The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, May 30, 1917, 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. 152, May 30, 1917 Author: Various Editor: Owen Seaman Release Date: January 29, 2006 [EBook #17634] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON *** Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. Vol. 152. May 30th, 1917. CHARIVARIA. Mr. Will Thorne declares that a hotel in Petrograd charged him twelve shillings for four small custards. After all, the war spirit of Russia, it would seem, is not wholly dead. According to officials of the Food Ministry, "domestic pastry" may still be baked. The idea is that this kind of pastry tends to decrease the total number of food consumers. Allied control officers have discovered fifteen hundred tons of potatoes hidden in Athens. The Salonika expedition is now felt to be justified. A certain Kingston resident, when out walking, wears a white band on his hat, the with words, "Eat less bread. Do it now." Eyewitnesses report that the immediate rush of pedestrians to the tea-rooms to eat less bread is most gratifying. "The British loaf," according to Mr. Kennedy Jones, "is going to beat the Germans." If grit can do it, we agree. "Allotments under cultivation in Middlesex," says a weekly paper breathlessly, "if place end to end, would reach five miles." Of course it is not thought likely that they will be. The father of a lad charged with embezzlement explained that since the boy was struck on the head with a cricket ball he could not keep a penny novel out of his hands. Speculation is now rife as to the nature of the accidents responsible for the passion that some people entertain for our more expensive fiction. "It is possible," says a contemporary, "that an invention will one day be forthcoming which will make a clean sweep of the submarine." Meanwhile we must expect him to go on acting like the dirty sweep he is. [pg 345] To meet the paper shortage, Austrian editors have determined to economise by reducing the daily reports of victories. Le Matin states that at a Grand Council of War sharp disagreement on the conduct of operations arose between the Kaiser and Hindenburg. The Marshal, we understand, insisted upon the right to organise his own defeats without any assistance from the All-highest-but-one. A London dairyman has been heavily fined for selling water containing a large percentage of milk. "To tell the honest truth," said the Hon. John Collier, giving evidence in the Romney case, "we artists do not think much of the art critics." It is this dare-devil attitude which distinguishes your real genius. Some surprise was recently caused in Liverpool when the residents learned from the Cologne Gazette that their port had been destroyed and all the inhabitants removed to another town. They consider that in common fairness the Cologne Gazette ought to have given them some idea as to where they were living. It is announced that four German War Correspondents have been decorated with the Iron Cross of the Second Class. We have always maintained that the War Correspondent, like his fighting brother, is not immune from the perils of warfare. We are not surprised to learn that the mouth-organ is the favorite instrument among the soldiers in a certain Labour unit. The advantage of this instrument is that when carried in the pocket it does not spoil the figure like a cello. Now that the shortage of starch supply will compel men to wear soft collars it is understood that Mr. George Bernard Shaw, who already wears them soft, proposes to give up collars altogether, so as not to be mistaken for an ordinary man. City business houses, it is stated, are adopting the practice of closing during the dinner-hour. The old fashioned custom of doing business and dining on alternate days had much to recommend it. There was no sugar in England when Crécy and Agincourt were fought, as Captain Bathurst told the House of Commons recently. How the War Office did without its afternoon tea in those barbarous days it is impossible to conjecture. The forthcoming Irish Convention is to be held, it is stated, behind locked doors. Why not add a charming element of adventure to the affair by entrusting some thoroughly absent-minded person with the key? Lord Esher believes that "our home-coming is not far distant." Meanwhile it is cheering to know that quite a number of our fellows are getting home on the Hindenburg line. "Walking canes for ladies with small round heads of ivory" are becoming increasingly popular, declared a contemporary. We ourselves would hesitate to lash the follies of smart Society in a manner quite so frank. It appears that at the Bath War Hospital a hen lays an egg every day in a soldier's locker. Only physical difficulties prevent the large hearted bird from laying it in his egg-cup. Zambi, a Zulu native, has just died at the age of a hundred-and-twelve. It seems that war-worry hastened his end. Proprietress (as customer becomes obstreperous), "Now then, Willie, over the top!" Professional Candour. From a dentist's advertisement:— "TEETH EXTRACTED WITH THE GREATEST PAINS" "Wanted.