PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 147.
November 18, 1914.
CHARIVARIA.
Contrary to the usual custom there were no official dinners on the eve of the opening of Parliament. The explanation of this is clear to the German Press. It was due to scarcity of food.
Upon receipt of the Japanese ultimatum, the Kaiser, it may be remembered, cabled to the commander of his Chinese fortress:—"Bear in mind that it would shame me more to surrender Kiaochau to the Japanese than Berlin to the Russians." The kind-hearted Russians will now, we feel sure, have less compunction in taking Berlin, seeing that the blow will have been softened to an anticlimax.
The Kaiser's hair, it is said, is now bleached: but this attempt to look like a white man will deceive no one.
Just as we go to press a report reaches us which certainly bears the impress of truth on the face of it. It declares that the Crown Prince has been shot for looting by a short-sighted brother-officer who did not recognise the son of God's Vice-regent on Earth.
"The British Navy is in hiding," says the Kölnische Zeitung. We beg our fragrant contemporary not to worry. In due course the Germans shall have the hiding.
It is so frequently stated that the leaders of the German Army attach no importance to the lives of their men that it seems only fair to point out that last week Brussels was fined £200,000 for wounding a couple of German policemen.
Neither the French, Russian, Belgian, nor British troops like the idea of fighting against the mere youths whom a paternal Kaiser is now sending into the firing line, and a humane suggestion has been put forward for correcting this embarrassment. Would it not be possible, it is asked, to arrange Boys' Own Battles, in which the German little ones would be opposed by the young of the Allies?
"Klopstock, one of our greatest geniuses," says the Hamburger Fremdenblatt, "taught us, 'Be not excessively just.' We shall endeavour now to follow that teaching." We should say that there is no great danger of the German nation breaking down under the strain of this effort.
"How ever do the Teutons manage to produce so many lies about us?" asks "A Lover of Truth." Our correspondent is evidently not much of a gardener or he would have heard of "Intensive Culture."
The reply published by the Vossische Zeitung to the protest of French clergymen against the destruction of Louvain and the shelling of Rheims Cathedral contained at least one unfortunate expression. It asserted that the German Emperor and the German People are both permeated with a burning love of peace.
The Rev. Mr. Edwards has resigned his assistant curacy at Tettenhall under somewhat peculiar circumstances, but we are sure the case is not so bad as The Wolverhampton Express would have us believe. According to our contemporary this gentleman exhorted his congregation "not to hate the Germans, but rather to pay for them."
A wounded Tommy in one of our London hospitals, on being asked, the other day, by a lady visitor what he thought of the French soldiers, replied that he very much admired the French Curaçaos.
When in Breslau, The Evening News tells us, the Kaiser promised that the Russian Army should be crushed. Fortunately in this case the undertaking was not even written on a scrap of paper.
"For thirty-two years," says the Vossische Zeitung, "Egypt has had to endure British rule." Curiously enough this bright little sheet does not go on to point out that during the same period the poor Egyptians have also had to put up with a good deal of prosperity.
"Wot's the Use of This 'ere Earlier Closing?"
"Wy in case of a Zeppelin raid. If the 'Un smells beer 'e'll 'ave it!"
A Beauty Spot.
"This photograph of the town of Pervyse, on the road from Nieuport to Dixmude, has been taken and retaken by both sides several times. Our photograph was taken just after it had again come into the possession of the Allies."—Daily Chronicle.
It is now the German photographer's turn again.
Translation of a letter received by The Morning Post:—
"By spring-time of the 6,000,000 German soldiers there will remain only three capable of fighting."
The Crown Prince and two privates.
"Patriotism for Pauper Children.—The Lambeth Guardians yesterday decided that in order that the Poor-law school children may have an opportunity of appreciating the position of national affairs the usual practice of allowing each child an egg for breakfast on Christmas morning be suspended this year."—Times.
If this doesn't learn them to love their country, it ought, at any rate, to encourage them to honour and respect the patriotic Lambeth Guardians.
