get a book about birds down from London, and deciding that it couldn't be done that afternoon. Meanwhile he did not dare to repudiate me. For all he had caught of our mumbled introduction I might have been Blackman myself.
"Possibly you're right," he said reluctantly.
Another bird said "Chiff-chaff" from another tree and I thought it wise to be generous. "There," I said, "now thatwasa Chiff-chaff."
The earnest-looking girl remarked (silly creature) that it sounded just like the other one, but nobody took any notice of her. They were all busy admiring me.
Of course I mustn't meet the Authority again, because you may be pretty sure that when he got back to his books he looked up Blackman's Warbler and found that there was no such animal. But if you mix in the right society, and only see the wrong people once, it is really quite easy to be an authority on birds—or, I imagine, on anything else.
It was one of those summer evenings with the chill on, so after dinner we lit the smoking-room fire and wondered what to do. There were eight of us; just the right number for two bridge tables, or four picquet pairs, or eight patience singles.
"Oh, no, not cards," said Celia quickly. "They're so dull."
"Not when you get a grand slam," said our host, thinking of an accident which had happened to him the night before.
"Even then I don't suppose anybody laughed."
Peter and I, who were partners on that occasion, admitted that we hadn't laughed.
"Well, there you are," said Celia triumphantly. "Let's play proverbs."
"I don't think I know it," said Herbert. (He wouldn't.)
"Oh, it's quite easy. First you think of a proverb."
"Like 'A burnt camel spoils the moss,'" I explained.
"You mean 'A burnt child dreads the fire,'" corrected Herbert.
Celia caught my eye and went on hurriedly, "Well, then somebody goes outside, and then he asks questions—"
"From outside?" asked Mrs. Herbert.
"From inside," I assured her. "Generally from very near the fire, because he has got so cold waiting in the hall."
"Oh, yes, I see."
"And then he asks questions, and we each have to get one of the words of the proverb into our answer, without letting him know what the proverb is. It's rather fun."
Peter and his wife, who knew the game, agreed. Mrs. Herbert seemed resigned to the worst, but Herbert, though faint, was still pursuing.
"But doesn't heguesswhat the proverb is?" he asked.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "But sometimes, if we are very, very clever, he doesn't. That, in fact, is the game."
Our host got up and went to the door.
"I think I see," he said; "and I want my pipe anyhow. So I'll go out first."
"Now then," said Celia, when the door was safely closed, "what shall we have?"
Of course you know this game, and you know the difficulty of thinking of a proverb which has no moss or stable-doors or glasshouses in it; all of them words which it is impossible to include naturally in an answer to an ordinary question. The proverbs which Mrs. Herbert suggested were full of moss.
"What about 'It's never too late to mend?'" said Mrs. Peter. "The only difficult word is 'mend.'"
"We mustn't have less than seven words, one for each of us."
"Can't we get something from Solomon for a change?" said Peter. "'A roaring lion is a calamity to its father, but the cautious man cometh not again.' That sort of thing."
"We might try it," said Celia doubtfully, not feeling quite sure if it were a real proverb; "but 'cometh' would be difficult."
"I don't see why," said Herbert. "One could always work it in somehow."
"Well, of course, if he asked you, 'By what train cometh thou up in the mornings?' you could answer, 'I cometh up by the ten-fifteen.' Only you don't get that sort of question as a rule."
"Oh, I see," said Herbert. "I didn't quite understand."
"After all, its really much more fun having camels and things," said Celia. "'It's the last straw that breaks the camel's back.' Who'll do 'camels'? You'd better," she added kindly to me.
Everybody but myself seemed to think that this was much more fun.
"I'll do 'straw,'" said Peter generously, whereupon Celia volunteered for "breaks." There were seven of us for nine words. We gave Mrs. Herbert the second "the," fearing to trust her with anything more alarming and in order to keep it in the family we gave the other "the" to Herbert, who was also responsible for "back." Our hostess had "last" and Mrs. Peter had "that."
All this being settled, our host was admitted into his smoking-room again.
"You begin with me," I said, and I was promptly asked, "How many blue beans make five?" When I had made a suitable answer into which "it's" came without much difficulty, our host turned to Herbert. Herbert's face had already assumed a look of strained expectancy.
"Well, Herbert, what do you think of Lloyd George?"
"Yes," said Herbert. "Yes—er—yes." He wiped the perspiration from his brow. "He—er—that is to say—er—Lloyd George, yes."
"Is that the answer?" said our host, rather surprised.
Herbert explained hastily that he hadn't really begun yet, and with the aid of an anecdote about a cousin of his who had met Winston Churchill at Dieppe once, he managed to get "the" in several times before blowing his nose vigorously and announcing that he had finished.
"I believe he's playing a different game," murmured Celia to Mrs. Peter.
The next three words were disposed of easily enough, a lucky question to Peter about the weather giving him an opportunity to refer to his straw hat. It was now Celia's turn for "breaks."
"Nervous?" I asked her.
"All of a twitter," she said.
"Well, Celia," said our host, "how long are you going to stay with us?"
"Oh, a long time yet," said Celia confidently.
"Till Wednesday, anyhow," I interrupted, thinking it a good opportunity to clinch the matter.
"We generally stay," explained Celia, "until our host breaks it to us that he can't stick us any longer."
"Not that that often happens," I added.
"Look here, which of you is answering the question?"
"I am," said Celia firmly.
"Well, have you answered it yet?"
"To tell the truth I've quite forgotten the word that—Oh, I remember now. Yes," she went on very distinctly and slowly, "I hope to remain under your roof until next Wednesday morn. Whew!" and she fanned herself with her handkerchief.
Mrs. Herbert repeated her husband's triumph with "the," and then it was my turn again for these horrible camels. My only hope was that our host would ask me if I had been to the Zoo lately, but I didn't see why he should. He didn't.