—Good cook-general, for very small Naval officer's family." Isle of Wight Mercury. Intending applicants should exercise caution. A very small Naval officer may have a very large family. "£5 Reward—Lost from Ruislip (July, 1214), half-persian dark tabby tom cat." Harrow Observer. And they tell us that a cat has only nine lives! THE PROPHETIC PRESENT. "There is no Hindenburg line." Inspired German Press. By nature they abhor the light, But here in this their latest tract Your parrot Press by oversight Has deviated into fact; If not (at present) strictly true, It shows a sound anticipation Born of the fear that's father to The allegation. For, though the boasted "line" of which No trace occurs on German maps Retains the semblance of a ditch, It has some nasty yawning gaps; It bulges here, it wobbles there, It crumples up with broken hinges, Keeping no sort of pattern where Our Push impinges. [pg 346] When the triumphant word went round How that your god, disguised as man, At victory's height was giving ground According to a well-laid plan, Here he arranged to draw the line (As Siegfried's you were told to hymn it) And plant Nil ultra for a sign— Meaning the limit. And now "There's no such thing," they say; Well, that implies prophetic sense; And, if a British prophet may Adopt their graphic present tense, I would remark—and so forestall A truth they'll never dare to trench on:— There is no Hindenburg at all, Or none worth mention. O.S. WAYS AND MEANS. I met her at the usual place, and she looked much the same as usual—which astonished me rather. "Now that we're engaged," I began. "Oh, but we aren't," said Phyllis. "Are you by any chance a false woman?" I asked. "You remember what you said last night?" "I do, and what I said I stick to. But that was pleasure, and this is business." I looked at her in sudden alarm. "You're—you're quite sure you aren't a widow, Phyllis?" "Quite. Why?" "Talking of business at a time like this. It sounds so—so experienced." "Well, if you will try to settle our whole future lives in one short week-end leave, we must at least be practical. Anyway, it's just this. I'm not going to be engaged to you until there's some prospect of our getting married. I hate long engagements." "That means not till after the War, then," said I disconsolately. "I'm afraid it does. But when once the War's over it won't be long before you'll be able to keep me in the style to which I'm accustomed, will it?" "Years and years, I should think," said I, looking at her new hat. "It'll take at least a pound a day even to start with." "Three hundred and sixty-five a year," said she thoughtfully. "And an extra one in Leap Year," I warned her. "Did I ever tell you," she asked with pride, "that I have money of my own?" "Hurrah!" I shouted. "You darling! How splendid!" "Jimmy," she said apprehensively, "you aren't marrying me for it, are you?" "How can I tell till I know how much you've got?" "Well, at a pound a day it would take us to February 19th. You'd have to begin from there." "What an heiress! Promise you'll never cast it in my teeth, dear, that I've got less than you. I've got enough War Loan to take us on to the 23rd and halfway through the 24th; and Exchequer Bonds and things which will see us through—er— to about 7.15 P.M. on March 31st. Then there's my writing." "Oh," she said in a surprised tone "do they pay you for that? I always thought you gave them so much a line to put things in—like advertisements, you know." "Madam," I answered with dignity, "when you find yourself, from April 1st until April 20th, depending each year upon my pen for the very bread you eat, perchance you will regret those wounding words." "Well, what else?" I shook my head. "That's all," I said. "We don't seem to have got very far, do we? Couldn't you—er—trim hats, or take in washing, or something?" "No—but you could. I mean, we haven't counted in your salary yet, have we?" "What salary?" "Well, whatever they give you for doing whatever you do. What were you getting before the War?" "Oh, nothing much." "Yes, but how much?" "Really," I began stiffly. "If you're ashamed to say it right out, just tell me how far it would take us." "To about the end of September, I should think." "Oh, dear! Three more months to go." A frown wrinkled her forehead; then