The Strand 1911-8 Vol-XLII № 248

\"HE FINALLY TORE FROM HIS INNER POCKET A BULKY LEATHER NOTE-BOOK. (See page 127.)



124 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. him through the darkness in search of some eagerly-expected object. The distant toot of a motor-horn came faintly from some point far to the south of him. On such a night, at such a place, all traffic must be from south to north when the current of London week-enders sweeps back from the watering-place to the capital—from pleasure to duty. The man sat straight and listened intently. Yes, there it was again, and certainly to the south of him. His face was over the wheel and his eyes strained through the darkness. Then suddenly he spat out his cigarette and gave a sharp intake of the breath. Far away down the road two little yellow points had rounded a curve. They vanished into a dip, shot upwards once more, and then vanished again. The inert man in the draped car woke suddenly into intense life. From his pocket he pulled a mask of dark cloth, which he fastened securely across his face, adjusting it carefully that his sight might be unimpeded. For an instant he uncovered an acetylene hand-lantern, took a hasty glance at his own preparations, and laid it beside a Mauser pistol upon the seat alongside him. Then, twitching his hat down lower than ever, he released his clutch and slid downward his gear-lever. With a chuckle and shudder the long, black machine sprang forward, and shot with a soft sigh from her powerful engines down the sloping gradient. The driver stooped and switched off his electric head-lights. Only a dim grey swathe cut through the black heath indicated the line of his road. From in front there came presently a confused puffing and rattling and clanging as the oncoming car breasted the slope. It coughed and spluttered on a power- ful, old-fashioned low gear, while its engine throbbed like a weary heart. The yellow, glaring lights dipped for the last time into a switchback curve. When they reappeared over the crest the two cars were within thirty yards of each other. The dark one darted across the road and barred the other's passage, while a warning acetylene lamp was waved in the air. With a jarring of brakes the noisy new-comer was brought to a halt. \" I say,\" cried an aggrieved voice, \" 'pon my soul, you know, we might have had an accident. Why the devil don't you keep your head-lights on ? I never saw you till I nearly burst my radiators on you ! \" The acetylene lamp, held forward, dis- covered a very angry young man, blue-eyed, yellow-moustached, and florid, sitting alone at the wheel of an antiquated twelve-horse Wolseley. Suddenly the aggrieved look upon his flushed face changed to one of absolute bewilderment. The driver in the dark car had sprung out of the seat, a black, long- barrelled, wicked-looking pistol was poked in the traveller's face, and behind the further sights of it was a circle of black cloth with two deadly eyes looking from as many slits. \" Hands up !\" said a quick, stern voice. \" Hands up ! or, by the Lord \"

ONE CROWDED HOUR. gentle accompaniment to the interview. With a clash he threw back his side-brake, flung in his gears, twirled the wheel hard round, and cleared the motionless Wolseley. A minute later he was gliding swiftly, with all his lights gleaming, some half-mile southward on the road, while Mr. Ronald Barker, a side-lamp in his hand, was rummaging furiously among the odds and ends of his repair-box for a strand of wire which would connect up his electricity and set him on his way once more. When he had placed a safe distance between wayman were less furtive. Experience had clearly given him confidence. With lights still blazing, he ran towards the new-comers, and, halting in the middle of the road, sum- moned them to stop. From the point of view of the astonished travellers the result was sufficiently impressive. They saw in the glare of their own head-lights two glowing discs on either side of the long, black-muzzled snout of a high-power car, and above the masked face and menacing figure of its solitary driver. In the golden circle thrown by the rover there 'HANDS UP!' SAID A QUICK, STERN VOICE.\" himself and his victim, the adventurer eased up, took his booty from his pocket, replaced the watch, opened the purse, and counted out the money. Seven shillings constituted the miserable spoil. The poor result of his efforts seemed to amuse rather than annoy him, for he chuckled as he held the two half-crowns and the florin in the glare of his lantern. Then suddenly his manner changed. He thrust the thin purse back into his pocket, released his brake, and shot onwards with the same tense bearing with which he had started upon his adventure. The lights of another car were coming down the road. On this occasion the methods of the high- stood an elegant, open-topped, twenty-horse Humber, with an undersized and very astonished chauffeur blinking from under his peaked cap. From behind the wind-screen the veil-bound hats and wondering faces of two very pretty young women protruded, one upon either side, and a little crescendo of frightened squeaks announced the acute emotion of one of them. The other was cooler and more critical. \" Don't give it away, Hilda,\" she whispered. \" Do shut up, and don't be such a silly. It's Bertie or one of the boys playing it on us.\" \" No, no ! It's the real thing, Flossie. It's

126 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. a robber, sure enough. Oh, my goodness, whatever shall we do ? \" \" What an ' ad.' ! \" cried the other. \" Oh, what a glorious ' ad.' ! Too late now for the mornings, but they'll have it in every evening paper, sure.\" \" What's it going to cost ? \" groaned the other. \" Oh, Flossie, Flossie, I'm sure I'm going to faint! Don't you think if we both screamed together we could do some good ? Isn't he too awful with that black thing over his face ? Oh, dear, oh, dear 1 He's killing poor little Alf! \" notes since the previous interview. \" May I ask who you are ? \" Miss Hilda was beyond coherent speech, but Miss Flossie was of a sterner mould. \" This is a pretty business,\" said she. \" What right have you to stop us on the public road, I should like to know ? \" \" My time is short,\" said the robber, in a sterner voice. \" I must ask you to answer my question.\" \" Tell him, Flossie ! For goodness' sake be nice to him ! \" cried Hilda. \" Well, we're from the Gaiety Theatre, 1 I AM SORRY TO INCONVENIENCE YOU, LADIES,' SAID HE.\" The proceedings of the robber were indeed somewhat alarming. Springing down from his car, he had pulled the chauffeur out of his seat by the scruff of his neck. The sight of the Mauser had cut short all remonstrance, and under its compulsion the little man had pulled open the bonnet and extracted the sparking-plugs. Having thus secured the immobility of his capture, the masked man walked forward, lantern in hand, to the side of the car. He had laid aside the gruff sternness with which he had treated Mr. Ronald Barker, and his voice and manner were gentle, though determined. He even raised his hat as a prelude to his address. \" I am sorry to inconvenience you, ladies,\" aid he, and his voice had gone up several London, if you want to know,\" said the young lady. \" Perhaps you've heard of Miss Flossie Thornton and Miss Hilda Mannering ? We've been playing a week at the Royal at Eastbourne, and took a Sunday off to our- selves. So now you know ! \" \" I must ask you for your purses and for your jewellery.\" Both ladies set up shrill expostulations, but they found, as Mr. Ronald Barker had done, that there was something quietly com- pelling in this man's methods. In a very few minutes they had handed over their purses, and a pile of glittering rings, bangles, brooches, and chains was lying upon the front seat of the car. The diamonds glowed and shim- mered like little electric points in the light of

ONE CROWDED HOUR. the lantern. He picked up the glittering tangle and weighed it in his hand. \" Anything you particularly value ? \" he isked the ladies; but Miss Flossie was in no humour for concessions. \" Don't come the Claude Duval over us,\" said she ; \" take the lot or leave the lot. We don't want bits of our own given back to us.\" \" Except just Billy's necklace ! \" cried Hilda, and snatched at a little rope of pearls. The robber bowed, and released his hold of it. \" Anything else ? \" The valiant Flossie began suddenly to cry. Hilda did the same. The effect upon the robber was surprising. He threw the whole heap of jewellery into the nearest lap. \" There ! there ! Take it! \" he said. \" It's trumpery stuff, anyhow. It's worth some- thing to you, and nothing to me.\" Tears changed in a moment to smiles. \" You're welcome to the purses. The ad. is worth ten times the money. But what a funny way of getting a living nowa- days ! Aren't you afraid of being caught ? It's all so wonderful, like a scene from a comedy.\" \" It may be a tragedy,\" said the robber. \" Oh, I hope not—I'm sure I hope not ! \" cried the two ladies of the drama. But the robber was in no mood for further conversation. Far away down the road tiny points of light had appeared. Fresh business was coming to him, and he must not mix his cases. Disengaging his machine, he raised his hat, and slipped off to meet this new arrival, while Miss Flossie and Miss Hilda leaned out of their derelict car, still palpitating from their adventure, and watched the red gleam of the tail-light until it merged in the darkness. This time there was every sign of a rich prize. Behind its four grand lamps set in a broad frame of glittering brasswork the mag- nificent sixty-horse Daimler breasted the slope with the low, deep, even snore which proclaimed its enormous latent strength. Like some rich-laden, high-pooped Spanish galleon, she kept her course until the prowling craft ahead of her swept across her bows and brought her to a sudden halt. An angry face, red, blotched, and evil, shot out of the open window of the closed limousine. The robber was aware of a high, bald forehead, gross pendulous cheeks, and two little crafty eyes which gleamed between creases of fat. \" Out of my way, sir ! Out of my way this instant ! \" cried a rasping voice. \" Drive over him, Hearn! Get down and pull him off the seat. The fellow's drunk—he's drunk I say ! \" Up to this point the proceedings of the modern highwayman might have passed as gentle. Now they turned in an instant to savagery. The chauffeur, a burly, capable fellow, incited by that raucous voice behind him, sprang from the car and seized the advancing robber by the throat. The latter hit out with the butt-end of his pistol, and

128 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. counted over his booty of the evening—the paltry plunder of Mr. Ronald Barker, the rather better-furnished purses of the actresses, which contained four pounds between them, and, finally, the gorgeous jewellery and well- filled note-book of the plutocrat upon the Daimler. Five notes of fifty pounds, four of ten, fifteen sovereigns, and a number of valuable papers made up a most noble haul. finished his breakfast in a leisurely fashion strolled down to his study with the intention of writing a few letters before setting forth to take his place upon the county bench. Sir Henry was a Deputy-Lieutenant of the county ; he was a baronet of ancient blood ; he was a magistrate of ten years' standing; and he was famous above all as the breeder of many a good horse and the most desperate \"HE HIT OUT WITH THE BUTT-END OF HIS PISTOL.\" It was clearly enough for one night's work. The adventurer replaced all his ill-gotten gains in his pocket, and, lighting a cigarette, set forth upon his way with the air of a man who has no further care upon his mind. It was on the Monday morning following upon this eventful evening that Sir Henry Hailvvorthy, of Walcot Old Place, having rider in all the Weald country. A tall, upstanding man, with a strong, clean-shaven face, heavy black eyebrows, and a square, resolute jaw, he was one whom it was better to call friend than foe. Though nearly fifty years of age, he bore no sign of having passed his youth, save that Nature, in one of her freakish mood.,, had planted one little feather of white hair above his right ear, making the