"Would it surprise you to hear," he asked, "that the President ofCzecho-Slovakia has a very long beard?"
"If it had only been 'goats,'" I murmured to myself. Aloud I said,"What?" in the hope of gaining a little more time.
He repeated his question.
"No," I said slowly, "no, it wouldn't," and I telegraphed an appeal toCelia for help. She nodded back at me.
"Have you finished?" asked our host.
"Good Lord, no, I shall be half an hour yet. The fact is you've asked the wrong question. You see, I've got to get in 'moss.'"
"I thought it was 'camels,'" said Celia carelessly.
"No, 'moss.' Now if you'd only asked me a question about gardening—You see, the proverb we wanted to have first of all was 'People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones,' only 'throw' was so difficult. Almost as difficult as—" I turned to Celia. "What was it you said just now? Oh yes, camels. Or stable doors, or frying-pans. However, there it is." And I enlarged a little more on the difficulty of getting in these difficult words.
"Thank you very much," said our host faintly when I had finished.
It was the last straw which broke the camel's back, and it was Herbert who stepped forward blithely with the last straw. Our host, as he admitted afterwards, was still quite in the dark, and with his last question he presented Herbert with an absolute gift.
"When do you go back to Devonshire?" he asked.
"We—er—return next month," answered Herbert. "I should say," he added hastily, "we gobacknext month."
My own private opinion was that the sooner he returned to Devonshire the better.
The card was just an ordinary card,The letter just an ordinary letter.The letter simply said "Dear Mr. Brown,I'm asked by Mrs. Phipp to send you this";The card said, "Mrs. Philby Phipp, At Home,"And in a corner, "Dancing, 10 p.m.,"No more—except a date, a hint in FrenchThat a reply would not be deemed offensive,And, most important, Mrs. Phipp's address.
Destiny, as the poets have observed(Or will do shortly) is a mighty thing.It takes us by the ear and lugs us firmlyDown different paths towards one common goal,Paths pre-appointed, not of our own choosing;Or sometimes throws two travellers together,Marches them side by side for half a mile,Then snatches them apart and hauls them onward.Thus happened it that Mrs. Phipp and IHad never met to any great extent,Had never met, as far as I remembered,At all…. And yet there must have been a timeWhen she and I were very near together,When some one told her, "Thatis Mr. Brown,"Or introduced us "Thisis Mr. Brown,"Or asked her if she'd heard of Mr. Brown;I know not what, I only know that nowShe stood At Home in need of Mr. Brown,And I had pledged myself to her assistance.
Behold me on the night, the latest wordIn all that separates the gentleman(And waiters) from the evening-dress-less mob,And graced, moreover, by the latest wordIn waistcoats such as mark one from the waiters.My shirt, I must not speak about my shirt;My tie, I cannot dwell upon my tie—Enough that all was neat, harmonious,And suitable to Mrs. Philby Phipp.Behold me, then, complete. A hasty searchTo find the card, and reassure myselfThat this is certainly the day—(It is)—And 10 p.m. the hour; "p.m.," not "a.m.,"Not after breakfast—good; and then outside,To jump into a cab and take the winds,The cold east winds of March, with beauty. So.
Let us get on more quickly. Looms aheadTragedy. Let us on and have it over.
I hung with men and women on the stairsAnd watched the tall white footman take the names,And heard him shout them out, and there I shapedMy own name ready for him, "Mr. Brown."And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name,Would, I imagined, brighten suddenlyAnd smile and say, "Howareyou, Mr. Brown?"And in an instant I'd remember her,And where we met, and who was Mr. Phipp,And all the jolly time at Grindelwald(If that was where it was); and she and IWould talk of Art and Politics and thingsAs we had talked these many years ago….So "Mr. Brown" I murmured to the man,And he—the fool!—he took a mighty breathAnd shouted, "Mr. BROWNIE!"—Brownie! Yes,He shouted "Mr. BROWNIE" to the roof.And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name,Brightened up suddenly and smiled and said,"Howareyou, Mr. Brownie?"—(Brownie! Lord!)And, while my mouth was open to protest,"Howdo you do?" to some one at the back.So I was passed along into the crowdAs Brownie!
Who on earth is Mr. Brownie?Did he, I wonder, he and Mrs. PhippTalk Art and Politics at Grindelwald,Or did one simply point him out to herWith "Thatis Mr. Brownie?" Were they friends,Dear friends, or casual acquaintances?She brightened at his name, some memoryCame back to her that brought a happy smile—Whysurely they were friends! ButIam Brown,A stranger, all unknown to Mrs. Phipp,As she to me, a common interloper—Isee it now—an uninvited guest,Whose card was clearly meant for Mr. Brownie.Soft music fell, and the kaleidoscopeOf lovely woman glided, swayed and turnedBeneath the shaded lights; but Mr. Brownie(NéBrown, not Brownie) stood upon one sideAnd brooded silently. Some spoke to him;Whether to Brown or Brownie mattered not,He did not answer, did not notice them,Just stood and brooded…. Then went home to bed.
(In the manner of many contemporaries)
Now that the "festive season" (copyright) is approaching, it behoves us all to prepare ourselves in some way to contribute to the gaiety of the Christmas house-party. A clever conjurer is welcome anywhere, and those of us whose powers of entertainment are limited to the setting of booby-traps or the arranging of apple-pie beds must view with envy the much greater tribute of laughter and applause which is the lot of the prestidigitator with some natural gift for legerdemain. Fortunately there are a few simple conjuring tricks which are within the reach of us all. With practice even the clumsiest of us can obtain sufficient dexterity in the art of illusion to puzzle the most observant of our fellow-guests. The few simple tricks which I am about to explain, if studied diligently for a few days before Christmas, will make a genuine addition to the gaiety of any gathering, and the amateur prestidigitator (if I may use that word again) will find that he is amply repaying the hospitality of his host and hostess by his contribution to the general festivity.
