The Holiday Round Part 39

Smith (to himself). Arabella!

Enter Boy, followed by a stylishly-dressed lady of middle age.

Boy. Mrs Robinson.

[Exit.

[Mrs Robinson stops short in the middle of the room and stares at the Editor; then staggers and drops on to the sofa.

Smith (in wonder). Arabella!

Mrs Robinson. William!

[They fall into each other's arms.

Arabella. I had begun to almost despair. (Smith winces.) "Almost to despair," I mean, darling.

Smith (with a great effort). No, no, dear. You were right.

Arabella. How sweet of you to think so, William.

Smith. Yes, yes, it's the least I can say. ... I have been very lonely without you, dear. ... And now, what shall we do? Shall we get married again quietly?

Arabella. Wouldn't that be bigamy?

Smith. I think not, but I will ask the printer's reader. He knows everything. You see, there will be such a lot to explain otherwise.

Arabella. Dear, can you afford to marry?

Smith. Well, my salary as editor is only twenty thousand a year, but I do a little reviewing for other papers.

Arabella. And I have--nothing. How can I come to you without even a trousseau?

Smith. Yes, that's true. ... (Suddenly.) By Jove, though, you have got something! You have eight thousand pounds! We owe you that for your articles. (With a return to his professional manner.) Did I tell you how greatly we all appreciated them? (Goes to telephone.) Is that you, Jones? Just come here a moment. (To Arabella.) Jones is my sub-editor; he is keeping your money for you.

Enter Jones.

Jones (producing an old stocking). I've just been round to my rooms to get that money--(sees Arabella)--oh, I beg your pardon.

Smith (waving an introduction). Mrs Smith--my wife. This is our sub-editor, dear--Mr Jones. (Arabella puts her hand to her heart and seems about to faint.) Why, what's the matter?

Arabella (hoa.r.s.ely). Where did you get that stocking?

Smith (pleasantly). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.

Jones. No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.

Arabella (throwing herself into his arms). My son! This is your father! William--our boy!

Smith (shaking hands with Jones). How are you. I say, Arabella, then that was one of MY stockings?

Arabella (to her boy). When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to dimly remind me--

Jones. To remind you dimly, mother.

Smith. No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will appear in our paper. Please remember that.

Jones (with emotion). I will endeavour to always remember it, dad.

CURTAIN.

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

John walked eight miles over the cliffs to the nearest town in order to buy tobacco. He came back to the farmhouse with no tobacco and the news that he had met some friends in the town who had invited us to dinner and Bridge the next evening.

"But that's no reason why you should have forgotten the tobacco," I said.

"One can't remember everything. I accepted for both of us. We needn't dress. Put on that nice blue flannel suit of yours--"

"And that nice pair of climbing boots with the nails--"

"Is that all you've got?"

"All I'm going to walk eight miles in on a muddy path."

"Then we shall have to take a bag with us. And we can put in pyjamas and stay the night at an hotel; it will save us walking back in the dark. We don't want to lose you over the cliff."

I took out a cigar.

"This is the last," I said. "If, instead of wandering about and collecting invitations, you had only remembered--Shall we cut it up or smoke half each?"

"Call," said John, bringing out a penny. "Heads it is. You begin."

I struck a match and began.

Next day, after lunch, John brought out his little brown bag.

"It won't be very heavy," he said, "and we can carry it in turns. An hour each."