ONE CROWDED HOUR. 129 rest of his thick black curls the darker by contrast. He was in thoughtful mood this morning, for having lit his pipe he sat at his desk with his blank note-paper in front of him, lost in a deep reverie. Suddenly his thoughts were brought back to the present. From behind the laurels of the curving drive there came a low, clanking sound, which swelled into the clatter and jingle of an ancient car. Then from round the corner there swung an old-fashioned Wolseley, with a fresh-complexioned, yellow-mous- tached young man at the wheel. Sir Henry sprang to his feet at the sight, and then sat down once more. He rose again as a minute later the footman announced Mr. Ronald Barker. It was an early visit, but Barker was Sir Henry's intimate friend. As each was a fine shot, horseman, and billiard- player, there was much in common between the two men, and the younger (and poorer) was in the habit of spending at least two even- ings a week at Walcot Old Place. Therefore, Sir Henry advanced cordially with out- stretched hand to welcome him. \" You're an early bird this morning,\" said he. \" What's up ? If you are going over to Lewes we could motor together.\" But the younger man's demeanour was peculiar and ungracious. He disregarded the hand which was held out to him, and he stood pulling at his own long moustache and staring with troubled, questioning eyes at the county magistrate. \" Well, what's the matter ? \" asked the latter. Still the young man did not speak. He was clearly on the edge of an interview which he found it most difficult to open. His host grew impatient. \" You don't seem yourself this morning. What on earth is the matter ? Anything upset you ? \" \" Yes,\" said Ronald Barker, with emphasis. \" What has ? \" \" You have.\" j Sir Henry smiled. \" Sit down, my dear fellow. If you have any grievance against me, let me hear it.\" Barker sat down. He seemed to be gather- ing himself for a reproach. When it did come it was like a bullet from a gun. \" Why did you rob me last night ? \" The magistrate was a man of iron nerve. He showed neither surprise nor resentment. Not a muscle twitched upon his calm, set face. \" Why do you say that I robbed you last night?\" \" A big, tall fellow in a motor-car stopped VoL xlii.-17. me on the May field road. He poked a pistol in my face and took my purse and my watch. Sir Henry, that man was you.\" The magistrate smiled. \" Am I the only big, tall man in the dis- trict ? Am I the only man with a motor- car ? \" \" Do you think I couldn't tell a Rolls-Royce

130 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. you don't ring the bell I'll ring it myself, and we shall have it in. I'm going to see this thing through, and don't you make any mis- take about that.\" The baronet's answer was a surprising one. He rose, passed Barker's chair, and, walking over to the door, he locked it and placed the key in his pocket. threatening me, Hailworthy. I am going to do my duty, and you won't bluff me out of it.\" \" I have no wish to bluff you. When I spoke of a tragedy I did not mean to you. What I meant was that there are some turns which this affair cannot be allowed to take. I have neither kith nor kin, but there is the \"WALKING OVER TO THE DOOR, HE LOCKED IT.' \" You are going to see it through,\" said he. \" I'll lock you in until you do. Now we must have a straight talk. Barker, as man to man, and whether it ends in tragedy or not depends on you.\" He had half-opened one of the drawers in his desk as he spoke. His visitor frowned in anger. \" You won't make matters any better by family honour, and some things are im- possible.\" \" It is late to talk like that.\" \" Well, perhaps it is ; but not too late. And now I have a good deal to say to you. First of all, you are quite right, and it was I who held vou up last night on the Mavfield road.\" \" But why on earth \"

ONE CROWDED HOUR. \" All right. Let me tell it my own way. First I want you to look at these.\" He un- locked a drawer and he took out two small packages. \" These were to be posted in London to-night. This one is addressed to you, and I may as well hand it over to you at once. It contains your watch and your purse. So, you see, bar your cut wire you would have been none the worse for your adventure. This other packet is addressed to the young ladies of the Gaiety Theatre, and their properties are enclosed. I hcpe I have convinced you that I had intended full repara- tion in each case before vou came to accuse me ? \" \" Well ? \" asked Barker. \" Well, we will now deal with Sir George Wilde, who is, as you may not know, the senior partner of Wilde and Guggendorf, the founders of the Ludgate Bank of infamous memory. His chauffeur is a case apart. Vou may take it from me, upon my word of honour, that I had plans for the chauffeur. But it is the master that I want to speak of. Vou know that I am not a rich man myself. I expect all the county knows that. When Black Tulip lost the Derby I was hard hit. And other things as well. Then I had a legacy of a thousand. This infernal bank was paying seven per cent, on deposits. I knew Wilde. 1 saw him. I asked him if it was safe. He said it was. I paid it in, and within forty-eight hours the whole thing went to bits. It came out before the Official Receiver that Wilde had known for three months that nothing could save him. And yet he took all my cargo aboard his sinking vessel. He was all right—confound him ! He had plenty besides. But I had lost all my money and no law could help me. Yet he had robbed me as clearly as one man could rob another. I saw him, and he laughed in my face. Told me to stick to Consols, and that the lesson was cheap at the price. So I just swore that, by hook or by crook, I would get level with him. I knew his habits, for I had made it my business to do so. I knew that he came back from Eastbourne on Sunday nights. I knew that he carried a good sum with him in his pccket-book. Well, it's my pocket-book now. Do you mean to tell me that I'm not morally justified in what I have done ? By the Lord, I'd have left the devil as bare as he left many a widow and orphan if I'd had the time ! \" \" That's all very well. But what about me ? What about the girls ? \" \" Have some common sense, Barker. Do you suppose that I could go and stick up this one personal enemy of mine and escape detec- tion ? It was impossible. I was bound to make myself out to be just a common robber who had run up against him by accident. So I turned myself loose on the high road and took my chance. As the devil would have it, the first man I met was yourself. I was a fool not to recognize that old ironmonger's store of yours by the row it made coming up the hill. When I saw you I could hardly

The Seaside of the Future. Forecasts of Well-K.nown Artists. IN Bond Street, in Regent Street, in Oxford Street, and in many shady nooks adja- cent, professors of history in the future sit hard at work, charging high fees and attract- ing many eager listeners. Some trace over the lines on their customers' hands with a little stick ; some stare into a glass ball and prattle fluently of all that is to come to pass ; some take notes of dates and consult the Nautical Almanac, divining from the relative positions of planets at a particular moment of the past what sort of wedding Miss Serena Jones is to experience in the future ; and others again are above all such superfluous toil, and simply stare over their customers' heads and lecture. If one half, one quarter, even one tenth the number of professors of history in the past were to establish themselves in London to lecture on their branch of history, exactly that number of landlords would be disappointed of their first quarter's rent, and the bankruptcy returns of that same quarter would rise by the identical figure. From which the philo- sopher may perceive that the future is a deal more popular than the past; and, although it is from the experience of the past that the wise predict the future, most people would seem to prefer to pay somebody wiser than themselves to do the actual work of deduction. So we have had the vaticinations of the wise on all sorts of questions—the Future of Warfare, the Future of Electricity, the Cookery of the Future, the Metaphysical Ontology of the Future. But to The Strand Magazine has been reserved the glory of first offering a guess at the Seaside of the Future ; and not one guess only (that of the present writer) for we are privileged to present also the Revelations of Robinson —Heath Robinson, to be exact—the Bodings of Brock, the Horoscope of Hassall, the Soothsay ings of Starr Wood, the Rhab- domancies of Rene Bull, and the Rhapsodies of Rountree. Mr. Heath Robinson's prognostications are all for an increasingly decorous respectability and an extreme of personal comfort. We are to prepare for bathing-machines in the Gothic style, in the Chinese style, and in the classic Greek style, with pneumatic lyres and cur- tained windows and flower-pots in convenient positions. An ingenious adaptation of the angler's reel will be fitted to the front-door post to \" play \" bathing children into safety when they grow too venturesome. Decorous and butler-like attendants, in a tasteful com- bination of evening and bathing dress, will regulate the temperature of the water by curiously-simple and direct means ; and not only regulate its temperature, but scent it and soften it with patent powders from con- venient tins. There is nothing violent, nothing revolutionary or disturbing in the Robinsonian Revelation, except that the

THE SEASIDE OF THE FUTURE. >33 At the seaside of the future, according to Mr. W

134 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Mr. H. M. Brock's idea of the seaside a few years hence. out the ocean to a proper and comfortable flatness : while a body of gentlemanly junior clerks will be at hand to supply sheets of the best blotting-paper to all visitors who wish to bathe without experiencing the uncomfort- able wetness now inseparable from the pursuit. Mr. Brock, on the other hand, predicts developments in a wholly different direction ; the seaside will become more and more popular rather than Select (with a capital), and the diversions of the holiday will follow the same course. New sports will be in- vented ; this, after all, is an easy prediction, for each new fair or exhibition brings us already new mechanical discomforts for which people gladly pay, whence we have Swooping the Swoop (if that is the right name), Flimping the Flump, Bashing the Bang, and Winging the Wang. (As a fact, these names are quite new, and inventors may fit them with appropriate sports on a royalty basis.) Mr. Brock forbodes Splashing the Splosh and Walking the Waves, the latter a sport wherein at last the human biped achieves the triumph of travelling in two boats at once, \" having a pair on \" in the time-honoured manner of skates at the Serpentine—without, let us hope, the aid of the gimlet. And yet there may be a difference of opinion, even about that, for one remembers well the thoroughgoing chair-and-gimlet merchant at that same Serpentine who, to the agonized howl of his victim, \" Hi ! hi ! you're driving it into my foot ! \" cheerily answered, \" Never mind, sir—better 'ave 'em on firm ! \" And there is no disputing that the wave-walker of the future must \" 'ave 'em on firm \" if he is ever to come back and restore his boots as an honest sportsman should. He will also have to be careful of many other things ; he must keep scrupulously on the topside of his boats and he must avoid walking his waves on any spot where a splosh-splasher is likely to splash his splosh. With his airship trip round the lightship Mr. Brock is careful to prophesy what he knows; and, as for the rest, it is comforting to observe that the general stripiness of things at the seaside— tents, bathing-costumes, blinds, and pavilion- roofs—is to be maintained as bravely in the future as in the past. Mr. Hassall is more mysterious and less definite. Everything on shore will be so inordinately \" improved \" that the discreet

