PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 158.

March 3rd, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

A lunatic who recently escaped from an asylum was eventually recaptured in a large dancing-hall in the West-End. The fact that he was waltzing divinely and keeping perfect time with the music aroused the other dancers' suspicions and led to his recapture.

The latest type of Tank, Mr. Winston Churchill informed the House of Commons, weighs thirty tons and can pass over a brick without crushing it. It is said to be modelled on the Profiteering Act.

The proposal of the Home Secretary to add fifty per cent. to taxi-cab fares and abolish the initial charge of sixpence is said to find favour both with owners and drivers. The men in particular have always chafed at the necessity of messing about with small silver.

Much sympathy is felt locally for the man who in the excitement caused by the declaration of the poll at Paisley lost his corkscrew.

"The ex-Kaiser was responsible for the War," says the Kölnische Zeitung. Our Hush-hush Department seems to have grown very lax of late.

A welcome case of judicial sympathy is reported from West London. It appears that a Society lady charged with shop-lifting pleaded that she was the sole support of two kennel-ridden poodles, and was immediately discharged.

The Press reports the existence of miles and miles of war-material in huge dumps near Calais and Boulogne. War Office officials, we hear, are greatly relieved, as they have been trying for several months to remember where they had left the stuff.

A lady with small capital would like to meet another similarly situated, with a view to the joint purchase of a reel of thread.

At Jerusalem a tree has been uprooted whose fall is locally believed to presage the destruction of the Turkish Empire. It is only fair to the tree to point out that if it had known of this it would probably, like the Government, have changed its mind at the last minute.

"One of the problems of civilized humanity," says a writer in The Daily Mail, "is the avoidance of pain-producing elements in ordinary diet." Nowadays it is impossible to eat even so simple a thing as a boiled egg in a restaurant without the risk of being stung.

The identity of the gentleman who, under the initials "A.G.," recently advertised in the Press for the thyroid gland of Proteus diplomaticus remains unrevealed.

It appears that the Government have undertaken not to engage in any more war with the Bolshevists, if they, for their part, will endeavour to quell the peace which is still raging.

"Englishmen will never forget America," says a Service paper. For ourselves we had hoped that the American bacon affair was closed.

A burglar broke into a barrister's chambers in the Temple last week. We understand that he got away without having any money taken off him.

A woman who said she had had six husbands asked a London magistrate to grant her a separation. It is supposed that she is breaking up her collection.

Owing to the thick fog experienced in London, last week several daylight hold-ups were unavoidably postponed.

With the present fashion in ladies' wear many owners of beautiful brooches are in the unhappy position of having nothing to attach them to.

In order to raise funds for the building of a new church-porch in a Birmingham parish a member of the committee suggested the sale of small flags in the street. Struck by the originality of this novel idea the chairman agreed to go into the matter in order to see if it was practicable.

A farmer writing from Bridgnorth, Salop, to a daily paper states that he has a tame fox which guards the house at night and shepherds the sheep by day. We understand that the Dogs' Trade Union takes a serious view of the whole matter, but is not without hope of being able to avert a strike.

The real value of co-operation was illustrated the other day on the Underground Railway when a lady complained that a straphanger was standing on her foot. Word was immediately passed down the carriage, with the result that by a combined swaying movement in one direction the offender was enabled to remove his foot.

It is estimated that three hundred and forty thousand persons made fortunes out of the War. Of these it is only fair to say that the number who actually encouraged the War to happen are few. The vast majority simply allowed it to come along and do its worst.

The Corporation of London made £18 on the sale of waste paper in the year 1919-1920, as compared with over £9000 in the year 1918-1919. It looks as if in the last-named year the Corporation was in communication with a Government Department.

"Why will not Scotsmen eat eels?" asks The Manchester Guardian. We cannot say, but we have always understood that the attitude is reciprocal.

The Post-War Hero.

