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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152,
March 28, 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.net
Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, March 28, 1917
Author: Various
Release Date: February 1, 2005 [EBook #14856]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins and the PG Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 152.
March 28th, 1917.
[Illustration: _Torpedoed mine-sweeper_ (_to his pal_). "AS I WAS A-SAYIN',
BOB, WHEN WE WAS INTERRUPTED, IT'S MY BELIEF AS 'OW THE SUBMARINE BLOKES
AIN'T ON 'ARF AS RISKY A JOB AS THE BOYS IN THE AIRY-O-PLANES."]
* * * * *
CHARIVARIA.
Charged at Kingston with being an absentee from military service, a man of
retiring habits stated that he did not know the country was at war. When
told that we were fighting the Germans he was greatly interested.
***
The Hamburg hotel-keepers have decided to abolish the practice of charging
more for food in cases where wine or beer are not consumed. The reason
given--that there was no wine or beer to be consumed--is so trivial that a
deeper motive may well be suspected.
***
"That is how we lawyers live, because lay-men have such queer ideas," said
Judge CLUER in a recent case. Nevertheless, the view that lawyers shouldn't
be allowed to live is not without its ardent supporters.
***
_The Manchester Guardian_ has issued an "Empire number." It is pleasant to
know that all differences between the Empire and our contemporary, due to
the former's ill-advised participation in the War, have been satisfactorily
adjusted.
***
Events have happened so swiftly of late that up to the time of going to
press a contemporary had not decided who should be "_The Man who Dined with
the Tsar_."
***
Virginia-creepers are recommended by a contemporary as a "tasty vegetable."
In one large house where the experiment was tried they were pronounced to
be quite all right on the second floor, but rather tough in the basement.
***
The businesses of Southgate men called to the colours are being conducted
by a committee. Small sons of those absent fathers are going very warily
until they have ascertained exactly how far the powers of the committee
extend.
***
Writing on the German retreat Major MORAHT says: "Only a personality like
that of Marshal von Hindenburg could give proofs of so great an
initiative." Possibly he has never heard of the Dukes of York and Plaza
Toro.
***
A boy of eleven charged with the theft of clothes is said to have stolen
the notebook of the policeman who arrested him. His first idea was to pinch
his captor's whistle, but he rejected this plan on finding that the
policeman was attached to it.
***
Russian soldiers under the new _régime_ will be allowed to smoke in the
streets, travel inside trains, visit clubs and attend political meetings.
There is a very strong rumour that they will also be allowed to go on
fighting.
***
A ten-months-old boy at Prescot, Lancashire, has been called up for
military service. It is, however, authoritatively stated that this is
merely a precautionary measure on the part of the War Office, and will not
necessarily apply to other men in the same class.
***
A Bromley gentleman is advertising for a chauffeur "to drive Ford car out
of cab-yard." Kindness is a great thing in cases of this sort, and we
suggest trying to entice it out with a piece of cheese.
***
"You have lost the privilege of serving on the last grand jury during the
War," said the judge at the London Sessions last week to a shipowner who
arrived at the court late. We understand that the poor fellow broke down
and sobbed bitterly.
***
Nearly every Russian newspaper contains congratulatory references to Free
Russia, and poets are busy composing verses on the same theme. It is this
latter item which is said to be keeping the Germans from having a similar
revolution.
***
We understand that the new "No Smoking near Magazines" enactment is
profoundly resented in editorial circles.
***
To fill the gap which will be left in the ranks of Parliamentary humorists
by the retirement of Mr. JOSEPH KING, M.P., who has decided not to seek
re-election, the Variety Artistes Federation have nominated a candidate for
the Brixton Division.
***
"On whatever day you sow your wheat," says Miss MARIE CORELLI, "you cannot
stop its growing on Sundays." Mr. HALL CAINE has not yet spoken on this
point, and his silence is regarded as significant.
***
Incidentally we are not so sure that you cannot stop wheat growing on
Sundays. There is good precedent for plucking its ears on the Sabbath, and
that ought to stop it.
***
The KAISER, it appears, is much annoyed at the CROWN PRINCE and the way he
has mis-managed so many brilliant opportunities. It is even suggested in
some quarters that the KAISER has threatened, if LITTLE WILLIE does not
improve, to abdicate in his favour.
***
A respectably dressed man was recently arrested for behaving in a strange
manner in Downing Street. Others have done the same thing before now, but
have escaped the notice of the police by doing it indoors.
