The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, February 25th, 1920, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, February 25th, 1920 Author: Various Release Date: August 11, 2005 [EBook #16509] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. Vol. 158. February 25th, 1920. CHARIVARIA. "Another American," says a Washington despatch, "has been captured by Mexicans and is being held to ransom." We deplore these pin-prick tactics. If there is something about the United States that President Carranza wants changed he should say so. A contemporary states that the old theory, that when your ears burn it means that people are talking about you, is accurate. Upon hearing this a dear old lady at once commenced to crochet a set of asbestos ear-guards for Mr. Churchill. The American gentleman who claims to have invented revues is shortly coming over to England for a holiday. Personally we should advise him to wait until the crime wave has died down a bit. It is pleasing to note that in spite of the recent spring-like weather the Poet Laureate is calmly keeping his head. In their last Note to Holland on the subject of the ex-Kaiser's trial the Allied Governments drop a hint that it was they and not Holland who won the War. It is impossible to be too definite on this matter. Cotton, it is announced, has gone up to tenpence a reel. The new American whisky stands at the same figure. "Boys sing automatically, like parrots," declares the choirmaster of St. John's Church, Grimsby. His facts are wrong. The only thing automatic about a parrot is its bite. So thirsty were the Americans on board, it is stated, that on her homeward trip the Mauretania was drunk dry two days out. To remedy this unsatisfactory state of affairs a syndicate of wealthy Americans is understood to be formulating an offer to tow Ireland over to the New Jersey coast if a liquor licence is granted to the tug. [pg 141] There is no truth in the report that, as the result of a majority vote of the Dublin Corporation, the sword and mace have been replaced by a pistol and mitre. We live in strenuous times. The Mad Mullah has been reported in action and Willesden has won the London Draughts' Tournament. By the way, those who remember the Mad Mullah's earlier escapades are of the opinion that it is high time for him to be killed again. The Home Secretary hopes to introduce an Anti-Firearms Bill. Under this Act it is expected that it will be made illegal for criminals to shoot at people into whose homes they break. A postcard posted in 1888 has just been delivered to The Leeds Mercury, and they ask if this is a record. Not a permanent one, if the Post Office can help it. A young lady told the Stratford magistrates that she gave up her young man because he said he was a millionaire, and she had later learned that he was a waiter. But there is nothing contradictory in this. The ex-Crown-prince has written in the Tägliche Rundschau on "How I Lost the War." He pays a fine tribute to the British soldier, who, it appears, helped him to lose it. "How to Manage Twopenny Eggs" is the headline of a morning paper. A good plan is to grip them firmly round the neck and wring it. An article in Tit-Bits tells readers how to make canaries pay. We have felt for some time that there must be a better method than that of suing the birds in the County Court. "Useful wedding-presents are now the vogue," says a weekly journal. Only last week we heard of a Scotsman who at a recent wedding gave the bride away. "The Jolly Bachelors" is the title of a new club at Nottingham. No attempt has yet been made to start a Jolly Husbands' Club. It is gratifying to learn that the workman who last week fell from some scaffolding in Oxford Street, but managed to grasp a rope and hang on to it till rescued fifteen minutes later, has now been elected an honorary member of the Underground Travellers' Association. A reader living in Hertfordshire writes to say that spring-like weather is prevailing and that a pair of bricklayers who started building about three weeks ago can now be seen daily sitting on three bricks which they laid last week. With such energy are the inhabitants of Leeds carrying out their campaign against rats that it is considered unsafe for any rodent under three years old to venture out alone after dark. We are glad to learn that the Brixton lady who mislaid her husband last week at one of these West-End bargain sales has now received him back from the firm in fairly good condition. During the recent spell of warm weather several wooden houses threw out new shoots, some of which are already in bud. We understand that the Government contemplate passing a Bill to forbid silver-weddings unless a larger percentage of alloy is used with them. THE CRIME WAVE. Crank (enlarging upon pet theory). "I tell you, Sir, we are all of us Bolshevists at heart. The only thing that's keeping you and me from a life of crime is the thought of the policeman round the corner." "How utterly unimpressive for ceremonial purposes is the ordinary episcopal habit.... What dignity it ever possessed has been most successfully shorn off by the merciless scissors of ecclesiastical tailors. The history of the chimere and rochet has been truly tragic."