PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 105, August 26th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(By Cunnin Toil.)

No. III.—LADY HILDA'S MYSTERY.

A day or two after the stirring events which I have related as taking place at Blobley-in-the-Marsh, and of which, it will be remembered, I was myself an astonished spectator, I happened to be travelling, partly for business, partly for pleasure, through one of the most precipitous of the inaccessible mountain-ranges of Bokhara. It is unnecessary for me to state in detail the reasons that had induced me once more to go so far a-field. One of the primary elements in a physician's success in his career is, that he should be able to guard, under a veil of impenetrable silence, the secrets confided to his care. It cannot, therefore, be expected of me that I should reveal why his Eminence the Cardinal Dacapo, one of the most illustrious of the Princes of the Church, desired that I should set off to Bokhara. When the memoirs of the present time come to be published, it is possible that no chapter of them will give rise to bitterer discussion than that which narrates the interview of the redoubtable Cardinal with the humble author of this story. Enough, however, of this, at present. On some future occasion much more will have to be said about it. I cannot endure to be for ever the scape-goat of the great, and, if the Cardinal persists in his refusal to do me justice, I shall have, in the last resort, to tell the whole truth about one of the strangest affairs that ever furnished gossip for all the most brilliant and aristocratic tea-tables of the Metropolis.

I was walking along the narrow mountain path that leads from Balkh to Samarcand. In my right hand I held my trusty kirghiz, which I had sharpened only that very morning. My head was shaded from the blazing sun by a broad native mollah, presented to me by the Khan of Bokhara, with whom I had spent the previous day in his Highness's magnificent marble and alabaster palace. As I walked I could not but be sensible of a curiously strained and tense feeling in the air—the sort of atmosphere that seems to be, to me at least, the invariable concomitant of country-house guessing-games. I was at a loss to account for this most curious phenomenon, when, looking up suddenly, I saw on the top of an elevated crag in front of me the solitary and impassive figure of Picklock Holes, who was at that moment engaged on one of his most brilliant feats of induction. He evinced no surprise whatever at seeing me. A cold smile lingered for a moment on his firm and secretive lips, and he laid the tips of his fingers together in his favourite attitude of deep consideration.

"How are you, my dear Potson?" he began. "What? not well? Dear me, dear me, what can it mean? And yet I don't think it can have been the fifth glass of sherbet which you took with the fourteenth wife of the Khan. No, I don't think it can have been that."

"Holes, you extraordinary creature," I broke in; "what on earth made you think that I drank five glasses of sherbert with the Khan's fourteenth wife?"

"Nothing simpler, my dear fellow. Just before I saw you a native Bokharan goose ran past this rock, making, as it passed, a strange hissing noise, exactly like the noise made by sherbert when immersed in water. Five minutes elapsed, and then you appeared. I watched you carefully. Your lips moved, as lips move only when they pronounce the word fourteen. You then smiled and scratched your face, from which I immediately concluded you were thinking of a wife or wives. Do you follow me?"

"Yes, I do, perfectly," I answered, overjoyed to be able to say so without deviating from the truth; for in following his reasoning I did not admit its accuracy. As to that I said nothing, for I had drunk sherbert with no one, and consequently had not taken five glasses with the fourteenth wife of the Khan. Still, it was a glorious piece of guess-work on the part of my matchless friend, and I expressed my admiration for his powers in no measured terms.

"Perhaps," said Holes, after a pause, "you are wondering why I am here. I will tell you. You know Lady Hilda Cardamums?"

"What, the third and loveliest daughter of the Marquis of Sassafras?"

"The same. Two days ago she left her boudoir at Sassafras Court, saying that she would return in a quarter of an hour. A quarter of an hour elapsed, the Lady Hilda was still absent. The whole household was plunged in grief, and every kind of surmise was indulged in to account for the lovely girl's disappearance. Under these circumstances the Marquis sent for me, and that," said Holes, "is why I am here."

"But," I ventured to remark, "do you really expect to find Lady Hilda here in Bokhara, on these inhospitable precipices, where even the wandering Bactrian finds his footing insecure? Surely it cannot be that you have tracked the Lady Hilda hither?"

"Tush," said Holes, smiling in spite of himself at my vehemence. "Why should she not be here? Listen. She was not at Sassafras Court. Therefore, she must have been outside Sassafras Court. Now in Bokhara is outside Sassafras Court, or, to put it algebraically,

in Bokhara = outside Sassafras Court.

Substitute 'in Bokhara' for 'outside Sassafras Court,' and you get this result—

'She must have been in Bokhara.'

