A Wodehouse Miscellany | Page 2

to insert his head in the scrum, assumes a
commanding position outside and from this point criticises the Game-Captain's decisions
with severity and pith. The last end of the partial slacker is generally a sad one. Stung by
some pungent home-thrust, the Game-Captain is fain to try chastisement, and by these
means silences the enemy's battery.
Sometimes the classes overlap. As for instance, a keen and regular player may, by some
more than usually gross bit of bungling on the part of the G.-C., be moved to a fervour
and eloquence worthy of Juvenal. Or, again, even the absolute slacker may for a time
emulate the keen player, provided an opponent plant a shrewd kick on a tender spot. But,
broadly speaking, there are only three classes.

AN UNFINISHED COLLECTION
A silence had fallen upon the smoking room. The warrior just back from the front had
enquired after George Vanderpoop, and we, who knew that George's gentle spirit had, to
use a metaphor after his own heart, long since been withdrawn from circulation, were
feeling uncomfortable and wondering how to break the news.
Smithson is our specialist in tact, and we looked to him to be spokesman.
"George," said Smithson at last, "the late George Vanderpoop----"
"Late!" exclaimed the warrior; "is he dead?"
"As a doornail," replied Smithson sadly. "Perhaps you would care to hear the story. It is
sad, but interesting. You may recollect that, when you sailed, he was starting his
journalistic career. For a young writer he had done remarkably well. The Daily Telephone
had printed two of his contributions to their correspondence column, and a bright pen
picture of his, describing how Lee's Lozenges for the Liver had snatched him from almost
certain death, had quite a vogue. Lee, I believe, actually commissioned him to do a series
on the subject."

"Well?" said the warrior.
"Well, he was, as I say, prospering very fairly, when in an unlucky moment he began to
make a collection of editorial rejection forms. He had always been a somewhat easy prey
to scourges of that description. But when he had passed safely through a sharp attack of
Philatelism and a rather nasty bout of Autographomania, everyone hoped and believed
that he had turned the corner. The progress of his last illness was very rapid. Within a
year he wanted but one specimen to make the complete set. This was the one published
from the offices of the Scrutinizer. All the rest he had obtained with the greatest ease. I
remember his telling me that a single short story of his, called 'The Vengeance of Vera
Dalrymple,' had been instrumental in securing no less than thirty perfect specimens. Poor
George! I was with him when he made his first attempt on the Scrutinizer. He had baited
his hook with an essay on Evolution. He read me one or two passages from it. I stopped
him at the third paragraph, and congratulated him in advance, little thinking that it was
sympathy rather than congratulations that he needed. When I saw him a week afterwards
he was looking haggard. I questioned him, and by slow degrees drew out the story. The
article on Evolution had been printed.
"'Never say die, George,' I said. 'Send them "Vera Dalrymple." No paper can take that.'
"He sent it. The _Scrutinizer_, which had been running for nearly a century without
publishing a line of fiction, took it and asked for more. It was as if there were an editorial
conspiracy against him."
"Well?" said the man of war.
"Then," said Smithson, "George pulled himself together. He wrote a parody of 'The
Minstrel Boy.' I have seen a good many parodies, but never such a parody as that. By
return of post came a long envelope bearing the crest of the Scrutinizer. 'At last,' he said,
as he tore it open.
"'George, old man,' I said, 'your hand.'
"He looked at me a full minute. Then with a horrible, mirthless laugh he fell to the
ground, and expired almost instantly. You will readily guess what killed him. The poem
had been returned, _but without a rejection form!_"

THE NEW ADVERTISING
"In Denmark," said the man of ideas, coming into the smoking room, "I see that they
have original ideas on the subject of advertising. According to the usually well-informed
Daily Lyre, all 'bombastic' advertising is punished with a fine. The advertiser is expected
to describe his wares in restrained, modest language. In case this idea should be
introduced into England, I have drawn up a few specimen advertisements which, in my
opinion, combine attractiveness with a shrinking modesty at which no censor could
cavil."
And in spite of our protests, he began to read us his first effort, descriptive of a patent
medicine.
"It runs like this,"