It was a stainless patriot, who could not bear to fight

For England the oppressor, or own that she was right;

But when the War was over, to show his martial breed,

He shot down three policemen and made a woman bleed.

PAISLEY TO THE RESCUE OF THE COALITION.

(The Prime Minister to Mr. Asquith)

Welcome, for Old Long Since's sake,

Home to your ancient seat!

It needed only this to make

My cup of joy complete;

The weary waiting time is past;

The yawning vacuum is mended;

And here we have you back at last—

Oh, Herbert, this is splendid!

As one whose wisdom overflows

With human nature's lore,

You know they make the keenest foes

Who have been friends before;

We loved as only Liberals do

Until their rival sabres rattle

And Greek joins Greek (like me and you)—

Then is the tug of battle.

As an old Parliamentary hand

Familiar with the ropes,

Those perils you will understand

With which a Premier copes

Whose big battalions run to seed,

Having indulged a taste for slacking,

And let their muscles moult for need

Of foemen worth the whacking.

Such was my case. By habit's use

They still obeyed the whip,

But loyal zeal grew limp and loose

And things were left to rip;

I had no hope to stay the rot

And fortify their old affections

(Save for the stimulus they got

From losing by-elections).

Daily I took, to keep me fit,

My tonic in The Times;

Daily recovered tone and grit

Reading about my crimes;

But one strong foe is what we lack

To put us on our best behaviour;

That's why in you I welcome back

The Coalition's saviour.

O.S.

AUCTION IN THE SPACIOUS TIMES.

"It is Our Royal pleasure to will and declare one diamond," said the Virgin Queen, when the Keeper of the Privy Purse had arranged her hand for her. Sir Walter Raleigh, who sat on her left, was on his feet in a twinkling. "Like to like, 'twas ever thus," he murmured, bowing low to his Sovereign. "I crave leave to call two humble clubs, as becometh so mean a subject of Your Majesty," It is not known whether his allusion to the Queen's call was intended to refer to the diamond rings upon Her Majesty's fingers or to the scintillating glint in Her Majesty's eyes, but she inclined her head graciously in acknowledgment of his remarks before turning to her partner.

"What say you, my Lord of Leicester?" she asked. "Wilt support a poor weak woman?" His Lordship, however, looked down his noble nose and said nothing for quite a long time. He found himself, to use a vulgar phrase, in the consommé. His hand contained the ace, king and six other spades, nothing to write home about in hearts or clubs, and one small diamond. To take from his partner the right to play the hand would be the act of a fool—the mere thought made him raise a hand to his neck as though to assure himself of its continuity. Even failure to support her call would be looked on as ungallant, if nothing worse.

"How now, sirrah? Art sleeping in Our presence?" prompted the Queen sharply.

The Earl swallowed noisily once or twice, just to show that he was awake, and then plunged.

"An it please you, Madam, two diamonds," he muttered, with but a sorry show of his habitual arrogance.

"Double!" said Sir Francis Drake in crisp seamanlike tones, whereat the Earl of Leicester was seen to fumble for the hilt of his rapier.

"Stay, my Lord," his liege commanded; "'tis true the Knight hath left his manners in Devonshire, or on the Spanish main mayhap, but keep your brawl for an hour and place more fitting. We redouble."

A momentary silence followed the Queen's discourse, cut short by the uncouth ejaculation "'Ods fish!" which escaped from Sir Francis apparently without his consent. He embarked on an apology at once, based on the fact that he was but an honest sailor; but, meeting with no encouragement, he gave it up and fell to sucking his teeth.

Sir Walter meanwhile made good use of the interval to perfect a flower of speech signifying, in a manner worthy a courtier of his reputation, that he was content. His effort drew from the Queen a glance as nearly approaching the "glad eye" as any that august spinster was ever known to dispense. The Laird of Kenilworth announced that he also was content; but historians should accept the statement with reserve. Sir Francis either wasn't sure whether the rules of the game allowed him to double again, or else had just enough tact not to do so. The game then proceeded.