THE SEASIDE OF THE FUTURE. 135 holiday-maker will demand facilities for staying in the sea as long as possible, away from it all. Extraordinary and elaborate long-distance swimming costumes will affright the ocean and its denizens, and even at the cost of such an appearance as Mr. Hassall depicts the nerve-racked toiler will endeavour to shut from his ears and eyes the blessings of civilization as they will exist in the future. in the Midlands may paddle at home and build castles with the sand driven by hydraulic pressure through another. Ozone will blow furiously through still another tube, as some sort of air of a totally different smell already blows furiously through the Tube which is called Tuppeny. Through still another pipe the resistless power of the immemorial sea will send electric' force to light our houses, Mr. John HassaN's peep into the future. Indeed, only those who wish to swim away for days together out of sight and hearing of things as they will be will need to go to the seaside at all ; for all the advantages now sought in a coast holiday will be brought to one's house by \" pipe-lines.\" like petroleum. All the tubular pier-supports will be utilized for commercial purposes. Sea-water will be \" laid on \" through one, so that the dweller ring our bells, grow our potatoes, cure our rheumatisms, and kill any absent-minded, person who catches hold of the wrong wire ; and through still one more such pipe, baited all the way along with patent indestructible rubber worms, a constant supply of fresh fish will pour into our kitchens, either alive, or, by a simple attachment of a wire from the electric supply, cooked to a turn and

i36 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. swimming still, but now in oyster sauce. Periwinkles and whelks will be distributed throughout the East-end from one pipe, and the empty shells will be returned through another, to be refilled with \" forced \" inhabit- ants grown under electric stimulus and returned to the East-end once more, doubt- less, by aid of careful breeding, with, pins attached for extraction. Thus the whelks and periwinkles will be humanely saved the labour of growing fresh shells, and the toiling millions of London will be provided with an inex- haustible supply of the aliment dearest to their palates, whereby the humblest will speedily achieve an indigestion equal to the severest now monopolized by the exclusive rich. Mr. Rene Bull refreshes us vastly. He prophesies new things, as any sage must, but he gives us comforting assurance of the sur- vival of many old friends. An airship will take day-trippers to London and back at a very reasonable fare ; but niggers will still wear exaggerated hats and play banjos on the beach. A variant of Splashing the Splosh, in the form of a Toboggan Diving-board, will make perilous some small area of the near ocean; but the common donkey-ride of the seashore will flourish unchecked as in the ancient days of the early twentieth century and eke the later days of the nineteenth. A bold attempt will be made to grapple with the uncertainties of the British climate by Mr. Rene Bull's forecast of the manner in which the formation of a \" Hot Enclosure,\" warmed through an immense burning-glass. Of course we do have summers (now and again in the course of a century), when the last thing any holiday-maker desires is to sit in a \" Hct Enclosure \" ; doubtless by the time such another summer arrives there will have been ample time to think out an invention to deal with that. To the many inventions already ministering to the popular virtue of laziness is to be added yet another ; you are to be saved the trouble of reading your newspaper by sitting at your ease before the trumpet of an immense phonograph, which gathers and delivers news from all parts of the world as fast as things happen. The advertisements will need to be very skilfully wrapped up, or they will be howled down as soon as they begin ; and here is another advantage. You can't howl down a page advertisement of Chilblain Pills in your paper to-day; some day you will not be so helpless. The attractions of bathing will be enhanced by the presence of a tame shark, reduced so low as to endure unceasing insult without snapping at as much as a finger, and kept fed, it would seem, by stray fragments of dis- integrated aviator falling casually from the heavens above. For the rest, the usual side-shows will persist, and the pay-box will be as prominent a feature of each as it is even now. Mr. Starr Wood looks also to mechanical

THE SEASIDE OF THE FUTURE. we shall spend our holidays in the days to come. ■'nvention to achieve most of the changes of the future, and these he offers in full measure. He has his airship, of course—the atmosphere looks uncomfortably empty to-day without one. But it flies not for a trip round a light- ship but for the convenience of divers, who may splash the splosh without Mr. Brock's preliminary slide. The trippers trip in aeroplanes, and a last decaying longshoreman makes a last desperate attempt to sell the last derelict boat for which there remains no market, all the museums presumably being fully supplied with such antiquities. The advance of political benevolence financed by the tax-gatherer enables every- Dody to spend his money in amusements, the lotlgar requirement of food being provided free from so many centres that they are driven to compete with each other to justify their continuance. Thus the Free Public Luncheon Tent on the beach, taking a hint from the concave and convex mirrors of earlier estab- lishments, in capital letters invites the beneficiary to go in thin and come out stout. The Sand Cure for Nerves, hard by, is no new thing, but is systematized and made thorough ; the haphazard shovellings of small nephews and nieces being replaced by a properly-supported reservoir with a correctly- graduated outlet. And the unscientific clair- voyance of the Bond Street seers gives place to a truly valuable instrument, the Spyo- graph, whereby an overseeing eye may be VoL xlil-ia kept on an absent spouse at the much-reduced fee of one penny. Even the aeroplane has become a commonplace, and somewhat vieux feu; only the commonalty patronize its \" trips round the coast,\" and the truly up- to-date take a Blow to Paris at the extremely moderate fee of threepence. The mechanism is an incredibly advanced and enlarged application of the common pea-shooter of other days, and among its many advantages over the common aeroplane a vastly-increased degree of danger is to be counted, together with something very like a certainty of a most monumental cropper at the end of the journey. There are economic advantages, too ; you pay your threepence and off you go, with no possibility of further expenditure on the journey, unless you chance to turn over in your flight and squander your coin from your inverted pockets ; whereas, once you are on an aeroplane and at a giddy height, as is well known, the aviator who has charged you a shilling to go up is apt to demand ten to bring you down again. Even the children, Mr. Starr Wood assures us, will insist on extraordinary mechanical improvements in their toys, and a patent internal-combustion eccentric-action slide- valve quadruple spade, geared up to five sand- castles an hour, will be demanded by every small boy of real spirit. Something significant, yet dubious of inter- pretation, as is the way of Old Moore himself,

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. is visible in the unbroken row of battleships lying in the offing. Is this so joyful an in- crease in Dreadnoughts that the whole coast is impassably surrounded, or are they merely a row of obsolete curiosities lined up for the amusement of the tripper ? As even Old Moore is sometimes driven to say, time alone can tell. But Mr. Rountree looks farther ahead than the rest. It must have been noticed by will be rewarded by the advent of paying crowds anxious for new sensations. Fathers enjoying their seaside holiday in the air over the seashore will bring their families to inspect caged specimens of curious human creatures of a bygone age—poets, artists, somewhat truthful politicians and such out- of-date creatures, doctors (and perhaps bishops) who did not advertise. The New Barnum's own advertisements will be arranged Mr. Starr Wood's conception of the health resort of the future. everybody already that the mere surface of the earth has become of late years somewhat unfashionable ; to fly over it and to tunnel under it is the tendency of the age, and no doubt as the air grows thicker with aviators the rest of humanity will all the more eagerly tend to burrow underground, if only from sheer terror for their heads. Mr. Rountree foresees the time when the actual ground surface shall be abandoned totally by all but the birds, who shall have been driven out of the air by overcrowding. The Barnum of the coming day, the showman-genius of the future, will seize on the fact to astonish the world by the novel and striking enterprise of opening his show positively on the unin- habited surface of the earth, and his audacity in suitably upside-down methods. Whereas in our day exceptionally enterprising adver- tisers employ aviators to drop handbills from aloft, the New Barnum will send up his hand- bills from below, attached to toy balloons. And, as contrasted with past showmen who floated their announcements against the sky, he will spread his wide on the abandoned earth. Greater airships, more enormous aeroplanes than ever will crowd the air for the accommodation of cargoes and crowds, but the individual flyer will just wear his personal flying suit, fitted with small and natty wings, with a neat little electric coil on his head, and a curly wire or two for some purpose that doubtless Mr. Rountree knows all about, but doesn't explain.

THE SEASIDE OF THE FUTURE. 139 Mr. Harry Rountree's vision of the days when the earth is forsaken for the sky. In those stirring days many among the quieter of us will take to the Tubes, and stop there. Mr. Starr Wood has already given us a hint of some such expedient when he announces his underground cricket. We will go down to the sea in tubes, and we will stay underground, with glass walls through which we can gaze on the sea below the surface without being distracted and maddened (not to say pole-axed) by flying things above; and there we will sit in bathing - machines of antique pattern, surrounded by patent silent niggers and stuffed boatmen, and perhaps we may get a little sleep.

The Lacquer Cabinet, By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL. Illustrated by C. H. Taffs. UINNEY chuckled as he re- read the letter which offered him a thousand pounds for his cherished lacquer cabinet, and he kept on rubbing his yellow, wrinkled hands and muttering : \" Like to have it, wouldn't you ? But you won't, my man. No, by gum, not if you offered double the money ! \" He was alone in the sanctuary of his best things. The heavy shutters were up, a wood fire glowed as if with pleasure upon a steel fender of the best Adam's period. The elec- tric lights in amber-coloured globes shone softly, caressing the Chippendale furniture and throwing delicate shadows upon the Aubusson carpet. Only the elect entered this famous room, and every article in it was known and beloved by the great collectors who dealt with Quinney. The passion for beautiful things was in his blood. His father had started a small curiosity shop in Salisbury, and Quinney himself, as a boy of ten, used to gloat over the Ming figures, and touch them furtively in flagrant disobedience of rules. After his father's death he had moved to London and bought a fine Georgian house in Soho, which he had gradually filled with masterpieces. He was never tired of gazing at them with enraptured eyes. And he refused, as he grew older and richer, to part with the gems of his collection. Nobody, not even Quinney, knew what the contents of this particular room were worth. Beside himself, only two persons entered it—his daughter, Posy, and his principal assistant, James Migott, a young man with a nose almost as keen as Quinney's for beauty, and a fine pair of eyes which, in contrast to Quinney's, dwelt lovingly upon what was animate as well as inanimate. Quinney, from being much by himself, had acquired the habit of thinking aloud ; and, although his surroundings were Attic, his speech remained rudely Doric. As he tore up the millionaire's letter he muttered: Copyright, 1911, by \" Wonderful man I am ! To think that I should live to refuse an offer of a thousand pounds for that cabinet! Sometimes I'm surprised at myself. By gum, I am ! \" He approached the lacquer cabinet, a superb example of the best Japanese art of the eighteenth century, black and gold, with gold storks exquisitely delineated flying amongst golden flowers. The petals of the flowers were made of thin sheets of pure gold let into the lacquer. The stand upon which it stood was English, with curved ball and claw legs, also a miracle of craftsmanship. Nothing stood upon the cabinet except a large jar of the rare Kang-shi famille noire porcelain. The inside of the cabinet was as lavishly decorated as the outside, and it was signed with the name of the greatest of Japanese artists. The American millionaire

THE LACQUER CABINET. 141 INSIDE THE JAR WAS THE KEY OF THE CABINET !' intended to tell him where she had put the key, which certainly fitted the lock too loosely and had been known to fall out of it. Finally, he decided that Posy, good girl, had chosen an excellent place for the key ; but she ought to have told him. He would speak to her on the morrow. He put the key back into the jar, and as he did so a clock began to chime the hour of midnight. Quinney listened to the silvery bells with the same enraptured expression which the gold petals upon the cabinet evoked. He reflected that time passed too nimbly when a man was perfectly happy. As a rule, he went to bed at half-past eleven, but the American's letter had engrossed his attention unduiy. The man wanted the cabinet so tremendously, and this lust for another's possession was well understood by Quinney, for he suffered cruelly from it him- self. There were bits in the Museums which he would have stolen without compunction, could he have \" lifted \" them without fear of detection. He switched off the electric light, and by the faint glow of the fire turned to mount the stairs leading to his bedroom. But he paused on the threshold of his room, for a last glance at the sanctuary. Some of the things he would have liked to kiss, and this sentiment seemed to wax stronger with advancing years. He never left his wonderful room without reflecting sadly that the day would inevitably come when he would have to leave it for ever.