***
With reference to the taxi-cab which stopped in the Strand the other day
when hailed by a pedestrian, a satisfactory explanation is to hand. It had
broken down.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Overheard by a distinguished singer, who has just concluded
the first of two Scotch ballads._
_Jock (to his neighbour)._ "A FINE VOICE, YON LASSIE. I'VE HEARD WORSE AN'
PAID FOR IT."]
* * * * *
TO PARIS BY THE "HINDENBURG LINE."
A TEUTON TRIBUTE TO THE ORGANISER OF VICTORY.
That man at dawn should certainly be shot
For being such a liar,
Who says that you, my HINDENBURG, are not
As high as our All-Highest, mate of GOTT
(Or even slightly higher).
Stout thruster, in the push you have no peer,
Yet more supremely brilliant
This crowning stroke of progress toward the rear,
This strong recoil from which with heartened cheer
We hope to bound resilient.
Lo! the creative spirit's vital spark!
None but a genius, _we_ say,
Would make his onset backward in the dark
Or choose this route for getting at the Arc
De Triomphe (Champs Elysées).
Nor to your care for detail are we blind;
Your handiwork we view in
The reeking waste our warriors leave behind;
We read the motions of a master-mind
In that red trail of ruin.
And not alone by yonder blackened beams,
By garth and homestead burning,
You put the sanguine enemy off your schemes,
Who gaily follows up and never dreams
That we'll be soon returning;
But by these speaking signs of godly hate,
This ruthless ravage (_prosit!_),
You teach a barbarous world how truly great
Our German Gospel, and how grim the fate
Of people who oppose it!
Then praised be Heaven because we cannot fail
With HINDENBURG to boss us;
And for each hearth stript naked to the gale
Let grateful homage plug another nail
In your superb colossus. O.S.
* * * * *
RATIONS.
As I said to John, I can bear anger and sarcasm--but contempt, not. Binny
and Joe are our cats, and the most pampered of pets. Every day, when our
meals were served, there was spread upon the carpet a newspaper, on which
Binny and Joe would trample, clamouring, until a plate containing their
substantial portion was laid down: after which we were free to proceed with
our own meal.
Then came the paralysing shock of Lord DEVONPORT'S ration announcement, in
which no mention is made of cats. Binny and Joe looked at one another in
consternation over their porridge as I read aloud his statement from the
newspaper at breakfast.
When I came in to luncheon I had a letter in my hand and accidentally
dropped the envelope. Paper of any kind upon the carpet is associated in
Binny's mind with the advent of food. Straightway he thudded from his
arm-chair and sat down upon the envelope. You will notice that I speak
above of Binny and Joe. I do so instinctively, because, though Binny is
only half Joe's age of one year, somehow he always occurs everywhere before
Joe. Joe was lying on the same arm-chair, and the same idea struck him too;
but Binny got there first and continued sitting on the envelope, until, for
very shame, I asked Ann, the maid, to spread a newspaper and try them with
potato and gravy. They looked at it and then at me, and then, without
tasting, walked off and began their usual after-luncheon ablutions of
mouth, face and paws. But, as I have said, I can endure sarcasm.
The next day, just before luncheon, a mass of sparrow feathers was found on
the hall-mat. The second day there were feathers of a blackbird. And the
third day, when I came down to breakfast, I found a few thrush feathers
carelessly left under the breakfast-room table. I began to search my mind,
anxiously wondering whether any of my near neighbours kept chickens.
But the matter was settled that night. When the dinner-gong sounded, Binny
and Joe rose from their arm-chair, looked at the vegetarian dishes now
adorning a board which had been wont to send up savoury meaty steams (fish
in these parts has become a rarity almost unprocurable, and we had
exhausted our allowance of meat at luncheon, which we had taken at a
restaurant), and then, with noses in the air and tails erect, stalked
haughtily to the drawing-room, and there remained until dinner was
finished.
So now the butcher leaves two pennorth of lights at my door regularly. He
assures me that Lord DEVONPORT won't mind as it is not strictly human food.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE INVADERS.
"I SUPPOSE OLD HINDENBURG KNOWS WHAT HE'S ABOUT?"
"ANYHOW, EVERY STEP TAKES US NEARER THE FATHERLAND."]
* * * * *
THE WATCH DOGS.
LVIII.