"Pending operations for her capture, or destruction, effective steps have been taken to block the Königsberg in by inking colliers in the only navigable channel."--Birmingham Daily Mail.
Aren't they black enough already?
Examples of official enthusiasm are always welcome, and we therefore give further publicity to the following:—
"The Cossacks who have been mobilised in the Amur district have sent the following telegram to the Commander-in-Chief of the Russian forces:
'Your children are coming to your aid, father commander. They come shouting "Hurrah!"'
The Grand Duke Nicholas replied:
'I shall be very pleased to see you.'—Reuter."
TO THE BITTER END.
A rumour comes from Rome (where rumours breed)
That you are sick of taking blow on blow,
And would inter with all convenient speed
The hatchet wielded by your largest foe.
Is it the shadow Christmas casts before
That makes the iron of your soul unbend,
And melt in prayer for this unholy war
(Meaning the part that pinches most) to end?
Is it your fear to mark at that high feast
The writing on the wall that seals your fate,
And where the Christ-star watches in the East
To hear the guns that thunder at your gate?
For on your heart no Christmas Peace can fall.
The chimes shall be a tocsin, and the red
Glow of the Yule-wood embers
A myriad smouldering pyres of murdered dead.
And anguish, wailing to the wintry skies,
Shall with its dirges drown the sacred hymn,
And round your royal hearth the curse shall rise
Of lowly hearths laid waste to suit your whim.
And you shall think on altars left forlorn,
On temple-aisles made desolate at your nod,
Where never a white-robed choir this holy morn
Shall chant their greeting to the Birth of God.
Peace? There is none for you, nor can be none;
For still shall Memory, like a fetid breath,
Poison your life-days while the slow hours run,
Till it be stifled in the dust of Death.
O. S.
WHY I DON'T ENLIST.
[Curiosity is often expressed regarding the causes which have prevented young men from enlisting. Considerable interest, therefore, should attach to the following replies to enquiries, an inspection of which has been permitted us by the Secretary of the Patriotic League, an organisation which seeks to stimulate recruiting by writing to young healthy and unmarried men and asking them why they do not join the colours.]
My Dear Sir,—I fully understand your views—in fact I am in cordial agreement with them. It would be quite fair to say of most young unmarried men that they could and should be spared. But this cannot be said of all young men. There is a small section of literary and other artists whose lives must continue to be immeasurably precious to the nation which has given them birth. From this company it is impossible for me to exclude myself. There is a higher patriotism, to the dictates of which I must respond. With infinite regrets, and thanks for what is doubtless a well-meant endeavour,
I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,
Endymion Browne.
P.S.—If you should be in town on the 24th, I am giving a reading from my own works at the United Intensities Club—"A Night with Endymion Browne."
Dear Sir,—What you say is O.K. Kitchener must have men and all that sort of thing. Show the Kaiser who's boss, and so on. But there are some men who can't possibly go. And I'm one. It's all very well to say "Go," but if I go—let me ask you quite seriously—how on earth is Smoketown Tuesday F.C. to lift the English pot? I don't want to shout about myself, but it is a known fact that I'm positively the only centre forward they've got. I'm worth £200 a week to the gate alone. If you don't care to accept my word, that it is absolutely impossible for me to go, I'll refer you to what our secretary says at foot.
Yours,
Alf Booter.
Note by Secretary—What Booter says is quite true. He is indispensable. We paid £1,000 for his transfer, and could not possibly sanction his leaving us. Besides, some of his many thousand admirers might want to follow his example, and where would our gate be then?
Dear Sir,—If I was to go and enlist, how could I follow the Occident and help 'em to win the League Championship? There it is, quite short—how? And if I didn't follow, and if others like me didn't follow, how'd the club stick it? How'd it keep going? What price duty of staying at home?
I am, yours truly,
Bert Socksley.