her brow cleared. "Why, of course we haven't counted in the holidays." "They aren't usually an asset." "Yes, they are—if you spend them with your rich relations. I've got lots, but I don't think they'd like you much." "All right," said I shortly; "keep your beastly relations. I shall go to Uncle Alfred for October. He loves me." "That leaves November and December," she mused. "Oh, well, there's nothing else for it—we must quarrel." "What, now?" "No, stupid. Every October 31st, by letter. Then I'll go home to mother, and you'll stay with Uncle Alfred some more. I hope he'll like it." "Y-e-s," I said doubtfully. "That would do it, of course. But we shan't see very much of each other that way, shall we? Still, I suppose.... Good Heavens!" "What's the matter?" "Phyllis, we've forgotten all about income-tax. That means about another two months to account for." "My dear, how awful!" There was a pause while we both thought deeply. "Couldn't you ... " we began together at last, and each waited for the other to finish. "Look here," I remarked, "we're both very good at finding things for the other to do. Isn't there anything we could do together—a job for 'respectable married couple,' you know?" "Why, of course—caretaking! We'll look after ducal mansions in the silly season, when everybody's out of town. Then we'll see simply heaps of one another." "Yes," I agreed. "And then in the evenings, when you've scrubbed the steps and the woodwork and polished the brass and dusted the rooms and cleaned the grate and cooked the meals and tidied the kitchen, and I've inspected the gas- meter and fed the canary, or whatever it is a he-care-taker does, we'll dress ourselves up and go and sit in the ducal apartments and pretend we're 'quality.'" "And impress our relations by asking them to dinner there," added Phyllis. "I think it's a lovely idea. We don't seem to be going to have much money, but we shall see life. I'm beginning to be quite glad I listened to you yesterday, after all." An Accommodating Creature. "A Respectable woman wants situation as dairymaid, laundress, or fowl." Cork Constitution. THE GREAT UNCONTROLLED. The Mutton. "I HEAR THEY WANT MORE OF US NOW THE MEATLESS DAYS ARE OFF." The Beef. "DON'T YOU WORRY. THANKS TO THE PROFITEERS, PEOPLE CAN'T AFFORD TO EAT US." THE FIRST POTATO-LEAF! [pg 347] [pg 348] THE WATCH DOGS. LXI. My Dear Charles,—Have I ever, in the course of these Secret and Confidential despatches, called your lordship's attention to the existence, the very marked existence, of our Hubert, "the little Captain," who, being out of the battle for the moment, relies upon argument for argument's sake to keep up his circulation? It has been said of him that he spends his office time in writing superior letters to his subordinates and insubordinate letters to his superiors; but that, I think, is over harsh. In any case, as he has now run short of grievances, and the authorities of the B.E.F. regard him as a joke and like him best when his little temper is hot, his fights out here have for some time lacked reality. I fancy that he was merely in search of a casus belli when, being on leave in the U.K., he conceived the idea of a day's extension and stepped round to the War Office to demand same as of right. But the War Office, Charles, is not as other places and War Officers are not like the common sort. Hubert, arriving in his best fighting trim, was at once ejected by the policeman at the door. He underestimated the importance of that official and his office, otherwise he would not have adopted the just-dropping-in-to-have-a-chat-with-a-friend-inside attitude. From the constable's cold response he realised that, in tackling the W.O. single-handed, he was attempting a big thing, whereas the W.O., in tackling him, was not under the same disadvantage. Then he did what was unusual with him; he paused to think before resuming the offensive. What he wanted, he felt, was big guns. The House of Commons caught his eye and reminded him of politicians. He recalled a slight acquaintance with one of the more important of these and went round to call upon him personally. It was not his idea to obtain any such authority as would demolish all opposition at the W.O.; he just hoped to get a personal chit, which would act as a smoke barrage and at least cover his advance right into the middle of the enemy defences. So Hubert asked for the politician in person, but only got his secretary. This gentleman, having elicited that Hubert's train for France left at 5 P.M., regretted that the politician would not be visible till 6. This opposition warmed Hubert's blood; he asked for a statement in writing. After some little discussion he got it, since the