—Church Paper. Fortunately, the hat and gaiters do something to relieve the gloom. CLOTHES AND THE POET. ["The public will welcome an announcement that the standard clothing scheme may be revived on a voluntary basis."—The Times.] I do not ask for silk attire, For purple, no, nor puce; The only wear that I require Is something plain and loose, A quiet set of reach-me-downs for serviceable use. For these, which I must have because The honour of the Press Compels me, by unwritten laws, To clothe my nakedness, Four guineas is my limit—more or (preferably) less. Let others go in Harris tweeds, Men of the leisured sort; Mine are the modest, homely needs That with my state comport; I am a simple labouring man whose work is all his sport. I covet not the gear of those Who neither toil nor spin; I merely want some standard clo's To drape my standard skin, Wrought of material suitable for writing verses in. Something that won't pick up the dust When rhymes refuse to flow; And roomy, lest the seams be bust Should the afflatus blow— Say five-and-forty round the ribs and rather more below. For poets they should stock a brand To serve each type's behest— Pastoral, epic, lyric—and An outer size of chest For those whose puffy job it is to build the arduous jest. [pg 142] O.S. THE WOLF AND THE LAMB. (An imaginary conversation.) [In his lecture at the Royal Institution, to which Mr. Punch recently referred, Mr. Alfred Noyes said that "our art and literature were increasingly Bolshevik, and if they looked at the columns of any newspaper they would see the unusual spectacle of the political editor desperately fighting that which the art and literary portions of the paper upheld."] Scene.—A Club-room near Fleet Street. The Political Editor and the Literary Editor of "The Daily Crisis" are discovered seated in adjoining armchairs. Political Editor. Excuse me, but haven't I seen you occasionally in The Crisis office? Literary Editor. Possibly. I look after its literary pages, you know. P.E. Really? I run the political columns. Did you read my showing-up this morning of the Bolshevik peril in the House of Lords? L.E. I'm afraid I never read the political articles. Did you notice my two-column boom of young Applecart's latest book of poems? P.E. No time to read the literary columns, and modern poetry's as good as Chinese to me. Who's Applecart? L.E. My dear Sir, is it possible that you are unfamiliar with the author of I Will Destroy? He's the hope of the future as far as English poetry is concerned. P.E. (cheerfully). Never heard of him. What's he done? L.E. (impressively). He has overthrown all the rules, not only of art, but of morality. He has created a new Way of Life. P.E. Can't see that that's anything to shout about. What's his platform, anyway? L.E. Platform? To anyone who has tho slightest acquaintance with Applecart the very idea of a platform is fantastic. He doesn't stand; he soars. P.E. Well, what are his views, then? Pretty tall, I suppose, if he's such a high flier. L.E. You may well say so. In the first place he discards all the old artistic formulæ. P.E. I know; you write a solid slab of purple prose, scissor it into a jig-saw puzzle, serve it with a dazzle dressing and call it the New Poetry. L.E. Have your joke, if you will. But, more important still, Applecart is a rebel against humanity and all its fetishes, social, ethical and political. P.E. (startled). A Bolshie, I suppose you mean? L.E. The artist is proof against all these vulgar terms of abuse, culled from the hustings. Call him a Pussyfoot as well; you cannot shake him from his pinnacle. P.E. Yes, but look here—he's just the sort of pernicious agitator we're out against in The Crisis—at least in my department. My special article this morning—three thickly-leaded columns—actually revealed the existence of a most insidious plot to undermine the restraining influence of the House of Lords by the spread of Bolshevik propaganda masquerading as literature. You see, there's a certain section of the Lords, mainly new creations who've only recently been released from various employments, who now