Sir,—I snatch a moment to answer your letter, "Why don't I go to fight the Germans?" I am fighting them. I cleared £500 this morning which, before the war, would have gone into a German pocket. My motto is "Business as usual," and I have no complaints whatever against the Germans so long as I can go on fighting them some more in my own way.
Yours faithfully,
George Crabbe.
My Dear Sir,—Your letter for my brother, John Halton, has reached me by mistake, but I'll answer it. "Why don't I go?" Just send me a recipe for turning me into a boy, and you'll not have to ask me twice.
Yours very sincerely,
Joan Halton.
Dear Sir,—I know what my job is, so don't you come poking your nose in where it isn't wanted. I'm for England, I am. And I'm doing my bit. The Evening Wiper said only the other day that a Britisher's duty was to keep cheerful, and that the man who did that was serving his country. Well, I am cheerful—I didn't turn a hair even over Mons—slept exactly the same, and had bacon and tomato for my breakfast. Then they say, "Carry on." And I do carry on. I go out as usual, dress just as carefully—spats, fancy waistcoat, buttonhole, etc. One night it's the Imperial and another it's the Cinema. Men are wanted to cheer the patriotic songs and to sing the chorus of "Tipperary." I help here. Then I spend my money freely—freely, I tell you. Any Tommy I meet can have a drink—half a dozen at my expense, and no return expected. I got two quite blind last night, and never asked 'em for a sou. Then again, I've spent quite a lot on flags. I always wear six on the front of my bike when I scorch through the crowds coming out of church on Sundays. I've got portrait buttons, too, of Joffre and Kitch., and I'm never ashamed to wear 'em. And I'm always urging chaps to go and enlist. So you see I am doing my bit.
Yours truly,
Albert Spottle.
In a Good Cause.
A Matinée will be given at the Empire on Thursday, the 26th, in aid of The Daily Telegraph's Belgian Relief Fund. Among the patrons are The Japanese Ambassador, the Belgian Minister and the Grand Duke Michael.
Many popular artistes have offered their services, including Miss Phyllis Bedells, Miss Gladys Cooper, Miss Ethel Levey, Miss Irene Vanbrugh, Miss Wish Wynne, Mr. Wilkie Bard, Mr. Will Evans, Mr. Alfred Lester, Mr. James Tate, Mr. Lewis Waller and Mr. James Welch.
Mr. Punch very heartily commends the cause and its advocates to his gentle readers.
GOOD HUNTING.
"Mother, Look at That Poor Soldier: Wounded in Both Feet."
WITH ALL RESERVE.
Departing
The right hon. gentleman went on to say that so long as the people of this country permitted the present Government to remain in power, so long would this country be governed in a manner which could never win the approval of the Opposition.
[The above having been passed by the Censor may be accepted as correct.—ED.]
The weather yesterday varied throughout the country. While in the extreme north it was warm and sunny, in the south snow fell. A violent hailstorm swept Battersea from end to end; yet in Stornoway the day was marked by a sky of cloudless blue. Once more the climate of these islands showed itself to be a fickle and unstable thing.
[The above has been submitted to the Censor, who sees no reason why it should be withheld from the public; and it may therefore be taken that in the main it is moderately accurate.—ED.]
Lady A.'s dinner-party at the Ritz Hotel last evening was not a great success. The decorations of pink carnations were but moderately admired by her undistinguished guests. The Blue Petrogradese Orchestra played without particular brilliance. Among those absent without reason assigned were the Duke and Duchess of W., the Earl and Countess X., the Bishop of Y., and Mr. Z., the unknown poet.
[The above has been submitted to the Censor, who possessed no official knowledge of the facts, but considered that the report had an air of sufficient probability.—Ed.]
TO THE UNDYING HONOUR OF A SUPER-PATRIOT.
Commemorate, ye gods, the noble mind
Of Brown (A. J.), a youth of classic parts,
Whose soul was ever faultlessly inclined
To music, verse, and all the gracious arts;
At things of taste, in fact, Augustus John
Was always, and is yet, a perfect don.
