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Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Vol. 147 September 2nd 1914 by Various Seaman Owen Editor
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Ebook has 223 lines and 16025 words, and 5 pages
Already the occupation of Brussels has caused the scratching of the SCHUMANN concerto.
Of course there is more in it than meets the eye. If all German music is eliminated there are bound to be prodigious gaps which must be filled up somehow. Very well. The result can only be a new state of activity in the home composing industry. This is no time for giving away secrets, but perhaps we may be allowed to say that the continued attendance last week of Sir HENRY WOOD at the offices of the Board of Trade can only mean that he too is taking his part in a comprehensive and well-considered plan for making war on German industries. Now is the time for the native producer to get to work. Germany must once and for all be ousted from this market. There need be no difficulty in obtaining samples, and we look to British industry and enterprise to do the rest.
We are not sure that neutrals should be allowed into this thing. An exception might be made in the case of Italy, but, apart from her, we should limit the exotic features in our programmes to the works of our allies in the field. It might give a needed fillip to the national music of Japan.
How it strikes our Contemporaries.
The allies should come to a better agreement than this.
"Spies Output Down Again," says a contemporary, and we were just going to congratulate the authorities when we discovered that it referred to a Petroleum Company.
THE FATAL GIFT.
I think it is time I explained my supposed friendship for Ernest Merrowby Woolman--confound him.
The affair began in a taxicab two years ago. Andrew had been dining with me that night; we walked out to the cab-rank together; I told the driver where to go, and Andrew stepped in, waved good-bye to me from the window, and sat down suddenly upon something hard. He drew it from beneath him, and found it was an extremely massive silver cigar-case. He put it in his pocket with the intention of giving it to the driver when he got out, but quite naturally forgot. Next morning he found it on his dressing-table. So he put it in his pocket again, meaning to leave it at Scotland Yard on his way to the City.
Next morning it was on his dressing-table again.
This went on for some days. After a week or so Andrew saw that it was hopeless to try to get a cigar-case back to Scotland Yard in this casual sort of way; it must be taken there deliberately by somebody who had a morning to spare and was willing to devote it to this special purpose. He placed the case, therefore, prominently on a small table in the dining-room to await the occasion; calling also the attention of his family to it, as an excuse for an outing when they were not otherwise engaged.
At times he used to say, "I must really take that cigar-case to Scotland Yard to-morrow."
At other times he would say, "Somebody must really take that cigar-case to Scotland Yard to-day."
And so the weeks rolled on ...
It was about a year later that I first got mixed up with the thing. I must have dined with the Andrews several times without noticing the cigar-case, but on this occasion it caught my eye as we wandered out to join the ladies, and I picked it up carelessly. Well, not exactly carelessly; it was too heavy for that.
"Why didn't you tell me," I said, "that you had stood for Parliament and that your supporters had consoled you with a large piece of plate? Hallo, they've put the wrong initials on it. How unbusiness-like."
"Why not? It's quite a solid little table. But you haven't explained why your constituents, who must have seen your name on hundreds of posters, thought your initials were E. M. W."
Andrew explained.
"Then it isn't yours at all?" I said in amazement.
"Of course not."
"Nonsense," said Andrew uneasily. "But still, perhaps I'd better take it back to Scotland Yard to-morrow."
"And tell them you've kept it for a year? They'd run you in at once. No, what you want to do is to get rid of it without their knowledge. But how--that's the question. You can't give it away because of the initials."
"It's easy enough. I can leave it in another cab, or drop it in the river."
"I'll pretend it's yours," said Andrew more subtly, and he placed it in my pocket.
"No, you don't," I said. "But I tell you what I will do. I'll take it for a week and see if I can get rid of it. If I can't, I shall give it you back and wash my hands of the whole business--except, of course, for the monthly letter or whatever it is they allow you at the Scrubbs. You may still count on me for that."
And then the extraordinary thing happened. The next morning I received a letter from a stranger, asking for some simple information which I could have given him on a post-card. And so I should have done--or possibly, I am afraid, have forgotten to answer at all--but for the way that the letter ended up.
The magic initials! It was a chance not to be missed. I wrote enthusiastically back and asked him to lunch.
He came. I gave him all the information he wanted, and lots more. Whether he was a pleasant sort of person or not I hardly noticed; I was so very pleasant myself.
He returned my enthusiasm. He asked me to dine with him the following week. A little party at the Savoy--his birthday, you know.
I accepted gladly. I rolled up at the party with my little present ... a massive silver cigar-case ... suitably engraved.
So there you are. He clings to me. He seems to have formed the absurd idea that I am fond of him. A few months after that evening at the Savoy he was married. I was invited to the wedding--confound him. Of course I had to live up to my birthday present; the least I could do was an enormous silver cigar-box , which bound me to him still more strongly.
Well, now they know. And the original E. M. W., if he has the sense to read this article, knows. If he cares to prosecute Ernest Merrowby Woolman for being in possession of stolen goods I shall be glad to give him any information. Woolman is generally to be found leaving my rooms at about 6.30 in the evening, and a smart detective could easily nab him as he steps out.
A. A. M.
FORTUNE'S FAVOURITE.
Dear maiden of the sunny head And cheeks of coral hue, The lips of rarest ruby red, The eyes of Oxford blue, And other charms I've left unsaid ... Ah, how I envy you!
Heedless of half a world at war You neither strive nor cry; Though danger knocks at England's door There's laughter in your sky: You ask not what she's fighting for, Nor reck the reason why.
You little guess, you never will, The force that nerves this fist To toil away for you until My mind is like a mist; The lack of money for the mill, The growing dearth of grist.
A CANDIDATE FOR THE FORCE.
"I want to enrol myself as a Special Constable," I said to the man in mufti behind the desk.
"Well, don't let me stop you," he remarked. "The Police Station is next door. This is a steam laundry."
A minute later I began again:--
"I want to enrol myself as a Steam Laund--that is to say, as a Special Constable."
"Certainly, Sir," said the Inspector in charge. "Your name and address?"
I opened my cigarette-case and placed a card on the desk.
The Inspector handed me back the card. It was a cigarette-picture representing the proper method of bandaging a displaced knee-cap. I rectified the error, and he entered the information in a book.
"I must ask if you are a British subject?" he inquired.
"You might almost describe me as super-British," I replied. "There is a tradition in my family that my ancestors were on Hastings Pier when the Conqueror arrived."
"Thank you. That will be all."
"You don't want me to give references, one of which must be a clergyman or a J.P.? You don't require me to state previous experience, if any, or any details of that sort?"
"Oh, no," he answered. "That'll be all right. You are no doubt familiar with squad drill?"
"Splendid! I had no idea it was used in the Force."
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