for the first time in their lives have leisure for reading; then there's the spread of education among the sporting Peers. Well, these people are ready to succumb to all sorts of poisonous doctrines, if they're served up in what I presume to be the fashionable mode of the moment; and I expect your precious Applecart is one of the Bolsh agents who are laying the trap. You'll have to stop booming him, you know. He's not doing the paper any good. L.E. My dear Sir, literature takes no account of the fads and fancies of party politics. And I gather from you that party politics have no use for literature except from a propagandist view. Let us be content to go our own ways in peace. P.E. Yes, that's all very well for you and me, but what about the Chief? How does he reconcile these absolutely conflicting standpoints? And what does the public think of it all? L.E. (confidentially). Between you and me, the Chief knows his public. And the public knows its papers. The last thing it wants from us is consistency, which is always boring. Besides (still more confidentially), the public doesn't take us quite so seriously as we like to pretend. P.E. H'm, maybe you're right. As a matter of fact (lowering his voice) I sometimes think I'm a bit of a Socialist myself. L.E. Really? As for me (conspiratorially), I adore Tennyson, and Ezra Pound fills me with a secret wrath. Still, the public— P.E. Ah, the public—! Have a drink? [They pledge each other. Noyes without. They disperse hurriedly. "In view of the serious shortage of female help, the United Boards of Trade of Western Ontaria have been discussing proposals to encourage the immigration of young women from Great Britain."—Morning Paper. And have apparently feminized the Province in advance. "If the Archdeacon of Coventry is correct in stating, as he did in Convocation, that the word 'tush' found in the Psalter means 'bosh,' it must in this sense be what the classical dons call a 'hapslegomenon'."—Evening Standard. Which, again, must be what the classical undergraduates call a "slipsus languæ." [pg 143] THE IRREMOVABLES. Turkey (to his old patron in Holland). "SO, WE'RE BOTH REMAINING, WHAT?" Voice from the Other End. "YES, BUT YOU'VE GOT TO BEHAVE." [pg 144] Angry Father (of the Old School). "I shall cut you off with a shilling!" The Prodigal. "Not one of the new nickel things, I hope, Father?" THE COWARD. Cecilia was knitting by the fire. "What on earth have you two been doing?" she asked as we came in. "John looks as if he'd been in a boiler explosion." "Hardly that," I said. "We've been playing with Chris—haven't we, John?" John gasped. "No, we haven't," he said. "On the contrary, they have been playing with me, Cecilia." "Well, it's all the same thing, isn't it?" said Cecilia. "Anyhow, I heard you making a most frightful row." "Of course I was making a row. So would you make a row if people suddenly mistook you for a Teddy Bear or something and started bunging you about the room." "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Cecilia, "but I think you're being intensely vulgar." "Vulgar! 'Vulgar,' she says." He laughed bitterly. "You'd be vulgar too if you'd had that great hulking brute" (he pointed at me) "sitting on the small of your back, and a hooligan of a boy—" Cecilia sat up and took notice. "Hooligan!" she said, "Hooligan! Who's a Hooligan?" "Sh! sister," I murmured. "You'll strain the epiglottis." John turned on me savagely. "You keep quiet. It isn't your epi—epi—what you said—and, anyway, can't I even have a quiet row with my own wife without—" "John, calm yourself," said Cecilia crushingly. "Alan, tell me what you've been doing." "Yes," muttered John, "tell her." He subsided into an armchair. "Well," I said, "you see, Christopher and I were up in the nursery and getting on quite all right when John butted in—" "I simply opened—" "John, keep quiet," said his wife. "Well, Alan?" "Well, the fact is, Chris and I were in the middle of a great war with all his soldiers. I had just firmly established fire superiority and was actually on the verge of launching a huge offensive—the one that was going to win the war, in fact —when, as I said, in butted this great clumsy elephant and knocked half of Christopher's army over." "Purely an accident," said John. "Will you keep quiet, or must I make you?" asked Cecilia. "Well, of course," I went on, "finding ourselves suddenly attacked by a common foe, Chris and I naturally joined forces to defend ourselves." "Defend!