CHAPTER VIII
HIS MAJESTY IS INTERVIEWED
The next morning we were all seated around the breakfast table laughing over our adventures of the evening before, when we had visited the Earl’s Court Exhibition together. We had been up in the Great Wheel, and having passed through the pretty old English village were walking around the artificial lake listening to the band playing in their little pavilion on the island in the middle, when the Doctor-in-Law declared that he heard a strange trumpeting sound, and asked me what it could be. I had not heard it and so could not tell him, and we were just discussing the matter when the Wallypug clutched wildly at his crown, and turning around we saw a huge elephant lifting it gracefully off his head with its trunk.
Directly his Majesty realized what it was, he gave a wild scream and took to his heels, as did all the others, with the exception of the Rhymester, who tripped against a stone and lay with his head buried in his arms for some time, kicking and screaming for help.
Of course it was only the tame elephant that carries the children on its back, but to the unaccustomed eyes of the Wallypug and his party it seemed, so they told me afterwards, some strange and awful monster ready to devour them.
As I said, we were laughing merrily over this adventure when the postman arrived, and the Doctor-in-Law, without asking to be excused from the table, rushed out to meet him, and returned a few minutes later with his arms loaded with a number of little packages and one rather large box, which had arrived by Carter Paterson.
“Dear me, what a lot of letters,” remarked his Majesty.
“Yes. Wouldn’t you like to know what they are all about, eh?” inquired the Doctor-in-Law.
“Yes, I should,” admitted the Wallypug; while the faces of the others all expressed the same curiosity.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the Doctor-in-Law. “If you’ll all pay me fourpence halfpenny each, I will let you open them and see for yourselves.”
There was a little grumbling at this, but eventually the money changed hands, and, the breakfast things having been removed, the little packages were opened with great eagerness.
Besides a printed circular, each one contained some little article – a pencil case, a pen knife, a comb, a sample tin of knife polish, a card of revolving collar studs, and so on.
“Ah!” remarked the Doctor-in-Law complacently as these articles were spread about the table; “I told you that I expected to derive a princely revenue from my correspondence, and now I will explain to you how it is done. I observed a great number of advertisements in the daily papers, stating that ‘A handsome income could be earned without the slightest trouble or inconvenience, and particulars would be forwarded to any one sending six stamps and an addressed envelope’; so I sent off about twenty, and here is the result. I see by these circulars that I have only to sell two hundred of these little pencil cases at half-a-crown each in order to earn 1s. 6d. commission, and for every dozen tins of knife polish I sell, I shall be paid 1-½d., besides being able to earn 6d. a thousand by addressing envelopes for one firm, if I supply my own envelopes.”
“What’s in the big box?” inquired the Rhymester.
“A dittig bachede,” replied A. Fish, Esq., who had been busily engaged in opening it.
“A what?” exclaimed the others.
“A dittig bachede for dittig socks,” repeated A. Fish, Esq.
“Oh yes, of course!” explained the Doctor-in-Law, “a knitting machine. I was persuaded to buy it on the understanding that I was to have constant work all the year round, and be paid so much per pair for knitting socks with it. It’s a most interesting and amusing occupation, and, I’ll tell you what, I don’t mind letting any one of you use the machine for sixpence an hour, if you find your own worsted and give me the socks when they are finished. There now! nothing could be fairer than that, could it?”
And positively A. Fish, Esq., was so infatuated with the charms of the “dittig bachede,” as he called it, that he actually agreed to these terms, and sent out for some worsted, and commenced “dittig” with great enthusiasm. The Doctor-in-Law then set the Rhymester to work, addressing the envelopes on the understanding that he was to share the sixpence per thousand to be paid for them. And, having bothered the Wallypug and myself into buying a pencil-case and a knife each, in order to get rid of him, he started off to the kitchen to see if he could do any business with Mrs. Putchy in the knife-polish or black-lead line.
His Majesty and myself were just saying what an extraordinary little man he was, when he burst in upon us again.
“Heard the news?” he inquired, his face beaming with importance.
“No. What is it?” inquired the others eagerly.
“Ah! wouldn’t you like to know?” exclaimed the Doctor-in-Law. “How much will you give me for telling you?”
“How much do you want?” asked the Rhymester dubiously.
“A penny each,” was the reply.