secretary, for all his caution, could see no harm in an unofficial note, addressed to no one in particular, and stating merely that Hubert wanted to see the politician and the politician was out till 6 P.M. The little captain is one of those who state their grievances to themselves, when no other audience is available. During his return journey to the W.O. mental processes of no little heat and significance took place in his busy head, he putting up an overwhelming case to show why his leave ought to be, and must be, extended. The force of this case gave him such a burning sense of justice as to carry him, this time, safely past the policeman. Five rows of barbed wire, two of them electrified, would be but a poor substitute for the barriers of the W.O. Before you set foot on the staircase you have to produce a ticket, and it is supposed that the porter, who has the forms to be filled in, forfeits a day's pay every time he parts with one. Hubert, gradually losing confidence, wrote upon the form all he could think of about himself, and handed it to the porter, who received it with reluctance, read it with suspicion, and disappeared with a grunt. What he did with it is not known; probably someone got into communication with the B.E.F. to know if such a person as Hubert existed, and, if so, why? Meanwhile Hubert had good time to realise that no one loved him and that this was cold brutal war at last. Bit by bit the porter drifted back and gave Hubert his form, now stamped and become his ticket. The porter having finished with him, he passed on and, after many wanderings, found the door of the room where his sentence would be passed. Bracing himself up and clearing his throat, he prepared to knock and enter. Fortunately, however, his audacious intention was observed by an official and frustrated. He was commanded to write something more about himself in the book provided for that purpose, and to go on waiting. Being now an expert at writing and waiting he did as he was bid, spending the next few hours of his life remodelling his case in less fierce and glowing terms. At last the door of the room persuaded itself to open and let out a real red god, who looked upon Hubert, took an instant dislike to him, relieved him of his ticket and went in again. During the ensuing period of suspense the last vestige of Hubert's personality departed from him. Again the door opened and another red one, even more godlike, emerged clamouring for Hubert and his blood. Had he still been in possession of his ticket (a necessary passport for egress) Hubert would have fled. There was nothing for it but to confess his identity and to hope for mercy. The god, who clearly had not more than three and a half seconds to spare, demanded an explanation of his presence. Hubert admitted that once, in a moment of impudent folly, he had thought of asking for a day's extension. The god said nothing, but a light smouldered in his eyes which intimated to Hubert that if he did not at once produce some paramount excuse for so monstrous a request the War would be held up and the military machine would be concentrated on punishing Hubert. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; even if it had been available it would have helped little, for it is more than mere words that the gods require. His hand searched in his pockets and produced the return half of his leave warrant, a five-franc note, a box of matches, a recently purchased paper flag and the politician's secretary's note. The first and the last were taken, the rest fell to the floor, the door closed once more and again Hubert was alone. Hubert doesn't know what he did next; probably, he thinks, he sat down and wept, and it was his tears that induced the gods not to convert his ticket into a death-warrant, but instead to give him the slip, "Leave extended one day for urgent private business." This was clearly one of Hubert's most decisive victories. He had his day's extension solely in order to interview the politician at 6 P.M.; he was to interview the politician solely in order to obtain his day's extension. But Hubert insists morbidly that his was a moral defeat, amounting to utter suppression. He called upon the politician at 6 P.M. to thank him personally. Again he could get no further than the secretary, who, learning that Hubert's train would not depart at all that day, regretted that the politician would, on second thoughts, be out for a week. "Now if I really had triumphed," said Hubert, "I should have got the secretary to put that also in writing, and should have stepped round to the War Office again to demand a further week's extension on the strength of it." This, however, he did not do. Yours ever, Henry. "Good 'Evings! Where yer goin'?" "Ye ken yon three Huns I just brought in? weel, they want to play whist, an' I'm going back to try and pick up a fourrth." "Southport, December 9th.