Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, January 21st, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, January 21st, 1920
"Now then, Inman," he said, with a poor attempt at jauntiness, "score off
that if you can."
James's reply was a calculated safety-miss, which only failed of its
intention in that it left his ball about an inch away from the middle
pocket. The closeness of the contest may be gauged from the fact that at
this stage the game was called (or would have been called if the marker had
not gone out to his dinner) at one all.
"In off the white," declared Herbert, and promptly potted it. "Sorry," he
added almost before the ball was in the pocket.
[Illustration: A MASTERLY TEN-SHOT, WHICH COLLECTED ALL THREE BALLS IN THE
BOTTOM RIGHT-HAND POCKET.
[The continuous line shows the path of the striker's ball and the dotted
lines those of the object balls.]]
For some time after this episode, which chilled the atmosphere a trifle,
the exchanges were uneventful. A slight tendency towards "barracking" on
the part of the crowd was quickly stifled, however, by a brilliant effort
from James, who by means of all-round play built up an attractive break of
5.
Herbert at once responded by taking off his coat, but for several innings
contributed nothing else of note except a powerful shot which pocketed the
red ball in the fireplace. After an agreement had at last been reached
about the rule governing this particular class of stroke, both players
settled down to their work and put in some useful breaks, runs of 3, 7 and
4 by James being countered by 2, 5, 6 and 3 (twice) by Herbert. The latter
was the first to reach the 50-mark, an event which the crowd signalised by
hanging up their hats and advancing to the table. When they were informed
that the game was one of a hundred up, they seemed disposed to argue the
matter, and from this stage their attitude towards the players became
openly and impartially critical.
The latter half of the match was marked by a somewhat peculiar incident.
With the game standing at 75 all Herbert made a stroke that left the red
hovering on the brink of a pocket. He waited anxiously, but with no result.
At this point one of the crowd emitted a prodigious yawn, and it was the
intense vibration set up from this act, so James declared, that induced the
ball to topple over into the pocket. In support of his contention that no
score should ensue he pointed to a framed copy of the Rules of Billiards on
the wall that balanced a coloured advertisement of Tommy Dodd whisky, and
recited the rule on vibration. Herbert strenuously denied that any such
phenomenon had taken place, and when James appealed to its author he was
met with such an outburst of elephantine sarcasm that he refrained from
further contesting the point.
After this the luck of the play went against James, and when, the marker
having by now finished his meal, the score was actually called at 90-99 in
his opponent's favour, he might have been excused for giving up the game as
lost. With dogged determination, however, he faced the situation. His own
ball was somewhere near the centre, the red about eighteen inches from the
top left-hand pocket, and the white midway between the right-hand cushion
and the D. With an almost superhuman stroke (but _not_, as was subsequently
averred, with his eyes shut) he smote the red, and his ball travelled
rapidly up and down the table. On the down journey it glanced off the
white, after which, still going at a tremendous pace, it made a complete
tour of the table and concluded its meteoric career in the bottom
right-hand pocket. Meanwhile the red and the white had both departed on
voyages of their own, the terminus in each case being the self-same pocket.
(_See diagram._) After the balls had been taken out, examined and counted,
and James's person had been searched to see if he were concealing any, the
marker pronounced this to be a 10-shot, and the game was thus strikingly
ended in James's favour.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.
"HOP IT, LEANDER! THE HELLESPONT'S DOWN AT THE OTHER END OF THE TANK. THIS
END'S 'FUN AT FLOUNDER BEACH.'"]
* * * * *
COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.
"The Great Song of a Britisher is--
'There's No Place Like Home.'
STAY AT ----'S HOTEL,
And you'll Sing it and Realise it."--_South African Paper._
"The mere selling of an article is a simple matter, but keeping the
customer sold is our principal aim."--_Advt. in West Indian Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Novice._ "WOULD YOU MIND MY PASSING, PLEASE?"
_Second ditto._ "NOT AT ALL--NOT AT ALL--IF YOU DON'T MIND USING ME AS THE
HANDRAIL."]
* * * * *
MY DEBUT IN "PUNCH."
I am, I hope, decently modest. When I said so once to Margery she remarked
that there was no need to make a virtue of necessity. But younger sisters,
of course...
I came down to breakfast at my usual time--as the others were finishing--
and found a letter awaiting me. I opened it under the usual fire of insults
from Margery and John. To-day I ignored them, however, and my young heart
gave a small jump. I am a modest young man.