—" shrieked John. "No, I won't keep quiet another second. Defend! Why, they rushed at me like a couple of wild hyenas." "My dear John," said Cecilia, "you attacked them first, and of course they defended themselves as best they could." "Precisely," I said. "After all, John," said Cecilia, "you ought to be glad your son is so ready to look after himself, instead of calling him a hooligan. You're always shouting about the noble art of self-defence." "Noble art of self-defence rot," said John. "There's nothing in the noble art about pushing lead soldiers down a man's neck." "Down your neck?" said Cecilia. "Yes," said John. "I keep trying to tell you and you won't let me. That brute sat on the small of my back while Christopher pushed 'em down. The little beasts all had their bayonets fixed, too." Cecilia and I laughed. "Yes, laugh," said John bitterly. "It is funny that our child should be growing up a Bolshevist; trying to flay his own father. He'll be setting fire to the cat in a week and then you'll have another laugh." "John," shrieked Cecilia, "how dare you? If you say another word about the darling—" The door opened and Christopher came into the room. He seemed to have washed his face or something. Anyway, he looked quite a little angel and that's hardly—however. "I shall tell Chris what you've been saying," said Cecilia. John jumped. "No, no, Cecilia," he said in a strangled voice. "Don't betray me. I—I'm sorry; I withdraw everything. Cecilia, save me. Think of our courting days; remember—" "Christopher," said Cecilia clearly, "you see your father? Go and pull his last remaining hairs out." Christopher looked at her in amazement. Then he walked over to John, climbed on his knee and put an arm round his neck. "I wouldn't hurt you, dear old Dad, would I?" he asked affectionately, looking at his mother in pained surprise. John positively gasped with relief. "Dear old Chris," he said. "Oh, you hypocrite!" said Cecilia. "Coward!" said I. I was sitting on one of those dumpy hassock sort of things. John looked down at me vindictively for a moment and then a horrid smile started spreading about his nasty face. "Christopher," he said very gently, "wouldn't it be a good thing if we pushed Uncle Alan over and knocked his slippers off, and then I'll sit on him while you tickle his feet?" [pg 145] Now it sounds silly, but a cold prespiration came over me. Being tickled is so hopelessly undignified. And, anyhow, I simply can't stand it on the feet. "John," I said severely, "don't be absurd." Christopher gurgled. "He's afraid," he said. "Come on, Dad." I saw that they really meant it, and I can only suppose that I was carried away by one of those panics that you read of as attacking the bravest at times. Anyhow, quite suddenly I found myself moving rapidly round the table, out of the door and up the stairs. Halfway up I stopped to listen. Cecilia and John were laughing loudly and coarsely and Christopher was chanting "Uncle's got the wind up" in a piercing treble. Not at all a nice phrase for a small boy to have on his tongue. It was all very galling for one who has fought and, I may say, bled for his country. I almost decided to go back and fight if necessary. Then I heard a stage-whisper from Christopher: "Let's creep upstairs after him and tickle him to death. Shall we, Dad?" Sheer hooliganism. It was impossible to fight with honour against such opponents. I disdained to try. I went hastily up the remaining stairs and locked myself in my room. Polite Straphanger (to lady who has been standing on his toes for a considerable time). "Pardon me, Madam, but you'll have to get off here—this is as far as I go." THE INTERNATIONALIST. [pg 146] "What on earth," I said to the waiter, who was standing a few yards off, lost in a pensive dream of his native land— Switzerland, France, Italy?—well, anyhow, lost in a pensive dream—"what on earth is a Petrograd steak?" The white napkin whisked like the scut of a rabbit, and he bounded to my side. "Eet is mince-up," he said melodramatically. "Ze Petrograd steak ver good. Two minute—mince-up." "But isn't that a Vienna steak?" I asked. A spasm of pain passed over his face. "Before ze War," he whispered, "yes, Vienna steak. Now we call it ze Petrograd. You vill have one? Yes? Two minute." Memories came flooding back of that moment of crisis which had found so many of our trusted statesmen ill-prepared, but, terrible as it was, had not caught the managers of London restaurants napping. I remembered the immense stores of Dutch lager beer which they had so providentially and so patriotically held in anticipation of the hour of need. Dutch beer, both light and dark, so that inveterate drinkers of Munich and Pilsener were enabled to face Armageddon almost without a jerk. They had other things ready too—Danish pâté de fois gras, Swiss liver sausages, Belgian pastries and the rest. It