Lady. "I heard that your boy has left his last place, and I thought he might come to us as a gardener."
Cottager. "Well, mum there's bin 'alf a dozen after 'im this morning. But I shall be very 'appy to put you on the waiting list."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
It may not seem very probable that a world-renowned inventor should be so seized with hatred for the restraints of ordinary existence that he should suddenly leap from a motor car, somewhere in the New Forest, without even asking the driver to stop; but, granted that he did so, it becomes entirely natural that he should thereupon crack his crown, be picked up by gipsies camping near and (granted further that it is the way of gipsy girls to be as sweetly attractive as Mary James) should proceed to fall in love with one of them during the period of recovery. That even Miss E. S. Stevens finds it a little difficult to account for the behaviour of the hero of Allward (Mills and Boon) is proved by the fact that she feels under an obligation to sketch in an elaborately unhappy past for the purpose of explaining him; but really it does not matter a bit; for so likeable is the world into which he projects himself and us that honestly we would rather not be bothered with too many reasons for our introduction there. It is a world that is alive with the spirit which the forest lover feels stirring in the sway of the bushes, the patter of raindrops and the shimmer of blue distances, and Mary is the visible incarnation of that spirit. Her lover calls her his little "shushy," recognising a sort of kinship between her and the earth-grubby, earth-happy rabbit. When you have read this charming story, simpler and stronger than any the author has given us before, I think you will agree that those of Lyddon's friends who lived in houses and pronounced their aspirates were wrong in trying to break off the romance, and you will add your blessing when the nomad and his gipsy bride wander northward, southward, eastward, westward in fact, Allward.
Chapman's Wares (Mills and Boon) is the agreeable title that Mr. H. B. Marriott Watson has given to a collection of short stories. The wares comprise one rather lengthy and dullish tale called "Elaine" and a number of others which, if they might justly be called pot-boilers, contrive a pleasant sparkle in the process. I do not think you will care over much for "Elaine," which is about a man who brought a wife home from India, and found (or would have found had he been less obtuse) that his sister's betrothed was the only man that the lady had ever loved. So of course there were ructions. People were introduced, and after a sufficient pause said "How do you do?" quite naturally, as they do just before the curtain drops on the first Act of a problem play. Indeed I would take a modest bet with any lady or gentleman that Mr. Watson has at one time or other considered a dramatic medium for his story. If so, I am glad he thought better of it. The other tales, as I say, are better company. There is one, "The Wayside Inn," as improbable and genuinely thrilling as you need wish. I fancy, though I may be wrong, that I recall meeting it in a Christmas Number; indeed many of the stories will bring you memories of those mid-autumn shillingsworths. The best of the bunch, I think, because its probability, though subjected to a severe strain, never quite reaches snapping-point, is "The Room at the Dolphin." What happens therein you might find out on your next railway journey.
