Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, April 23, 1919 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 156
APRIL 23, 1919
CHARIVARIA.
"Hull electors," declared a Radical contemporary, "have dealt the
Coalition a stinging rebuke." But not, as others claim, the _coupon de
grace_.
***
_A propos_, a Woking butcher was fined last week for being thirty-two
thousand coupons short. The report that he has since received a letter
of condolence from Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is not confirmed.
***
A correspondent who has a latchkey would like to hear from a gentleman
who could fit a house to it.
***
A food inspector at Chatham admitted that he could not tell the
difference between No. 1 grade tinned beef and No. 2 grade. The old
plan of calling one grade Rover and the other Fido seems to have been
abolished since the War.
***
The EX-CROWN PRINCE, in a recent interview with a Danish newspaper
man, called LUDENDORFF a liar. LUDENDORFF is believed to be preparing
a crushing rejoinder, in which he calls the EX-CROWN PRINCE a
Hohenzollern.
***
"The new Bolsheviks," says _The Philatelist_, "are fetching eight
shillings a pair." It doesn't say where they are fetching it from, but
it is clear that he loot business has declined since the days of the
old Bolsheviks.
***
The United States Government has purchased four million pounds of
frozen chickens for the American army. They are to be tested by
inspectors before shipment to determine whether they are edible. What
is known in scientific circles as the Soho standard of resilience will
probably be applied.
***
Burglars have broken into an East End moneylender's office. It is not
known definitely how much they lost.
***
The five hundred pounds in notes recently lost by a London hotel guest
have now been recovered. It appears that a waiter had mistaken them
for a gratuity.
***
The Metropolitan police are trying to establish the identity of a man
who can give no account of himself and who knows nothing about the
War. The fact that he was not wearing red tabs only adds to the
mystery.
***
"Some men dance the Jazz dance," says a contemporary, "because it is
stimulating." It is not known why the others do it.
***
A squirrel having been stolen from the Zoo, it is said that the
authorities are taking no further risks, and that in future all lions
and tigers will be securely chained to their cages.
***
It is reported that a much-advertised motor-car, after having its
engine removed, ran for seven miles on its reputation alone.
***
With reference to the report that a service man had received a letter
from the Intelligence Department admitting that a certain mistake was
due to a clerical error, it is now reported that this admission was
due to another oversight.
***
A terrible tragedy was only just averted last week, when a husband,
who had travelled from the City by tube, and his wife, who had been
to the Spring bargain sales, failed to recognise each other on their
return home.
***
The War Office, the Board of Trade and the Zoo have formed a Triple
Alliance for a campaign against rats. As a result of this it is said
that quite a number of the more timid rodents are afraid to go out
alone after dark.
***
The Society of Public Analysts has been asked by the Food Ministry to
define a sausage. A number of pedigree sausages are to be submitted
for classification.
***
The Minister of Foreign Affairs in the late Bavarian Soviet Government
has been placed in a lunatic asylum. The reason for this invidious
distinction is not assigned.
* * * * *
MR. CHURCHILL ON THE HULL ELECTION:
"Nothing in these reactions should be taken by the Government
as in any way deflecting them from their clear and definite
course of reviving the posterity of this country."--_Daily
Telegraph_.
All very well, but they must get it born first.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Old-fashioned humorous Cow_ (_suddenly_). "Moo!"
_Lady_ (_who all last year was a land-worker_). "Pooh!"]
* * * * *
"MUTABILE SEMPER."
To such as have a humorous bent
Pleasant indeed it was to cull
From rival organs what was meant
By the enlightened vote of Hull;
What process of the mind (if any) drove her
To execute that ludicrous turn-over.
Some held the Peace was too severe,
And others not severe enough;
The latter cried, "The cause is clear--
LLOYD GEORGE is made of flabby stuff;"
The former took the line that he had blundered
In letting Fritz (their friend) be grossly "plundered."
Then came a still small voice which said,
"The thing that sent the coupon West
Was Woman; something in her head
Told her that second thoughts were best;
To Party laws she hasn't learnt to knuckle
(This was the view advanced by Mr. BUCKLE).
"Men know a 'pledge's' worth by now;
They take it with a touch of salt;
To Woman 'tis a sacred vow,
And for the least alleged default
She gives her Chosen One no minute's grace,
But treats it like a breach-of-promise case."
