Puppets at Large Part 5

A GOVERNESS (_instructively, to her charge_). Don't you think you ought to be very grateful to that poor sheep, Ethel, for giving up her nice warm fleece on purpose to make a frock for _you_?

ETHEL (_doubtfully_). Y--yes, Miss Mavor. But (_with a fear that some reciprocity may be expected of her_) she's too big for any of my _best_ frocks, _isn't_ she?

FIRST URCHIN (_perched on the railings_). Ain't that 'un a-kicking? 'E don't like 'aving _'is_ 'air cut, 'e don't, no more shouldn't I if it was me.... 'E's bin an' upset 'is bloke on the grorss, now! Look at the bloke layin' there larfin'.... 'E's ketched 'im agin now. See 'im landin' 'im a smack on the 'ed; that'll learn 'im to stay quiet, eh?

'E's strong, ain't 'e?

SECOND URCHIN. Rams is the wust, though, 'cause they got 'orns, rams 'ave.

FIRST URCH. What, same as goats?

SECOND URCH. (_emphatically_). Yuss! Big crooked 'uns. And runs at yer, they do.

FIRST URCH. I wish they was rams in 'ere. See all them sheep waitin' to be done. I wonder what they're finkin' of.

SECOND URCH. Ga-arn! They _don't_ fink, sheep don't.

FIRST URCH. Not o' anyfink?

SECOND URCH. Na-ow! They ain't got nuffink to fink _about_, sheep ain't.

FIRST URCH. I lay they _do_ fink, 'orf and on.

SECOND URCH. Well, I lay _you_ never see 'em doin' of it!

[_And so on. The first Shepherd disrobes his sheep, and dismisses it with a disrespectful spank. After which he proceeds to refresh himself from a brown jar, and hands it to his comrades. The spectators look on with deeper interest, and discuss the chances of the liquid being beer, cider, or cold tea, as the scene closes._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CATCHING THE EARLY BOAT.

_In Bed; At the Highland Hotel, Oban._

What an extraordinary thing is the mechanism of the human mind! Went to sleep last night impressed with vital importance of waking at six, to catch early steamer to Gairloch. And here I am--broad awake--at exactly 5.55! Is it automatic action, or what? Like setting clockwork for explosive machine. When the time comes, I blow up--I mean, _get_ up.

Think out this simile--rather a good one.... Need not have been so particular in telling Boots to call me, after all. Shall I get up _before_ he comes? He'll be rather surprised when he knocks at the door, and hears me singing inside like a lark. But, on reflection, isn't it rather _petty_ to wish to astonish an hotel Boots? And why on earth should I get up myself, when I've tipped another fellow to get me up?

But suppose he forgets to call me. I've no right, as yet, to _a.s.sume_ that he will. To get up now would argue want of confidence in him--might hurt his feelings. I will give him another five minutes, poor fellow....

_Getting up._--No actual necessity to get up yet, but, to make a.s.surance doubly--something or other, forget what--I will ... I do. Portmanteau rather refractory; retreats under bed--quite ten minutes before I can coax it out.... When I have, it won't let me pack it. That's the worst of this breed of brown portmanteaus--they're always nasty-tempered.

However, I am getting a few things into it now, by degrees. Very annoying--as fast as I put them in, this confounded portmanteau shoots them out again! If I've put in that pair of red and white striped pyjamas once, I've done it twenty times--and they always come twisting and rolling out of the back, somehow. Fortunate I left myself ample time.

Man next door to me is running it rather fine. _He_ has to catch the boat, too, and he's not up yet! Hear the Boots hammering away at his door. How _can_ a fellow, just for the sake of a few more minutes in bed--which he won't even know he's _had_!--go and risk losing his steamer in that way? I'll do him a good turn--knock at the wall myself.

"Hi! get up, you lazy beggar. Look sharp--you'll be late!" He thanks me, in a m.u.f.fled tone, through the wall. He is a remarkably quick dresser, he tells me--it won't take him thirty-five seconds to pack, dress, pay his bill, and get on board. If that's the case, I don't see why _I_ should hurry. I've got much more than that _already_.

_At the Quay._--People in Oban stare a good deal. Can't quite make out reason, unless they're surprised to find me up so early. Explain that I got up without having even been called. Oban populace mildly surprised, and offer me neckties--_Why?_

Fine steamer this; has a paddle-wheel at _both_ ends--"because," the Captain explains, "she has not only to _go_ to Gairloch--but come back as well."

First-rate navigator, the Captain; he has written my weight, the date of my last birthday, and the number of the house I live in, down in a sort of ledger he keeps. He does this with all his pa.s.sengers, he tells me, reduces the figures to logarithms, and works out the s.h.i.+p's course in decimals. No idea there was so much science in modern seamans.h.i.+p.