“Come on then, let’s have it,” said the Rhymester, collecting the pennies from the others and handing them to the Doctor-in-Law.
“Why – er – er – Queen Anne is dead, and the Dutch have taken Holland – yah!” And the little man burst out laughing.
“Oh! I say, that’s too bad,” grumbled the Wallypug. “Isn’t it now?” he cried, appealing to me.
“Well, really,” I replied, “you shouldn’t be so silly as to give him money. You ought to know by this time what to expect from him.”
“No, but truly,” said the Doctor-in-Law, pulling a serious face, “I have got some news, the other was only my fun. A lady is going to call on us at eleven, to interview the Wallypug. I had almost forgotten it.”
“A lady!” I exclaimed. “Whoever do you mean?”
“Oh, she’s the Duchess of something. I forget her name,” answered the Doctor-in-Law nonchalantly. “She called the other day while you were out, and explained that she was a contributor to one of the latest society magazines, and was anxious to send an illustrated interview with the Wallypug, to her paper; so – a-hem! – after we had come to terms, I arranged for her to come to-day and see him. You had better go and make yourself tidy, hadn’t you?” he continued, turning to the Wallypug.
“Well, really,” I interposed, “I think you might have consulted his Majesty first, before making these arrangements.”
“Oh! do you?” said the Doctor-in-Law rudely. “Well, I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, my good sir – so there!” and he bounced out of the room again, rattling his sample tins.
It was nearly eleven then, and a few minutes afterwards a beautifully-appointed carriage drew up to the door, and Mrs. Putchy brought up a card inscribed:
and immediately ushered in a fashionably-dressed lady, who smilingly offered me the tips of her fingers.
“Oh, how do you do? You are the gentleman, I think, who is to introduce me to his Majesty, are you not?”
“Well, really, your Grace, we have only just heard of the appointment, but his Majesty the Wallypug will be very pleased to receive you I am sure.”
“And is that his Majesty at the other end of the room?” whispered the Duchess. “Pray present me.”
I made the necessary introduction, and the Duchess gave the regulation Court ‘dip,’ which the Wallypug gravely imitated, and then in his usual simple manner offered his hand with a smile.
Her Grace made a deep presentation curtsey and bowed over it in the most approved fashion; but the Wallypug, evidently unused to being treated with so much ceremony, withdrew it hastily and remarked nervously but politely:
“Won’t you take a seat, madam?”
“Say, ‘Your Grace,’” I whispered.
“What for?” asked his Majesty blankly.
“Because this lady is a Duchess, and you must always say ‘Your Grace’ when speaking to her,” I replied.
“Oh!” said the Wallypug vaguely – then going up to the Duchess he solemnly said, “I’m Grace.”
“No, no!” I explained. “You don’t understand me. I mean, when you speak to this lady you must call her ‘Your Grace.’”
“Dear me, how stupid of me, to be sure!” said his Majesty. “I understand now. I beg your pardon. I meant to say, ‘You are my Grace,’ madam,” he continued, addressing himself to the Duchess.
Her Grace amiably laughed away this little mistake, and was soon busy asking questions. The Wallypug, however, got very nervous, and made a shocking lot of mistakes in his answers. He couldn’t even say how old he was.
“I know I’ve been in the family for years,” he remarked, “and I fancy I must have come over with William the Conqueror. Such a lot of people did that, you know, and it’s so respectable. I don’t remember it, of course; but then I’ve been told that I was born very young, and so naturally I shouldn’t do so.”
“Does your Majesty remember any of the incidents of your early life?” asked the Duchess.
“I was considered remarkably bald for my age as an infant,” replied the Wallypug simply. “And I believe I had several measles, and a mump or two as a child. But I don’t wish to boast about them,” he added modestly.
“Where were you educated, your Majesty?” was the next question.
“I wasn’t,” replied the Wallypug with a sigh.
“Does your Majesty mean that you received no education at all?” asked the Duchess in surprise.
“Oh! I was taught reading, and writing, and arithmetic, and the use of the globes, and Latin and Greek, and all that rubbish, of course,” replied the Wallypug. “But I mean there were no Universities at Why, where I could receive a higher education, and be taught cricket, and football, and rowing, and all those classical things taught at Oxford and Cambridge, you know. I was considered the best boy in my form at marbles though,” he added proudly. “And I could beat any of the masters at Hop Scotch.”