MY DEAR CHARLES,--Recent events calling for strong comment, I turned to my
friend, my brick-red friend who is able to retain his well-fed prosperous
look notwithstanding the rigours of trench life, Rrobert James McGrregor. I
took a map with me and, calling his attention to the general position,
asked him what about it? McGregor, as you may guess, is a Scot, whose
national sense of economy seems to have spread to his uniform, in that the
cap he wears covers but a third-part of his head, and his tunic (which I
ought really not to call a tunic but a service jacket) appears to have
exhausted itself and its material at the fourth button. Notwithstanding all
this, I attach great weight to his truculent views, and, the better to
incite him into something outright, addressed him in My best Scottish,
which is, at any rate, as good as his best English. "Rrrrrobert," I said,
"what like is the VON HINDENBURG line?" Whereupon McGregor, helping himself
to our mess whisky and cursing it as the vilest production of this vile
War, spoke out.
McGregor has no respect whatever for HINDENBURG or anything which is his.
He says that HINDENBURG and his crew have all along taken the line which
any man could, but no gentleman would. In HINDENBURG he sees the
personification of Prussian militarism, and for the Prussians and their
militarism he has no use whatsoever. I forget what exactly is the Highland
phrase for "no use whatsoever," but its meaning is even worse than its
sound, and the sound of it alone is terrible to hear. Whatever befalls in
the interval, it is certain that when at last McGregor and HINDENBURG meet
they will not get on well together.
McGregor hates militarism. It is entirely inconsistent with his wild ideas
of liberty. As such he is determined to do it down on all occasions and by
every means. Not only is he a Scot, he is also a barrister of the most
pronounced type. Brief him in your cause, and provided it is not a mean one
he will set out to lay flat the whole earth, if need be, in its defence. He
will overwhelm opposing counsel with the mere ferocity of his mien; he will
overbear the Judge himself with the mere power of his lungs, and he will
carry you through to a verdict with the mere momentum of his loyal support.
Once he has made a cause his own, no other cause can survive the terror of
his bushy eyebrows and his flaring face. He is a caged lion, but he does
not grow thin or wasted in captivity. As ever, he grows stout and strong on
his own enthusiasms. The cage will not hold much longer. Heaven be praised,
it's HINDENBURG and not me he's taken a dislike to.
He loathes militarism. Having waited nearly thirty years for a fight, it's
himself is overjoyed that he has Prussian militarism for the victim of his
murderous designs. To this end he has become a soldier, such a bloodthirsty
soldier as never was before and never will be again. The thoroughness of
it, for an anti-militarist, is almost appalling. The click of his heels and
the shine of his buttons frighten me. His salute is such that even the most
deserving General must pause and ask himself if it is humanly possible to
merit such respect as it indicates. No man, even upon the most legitimate
instance, may venture, in the presence of the dangerous McGregor, the
slightest criticism of the British Army or of anything remotely
appertaining thereto. He will not even permit a sly dig, in a quiet corner,
at the Staff.
Nevertheless McGregor hates, loathes and detests militarism. His
convictions are quite clear and convincing. Soldiers are one thing;
militarists are another. Rrobert James McGrregor, for the moment at least,
is by the grace of God and the generosity of His Majesty a soldier. That
creature HINDENBURG is a militarist. Quite so, I agreed; but then what
about the line? He helped himself to some more whisky, showing that he
could forgive anybody anything except a Prussian his militarism, and said
he was coming to that. But first as to HINDENBURG.
The man represents his type and is, says McGregor, a mere bully. He has
become a bully because he could succeed as nothing else. Given peace, it is
doubtful if he could get and keep the job of errand-boy in a second-rate
butcher's shop. Lacking the intelligence or spirit to succeed normally, he
has not the decency to live quietly in the cheaper suburbs of Berlin and
let other people do it. Flourish they must, HINDENBURG and his lot, and so
the world is at war to keep their end up.
Now, says McGregor, it is undoubtedly sinful to fight, but he can't help
half forgiving those whose desire to have a round is such that they must
needs cause the bothers. But do I suppose that HINDENBURG ever wanted to
fight, ever meant or ever means to do it? Not he; and that is why the War
goes on and on and on. We've got to work through all the other Germans,
says he, before we'll get to their militarists, who are all alive and doing
nicely, thank you, behind. When we are getting near the throat of the first
of them then the War will end.