was in that dark hour, I suppose, that the Vienna steak set its face towards the steppes. But this was in 1914, and a good deal had happened since then. It appeared to me that the restaurant was not exactly au courant with international complications and the gastronomic consequences of the Peace. I felt entitled to further illumination. "I don't feel at all certain," I told the man, "that I ought to eat a Petrograd steak. Is it a white steak?" "Ah, no, not vite, not vite at all," he assured me. "Eet is underdone—not much, but a little underdone. Ver good mince- up." "I absolutely refuse to eat a Red Petrograd steak," I declared. "Have you by any chance anything Jugo-Slavian on the menu?" "Zere is ze jugged hare—" "I think you misunderstand me," I interrupted; "this is a point of principle with me. Supposing I consume this Czecho- Slovakian mince-up and then have a piece of Stilton; there has been no war with Stilton, I fancy—" "Ver good, ze Stilton," interjected the chorus. "And coffee—' "Turkish coffee?" he said. "There you go again," I grumbled. "Whatever my attitude may be towards Vienna and Petrograd (and, mind you, I am not feeling at all bitter towards Vienna), my relations with Turkey are most certainly strained." "No, not strained, ze Turkish coffee," he cried eagerly; "eet has ze grounds." "So have I," I told him; "we will call it the Macedonian coffee. It is you who insisted in obtruding these international relations on my simple lunch, and I mean to do the thing thoroughly. Better a dish of Croat Serbs where love is than a bifteck Petrograd—Never mind, go and get the thing." When he returned with it I fell to, but my thoughts remained with the waiter. What a man! With his dispassionate judgment, his calm sane outlook on men and affairs, shaken a little perhaps in 1914, but since then undisturbed, was he not cut out above all others to settle the vexed frontier lines of Europe? I wondered whether Lord Robert Cecil might not possibly make use of him. I was tempted to try him still further. "Have you ever heard of Mr. J.M. Keynes?" I asked him when he brought me the Bessarabian coffee. "Mr. Keynes I not know. He not come here, I zink." "Or the Treaty of London?" "I vill ask ze manager." "Or President Wilson?" A brilliant smile of illumination lit up his features. "American, is he not?" he said. "Ver reech, ze Americans." This saddened me a little. He was not then absolutely complete. There was a faint tarnish on the lustre of his innocence. He was scarcely perhaps suited for the League of Nations after all. Lighting an Albanian cigarette I asked him for my bill. THINKING ALOUD. Lord Haldane loquitur. "Tired of laborious days and nights Spent on the intellectual heights, I long to raise and educate The masters of the future State. Besides, the people in the plains Are lamentably short of brains, And I have even more than Keynes. Already in The Herald's page Am I acclaimed as seer and sage; Mine be it then to teach my neighbour To quit the lowly rut of Labour, And scale the heights of Pisgah, Nebo, Or some equivalent gazebo, For even Labour must afford To keep one competent Law Lord." "WAR CRIMINALS DEMAND TO BE SUSPENDED."—Evening Paper. Too good to be true. [pg 147] MANNERS AND MODES. A YOUNG GIRL HAS THE TEMERITY TO BRING A CHAPERON TO A DANCE. [pg 148] BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND. "This is where he swims the rapids. How shall we send him—up or down?" COX AND BOX. My dear Charles,—Let us talk Haute Finance. In other words, let us indulge in that good old Anglo-Saxon pastime of blackguarding Cox and Co. It will remind us of the piping days of war. There is too much peace about, and the gentle and ever-forgiving Cox and Co. expect their customers to be men of force and character, showing temper from time to time. Everybody else may be demobilised; I remain a soldier, and as such I have my special bank. Ah, me! the battles in Charing Cross are not the easy things they used to be. No longer, as of old, I come fresh to the attack against a mere underling, worn down by the assaults of wave after wave of brother-officers attacking, before me. I enter the Territorial Department alone and am taken on by a master-hand, supported and flanked by a number of unoccupied subordinates. About the Spring of 1925, when I expect to be the only "T" left, I anticipate the decisive moment when I shall cross swords or swop bombs with Sir Cox himself. Having bravely encountered "and Co." these many years, I shall not be daunted by that gilded knight. The war having once put me in possession of my Cox and Co., I had very frequent recourse to them when in need of such solace as only money