—Miss —— presented vegetarian literature and a box of vegetarian sausages to a Sale of Work in connection with the United Methodist Church, High Park. The gifts led to much thought and inquiry."—Vegetarian Messenger. In spite of a natural disinclination to look a gift sausage in the mouth. A CALL TO THE COW PONIES. They sent us from Coorong and Cooper The pick of the Wallaby Track To serve us as gunner and trooper, To serve us as charger and hack; From Budgeribar to Blanchewater They rifled the runs of the West, That whatever his fate in the slaughter A man might ride home on the best. We dealt with the distant Dominion, [pg 349] We bought in the far Argentine; The worth of our buyers' opinion Is proved to the hilt in the line; The Clydes from the edge of the heather, The Shires from the heart of the grass, And the Punches are pulling together The guns where the conquerors pass. So come with us, buckskin and sorrel, And come with us, skewbald and bay; Your country's girth-deep in the quarrel, Your honour is roped to the fray; Where flanks of your comrades are foaming 'Neath saddle and trace-chain and band, We look for the kings of Wyoming To speak for the sage-brush and sand. W.H.O. Commercial Candour. From an Indian trade-circular:— "All our goods are guaranteed made of the best material and equal to none in the market." "The approach of the storm was heralded by a magnificent display of, for a time, almost intermittent lightning."—Pall Mall Gazette. Followed, it may be presumed, by well-nigh interrupted peals of thunder and nearly occasional downpours of rain. "One always feels humiliated when one is stumped about a quite common thing.... All you could see a little way iff was that they were very dwarg and very thick, and the peculiar coloul baffled us...." A Country Diary in "Manchester Guardian." Stumped we may be by the above, but humiliated—never! PETHERTON'S PUBLICATIONS. A glance at a well-known publisher's window, during a recent visit to London, provided me with material for a little possible quiet amusement, and with this end in view I penned the following:— Dear Mr. Petherton,—When up in town the other day I was surprised and delighted to notice in Messrs. Egbert Arnwell's window two works of yours, one on Bi-Metallism and the other on the Differential and Integral Calculus. Nothing but the prices (really low ones for such works) prevented my purchasing a copy of each book at once. I cannot resist writing to congratulate you on the publication of these volumes, which will, I am sure, add to the instruction if not to the gaiety of nations. Of course I knew—and have had the most complete olfactory proofs—that you were a chemist of at least strong views, but had no idea that your range of knowledge was so extensive as it apparently is. With renewed congratulations, Believe me, yours sincerely, Henry J. Fordyce. By the way, what is a calculus? Could one be obtained in Surbury, or would it be necessary to order from the Army and Navy Stores? This brought forth:— Sir,—I greatly regret that my latest publications should have caught your eye, and look on your congratulations as a studied insult. I should hardly expect a person of your (as I imagine) limited intellect to know anything about the scientific subjects which interest me, but I feel sure that you are perfectly aware that the calculus is abstract and not concrete. [pg 350] Had you tried to convey sincere congratulations to me I could have borne the infliction with resignation, but I strongly object to such flippant impertinences as are contained in your communication. Faithfully yours, Frederick Petherton. I felt this was a good start, and so put out more bait:— Dear Petherton (I wrote),—Sorry you couldn't accept my letter in the spirit, etc. I've had such a priceless idea since I wrote to you last, and it is this. I propose that we start a Literary Society in Surbury. I'm certain the Vicar would join in. Mr. Charteris, of the Manor, too would, I feel confident, welcome the idea. Dr. Stevenson, the only one to whom I have broached the subject, got keen at once, and the Gore-Langleys and others could no doubt be counted on—say a dozen altogether, including you and myself. I append a short list of suggested contributions, which will give some idea of the range of subjects which might be tossed into the arena of debate:— The Binomial Theorem in its relation to the Body Politic (yourself). Cows and their sufferings during the milk controversy in the newspapers (Charteris. This might be published