O "Ministering Angels," ye
Who yet are mobile as the breeze,
Have you alone the right to be
"Uncertain, coy and hard to please?"
Our Ministerial Angels (GEORGE and kind)--
Aren't they allowed, poor males, to change their mind?
O.S.
* * * * *
THE SPOIL-SPORT.
Mr. Phillybag was demobilised. The Day had come. For months he had
dreamed of the possibility--had imagined the joy and alacrity with
which he would doff his cap, tunic and trousers, service dress, one
each, and resume the decent broadcloth of a successful City solicitor.
Strangely enough, however, once he was actually demobilised he
found himself in no hurry to lose the garb which showed that he, Mr.
Phillybag, had helped, you know, to put the kybosh on the KAISER. He
was proud too of the corporal's stripes which he had gained in a very
short Army career.
That explains why he was in uniform this morning in his office, when
he opened a letter from Ernest Williams, his former junior clerk. He
remembered Williams well--how in the early days of the War that youth
had seen Lord KITCHENER point his finger from the hoardings at him,
and there and then, discovering that the Ordnance Department possessed
a cap, size 6-7/8, which fitted him, had followed instructions and
immediately commenced to wear it. Now he had written to Mr. Phillybag
to inform him that, as he expected to be demobilised shortly, he was
calling at eleven o'clock to discuss the question of re-entering his
employ.
Mr. Phillybag rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. He was
looking forward to the interview. Since Armistice Day he had read
every article he could find written on the subject of demobilisation
and its humours; consequently he knew exactly what he was expected
to do. When Williams entered, in all the glory of a Captain's stars,
perhaps even a Major's crown, the ribbon of the D.S.O. or the M.C., or
both, on his breast, he, Corporal Phillybag, would spring smartly to
attention, salute and address his junior clerk as "Sir."
He chuckled with delight as he visualised the piquant scene. Reseating
himself, he would briskly resume his interrupted work for a moment
while be kept his superior officer waiting. Then--
"Mr. Williams to see you, Sir," said one of his clerks.
"Show him in at once."
On his appearance Mr. Phillybag suffered a slight recoil, but
recovered himself quickly and exchanged embarrassed greetings. An
awkward pause followed. At length Mr. Phillybag broke it.
"Williams," he said severely, "I'm surprised at you. Who ever heard
of an employee returning to civil life from the Army with a lower
rank than the one his employer holds? Four years in khaki and only a
lance-corporal! You've spoiled my whole morning. It's men with
careers like yours who make the profession of humorous journalism so
precarious."
* * * * *
A SOUVENIR OF COLOGNE.
"Am I really awake, or is it all a beautiful dream?" I said, pinching
myself to make sure.
At the other end of the room an unmistakably German band was playing
"Roses of Picardy," while all around me German waiters were running
about deferentially, with trays in their hands. Even as I wondered one
of them approached and laid the bill on my table with a friendly smile
and "Tree mark, bleesir."
Then I remembered that I was at the British Officers' Club in Cologne.
"How interested they will be at home," I thought, "when they know
where I am. And of course I must send them souvenirs of my Watch on
the Rhine;" and thoughtfully I produced from my pocket some local
tram-tickets, kept for the younger members of the family, and patted
a box of two-penny cigars encouragingly. These I was going to send to
my brother.
Then I rose and, paying the bill, went out to purchase a suitable
memento for a younger sister. Slowly I wandered along the crowded
Hohestrasse in the direction of the Opera House, peering into the
shop-windows for something redolent of the land I was in. Presently
a bright-looking sweetshop attracted me. The window contained a
beautiful selection of chocolate-boxes, with pictures of the Cathedral
or the Rhine Maidens on the lids. In I went and selected a handsome
sample, bound with red plush and bordered with sea-shells. But it was
empty. "Nix sweets," said the girl behind the counter, and offered me
the alternative of a bun. Nothing doing, and I passed on.
Further along the street I stopped before a chemist's shop to regard
a huge pyramid of bottles of eau-de-Cologne displayed in the window.
"The very thing," I said to myself. "What more appropriate souvenir
than a bottle of the local produce?"
That was ten days ago, and this morning I received the following
letter:--.
"Thank you _so_ much for the scent; it was sweet of you, and
arrived safely, only I don't think it _quite_ so nice as the _real_
eau-de-Cologne which I buy at Brown's shop [Brown is the village
grocer] for three-and-nine a bottle. And he says they must have taken
you in properly with a German imitation called eau-de-_Koeln_, and
expects you had to pay a pretty penny for it, though I hope you
didn't, poor boy."