can bring. The time arrived when I applied in vain; the money had disappeared. Though I had no reason to suspect Cox and Co. of being dishonest I noticed a tone of assuredness and self-complacency in their letters strangely similar to that in my own, and I knew that I was being dishonest, so I demanded to see my pass-book. It was a horrid sight, and it gave me seriously to think. How came it that the side of the book which showed my takings was so clear and easily to be understood, but the side which showed their takings wrapt in mystery and hieroglyphics such as not even the world's leading financiers and mathematicians could hope to unravel? My subaltern, being consulted, agreed with me; I would have had him carpeted by the C.O. at once if he hadn't. I stepped round to Cox and Co. and had it out with them verbally. After a discussion lasting half-an-hour, it was shown that I had been credited with a week's pay to which I wasn't entitled and that a month's income-tax, to which a grasping Government was entitled, had not been deducted. I left the building ninety-three shillings worse off than I entered it. I gave Cox and Co. six months to go wrong in, and then called for that pass-book again. My eye fell upon a paying and deducting and refunding and readjusting of an item itself so shameful that it dared only appear under its initials. Why this oscillation? I asked myself. So we engaged upon another correspondence, and another interview took place, at which I was supported by my subaltern (who could multiply and add), and the bank-man was supported by a young lady (who could divide and subtract). At the end of a passionate discussion, which lasted fifty-seven minutes (forty-five of them being after closing time) the conclusion was arrived at that the total was correct to a halfpenny. Even Cox and Co. themselves were a bit surprised at that. Years passed, and there was no doubt about it; the money continued to disappear. Trusting that Cox and Co. were now lulled into a feeling of false security I tried a surprise reconnaissance. I dropped in on them without warning and asked to see that pass-book then and there. They searched high and low, but they couldn't find it. I, on the other hand, found it quite easily, when I searched amongst my papers at home. To me this proved that I was the better searcher. My subaltern, however, would have it that the circumstances gave me no right of action against Cox and Co. His sympathies were clearly with them, so I requested him kindly to get on with his own work and not to interfere further in my private affairs. He went away in a huff, got demobilised and, I have little doubt, married the young lady who divided and subtracted and, with her, set up a bank of his own. I devoted my young life to the search for some person, firm or corporation, expert in pass-books, haughty of demeanour, capable of getting blood out of a stone and not likely to give even the devil his due; I wanted such an ally for the next assault. I have always remained a civilian, and as such have retained my other banker. A man of unlimited possessions, I may state accurately that I have to-day no fewer than two banks of my own. Let us call this other one Box and Co. That is not the real name, but it is as far as I dare go to refer to them, even under an assumed name. Years of stern handling by them have taken all the spirit out of me. It is as much as I can do to screw up my courage so far as to ask the loan of a pound or two of my own money off them. And there have been times, in the pre-1914 past, when I have felt it would be better to go without money than to have the stuff thrown at me, shovelled at me in that contemptuous offhand manner. I now repaired in person to the premises of Box and Co., with their handsome marble façade and their costly mahogany fittings, and had a word with Mr. Box himself. A little artful flattery, a few simple lies and just a touch of ginger in the matter of professional competition, and Box and Co. were brought into the war. I handed them Cox and Co.'s pass-book and told them that now was their time to go in and win. I used to look in every other day to see how the struggle went. At first Box and Co. were confident, remarking on my wisdom in placing myself (and my pass-book) in such competent hands as theirs. But as the correspondence went on their enthusiasm wore off; Mr. Box gave vent to observations reflecting ill on the Army system of pay, on the Army itself, even on that part of it which was me. Had it not been that the pride of Box and Co. was involved, I believe they would have gone to London in a body, there to form a lifelong friendship with Cox and Co., out