"What's the matter with you, little Sunbeam?" asked John (he is Cecilia's
husband, through no fault of mine). "Is the tailor more rude than usual, or
has she found out your address?"
"The Vicar has asked him to sing at the Band of Hope," suggested Margery.
I commenced my breakfast.
"What is it, Alan?" asked Cecilia.
"Oh, nothing," I said easily. "The proof of a thing of mine that _Punch_
has accepted."
They hadn't a word to say for a few seconds, then Margery began:--
"Poor old dear, it must be some awful mistake."
I ignored Margery.
"But, Alan darling, how beautiful! You've been trying for years and years
and now at last it has happened. I _do_ hope it isn't a mistake," said
Cecilia anxiously. She was trying to be nice, you know. I'm sure she was. I
went on with my breakfast.
"Well, John," said Cecilia, "can't you congratulate him, or are you too
jealous?"
John sighed deeply and pondered.
"Terrible how _Punch_ has gone down since our young days, isn't it?" he
said heavily.
* * * * *
I spent a miserable time until it appeared. Somehow or other Cecilia let
the great glad news get about the village. Farley, our newsagent and
tobacconist, held me when I went in for an ounce of the usual mild.
"So I 'ear you've 'ad a article printed by this 'ere _Punch_, Sir," he
said. "Somethink laughable it'd be, I suppose like, eh?"
"Not half," I said, striving hard to impersonate a successful humourist.
"Ah, well, it's all good for business," he said, as one who sees the silver
lining. "I've 'ad quite a number of orders for the paper for the next two
or three weeks."
I crept from the shop, only to meet an atrocious woman from "The Gables,"
who stopped me with a little shriek of joy.
"Oh, Mr. Jarvis, I've been dying to meet you, do you know. I always have
thought you so funny, ever since that little sketch you got up for the
Bazaar last summer. I said to my husband when I heard of your success,
'_I'm_ not surprised. After that sketch, _I knew_.' _Do_ tell me when it's
appearing. I'm sure I shall simply scream at it."
I escaped after a time and wondered whether it was too late to stop
publication of the horrible thing.
* * * * *
I came down to breakfast and found John with a copy beside him. I looked at
him.
"Yes," he said, "the worst has happened. It is in print. We have been
waiting for you to appear."
He turned the pages and cleared his throat.
"I shall now read the article aloud," he said. "Each time I raise my hand
the audience will please burst into hearty laughter."
Margery giggled.
"Cecilia," I said, rising, "if you don't control this reptile that you have
married, if you don't force him to hold his peace, if you allow him to read
one word, I'll throw the bread-knife at him and ... and pour my coffee all
over the tablecloth."
"John," said Cecilia, "have a little thought for others and read it quietly
to yourself."
Cecilia meant well, of course, but Margery giggled again.
John read it to himself in a dead silence, sighed heavily and passed it to
Margery.
"We shall never live it down," he said, putting his head into his hands and
gazing moodily at the marmalade.
Margery read it and giggled three or four times; but Margery giggles at
anything.
Cecilia read it and beamed.
"Alan, dear," she said, "it's lovely! Of _course_ they accepted it. John,
you wretch, say you liked it." (Cecilia can be a dear.)
"Well, if I must tell the truth," said John, "it isn't quite so bad as I
expected. In fact I very much doubt whether he wrote it at all. If he
did--well, it's a marvellous fluke, that's all."
I smiled.
"You may smile, swelled-head," said John; "but I'll bet you five golden
guineas to a bad tanner you couldn't do it again."
"Done," I said.
After a few days, however, I realised that I had made a mistake. Even a bad
sixpence is worth something nowadays.
Cecilia and Margery vied with each other in offering me the feeblest
suggestions for articles that they felt sure would reduce a rhinoceros to
hysterics. John presented me with a copy of _A Thousand and One Jokes and
Anecdotes_ "to prove he was a sportsman," he said. I started to look for a
bad sixpence.
Then Margery said to me:--
"Why don't you write and explain the whole thing to the Editor and offer to
go halves if he prints it?"
I looked at her in amazement.
"You horrible little cheat!" I said.
* * * * *
However, on thinking it over carefully there seems a lot to say for the
idea and it's really quite fair. Anyhow I can't possibly let John win. So
here's the story, and with any luck it will cost John five golden guineas.
But I shan't give the Editor half.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Little Girl (rather sceptical about what she regards as her
new toy)._ "PUT HIM ON THE FLOOR, MUMMY, AND SEE IF HE'LL GO."]