So much by way of introduction. It is a difficult style of writing to keep up, particularly when the number of synonyms for "conjuring" is so strictly limited. Let me now get to the tricks. I call the first
For this trick you want a lemon and a pack of ordinary playing-cards. Cutting the lemon in two, you hand half to one member of your audience and half to another, asking them to hold the halves up in full view of the company. Then, taking the pack of cards in your own hands, you offer it to a third member of the party, requesting him to select a card and examine it carefully. When he has done this he puts it back in the pack, and you seize this opportunity to look hurriedly at the face of it, discovering (let us say) that it is the five of spades. Once more you shuffle the pack; and then, going through the cards one by one, you will have no difficulty in locating the five of spades, which you will hold up to the company with the words "I think this is your card, sir"—whereupon the audience will testify by its surprise and appreciation that you have guessed correctly.
It will be noticed that, strictly speaking, the lemon is not a necessary adjunct of this trick; but the employment of it certainly adds an air of mystery to the initial stages of the illusion, and this air of mystery is, after all, the chief stock-in-trade of the successful conjurer.
For my next trick, which I call
and which is most complicated, you require a sponge, two tablecloths, a handful of nuts, a rabbit, five yards of coloured ribbon, a top-hat with a hole in it, a hard-boiled egg, two florins and a gentleman's watch. Having obtained all these things, which may take some time, you put the two tablecloths aside and separate the other articles into two heaps, the rabbit, the top-hat, the hard-boiled egg, and the handful of nuts being in one heap, and the ribbon, the sponge, the gentleman's watch and the two florins in the other. This being done, you cover each heap with a tablecloth, so that none of the objects beneath is in any way visible. Then you invite any gentleman in the audience to think of a number. Let us suppose he thinks of 38. In that case you ask any lady in the audience to think of an odd number, and she suggests (shall we say?) 29. Then, asking the company to watch you carefully, you—you—
To tell the truth, I have forgotten just what it is youdodo, but I know that it is a very good trick, and never fails to create laughter and bewilderment. It is distinctly an illusion worth trying, and, if you begin it in the manner I have described, quite possibly some way of finishing it up will occur to you on the spur of the moment. By multiplying the two numbers together and passing the hard-boiled egg through the sponge and then taking the … or is it the—Anyway, I'm certain you have to have a piece of elastic up the sleeve … and I know one of the florins has to—No, it's no good, I can't remember it.
But mention of the two numbers reminds me of a trick which I haven't forgotten. It is a thought-reading illusion, and always creates themaximumof wonderment amongst the audience. It is called
As before, you ask a gentleman in the company to write down a number on a piece of paper, and a lady to write down another number. These numbers they show to the other guests. You then inform the company that you will ask any one of them three questions, and by the way they are answered you will guess what the product of the two numbers is. (For instance, if the numbers were 13 and 17, then 13 multiplied by 17 is—let's see, thirteen sevens are—thirteen sevens—seven threes are twenty-one, seven times one is—well, look here, let's suppose the numbers are 10 and 17. Then the product is 170, and 170 is the number you have got to guess.)
Well, the company selects a lady to answer your questions, and the first thing you ask her is: "When was Magna Charta signed?" Probably she says that she doesn't know. Then you say, "What is the capital of Persia?" She answers Timbuctoo, or Omar Khayyam, according to how well informed she is. Then comes your last question: "What makes lightning?" She is practically certain to say, "Oh, the thunder." Then you tell her that the two numbers multiplied together come to 170.
How is this remarkable trick performed? It is quite simple. The two people whom you asked to think of the numbers are confederates, and you arranged with them beforehand that they should write down 10 and 17. Of course it would be a much better trick if they weren't confederates; but in that case I don't quite know how you would do it.
I shall end up this interesting and instructive article with a rather more difficult illusion. For the tricks I have already explained it was sufficient that the amateur prestidigitator (I shall only say this once more) should know how it was done; for my last trick he will also require a certain aptitude for legerdemain in order to do it. But a week's quiet practice at home will give him all the skill that is necessary.
is one of the oldest and most popular illusions. You begin by borrowing a gold watch from one of your audience. Having removed the works, you wrap the empty case up in a handkerchief and hand it back to him, asking him to put it in his waistcoat pocket. The works you place in an ordinary pudding basin and proceed to pound up with a hammer. Having reduced them to powder, you cover the basin with another handkerchief, which you borrow from a member of the company, and announce that you are about to make a plum-pudding. Cutting a small hole in the top of the handkerchief, you drop a lighted match through the aperture; whereupon the handkerchief flares up. When the flames have died down you exhibit the basin, wherein (to the surprise of all) is to be seen an excellent Christmas pudding, which you may ask your audience to sample. At the same time you tell the owner of the watch that if he feels in his pockets he will find his property restored to him intact; and to his amazement he discovers that the works in some mysterious way have got back into his watch, and that the handkerchief in which it was wrapped up has gone!
Now for the explanation of this ingenious illusion. The secret of it is that you have a second basin, with a pudding in it, concealed in the palm of your right hand. At the critical moment, when the handkerchief flares up, you take advantage of the excitement produced to substitute the one basin for the other. The watch from which you extract the works is not the borrowed one, but one which you have had concealed between the third and fourth fingers of the left hand. You show the empty case of this watch to the company, before wrapping the watch in the handkerchief and handing it back to its owner. Meanwhile with the aid of a little wax you have attached an invisible hair to the handkerchief, the other end of it being fastened to the palm of your left hand. With a little practice it is not difficult to withdraw the handkerchief, by a series of trifling jerks, from, the pocket of your fellow-guest to its resting place between the first and second finger of your left hand.