McGregor cannot bring himself to detest all the Bosches. After all, he
says, they do stick it out, and their very stupidity makes some call on his
generosity. But HINDENBURG, he is convinced, never stuck anything out,
except snubs from his competitor, WILHELM, in the course of his uprising
career; he makes no call on anybody's generosity, taking everything he
wants, including (says McGregor) the best cigars. Without ever having
studied them closely, McGregor has the most precise ideas of HINDENBURG'S
daily life and habits. He is quite sure he smokes all day the most
expensive cigars, without paying for them or removing the bands. He rose,
says McGregor, by artifice combined with ostentation. While his good
soldiers were studying their musketry, he was practising ferocious
expressions before his glass. If he ever did get mixed up in a real battle
(which McGregor doubts) he was undoubtedly last in and first out. However
it may appear in print, his military career would not bear close scrutiny;
for that reason McGregor does not propose to scrutinise it. And as for his
indomitable will, he sees nothing to admire in the man's persistence,
since, when he stops persisting, he'll become ungummed and, at the best,
forgotten.
So said McGregor, and when I besought him to come to the point, he said
he'd dealt with it, and if I had any sympathy left for HINDENBURG or his
line I was no better than a slave-driving, sit-at-home-and-push-others-
over-the-parapet Prussian militarist myself. As for the map, it didn't
matter in the least where HINDENBURG took his old line to, since wherever
in Europe it endeavoured to conceal itself his own little line would scent
it out and follow it. And if the HINDENBURG line was more than two hundred
miles long and the Rrobert James McGrregor line less than two hundred
yards, still it didn't matter; for when a Scot takes a dislike to somebody,
that somebody's number is up.
McGregor didn't say that last, but he looked it.
Yours ever, HENRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _McTavish (purchasing paper of posterless newsboy)._ "AWEEL,
IT'S A 'PIG IN A POKE,' BUT AH'LL RISK IT."]
* * * * *
"Frightfulness" in England.
"Boys wanted for Kicking. ------ Stamping Works."--_Midland Evening News._
* * * * *
"'THE MAGIC FLUTE.'
One ingenious commentator has suggested that the opera has some basis
in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Sarastro is Prospero, Pamina Miranda,
Tamino Ferdinand, and perhaps Monostatos Caliban."--_Glasgow Herald._
The fact that these Shakespeare characters all occur in "The Tempest"
enhances the ingenuity of the suggestion.
* * * * *
"The biggest fire in living memory occurred in Chapelhall on Monday
morning, when the Roman Catholic School was partly destroyed along with
the recreation rooms, damage amounting to £2,000."--_Scotch Local
Paper._
The parish pump was probably out of order when this unparalleled
conflagration occurred; but is seems to be at work again now.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MOTHER, D'YOU KNOW I'VE ALWAYS WONDERED WHAT BECAME OF OLD
TOP-HATS."]
* * * * *
TO MY GODSON.
(_Aged six weeks._)
Small bundle, enveloped in laces,
For whom I stood sponsor last week,
When you slept, with the pinkest of faces,
And never emitted a squeak;
Though vain is the task of illuming
The Future's inscrutable scroll,
I cannot refrain from assuming
A semi-prophetical _rôle_,
I predict that in paths Montessorian
Your infantile steps will be led,
And with modes which are Phrygian and Dorian
Your musical appetite fed;
You'll be taught how to dance by a Russian,
"Eurhythmics" you'll learn from a Swiss,
How not to behave like a Prussian--
No teaching is needed for this!
Will you learn Esperanto at Eton?
Or, if Eton by then is suppressed,
Be sent to grow apples or wheat on
A ranche in the ultimate West?
Will you aim at a modern diploma
In civics or commerce or stinks?
Inhale the Wisconsin aroma
Or think as the Humanist thinks?
Will you learn to play tennis from COVEY
Or model your stroke on JAY GOULD?
Will you play the piano like TOVEY
Or by gramophone records be schooled?
Will you golf, or will golfing be banished
To answer the needs of the plough,
And links from the landscape have vanished
To pasture the sheep and the cow?
Your taste in the region of letters
I only can dimly foresee,
But guess that from metrical fetters
The verse you'll affect must be free;
And I shan't be surprised or astounded
If your generation rebels
Against adulation unbounded
Of MASEFIELD and BENNETT and WELLS.
Upholding ancestral tradition
Your uncle has booked you at Lord's,
But I doubt if you'll sate your ambition
Athletic on well-levelled swards;
No, I rather opine that you'll follow
The lead that we owe to the WRIGHTS,
And soar like the eagle or swallow
On far and adventurous flights.