142 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. At this moment he heard approaching foot- steps—soft, stealthy footsteps, which might be those of a midnight robber ! Quinney was no coward, and he was com- fortably aware that his precious things would not be likely to tempt the ordinary burglar, because of the difficulty in disposing of them. Noiselessly he withdrew to the outer room, SOhT, STEALTHY FOOTSTEPS.\" which held the furniture and china that could be bought. From the darkness of this outer room he could see without being seen. He nearly betrayed his presence when Posy entered the sanctuary, clothed in a silk dressing-gown, with her pretty hair in two long plaits. What on earth was the girl up to ? She glided across the Aubusson carpet, upon which great ladies of the French pre- Revolution period had stood, and approached the lacquer cabinet. She thrust a white, slender arm into the great jar, took from it the key, unlocked the cabinet, opened it, waited a moment, with her back to her father, who was not able to see what she was doing, closed and locked the cabinet, replaced the key in the jar, and flitted away as silently as she had come ! Quinney wiped the dew of bewilderment from his high but narrow brow. The girl must be crazy ! He waited till he heard the closing of her door upstairs ; then he turned on the light and went to the cabinet. In the second drawer he found a letter, which he read. My Own Blue Bird ! Quinney paused. He had not seen Maeterlinck's famous play, but Posy had raved about it—with absurd enthu- siasm, so he had thought at the time — and he remem- bered that the Blue Bird re- presented happiness. My Own Blue Bird, — It was splendidly clever of you to think of using that stupid old cabinet as a pillar-box, and the fact that we are corresponding under the very nose of father makes the whole affair deliriously exciting and romantic. I should like to see his funny old face, if he could read this. . . . \" You shall, my girl,\" thought Quinney, grimly.* He knew that the \" Blue Bird \" must be James Migott, drat him ! It could be nobody else. Quinney had guarded Posy very jealously. James was not permitted to speak to her except in his presence. And no letter to her, ccming in the ordinary way, would have escaped his

THE LACQUER CABINET. 143 business, he would simply chatter with rage. And. make no mistake, my feelings wouldn't count. I'm not nearly so dear to him as that Chelsea figure by Roubiliac. He only cares for things, not a brass farthing for persons. But, oh, Jim, I care more for you than all the things in the world, and I have had no love since mother died. Think of what I have to make up! I shall get your answer to this when father is having his cigar after lunch.—Your loving Posy. Quinney put the billet back in the drawer, muttering to himself, \" I shall get the dog's answer before lunch. He sha'n't complain that I gave him no opportunity.\" Grinding his teeth, he consigned James Migott to the nethermost Hades ; and at the same moment he decided that the Yankee—confound him also !—should have the cabinet. For ever- more he would hate the sight of it. As for James Migott, the Blue Bird, he'd be blue indeed within twenty-four hours. Blue Bird, indeed ! A serpent! A crawling snake ! He went to bed, but sleep refused to soothe him, although he dismissed James Migott from his thoughts, which dwelt with concen- tration upon Posy. Had he not given the best of everything to the ungrateful baggage ? And in return—this ! She dared to speak of his business as \" ridiculous.\" The adjective bit deep into his mind. Ridiculous ? What the devil did she mean ? When his father died the business was worth at most eight thousand pounds. To-day the contents of the sanctuary alone would fetch at Christie's a round fifty thousand, if the right people were bidding. A id they would be bidding. From the four quarters of the earth they would come, to bid against each other for the famous Quinney collection. Ridiculous 1 Sup- pose he left everything to the nation, thereby immortalizing himself ? The Quinney Gal- lery ! That sounded well. Suppose he offered the gift during his lifetime ? Would his gracious Sovereign speak of his business as ridiculous ? All right. If this idiot of a girl cared for James Migott more than for his collections, she might have him—and be hanged to her ! Would the dog want her without the collections ? He smiled grimly at the thought. Next day he rose at the usual time and breakfasted alone with Posy, who smiled deceitfully, as if she were the best daughter in the kingdom. He looked at her sourly, contrasting her with the Chelsea shepherdess, modelled by the illustrious Frenchman. She was nearly as pretty, but common pottery, not porcelain, not the pale tendre beloved by connoisseurs. He remarked a melting, luscious glaze about her eyes. She was thinking of her Blue Bird, the shameless baggage. At nine James Migott appeared, punctual to the minute. Quinney said to him, curtly:— \" I am going out. You had better over- haul those Chippendale chairs in my room. I am thinking of having that old needlework cleaned. Get it off the chairs very carefully.\"

*44 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. to Posy and James after luncheon ; he had planned a little dramatic scene, during which he would appear at the moment when Posy was taking the letter from the cabinet. Then, before she had time to collect her wits, he would summon the Blue Bird and deal trenchantly with the guilty pair. Presently he said, quietly :— \" I've had an offer of a thousand pounds for the lacquer cabinet from Dupont Jordan.\" She answered, composedly, \" Are you going to sell it ? \" \" Perhaps.\" Lord ! What an actress she was ! And not yet twenty ! When and where and how did she learn to wear this mask ? He eyed her with wrinkled interrogation, asking himself dozens of questions. Had she always pre- tended with him ? What was she really like—inside ? As a collector of precious things, he had acquired the habit of examining meticulously every article of vertu, searching for the inimitable marks, the patine, not to be reproduced by the most cunning craftsman,' the indelible handwriting of genius and time. But he had never searched for such marks in his daughter. When he lit his cigar, she went out of the room and he sat silent, not enjoying his cigar, wondering what her face looked like as she read the letter from her own Blue Bird. What James Migott had written gave him pause. He decided to read more of the correspondence before he pro- nounced judgment. That afternoon he made a list of the \" gems \" which might be offered to the nation or left to it as the Quinney bequest. At mid- night Posy would descend from her room and place another billet in the pillar-box. The pillar-box ! To what base uses might a gold lacquer cabinet degenerate ! He left the door of his bedroom ajar, and at midnight he heard the faint rustling of her dressing-gown as she stole downstairs and up again. At one, when he made certain that she was asleep, he descended to his room and read the second letter :— Darling Jim,—Father never cared for me. If I died to-morrow he would forget me in a week. Luckily 1 have you, but he will expect me to choose between him and you. The great overwhelming surprise of his life will be when he discovers that I have chosen you, because, incredible as it may seem, he believes that he has done his duty by me just as he believed that he did his duty by my dear mother. He will never, never know how he appears to others.— Your ever loving Posy. Quinney replaced the letter, went into the dining-room, and drank a glass of brown sherry. He preferred brown sherry because it exhibited the exact tint of faded mahogany, the tint so baffling to fakers of old furniture. As he sipped his wine he told himself that the girl was a liar. He had done his duty by her and by his dead wife. He had denied them nothing, gratified their whims, exalted each high above the station in which they had been born. Then he went to bed, to pass

THE LACQUER CABINET. 145 ' there's nothing the matter with me,' he growled.\" of it. Everybody agreed that the governor's tongue had an edge to it keener than the east wind, which happened to be blowing bitterly. Posy, at the piano, was surprised to find her sire standing beside her, with a malicious grin upon his thin face. \" Can you cook ? \" he asked. \" Cook ? Me ? You know I can't cook, father.\" \" Not much of a hand with your needle either, are ye ? \" \" No.\" \" Um ! They tell me that our Royal Princesses have to learn such things, willy- nilly, because revolutions do happen—some- times.\" Posy stared at him, thinking to herself: \" His liver is out of whack, and no mistake.\" VoL xliL—19. Quinney returned to his sanctuary, feeling that he was in form. The affair should be handled to rights. \" I'll fix 'em,\" he growled. \" I'll sweep the cobwebs out o' their silly noddles, by gum I will ! \" At lunch he harped back to the primitive duties of women, rubbing in his words and salting them properly. \" Look ye here, my girl. It's just struck me that I've been to blame in makin' you so bloomin' ornamental.\" \" Come, father, I didn't get my good looks from you.\" \" Handsome is as handsome does. Ever heard that ? \" \" Once or twice.\" Quinney grinned as he drank his second

146 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. glass of brown sherry. Very rarely did he exceed one glass of wine in the middle of the day. Then he lit his cigar and settled himself in an easy-chair near the fire. Posy went upstairs, singing softly as she went. \" Chock-full o' deceit that girl is ! Oozin' from every pore. Stamps upstairs singin' like a lark, crawls down like a viper. Oh, my Lord ! \" He looked at his watch. By his reckoning Posy was nearly due in the sanctuary. James was whistling in the basement. \" Whistle away, you dog ! \" he muttered. \" I'm agoing to call the next tune.\" He had not long to wait. Posy came downstairs, entered the sanctuary, opened the lacquer cabinet, and was grasping Jim's letter, when Quinney, who had approached noiselessly from behind, tapped her on the shoulder. \" What are you up to, my girl ? \" \" I was just having a look at the inside of the cabinet. Thought of rubbing it over.\" \" Did you ? What you got in your hand there ? Paper ? \" \" It's something b-belonging to m-me,\" stammered the unhappy maid. \" What's in that cabinet belongs to me, my girl. Hand it over.\" Posy slipped the letter into the bosom of her gown, and stared defiantly at her father. \" Sure it's yours ? \" he asked. \" Quite sure ; a private affair.\" \" Keep your private papers in my cabinet —hay ? \" \" Sometimes.\" Posy was now more at her ease, much to Quinney's delight. The higher the baggage mounted the farther she would have to fall. \" Wait a moment, my girl.\" He walked to the foot of the staircase and called out: \" James Migott ! \" A distant voice replied :— \" Yes, sir.\" \" Come you up here, my lad. Quick ! \" James appeared, rather flushed. His colour deepened when he saw Posy standing close to the pillar-box. \" Like to take it sittin' or standin' ? \" inquired Quinney, with marked politeness. \" Take what ? \" inquired Posy. \" The dose I'm goin' to give ye. I prefer to stand. You ain't fit, not by a long chalk, to sit on such chairs, but I've always been a considerate man.\" James and Posy stood where they were. Posy was very pale, and her pretty fingers trembled. Quinney glared at them, and the peroration he had prepared vanished to the limbo of unspoken speeches. He said, savagely :— \" Fallen in love with each other—hay ? \" \" Yes,\" replied Posy, without a moment's hesitation. James said, with commendable promptness : \" Same here.\" \"A pretty couple.you make, by gum! Intentions honourable ? \" he hissed at James. Posy tossed her head. James answered,

THE LACQUER CABINET. 147 fall in love with Posy because she was your daughter.\" \" Oh, really ? You'd take her as she stands —hay ? \" \" Yes.\" acute valuer of his generation, had never appraised these two. He had always con- sidered that James was overpaid. Old Cohen must be mad. Trembling and per- spiring, he played his trump card. \" ' YOU CAN HAVE HER,' HE SHOU \" How do you propose to support her ? \" \" That's easy answered. Old Cohen wants me. You pay me three pounds a week. I'm worth ten pounds, and Cohen is willing to give six pounds, not to mention a small com- mission on sales and purchases.\" Quinney sat down, gasping. He, the most D. 'TAKE HER NOW —AM) GO ! \"' \" You can have her,\" he shouted. \" Take her now—and go ! \" Posy faltered : \" Father, you don't mean it ? \" \" Yes, I do. Let him take you away if he wants you as you are.\" He was certain that James would \" back