One word more. I am afraid that the borrowed handkerchief to which you applied the match really did get burnt, and you will probably have to offer the owner one of your own instead. That is the only weak spot in one of the most baffling tricks ever practised by the amateur prestidigitator (to use the word for the last time). It will make a fitting climax to your evening's entertainment—an entertainment which will ensure you another warm invitation next year when the "festive season" (copyright) comes upon us once again.
[Specially written for Economic Pictures, Limited, whose Manager has had the good fortune to pick up for a mere song (or, to be more accurate, for a few notes) several thousand miles of discarded cinema films from a bankrupt company. The films comprise the well-known "Baresark Basil, the Pride of the Ranch" (two miles long), "The Foiler Foiled" (one mile, three furlongs, two rods, poles or perches), "The Blood-stained Vest" (fragment—eighteen inches), "A Maniac's Revenge" (5,000 feet), "The Life of the Common Mosquito" (six legs), and so forth.]
Twenty-five years before our film opens, Andrew Bellingham, a young man just about to enter his father's business, was spending a holiday in a little fishing village in Cornwall. The daughter of the sheep-farmer with whom he lodged was a girl of singular beauty, and Andrew's youthful blood was quickly stirred to admiration. Carried away by his passion for her, he—
[MANAGER.Just a reminder that Mr. T.P. O'Connor has to pass this before it can be produced.]—he married her—
[MANAGER.Oh, I beg pardon.]—and for some weeks they lived happily together. One day he informed Jessie that he would have to go back to his work in London, and that it might be a year or more before he could acknowledge her openly as his wife to his rich and proud parents. Jessie was prostrated with grief; and late that afternoon her hat and fringe-net were discovered by the edge of the waters. Realizing at once that she must have drowned herself in her distress, Andrew took an affecting farewell of her father and the sheep, and returned to London. A year later he married a distant cousin, and soon rose to a condition of prosperity. At the time our film begins to unwind, he was respected by everybody in the City, a widower, and the father of a beautiful girl of eighteen called Hyacinth.
[MANAGER.Now we're off. What do we start with?]
On the sunny side of Fenchurch Street—
[MANAGER.Ah, then I suppose we'd better keep back the Rescue from theAlligator and the Plunge down Niagara in a Barrel.]
—Andrew Bellingham was dozing in his office. Suddenly he awoke to find a strange man standing over him.
"Who are you?" asked Mr. Bellingham. "What do you want?"
"My name is Jasper," was the answer, "and I have some information to give you." He bent down and hissed, "Your first wife is still alive!"
Andrew started up in obvious horror. "My daughter," he gasped, "my littleHyacinth! She must never know."
"Listen. Your wife is in Spain—
[MANAGER.Don't waste her. Make it somewhere where there are sharks.
AUTHOR.It's all right, she's dead really.]—and she will not trouble you. Give me a thousand pounds and you shall have these; and he held out a packet containing the marriage certificate, a photograph of Jessie's father dipping a sheep, a receipted bill for a pair of white gloves, size 9-1/2, two letters signed "Your own loving little Andy Pandy," and a peppermint with "Jess" on it in pink. Once these are locked up in your safe, no one need ever know that you were married in Cornwall twenty-five years ago."
Without a moment's hesitation Mr. Bellingham took a handful of bank notes from his pocketbook, and the exchange was made. At all costs he must preserve his little Hyacinth from shame. Now she need never know. With a forced smile he bowed Jasper out, placed the packet in his safe and returned to his desk.
But his mysterious visitor was not done with yet. As soon as the door had closed behind him Jasper re-entered softly, drugged Andrew hastily, and took possession again of the compromising documents. By the time Mr. Bellingham had regained his senses the thief was away. A hue-and-cry was raised, police whistles were blown, and Richard Harrington, Mr. Bellingham's private secretary, was smartly arrested.
At the trial things looked black against Richard. He was poor and he was in love with Hyacinth; the chain of evidence was complete. In spite of his impassioned protest from the dock, in spite of Hyacinth's dramatic swoon in front of the solicitor's table, the judge with great solemnity passed sentence of twenty years' penal servitude. A loud "Hear, hear" from the gallery rang through the court, and, looking up, Mr. Bellingham caught the sardonic eye of the mysterious Jasper.
Richard had been in prison a month before the opportunity for his escape occurred. For a month he had been hewing stone in Portland, black despair at his heart. Then, like lightning, he saw his chance and took it. The warders were off guard for a moment. Hastily lifting his pickaxe—
[MANAGER.Sorry, but it's a spade in the only prison film we've got.]
Hastily borrowing a spade from a comrade who was digging potatoes, he struck several of his gaolers down, and, dodging the shots of others who hurried to the scene, he climbed the prison wall and dashed for freedom.
Reaching Weymouth at nightfall, he made his way to the house which Hyacinth had taken in order to be near him, and, suitably disguised, travelled up to London with her in the powerful motor which she had kept ready. "At last, my love, we are together," he murmured as they neared Wimbledon. But he had spoken a moment too soon. An aeroplane swooped down upon them, and Hyacinth was snatched from his arms and disappeared with her captors into the clouds.
Richard's first act on arriving in London was to go to Mr. Bellingham's house. Andrew was out, but a note lying on his study carpet, "Meet me at the Old Windmill to-night,"gave him a clue. On receipt of this note Andrew had gone to the rendezvous, and it was no surprise to him when Jasper stepped out and offered to sell him a packet containing a marriage certificate, a photograph of an old gentleman dipping a sheep, a peppermint lozenge with "Jess" on it, and various other documents for a thousand pounds.
"You villain," cried Andrew, "even at the trial I suspected you," and he rushed at him fiercely.
A desperate struggle ensued. Breaking free for a moment from the vice-like grip of the other, Jasper leapt with the spring of a panther at one of the sails of the windmill as it came round, and was whirled upwards; with the spring of another panther, Andrew leapt on to the next sail and was whirled after him. At that moment the wind dropped, and the combatants were suspended in mid-air.
