Mr. Bunting is, I believe, still with Lord Baringstoke. This was, perhaps, one of the princ.i.p.al triumphs of the Soles. There were many others. We had our own secret service, and I should here acknowledge with respect and admiration the Gallic ingenuity of two of the Soles, Monsieur Colbert and Monsieur Normand, in reconstructing fragmentary letters taken from the waste-paper baskets of the ill.u.s.trious.

Naturally, we had to suffer from the jealousy and malice of those who had not been asked to join us, and a rumour even was spread abroad that we played bridge for sixpence a hundred. There was no truth in it. There have been, and still are, gambling clubs among the younger men-servants of the West-end, but we never gambled. Mr. Bunting would not have liked it at all. We were serious. We did try to live up to our ideals, and some of our members actually succeeded in living beyond their incomes.

Our princ.i.p.al recreation was pencil-games, mostly of our own invention.

In this connection I have rather a sad incident to relate. On one occasion we had a compet.i.tion to see which of us could write the flattest and least pointed epigram in rhyme. The prize for men consisted of two out-size Havannah cigars, formerly the property of Lord Baringstoke, kindly presented by Mr. Bunting.

Percy Binder, first footman to the Earl of Dilwater, was extremely anxious to secure this prize. He took as the subject of his epigram the sudden death of a man on rising from prayer. This was in such lamentably bad taste that he did not win the prize, but otherwise it would have certainly been his. His four lines could not have been surpa.s.sed for clumsy and laboured imbecility. The last two ran:

"But when for aid he ceased to beg, The wily devil broke his leg."

And then came a terrible discovery. Percy Binder had stolen these lines from the autobiography of my own G.E. She says, by the way, that their author was "the last of the wits." But how can you be last in a race in which you never start? It is always safe to say what you think, but sometimes dangerous to give your reasons for thinking it.

That, however, is a digression. Percy Binder was given to understand that we did not know him in future. Mr. Bunting was so upset that he declared the compet.i.tion cancelled, and smoked the prize himself. He said afterwards that what annoyed him most was the foolishness of Mr.

Binder's idea that his plagiarism would be undetected.

"He is," said Mr. Bunting, "like the silly ostrich that lays its eggs in the sand in order to escape the vigilance of its pursuers."

One of our pencil-games was known as Inverted Conundrums, and played as follows. One person gave the answer to a riddle, and mentioned one word to be used in the question. The rest then had to write down what they thought the question would be. The deafness of dear Violet Orpington sometimes spoiled this game.

For instance, I had once given as an answer "bee-hive," and said that one word in the question was "correct."

The first question I read out was from George Leghorn. He had written: "If a c.o.c.kney nurse wished to correct a child, what insect-home would she name?" This was accepted.

The next question was from Violet Orpington: "If you had never corrected a naughty boy before, where would you correct him?"

"But, Violet," I said, "the answer to that could not be 'bee-hive.'"

"Oh," she said, "you said 'hive,' did you? I thought you said something else."

I have never been able to guess what it was she thought I had said; and she refused to tell me.

Another of our pencil-games was Missing Rhymes. One of us would write a deccasyllabic couplet--we always called it a quatrain, as being a better-cla.s.s word--and the rhyme in the second line would not be actually given but merely indicated.

For example, I myself wrote the following little sonnet:

"I have an adoration for One person only, namely _je_."

To any reader who is familiar with the French language, this may seem almost too easy, but I doubt if anybody who knew no language but modern Greek would guess it. For the benefit of the uninitiated I may add that the French word _je_ is p.r.o.nounced "mwor," thus supplying the missing rhyme.

Millie Wyandotte disgraced herself with the following lyric:

"After her dance, Salome, curtseying, fell, And shocked the Baptist with her scream of 'Bother!'"

She had no sooner read it out than Mr. Bunting rose in his place and said gravely:

"I can only speak definitely for myself, but it is my firm belief that all present, with the exception of Miss Wyandotte, have too much refinement to be able to guess correctly the missing rhyme in this case." Loud and prolonged applause.

George Leghorn was particularly happy at these pencil games, and to him is due this very clever combination of the lyrical and the acrostical:

"My first a man is, and my next a trap; My whole's forbidden, lest it cause trouble."

The answer to the acrostic is "mantrap"; the missing rhyme is "mishap."

