Part 2
‘Much the same as Jimmy’s. I went to the same dance. I also played the friends-of-my-childhood, but I could only raise five of them. So Jimmy’s one ahead. If you had disallowed his old lady we should have tied. I might add that, being rather carried away, I got engaged to two different girls in the course of the hour, and though it’s all right now, I don’t monkey with a buzzsaw again. The next kiss problem will find little Bobby seated with the spectators.’
‘Possibly,’ said the chairman, ‘the finesse and experience of riper years will have accomplished more than the attractions of untutored youth. May I interrupt your secretarial duties, Sir Charles?’
Sir Charles laid down his pencil, smiled, and shook his head. ‘This time you must place me also with the spectators,’ he said, and quoted an apt line of Horace.
‘It is seldom that you miss. I wish Mr Harding Pope, that I could say the same of you. What have you done this time to redeem yourself?’
‘What could I do?’ said Mr Pope, with an oratorical gesture. ‘I represent a Nonconformist constituency which is not tolerant of the least laxity in the private life of its member. The mere suspicion that I had taken part in a competition of this kind might end my political career.’
‘Possibly. Failure to take part in the next competition will actually end your career as a member of this club, as you will see if you refer to rule eleven. The club does not regard onlookers as sportsmen. I suppose, Major Byles, since you protested against the problem, that for the first time in your membership you have failed to compete.’
‘That is so, but my protest had very little to do with it. Matter of fact, I had a superstitious idea that it might change my luck if I gave a miss this time.’
‘Then I will turn to Dr Alden. What was your adventure, doctor?’
‘Mine was more a tragedy than an adventure,’ said the doctor. ‘On the evening of Sunday the twelfth, acting on information received, I presented myself at the residence of my married sister. She said that I must have forgotten that she was entertaining the girls of her Tennyson Club that night, and that she had never wanted me less, but that, as I was there, I could stop. I stopped, that being what I had come for. Her suggestion that her husband and myself, the only two males present, should go off to the billiard-room after supper, was negatived by both of us. In accordance with plan I then directed the conversation to the subject of face-powder, condemning it on scientific grounds and maintaining that it deceived nobody. My sister said that it was not intended to deceive, but that as a matter of fact no man would ever detect it unless it had been put on with a shovel. I said that, on the contrary, given a certain condition, any man with a scientific training could detect it with his eyes shut.
‘Several of the girls asked me how. This was not unexpected.
‘I replied that he would only have to touch with his lips a cheek on which there was face-powder and he would know it instantly and infallibly.
‘My sister said she did not believe a word of it.
‘My answer was that I could easily prove it. Let them blindfold me. Then twelve times in succession let a cheek touch my lips. In each case I would state whether or not face-powder had been used, and would employ no other means of detection. I was so certain of it that I would gladly contribute a guinea to the charitable fund of the Tennyson Club for every mistake that I made.
‘My sister said that it was very easy to make an impossible offer that could not be accepted. Somewhat to my surprise the prettiest girl there said that she did not think it an impossible offer at all. It was a scientific experiment and might benefit a very good cause. I would never know the identity of the twelve who took part in the experiment. Its very publicity made it innocuous. But I should have to give them a little time to settle which were the twelve to be sacrificed and the order in which they were to present themselves. To this I at once agreed.
‘I was put in a chair and blindfolded—really blindfolded. I need hardly tell the members of this club that my claim to be able to detect the presence of face-powder in the way indicated was a piece of monumental spoof. This did not alarm me. I could not lose more than twelve guineas, and I was out to win our prize of one hundred and ten pounds. I could assign my mistakes to the fact that I had just smoked a cigarette, thus spoiling the delicacy of my perception.
‘I heard a sound of whispering and suppressed laughter as the girls held their consultation, and then the experiment began in silence, broken only by the rustle of feminine garments. Twelve times in succession I felt a gentle touch upon my lips, and never once did I fail to take advantage of it. I gave six decisions for face-powder and six against, and was just thinking how I would spend the hundred and ten pounds when I heard a roar of laughter. I tore off the bandage and asked what was the matter.
‘As soon as they could speak they told me. The only person that I had kissed on all twelve occasions was my own sister. Sometimes she had touched my lips with her cheek, on which there was face-powder, and sometimes with the back of her hand, on which there was none. And nine times I had been mistaken in my diagnosis. The treasurer of the charitable fund—she was the pretty girl of whom I have spoken—collected the money. Then they all resumed their merriment, and no excuse for my mistakes was ever heard.
‘All things considered, I think I have a fair claim for a consolation prize.’
‘The club does not give prizes of that description,’ said the chairman. ‘But I can offer you our sympathy, which is more valuable than mere money. I will now call upon Mr Quillian.’
Mr Quillian adjusted his pince-nez. ‘I will ask the chairman’s permission to argue that the whole of this competition is null and void, and that the prize should be added to that for the next competition.’
‘I will hear you, Mr Quillian, but you must be brief and to the point. You are not in court now, you know.’
‘If you please, I submit that a kiss has a psychical as well as a physical side, and that kisses for competition purposes are so deficient on the psychical or emotional side that they cannot be considered as kisses in the ordinary sense of the word.’
‘I do not admit that. Possibly the competition kiss does not come up to the standard demanded by a voluptuary like my learned friend, but it is still a kiss. If he kissed this match-box, it would be a kiss and could not be described otherwise, although presumably the emotional side would be absent. Enough of these legal quibbles. I will now ask Mr Matthews if he has been as successful in the part of Lothario as he invariably is in that of Lucullus.’