It was upon this terrible scene that Richard arrived. Already a crowd was collecting; and, though at present it did not seem greatly alarmed, feeling convinced that it was only assisting at another cinematograph rehearsal, its suspicions might at any moment be aroused. With a shout he dashed into the mill. Seeing him coming Jasper dropped his revolver and slid down the sail into the window. In a moment he reappeared at the door of the mill with Hyacinth under his arm. "Stop him!" cried Richard from underneath a sack of flour. It was no good. Jasper had leapt with his fair burden upon the back of his mustang and was gone….
The usual pursuit followed.
It was the gala night at the Royal Circus. Ricardo Harringtoni, the wonderful new acrobat of whom everybody was talking, stood high above the crowd on his platform. His marvellous performance on the swinging horizontal bar was about to begin. Richard Harrington (for it was he) was troubled. Since he had entered on his new profession—as a disguise from the police who were still searching for him—he had had a vague suspicion that the lion-tamer was dogging him.Who was the lion-tamer?Could it be Jasper?
At that moment the band struck up and Richard leapt lightly on to the swinging bar. With a movement full of grace he let go of the bar and swung on to the opposite platform. And then, even as he was in mid-air, he realized what was happening.
Jasper had let the lion loose!
It was waiting for him.
With a gasping cry Ricardo Harringtoni fainted.
When he recovered consciousness, Richard found himself on the S.S."Boracic," which was forging her way through the—
[MANAGER.Somewhere where there are sharks.]
—the Indian Ocean. Mr. Bellingham was bathing his forehead with cooling drinks.
"Forgive me, my boy," said Mr. Bellingham, "for the wrong I did you. It was Jasper who stole the compromising documents. He refuses to give them back unless I let him marry Hyacinth. What can I do?"
"Where is she?" asked Richard.
"Hidden away no one knows where. Find her, get back the documents for me, and she is yours."
At that moment a terrible cry rang through the ship, "Man overboard!" Pushing over Mr. Bellingham and running on deck, Richard saw that a woman and her baby were battling for life in the shark-infested waters. In an instant he had plunged in and rescued them. As they were dragged together up the ship's side he heard her murmur, "Is little Jasper safe?"
"Jasper?" cried Richard.
"Yes, called after his daddy."
"Where is daddy now?" asked Richard hoarsely.
"In America."
"Can't you see the likeness?" whispered Richard to Mr. Bellingham. "It must be. The villain is married to another. But now I will pursue him and get back the papers." And he left the boat at the next port and boarded one for America.
The search through North and South America for Jasper was protracted. Accompanied sometimes by a band of cowboys, sometimes by a tribe of Indians, Richard scoured the continent for his enemy. There were hours when he would rest awhile and amuse himself by watching the antics of the common mosquito [Manager.Good!] or he would lie at full length and gaze at a bud bursting into flower. [Manager.Excellent!] Then he would leap on to his steed and pursue the trail relentlessly once more.
One night he was dozing by his camp-fire, when he was awakened roughly by strong arms around his neck and Jasper's hot breath in his ear.
"At last!" cried Jasper, and, knocking Richard heavily on the head with a boot, he picked up his unconscious enemy and carried him to a tributary of the Amazon noted for its alligators. Once there he tied him to a post in mid-stream and rode hastily off to the nearest town, where he spent the evening witnessing the first half of "The Merchant of Venice." [Manager.Splendid!] But in the morning a surprise awaited him. As he was proceeding along the top of a lonely cliff he was confronted suddenly by the enemy whom he had thought to kill.
"Richard!" he cried, "escaped again!"
"Now, Jasper, I have you."
With a triumphant cry they rushed at each other; a terrible contest ensued; and then Jasper, with one blow of his palm, hurled his adversary over the precipice.
How many times the two made an end of each other after this the pictures will show. Sometimes Jasper sealed Richard in a barrel and pushed him over Niagara; sometimes Richard tied Jasper to a stake and set light to him; sometimes they would both fall out of a balloon together. But the day of reckoning was at hand.
[Manager.We've only got the Burning House and the 1913 Derby left.
Author.Right.]
It is the evening of the 3rd of June. A cry rends the air suddenly, whistles are blowing, there is a rattling of horses' hoofs. "Fire! Fire!" Richard, who was passing Soho Square at the time, heard the cry and dashed into the burning house. In a room full of smoke he perceived a cowering woman. Hyacinth! To pick her up was the work of a moment, but how shall he save her? Stay! The telegraph wire! His training at the Royal Circus stood him in good stead. Treading lightly on the swaying wire he carried Hyacinth across to the house opposite.
"At last, my love," he breathed.
"But the papers," she cried. "You must get them, or father will not let you marry me."
Once more he treads the rocking wire; once more he re-crosses, with the papers on his back. Then the house behind him crumbles to the ground, with the wicked Jasper in its ruins….
"Excellent," said Mr. Bellingham at dinner that evening. "Not only are the papers here, but a full confession by Jasper. My first wife was drowned all the time; he stole the documents from her father. Richard, my boy, when the Home Secretary knows everything he will give you a free pardon. And then you can marry my daughter."
At these words Hyacinth and Richard were locked in a close embrace. On the next day they all went to the Derby together.
People say to me sometimes, "Oh,youknow Woolman, don't you?" I acknowledge that I do, and, after the silence that always ensues, I add, "If you want to say anything against him, please go on." You can almost hear the sigh of relief that goes up. "I thought he was a friend of yours," they say cheerfully. "But, of course, if—" and then they begin.
I think it is time I explained my supposed friendship for Ernest MerrowbyWoolman—confound him.