in small quarto). The attitude of the Manichean Heresiarch towards the use of Logarithms (The Vicar). The effect of excessive Philately on the cerebral organisms of the young (Gore-Langley). The introduction of the art and practice of Napery among the Dyaks of Borneo (Miss Eva Gore-Langley). With a few additions I think we should have enough mental food to keep us going through the summer; and I may add that if you were put up for President of the Society I should certainly second the motion. Yours ever, Harry Fordyce. I notice that your writing has gone to pieces rather, old man—through writer's cramp, I fear. You say what looks like "you are perfectly aware that the calcalus is asphalt and not concrete." Of course I do know that much about it. My letter kept the ball rolling all right, for Petherton replied:—- Sir,—Have you no sane moments? If you have any such, I should be glad if you would employ the next lucid interval in setting your affairs straight and then repairing to the nearest asylum with a request that they would protect you against yourself by placing you in a padded cell. This done and the key lost, the world, and Surbury in particular, would be a happier place. You cannot seriously suggest that any society for literary discussion could be formed here or elsewhere which should include yourself, and even so you must know that your being a member would prevent my joining it. Has the call for National Service not reached your ears yet? You appear to have plenty of leisure time on your hands which might be better employed. Or have you offered yourself and been rejected on the grounds of mental deficiency? Faithfully yours, Frederick Petherton. I didn't feel called upon to make a song about my method of doing my bit, which, I am glad to say, has the approval of the authorities; but I was anxious to hear Petherton's joints crack once more, so I wrote:— Dear Freddy,—Your letters get better and better in style as your writing deteriorates. I am very sorry to gather from your last that you look coldly on my scheme. I am sure that those to whom I have mentioned the idea would decline to entertain it if it lacked your active support, so I trust you will reconsider the matter. I am thinking over your asylum stunt. It would certainly save some expense, and if this terrible War continues much longer it will, I fear, drive me to such a refuge; though I trust in that event that I shall be allowed to choose pleasanter wall hangings than those you suggest. I'm rather fond of light chintzy papers, aren't you? They're so cheerful. Hoping to hear from you re our little society at your earliest ("The Surbury Literary and Scientific Society" would sound well, and would look rather nice on our note-paper—what?)— I am, yours as ever, Harry. Petherton saw red again and bellowed at me, thus:— Sir,— —— you and your beastly society. I don't know who is the more execrable, you or the Kaiser. Faithfully yours, Frederic Petherton. Common decency compelled me to reply, so I wrote:— My Dear Old Boy.—You don't know how grieved I am to hear that you cannot entertain the scheme. Of course I can read between the lines, and know that your heart is in it, and that it is only the many calls on your time which prevent your active co-operation with me in the matter. Of course, needless to say, your lack of support has killed what looked like being a promising scientific bantling (through stress of emotion I nearly wrote "bantam," which brings me to the subject of poultry. How are yours? I forgot to ask before). I hope the question of the S.L. & S.S. will now be dropped; it is too painful. If you insist on continuing the discussion I shall decline to answer the letter, so there! Yours, H. But Petherton refused to be drawn. From a Church appeal:— "A recent collection revealed that, of 179 coins put in the plate, 176 were coppers, whilst not more than 15 people could have contributed anything above one shilling." The person who took the twelve silver coins by mistake will, we hope, return them next Sunday. THE SHERWOOD FORESTERS. Deep in the greenwood year by year Bold Robin Hood, a knightly ghost, Has eased the purse that bulged the most And stalked the wraiths of Rufford deer; And, as the centuries speed away, Has seen his oak and birk-land shrink, Where teeming cities on its brink Crowd in on Sherwood of to-day. But still each year the outlaw-king, By Normanton and Perlethorpe spire, Has watched the beeches' emerald fire Flare upward in the leaping spring; Each heather-time has found his own Eyrie of rest where Higger Tor Shimmers in purple as before King Cœur-de-Lion held his throne. And Foresters away "out there," Sons of his sons, have surely seen A