crawling painfully along the High Street of East Wobsley in the direction of the cosy little cottage known to its builder as Chatsworth and to the village tradesmen as “Mulliner’s.”
It was George, home from the hunting-field.
Slowly George Mulliner made his way to the familiar door, and, passing through it, flung himself into his favourite chair. But a moment later a more imperious need than the desire to rest forced itself upon his attention. Rising stiffly, he tottered to the kitchen and mixed himself a revivifying whisky-and-soda. Then, refilling his glass, he returned to the sitting-room, to find that it was no longer empty. A slim, fair girl, tastefully attired in tailor-made tweeds, was leaning over the desk on which he kept his Dictionary of English Synonyms.
She looked up as he entered, startled.
“Why, Mr. Mulliner!” she exclaimed. “What has been happening? Your clothes are torn, rent, ragged, tattered, and your hair is all dishevelled, untrimmed, hanging loose or negligently, at loose ends!”
George smiled a wan smile.
“You are right,” he said. “And, what is more, I am suffering from extreme fatigue, weariness, lassitude, exhaustion, prostration, and languor.”
The girl gazed at him, a divine pity in her soft eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “So very sorry, grieved, distressed, afflicted, pained, mortified, dejected, and upset.”
George took her hand. Her sweet sympathy had effected the cure for which he had been seeking so long. Coming on top of the violent emotions through which he had been passing all day, it seemed to work on him like some healing spell, charm, or incantation. Suddenly, in a flash, he realized that he was no longer a stammerer. Had he wished at that moment to say, “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” he could have done it without a second thought.
But he had better things to say than that.
“Miss Blake—Susan—Susie.” He took her other hand in his. His voice rang out clear and unimpeded. It seemed to him incredible that he had ever yammered at this girl like an overheated steam-radiator. “It cannot have escaped your notice that I have long entertained towards you sentiments warmer and deeper than those of ordinary friendship. It is love, Susan, that has been animating my bosom. Love, first a tiny seed, has burgeoned in my heart till, blazing into flame, it has swept away on the crest of its wave my diffidence, my doubt, my fears, and my foreboding, and now, like the topmost topaz of some ancient tower, it cries to all the world in a voice of thunder: ‘You are mine! My mate! Predestined to me since Time first began!’ As the star guides the mariner when, battered by boiling billows, he hies him home to the haven of hope and happiness, so do you gleam upon me along life’s rough road and seem to say, ‘Have courage, George! I am here!’ Susan, I am not an eloquent man—I cannot speak fluently as I could wish—but these simple words which you have just heard come from the heart, from the unspotted heart of an English gentleman. Susan, I love you. Will you be my wife, married woman, matron, spouse, helpmeet, consort, partner, or better half?”
“Oh, George!” said Susan. “Yes, yea, ay, aye! Decidedly, unquestionably, indubitably, incontrovertibly, and past all dispute!”
He folded her in his arms. And, as he did so, there came from the street outside—faintly, as from a distance—the sound of feet and voices. George leaped to the window. Rounding the corner, just by the Cow and Wheelbarrow public-house, licensed to sell ales, wines, and spirits, was the man with the pitchfork, and behind him followed a vast crowd.
“My darling,” said George, “for purely personal and private reasons, into which I need not enter, I must now leave you. Will you join me later?”
“I will follow you to the ends of the earth,” replied Susan, passionately.
“It will not be necessary,” said George. “I am only going down to the coal-cellar. I shall spend the next half-hour or so there. If anybody calls and asks for me, perhaps you would not mind telling them that I am out.”
“I will, I will,” said Susan. “And, George, by the way. What I really came here for was to ask you if you knew a hyphenated word of nine letters, ending in k and signifying an implement employed in the pursuit of agriculture.”
“Pitchfork, sweetheart,” said George. “But you may take it from me, as one who knows, that agriculture isn’t the only thing it is used in pursuit of.”
And since that day (concluded Mr. Mulliner) George, believe me or believe me not, has not had the slightest trace of an impediment in his speech. He is now the chosen orator at all political rallies for miles around; and so offensively self-confident has his manner become that only last Friday he had his eye blacked by a hay-corn-and-feed merchant of the name of Stubbs. It just shows you, doesn’t it?
A Slice of Life
The conversation in the bar-parlour of the Anglers’ Rest had drifted round to the subject of the Arts: and somebody asked if that film-serial, The Vicissitudes of Vera, which they were showing down at the Bijou Dream, was worth seeing.
“It’s very good,” said Miss Postlethwaite, our courteous and efficient barmaid, who is a prominent first-nighter. “It’s about this mad professor who gets this girl into his toils and tries to turn her into a lobster.”
“Tries to turn her into a lobster?” echoed we, surprised.
“Yes, sir. Into a lobster. It seems he collected thousands and thousands of lobsters and mashed them up and boiled down the juice from their glands and was just going to inject it into this Vera Dalrymple’s spinal column when Jack Frobisher broke into the house and stopped him.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Because he didn’t want the girl he loved to be turned into a lobster.”
“What we mean,” said we, “is why did the professor want to turn the girl into a lobster?”
“He had a grudge against her.”
This seemed