148 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. down,\" and that a great victory was impend- ing. But James replied, without hesitation:— \" Come, Posy ! My mother will be de- lighted to see you. I'll get a special licence this afternoon.\" The girl held up her head proudly. It is barely possible that till this moment she had never been absolutely sure of James. She beamed upon him. \" Oh, Jim,\" she exclaimed, fervently, \" you are a darling ! \" She flung herself into his outstretched arms, and they kissed each other, quite regardless of Mr. Quinney. He stared about him, bewildered. Then he said, gaspingly :— \" What would your pore mother have said?\" Posy released herself and approached her father. Pity shone softly in her eyes as she asked, gently :— \" Do you want to know what mother would have said ? \" \" I'm glad she was spared this, pore soul ! \" ejaculated the bereaved man. \" God, in His mercy, took her in time.\" \" Do you want to know what mother would have said ? \" She repeated the question in a deeper, more impressive tone. \" What do vou mean ? \" \" Wait ! \" She fled upstairs. During her absence Quinney wondered how he would replace James Migott, whom he had trained so diligently from tender years. The dog knew so much that only time and patience and experience could impart. He had always intended to offer James a very small share in the business. Posy appeared breathless, and carrying a sheet of paper in her hand. \" Read that, father.\" As he fumbled for his spectacles, she said, softly, \" May I read it aloud ? \" \" I don't care what you do.\" But in his heart he knew that this was a lie. He did care. The conviction stole upon him that they had \" bested \" him. He wanted Posy with something of the hunger which seized him when he went to the Gold Room of the British Museum and beheld the incomparable Portland Vase, priceless though broken. Then he heard Posy's voice, and it s'ruck him for the first time that it was like her mother's. The similarity of form and feature also was startling. He grew pale and tremulous, for it seemed as if his wife had come back from the dead. When he closed his eyes he could imagine that she was speaking. My Darling Little Girl,—When you read this I shall be dead. I want to tell you before I go some- thing about your father, which may save you much unhappiness. He loved me dearly once, and he used to tell me so. And then lie grew more and more absorbed in his business, and now he is so wrapped up in it that I greatly fear he may infect you. and that, like him, you may come to believe that the beauty of the world is to be found in sticks and stones. To me they are just that—sticks and stones. And so, when

Boosters and Boosting. [The following article, by a writer who is intimately conversant with the subject, describes the humours and marvels of town advertising as it is practised in America. As some of the methods already show signs of being adopted in this country, it may be as well for our readers to be prepared for a campaign of British \"boosters.\"] By ARTHUR VERYONE knows what a boom is, as applied to a town. Charles Dickens described it seventy years ago in the \" city\" of Eden, although the actual word had not then been coined. But for a long time — indeed, until lately — things were managed very unscientifically. The art of booming was a most one - sided affair, chiefly worked by the real estate owners or T. DOLLING. Spokane for conversational and advertising purposes \" as the centre of these United States and God Almighty's creation, and never to let a day pass without having done something in word or deed to boost this town.\" Of course, this spirit of local patriotism is not new. It has long been associated, for example, with our own Peebles, which a Peebles man does not hesitate to compare with Paris, greatly to Peebles's advantage. But the A BOOSTERS' SHIRT-FRONT PARADE IN SEATTLE. agents. \" Cities \" so made — arising in a single night—showed a lamentable tendency to \" bust up\" or \" move on.\" There was an absence of local pride, which is such a conspicuous feature of the new order of things—the order of the \" boosters.\" \" Boost\" is a common American term meaning to \" push upward.\" In 1898 the first Boosters' Club was formed at Spokane, Washington, for the purpose of boosting Spokane into the place which through its natural resources and attractions it deserved. The club, which comprised practically the whole population of the town, drew up rules in which every soul pledged himself to regard organization is new. Booster clubs began to spring up all over the West. They spread to the East, to the North, and to the South, and now the prevailing sentiment has grown so local as to find expression in the phrase, \" Cuss America; give me Oshkosh.\" Americans who formerly went about with the American flag in their hats and the American eagle in their button-holes have now substituted photographic views of their own towns or local emblems, in default of regularly-granted municipal coats-of-arms. Even this last want is to be supplied, as will be rela' ed hereafter. A year ago, when it seemed possible that

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. the great Panama Canal Exhibition of 1912 might go to New Orleans, the San Francisco boosters got to work in earnest to prevent such a calamity. One of the things they organized was a plug-hat-and-shirt-front parade. If such a festival were announced to take place in Manchester or Birmingham it would cause much mystification. Every- body out West understands and appreciates it at once. Of course, they were not real hats or shirt - fronts, but strips of cardboard, circular and flat, the one to be adjusted around the crown of an ordinary hat and the other to be worn on the chest, each inscribed in terrific red letters with the name of the town to be boosted, as, \" Boost Seattle ! \" Imagine a procession of thou- sands of able-bodied citizens marching along by torchlight, with their knightly mottoes, for which they would dare and do and die, vividly inscribed on their persons, striding forth dauntlessly and roaring at the tops of their voices ! \" Do you believe,\" asks the prospectus of the Seattle Boosters' Club, \" that Seattle is the best and most beautiful, the most elegant and most enterprising, the most cultured and most convenient, the most honourable and happiest city in the universe ? \" Then Boost Seattle ! \" Do you believe it could be made so ? '\" Then Boost Seattle ! \" Are you ashamed of your town ? \" Then Boost Seattle ! \" Or here is another effort:— \" A small town is a mean town; A mean town is a cussed town; A cussed town is no good. Boost Placerville ! \" The boosting spirit of Tacoma carries the idea further :— ' \" Boost Tacoma ! Boost Tacoma night and day ! Boost Tacoma when you travel ! Boost Tacoma in your letters East! Put your whole soul into it! Boost Tacoma ! \" Boosting now forms part, and often the principal part, of the labours of perhaps a majority of the towns of over fifteen thou- sand inhabitants in the West. The first step in town boosting is to form a committee, A BOOSTING POSTER FROM WICHITA (KANSAS). A TACOMA BUTTON. which may be called a Chamber of Commerce, a Publicity Association, or even such an undignified title as \" The League of Wichita Boosters.\" It does not matter what it is called—the objects are the same, and the methods only differ in degree.

BOOSTERS AND BOOSTING. Ht 771 \"YOU'LL LIKE TACOMA \" IS A PHRASE OK WORLD-WIDE POPULARITY. As an illustration of how these phrases catch on, a letter was sent last autumn from England, bearing the postal address :— \" The City You'll Like, U.S.A.,\" and was duly delivered in Tacoma. Not long ago there was a monster gathering at Denver, comprising thousands of delegates from all the cities of the West. The pro- ceedings were opened by prayer, and in the midst of the solemn silence with which the preacher concluded a thousand men arose at a given signal and bawled in stentorian tones :— \" Ok-la-ho-ma City ! Sixty-four thousand two hundred and five !\" What's the matter with Oklahoma ? \" This, considering the exploit was tele- graphed all over the country, was held to at the close of his exhortation he cried out: \" And now, 0 Lord, Thy especial blessing is asked for the large and important city of Pueblo, whose population this year is sixty-six thousand seven hundred and twenty-three souls. Watch us and help us grow. Amen.\" The roar of the Omaha men, chiefly of rage and disappointment, sounded rather feeble after that singular outburst, and Pueblo was held to have scored. Pueblo's ambition is to become the Pitts- burg of the West. Hence the local motto, \" Watch Our Smoke.\" This town has sent out a cowboy band of fifty-two performers to travel all over the States, with banners and advertising material. Only the other day Pueblo managed to capture the Wichita base- ball team. There seems to have been some delay at Wichita in finding money to renew the contract. The Pueblo agent was waiting —made terms with the players, and the next day they left for Pueblo. This is all part of the boosting scheme. On the whole, boosting may be said to be regarded as a kind of game combined with business in America, and very few, if any, are really ill-humoured about it. Roars of laughter go up amongst millions of people when any especially audacious point is made. The proprietor of a paint factory established at Tacoma offered an ingenious scheme to the boosters. Red paint was to be given gratis, FREE PAINT FOR COVERING ALL DEAD WALLS WITH TACOMA'S FAME. have been a great feat of boosting on the part of the Oklahoma contingent; and so, when the time next came for a great inter-State congress, Omaha determined not to be caught napping. But, although their organization was perfect, they had reckoned without their host, for the divine was a Pueblo man, and or at a merely nominal price, to enthusiastic citizens of Tacoma, who were to go about the country and inscribe \" Boost Tacoma,\" \" Tacoma, the Emporium of the Earth,\" and other appropriate legends on all the available and accessible spots they could find. For a time the plan met with great success,

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. especially in the hands of the juvenile part of the community, until one fine day the amateur sign-painters inscribed \" Tacoma \" on the hides of a herd of cattle belonging to a Spokane man, who promptly brought an action, and caused a marked decline of zeal in this direction. But signs and sign-boards advertising ' Butte City ' on his lips that he was ushered into the presence of his Maker.\" The Omaha journalistic comment on this is hardly quotable, but it concludes: \" No doubt the ejaculation of this foolhardy youth was called forth by a sudden glimpse, as in a vision, of his future place of resi- dence in the smoky depths below.\" towns are a prominent feature of the scenery of the West. \" Delightful Denver\" is. written not only on Pike's Peak, but on the summit of Mount Buckskin, more than four thousand feet above sea-level. Last year the Montana capital reached the fifty-thousand mark, and promptly an enthusiastic tourist from Butte City set out to proclaim the fact on the highest walls of the famous Cheyenne Canyon. Unluckily, he lost his balance, and the rest of the story may best be told in the words of a Butte City newspaper: \" His horrified companions below saw him reel and totter ; but even in that supreme moment, when this brave citizen was about to take his plunge into eternity, it was with the name Speaking of journalism and the high- falutin language with which the local boosting process is fostered, a whole entertaining article could be filled with extracts. Here is one :— \" Come to Salt Lake City ! \" Is there anything that can stop us ? \" Nevada is unfolding west of us, and all the tributary region around us is developing ; the American spirit has entered the lands beyond the sea ; and because of it there will soon be five ships upon the Pacific for every one that rides there now. Great trans- continental traffic will result, and along the main line of it, with railroads diverging in every direction, will be Salt Lake City, now