But no matter--in joy and affliction,
In seasons of failure or fame,
I cherish the certain conviction
You'll never dishonour your name;
For the love of the mother that bore you,
The life and the death of your sire
Will shine as a lantern before you,
To guide and exalt and inspire.
* * * * *
Life's Little Ironies.
"Ever-ready Safety Razor, strop, outfit, 12 blades, new; exchange
something useful."--_The Model Engineer and Electrician._
* * * * *
"The marriage of Captain ----, Grenadier Guards, to Miss ---- was a very
quiet affair, and not more than a score of people attended the ceremony
at St. Andrew's, Wells-street, during the week.--_Observer._
Quiet, perhaps, but unusually protracted.
* * * * *
How it Happened.
From a publisher's advt.:--
"NEW NOVELS
THE HISTORY OF AN ATTRACTION
HE LOOKED IN MY WINDOW."
* * * * *
Collectors of coincidences will not fail to notice that what the papers
call "The Great Allied Sweep" in France was contemporaneous with the
arrival of General SMUTS in England.
* * * * *
CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.
IV.
THE HUNGER-STRIKE.
"Did you hear that?" cried the white hen.
"What?" asked all the other hens.
"He called us--cluck-cluck-cluck," said the white hen.
"Why shouldn't he?" asked all the other hens.
"I didn't mean he called us 'cluck-cluck-cluck,'" said the white hen
hastily. "I was only choking with rage when I said that. He called
us--cluck-cluck-cluck--"
"She's going to lay an egg," said the black hen with interest.
"Poultry!" screamed the white hen suddenly.
"Poultry?" gasped the other hens.
"Poultry!--he called us 'poultry'--oh, cluck-cluck-cluck--"
"Something must be done," said the yellow hen.
"Something must be done," repeated all the hens.
"We must have a hunger-strike till he apologises," said the thin hen
importantly.
"But we shall be hungry," cried all the hens.
"That is the essence of a hunger-strike," said the thin hen.
Just then the keeper arrived with food for the fowls.
"We mustn't run to him," they said to one another. "It's a hunger-strike,
you know."
Suddenly the fat hen began running to him.
"Come back; it's a hunger-strike, you know!" cried the hens.
"I have an idea," shouted the fat hen as she ran; "the more we eat the
longer we shall hold out."
"So we shall," cried all the hens as they scurried after the fat one.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Officer (to applicant for War-work)._ "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
_Ex-flapper._ "CISSIE"]
* * * * *
THE FAVORITE.
Some people would die rather than talk aloud in a 'bus; others would rather
die than hold their peace there. This second kind is more fun, and four of
it made part of my journey the other day from Victoria to Oxford Street (I
forget the number of the 'bus, but it goes up Bond Street) much less
tedious. They were all young women in the latest teens or the earliest
twenties, and all were what is called well-to-do, and they were fluent
talkers.
Years ago, when poor LEWIS WALLER was at the height of his fame, we used to
hear of a real or fictitious "Waller Club," the members of which were young
women who spent as much time as they could in visiting his theatre and
rejoicing in the sight of his brave gestures and the sound of his vibrant
voice. It was even said that they had a badge by which they could know each
other; although on the face of it, judging by what sparse scraps of
information concerning the nature of woman I have been able painfully to
collect, I should say that segregation would be, in such a case as this,
more to their taste.
Be that true or only invented, it is very clear that in spite of the War
and its shattering way with so many ancient shibboleths the cult of the
actor is still strong; for this is the kind of thing that lasted all the
way from Hyde Park Corner to Vere Street:--
"Did you see him the other day in that ballet? Of course I knew he could
dance, because he can do everything, but I never thought he was going to be
so gloriously graceful as he was."
"But surely you ought to have known. Don't you remember him as the Prince
at the LORD MAYOR'S Ball?"
"And what a wonderful figure he has!"
"I couldn't help wishing that he had only stained his legs instead of
putting on red tights."
"My dear!!!"
"It's his grace that's the wonderful thing about him, I always think. His
ease. He moves so--how shall I put it?--so, well, so easily and
gracefully."
"Don't you love him when he stands with his hands in his pockets?"
"My dear, yes. But what a wonderful tailor he goes to. I always used to
tell my brother to try and find out where his things were made and go to
the same place."
"But of course it's the way clothes are worn much more than the clothes
themselves. I mean, some men can never look well dressed, whereas others
can look well in anything."
"But he does go to the best tailor, I'm sure."
"How many times have you seen this new piece?"