Reader, I ask you.
* * * * *
"INFLUENZA EPIDEMIC--PUBLIC MEETING.
"In order to comply with the regulations of the Board of
Health, each person attending the meeting must occupy 25
sq. feet space."--_Australian Paper_.
"Let me have men about me that are fat."--_Julius Caesar_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE CHEERFUL PACHYDERM.
ELEPHANT (_faintly intrigued_). "WHO'S THAT TICKLING ME?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: PEACE PREPARATIONS.
_Music-hall Artist_ (_to partner_). "I RECKON WE OUGHT TO INTRODUCE
SOME NEW FEATURE INTO THE TURN, WITH PEACE COMIN'."
_Partner_. "AH, I'VE BEEN THINKING OF IT TOO. WHAT ABAHT PINK FACINGS
FOR OUR EVENING DRESS?"]
* * * * *
THE BLUE HAT.
Nancy came softly into my study and stood at the side of the desk,
where I was busy with some work on account of which I had stayed away
from the office that morning.
"Do you like it?" she said.
I felt a momentary anxiety as I looked up. I had made a bad mistake
only a little time before, having waxed enthusiastic over what I took
to be a new blouse when it was a question of hair-dressing, the blouse
having been worn by my wife, so she solemnly averred, "every evening
for the last two months."
But this time no mistake was possible. You don't go about the house at
eleven o'clock on a cold Spring morning fancifully arrayed in a pale
blue hat with white feathery things sticking out all round it, unless
there is a particular reason for so doing.
"I think it's a delightful hat," I said, "and suits you splendidly.
But I thought you never wore blue?"
"I don't," said Nancy; "that's what makes me rather doubtful. I didn't
really mean to buy it at all. I went in to Marguerite's--you know,
that heavenly shop at the corner of the square"--I nodded; of course
I knew Marguerite's--"to ask the price of a jade-green jumper they
had in the window--oh, my dear, a perfect angel of a jumper!--and they
showed me this. That red-haired assistant almost _made_ me buy it;
said she had never seen me in a hat that suited me so well; and really
it wasn't so very dear. But I _was_ a little doubtful. However--"
"She was quite right," I said very decidedly. "Did you get the
what-you-may-call-it--the other thing?"
Nancy's face expressed poignant anguish.
"Twelve guineas," she said. "I simply couldn't run to it. Of course I
was heart-broken. Still, it wasn't as if I really needed anything just
now. It would have been ridiculous extravagance. But it really was an
angel."
She turned to go, stopping a moment on the way out to have another
look at herself in the little round mirror over the mantel-piece.
"I'm not quite happy about it," I heard her murmur as she went out.
The next morning I found a letter waiting for me at the office which
brought me news of a totally unexpected windfall of some fifty odd
pounds. It was a sunny morning, too, with a distinct feeling of Spring
in the air.
I felt like being extravagant, and my mind flew at once to Nancy and
her jade-green--what was the name of the thing?--that she had wanted
so badly.
I left the office early, and on my way home managed to summon up
sufficient courage to carry me through the discreetly curtained doors
of Madame Marguerite's _recherche_ establishment, devoutly hoping that
the nervous sinking which I felt about my heart was not reflected in
my outer demeanour.
The red-haired girl, in spite of a curiously detached and supercilious
air, as who should say, "Take it or leave it; it concerns me not in
the least," which at first rather alarmed me, was really quite kind
and helpful.
"Something in jade-green that Moddom admired? A hat perhaps?"
No, I knew it was not a hat. I murmured something about twelve
guineas. This seemed to be enlightening.
Ah, yes, a jumper probably. They had had a jade-green jumper at that
price, she believed. If I would sit down for a moment she would send
someone to see if it were still unsold.
I felt very anxious while I waited, but the emissary presently
returned with the garment over her arm.
Yes, that was undoubtedly the one. She remembered how much Moddom had
admired it. It had suited Moddom so well too.
While it was being packed up, for I decided to take it with me, a
small boy arrived with several hat-boxes, which he put down on the
floor.
Red-hair proceeded to unpack them, carefully, almost reverently,
extracting the hats from the folds of surrounding tissue-paper and
placing them one by one in various cupboards and drawers. Presently
she drew forth from one of the boxes--I felt sure I was not
mistaken--that very blue hat which I had admired only the day before
upon the head of my wife.