But lately I have fathomed deeps unknown
Before in my incomparable friend;
No mere artistic trifler, he has shown
A patriot heart of high heroic trend,
And showered sacrifice with fearless hand
Upon the altar of his Motherland.
I haled him to a "music" hall to hear
The Great Recruiting Song, and watched him wince
And writhe throughout, as though his end were near;
But now I learn that, every evening since,
Brown has been there, in England's sacred cause,
To greet that patriot song with loud applause!
AUNT LOUISA'S SONG SCENA.
Just as adversity sometimes brings out men's strongest characteristics, hitherto unsuspected, so can amateur theatricals lead to surprising discoveries of humour and resource. Everyone must have noticed it.
No one had ever credited Aunt Louisa with any dramatic sense whatever. She is so gentle and so placid. She was always something of a knitter, and, like all essential knitters, given to sitting a little outside of life; but since the war broke out she has knitted practically without ceasing; and who would dream of going to a knitter for stage effects?
Therefore we were astonished when, in talking over the projected Saturday night's entertainment, Aunt Louisa ventured the statement that she had thought out a scheme for a little interlude, and might she be permitted to carry it out? Just a mere fill up, but topical, or possibly even more than topical—prophetic.
Of course she might.
"Is it a tableau?" our stage manager inquired.
"No, I shouldn't call it a tableau," said Aunt Louisa; "I should call it a song scena."
How on earth did she hear that phrase? She never goes to music-halls. I would as soon expect to hear her speak of "featuring."
"A song scena," she went on, "the hero of which is the Kaiser; and I shall want half-a-dozen gentlemen to assist."
The busy fingers knitted away and the gold spectacles were fixed on us with bland benignity. Aunt Louisa writing a song scena and ordering a chorus, just like Mr. George Edwardes, was not the least of the miracles produced by this war.
A company of six of us volunteered, of whom I was one. Another was Mr. Herbert Foley, who has made private theatricals his life study.
"Anything I can do to help you in coaching the performers and so on," he said, "I shall be only too pleased to do. You know I'm no chicken at this sort of thing."
"Thank you," said Aunt Louisa, "but I think I can manage."
"All right," replied Mr. Foley, "but, of course——. Want of experience——"
"First of all," said Aunt Louisa, "I must choose a Kaiser. Someone who can act."
We all became very self-conscious. Our expressions said severally, "No one can act as well as I, but it's rotten form to push oneself forward."
Aunt Louisa scanned us narrowly and, much to everybody else's surprise, picked out Tommy Thurlow. To my mind she could not have made a worse choice; but, as it happened, her judgment was sound.
Foley seemed piqued. "Then what do we do?" he asked.
"You are chorus men," said she.
"Chorus!" said Foley.
"Isn't that the right word? I know so little about these things. Perhaps I ought to have said 'supers.'"
She then told us what to do, knitting all the while.
On the evening Aunt Louisa's song scena was the success of the show. It was called "The Haunted Kaiser," and it began with a distracted demented Tommy Thurlow, with the familiar Potsdam moustache and an excellent wig from London, rushing on with his fingers in his ears. No doubt as to who it was—the War Lord in a state bordering on delirium. Having calmed down a little, he began to sing:—
For years and years I'd waited,
Preparing for The Day——
The day that meant for Germany
A universal sway.
Alas, alack,
For my set back!
At this point a number of tea-trays were smitten resonantly "off." Tommy dramatically heard them and sang:—
What's that that smites upon my ear,
The sound of cruel guns I hear,
That sound of fear?
More tea-tray.
The British, French and Russians
They are murdering my Prussians:
Why did I make this war?
They're in my way by day, by night:
In vain, in vain I take to flight,
I'll hear them evermore——
Those guns! Those guns!
Tremendous applause, while Tommy prepared for the second verse and Aunt Louisa's great effect.
Alas! for my ambition,
My glory passed away!
What is there left of Germany
But misery to-day?
Alack, alas,
For such a pass!