“What is your favourite diet, your Majesty?” came next.
“Oh! jumbles, I think – or bull’s eyes. I’m very fond of hardbake too, and I love cocoa-nut ice.”
A few more questions such as these, and her Grace took her departure, after taking several snap-shot photographs of various articles in the drawing room.
I felt convinced that with such a scanty amount of information at her disposal the Duchess would have great difficulty in writing an article on the Wallypug, and was therefore the more surprised a few days later to receive a copy of the magazine which her Grace represented, with a long and particular account of the interview, under the heading of, “‘Why Wallypug and wherefore of Why?’ by a Lady of Title.” Into it her Grace had introduced the most preposterous and extravagant statements about his Majesty.
We learned with amazement that “The Wallypug came of a very ancient family, and had early been distinguished for many remarkable accomplishments. While at school his Majesty displayed such a natural aptitude for learning as to readily out-distance his instructors.”
“I suppose that’s because I said I played Hop Scotch better than the masters,” commented his Majesty, to whom I was reading the account aloud.
Photographs of various articles in the drawing-room, which had no connection whatever with the Wallypug, were reproduced with the most extraordinary and absolutely untrue stories attached to them. Dick and Mrs. Mehetable Murchison appeared as “The Wallypug’s favourite cat and dog,” while pathetic stories were told of how the dog had on several occasions saved his royal master from an untimely and watery grave, while the cat had prevented him from being burned to death while reading in bed by gently scratching his nose when he had fallen asleep, and the candle had set fire to the bed curtains. Sensational illustrations were also given depicting these incidents, which of course were purely imaginary.
It was very remarkable to notice though, that directly the article of the Duchess’s appeared, invitations from all sorts of grand people poured in upon us – and the daily papers suddenly woke up to the fact that the Wallypug and his suite were very important personages, and devoted whole columns to “Our Mysterious Foreign Guests,” as they called them.
There was always more or less of a crowd outside the house now, and when his Majesty drove in the Park, the people all stood up on the little green seats to get a better view of him as he passed.
CHAPTER IX
THE WALLYPUG’S OWN
It was shortly after this that the Doctor-in-Law, hearing what a vast fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of his own.
After a lot of argument it was thought best to call it The Wallypug’s Own, as the name was considered a striking one. The first number was to be a very elaborate affair, and, for weeks before it appeared, all of my guests were busily engaged in its production.
“There will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at last,” hinted the Doctor-in-Law to the Rhymester, which so delighted the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of new ones. A. Fish, Esq., contributed a very learned article on the subject of “The Prevalence of Toothache amongst Fish: its Cause and Treatment”; while the great attraction of the number was an historical article by the Wallypug on the subject of “Julius Caesar,” illustrated by his Majesty himself. As a special favour, the original drawing was presented to me by his Majesty, and I am thus enabled to reproduce it for your benefit. His Majesty confided to me that parts of it were traced from a picture which appeared in the Boys’ Own Paper some time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that.
The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this:
“Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to conquer Britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and when he arrived he said in Latin, ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ which means, ‘I have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle’, which has been the British motto ever since. But the Ancient Britons who lived here then, didn’t understand Latin, and so they went for Julius Caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to drive him and his followers away. But Julius Caesar and the Romans were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore firemen’s helmets, and kilts like Scotchmen, so they soon overcame the Ancient Britons; and they built London Wall, and made a lot of combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses, that you can see in the Museum at the Guildhall; and then they went back to Rome, and Julius Caesar was stabbed by his friend Brutus, to show how much he liked him; and Caesar, when he found out he was stabbed, cried out in Latin, ‘Et tu, Brute,’ which means ‘Oh, you brute,’ and lived happy ever after. I have drawn the picture of Julius Caesar landing in Britain – that’s him waving things, and calling to the others to come on.”
The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize, £1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this:
“You are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live till you die. You like to have your own way when you can get it, and when you can’t you get very cross and irritable. You are not so young as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. You will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will probably wish you hadn’t.”
The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as follows:
“You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken.”
The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate.
This is what he sent:
THE NEW ROBIN
The North wind doth blow,
And we ought to have snow,
If ’tis true what my nurse used to sing,
Poor thing.
Yet up in yon tree
Robin Redbreast I see
As happy and gay as a king,
Poor thing.