of pure fellow-feeling. But I have hinted that Box and Co. were a cold inhuman institution, whose business in life it was to do people down, or go down itself. And so Cox and Co. had to be for it. Eventually, in the late winter of 1919, Box and Co. extracted from Cox and Co. the admission that a five had been mistaken for a three, and I had been done out of twopence, an affair all the more gross in that it had happened as long ago as the early spring of 1915, and never a word of remorse meanwhile! A conclusion by which neither Box nor Cox was really satisfied, but which, for me, was enough. We English may only win one battle in a war, but that battle is the last. Possibly, my dear Charles, you have a soft spot in your heart for this Cox and Co., never failing in courtesy and attention and ever heaped with abuse? So, to be frank, have I. Let us turn round and blackguard the other fellow. The sequel is incredible. I next handed my Box and Co. pass-book to Cox and Co., giving them a brief and touching résumé of my sad story of wrong and oppression, and bidding them do their damnedest in their turn. They wrote to Box and Co.: "Our customer, your customer, we may say the customer, Second-Lieutenant, Brevet-Lieutenant, Temporary Captain, Acting Major, Local Colonel, Aspiring General (entered in your books as plain Mister) Henry Neplusultra, informs us that, though he has banked with you since the first sovereign he earned at his baptism, he has been so frowned at and scorned as to have been rendered morally unable to handle his current balance. He instructs us...." But why relate the story in all its grim horror? Enough to say that so successfully did Cox and Co. pursue their instructions that they discovered a credit balance in my favour of 14s. 3d.; so politely and firmly did they conduct the correspondence that eventually Box and Co. burst into tears, admitted the claim and, upon my calling the other day personally to receive satisfaction, handed me the 14s. 3d. with a deferential bow. If you doubt the truth of this statement you have only to come round to my place, where you can see for yourself the threepence, which is still in my possession. Yours ever, Henry. [pg 149] Fusser. "I should like to know just how much this train is overdue." Cynic. "A watch ain't no good—what you want is a halmanack." DAY BY DAY IN THE WORLD OF CRIME. (By a well-known Professor of Larceny.) In these days when robbery with violence is an everyday occurence, few people will trust themselves alone in railway carriages. Imagine, therefore, my surprise, not unmingled with pleasure, on seeing a somewhat pompous-looking individual, with the circumference and watch-chain of the successful merchant, sitting alone in a first-class carriage on the suburban up-line from Wallingford. I always travel from Wallingford, as it is the one station on the line at which you are not required to show a ticket on entry. Accordingly I entered the old gentleman's carriage, took his ticket, and offered him a cigarette, which he accepted. I then opened the conversation. "I wonder you wear your watch-chain so prominently," I remarked, "especially during the present vogue of crime—so tempting, you know." "Ah!" he said, "so you may think; but, being a bit of a criminologist, I have arranged that as a little trap. It is my belief that the pickpocket, foiled in one particular, never attempts to rob his victim in any other way. Now this chain cost me precisely ninepence. It is weighted at each end with a piece of lead, which gives an appearance of genuineness to the watch-pocket. I am heavily armed, in case he should attempt violence." It was here that I removed his pocket-book and slipped it into my great-coat. Not daring to examine it openly, I fingered it cautiously, and felt the stiff softness of bank-notes. I was so carried away with pleasure that I was quite surprised to hear his voice returning from a distance. "As for my ticket," he continued, "that is a single from Wallingford to the next station, Sadlington; it is two years old. My season I keep inside the lining of my hat." It was here that I returned the ticket to his pocket. After all, I reflected, I could pay at the other end with a very small portion of the contents of the pocket-book, which I reckoned must contain at least half-a-dozen fivers. "By the way," he added, "I have a passion for biscuits; will you join me in one?" and he proffered a small tin. "I eat so many of them," he said, "that I can write all my memoranda on the slips of paper from the tins, and these I keep in my pocket-book. My money I keep next my season." It was here that I returned the pocket-book. "THE OPTIMISTIC WAITERS.