figure clad in Lincoln green Glide by them swiftly, thin as air; And, yarning in the creepy dark, Have told of arrows, cloth-yard long, Whistling before them clean and strong, Of Huns that got them, pierced and stark; How when their line is making good, In charge or trench, as Sherwoods can, Soft-footed, ever in the van, Stalks the bold ghost of Robin Hood. [pg 351] Mrs. Jones (suspiciously, to Jones, who is kept on strict rations). "Somebody has eaten Fido's dinner." THE SECRETS OF HEROISM. "Don't talk about heroism," said Sergeant William Bingley, "until you know what it is—and isn't. "There were two men in my platoon over there that I'd match against any other two in the British, Allied, or Enemy armies for the biggest funks on earth; two boys from the same town, as unlike as cross-bred puppies, but cowards to the ankles. "They were the only two that didn't volunteer for a listening picket one night, and I felt so ashamed of them that I decided to mention it. "'You nickel-plated, glass-lined table-ornament,' I said to Ruggles when I found him alone, 'aren't you ashamed to form a rear rank alone with Jenks every time you're asked to do anything?' "I knew they hated each other, and I thought I'd draw him, but he hadn't a word for himself. "'Tell me what you joined for,' I said more persuasively, for he had been in the Army over a year. 'You're the only man in the company, bar your friend Jenks, that turns white at the pop of a cork out of a Worcester sauce bottle.' "He stroked the bit of hair behind his right ear and let slip a grin like the London and Country mail slots at the G.P.O. "'I'll tell you, Sergeant,' he said. 'I never had much heart for soldiering, and I only joined up when I did to spite the girl that jilted me. She jilted me for Jenks, and no sooner did she say the word to him than she talked him into enlisting too.... That's why I'm no good. Every time I remember I'm a soldier I think of her laughing at me, and I feel a fool.' "'Well,' said I, 'she must be proud of you both, for you're the weariest, wonkiest pair of wash-outs I ever swore at.' "I didn't send for Jenks; I could guess his excuse. He had obviously about as much spirit for fighting as Ruggles, and he was just hanging on and trying not to get hurt before the War stopped. "We had a few weeks out of the trenches after my chat with Ruggles, and one afternoon I came upon them enjoying a hearty, homely, ten-round hit, kick, and scramble in a quiet corner near their billet. They looked as if they meant it, but they finished up in about ten minutes, hugging each other in six inches of mud. Ruggles got up first, and while he waited for Jenks he turned on his Little Tich smile. It worked; Jenks smiled too, and the rivals went off together like brothers. "I said nothing, and forgot them again—clean forgot them, until, a week later, Jenks came to me in Number Seven with a yarn about a crater and a sniper, and might he go and perforate him. "I had noticed the sniper myself, so I sent Jenks to chase a broom and picked my own men for this job that mattered. I'd no sooner done it than Ruggles marched up and asked to be made one of the party. "I just stared at him, and his grin stretched half an inch each way. "'I saw Jenks asking you,' he told me, 'and I won't be behind Jenks. Besides, it was me told him of the sniper.' "'It's a change for you two to be worrying over snipers,' I said. "'Well, you're not grumbling at that, are you, Sergeant?' said he. "'I am not,' I said. 'And I hope you'll keep it up until we're relieved.' "'You watch us,' he answered. "I did. It was Ruggles that put his bayonet into the machine-gunner that had knocked out half the company. He took the last two bullets in his arm and side; and it was Jenks that put himself between Ruggles' head and the revolver that would have made pulp of it if Jenks hadn't got the hand that held it. He took the bullet in his cheek. "I saw them in the dressing-station when the shouting was over. Ruggles was laughing at what Jenks's face would look like when it was out of bandages. The bullet had taken away about a third of an ear. Jenks was cursing because it hurt to laugh back. "'Never mind,' I said to him with a wink at Ruggles, 'I warrant there's some little girl who won't laugh at you when you get back home. She has more to be proud of now than your face.' "'Then you're wrong, Sergeant,' he answered quietly. 'She's changed her mind. She's his girl now.' "I looked at Ruggles. He wouldn't catch my eye, but a blush was working round towards his neck. "'And I've changed my mind too,' said Jenks. 'D'you think I'd have taken those risks I took to-day if there was a girl at home worrying over every casualty list? A man's a fool to risk breaking a heart to try to get a medal.' "'Ay, that's the way you look at it,' said Ruggles, as red as beetroot. 