Sir Walter led the ace of clubs. The appearance of the noble lord's solitary little diamond, as he laid down his hand, was greeted by a loud hiccough from the old salt, and the Queen herself was only saved from swooning by the timely administrations of a page with a flask of sal-volatile.

When, fourth in hand, she trumped the honest sailor's ace, her partner had the hardihood to make conventional inquiry as to whether she had any clubs. Her Majesty uttered in reply the one dreadful word, "Treason," thus avoiding with true statesmanship any direct answer to the question, and indicating clearly her opinion of his two-diamond call. The Keeper of the Privy Purse shot out a lean hand and gathered in the trick.

With the help of the ace of spades in dummy, the ace of hearts in her own hand, and a discriminating use of her Royal prerogative in the matter of following suit, all went well until the odd trick had been won. After that, however, Sir Francis, who had not doubled without good reason, proceeded to deal out six diamonds, led by the ace, king and queen. His partner unwisely allowed his feelings to get the better of him. "As Will Shakspeare hath it," he observed with unction, "'now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer—'" but stopped on a sudden, with ears and scalp twitching horribly.

"Ho without! Summon the guard!" roared the last of the Tudors, and immediately an N.C.O. and six private beef-eaters appeared on the scene. "Convey Our compliments to the Governor of the Tower," she continued, addressing the N.C.O., "and bid him confine the Earl of Leicester during Our pleasure. My Lord," she added, turning to her luckless partner, "'twere well, methinks, you should have leisure in which to reflect on the folly of trifling with a woman."

It is greatly to the Earl's credit that at this point he made strenuous endeavours to surrender his sword in accordance with the drill-book, but as it refused to come out of its scabbard he was obliged to unbutton the frog from his belt and hand over the weapon complete with leather gear. This formality achieved, he was led away to durance vile.

Sir Francis, poor fellow, fared scarcely better than the Earl. "Begone to sea, Sir Knight," hissed the Queen; "mayhap the Dons will teach you more becoming manners. Begone, I say, and look to 't your ships return not empty, else shall you not receive payment of your winnings."

Sir Francis went.

A glance at the pitiable condition of Sir Walter caused Her Majesty's heart to soften somewhat. "Come, Sir," she cooed, "an arm, prithee, and We will seek a place where you may read to Us the mummings of this strange bard, Will Shakspeare."

Sir Walter at once regained control of his nerve-centres and escorted Her Majesty from the painful scene.

THE ELUSIVE PEST.

John Bull. "GOT HIM!"

The Profiteer. "I DON'T THINK!"

Patient. "And you really think there is nothing wrong with my eyesight?"

Oculist. "Nothing at all. Perfectly normal."

Patient. "Ah, then it must be the way I've been holding my putter."

GEORGE AND THE COW-DRAGON.

The "rockerty-tockerty-tock" refrain of the carriage-wheels below me changed into a jarring whine as the train came to a full stop. I looked out on a dim-lit platform which seemed to be peopled only by a squad of milk-cans standing shoulder to shoulder like Noah's Ark soldiers.

As the engine shrieked and plunged into its collar again the door was jerked open and a man projected himself into the carriage and, opening the window so that the compartment was flooded with cold air, leaned out and resumed his conversation with a friend till the train bore him out of shouting range. He then pulled up the window, trod on my foot, sat on my lap and eventually came to rest on the seat opposite me.

It was a small man, red of head and bright of eye. He wore his cap at the back of his head, so as to exhibit to an admiring world a carefully-cultured curl of the "quiff" variety, which was plastered across his forehead with a great expenditure of grease. His tie was a ready-made bow of shot-colours, red, green, blue and purple, and from his glittering watch-chain hung many fanciful medals, like soles upon a line.

"Brother-in-law to me," he remarked, jerking his thumb towards the back-rushing lights of Exeter.

"Who?" I inquired.

"That young feller I was talking to just now. Didn't you see me talking to a young feller?"