I gave an involuntary exclamation. Red-hair looked at me.
"Surely," I said, feeling inwardly rather proud at recognising it
again--"surely that hat is exactly like one that my wife bought
yesterday."
Red-hair was hurt. "It is the same hat," she said coldly. "We never
make two models alike."
I tried to mollify her. "I can't understand her sending it back," I
said. "I think it's an extremely pretty hat, and it suits her so well.
But perhaps there was some alteration necessary. It may not have quite
fitted or something?"
Red-head dived gracefully into the box and drew forth a note from the
tissue-paper billows.
A faint flicker expressive of I knew not what hidden emotion seemed to
pass for one moment over her aristocratic features as she read it. But
it vanished instantaneously, and she turned to me with her previous
air of haughty and imperturbable aloofness.
"Moddom is not keeping the hat," she said.
I felt somehow a little snubbed, and said no more, and, my parcel
appearing at this moment, I paid and departed.
Nancy's joy over the jumper more than came up to my expectations. When
she had calmed down a little I bethought myself of the matter of the
hat.
"Oh, yes," said Nancy in reply to my question, "I sent it back after
all. It won't matter in the least now that you have bought this."
"But why didn't you keep it?" I said.
"Well, I really felt I didn't like it so very much," said Nancy, "and,
as you didn't seem quite to like it either--"
"My dear girl," I protested, "I told you I thought it was charming."
"Well, anyway you said that blue didn't suit me," persisted my wife.
"You _did_, George."
There was a moment's pause. It was no use saying anything. Suddenly
Nancy jumped up and clutched me by the arm.
"George," she said anxiously, "you didn't, you didn't say anything
about that hat to the girl in the shop, did you?"
"I believe I mentioned that I thought it was extremely pretty, and
that I was sorry you weren't keeping it," I replied airily. "But why?"
For my wife's face had suddenly assumed an expression of horrified
dismay.
"I shall never be able to go into that shop again," she wailed,
"never. I wrote them a note saying that I was not keeping the hat
because _my husband very much disliked it_, and that I didn't care
ever to wear anything of which he didn't approve."
What is really very unfair about the whole thing is that I know
that Nancy thinks me entirely to blame. Indeed she told me so. When
I ventured to point out that she had not been quite truthful in
the matter she was at first genuinely and honestly amazed, and
subsequently so indignant that I was fain ultimately to apologise.
In looking back upon the episode I am filled with admiration for
the red-haired girl. I consider that she showed extraordinary
self-restraint in what must have been a peculiarly tempting situation.
R.F.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Raw Hand_ (_at sea for first time and observing
steamer's red and green lights_). "'ERE'S SOME LIGHTS ON THE STARBOARD
SIDE, SIR."
_Officer_. "WELL, WHAT IS IT?"
_R.H_. "LOOKS TO ME LIKE A CHEMIST'S SHOP, SIR."]
* * * * *
SMALL-TALK.
"Of course you must come," said Mary; "it's nonsense to say you can't
dance."
Mary is married to my first cousin, Thomas. I looked at Thomas, but
saw no hope of support. Thomas labours under the delusion that he can
jazz.
"It isn't only the dancing," I protested; "it's the conversational
strain. Besides, as one of the original founders of the League to
Minimise Gossip amongst General Staff Officers--"
"Rot!" said Thomas; "you simply let your partners do the talking.
You needn't even listen. Just say 'Quite' in your most official tone
whenever you hear them saying nothing."
Thomas, although my first cousin, is not bright; but I had to go.
For the first few dances I escaped; the crowd round the door was
so dense that I saw at once that I should be trampled to death if
I attempted to enter. Then I was caught by Mary and introduced to
a total stranger.
I suppose there are people who do not mind kicking a total stranger
round the room to the strain of cymbals, a motor siren and a
frying-pan. I fancy the lady expressed a desire to stop, but as her
words were lost in the orchestral pandemonium I realised that as long
as the dulcet chords continued conversation was impossible; so we
danced on.
Fortunately too, when the interval came, she was full of small-talk.
"Isn't the floor good? And I always like this band."
"Quite," said I.
"Rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses to give a dance."
"Quite," said I.
"Especially when their eldest boy, the one, you know, who was so
frightfully good at golf or something, has just got into a mess
with--"
"Quite," said I, while she plunged into a flood of reminiscences.