Here on several concertinas in different parts of the hall, as well as upstairs, was heard, "It's a long way to Tipperary." Tommy began to behave like a maniac. He rushed about more wildly than
What's that that bursts upon my ear,
That overwhelming song I hear,
That sound of fear?
Though brave my men and wary,
They've been done by "Tipperary;"
Why did I make this war?
It's in my brain by day, by night,
In vain, in vain I take to flight,
I'll hear it evermore—
That song! That song!
Now came the great dramatic effect. On to the stage climbed, in the latest revue manner, from all parts of the house, the army of which I had the honour to be one, all pointing the finger of doom at the cringing Tommy Thurlow. Having got him well into our midst and broken to the world, we sang at him these stirring lines to a too familiar tune:—
It's a long way to get to Paree,
It's a long way to go;
It's the wrong way through little Belgium,
The wrongest way we know.
Good-bye, Kaiser Billy;
Farewell, O mein Herr;
It's a long, long way to St. Helena,
But your home's right there!
Terrific success; and, after some moments of reluctance, Aunt Louisa, still knitting a sock, was induced to bow.
But it wasn't a bad first effort at drama by an old lady in gold spectacles, was it? I have seen worse by professional writers.
Patriotic Wife. "Now, Richard, Before You Go, Let Me Hear You Repeat My Instructions."
Richard. "I Must Remember I'm the Husband of An Englishwoman, and I'm Not To Come Back Without The Kaiser!"
Mr. Thespian Jones, the famous Animal Impersonator, offers his services as "Collecting Dog" under the auspices of a relief committee—
—But suddenly forgets himself on the arrival of good news from the front.
THE KAISER'S "HATE."
[The feeling in Germany, it appears, is now quite friendly towards France and Russia, and all the fury of the Press is concentrated on England.]
When first the champions were listed,
When first the shells began to fall,
Some trace of animus existed
Between the Teuton and the Gaul;
King William was extremely callous,
Nay, even found a certain zest
In riding from his Potsdam palace
To show his purple to the West.
But what a charm the Frenchman carries!
His compliments how wide they range!
Before King William got to Paris
His feelings underwent a change:
"Our ancient feud against the Latin,"
He said, "has sensibly decreased;"
And rising from the trench he sat in
He moved his umbrage to the East.
He trampled on the Polish border;
He cried that Russia was the foe;
The German Press received the order
And answered meekly, "That is so;"
But when King William met the Tartar
His soul sustained another wrench,
He found the Slavs were even smarter
At entertainments than the French.
They gave him such a royal greeting
With Cossack horsemen making curves
That William asked them, on retreating,
To try his Prussian game preserves;
"Duke Nicholas is not the canker,"
He told his German scribblers then;
"His treatment has disarmed my rancour"
(It certainly disarmed his men).
"Out yonder in the circling billows
There lies the object of my scorn,
We hate these English armadilloes,
We wish they never had been born;
Their name to us is rank and fetid,
And on their sins our rage is fed;"
And all the German Press repeated
Precisely what the Kaiser said.
Eh well. That water is a worry!
And doubtless, if the iron glove
Should meet us here in Kent or Surrey,
Its clasp might soften into love;
We might despatch him with a grey grin,
And all the German Scribes would vow
"Our bugbear is the Montenegrin;
We do not hate the English now."
But better still to cool his dudgeon
Where week by week our nobler sons
Have proved Britannia's no curmudgeon
By salvoes of applauding guns;
To save him toil without his landing,
To meet him with more warm advance,
And help to share that "understanding"
He has with Russia and with France.
Evoe.
THE LAST LINE.
We progress. The days when the whole art of war consisted of "On the left, form platoons.... On the left, blanket," are over. Skirmishing, signalling, musketry, Swedish drill—a variety of entertainment is now open to us; there is even a class for buglers. To give you an idea of the Corps at work, I offer you a picture of James and myself semaphoring to each other.
James is in the middle distance, a couple of flags draped over his person. I am going to send him a message. I signal to him that I am about to begin; he waves back that he is ready. Now then....