"Six."
"Only six! I've seen it eleven."
"I've seen it three times."
"I've seen it five times; but one of those doesn't count, because when we
got there we found he was ill with chicken-pox. Wasn't that rotten luck?"
"I heard he had been ill, but I didn't know what it was. Was it really
chicken-pox?"
"Yes, poor darling."
"Fancy him having a thing like that! I suppose it's part of the price of
keeping so young."
"Oh, yes, isn't he young!"
"They say this thing's going to run for years."
"I hope not. I want to see him in something new. It's so wonderful how he's
always the same and yet always different."
"I want him to be in every play. I never go to one without thinking how
much better he would be than the other leading man."
"I saw that little what's-his-name imitate him the other evening. Really
it's rather a shame."
"Yes, I've seen it. I couldn't help laughing, but I hated myself for it.
I'm sure, too, he doesn't waggle his head like that."
"No! I couldn't see the point of that at all; but the people shrieked."
"Pooh, they'd laugh at anything."
"What did you like him best of all in?"
"That's difficult. Of course he was priceless as the policeman. But then he
was priceless as the American too, in that thing before this."
"Well, I think--"
And so on. Except that I never mention his name, and I have suppressed the
titles of the plays, this is practically an exact reproduction of the
conversation. Naturally many of the sentences overlapped, for ladies no
less than gentlemen often talk at the same time; but otherwise I have
reported faithfully.
And who was the subject of these eulogies? You will guess at once when I
say that he is probably the only actor in history who is referred to more
often by his Christian name only than by his surname or full name. These
young women who adored WALLER spoke of him not as LEWIS, but as LEWIS
WALLER; and that is the usual custom. The divine SARAH is perhaps the only
other histrion, and she is a woman, who may be spoken of simply as SARAH,
with no risk of ambiguity. Ordinarily, as I say, we use either the surname
only or the surname and Christian name combined, as ELLEN TERRY, VIOLET
LORAINE, GEORGE GRAVES, GEORGE ROBEY, LESLIE HENSON, NELSON KEYS. But these
four devotees referred to their hero always as GERALD; just GERALD.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Mr. Punch's Navy Pages]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Gallant Major (temporarily in the care of H.M.'s Navy)._
"ANOTHER ONE OF THAT SORT AND--I SHALL DO AS I LIKE."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Survivor from U-Boat._ "KAMERAD! KAMERAD! IF I VOS ON LAND
I VOS HOLD UP MEIN HANDS!"
_Ordinary Seaman._ "WELL, YOUR FEET 'LL DO INSTEAD."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _A.B._ "GIVE US YER KNIFE." _Boy._ "AIN'T GOT IT."
_A.B. (with bitter scorn of non-essentials)._ "GOT YER WRIST-WATCH ALL
RIGHT, I S'POSE?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Apollo._ "I NEVER SAID NOTHING TO 'ER--DID I?"
_Neptune._ "NO. BUT YOU WAS TRYIN' ON ONE OF YER FASCINATIN' LOOKS."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ECHOES FROM JUTLAND.
_Wine Steward (acting as one of Ammunition Supply Party)._ "WILL YOU TAKE
LYDDITE OR SHRAPNEL, SIR?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SNOOKER POOL AFLOAT.
_Commander (as the black he has tried to pot threatens to touch the port
cushion)._ "LIST HER TO STARBOARD!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE "DAMNÉD SPOT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "YOU OUGHT REALLY TO MANAGE TO GET BLOWN TO BITS SOMEHOW,
NOBBY. YOU'D MAKE A CHAMPION JIG-SAW PUZZLE."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "HEY, DONAL'! HERE'S A WEE BETTLESHIP COMIN' ALONG."
"OCH! A WISH IT MICHT BE A U-BOAT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Old Lady._ "PARDON ME! I SUPPOSE YOU'VE JUST COME FROM THE
SEA. CAN YOU TELL ME WHY I'VE HAD TO PAY A PENNY MORE FOR SCALLOPS
TO-DAY?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Landlord._ "WHATEVER DID YOU LET THE FIRE OUT FOR? WHY
DIDN'T YOU PUT SOME COALS ON?"
_Stoker._ "NOT LIKELY! I'M ON LEAVE, I AM."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Friend._ "SEE YOU'RE IN A HURRY. WON'T KEEP YOU. OFF TO
ADMIRALTY, I SUPPOSE?"