She did not ask whether I could jazz, mainly, I think, because I had
already danced with her. I concentrated my thoughts on the best means
of avoiding Mary when the music began again, and just threw in an
occasional "Quite" to keep the lady in a good temper.
But there was no escaping Mary.
"You _must_ go and dance with Miss Carter," she told me, adducing
incontrovertible arguments. I am terrified of Miss Carter, who can
only be described as "statuesque" and always does the right thing
(which makes her crushing to the verge of discourtesy). I am always
being asked if I know whether she is "only twenty-two." It was not
without satisfaction that I initiated her into my style of dancing.
To my horror, when we stopped she sat in silence, regarding me with
an air of expectant boredom. I racked my brains.
"Good floor, isn't it?" said I.
"Quite," said Miss Carter.
"Jolly good band too."
"Quite," said Miss Carter.
"And rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses, don't you think?"
She said it again. By this time I felt convinced that all the other
couples within hearing were listening to us. Miss Carter is that sort
of person.
"Of course," I said with a nervous laugh, "it's rather absurd for me
to say anything about it, because, you know, dancing isn't much in my
line."
"Quite," said Miss Carter.
That settled it; I felt I must stop her at all costs. I cleared my
throat and spoke as distinctly as I could.
"I'm always being asked a conundrum, Miss Carter, and you're the one
person who can tell me the true answer. Am I permitted to ask it?"
"Quite," said Miss Carter, for the first time almost smiling. I
plucked up courage.
"It's this: how old are you?"
She stopped herself just in time. Her answer was given in a tone
which expressed at the same time her contempt for my breach of the
conventions and the fact that she was too indifferent to think me
worth snubbing.
"Twenty-two," said she.
"Quite," said I.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR HAIR DONE, MADAM?"
"WELL, I WANT TO GET IT DEBOBBED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."]
* * * * *
THE CAREER (POSTPONED).
MY DEAR JAMES,--A few weeks ago I wrote to tell you that ere long the
military machine would be able to spare one of its cogs--myself. I
discussed possible careers in civil life, and since then I had almost
decided on "filbert-grower." Had things gone well, by the beginning of
June you should have received a first instalment of forced filberts.
Now this cannot be. The cog is shown to be indispensable. I must
remain a soldier.
Why do they want me, James? I am nothing like a soldier. I cannot
click my heels as other men do. I try, Heaven knows how I try, but all
the C.O. hears is a sound as of two cabbages being slapped together.
And my word of command! The critics say it is like a cry for help in
a London fog.
My haversack contains no trace of any Field-Marshal's baton. You are
aware that every private soldier's haversack is issued complete with
"Batons, one, Field-Marshal (potential), for the use of." But there is
no authority for such an issue for commissioned ranks.
Is it because of my manner with men and my powers as a disciplinarian?
I fear not. If a man is brought before me for summary jurisdiction a
lump rises in my throat and I want to cry. I am always sure he didn't
mean to do it. As for military law, I am shaky on the fines for
drunkenness, and I don't feel at all sure whether death at dawn or two
extra fatigues is the maximum punishment for having one string of the
hold-all longer than the other when on active service.
When I kicked the bell-push towards the end of last guest-night the
Adjutant said he should mark me down for the job of Physical Training
Officer; but I hope he was only joking. I am not built for the work.
My frame is puny and my countenance irresolute. I hate bending and
stretching my arms; they creak and frighten me. I never could squat on
my heels like a thingummy.
I might, if allowed, make a hit as Messing Officer. With the aid of
my Cookery Course notes I can differentiate between no fewer than
thirty-four different types of rissole. Unfortunately we already have
a Messing Officer of deadly efficiency. He can classify dripping by
instinct. He can memorise at sight all the revolting contents of a
swill-tub. My rissole lore is a poor asset in comparison.
No, James, I think I have it. One day you will read that our Armies
of Occupation consist of so many hundred thousands of all ranks,
including, perhaps, 35,001 officers. That is why they retain me.
I shall be the "1" at the end of the thousands. It is your humble
servant's function to keep the Armies of Occupation up to strength.
Are we to be robbed of the fruits of victory? The reply is in the
negative. Therefore, when next June comes along and you yearn for
the early filberts, do not be fretty. Remember that I am gathering
in fruits of another and a nobler kind. Yours ever,