"Oh, yes, I believe I did hear you talking to somebody."

"Well, him. Married a sister to me, so he's my brother-in-law, ain't he?"

"Certainly."

"Well, you're wrong then. He's only a half-brother-in-law, because she is only a half-sister to me, her ma marrying my old man. Understand?"

I said I did and pulled up my rug as a signal that I was going to sleep and the conversation was at an end.

"Anyhow, whatever he is, he's good enough for her."

I remarked that that was most satisfactory and closed my eyes.

He drew out a yellow packet of cigarettes, selected one and held them in my direction. I declined and again closed my eyes.

"Very good, please yourself, it's one more for little Willie. All I can say is that you're foolish not taking a good fag when it don't cost you nothing. You don't catch me refusing a free fag even when I don't want to smoke. I takes it and puts it in my cap for when I do. Pounds I've saved that way, pounds and pounds."

He lit his limp tube of paper and mystery, stamped out the match and spat deliberately on the floor.

"See me do that?"

I nodded with as much disgust as I could contrive.

"Know what them notices say I can get for that? Fined or imprisoned."

He paused for me to marvel at his daring.

"Think I'm mad to take risks like that, don't cher? Well, I aren't neither. They couldn't catch me out, not they."

He brushed some ash off his lap on to mine and winked sagely.

"Suppose the guard was to come in here and start fining and imprisoning me for it, do you know what I'd do? I'd swear you did it."

"But I should deny it," I retorted hotly.

"Of course you would, old chum, and I shouldn't blame you neither, but you wouldn't stand no chance against me"—he leaned forward and tapped me on the knee as though to emphasize his words—"I could lie your life away."

He sank back in his seat, his face aglow with conscious superiority. The clamour of the wheels increased as if they were live things burning with the fever of some bloodthirsty hunt.

"Firing her up," said the red man; "always racing time, these passenger wagons. It's a dog's life and no blooming error." He prodded my foot with his. "I said 'it's a dog's life and no error.'"

"What is?" I growled.

"Engine-driving, of course. I'm on the road myself. Goods-pushing just now, but I've been on the expresses off and on, though it don't suit me—too much flaring hurry."

He rattled off into technicalities of his trade, embroidered with tales of hair-bristling adventures and escapes.

"Yes, old chum, there's more in our trade than what most fat-headed passengers thinks. As long as an accident don't occur they don't know what trouble we've been to avoiding of it. I've a good mind to give 'em a smash-up now and again just to teach 'em gratitood. F'instance, me and me mate was running a local down Ilfracombe way last week when what d'you think we runned into?"

"Ilfracombe?" I hazarded sleepily.

"An old cow! Now what d' you think of that?"

"It was so much the worse for the coo," I quoted.

"What say?"

"It was so much the worse for the cow."

"Worse for the cow?"

"So George Stephenson said, and he invented the locomotive and ought to know, you'll admit."

The little man stared at me, his mouth open; for once he seemed bereft of words. We had slowed to a momentary stop, in a small station and pulled out again before he regained control of his tongue, then he broke loose.

"No, I don't admit it neither. I don't care if your friend George invented the moon, he talks like a fool, and you can tell him so from me."

"I can't, unfortunately; he's—"

"A chap that talks disrespectful and ignorant of cows like that didn't oughter be allowed to live. A cow is one of the worstest things you can run up against. I'd rather run into a row of brick houses than one of them nasty leathery old devils; and you can hand the information to your chum George."

"I tell you I can't; he's—"

"Ask any driver or fireman on the road, and if he don't slip you one with a shovel for your withering ignorance he'll tell you just what I'm telling you now. Yes, you and your funny friend."

"Look here, George Stephenson has been—"

"Let your funny friend try running into a cow just for 'speriment. Just let him try it once. They tangle up in your bogies, all slippery bones and hide, slither along with you a yard or two, and the next thing you know is you're over an embankment and your widder is putting in for insurance. Tell your pal George from me."