Do you see any flaw in my reasoning?"

For a moment I was unable to answer. The boldness and originality of this master-mind had as usual taken my breath away. Holes observed my emotion with sympathy.

"Come, come, my dear fellow!" he said; "try not to be too much overcome. Of course, I know it is not everybody who could track the mazes of a mystery so promptly; but, after all, by this time you of all people in the world ought to have grown accustomed to my ways. However, we must not linger here any longer. It is time for us to restore Lady Hilda to her parents."

"Holes opened it, and read it."

As Holes uttered these words a remarkable thing happened. Round the corner of the crag on which we were standing came a little native Bokharan telegraph boy. He approached Holes, salaamed deferentially, and handed him a telegram. Holes opened it, and read it without moving a muscle, and then handed it to me. This is what I read:—

"To Holes, Bokhara.

"Hilda returned five minutes after you left. Her watch had stopped. Deeply grateful to you for all your trouble. Sassafras."

There was a moment's silence, broken by Holes.

"No," he said, "we must not blame the Lady Hilda for being at Sassafras Court and not in Bokhara. After all, she is young and necessarily thoughtless."

"Still, Holes," I retorted, with some natural indignation, "I cannot understand how, after your convincing induction, a girl of any delicacy of feeling can have remained away from Bokhara."

"I knew she would do so," said my friend, calmly.

"Holes, you are more wonderful than ever," was all that I could murmur. So that is the true story of Lady Hilda Cardamums' return to her family.

DANGER!

In our London streets, for native or stranger,

We ought to have notice-boards warning of "Danger!"

Like those on the Thames near the weirs and locks.

When Premiers collide, and when Princes get shocks,

In cabs or in carriages, King Street way driving,

'Tis time that street warnings the wise were contriving.

For now it is clear that you might as well try

To steer a balloon through a thundery sky,

Or take a stroll near the setting of sun

In a suburb where cads upon bicycles run;

Or command—or serve in—an ironclad fleet,

As—take a drive down St. James's Street!

THE LITTLE OLD (PARLIAMENTARY) WOMAN, HER (NEWCASTLE PROGRAMME) SHOE,
AND HER IMPORTUNATE CHILDREN.

(An old Nursery Rhyme Re-adapted.)

There was an Old Woman who lived in her Shoe,

She had so many Children she didn't know what to do;

So she gave them some Broth without any Bread,

Then "Whipped" them all up, and—sent them to bed!

["Inspired, as it may be presumed, by the more or less remote prospect of the termination of the Home-Rule debate, the political creditors of the Government are vieing with one another in urging their respective claims to priority of payment."—Morning Post.

"Their bills are the promises of the Newcastle Programme."—Times.]

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

My Angelina once enjoyed

The mild lawn-tennis all the day,

And did not scorn to be employed

In croquet's unexciting fray;

O truly happy seasons, when

I think of you, I wish you back,

For Angelina had not then

Become a golfing maniac!

But now of none of these she thinks,

All such pursuits she reckons "slow,"

And spends the days upon the links,

Where nevermore I mean to go:

For I recall the heartless snubs,

Which those enchanting lips let fall,

When I demolished several clubs,

And lost my temper, and the ball.

To-day the fickle maid prefers

With young Macduff to pass her time,

Because his "putting," she avers—

Whatever that be—"is sublime;"

And when I get a chance to state

The deep affection felt by me,

She interrupts me to relate

How well she did that hole in three!

I love my Angelina still,

Yet he who chose her as a wife

Would be expected to fulfil

A caddie's duties all his life;

So, if I turn away instead,

You will not hold me much to blame?

How can I woo her? She is wed

Already—to this awful game!

EXPERTO CREDE.

Corporal M'Taggart, of the Nairn and Elgin Highlanders (to Photographer). "Hech mon, ye'll neever Hit us that gait,—ye're no allowin' for Windage!"

CROQUET.

O feeblest game, how strange if you should rise

To favour, vice tennis superseded!

And yet beneath such glowing summer skies,

When wildest energy is invalided,

Mere hitting balls through little hoops

Seems work enough. One merely stoops,

And lounges round, no other toil is needed.

Upon a breezy lawn beneath the shade

Of rustling trees that hide the sky so sunny,

I'll play, no steady game as would be played

By solemn, earnest folks as though for money—

For love is better. Simply stoop,

And hit the ball. It's through the hoop!

My partner smiles; she seems to think it funny.