BOOSTERS AND BOOSTING. 153 the most beautiful; hereafter not only the most beautiful, but one of the most important of the interior cities of the United States. It is decreed ! \" Why is Salt Lake City the Promised Land— the modern Canaan ? Not because of its religion — no, not al- together ; but because of its astonishing re- semblance to the Holy Land. It is an almost exact counterpart, as poster after poster in- forms you, and the City of the Elders is Jerusalem the Golden. One must not for- get other boosting methods. Sometimes the tourist is startled by seeing a whole train bearing enormous labels steaming slowly through rival towns green with envy :— \" This train con- tains more population for Portland. 1910, 207,214.\" Or \" These cars are filled with folks coming to live in Seattle, the Little Wonder of Washington. We are it ! \" It was Tacoma that dispatched apples all over the East wrapped in tissue paper with the inscription : \" This is from Tacoma. So are you—a long way from. Come nearer. You'll like Tacoma.\" Another read : \" Small THK NEW I.ANI) OF CANAAN, SALT LAKH CITY, AND PALESTINE ON THE MAP. warm, and then hot. but sweet. Babies grow bigger. Come and join us.\" Spokane has an apple-fair each year to advertise its apple-growing. The apples are taken, free of all charge, to Boston and ex- hibited there, and then to various other towns. Portland (Oregon) has a Festival of Roses, the streets being deco- rated with roses, an idea which was copied in Vienna recently. They tell a story in the West of four pro- fessed—perhaps pro- fessional—b o 0 s t e r s who met in Kansas City and began boost- ing their own towns. One hailed fr6m Pueblo, one from Santa Fe, one from Guthrie, and one from Wichita. From boost- ing—or \" boasting,\" as it should, perhaps,

Three From Dunsterville. By P. G. WODEHOUSE. Illustrated by Josepk Simpson, R.B.A. NCE upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a large white statue, labelled \" Our City,\" the figure of a woman in Grecian robes, holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjurer in evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of gold- fish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. It changes. Between May ist, when she stepped off the train, and May 16th, when she received Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he had found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had changed Mary Hill quite remarkably. Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town ; and, as a rule, young men born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on the paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring spirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make their fortunes in New York ; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of the village sages, had prospered. Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights ! All she demanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her a living wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting and shorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and the romance of things ; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows, and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at that moment had said \" Huh ! \" This had damped Mary. She saw that there were going to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly on Eddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a church festival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhaps he was still willing to do that—she had not inquired—but, at any rate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He had been very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, and said he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a man at lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went by and she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled, and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed her outlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merely frightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazed helpless- ness. But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized the completeness of the change. On May ist she would have thanked Eddy

THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE, 155 Joe Rendal's office was in the heart of the financial district, situa- ted about half- way up a build- ing that, to Mary, reared amidst the less i mpressive architecture of her home- town, seemed to reach nearly to the sky. A proud - looking office-boy, apparently baffled and mortified by the informa- tion that she had an appoint- ment, took her name, and she sat down, filled with a fine mixed assort- ment of emo- tions, to wait. For the first time since her arrival in New York she felt almost easy in her mind. New York, with its shoving, jostl- ing, hurrying crowds ; a giant fowl-run, full of human fowls scurrying to and fro ; clucking, ever on the look-out for some desired morsel, and ever ready to swoop down and snatch it from its temporary possessor, had numbed her. But now she felt a slackening of the strain. New York might be too much for her, but she could cope with Joe. The haughty boy returned. Mr. Rendal was disengaged. She rose and went into an inner room, where a big man was seated at a desk. It was Joe. There was no doubt about that. But it was not the Joe she remem- bered, he of the twisted fingers and silent stare. In his case, too, New York had \"staring adoringly at her from afar.\" conjured effectively. He was better-looking, better-dressed, improved in every respect. In the old days one had noticed the hands and feet and deduced the presence of Joe somewhere in the background. Now they were merely adjuncts. It was with a rush of indignation that Mary found herself feeling bucolic and awkward. Awkward with Joe !

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Welcome to our beautiful little city,\" he said. Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore the past in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him to pulp ? \" Won't you rit down ?\" he went on. \" It's splendid, seeing you again, Mary. You're looking very well. How long have you been in New York ? Eddy tells me you want to get taken on as a secretary. As it happens, there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy, left by a lady who departed yesterday in a shower of burning words and hairpins. She said she would never return, and, between ourselves, that was the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do ? Will you take this letter down ? \" Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary took the pencil and pad which he offered—and she took them meekly. Until this moment she had always been astonished by the reports which filtered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Of course, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance ; but it takes something more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure of himself. \" Read it, please,\" he said, when he had finished dictating. \" Yes, that's all right. You'll do.\" For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire gripped her to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt of the serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and her heart failed her. \" Thank you,\" she said, in a small voice. As she spoke the door opened. \" Well, well, well ! \" said Joe. \" Here we all are ! Come in, Eddy. Mary has just been showing me what she can do.\" If time had done much for Joe, it had done more for his fellow-emigrant, Eddy Moore. He had always been good-looking and— according to local standards—presentable. Tall, slim, with dark eyes that made you catch your breath when they looked into yours, and a ready flow of speech, he had been Dunsterville's prize exhibit. And here he was with all his excellence heightened and accentuated by the polish of the city. He had filled out. His clothes were wonderful. And his voice, when he spoke, had just that same musical quality. \" So you and Joe have fixed it up ? Capital! Shall we all go and lunch some\" where ? \" \" Got an appointment,\" said Joe. \" I'm late already. Be here at two sharp, Mary.\" He took up his hat and went out. The effect of Eddy's suavity had been to make Mary forget the position in which she now stood to Joe. Eddy had created for the moment quite an old-time atmosphere of good-fellowship. She hated Joe for shatter-

THREE FROM DUNSTERV1LLE. i$1 in the winter, and pouring it out in the play- ground and skating on it when it froze ? And wasn't it cold in the winter, too ! Do you remember the stove in the schoolroom ? How we used to crowd round it! \" \" The stove, yes,\" said Eddy, dreamily. \" Ah, yes, the stove. Yes, yes. Those were dear old days ! \" Mary leaned her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, and looked across at him with sparkling eyes. \"Oh, Eddy,\" she said, \"you don't know how nice it is to meet someone who remembers all about those old times ! I felt a hundred million miles from Dunsterville before I saw you, and I was homesick. But now it's all different.\" \" Poor little Mary ! \" \" Do you remember ? \" He glanced at his watch with some haste. \" It's two o'clock,\" he said. \" I think we should be going.\" Mary's face fell. \" Back to that pig Joe ! I hate him. And I'll show him that I do ! \" Eddy looked almost alarmed. \" I—I shouldn't do that,\" he said. \" I don't think I should do that. It's only his manner at first. You'll get to like him better. He's an awfully good fellow really, Joe. And if you—er—quarrelled with him you might find it hard—what I mean is, it's not so easy to pick up jobs in New York. I shouldn't like to think of you, Mary,\" he added, tenderly, \" hunting for a job—tired—perhaps hungry \" Mary's eyes filled with tears. \" How good you are, Eddy ! \" she said. \" And I'm horrid, grumbling when I ought to be thanking you for getting me the place. I'll be nice to him—if I can—as nice as I can.\" \" That's right. Do try. And we shall be seeing quite a lot of each other. We must often lunch together.\" Mary re-entered the office not without some trepidation. Two hours ago it would have seemed absurd to be frightened of Joe, but Eddy had brought it home to her again how completely she was dependent on her former serfs goodwill. And he had told her to be back at two sharp, and it was now nearly a quarter past. The outer office was empty. She went on into the inner room. She had speculated as she went on Joe's probable attitude. She had pictured him as annoyed, even rude. What she was not prepared for was to find him on all fours, grunting and rooting about in a pile of papers. She stopped short. \" What are you doing ? \" she gasped. \" I can't think what you meant,\" he said. \" There must be some mistake. I'm not even a passable pig. I couldn't deceive a novice.\" He rose, and dusted his knees. \" Yet you seemed absolutely certain in the restaurant just now. Did you notice that

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. his job superlatively well. He was every- where. Where others trotted, he sprang. Where others raised their voices, he yelled. Where others were in two places at once, he was in three and moving towards a fourth. These upheavals had the effect on Mary of making her feel curiously linked to the firm. On ordinary days work was work, but on these occasions of storm and stress it was a fight, and she looked on every member of the little band grouped under the banner of J. Rendal as a brother-in-arms. For Joe, And to Joe, as an ordinary individual, she objected. There was an indefinable some- thing in his manner which jarred on her. She came to the conclusion that it was principally his insufferable good-humour. If only he would lose his temper with her now and then, she felt he would be bearable. He lost it with others. Why not with her ? Because, she told herself bitterly, he wanted to show her that she mattered so little to him that it was not worth while quarrelling with her; because he wanted to put her in the 'ON ALI. FOURS, GRUNTING ANI> ROOTING AHOUT IN A PILE OK PAPERS. while the battle raged, she would have done anything. Her resentment at being under his orders vanished completely. He was her captain, and she a mere unit in the firing-line. It was a privilege to do what she was told. And if the order came sharp and abrupt, that only meant that the fighting was fierce and that she was all the more fortunate in being in a position to be of service. The reaction would come with the end of the fight. Her private hostilities began when the firm's ceased. She became an ordinary individual again, and so did Joe. perfect in that ge, with ntinued wrong, to be superior. She had right to hate a man who treated way. She compared him, to his disadvan Eddy. Eddy, during these days, i to be more and more of a comfort, surprised her that he found so much t devote to her. When she had first call him, on her arrival in the city, he had her the impression—more, she admitted, b- his manner than his words—that she was nc wanted. He had shown no disposition seek her company. But now he seem,

THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE. 159 always to be on hand. To take her out to lunch appeared to be his chief hobby. One afternoon Joe commented on it, with that air of suppressing an indulgent smile which Mary found so trying. \" I saw you and Eddy at Stephano's just now,\" he said, between sentences of a letter which he was dictating. \" You're seeing a good deal of Eddy, aren't you ? \" \"Yes,\" said Mary. \"He's very kind. He knows I'm lonely.\" She paused. \" He hasn't forgotten the old days,\" she said, defiantly. Joe nodded. \" Good old Eddy !\" he said. There was nothing in the words to make Mary fire up, but much in the way they were spoken, and she fired up accordingly. \" What do you mean ? \" she cried. \" Mean ? \" queried Joe. \" You're hinting at something. If you have anything to say against Eddy, why don't you say it straight out ? \" \" It's a good working rule in life never to say anything straight out. Speaking in parables, I will observe that, if America was a monarchy instead of a republic and people here had titles, Eddy would be a certainty for first Earl of Pearl Street.\" Dignity fought with curiosity in Mary for a moment. The latter won. \" I don't know what you mean ! Why Pearl Street ? \" \" Go and have a look at it.\" Dignity recovered its ground. Mary tossed her head. \"'We are wasting a great deal of time,\" she said, coldly. \" Shall I take down the rest of this letter ? \" \" Great idea!\" said Joe, indulgentlv. \"Do.\" A policeman, brooding on life in the neigh- bourhood of City Hall Park and Broadway that evening, awoke with a start from his meditations to find himself being addressed by a young lady. The young lady had large grey eyes and a slim figure. She appealed to the aesthetic taste of the policeman. \" Hold to me, lady,\" he said, with gallant alacrity. \" I'll see yez acrost.\" \" Thank you, I don't want to cross,\" she said. \" Officer !\" The policeman rather liked being called \" Officer.\" \" Ma'am ? \" he beamed. \" Officer, do you know a street called Pearl Street ?\" \" I do that, ma'am.\" She hesitated. \" What sort of street is it ? \" The policeman searched in his mind for a neat definition. \" Darned crooked, miss,\" he said. He then proceeded to point the way, but the lady had gone. It was a bomb in a blue dress that Joe found waiting for him at the office next morning. He surveyed it in silence, then