The affair began in a taxicab two years ago. Andrew had been dining with me that night; we walked out to the cab-rank together; I told the driver where to go, and Andrew stepped in, waved good-bye to me from the window, and sat down suddenly upon something hard. He drew it from beneath him, and found it was an extremely massive (and quite new) silver cigar-case. He put it in his pocket with the intention of giving it to the driver when he got out, but quite naturally forgot. Next morning he found it on his dressing-table. So he put it in his pocket again, meaning to leave it at Scotland Yard on his way to the City.
Next morning it was on his dressing-table again.
This went on for some days. After a week or so Andrew saw that it was hopeless to try to get a cigar-case back to Scotland Yard in this casual sort of way; it must be taken there deliberately by somebody who had a morning to spare and was willing to devote it to this special purpose. He placed the case, therefore, prominently on a small table in the dining-room to await the occasion; calling also the attention of his family to it, as an excuse for an outing when they were not otherwise engaged.
At times he used to say, "I must really take that cigar-case to ScotlandYard to-morrow."
At other times he would say, "Somebody must really take that cigar-case to Scotland Yard to-day."
And so the weeks rolled on….
It was about a year later that I first got mixed up with the thing. I must have dined with the Andrews several times without noticing the cigar-case, but on this occasion it caught my eye as we wandered out to join the ladies, and I picked it up carelessly. Well, not exactly carelessly; it was too heavy for that.
"Why didn't you tell me," I said, "that you had stood for Parliament and that your supporters had consoled you with a large piece of plate? Hallo, they've put the wrong initials on it. How unbusiness-like."
"Oh,that?" said Andrew. "Is it still there?"
"Why not? It's quite a solid little table. But you haven't explained why your constituents, who must have seen your name on hundreds of posters, thought your initials were E.M.W."
Andrew explained.
"Then it isn't yours at all?" I said in amazement.
"Of course not."
"But, my dear man, this is theft. Stealing by finding, they call it. You could get"—I looked at him almost with admiration—"you could get two years for this"; and I weighed the cigar-case in my hand. "I believe you're the only one of my friends who could be certain of two years," I went on musingly. "Let's see, there's—"
"Nonsense," said Andrew uneasily. "But still, perhaps I'd better take it back to Scotland Yard to-morrow."
"And tell them you've kept it for a year? They'd run you in at once. No, what you want to do is to get rid of it without their knowledge. But how—that's the question. You can't give it away because of the initials."
"It's easy enough. I can leave it in another cab, or drop it in the river."
"Andrew, Andrew," I cried, "you're determined to go to prison! Don't you know from all the humorous articles you've ever read that, if youtryto lose anything, then you never can? It's one of the stock remarks one makes to women in the endeavour to keep them amused. No, you must think of some more subtle way of disposing of it."
"I'll pretend it's yours," said Andrew more subtly, and he placed it in my pocket.
"No, you don't," I said. "But I tell you what I will do. I'll take it for a week and see if I can get rid of it. If I can't, I shall give it you back and wash my hands of the whole business—except, of course, for the monthly letter or whatever it is they allow you at the Scrubbs. You may still count on me for that."
And then the extraordinary thing happened. The next morning I received a letter from a stranger, asking for some simple information which I could have given him on a post-card. And so I should have done—or possibly, I am afraid, have forgotten to answer at all—but for the way that the letter ended up.
"Yours very truly,ERNEST M. WOOLMAN."
The magic initials! It was a chance not to be missed. I wrote enthusiastically back and asked him to lunch.
He came. I gave him all the information he wanted, and more. Whether he was a pleasant sort of person or not I hardly noticed; I was so very pleasant myself.
He returned my enthusiasm. He asked me to dine with him the following week. A little party at the Savoy—his birthday, you know.
I accepted gladly. I rolled up at the party with my little present…a massive silver cigar-case…suitably engraved.
* * * * *
So there you are. He clings to me. He seems to have formed the absurd idea that I am fond of him. A few months after that evening at the Savoy he was married. I was invited to the wedding—confound him. Of course I had to live up to my birthday present; the least I could do was an enormous silver cigar-box (not engraved), which bound me to him still more strongly.
By that time I realized that I hated him. He was pushing, familiar, everything that I disliked. All my friends wondered how I had become so intimate with him….
Well, now they know. And the original E.M.W., if he has the sense to read this, also knows. If he cares to prosecute Ernest Merrowby Woolman for being in possession of stolen goods, I shall be glad to give him any information. Woolman is generally to be found leaving my rooms at about 6.30 in the evening, and a smart detective could easily nab him as he steps out.
The girl who shared Herbert's meringue at dinner (a brittle one, which exploded just as he was getting into it) was kind and tactful.
"It doesn't matter a bit," she said, removing fragments of shell from her lap; and, to put him at his ease again, went on "Are you interested in little problems at all?"
Herbert, who would have been interested even in a photograph album just then, emerged from his apologies and swore that he was.
"We're all worrying about one which Father saw in a paper. I do wish you could solve it for us. It goes like this." And she proceeded to explain it. Herbert decided that the small piece of meringue still in her hair was not worth mentioning, and he listened to her with interest.
On the next morning I happened to drop in at Herbert's office…. And that, in short, is how I was entangled in the business.
"Look here," said Herbert, "you used to be mathematical; here's something for you."
"Let the dead past bury its dead," I implored. "I am now quite respectable."
"It goes like this," he said, ignoring my appeal.
He then gave me the problem, which I hand on to you.
"A subaltern riding at the rear of a column of soldiers trotted up to the captain in front and challenged him to a game of billiards for half a crown a side, the loser to pay for the table. Having lost, he played another hundred, double or quits, and then rode back, the column by this time having travelled twice its own length, and a distance equal to the distance it would have travelled if it had been going in the other direction. What was the captain's name?"
Perhaps I have not got it quite right, for I have had an eventful week since then; or perhaps Herbert didn't get it quite right; or perhaps the girl with the meringue in her hair didn't get it quite right; but anyhow, that was the idea of it.