My pretty partner, whose bright, laughing eyes

Gaze at me while I aim another blow; lo,

I've missed because I looked at her! With sighs

I murmur an apologetic solo.

The proudest athlete here might stoop,

To hit a ball just through a hoop,

And say the game—with her—beats golf and polo.

TRUMPS FOR TRAMPS.

(From the Story of a Much-considered Nothing.)

THE Tramp was distinctly one of the Unemployed. He had no money, no friends, no home. He had obtained some work a short while since. The labour, of course, had been unskilled, and then there had come a strike, and the Tramp and his mates had turned out with the rest. The Tramp was a little annoyed, as he had been fairly satisfied to earn bread and butter and meat, and above all, and before all, beer. But the leaders of the strike had satisfied him that it was entirely for his benefit. That as the Tramp could not work up to their standard, it was their duty to work down to his—and yet get paid at the same rate of wages belonging to the higher scale. This seemed to the Tramp pleasant enough. But while he waited, he starved; so he was not sure that the notion of the strike was so excellent after all. But then his brain might have been clearer—it had not been fed (in common with the rest of his body) for several days.

So the Tramp—weary, ragged, and tanned—wandered to the spot where Labour was holding her Congress. The last meeting had been held, and the final squabble settled when he reached his destination. There were a couple of well-fed, healthy-looking men, dressed in good strong broad-cloth, standing outside the meeting-place. They regarded the Tramp with some surprise.

"Surely not a Member?" said the first.

"And of course not a Delegate?" hinted the second.

The tramp shook his head. He knew nothing about Members and Delegates.

"I thought not," said Number One. "All our Members and Delegates are quite of respectable appearance."

"Got nothing to do," replied the Tramp, laconically.

"Why don't you try the Colonies?" asked Number Two. "There has been an immense fall in the value of land in Australia. You would get it cheap just now. Why not emigrate? Why not acquire some land?"

"I don't want land, I want food!" returned the Tramp.

"Well, when we have a vacancy, you shall become one of us. We eat, drink, and talk; but we don't work. It's the best employment out." And the Tramp found it so.

'ARRIET ON LABOUR.

Dear Polly,—These are pooty times, and don't you make no herror.

They gives me twists, though I am called the Tottenham Court Road Terror,

Along of quantities of pluck, and being such a dasher;

But now the papers bring hus news as spiles yer mornin' rasher.

"Labour is looking up, you bet!" So sez Sam Jones, our neighbour.

"I'm glad to 'ear it, Sam," sez I. "But, Sammy, wot is Labour?"

Sam gives his greasy curl a twist, and looks seven ways for Sunday.

Bit bosky, Sam, thick in the clear, as usual on Saint Monday.

"Labour!" I sez, "Oh, shoo fly, Sam! You 'orny-'anded codgers—

Your palm's as soft as putty, Sam—are reglar Artful Dodgers.

Yer Labour, with a capital L, looks mighty fine in print, Sam,

But work with a small w—ah! I see yer takes the 'int, Sam."

That shut him up, the lolloper! He know'd I'd took his measure,

And squelching 'umbugs always do give me pertikler pleasure.

Jones sorter set 'is cap at me; I earn good money I do;

But love as follows L.S.D. 's all fol-der-riddle-dido!

"Bashing a knobstick's ripping fun, no doubt—for them as bashes;

But this here new petroleum game won't work." Here Jones's lashes—

They're stubby, ginger, sly-fox ones—got kinder tangle-twinkle.

I 'ad my eye on 'im, the worm, while working out my winkle.

(I'd got a pennorth in a bag; they're things to which I'm partial.)

"We must bust up Mernopoly," sez Sam, a-looking martial.

"The 'Oly Cause o' Labour carn't be stayed by trifles, 'Arriet!

Judas must 'ang, 'twere weakness to show mercy to Iscariot!"

"Bit o' yer platform gag," sez I. "You keep it for the club, Sam.

'Twon't comfort me, nor your old mother toiling at the tub, Sam.

The 'Oly Cause o' Labour, Sam 's, a splendid thing to spout about,

But it's a thing as skulkers makes the most tremenjus rout about."

I'm only just a work-girl, Poll, one of the larky drudges

As swarm acrost the bridge at night and 'omeward gaily trudges,

A tootling "Ta-ra-boom-de-ay," a chaffing of the fellers,

And flourishing their feathered 'ats bright reds, and blues and yellers.

As vulgar as they make 'em, Poll. Leastways the chaps whose trade is

To write and dror in Comics, call hus "anythink but ladies."