'But I bet the Sergeant's glad she's changed her mind. I never knew your equal for a clammy coward, Jim, before she chucked you up.' "Jenks began to look black. 'There were two of us, anyway,' he said. "'P'r'aps there were,' Ruggles agreed cheerily. 'But what's the good of making a show of your soldiering unless there's someone at home looking on and caring?'" INTENSIVE CULTURE FOR FLAT-DWELLERS. Sowing early mustard and cress on winter underclothing. [pg 352] "The National War Savings Committee is issuing a two-penny cookery book, giving a host of simple remedies for economical dishes." Birmingham Daily Mail. Some of them do upset the internal economy, no doubt. "St. Quentin Canal, in spite of the damage reported to have been done to it by the Germans, will probably still be an important military obstacle. It is, for instance, when full of water, over eight feet deep." Daily News. When full of beer it becomes absolutely impassable. Extract from a regimental notice:— "I am glad to inform you that a Special Order ... guarantees your admission to this Regiment on your release from the Postal Service.... If attested and passed into Class A for Service, you should apply to your Recruiting Officer, who will post you and forward you here on an A.F. B. 216." An appropriate and convenient arrangement. ERIN TAKES A TURN AT HER OWN HARP. With Mr. Punch's sincere good wishes for the success of the Irish Convention. [pg 353] [pg 354] IN HAPPY DAYS TO COME. Non-Politician (in remote country-house, to wife on her midnight return from county town). "Mabel, you've been voting." ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT. Monday, May 21st.—Mr. Maccallum Scott complained that a question of his relating to the prohibition of "dropped scones"—which Captain Bathurst, that encyclopædia of food-lore, described as falling "under the same category as the crumpet"—had been addressed to the Ministry of Munitions instead of the Ministry of Food. It was really a venial error on the part of the Clerk at the Table, for the modern scone distinctly suggests a missile of offence, and is much more like a "crump" than a crumpet. If Hindenburg were acquainted with our London tea-shops (consule Devonport) he would never have imagined that his famous phrase about "biting upon granite" would have any terrors for the British recruit. When the Prime Minister read from his manuscripts the proposed conditions of the Irish Convention—how it must include representatives not only of political parties, but of Churches, trade unions, commercial and educational interests, and of Sinn Fein itself; and must be prepared to consider every variety of proposal that might be brought before it—an Irish colleague whispered to me, "Sure, the Millennium will be over before we get it." Nothing could have been handsomer than Mr. Redmond's welcome to the proposal. All he was concerned for, I gathered, was that his Unionist opponents should be generously represented. Ulster, in the person of Sir John Lonsdale, made no corresponding advance. He would submit the proposal to his constituents, but not apparently with letters commendatory. I daresay Mr. William O'Brien set out with the honest intention of blessing the Government plan, of which indeed he claims to be the "onlie begetter." But the sound of his own voice—in its higher tones painfully provocative—stimulated him to proceed to a dramatic indictment of his former colleagues. I felt sorry for the prospective Chairman, charged with the task of attempting to reconcile these opposites. Mr. Healy, cowering beneath the shelter of his ample hat, as Mr. O'Brien's arms waved windmill-like above him, must have felt like Sancho Panza when the Don was in an extra fitful mood; but he kept silence even from good words. The briefest and most helpful speech of the afternoon came from Sir Edward Carson, who, while declaring that he would never desert Ulster, nevertheless made it plain that Ulster on this occasion should take her place beside the rest of Ireland. Only Mr. Ginnell remained obdurate. In his ears the Convention sounds "the funeral dirge of the Home Rule Act." Tuesday, May 22.—If you should happen to see of a Sabbath morning a stream of official motor-cars leaving London with freights of the brave and the fair you may be sure they are going on some National business. Both the War Office and the Admiralty keep log-books, in which are faithfully entered—I quote Dr. Macnamara—"full particulars of each journey, the number and description of passengers carried and the amount of petrol consumed." Do not therefore jump