The entire solution was given in something under half an hour by Popsie Bantam. She was a very bright girl, and afterwards married a man in the Guards (L.N.W.R.).

Mr. Bunting, a rather strong party-politician, one night submitted this little triolet:

"When the Great War new weapons bade us forge, Whom did the nation trust? 'Twas thou, Asquith!"

The missing rhyme was guessed immediately, in two places, as the auctioneers say.

However, by our next quinquennial meeting Nettie Minorca had thought out the following rejoinder:

"When history's hand corrects the current myth, Whose name will she prefer? 'Tis thine, Lloyd George."

Yes, dear Nettie had a belated brilliance--the wit of the staircase, only more so. We always said that Nettie could do wonderful things if only she were given time.

She was given time ultimately, and is still doing it, but that was in a totally different connection. She inserted an advertis.e.m.e.nt stating that she was a thorough good cook. First-cla.s.s references. Eight years in present situation in Exeter, and leaving because the family was going abroad. Wages asked, 36 per annum. No kitchen-maid required. No less than twelve families were so anxious to receive the treasure that they offered her return-fare between Exeter and London, and her expenses, to secure a personal interview with her. She collected the boodle from all twelve. And she was living in Bryanstone Square at the time. She is lost to us now.

As dear old Percy Cochin, also one of the Soles, once said to me: "We are here to-day, and gone at the end of our month."

Violet Orpington had an arresting appearance, and walked rather like a policeman also. Her hair was a rich raw sienna, and any man would have made love to her had she but carried an ear-trumpet. She is the "retiring Violet" of verse seven.[A] Millie Wyandotte was malicious and unintelligent; she looked well in white, but was too heavily built for my taste. I may add, as evidence of my impartiality, that she laid a table better than any woman I ever knew; in fact, she took first prize in a laying compet.i.tion. Nettie Minorca was "black but comely," and had Spanish blood in her veins. She is the "gipsy" mentioned in verse one-and-a-half. Popsie Bantam was _pet.i.te_. Her profile was admired, but I always thought it a little beaky myself. I myself was the least beautiful, but the most attractive. Allusions to me will be found in verses 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 12-19, 24, 57-60, 74, 77, 87, 97, and 102-3468.

[Footnote A: _Publisher_: But you don't give the verses.

_Author_: I know. It's a little idea I got from an excellent Sunday newspaper.]

George Leghorn was an Albino, but his figure was very graceful. From the specimen which I have already given, it will be easy to believe that his wit was fluorescent, detergent, and vibratory. He afterwards became a well-known personality on the turf. He gained a considerable fortune by laying the odds; his family were all reputed to be good layers.

Dear old Peter Cochin was staunch and true. He reminds me of something that my ill.u.s.trious model says of another man. She says that he "would risk telling me or anyone he loved, before confiding to an inner circle, faults which both he and I think might be corrected." Grammar was no doubt made for slaves--not for the brilliant and autobiographical. All the same, a prize should be offered to anybody who can find the missing "risk" in mentioning to another a point on which both are agreed.

She adds that she has had "a long experience of inner circles." There, it must be admitted, she is ahead of me. But the only inner circle of which I have had a long experience has been much improved since it was electrified.

In congratulating Peter upon a new appointment, with three under him, I asked when I first met him. His reply was particularly staunch, and I quote from it:

"It was in May 28, 1913. The hour was 1.38.5 Greenwich Time, and I shall never forget it. You were sixteen then, and the effect as you came into the room was quintessential. Suddenly the sunlight blazed, the electric light went on automatically till the fuses gave way, the chimney caught fire, the roof fell in, the petrol tank exploded, old R--y said that he should never care to speak to his wife again, and the butler dropped the Veuve Clicquot. After that the shooting party came in, but for some reason or other the sentence was not carried out."

I have very few staunch friends, and many of them have had to be discarded from weakness; but when they are staunch--well, they really are. The only trouble with Peter Cochin was that he was too cautious. He was given to under-statement. I do not think he gives a really full and rich idea of the effect I habitually produced.

I sometimes think that I am almost too effective. Still, as I said before, the Latin word "margo" does mean "the limit."

FIFTH EXTRACT

MISFIRES

My family had a curious dread that I should marry a groom. I never did.