Ladies? O lor! On thirteen bob a week, less sundry tanners

For fines, it's none so easy, Poll, to keep up style and manners.

But work-girls work, and that is more than Sam and 'is sort—drat 'em!

When I see shirks platforming, Poll, I'm longing to get at 'em.

When Women's Rights include the charnce of gettin' a fair 'earing

For Women's Wrongs—wy then there'll be less bashing and less beering.

As for the Vote—well, I dunno. It seems pertikler curious

That politics makes a man a hass, they drives the fellers furious.

If Votes sets women by the ears, as they does men, my winky!

I guess 'twill make domestic life even more crabbed and kinky.

Wy my young man—you know 'im, Poll—whose temper's real milky,

Whose 'art is soft as 'is merstarche—and that is simply silky—

Got that rouged up on polling day, along of a young Tory

As called him names. I 'ad to 'ug 'im off to stop the gory.

The chap was in the 'atting line, and thought Balfour a 'ero;

Whereas my Mick 'as Hirish blood, and calls 'im "Niminy Nero."

I don't a bit know what they meant, but if them votes should send hus

As fairly off our chumps as men, the shine will be tremendous!

We shall 'ave a fair beano then! Well, I'm not nuts on voting.

Your 'Arriet's lay is—better pay! That's not wot they're promoting,

Them spouting Labour Candidates. Of women's work they're jealous;

They light the fire to warm hus? Bah! they're only good at bellows!

Their Eight 'Ours Day, and such-like rot, gives me the 'ump, dear Polly—

Wouldn't some women like it, though? Well, 'oping for it's folly,

Like longing for a seal-skin sweet, or a Marquige for a lover.

Man's work may be too long sometimes, a woman's never over.

Leastways, a married woman's, Poll. Mick's 'ot on me to "settle,"

But eighteen bob a week—his screw—ain't much to bile the kettle;

And I ain't 'ad my fling, not yet. Mick's reglar smart and sparky,

But—when a woman's fairly spliced, it's U. P. with the larky.

And oh my, Poll, I do love larks! Theayters, 'ops, and houtings

Warm a girl's 'art a rare sight more than politics and spoutings.

Mick says he 'as his eye upon a "flat," neat and commojus.

Mick's a good sort, but tied for life to toil—at eighteen? Ojus!

'Ard Labour, and for life, without the hoption! That's a sentence

As 'ot as 'Arry 'Orkins's, and no place for repentance.

Ah, Poll, my girl, a woman's work is Labour, and no skulking.

It must go on though yer old man's out of a job or sulking.

Mothers can't strike, or unionise, or make demonsterations.

The bloke 'as got the bulge on them. Now girls in situations,

Like you and me, Poll, 'as a chance of larky nights and jolly days,

Along of arter bizness 'ours, and, now and then, the 'olidays.

But 'twixt the cradle and the tub, the old man and 'er needle,

A married woman's tied up tight. Yus, Mick may spoon and wheedle,

But when a woman's got four kids, bad 'ealth, and toke for tiffin,

Then marriage is a failure, Poll, I give yer the straight griffin.

The goodies slate us shop-girls sharp, say married life or sarvice

Are more respectabler. Oh lor! Just look at poor Jane Jarvis!

She were a dasher, Jenny were, 'er fringe and feathers took it,

And now—'er only 'ope's that Bill may tire of 'er and 'ook it.

You know that purple hostrich plume she were so proud of, Polly!

I bought it on 'er for five bob larst week, and it looks jolly

In my new 'at. But as she sat a snivellin' o'er that dollar,

Thinks I if this is married life 'Arriet's not game for collar.

She looked so suety and sad, and all them golden tresses

She was so proud of when it ran to smart new 'ats and dresses,

Was all tight knotted round 'er knob like oakum on a mop, Poll.

Her bright blue eyes in mourning, and—well, there, I couldn't stop, Poll.

Labour? Well yus, the best of hus must work; yer carn't git quit of it;

And you and me, Poll, like the rest, must do our little bit of it.

But oh, I loves my freedom, Poll, my hevenings hoff is 'eaven;

But wives and slavies ain't allowed even one day in seven.

Jigger the men! Sam spouts and shouts about the 'Onest Worker.

That always means a Man, of course—he's a smart Man, the shirker!

But when a Man lives upon his wife, and skulks around his diggings,

Who is the "'Onest Worker" then?—Yours truly,

'Arriet 'Iggings.

FROM GRAVE TO GAY; OR, THE SECRET OF SUCCESS.