The brakes ground on and the lights of a station flickered past the windows.

"My gosh!" exclaimed the red-headed man, springing to his feet, "this is Cullumpton, and I ought to have got out at the station before." He wrestled with the door-handle. "And it's all through sitting here listening to your everlasting damfool chatter about you and your friend George."

"Who died forty years before I was born," said I. "Good night."

Patlander.

Robinson. "It's about time you chaps started to do something. Hard work never killed anybody."

Mendicant. "You are mistaken, Sir. I lost three wives through it."

WIZARDS: KLINGSOR AND ANOTHER.

"Another Parsifal ought to be written from the angle of Klingsor, who was an enlightened Arabian, physician, scientist and probably Aristotelian.... The Knights, and Wagner with them, call him a wizard, which was a crude mediæval way of 'slanging' any man who preferred knowledge to superstition."

This remarkable utterance by the musical critic of The Daily Mail in the issue of February 25th has created a sensation in the political world fully equal to that caused by the announcement of Mr. Asquith's return for Paisley. Scientific and artistic circles have also been deeply moved.

Sir Philip Sassoon, Mr. Lloyd George's new secretary, interviewed by our representative, said that the tribute to his chief was all the more welcome considering its source. His only criticism was that, instead of calling the charge of wizardry a "crude mediæval" mode of invective, he should prefer to style it an ultra-modern application of the art of obloquy.

Sir Oliver Lodge, in a wireless message from New York, entirely approved of The Daily Mail's reading of Klingsor's character. He was clearly a scientist and a spiritualist of remarkable attainments. The defection of Kundry to the side of the Knights was a sad instance—but not without modern parallels—of the unrelenting pressure exerted on weak women by the zealots of orthodoxy.

Mr. A.B. Walkley said that he had long suspected Klingsor of being a crypto-Aristotelian, but the arguments of the writer in The Daily Mail had converted his suspicion to a certainty. He proposed to deal with the matter more fully in an imaginary dialogue between Klingsor and Sir Oswald Stoll (who was a devout follower of Herbert Spencer) which would shortly appear in The Times.

Mr. Devant professed himself delighted with the vindication of Klingsor, who was undoubtedly, like Roger Bacon, a first-rate conjurer, far in advance of his time, and with limited resources was yet capable of producing illusions which would not have disgraced the stage of St. George's Hall.

The Archbishop of Canterbury excused himself from pronouncing a definite opinion on the subject, but pointed out that it would doubtless come within the purview of the inquiry into Spiritualism undertaken by high clerical authority.

Mr. Jacob Epstein made the gratifying announcement that he was engaged on a colossal statue of Mr. Lloyd George in the character of the modern Merlin. His treatment might not commend itself to the leaders of Nonconformity in Wales, but his own artistic conscience was clear, and he felt he could count on the benevolent sympathy of the Northcliffe Press.

The Editor of The Times strongly demurred to the statement that Klingsor was an Arabian. The great authority on Klingsor was the anonymous thirteenth-century epic poem on Lohengrin, the father of Parsifal, and he had no doubt (1) that the author was either a Czecho-Slovak or a Yugo-Slav; (2) that Klingsor, as the etymology suggested, was of the latter race. In these circumstances the attempt to establish an affinity between Mr. Lloyd George and Klingsor was nothing short of an outrage, which might have disastrous results on our relations with the new States of Central Europe.

Mr. J. Maynard Keynes observed that the characterisation of Mr. Lloyd George, implicit in the defence of Klingsor made by the musical critic of The Daily Mail, indirectly confirmed his own impressions. It was true that the Premier did not physically resemble an Arab sheikh, and his knowledge of medicine, science or philosophy, to say nothing of geography, was decidedly jejune, but the sad case of President Wilson made it all too clear that he was capable of exerting a hypnotic influence on his colleagues. Mr. Keynes did not think Mr. Lloyd George was an Aristotelian; he preferred to consider him an unconscious Pragmatist. This view he proposed to develop in his forthcoming volume on the Subliminal Conscience of Nonconformity.