_Sub-Lieutenant H.M.S. "Unbendable."_ "NOT EXACTLY. FACT IS I'M DUE AT MME.
GIROUETTE'S ACADEMY. STRUCK AGAINST A COUPLE OF NEW STEPS IN THE FOX TROT
AT THE PILKINGTONS' LAST NIGHT--RATHER WORRIED ME. BYE-BYE. MUST SHOVE
OFF!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Apologetic Golfer._ "I SHOUTED 'FORE!' YOU KNOW."
_Sailor._ "WELL, YOU'VE HIT ME AFT!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tar (by way of opening the conversation)._ "AHEM! BEEN OUT
IN THE LIFEBOAT OFTEN, MISS?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Jones (who in going through his wardrobe has unearthed a
memento of happier days at Margate)._ "WELL, IF THEY SHOULD CALL UP THE
FORTY-FIVES, I THINK IT WILL HAVE TO BE THE NAVY."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Artist (impatiently)._ "FOR GOODNESS' SAKE PUT SOME
EXPRESSION INTO IT! JUST IMAGINE YOU'VE COME THROUGH A TERRIBLE
EXPERIENCE--SHIP TORPEDOED--YOU SOLE SURVIVOR. AFTER CLINGING TO A
BELAYING-PIN NINETEEN HOURS IN THE OPEN SEA YOU ARE RESCUED AT THE LAST
GASP. YOU ARE NOW RELATING YOUR ADVENTURES TO YOUR AGED PARENTS."
_Model (obligingly)._ "THAT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR--I CAN MANAGE IT. BUT EXCUSE
ME. DID YOU SAY EIGHTEEN HOURS, OR WAS IT NINETEEN?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _King Alfred (founder of the Navy)._ "MADAM, I WAS
EXPERIMENTING ON BISCUITS FOR MY SEA-DOGS."]
* * * * *
"LET HER GO!"
A TRAMP CHANTEY.
'Er keel was laid in 'seventy-four
(Let 'er go--let 'er go);
They built 'er cheap an' they scamped 'er sore,
'Er rivets was putty, 'er plates was poor,
And then come in the PLIMSOLL line
Or I wouldn't be singin' this song o' mine.
(Let 'er go!)
She was cranky an' foul, she was stubborn an' slow
(Let 'er go--let 'er go),
An' she shipped it green when it come on to blow;
'Er crews was starved an' their wage was low,
An 'er bloomin' owners was ready to faint
At a scrape o' pitch or a penn'orth o' paint.
(Let 'er go!)
But she's been 'ere an' she's been there
(Let 'er go--let 'er go),
An' she's been almost everywhere;
An' wherever you went you'd sure see _'er_,
With 'er rust-red hawse an' 'er battered old funnel,
All muck an' dirt from 'er keel to 'er gun'le.
(Let 'er go!)
She's earned 'er keep in a number o' climes
(Let 'er go--let 'er go);
She's changed 'er name a number o' times,
Which won't fit right into these 'ere rhymes,
But the name of 'er now is the _Sound o' Mull_,
Built on the Tyne an' sails out of 'Ull.
(Let 'er go!)
'Er keel was laid in 'seventy-four
(Let 'er go--let 'er go),
An' a breaker's price was 'er price before
The ships was scarce an' the freights did soar;
But she's fetched 'er fourteen pound a ton
On the Baltic Exchange since the War begun.
(Let 'er go!)
So she's doin' 'er bit, which we all must do
(Let 'er go--let 'er go),
An' whether she's old or whether she's new
Don't make much odds to a war-time crew,
But 'ooever's sunk or 'ooever's drowned,
The _Sound o' Mull_ keeps pluggin' around.
(Let 'er go!)
An' when she goes, by night or by day
(Let 'er go--let 'er go),
Either up or down, as she likely may,
I only 'ope as someone'll say:
"'Er keel was laid in 'seventy-four;
She done 'er best an' she couldn't do more;
She warn't no swell an' she warn't no beauty,
But she come by 'er end in the way of 'er duty."
(Let 'er go!) C. F. S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THINK WE'LL 'AVE ANOTHER CUT AT THE 'UNS BEFORE THE WAR
ENDS, JACK?"
"NO FEAR! IT SAYS 'ERE THAT 'INDENBURG'S TAKEN ALL THE ABLE-BODIED AN' PUT
'EM ON TO WORK OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE."]
* * * * *
THE POULTICE.