My mind becomes a complete blank. I find that I have absolutely nothing to say to James.
"Go on," says my instructor.
"Yes, but what?" I ask. All desire to interchange thought with James has left me.
"Anything. Ask him, if a herring and a half costs three ha'pence, how much——"
"Yes, but that's too long. It would take me at least a week, and by that time the herring would be censored. No, I've got it."
It has occurred to me suddenly that it would annoy James if I reminded him of his professional life. He looks so military in his puttees and khaki shirt.
"Do—you—want—a—nice—mortgage?" I signal.
James takes it up to "nice," and then breaks down. The "m-o" he reads as "s-w" (an easy mistake to make), and he imagines that I am offering him a nice sword—a fitting offer to one of his martial appearance. When the third letter turns out to be not the "o" which he expected, he loses his head and signals "Repeat."
I give it him
He is now going to send a message to me. There is nothing half-hearted about James when he has his khaki shirt on.
"Why the devil don't you send up those guns?" he signals.
General James is hard pressed. The enemy is advancing in echelon against his left wing; cavalry beat themselves against the hollow square on his right; his centre has formed platoon after platoon unavailingly. Still the enemy comes on. Where the devil are those guns?
I signalled back:
"Sorry, but B Company is using the bullet."
It was a blow to James. Reluctantly he came to his decision.
"Must fall back," he said, and he caught a flag between his legs and did so....
Well, there you have us signalling. To show you us skirmishing I cannot do better than describe the fierce engagement between A and C Companies, which resulted in the entire annihilation of A. But perhaps that would not be fair. I am a prejudiced recorder; let one of A Company speak.
He was annoyed.
"We worked round their flank," he said, "and we'd got quite close up to them under cover of a wood when we came on one of them smoking a pipe. He said he was an outpost, and that he'd decimated us all long ago."
"What did you do?" asked his friend.
"We scragged him."
Personally I had a safer position among the supports. A decimated enemy in the first flush of annoyance can be dangerous. I merely lay in a ditch and counted ants.... But I was very glad to hear we'd won.
Rifle exercises go on apace. We have a curious collection of weapons ("weapons of precision" as they are called by those who have never seen my targets), an order for six hundred of one family having fallen through, owing to a clerical error. "We can offer you 600 rifles, 1900 pattern," the firm wrote; but an inspection of them showed that the "6" and the "9" had got mixed up.
But even with more modern weapons than these we are not very formidable as yet, and for some weeks we must rely on other methods of striking terror into the hearts of the enemy. Luckily we are acquiring an excellent substitute for lead. As an example of "frightfulness" nothing can exceed the appearance of one of our really mixed platoons lying on its backs and waving its legs in the air. This is one of the Swedish drill movements ... and, as I think I have mentioned before, we are all ages and shapes....
Let me conclude with a little story to show the dangers to which we are subject and the fearlessness with which we face them. I cite the case of Reginald Arbuthnot Wilkins.
R. A. Wilkins is just as keen as they make them, and it is his great sorrow that, being in an important Government office, he is not allowed to enlist. For my liking he is too smart; when he does a "right-turn" he does it with a jerk that you can almost hear. The click of the heels is all very well, but Reginald Arbuthnot makes his neck click too. An "eyes-right" nearly takes his head off.
A dozen of them, including Reginald, were being taught saluting the other day. There was an imaginary Field-Marshal or somebody on the left, and they were told to turn the head smartly to the left, at the same time bringing the right hand up to the salute.... "Sa-lute!" Reginald Arbuthnot Wilkins whizzed his head round to the left, but accidentally brought the wrong hand up. There was a crash as his left thumb met his left eye-ball, and Reginald was in hospital for a week.
The remarkable thing is that the other eleven, quite undismayed, went on practising the salute. That gives you some idea of our spirit.
A. A. M.
STRATEGIC DISEASE.
[Some of the German military authorities having explained that their retreat from Paris was due to the spread of cholera in that city, we may perhaps expect to have something like the following further "explanations" elsewhere.]