* * * * *
THE PERILS OF HUMOUR.
From _Punch_:--
"'THE PROFITEER'S ANTHEM.
The hymns to be sung will be (1) "All people that on earth do well."'--
_Rangoon Times._"
From _The Manchester Evening Chronicle_:--
"'THE PROFITEER'S ANTHEM.
The hymns to be sung will be (1) "All people that on earth do dwell."'
_Rangoon Times_, quoted in _Punch_."
* * * * *
"It was reported to the Sanitary Committee yesterday that the Inspector
of Nuisances had made arrangements for the repair of the meteorological
instruments."--_Local Paper._
Judging by our recent weather, quite the right man to look after it.
* * * * *
From a money-lender's circular:--
"Having been, perhaps, the richest nation in the world before the war,
and wealth being only comparative, it is our empirical duty to achieve
a like position again."
So that's why they are "trying it on."
* * * * *
"The news, says the Paris correspondent of _The Times_, in itself is
serious enough as showing the dangers of letting the Adriatic
settlement continue to be at the mercy of a coup de theatre or coup de
d'etat, whichever one may like to call it."--_Evening Paper._
We fancy the Paris correspondent of _The Times_ would prefer the former.
* * * * *
[Illustration: EVEN-HANDED JUSTICE
(_As dispensed by the LORD CHANCELLOR and a predecessor_).
INJURED PARTIES (_simultaneously_).
"OH! TO BE SMACKED BY THOSE WE LOVE DOTH WORK LIKE MADNESS IN THE BRAIN."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: FRENZIED BOXING FINANCE.
_Master of the Ceremonies._ "LOOK 'ERE! 'FORE MY MAN FIGHTS HE WANTS TWO
POTTIES, THREE GLASSIES AN' A BLOOD-ALLEY; AN' I WANTS A PACKET O' FAGS FOR
MESELF."]
* * * * *
THE BURIAL OF DUNDEE.
"Dundee is dead," said my wife, returning from her morning visit to the
kitchen.
"I am very sorry to hear it," I replied, laying down the newspaper on the
breakfast-table, at which I still lingered; and indeed I was sorry. Dundee
had been our household cat from the earliest days of our married life, from
the time when he was a tiny kitten the colour of marmalade, which had
earned him his name.
"Cook is very much upset," my wife continued.
"Her distress does her credit," I answered.
"She talks of leaving."
I must confess with shame that a pang acuter than the first went through me
at the news, for Cook was one of those rare artists who understands the
value of surprise and never rides success to death.
"Ask her to reconsider her decision," I said.
"I have," said my wife, "and she remained immovable."
"Perhaps when the first shock has worn off?"
"There is just a chance."
"Yes, I am sure you can persuade her," I concluded, preparing to leave for
my office.
"Before you go," interrupted my wife, "what are we going to do about the
burial?"
"How does one usually dispose of dead cats?" I asked. "I thought the
dustman--"
"Out of the question."
"I know it is forbidden by the by-laws of the Corporation, but a shilling
----"
"How stupid you are! If anything were to decide Cook to go it would be
handing over Dundee's remains to the dustman. You know how particular Cook
is about funerals."
I knew indeed. The rate of mortality among her friends and relations was
abnormally high, and on account, as I suspect, of her skill in cookery she
was in frequent demand as a mourner. By continual attendance she had
cultivated a nice sense of what was fitting on these occasions and posed as
an authority on the subject.
"Very well, then, let's have him buried," I said.
"Where?"
"In our garden."
"Who by?"
"Palmer or Emily."
Palmer and Emily are respectively the parlour- and house-maid.
"Both would say it was not the work for which they were engaged. They would
leave at the same time as Cook, if I asked them."
"Who else can we get?" I asked.
"Yourself," my wife made answer.
"Me? But I can't be seen by all the street burying a cat." I should explain
that our only garden is in front of the house.
"If you wait till it is dark you needn't be afraid of anyone seeing you,"
protested my wife.
"And run the risk of being detected by some suspicious policeman. No, thank
you."
"Then if you won't do it yourself you must find someone who will. It is our
last hope of persuading Cook to stay."
"By heaven!" I cried, looking at my watch, I am a quarter-of-an-hour late.
I must run."
This was my customary device to evade the embarrassing dilemmas which my
wife not infrequently thrust upon me at this hour. So for the moment I
escaped. All day in the office I was fully occupied. From time to time the
memory of Dundee lying stark in the basement obtruded itself upon my
thoughts, but I dismissed the vision as one does a problem one has not the
courage to face.