Call this cold? You orter been with me in '63, when I was whalin' in the
North Atlantic. I was steward on the _Ella Wheeler_, 6,000 tons, out from
New Caledonia. Our skipper was a reg'lar old bluenose, and some Tartar, I
_don't_ think! Why, 'e'd lay yer out sooner than look at yer; an' once 'e
put the cook in irons for two days 'cos the poor devil 'ad tumbled up
against the side of the galley an' burnt the 'air off the side of 'is 'ead,
and the old man said it was untidy; and we all 'ad to 'ave cold grub for
two days--and in them latitudes! Lord, 'ow we 'ated 'im!
But the worst of it was that we 'ad no doctor on board, and when anybody
took sick the old man insisted on doctorin' 'im 'isself; and 'e 'ad only
one way of treatin' every disease in the 'orspitals. "Put 'im into 'is
bunk," he says, "and wait till I bring 'im a 'ot linseed poultice for's
chest." Tooth-ache or chilblains, a pain in yer stummick or ring-worm--'e
always says the same thing, "Put 'im in his bunk," he says, "and I'll bring
'im a 'ot linseed poultice for 's chest." And 'e brought it and put it on
with 'is own 'ands too! There was no gettin' out of it if once 'e 'eard you
were sick. Lord, 'ow we 'ated 'im!
There was Pete Malone--'ad a great mop of 'air like a lion or a
musician--must needs go washing one day on deck, like a fool. It was all
right as long as 'e 'ad the 'ot water and the soapsuds goin'; but 'e give
'is 'ead a rinse, an' stood up, and, swelpme, before 'e could get the towel
to work every single 'air 'e 'd got 'ad its own private icicle, an' 'is
silly 'ead looked like a silver-plated porkypine.
Well, as I was saying, we were about a 'undred-and-fifty mile from the
nearest land, which 'ud be the West coast of Greenland, bearin' about E. by
N., when we thought that at last we were going' to get one back on the old
man. It was this way. One bitter cold night 'e was makin' 'is way aft to
turn in, when 'e slips up where a wave 'ad froze on the deck, an' e' goes
wallop down the 'ole length of the companion, from top to bottom, an' busts
three of 'is ribs. Of course we all ran an' picked 'im up, an' _said_ we
'oped 'e wasn't much 'urt. But 'e says, "None of yer jabber, ye swines;
'elp me inter my bunk, and two of yer bring me a 'ot linseed poultice for
my chest."
Well, we puts 'im in 'is bunk, and I catches the eye of the first mate, and
we goes out together. "Mick," says I, "'e's askin' for a 'ot poultice. Lord
send there's a good fire in the galley!" "If there ain't," says Micky to
me, "we'll damn'd soon make one." So we makes a fire such as none of the
ship's company 'ad ever seen; and we gets two buckets of water, one very
near full, and the other about a quarter full, and we soon 'as 'em both on
the boil. Then we makes the poultice in the drop of water; and when 'e was
ready, we gets the grid and puts it across the top of the other bucket, and
lays the poultice on the grid, and me and the mate picks up the full bucket
with two pair o' tongs, 'olding a torch under 'er to keep 'er at the boil.
When the old man saw us 'is face twisted a bit! But talk about cold! We
slapped the poultice on to 'im, and, if you'll believe me, inside o' ninety
seconds the thing 'ad _froze 'ard on 'im_, and formed a splint, and--saved
'is life, blarst 'im!
* * * * *
[Illustration: SOME CATCH: THE ANGLER'S DREAM.]
[Illustration: SOME CATCH: THE ANGLER'S DREAM.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lieutenant ----, R.N., to Lieutenant ----, R.N. (they are
paying one of those periodical visits to a lonely island in the South
Pacific)._ "THESE WRETCHED ISLANDERS, CUT OFF AS THEY ARE FROM ALL THE
WORLD, ARE, I SUPPOSE, HARDLY CIVILISED."
_First Wretched Islander to Second Wretched Islander._ "DOES THIS VISIT
INTRIGUE YOU?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AND THE LAST THING MY MISSUS SAID TO ME WAS, 'BRING US 'OME
SOME SORT OF AN OLD CURIOSITY FROM FURREN PARTS.'"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Fond Teuton Parent (to super-tar home on leave)._ "AND YOU
LIKE YOUR SHIP, FRITZ?"
_Fritz._ "I LOVE HER! SHE'S A WONDER! SUCH SPEED! WHENEVER WE RACE BACK TO
PORT SHE'S BEEN FIRST EVERY TIME."]