Our recent rather smart retreat
From Warsaw need not cause disquiet;
Our army met with no defeat
Nor suffered from defective diet;
We marched away because we knew
Warsaw was reeking with the 'Flu.
Our move from Calais was, of course,
A great strategic retrogression,
We were compelled, though not by force,
To leave another in possession;
But that's no ground for doleful dumps,
Calais was chucked because of Mumps.
Soon we shall see, though scarce as yet,
Huns and howitzers hustled over
Yon nauseous streak of heaving wet
Which still divides our arms from Dover;
And should "high failure" then occur
Lay the whole blame on Mal-de-mer.
Le mot juste.
"Reports of military movements behind the Germans' front in Belgium are contradictory and too bragmentary to be worth much."—Western Mail.
"Mr. Churchill: Six, nine, twelve months hence you will begin to see results that will spell the domm of Germany."—Daily Mail.
We could spell it better than that in three months.
"The smallness of the members present was due in large measure to the war."—Edinburgh Evening Despatch.
The shortage of food, due to the German blockade, is at last making itself felt.—[Wireless from Berlin.]
THE HISTORY OF A PAIR OF MITTENS.
"Waal, it's this way. We Amurricans don't take no sides—we're ab-so-lootly nootral. We don' give a row o' beans which of you knocks the Kaiser out."
SAFEGUARDS.
It was the special terms to Special Constables that tempted me—and I fell.
I don't just remember how many times I fell, but it was pretty nearly as often as the "Professor" of the wily art took hold of me. Before the first lesson was over, falling became more than a mere pastime with me, it grew into a serious occupation.
So I left the jiu-jitsu school at the end of the second lesson with a nodding acquaintance with some very pretty holds and a very firm determination to practise them on Alfred when he got back to the office next day from Birmingham.
I suppose I ought to have persevered with my lessons a little longer, but I was losing my self-respect, and felt that nothing would help me to gain it better than to cause somebody else to do the falling for a bit.
Alfred is six-foot-two, but a trifle weedy-looking, and so good-tempered that I knew he wouldn't resent being practised on.
As he came in I advanced with outstretched hand to meet him.
"How goes it?" he said cheerily, holding out his hand.
"Like this," I said, as I gripped his right wrist instead of his fingers, turned to the left till I was abreast of him, inserted my left arm under his right, gripped the lapel of his coat with my left hand and turning his wrist downward with my right, pressed his arm back. To attack unexpectedly is the great thing.
"Don't be a funny ass," said Alfred, as I lifted myself out of the waste-paper basket.
How I got there I wasn't quite sure, but concluded that I had muffed the business with my left arm by not inserting it well above his elbow for the leverage.
"Sorry," I said; "the new handshake. Everybody's doing it."
"Are they?" said Alfred. "Well, I've been having some lessons in etiquette myself the last few days from a naval man I met down at Hythe. Seen the new embrace?"
"Er—no," I said, putting a chair between us, "I don't think I have; but I'm not feeling affectionate this morning. I'm going to lunch."
Thank goodness, if I do meet a spy, I've got a truncheon and a whistle.
Making the Best of It.
"Now that supplies of German chemicals and drugs are not procurable, sufferers from nervous dyspepsia, etc., should give a trial to nervous dispepsia, etc."—Bristol Evening Times.
Sufferer (after trial). "No, it's just as painful spelt with an 'i'."
"Other Petrograd despatches state that an increase in taxation by one-half is expected.... It is believed the increase will produce a milliard of troubles."—The Mirror (Trinidad).
We think better of Russian patriotism.
"Four or five had been landed at Ramsgate. It was a comparatively fine, peaceful morning. People were resting on the promenade enjoying the sea, and the fresh air anglers of both sexes were calmly fishing from the pier."—Glasgow Herald.
A hardy race, these South Coast fresh-air anglers. Our idea of November sport with the rod is sniggling for goldfish in the conservatory.