"And the answer," said Herbert, "ought to be 'four cows,' but I keep on making it 'eight and tuppence.' Just have a shot at it, there's a good fellow. I promised the girl, you know."
I sat down, worked it out hastily on the back of an envelope, and made it a yard and a half.
"No," said Herbert; "I know it's 'four cows,' but I can't get it."
"Sorry," I said, "how stupid of me; I left out the table-money."
I did it hastily again and made it three minutes twenty-five seconds.
"Itisdifficult, isn't it?" said Herbert. "I thought, as you used to be mathematical and as I'd promised the girl—"
"Wait a moment," I said, still busy with my envelope. "I forgot the subaltern. Ah, that's right. The answer is a hundred and twenty-five men…. No, that's wrong—I never doubled the half-crown. Er—oh, look here, Herbert, I'm rather busy this morning. I'll send it to you."
"Right," said Herbert. "I know I can depend on you, because you're mathematical." And he opened the door for me.
I had meant to do a very important piece of work that day, but I couldn't get my mind off Herbert's wretched problem. Happening to see Carey at teatime, I mentioned it to him.
"Ah," said Carey profoundly. "H'm. Have you tried it with an 'x'?"
"Of course."
"Yes, it looks as though it wants a bit of an 'x' somewhere. You stick to it with an 'x' and you ought to do it. Let 'x' be the subaltern—that's the way. I say, I didn't know you were interested in problems."
"Well—"
"Because I've got rather a tricky chess problem here I can't do." He produced his pocket chess-board. "White mates in four moves."
I looked at it carelessly. Black had only left himself with a Pawn and a King, while White had a Queen and a couple of Knights about. Now, I know very little about chess, but I do understand the theory of chess problems.
"Have you tried letting the Queen be taken by Black's pawn, then sacrificing the Knights, and finally mating him with the King alone?"
"Yes," said Carey.
Then I was baffled. If one can't solve a chess problem by starting off with the most unlikely-looking thing on the board, one can't solve it at all. However, I copied down the position and said I'd glance at it…. At eleven that night I rose from my glance, decided that Herbert's problem was the more immediately pressing, and took it to bed with me.
I was lunching with William next day, and I told him about the subaltern.He dashed at it lightheartedly and made the answer seventeen.
"Seventeen what?" I said.
"Well, whatever we're talking about. I think you'll find it's seventeen all right. But look here, my son, here's a golf problem for you. A is playing B. At the fifth hole A falls off the tee into a pond—"
I forget how it went on.
When I got home to dinner, after a hard day with the subaltern, I found a letter from Norah waiting for me.
"I hear from Mr. Carey," she wrote, "that you're keen on problems. Here's one I have cut out of our local paper. Do have a shot at it. The answer ought to be eight miles an hour."
Luckily, however, she forgot to enclose the problem. For by this time, what with Herbert's subaltern, Carey's pawn, and a cistern left me by an uncle who was dining with us that night, I had more than enough to distract me.
And so the business has gone on. The news that I am preparing a collection of interesting and tricky problems for a new "Encyclopaedia" has got about among my friends. Everybody who writes to me tells me of a relation of his who has been shearing sheep or rowing against the stream or dealing himself four aces. People who come to tea borrow a box of wooden matches and beg me to remove one match and leave a perfect square. I am asked to do absurd things with pennies….
Meanwhile Herbert has forgotten both the problem and the girl. Three evenings later he shared his Hollandaise sauce with somebody in yellow (as luck would have it) and she changed the subject by wondering if he read Dickens. He is now going manfully through "Bleak House"—a chapter a night—and when he came to visit me to-day he asked me if I had ever heard of the man.
However, I was not angry with him, for I had just made it come to "three cows." It is a cow short, but it is nearer than I have ever been before, and I think I shall leave it at that. Indeed, both the doctor and the nurse say that I had better leave it at that.
(In the Twentieth Century manner)
"Cauliflower!" shrieked Gaspard Volauvent across the little table in theestaminet. His face bristled with rage.
"Serpent!" replied Jacques Rissole, bristling with equal dexterity.
The two stout little men glared ferociously at each other. Then Jacques picked up his glass and poured the wine of the country over his friend's head.
"Drown, serpent!" he said magnificently. He beckoned to the waiter."Another bottle," he said. "My friend has drunk all this."
Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers with the local paper and leant over the table towards Jacques.
"This must be wiped out in blood," he said slowly. "You understand?"
"Perfectly," replied the other. "The only question is whose."
"Name your weapons," said Gaspard Volauvent grandly.
"Aeroplanes," replied Jacques Rissole after a moment's thought.
"Bah! I cannot fly."
"Then I win," said Jacques simply.
The other looked at him in astonishment.
"What! You fly?"
"No; but I can learn."
"Then I will learn too," said Gaspard with dignity. "We meet—in six months?"
"Good." Jacques pointed to the ceiling. "Say three thousand feet up."
"Three thousand four hundred," said Gaspard for the sake of disagreeing.
"After all, that is for our seconds to arrange. My friend Epinard of the Roullens Aerodrome will act for me. He will also instruct me how to bring serpents to the ground."
"With the idea of cleansing the sky of cauliflowers," said Gaspard, "I shall proceed to the flying-ground at Dormancourt; Blanchaille, the instructor there, will receive your friend."
He bowed and walked out.
Details were soon settled. On a date six months ahead the two combatants would meet three thousand two hundred feet above the little town in which they lived, and fight to the death. In the event of both crashing, the one who crashed last would be deemed the victor. It was Gaspard's second who insisted on this clause; Gaspard himself felt that it did not matter greatly.
The first month of instruction went by. At the end of it Jacques Rissole had only one hope. It was that when he crashed he should crash on some of Gaspard's family. Gaspard had no hope, but one consolation. It was that no crash could involve his stomach, which he invariably left behind him as soon as the aeroplane rose.