TO JAMES (MULE) WHO HAS PLAYED ME FALSE.

[Many mules are appearing upon the streets of London and are showing an extraordinary and unexpected docility amidst the traffic.]

James, when I note your air supremely docile,

Your well-fed look of undisturbed content

(Doubtless you find this land an adipose isle

After lean times on active service spent),

I do not join with those who hymn your praises

For calmness mid the turmoil of the town;

I find myself consigning you to blazes—

James, you have let me down.

For I am one who, after having striven,

A hero (vide Press) though far from bold,

Has come back home and, naturally, given

Artistic touches to the tales he's told;

The Transport was my scene of martial labours;

That was the section where I saw it through;

And I have told astonished friends and neighbours

Some lurid yarns of you.

You are the theme I have been wont to brag on;

I've told how you, my now innocuous moke,

Would chew the tail-board off a G.S. wagon

By way of mere plaisanterie (or joke);

Dubbed you most diabolical of ragers,

A rampant hooligan, a fetid tough,

A thing without respect for sergeant-majors—

That is to say, hot stuff.

Full many a fair young thing I've seen displaying

A sympathetic pallor on her cheek

And wonder in her eye, when I've been saying

How almost every day in Salonique

You jazzed with me on brinks of precipices;

But when I talk to-day they cannot fail

To think of you in town and murmur, "This is

A likely sort of tale."

To take, without one thought of evil plotting,

Even without one last protesting kick,

Thus kindly to somnambulistic trotting—

Oh, James, old pal, it was a dirty trick;

To show the yarns I'd told of you and written

(In letters home) were not entirely swank

At very least, I think, you might have bitten

The policeman at the Bank.

Boat Race "Intelligence."

"The Oxford University crew arrived at Henley yesterday for a week's practice. The Cambridge president, Mr. E.A. Berrisford, accompanied the crew as spare man."—Provincial Paper.

"The Government, said Mr. Bonar Law, had not received any intimation from the Netherlands Government that Holland had decided to keep the ex-Kaiser in Curaçoa."—Evening Standard.

Good news for Mr. Pussyfoot.

"Essex and Sussex Borders.—To be Let, well-built Mansion, surrounded by fine gardens, situate in one of the finest parts of this delightful country."—Daily Paper.

But it must be rather a nuisance to cross the Thames every time you want to go from the Essex to the Sussex wing.

MANNERS AND MODES.

TYPICAL COSTUME FOR AN EARNEST WORKER IN THE CAUSE OF CHARITY.

BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.

THE RAGE EXHIBITED BY AN AUTHOR WHILE HAVING ONE OF HIS NOVELS FILMED IS UTILISED BY THE INTELLIGENT MANAGER OF THE FILM COMPANY FOR A NEW "THREE-REEL COMIC," ENTITLED "HOW AUTHORS WORK."

SUZANNE'S BANKING ACCOUNT.

"These want paying," said Suzanne as she bounced into my nominally sacred den at a strictly prohibited hour. Therewith she thrust a dossier of tradesmen's bills into my feebly-resisting hands, and bang went an idea I had been tenderly nursing since breakfast.

"But I can't spend the rest of the morning writing cheques," I protested. "I'm engaged just now on a most important article."

"With your eyes shut," commented Suzanne, stooping to a grossly unfair insinuation. "I must tell Cook to make the breakfast coffee stronger in future; then you might manage to—"

"Look here, Suzanne, you've been married to me long enough to know my methods of work. I can't begin an article until I've got the whole thing shaped in my mind, and to do that I must shut out everything else."

"Especially your wife, I suppose. Well, I won't stay. You've got all the bills there; but don't start writing the cheques till you've got them well shaped in your mind."

"But what on earth does all this mass of accounting literature represent?" I asked.

