Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 5

for him. He had been elected freely to the best Clubs. During the season he had gone everywhere. Many editions of his book had been sold. He had acquired a little cult who said extravagant things about him in the literary papers. It is sickening to see a man reverenced during his lifetime. I could imagine him posing before his cult and being pleased; even before I had read a page of his novel, I had made up my mind to administer to him a wholesome corrective in the pages of The Scalpel. I was rather sorry to find that it was really a capital novel; but it had enough faults for my purpose.
I had read for some time before I turned my attention to the game again. When I did so, I was startled, for it was perfectly obvious that BILL was giving the game away. His usual service is a little like invisible lightning with a bend in it; he was now serving in a modified manner, which he generally uses only when he is playing with girls who are not his sisters. It was also obvious that TOMMY, who looked very elated, fully believed that he was winning on his own merits, and had no idea that BILL was merely allowing him to win.
[Illustration]
"My game--and set!" cried TOMMY, joyously.
"You've improved awfully," said BILL.
I could not imagine why BILL had intentionally lost that set, for I knew that he hated losing. When TOMMY had gone home again to the Rectory, BILL came up to me to ask how old I thought a man ought to be before he began smoking. I said that I thought thirty-six was about the right age, and asked BILL why he had let TOMMY win.
"Oh, nothing particular," said BILL, in his matter-of-fact way; "only I'd never seen him wear that kind of tie before, and I asked him what he was doing it for, and he said it was for his aunt; she died a few weeks back; so I thought I might as well give him the set to make up for it."
I was rather amused. "TOMMY looked very pleased with himself," I said.
"Yes, he'll brag about that game all over the place," replied BILL, rather despondently. For a moment or two he was silent, imagining the triumph and pride of TOMMY. "I'd punch his head as soon as look at him," he added.
"What on earth for? He thought he'd won by play."
"He can't play any more than a cow, but that's not it. I hate to see anyone get so glorious about anything. Well, I don't know--it's kind of natural. He'd have had a right to brag, if he had really won, and he thought he did."
"Anyhow," I said, severely, "it's a mean trick to want to damage anyone, just because he's pleased with himself when he's got a right to be."
"Well, yes--I'll give you thirty."
"Can't play. I'm going to finish this novel, BILL."
"Is that one of the books you write about in the papers?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to praise it, or cut it up?"
"I'm going to give it such a--well, no, on second thoughts, I believe I'm going to praise it." And I did.
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. III.--TO POMPOSITY.
MY DEAR POMPOSITY,
It was only yesterday that I dined with BULMER, the wealthy brewer, in his magnificent mansion in the neighbourhood (I dare not be more precise) of Belgrave Square. You know as well as I do that BULMER's origin, though it may not have been humble, was certainly obscure. Nobody quite knows how he first managed to become a partner in the great concern which he now entirely controls. Fifteen years ago few people ever heard of or drank the "Pellucid Ale" without which no tap-room and few middle-class luncheon tables can now be considered complete. Suddenly, however, column upon column of the daily press overflowed, as it were, with those two magic words; analytical chemists investigated the properties of the beverage, and one and all pronounced it in highly technical language to contain more bone-forming and sinew-developing elements than any other known beer. The poetry-and-beer-loving public was fascinated by a series of memorable stanzas:--
[Illustration]
"The hardy Briton loves good cheer, His mighty sinews never fail: 'Pour me,' he cries 'a draught of Beer, And let it be Pellucid Ale.'"
So the verse began, and it was illustrated by a flaring symbolical picture in two compartments. In the first a throng of gaunt and miserable creatures was represented crawling with difficulty towards an immense barrel, astride which sat a lusty, hop-crowned deity. In the second, every member of the same throng had become stout and hearty. The hollow cheeks were round and shining with health, the bent backs were straight, the dreary faces were wreathed in smiles, and every hand held