and indisputable evidence that it is the human treatment of pit ponies and Congo natives that is really in question, and that no authenticated case of fiendish agency in these atrocities can be substantiated. It is, perhaps, a minor matter for complaint,” continued the orator, “that the human race frequently pays us the doubtful compliment of describing as ‘devilish funny’ jokes which are neither funny nor devilish.”
The orator paused, and an oppressive silence reigned over the vast chamber.
“What is happening?” whispered Bidderdale.
“Five minutes hush,” explained his guide; “it is a sign that the speaker was listened to in silent approval, which is the highest mark of appreciation that can be bestowed in Pandemonium. Let’s come into the smoking-room.”
“Will the motion be carried?” asked Bidderdale, wondering inwardly how Sir Edward Grey would treat the protest if it reached the British Parliament; an entente with the Infernal Regions opened up a fascinating vista, in which the Foreign Secretary’s imagination might hopelessly lose itself.
“Carried? Of course not,” said the Fiend; “in the Infernal Parliament all motions are necessarily lost.”
“In earthly Parliaments nowadays nearly everything is found,” said Bidderdale, “including salaries and travelling expenses.”
He felt that at any rate he was probably the first member of his family to make a joke in Hell.
“By the way,” he added, “talking of earthly Parliaments, have you got the Party system down here?”
“In Hell? Impossible. You see we have no system of rewards. We have specialized so thoroughly on punishments that the other branch has been entirely neglected. And besides, Government by delusion, as you practise it in your Parliament, would be unworkable here. I should be the last person to say anything against temptation, naturally, but we have a proverb down here ‘in baiting a mousetrap with cheese, always leave room for the mouse.’ Such a party-cry, for instance, as your ‘ninepence for fourpence’ would be absolutely inoperative; it not only leaves no room for the mouse, it leaves no room for the imagination. You have a saying in your country, I believe, ‘there’s no fool like a damned fool’; all the fools down here are, necessarily, damned, but—you wouldn’t get them to nibble at ninepence for fourpence.”
“Couldn’t they be scolded and lectured into believing it, as a sort of moral and intellectual duty?” asked Bidderdale.
“We haven’t all your facilities,” said the Fiend; “we’ve nothing down here that exactly corresponds to the Master of Elibank.”
At this moment Bidderdale’s attention was caught by an item on a loose sheet of agenda paper: “Vote on account of special Hells.”
“Ah,” he said, “I’ve often heard the expression ‘there is a special Hell reserved for such-and-such a type of person.’ Do tell me about them.”
“I’ll show you one in course of preparation,” said the Fiend, leading him down the corridor. “This one is designed to accommodate one of the leading playwrights of your nation. You may observe scores of imps engaged in pasting notices of modern British plays into a huge press-cutting book, each under the name of the author, alphabetically arranged. The book will contain nearly half a million notices, I suppose, and it will form the sole literature supplied to this specially doomed individual.”
Bidderdale was not altogether impressed.
“Some dramatic authors wouldn’t so much very mind spending eternity poring over a book of contemporary press-cuttings,” he observed.
The Fiend, laughing unpleasantly, lowered his voice.
“The letter S is missing.”
For the first time Bidderdale realized that he was in Hell.
The Talking-Out of Tarrington
“Heavens!” exclaimed the aunt of Clovis, “here’s someone I know bearing down on us. I can’t remember his name, but he lunched with us once in town. Tarrington—yes, that’s it. He’s heard of the picnic I’m giving for the princess, and he’ll cling to me like a lifebelt till I give him an invitation; then he’ll ask if he may bring all his wives and mothers and sisters with him. That’s the worst of these small watering-places; one can’t escape from anybody.”
“I’ll fight a rearguard action for you if you like to do a bolt now,” volunteered Clovis; “you’ve a clear ten yards start if you don’t lose time.”
The aunt of Clovis responded gamely to the suggestion, and churned away like a Nile steamer, with a long brown ripple of Pekingese spaniel trailing in her wake.
“Pretend you don’t know him,” was her parting advice, tinged with the reckless courage of the noncombatant.
The next moment the overtures of an affably disposed gentleman were being received by Clovis with a “silent-upon-a-peak-in-Darien” stare which denoted an absence of all previous acquaintance with the object scrutinized.
“I expect you don’t know me with my moustache,” said the newcomer; “I’ve only grown it during the last two months.”
“On the contrary,” said Clovis, “the moustache is the only thing about you that seemed familiar to me. I felt certain that I had met it somewhere before.”
“My name is Tarrington,” resumed the candidate for recognition.
“A very useful kind of name,” said Clovis; “with a name of that sort no one would blame you if you did nothing in particular heroic or remarkable, would they? And yet if you were to raise a troop of light horse in a moment of national emergency, ‘Tarrington’s Light Horse’ would sound quite appropriate and pulse-quickening; whereas if you were called Spoopin, for instance, the thing would be out of the question. No one, even in a moment of national emergency, could possibly belong to Spoopin’s Horse.”
The newcomer smiled weakly, as one who is not to be put off by mere flippancy, and began again with patient persistence:
“I think you ought to remember my name—”
“I shall,” said Clovis, with an air of immense sincerity. “My aunt was asking me only this morning to suggest names for four young owls she’s just had sent her as pets. I shall call them all Tarrington; then if one or two of them die or fly away, or leave us in any of the ways that pet owls are prone to, there will be always one or two left to carry