"For the benefit of new readers a synopsis is attached," said Suzanne. "They're mostly small items; for instance, Madame Pillby—she's the little dressmaker round the corner, you know; though why an all-British spinster should call herself 'Madame' I can't imagine—five-and-fourpence-ha'penny."

"Suzanne; I will not write a cheque for five-and-fourpence-ha'penny! Are they all like that?"

"The biggest is two guineas; that's what it cost to have my last dance-hat altered to your specifications, because you said it tickled your nose. There are seventeen of them in all—bills, not hats; total, twelve pounds fifteen shillings and elevenpence three farthings, pa-pa."

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," I said. "I'm going to advertise in the Personal Columns of the papers that I will not be responsible for payment of any debts incurred by my wife under the sum of one pound. That'll stop this half-crown cheque nuisance. Why don't you go out and buy yourself a packet of assorted postal-orders?"

"I did once; but I got in with a nice long list just before closing-time, and there was very nearly a riot on both sides of the counter."

"Well, anyhow, this sort of thing has got to stop; I can't waste all the morning settling your miserable little bills. What we'll do is this: you shall have your own banking-account, and in future you can write your own cheques—as long as the Bank will stick it."

"Oh, how perfectly splendid!" cried Suzanne. "I've always wanted to have a cheque-book of my own, but Father thought it unsexing. Do let's go and take out the licence at once."

The precious hour of fertilisation was already wasted, so there and then I escorted Suzanne to the Bank. At my demand we were ushered into the Manager's room, where we were received with a courtesy only too obviously tempered by the suspicion that I had come to suggest an overdraft. On my explaining our errand, however, the Manager's features relaxed their tenseness, and as I wrote the cheque that brought Suzanne's account into a sordid world he even attempted a vein of fatherly benediction.

"Now we shall require a specimen of the lady's signature," he said as he produced an amazingly obese ledger and indicated where Suzanne was to sign her name. "Remove the glove, please," he added hastily.

"Just like old times in the vestry," said Suzanne to me in a whisper. Then she wrote her name—"Suzanne Désirée Beverley Trumpington-Jones"—all of it. By the time she had finished she had trespassed into several columns reserved for entirely different uses. The Manager surveyed the effect with consternation.

"Rather a long name, isn't it?" he asked diffidently. "I was only wondering if our cheque-forms would accommodate it all."

"Well, I'm not really responsible for it all," she replied. "The Trumpington-Jones part is the more or less permanent result of a serious accident when I was little more than a child. But I might shorten it a bit. I sometimes answer to the name of Soozles, but I suppose that would only do for really intimate cheques. How would 'S. Beverley T.-Jones' do? I shouldn't like to lose the 'Beverley' as it's a kind of family heirloom, and I always use it, even when I'm writing to the sweep."

I edged away to the window and left them to settle the signature question among themselves.

"And what kind of cheques would you like—'Order' or 'Bearer'?" I next heard the Manager asking.

"Show me some patterns, please," commanded Suzanne.

On the wall was a frame containing a number of different cheque varieties, to which her attention was directed.

"Haven't you any other colours?" she asked. "I thought a black-and-yellow cheque would be rather becoming; but don't bother about it if it's not in stock."

She ended by taking one book of blue and one of purple cheques, and with these and a paying-in-book (which she said would do so nicely for spills) we at last departed. From behind the closed door of the private office I distinctly heard a prolonged sigh of relief.

A few days later I came upon Suzanne sitting at her writing-table and examining a cheque with a mystified air.

"Anything wrong?" I asked.

"I don't quite know," she replied. "I sent Angela this cheque the other day to pay for my ticket for the Law-Courts' Revel, and she says the Bank people have returned it to her. And it's marked 'R.D.' in red ink. Who is 'R.D.'?"

"He's the gentleman who censors cheques; and he has a way of disqualifying them when there's not enough cash to pay them. Suzanne, what have you done with all that money I paid into your account last Monday?"

"But I've only paid those footling little bills. There must be tons of money left, unless the Bank's been speculating with it."