At the end of the second month Gaspard wrote to Jacques.
"My friend," he wrote, "the hatred of you which I nurse in my bosom, and which fills me with the desire to purge you from the sky, is in danger of being transferred to my instructor. Let us therefore meet and renew our enmity."
Jacques Rissole wrote back to Gaspard.
"My enemy," he wrote, "there is nobody in the whole of the Roullens Aerodrome whom I do not detest with a detestation beside which my hatred for you seems as maudlin adoration. This is notwithstanding the fact that I make the most marvellous progress in the art of flying. It is merely something in their faces which annoys me. Let me therefore see yours again, in the hope that it will make me think more kindly of theirs."
They met, poured wine over each other and parted. After another month the need of a further stimulant was felt. They met again, and agreed to insult each other weekly.
On the last day of his training Gaspard spoke seriously to his instructor.
"You see that I make nothing of it," he said. "My thoughts are ever with the stomach that I leave behind. Not once have I been in a position to take control. How then can I fight? My friend, I arrange it all. You shall take my place."
"Is that quite fair to Rissole?" asked Blanchaille doubtfully.
"Do not think that I want you to hurt him. That is not necessary. He will hurt himself. Keep out of his way until he has finished with himself, and then fly back here. It is easy."
It seemed the best way; indeed the only way. Gaspard Volauvent could never get to the rendezvous alone, and it would be fatal to his honour if Jacques arrived there and found nobody to meet him. Reluctantly Blanchaille agreed.
At the appointed hour Gaspard put his head cautiously out of his bedroom window and gazed up into the heavens. He saw two aeroplanes straight above him. At the thought that he might have been in one of them he shuddered violently. Indeed, he felt so unwell that the need for some slight restorative became pressing. He tripped off to theestaminet.
It was empty save for one table. Gaspard walked towards it, hoping for a little conversation. The occupant lowered the newspaper from in front of his face and looked up.
It was too much for Gaspard.
"Coward!" he shrieked.
Jacques, who had been going to say the same thing, hastily substituted"Serpent!"
"I know you," cried Gaspard. "You send your instructor up in your place.Poltroon!"
Jacques picked up his glass and poured the wine of the country over his friend's head.
"Drown, serpent," he said magnificently. He beckoned to the waiter."Another bottle," he said. "My friend has drunk all this."
Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers with Jacques' paper, and leant over him.
"This must be wiped out in blood," he said slowly. "Name your weapons."
"Submarines," said Jacques after a moment's thought.
I found myself in the same drawing-room with Anne the other day, so I offered her one of my favourite sandwiches. (I hadn't seen her for some time, and there were plenty in the plate.)
"If you are coming to talk to me," she said, "I think I had better warn you that I am a Bolshevist."
"Then you won't want a sandwich," I said gladly, and I withdrew the plate.
"I suppose," said Anne, "that what I really want is a vote."
"Haven't you got one? Sorry; I mean, of course you haven't got one."
"But it isn't only that. I want to see the whole position of women altered. I want to see—"
I looked round for her mother.
"Tell me," I said gently; "when did this come over you?"
"In the last few weeks," said Anne. "And I don't wonder."
I settled down with the sandwiches to listen.
Anne first noted symptoms of it at a luncheon-party at the beginning of the month. She had asked the young man on her right if she could have some of his salt, and as he passed it to her he covered up any embarrassment she might be feeling by saying genially, "Well, and how long is this coal strike going to last?"
"I don't know," said Anne truthfully.
"I suppose you're ready for the Revolution? The billiard-room and all the spare bedrooms well stocked?"
Anne saw that this was meant humorously, and she laughed.
"I expect we shall be all right," she said.
"You'll have to give a coal-party, and invite all your friends. 'Fire, 9—12.'"
"What a lovely idea!" said Anne, smiling from sheer habit. "Mind you come." She got her face straight again with a jerk and turned to the solemn old gentleman on her other side.
He was ready for her.
"This is a terrible disaster for the country, this coal strike," he said.
"Isn't it?" said Anne; and feeling that that was inadequate, added,"Terrible!"
"I don't know what's happening to the country."
Anne crumbled her bread, and having reviewed a succession of possible replies, each more fatuous than the last, decided to remain silent.
"Everything will be at a standstill directly," her companion went on."Already trade is leaving the country. America—"
"I suppose so," said Anne gloomily.
"Once stop the supplies of coal, you see, and you drain the life-blood of the country."
"Ofcourse," said Anne, and looked very serious.
After lunch an extremely brisk little man took her in hand.
"Have you been studying this coal strike question at all?" he began.
"I read the papers," said Anne.
"Ah, but you don'tgetit there. They don'ttellyou—they don'ttellyou. Now I know a man who is actuallyinit, and hesays—and he knows this for afact—that from themomentwhen thefirst mandowned tools—from the very moment when hedowned tools…"
Anne edged away from him nervously. Her face had assumed an expression of wild interest which she was certain couldn't last much longer.
"Now, take coal at the pit's mouth," he went on—"at thepit's mouth"—he shook a forefinger at her—"at thepit's mouth—and I know this for afact—theroyalties, the royalties are—"
"It's awful," said Anne. "Iknow."
She went home feeling a little disturbed. There was something in her mind, a dim sense of foreboding, which kept casting its shadow across her pleasanter thoughts; "Just as you feel," she said, "when youknowyou've got to go to the dentist." But they had a big dinner-party that evening, and Anne, full of the joy of life, was not going to let anything stand in the way of her enjoyment of it.
Her man began on the stairs.
"Well," he said, "what about the coal strike? When are you going to start your coal-parties? 'Fire, 10—2.' They say that that's going to be the new rage." He smiled reassuringly at her. He was giving the impression that hecouldhave been very, very serious over this terrible business, but that for her sake he was wearing the mask. In the presence of women a man must make light of danger.