Look! as true as I live,
There’s a boy with a sieve
And a stick and a long piece of string,
Poor thing.
But the bird doesn’t care,
For I hear him declare,
“Pooh! the old dodge he tried in the Spring,
Poor thing.”
“What ridiculous cheek,”
And he turns up his beak
Ere he tucks his head under his wing,
Poor thing.
The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him to contribute an article on “Fashions for the Month by Our Paris Model.” He made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles. Here is an extract, which will show you better than I can tell, the stupid blunders which he made:
“Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit.
“Artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a striking and novel decoration for a hat. If this trimming is considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear particularly ‘chic.’
“Hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed, but for the economically inclined – a last year’s clothes basket trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper at 1-¾d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be mistaken for one of the new early Victorian bonnets which continue to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families.
“I hear that dresses are to be worn again this year by ladies. The most fashionable ones will be made of various sorts of material.
“A charming walking costume suitable for the Autumn may be made of shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the selvedge edge.”
There was a lot more nonsense of this kind which I did not at all understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things made great fun of.
You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment I allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience of my own.
The Rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but I think that he was jealous because the Doctor-in-Law published it. Anyhow, here it is, so you can judge for yourself. I call it
HE and I and IT
Oh HE was a Publisher
And I was a Publishee,
And IT was a book
Which the Publisher took
And pub-l-i-s-h-e-d.
The Publisher’s smile it was bland,
’Twas a beautiful smile to see,
As again and again
He took pains to explain
How large my “half-profits” might be.
IT had a capital sale,
Well reviewed by the Times and D.T.,
And a great many more,
So my friends by the score
Came around to congratulate me.
And people I scarcely had met,
Just “dropped in” to afternoon tea;
While my aunt, who’s a swell,
Now remembered quite well
That I was related to she.
And girls that were rich and plain,
Or pretty and poor, did agree
To let me suppose
That I’d but to propose
To be m-a-r-r-i-e-d.
Yes, HE published IT in the Spring,
That season of frolic and glee;
“In the Autumn,” HE said,
Gravely nodding his head,
“‘Half-profits’ will mean L.S.D.”
But Autumn has come and gone,
And I’m so to say, “All at sea,”
For HE sobs and HE sighs
And HE turns up his eyes
When I ask what my “half-profits” be.
There are “charges for this, and for that,”
And for “things that HE couldn’t foresee,”
And HE “very much fears,”
So he says twixt his tears,
“That there won’t be a penny for me.”
Oh! rich is the Publisher
And poor is the Publishee;
Of the profits of IT
I shall touch not a bit,
They are all swallowed up by HE.
The girls now all treat me with scorn —
Aunt turns up her n-o-s-e,
And my friends all turn tail,
While my book they assail
And call rubbish and twad-d-l-e.
Even One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane were smitten with a desire to rush into print, and I overheard them concocting a tragic Love Story in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the Doctor-in-Law would not accept it. You can hardly wonder at it though, for it really was too bad for anything.
It was called “The Viscount’s Revenge,” and in it several characters who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all through the story in a most confusing manner, while One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane could not agree as to whether the heroine should be dark or fair, so in one part of the book she had beautiful golden hair and blue eyes, and in another she was described as “darkly, proudly handsome, with a wealth of dusky hair and eyes as black as night.”
At the last moment it was found necessary to include another poem in the magazine, and, as all of the Rhymester’s were too long, the Doctor-in-Law decided to write one himself, which he called
COMMERCIAL PROBLEMS
Why doth the little busy bee
Not charge so much an hour,
For gathering honey day by day
From every opening flower?
And can you tell me why, good sir,
The birds receive no pay
For singing sweetly in the grove
Throughout the livelong day?
Why flow’rs should bloom about the place
And give their perfume free,
In so unbusinesslike a way,
Seems very odd to me.
I cannot meet a single cow
That charges for her milk,
And though they are not paid a sou,
The silkworms still spin silk.
While ducks and hens, I grieve to find,
Lay eggs for nothing too,
Which is a most ridiculous
And foolish thing to do.
These problems often puzzle me;
I lie awake at night,
And think and think what I can do
To set this matter right.
I’ve found a way at last, and though
It may at first seem funny,
It cannot fail – ’tis this: You pay,
And I’ll collect the money.