The problem remained unsolved when I stepped out of the train on my return
from the City. To gain time for reflection I resolved to make a detour. As
I struck into an unfamiliar side street, I looked up, and there in front of
me stood an undertaker's shop.
The inspiration! I entered. From the back premises advanced to meet me the
undertaker, with a visage tentatively wobegone, not yet knowing whether I
was widower, orphan, businesslike executor or merely the busybody family
friend. I unfolded my difficulty. Beneath the outer crust of professional
melancholy there evidently seethed within the undertaker a lava of
joviality.
"Certainly, Sir, certainly," he said. "It is not perhaps strictly in my
line, but one of my assistants will be delighted to earn an extra shilling
or so by obliging you. What name and address?"
I joyfully gave both and made my way home.
Midway through dinner came a ring at the front-door bell. Palmer
interrupted her service to answer, and returned to me with a card on a
salver.
"A gentleman to see you, Sir," she announced.
"How strange, at this hour! Who can it be?" asked my wife.
"The gentleman to bury Dundee," I explained in a lowered voice, as I passed
the visiting-card, deeply edged with black, across the table to her.
Next morning my wife was able to announce that Cook had consented to stay.
The burial of Dundee by a real undertaker had gratified her sense of the
correct. I departed to the City filled with self-complacency.
For a month I dwelt in this fool's paradise. Then one evening my wife
gently broke the news.
"I have something serious to tell you. Cook has given notice."
"Who is dead now?" I asked.
"No one. She is engaged to be married."
"Married?"
"Yes, to the young undertaker."
"What young undertaker?"
"The one who buried Dundee."
It was too true. At supper, after the inhumation, a mutual esteem had
sprung up that rapidly ripened into love. The enterprising young
journeyman, so enamoured of his calling that he consented to inter dumb
creatures in his leisure time, had evidently discerned in Cook, with her
wealth of funeral lore, a helpmeet worthy of himself; while Cook on her
side, conquered by his diligence and discretion, considered she had secured
a respectable settlement for life, with the prospect of obsequies of the
highest class for herself.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Cheery Member (to Club pessimist_). "HULLO, OLD CHAP!
HAVING A BAD CROSSING?"]
* * * * *
CLERICAL EDUCATION.
[The Rev. KENNEDY BELL, in _The Daily Sketch_, deplores the dreariness of
parish magazines and suggests, with a view to brighten their contents, that
clergymen should serve an apprenticeship on the daily Press.]
The Reverend Mr. KENNEDY BELL
Is wholly unable to say all's well
With the state of our parish magazines,
And is moved to indicate the means
Of making their pages bright and snappy
And bored subscribers cheerful and happy.
Now the most original of his hints
For galvanizing these dreary prints
Is this: That every parson, before
He aspires to be parish editor,
Should join the staff of a leading daily
And learn to write genially and gaily.
It may be a counsel of sheer perfection,
And yet, perhaps, on further reflection,
We may admit that something is gained
By the plan of having clergymen trained
In the very heart of the Street of Ink
To paint their parish magazines pink.
So generous laymen may haply decide
That it _may_ be worth their while to provide
Each KENNEDY BELL with stepping-stones
To rise to the height of a KENNEDY JONES.
But others, a small and dwindling crew,
Possibly fit, but certainly few,
And cursed with a most pronounced capacity
For suffering from inept vivacity,
Would gladly be reckoned as unenlightened
Could they keep one class of journal un-"brightened."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MY DEAR, YOU ARE NOT DANCING."
"NO--MOST PROVOKING. I MISLAID MY PARTNER AT PADDINGTON, AND HE HASN'T THE
FAINTEST IDEA WHERE THE DANCE IS."]
* * * * *
THE PASSING OF THE LITTER.
It happened only a couple of weeks ago, but the horrible memory comes back
to me as if it only happened yesterday. It was my own fault, because with a
telephone loose about the place one ought not to encourage other pets.
"Well," I said to Sibyl, "there we are, and we must make the best of them."
Sibyl sniffed as she usually does when these periodical occurences happen
in our house.
"Which of them are you going to keep?" she asked, "and is it really
necessary to keep any of them?"
"Well," I said; "but----"
"What I mean to say," said Sibyl, "better do away with them when they are
quite young. It would be far more humane."
"I am with you up to a point," I said; "I admit they are not a very
prepossessing lot."