Dash Blank was a genius. He had been an immense success at school, and had done admirably at the University. He then came up to town and tried many things. He was a poet, a musician, an artist, an inventor. And everyone he knew, said it was absolutely wonderful, and that he should make a fortune. But just at the moment he had a fair income, which had been left to him by his deceased relative, and there was no occasion to augment his means. On the contrary, if anything, his accomplishments were rather a loss to him than a gain. So the situation existed for a time.

Then came a crash in the City, and poor Dash Blank found himself penniless. It was then he tried to turn his talents to account, but found that their market value was nil, or even less.

But, fortunately, he was "such a genius," and to persons of that class often come what may be termed happy thoughts.

Dash Blank disappeared—completely, absolutely. His absence remained unnoticed for some time, and then, of a sudden, his death got into the papers. It was copied from one journal to another, until the intelligence was conveyed from one end of the Empire to the other. Then some one made the discovery that Dash Blank had not been appreciated. Immediately all his brilliant failures were unearthed, and advertised into popularity. His poems on republication realised hundreds, and his pictures thousands; his wonderful invention was patented, turned into a Company of Limited Liability, and quickly realised a fortune. Dash Blank was a name to conjure with—it was typical of success.

At length a statue was erected to his memory, and the unveiling became an important function. All sorts of smart people were present, and the finest things imaginable were said about his career. When it was all over, the Sculptor was left alone with what had been recently termed his "masterpiece."

"No," said he; "it is not a bit like poor Dash. I never could get his expression."

"It's not bad," observed a man in a cloak, who had come up while he was murmuring, and who now stood beside him; "not at all bad, considering he never gave you a sitting."

"That's true enough," replied the Sculptor; "but how did you know it?"

"Because I happen to be Dash Blank himself!" and then the man in the cloak threw off that covering, and revealed his identity.

After this came an explanation. The genius noticing that when a clever man dies there is always a run upon his works, died himself. At any rate that was the impression in the minds of everyone save a friendly executor, who collected the money for his estate. Then the friendly executor paid the proceeds to the imaginary deceased.

"And shall you resume work?" asked the Sculptor, after he had recovered from his astonishment.

"Not I. You need be under no alarm that anyone will compare your portrait with the original. I have had enough of work, and with my recently accumulated capital, shall try my hand at speculation. Good bye, if you are in my neighbourhood, look me up. You will find me anywhere between the Arctic and Antarctic Zones." And then he went over to America, put his money into wooden nutmegs, and promptly became a millionaire.

THE "ONE-HORSE" HOUSEHOLDER.

(A Solemn Social Ditty.)

In a region where freshly-built suburbs lie ending

'Mid plots of the glum market-gardener's ground,—

Its bare, tenantless frontages gloomily blending

With grime and neglect that are rampant all round,

Runs the street, so forlorn it could not be forlorner,

Where, looking straight down a "no thoroughfare" road,

With the blaze of a new public-house at the corner,

The sad "One-horse" Householder finds his abode!

'Tis a wilderness wild of dread dilapidations,

Where one feeble gas-light illumines the street,

While right over the way fourteen kitchen foundations

Of houses unfinished the aching eye greet!

How he first chanced to find it his friends often wonder.

No omnibus runs within miles of his door,—

Nor a train, be it either above-ground or under,

Wakes life with its thrice welcome whistle and roar.

If you call at that house, you'll be knocking and ringing,

Till, with forcible language, you're leaving the place,

When a slavey, who comes up the hall gaily singing,

Flings open the door, with a smut on her face.

You ask "if they're in," and she looks you all over,—

It's clear she's quite new to an afternoon call,—

P'raps takes you for Turpin, Bill Sikes, the Red Rover;

But she says that she'll "see," and leaves you in the hall.

You are ushered upstairs, which a Dutch carpet graces,

To a drawing-room, curtained at threepence a yard,

Where Japanese gimcracks appear in odd places,

Though Aspinall clearly has proved their trump card;

For here it envelopes a plain kitchen-table,

There a weak wicker lounge which invites not repose;

And at length you are seated, as well as you're able,

On a folding arm-chair that half threatens to close.

But they offer you tea, made with unboiling water,

A syrupy Souchong at tenpence a pound,

Which a simpering, woebegone, elderly daughter,

With stale bread rancid buttered, is handing around.

And you think you'll be off: as your talk halts and flounders,

For you feel most distinctly, they're not in your line,

And you say to yourself, "Yes, these Johnsons are bounders,"

But before you can go, you have promised to dine!