_On Board._--Great advantage of being so early is that you can breakfast quietly on deck before starting. Have mine on bridge of steamer, under awning; everything very good--ham-meringues _excellent_. No coffee, but, instead, a capital brand of dry, sparkling marmalade, served, sailor-fas.h.i.+on, in small pomatum-pots.

What a small world we live in! Of all people in the world, who should be sitting next to me but my Aunt Maria! I was always under the impression that she had died in my infancy. Don't like to mention this, because if I am _wrong_, she might be offended. But if she _did_ die when I was a child, she ought to be a much older woman than she looks. I _do_ tell her this--because it is really a compliment.

My Aunt, evidently an experienced traveller, never travels, she informs me, without a pair of globes and a lawn-mower. She offers, very kindly, to lend me the Celestial globe, if the weather is at all windy. This is behaving _like_ an Aunt!

We are taking in live-stock; curious-looking creatures, like spotted pug-dogs (only bigger and woollier, of course) and without horns.

Somebody leaning over the rail next to me (I _think_ he is the Public Prosecutor, but am not quite sure), tells me they are "Scotch Shortbreads." Agreeable man, but rather given to staring.

Didn't observe it before, but my Aunt is really amazingly like Mr.

Gladstone. Ask her to explain this. She is much distressed that I have noticed it; says she has felt it coming on for some time; it is not, as she justly complains, as if she took any interest in politics either.

She has consulted every doctor in London, and they all tell her it is simply weakness, and she will outgrow it with care. Singular case--must find out (delicately) whether it's catching.

We ought to be starting soon; feel quite fresh and lively, in spite of having got up so early. Mention this to Captain. Wish he and the Public Prosecutor wouldn't stare at me so. Just as if there was something singular in my appearance!

They're embarking my portmanteau now. Knew they would have a lively time of it! It takes at least four sailors, in kilts, to manage it. Ought I to step ash.o.r.e and quiet it down? Stay where I am. Don't know why, but feel a little afraid of it when it's like this. Shall exchange it for a quiet hand-bag when I get home.

Captain busy hammering at a hole in the funnel--dangerous place to spring a leak in--hope he is making it water-tight. The hammering reminds me of that poor devil in the bedroom next to mine at the hotel.

_He_ won't catch the boat now--he _can't_! My Aunt (who has left off looking like Mr. Gladstone) asks me why I am laughing. I tell her about that unfortunate man and his "thirty-five seconds." She screams with laughter. Very humorous woman, my Aunt.

Deck crowded with pa.s.sengers now: all pointing and staring ... at whom?

Ask Aunt Maria. She declines to tell me: says, severely, that "If I don't know, I ought to."

Great Heavens! It's at _me_ they're staring! And no wonder--in the hurry I was in, I must have packed _everything_ up!... I've come away just as I was! _Now_ I understand why someone offered me a necktie. Where shall I go and hide myself? Shall I ever persuade that beast of a portmanteau to give me out one or two things to put on--because I really _can't_ go about like this! Captain still hammering at funnel--but he can't wake that sleepy-headed idiot in the next room. "Louder--knock _louder_, or the boat will go without him! Tell him there isn't another for two days.

He's said good-bye to everybody he knows at Oban--he will look such an a.s.s if he doesn't go, after all!"... Not the least use! Wonder what his name is. My Aunt says _she_ knows, only she won't tell me--she'll whisper it, as a great secret. She is just about to disclose the name, which, somehow, I am extremely curious to know--when ...

Where am I? Haven't they got that unhappy fellow up _yet_? Why the d.i.c.kens are they knocking at _my_ door? I've been on board the steamer for hours, I tell you? Eh? _what?_ Five minutes to eight! And the Gairloch boat? "Sailed at usual time--seven. Tried to make you hear--but couldn't."... Confound it all! Good mind not to get up all day--now!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE.

(AS FORESEEN BY MR. PUNCH'S SECOND-SIGHTED CLAIRVOYANT.)

_It is the summer of 189-. The scene is a road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the rendez-vous for the Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really smart people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in sports and pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic of the ma.s.ses than the cla.s.ses. The only permissible mount now is the donkey, which must be ridden close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke." A crowd of well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End every morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have decided to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on coster-barrows, attended by c.o.c.kaded and disgusted grooms. About twelve, they break up into light luncheon parties; after which they play democratic games for half an hour or so, and drive home on drags._

MR. WOODBY-INNETT (_to the DONKEY PROPRIETOR_). Kept a moke for me? I told you I should be wantin' one every mornin' now.

The DONKEY PROPRIETOR (_after consulting engagement book_). I've not got it down on my list, Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess of c.u.mberback has just booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might let you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir Hascot Goodwood brings his in punctual, but I can't promise it.