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. recklessly slandering his betters. She felt that there must have been a misunderstand- ing somewhere and was sorry for it. Thinking it over, she made up her mind that it was for her to remove this mis- understanding. The days which followed strengthened the decision ; for the improve- ment in Joe was steadily main- tained. The indefinable some- thing in his manner which had so irritated her had vanished. It had been, when it had existed, so nebu- lous that words were not needed to eliminate it. Indeed,even now she could not say exactly in what it had consisted. She only knew that the atmo- sphere had changed. With- out word spoken on either side it seemed that peace had been established be- tween them, and it amazed her what a difference it made. She was soothed and happy, and kindly dis- posed to all men, and every day felt more strongly the necessity of con- vincing Joe and Eddy of each other's merits, or, rather, of convincing Joe, for Eddy, she admitted, always spoke most generously of the other. For a week Eddy did not appear at the office. On the eighth day, however, he rang- her upon the telephone and invited her to lunch. Later in the morning Joe happened to ask her out to lunch. \"I'm so sorry,\" said Mary; \"I've just promised Eddy. He wants me to meet him at Stephano's, but \" She hesitated. \" Why shouldn't we all lunch together ? \" she went on, impulsively. She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subject of Eddy had not come up be- tween them since that memorable

THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE. 161 handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside. She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed so thoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness and awkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, his manner —everything had pointed to that. And now —it was as if those three years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were—herself. Had she altered ? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her like some physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her. If only she could get away from them and think quietly And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy. \" Glad you could come,\" he said. \" I've something I want to talk to you about. It'll be quiet at Stephano's.\" She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He was unwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think. He gave the waiter an order and became silent again, drumming with his fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over and the coffee was on the table. Then he leaned forward. \" Mary,\" he said, \" we've always been pretty good friends, haven't we ? \" His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in them that was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that there was effort behind the smile. \" Of course we have, Eddy,\" she said. He touched her hand. \" Dear little Mary ! \" he-said, softly. He paused for a moment. \" Mary,\" he went on, \" you would like to do me a good turn ? You would, wouldn't you, Mary ? \" \" Why, Eddy, of course ! \" He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated on her. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidence of friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality, of calculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in her some watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard. He drew a quick breath. \" It's nothing much. Nothing at all. It's only this. I—I—Joe will be writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday— Thursday, remember. There won't be any- thing in it—nothing of importance—nothing private—but—I—I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A—a copy of \" Vr.1. 21. She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked. \" For goodness' sake,\" he said, irritably, \" don't look like that. I'm not asking you to commit murder. What's the matter with you ? Look here, Mary ; you'll admit you owe me something, I suppose ? I'm the only man in New York that's ever done anything

162 T.1E STRAND MAGAZINE. carelessness at all. There's an old gentleman in Pittsburg by the name of John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of some of his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of the world knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to get early information too. Do you remember my telling you that your pre- decessor at the office left a little abruptly ? There was a reason. I engaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. She confided in Eddy. From the look on altered, but it's no use. I give it up. I'm still just the same poor fool who used to hang round staring at you in Dunsterville.\" A waiter was approaching the table with the air, which waiters cultivate, of just happening by chance to be going in that direction. Joe leaned farther forward, speak- ing quickly. \" And for whom,\" he said, \" you didn't 1 'I'M DUE BACK AT THE OFFICE,' HE SAID, HuAKshLY. your face as I came in I gathered that he had just been proposing that you should perform a similar act of Christian charity. Had he ? \" Mary clenched her hands. \" It's this awful New York ! \" she cried. \" Eddy was never like that in Dunsterville.\" \" Dunsterville does not offer quite the same scope,\" said Joe. \" New York changes everything,\" Mary returned. \" It has changed Eddy—it has changed you.\" He bent towards her and lowered his voice. \" Not altogether,\" he said. \" I'm just the same in one way. I've tried to pretend I had care a single, solitary snap of your fingers Mary.\" She looked up at him. The waiter hovered, poising for his swoop. Suddenly she smiled. \" New York has changed me too, Joe,\" she said. \" Mary ! \" he cried. \" Ze pill, sare,\" observed the waiter. Joe turned. \" Ze what! \" he exclaimed. \" Well, I'm hanged ! Eddy's gone off and left me to pay for his lunch ! That man's a wonder ! When it comes to brain-work, he's in a class by him- self.\" He paused. \" But I have the luck,\" he said.

From Behind the Speaker s Chair. VIEWED BY SIR HENRY LUCY. (new series.) Illustrated by E. T. Reed. BY a self-denying ordinance ministerial His Majesty's Ministers, whilst sacrifices, generously making provision of £400 a year by way of salary for their fellow-members, do not share in this twentieth-century demand on the public purse. They already have their salaries, in several cases inadequate to the magnitude of their public service and the sacrifice of pecuniary gain open to them in private practice. Mr. Gladstone's official income never exceeded £5,000 a year, and was intermitted by recurrent periods of Opposi- tion. Needless to say, he never availed himself of the pension which lightens the lot of some other statesmen when temporarily or per- manently out of office. Had he obeyed his earlier impulse and sought a career in the Church, he would inevitably have reached the Primacy, with its comfortable £15,000 a year. Had he followed family footsteps and de- voted himself to com- merce, there would have been no reasonable limit to his income. He was con- tent with what, spread over the years of active service, was a mere pit- tance. The late Sir William Har- court provided an example even more striking of the pecuniary sacrifice men are willing to make for the chances and changes of political life. When, in 1868, he entered Parlia- ment as member for the City of Oxford, he neces- sarily relinquished practice at the Parliamentary Bar, which brought him in an increasing income that had already reached the nice rotundity of £12,000 a year. He enjoyed considerable spells of office, but he never recaptured the average of lost gains. With exceptional equanimity law the Attorney-General and the officers Solicitor-General may regard of the the Quarterly Pay Sheet of the crown. House of Commons with lofty indifference. Whilst the Prime Minister's salary stands at £5,000 a year, the Attorney-General draws £7,000, and Mr. Solicitor-General £1,000 a year less. But that is not all. By a Treasury Minute dated HAD MR. GLADSTONE FOLLOWED THE FAMILY FOOTSTEPS AND DEVOTED HIMSELF TO COMMERCE, THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN NO REASONABLE LIMIT TO HIS INCOME.\"

164 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. July 5th, 1895, it is set forth that this salary is to cover all work of whatever nature done by them as Law Officers for any department of Government, \" except contentious busi- ness.\" To the learned gentlemen concerned, more blessed than Mesopotamia is the phrase \" contentious business.\" The Minute sets forth that the term applies to (a) cases in which the head of a Government Department directs a Law Officer to be instructed ; (b) cases in which the Solicitor to the Treasury or the solicitor of a Government Department thinks it desirable that a Law Officer should appear ; (c) cases concerning prolongation of patents in the Privy Council; (d) informa- tions on the Crown side and Customs cases ; (e) cases in the Revenue Paper ; and (/) cases in the Court of Appeal, House of Lords, and Privy Council. If time and money were matters of moment in Downing Street it would seem that savings would be scored if, instead of setting forth particulars of what constitutes \" contentious business,\" it were stated what services ren- dered by the Attorney-General and the Solicitor-General do not come within that category. As matters are arranged, the fixed salaries 'SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT RECARDINO HIMSELF AS HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN IF HE HAD NOT BEEN LURED FROM THE BAR.\" of the Law Officers are mere substrata upon which are built up incomes that must shock John Burns, who is understood still to retain belief in his famous axiom that a wage of £500 a year should satisfy any man. Sir Edward Clarke in one year, by means of what may perhaps not disrespectfully be called pickings, increased his statutory salary by something more than fifty per cent. As for the Attorney-General, if he does not draw £12,000 a year he begins to think there is, after all, something in the assertion about the country going to the dogs. In the year 1892-3 Sir Charles Russell received payment for services as Attorney - General amounting to £13,000. This affluence was, however, no new experience for the great advocate. A friend who, after his death, had access to his fee-book gives me some inter- esting particulars. Taking silk in 1872, Russell's income of £3,000 a year speedily trebled. From 1882 to 1892 it averaged £16,000 a year. In 1893, when re-appointed Attorney-General, he within the space of twelve months earned £32,826. This far exceeds the high-water mark of his successor in the Attorney-Generalship. In the financial year ending March 31st, 1904, Sir Robert Finlay, in addi- tion to his salary as Attorney- General, received in fees £12,921 7s. 9d., making a total of £19,921 7s. 9d. His col- league, Sir Edward Carson,

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR. in most cases the accept- ance of the position of Law Officer to the Crown actu- ally involves a loss of income. It certainly the did so in the woolsack, case of the present dis- tinguished holder of the office. For this reason there was some doubt at the Bar whether there was prospect of Sir Rufus Isaacs' rich pastureland being, so to speak, parted out in small allotments among his pro- fessional brethren on his accepting office. When, dis- regarding the consequences as Lord Milner would, with greater emphasis, say, he took that step, it was ex- plained that he was moved by ambition to succeed to the Woolsack. There is a common impression that in the case of a vacancy on that ancient settee the Attorney-General has by right the refusal of the appointment. There is, how- ever, no such provision, either in custom or in statute. Sir Rufus Isaacs may in due course of affairs reach the haven of forensic desire ; but it will not be by right of heritage as Attorney-General. As a matter of fact, the Attorney-General of to-day has no lien upon any judicial office. Up to recent date, on a vacancy occurring in the Chiefship of the Common Pleas he had the refusal. The office being abolished, the Attorney-General is left all forlorn, going back to his old work at the Bar, as did Sir Robert Finlay and Sir Edward Carson when their party crossed the floor of the House. The report of the Kitchen feeding Committee of the House of the Commons for the current Ses- hungry. sion is not out at the present time of writing. I hear from an authoritative source that it is not likely to lift the gloom that, from a financial point of view, lies low over the enterprise of feeding the House of Commons. Without special knowledge of the circumstances the Man in the Street, from whom few secrets are hid, would think the Committee had the softest job known in the business of catering. They trade rent free, pay no rates, have coal and gas gratuitously supplied, with generous allowance for breakages. They have a SIR EDWARD CLARKE. monopoly of custom, and the extent of their dealings appears from the fact that in a recent Session they served a total of 128,677 meals. These included 25,764 luncheons, 37,697 dinners, and 113 suppers (which last item indicates wholesome abstention from all-night sittings), 61,376 teas, and 3,727 peckings served at the bar. Their outlay, being net cost of provisions, cigars, wines,