"How they came to be born at all is what I cannot understand," said Sibyl,
who is always like that when trying to be serious.
"Well," I said, "I have decided to keep one of them--No. 1."
"But surely," said Sibyl, "that the most delicate one of the lot."
That, I well knew, was quite true. Whether I should ever rear No. 1 was a
matter for time to prove. It was so delicate that once or twice already it
had been on the verge of collapse, but I had rallied it each time.
"As for the others," I said, "we shall have to get rid of them."
I need not go into painful details, but the thing was easily done. That
very evening, unfortunately, through an oversight, No. 1 perished also.
For this I blame McWhirter.
"The number of my bus is 21," he said in the theatre buffet that night; "by
the way what's yours?"
"Whisky," I said absent-mindedly, "and not much soda."
And it was only after I had drunk it that I realised my error. It was then
too late.
And that is how New Year Resolution No. 1--the most delicate of the
litter--passed away at the early age of one week.
* * * * *
OUR PLUTOCRATIC SPORTSMEN AGAIN.
"Wanted, set of gold clubs, with bag, for lady."--_Local Paper_.
* * * * *
LIFE.
A MODERN NOVEL--SPASMODIC SCHOOL.
I.
Her parents were hygienic, so they never let a germ intrude
Within the cells and tissues of the girl they christened Ermyntrude;
They bathed her body every hour and all internal harm allayed
By pouring Condy's Fluid on her butter and her marmalade;
And when they dressed her took good care to tuck her chest-protector in--
Result, she grew up strong and fair as any peach or nectarine.
II.
She had no fear of lion or of tiger (in imprisonment)
And in an awful storm at sea she asked the mate what mizzen meant;
It was a plucky act; if I'd neglected to report it you'd
Never have known the depth and true dimensions of her fortitude.
If you remain agnostic, if you hold it still not proven, I'll
Give fifty more examples of her courage when a juvenile;
They lie in my portfolio, all printed, filed and docketed,
Including one in which a stick of dynamite she pocketed.
III.
She also painted: one could tell her pictures mid a billion,
So daubed were they with ochre blots and splashes of vermilion;
She claimed to be a connoisseur of _objets d'art_ and curios,
But what attracted notice was her openwork and lury hose,
Fashioned in every colour from magenta down to cinnabar,
Suggestive of a rainbow or the various liquors _in_ a bar.
IV.
So when she came to twenty-one, the age they call discretional,
The trooping of her followers was, in a word, processional.
V.
But she disdained flamboyant types and snubbed the gay and gildy brand;
Instead she loved a decadent whose pagan name was Hildebrand,
Until that sad occasion when she met him coming back o' night,
His system loaded up with bhang and opium and aconite.
VI.
An artist next attracted her; she turned on her cajoleries,
And soon in unison they laughed at other people's drolleries;
His speech was polychromous (as the speech of many a carman is);
He mostly talked of masses, lights, half-tones and colour-harmonies;
That was his doom, for one fine day he went to his sarcophagus,
The word "_chiaroscuro_" stuck deep down in his oesophagus.
VII.
I do not know; it may have been her hose that took poor Rendall in,
Who previously had flirted with her elder sister, Gwendoline.
This Rendall was a wholesale dealer, very rich and large in all
His habits, though he always said his profits were but marginal.
Well, Rendall kept on waddling round her, like a tired and tardy yak;
His movements showed beyond a doubt that his disease was cardiac;
He took her on the river; after thinking for a time, aloud
He said, "I will propose to you; that is, of course, if I'm allowed."
VIII.
And she replied, "If I were going to propose, I'm blest if I
Would personate an elder who is just about to testify.
Now first of all I must remark that Love has come to grip you late
In life, but, passing over that, I've certain things to stipulate:
You must exhibit interest, as even Goth or Vandal would,
In curios and bric-a-brac, in ivories and sandalwood;
And you must cope with cameo, veneer, relief and lacquer (Ah!
And, parenthetically, pay my debts at bridge and baccarat).
I dote on Futurism, and so a mate would give me little ease
Whose views were strictly orthodox on MYRON and PRAXITELES.
You do not understand," she sneered, "so gross is your fatuity;
Well then, I answer 'No,' without a trace of ambiguity."
IX.
And Rendall turned back sad at heart; but in a stride his honey-bee
Was in his arms exclaiming, "Then would wasted all your money be.
Come, I will take you with your faults and try to make the best of you;
Your purse is good; perhaps in time I may improve the rest of you."