166 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. An even more potent incidence the liquor in diminution of revenues of bill. the Kitchen Committee is the modern tendency, whose growth is alternately deplored and extolled by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, towards diminution in the consumption of wine and spirits. Inheriting and maintaining the proud tradition of predecessors, the Kitchen Committee have a wine-cellar of which a host may well be proud. What they lament is the increasing lack of custom. Time was when the champagne bill of a Session was a dozen times larger than it is to-day. In other words, where a few years ago favourite brands were ordered for the dinner-table by the dozens, a single bottle now serves. Concurrently a change has taken place in the matter of the fashion of dining. Time was when the British legislator, in addition to staying himself with flagons, ordered a succession of meat courses. Members of the present House are, from the point of view of the Committee, too apt to content themselves with the shilling luncheon or dinner, the institution of which is the pride of the Chairman's declining years. The outlook is at the moment black. It would be interesting to see what would happen supposing the business were trans- ferred to the direction of one of our catering firms who, unsuccoured by subsidy, paying rent, taxes, and other items, satisfy their customers and pay their shareholders divi- dends at rates exceeding twenty per cent. During the predominance of tea on the a Unionist majority under the terrace. Premiership of Mr. Arthur Balfour, Tea on the Terrace came to be one of the principal features of the London season. On a fine afternoon, with the westering sun glittering on the river and shining on the ancient fabric of Lambeth Palace, there was no livelier spectacle in London than the throng of brave men and fair women who peopled the Terrace of the House of Commons. The function was privily encouraged by the astute Ministerial Whip, who found in it a useful ally in the task of \" keeping a House.\" With an over- whelming majority, a certainty of triumphing in the Division Lobby, there grew in Minis- terial ranks a tendency to dangerous laxity of attendance. Members came down for questions and remained to hear any important speech promised. Also they might be depended upon for divisions following full- dress debate. But it is in the idle hours of a sitting that danger lurks for the master of Parliamentary legions. It is a snap division that occasionally places him in embarrassing position. Tea on the Terrace proved a bulwark against regrettable incidents of that character. Members tempted by desire for a lounge at their club or a drive through the Park, where they would find kith and kin, made discovery that for some hours of a summer afternoon their own Terrace was the

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR. 167 a member, progress is stopped at the farther limit of the corridor leading to the Central Lobby. The innocent suffer with the guilty. The wives and daughters of members and specially-iiv ited guests are treated on a com- mon footing. All may not be Suffragettes with designs on the peace of Parliament. But all are women, and as such must suffer. Inconvenience is felt even ladies in more acutely in respect of quarantine, dining at the House than of taking Tea on the Terrace. Ladies bidden to the feast are kept in custody conducted by their host to the Inner Lobby, where they might catch glimpses of statesmen of world-wide renown. Thence they were led to the feast by private ways trodden by members, leading by a staircase to the Terrace. They, in fact, walked about as if the inevitable had arrived and they were actually members of Parliament. In these degenerate days, having escaped from quarantine in the corri- dor, they are ignominiously smuggled on to the level of the Terrace by a special staircase. This was constructed a few years ago (at the expense of the nation) in order to meet in the corridor until their host—\" Sought Out \" he may be named, borrowing the proud appellation bestowed upon ancient Jerusalem by the Prophet Isaiah—is hunted up. The hapless man is probably in one of the remotely- situated private dining-rooms, whither he has escorted earlier arrivals. It is necessary for him to hurry back to the corridor, rescue the new-comer, and, having escorted her to the dining-room, rush back on receipt of news that other of his guests have arrived. Before the scare the custom was for ladies invited either to tea or to dinner to assemble n the Central Hall, whence they were the objection of crusty members who com- plained that their hurried passage up the old staircase on their way to save the State in the Division Lobby was obstructed by ladies passing up and down. The class of members responsible for this fresh indignity may be recognized on the Terrace by their seclusion within a space labelled \" For Members Only,\" marked out to the left of the old doorway giving access to the Terrace. During the heyday of Tea on the Terrace there they sat —\" Like tigers in a cage,\" as a well-known lady visitor once described them—glaring at the gay throng seated or walking, ever

i68 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. chattering and laughing, adown the long length of the river-girdled promenade. Among the votes which appear queen eliza- in the Civil Service Estimates beth as A is a modest one on account of matrimonial the Historical Manuscripts agent. Commission. This is an unpaid body of gentlemen including among their Matrimonial ACjf >{otch« arrant}^ number the Master of the Rolls, the Earl of Rosebery, and Lord Morley of Blackburn. Their mission is to ascertain what unpublished manuscripts cal- culated to throw light upon sub- jects connected with the Civil, Ecclesiastical, or Scientific history of the country are to be found in the collections of private per- sons or in public institutions. Every Session volumes are pre- sented to Parlia- ment containing copies or extracts from this trea- sure trove. The first publication took place forty years ago. In the meantime opportunity has been provided, at a trifling cost to the pur- chaser, of acquiring a library of rich and rare books. The pity of it is the enterprise is so little known that the circulation of the precious volumes falls far below their value. Hatfield House has proved a mine of wealth to the Commissioners. No fewer than twelve portly volumes have been gleaned in its archives. In the last, just issued from the press, I find a delightful story set forth in a correspondence between Queen Elizabeth and the Emperor of Russia, not at that time known as the Czar. It appears that His Majesty, having so many children he did not know what to do, resolved to invoke the assistance of the Virgin Queen to secure a wife for one of his sons. Elizabeth accepted • GOOD QUEEN BBSS RUNS A LITTLE AGENCY OK OWN.\" the commission with a zest for matrimonial matters not unfamiliar with elderly maidens. \" After overlooking the estate and qualities of all those noble families fit to be engrafted into your Majesty's stock,\" she writes, under date October 5th, 1602, \" we have found out

Tke \"S.P.B.\" (Society for the Propagation of the Beard.) By J. WILLSHER, Secretary. In ihe pairs of photographs of each personage reproduced in this article the larger portrait is identically the same as the smaller one, except for the addition of a beard. HAT a lamentable sacrifice of time, money, energy, and temper is involved in the shaving of the chins of the British nation ! In its monetary aspect alone last year it is estimated that twelve million pounds sterling was expended in daily recurrent efforts to efface the beard —\" Nature's glorious insignia of manhood.\" A scientist has calculated that a man shaving until he is eighty has mowed down twenty-seven feet of hirsute stubble. Think of the waste ! \" Why is it,\" inquired a distinguished foreign Ambassador, \" that you English generally shave your beards, when both your present monarch and his predecessor set an example by letting them grow ? \" There was a time when the chins of the male portion of the nation assumed the appearance of that of the reigning King. As one historian remarks, \" The Royal portrait reflects a general fashion from which only the disloyal or the indifferent departed.\" In the time of Elizabeth beards were of the most varied and fantastic cut. Charles II. was the last British monarch, until Edward VII., to wear any hair on the face, and that only a moustache of the tiniest proportions. About 1848 it was regarded by some of the Continental Governments as a badge significant of democratic sentiments, and as such was interfered with by police regulations. But the fashion grew, and in the \"'sixties\" and \"'seventies,\" and even the \" 'eighties,\" every other gentleman you met wore a beard. Why did the fashion change ? Why is everyone now clean-shaven as to the chin—all except a million or so, including His Majesty King George, several dukes, many members of Parliament, the leading financiers of the day, the leading artists, the leading merchants, Mr. G. Bernard Shaw, and Mr. A. B. Walkley? Only the other day one individual, indignant that the Royal example was not more widely followed, wrote a letter to the newspapers calling upon all loyal subjects who were able to do so forthwith to grow beards. Since then a Society for the (fit Mhk it *f E DRAWINGS ON THIS PAGE REPRESENT ACTUAL BEARD-FASHIONS ONCE PREVAILING.

170 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Society for tbe propagation of tbe ©earb. t*. TAVISTOCK ST LONDON. W.C. 3lBt May,1911 Dear Sir: In spitb of the example set by raany of tne most Illustrious and notable men of the day, we observe with regret that you continue to have recourse to the un- natural practice of razing the hair from your face. Do you not tnink from the enclosed that this practice is in your case at the expense of far greater dignity and comeliness ? Will you not permit me to enrol you as a member of this society? I am, Sir, Yours faithfully, COrY OF THE LETTER SENT OUT BY THE \"S.P.B. Propagation of the Beard has been formed, with a view to promote the practice of beard-wearing. In order to convert numerous clean-shaven members of the com- munity, photographs have been specially prepared, showing how greatly beards would improve the personal appearance, and these photographs, which have been sent to each of their origi- nals, we are The correspondence which the accompanying letter has elicited is, of course, private, and we are not, therefore, able to gratify our readers by re- producing the comments of some of our most cele- brated public personages who have been thus generously presented with beards ; nor are we able to delineate the expressions of delight—nay, of rapture —on the countenances of their wives, mothers, and sisters who thus behold the objects of their reverence and devotion adorned by \" face-fittings \" luxuriant beyond their wildest dreams. The point for the public to consider is whether their public men would not fre- quently cut a more im- posing figure if they eschewed a razor. Opinions may vary in Mr. Asquith's case, although it is not to be denied that the slight recession of chin which marks the Prime Minister's physiognomy might be effectu- ally diminished if not entirely concealed by a hirsute growth ; but Mr. Balfour would undoubtedly gain in majesty by the addition of a beard. It is not as though criticism were being directed for the first time to the facial adornments (or the lack of them)

THE \" S.P.B. 171 Mr. Balfour's growth twenty years ago. He has shaved them since then, but there is nothing to take their place. In succeeding some years ago to his noble uncle's place as Prime Minister, should he not also have had Lord Salisbury's noble beard in reversion ? The case of Lord Rosebery is more difficult. Perhaps he is one of those few men who appear to better advantage clean-shaven, although the patriarchal note which has lately appeared in his lordship's writings and speeches is hardly in keeping with a visage still juvenile in spite of its crown of white hair. But with a bearded Viscount Haldane, who shall say that the caricaturist has not been robbed of some of his more salient advan- tages ? Take Mr. F. E. Smith ; is not his extremely juvenile appearance a drawback ? Would not Mr. Winston Churchill, in a flowing beard, command greater reverence on both sides of the House ? Beards are not popular in Wales, otherwise it is difficult to account for the absence of one on the chin of the Chan- cellor of the Exchequer. It MR. WINSTON CHURCHILL. Photo 1: uutll tt Sons. beards are no longer associated with revo- lution, as they were in the middle of the last century, but with virtue and benignity. Mr. Birrell bears some likeness to the late Anthony Trollope in his beard. The fact that we already have one bearded Conservative statesman of fashion in the person of Sir Gilbert Parker might tend to dissuade Mr. Austen Chamberlain from growing one. Could not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle be induced to grow a beard, and so complete his physical unlikeness to his immortal Sherlock ? Again, would Mr. Anthony Hope's admirers be fewer if he ceased to shave ? The same query might be asked of two such divines as the Bishop of London and the Rev. R. J. Campbell. Would Sir Arthur Pinero's plays be more closely linked with those of Mr. Bernard Shaw if he should grow a beard ? The present Admiral of the Fleet is a bearded man, and a beard becomes most sailors. Why, then, should Lord Charles Beresford hesitate even at so late an hour ? A beard would