Mr Matthews, the club epicure, said that a decent upbringing had caused him to fail in a shameful enterprise, and gave his account of it.
He advertised in the name of Mrs Elsmere Twiss, giving an accommodation address, for a companion to an elderly lady. The salary offered was magnificent, and it was intimated that accomplishments would be less valued than youthful charm and an affectionate nature. Applicants were to enclose photographs.
Ten of the applicants—and it is to be feared that they were the ten whose photographs were the most attractive—were given an appointment with Mrs Elsmere Twiss at a West End hotel on a certain day. On the morning of that day Mr Matthews placed himself in the hands of a famous costumier, who had guaranteed to convert him into such an excellent imitation of an old lady that even at close quarters the disguise would not be detected. The costumier spent two hours on effecting a most artistic transformation and then, after submitting himself to the photographer in attendance, Mr Matthew drove off to the hotel. A passer-by who had happened to glance into the cab might have observed a sweet-looking old lady smoking a large cigar.
[Illustration: An older person wearing a Victorian-era hat with a train, a black dress with a fur collar, and white gloves, with a lit cigar in ‘her’ mouth. Caption: ‘A sweet-looking old lady smoking a large cigar.’]
He now proceeded to interview the selected ten, it being his abominable intention to kiss each applicant as he said good-bye to her.
The first applicant to be brought in from the waiting-room was Miss Grace Porter. Everything went well until the moment came for the affectionate good-bye. But then it chanced that Miss Porter dropped her handkerchief.
Now Mr Matthews had from the nursery upwards been taught habits of politeness, and his decent upbringing now proved his undoing. Forgetting that he was supposed to be an elderly lady and the girl’s prospective employer, he flew to pick up that handkerchief. And as he stooped his hat and wig fell off. For a few awful moments he remained stooping, waiting for Miss Porter’s scream. But no scream came. She had realised that Mrs Elsmere Twiss wore a wig, but not that she was a man. And the tactful Miss Porter had retired from the room.
Mr Matthews was safe, but his nerve was gone. He replaced the hat and wig, and sent a waiter with a message to the remaining applicants.
When Mr Matthews had finished his story two other members narrated how they had conspired together to get the game of kiss-in-the-ring played at a rectory garden party and had failed miserably.
‘Now the only member left,’ said the chairman, ‘is Mr Cunliffe, and as he protested against the problem, and will not have competed——’
‘Pardon me,’ said the sonorous and ecclesiastical voice of the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe. ‘I have not only competed, but I claim to be the winner.’
‘One moment. This is a shock, and some restorative seems indicated.’ The chairman fetched himself a brandy-and-soda from the side-table and resumed. ‘Now, if the reverend gentleman will continue the account of his exploits——’
‘It has pained me to hear to-night aspersions on the character of our admirable Leonard. I admit that when I first heard the problem I was myself inclined to misjudge him. But on examining it more closely I saw that never had he risen to a higher pitch of austere, though cynical, morality. I saw that he intended that this prize should be won by the most high-minded member of the club—by the man whose mind was the least obsessed by thoughts of frivolity or flirtation.’
‘Might I suggest,’ said the chairman, ‘that you should stop throwing bouquets to yourself, and tell us about these ten women that you’ve kissed?’
‘That is precisely my point. Leonard does not say women. He does not say girls. He says females. My aunt is interested in smoke-gray Persian cats. She breeds them and deals in them on behalf of a charity, and you will generally find thirty or forty of them at her house. It is unhygienic to kiss cats, but I kissed ten of them, and my aunt was greatly pleased at this unusual demonstration of affection for her pets. Some of them seemed slightly bored, but not one was offended. When a cat is offended it tells you so. They were of an age for courtship—by males of their own species. Briefly, the cats and I conformed in all respects with the requirements of the problem.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said the chairman, ‘the subtlety of our theologian has overcome you. Our cheque for one hundred and ten pounds will be drawn to the order of Mr Septimus Cunliffe.
‘I will now read out the problem which will next engage your attention. It is entitled “The Free Meal Problem.” It is required within the space of twenty-four consecutive hours to be the guest of one person at breakfast, of another at luncheon, and of a third at dinner, the host being in each case a person whom the competitor has not to his knowledge seen, and with whom he has held no communication previous to the sunrise preceding the meal. No direct request for a meal may be made and no remuneration may be given in return for any meal.
‘The adjudicator will be my learned friend Mr Quillian.’
No. III.
The Free Meal Problem
Probably no member of the Problem Club enjoyed his evening of chairmanship more than Mr Quillian, K.C., who occupied the chair at the forty-fifth meeting. He liked the position of authority, and he liked the opportunity to exercise the nicety and precision of his legal mind. In the Free Meal Problem, on which he was to adjudicate, the ingenious head-waiter Leonard had made the following demand:—
‘It is required within the space of twenty-four consecutive hours to be the guest of one person at breakfast, of another at luncheon, and of a third at dinner, the host being in each case a person whom the competitor has not to his knowledge seen, and with whom he has held no communication, previous to the sunrise preceding the meal. No direct request for a meal may be made, and no remuneration may be given in return for any meal.’
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mr Quillian, when he had read this out, ‘this is a problem where the question of definition may arise. For instance, a child in a railway carriage offers a traveller a small piece of deteriorated bun. We will suppose that the hour is eight in the morning and that the traveller has not partaken of food since the previous midnight. In the improbable event of his consuming the—er—proffered dainty, he has undoubtedly broken his fast. But can he be said to have breakfasted? All I can say is that if the question of definition should arise to-night I will do my best to deal with it on common-sense lines, accurately but without pedantry.’
The chairman then called upon Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., to give his experiences.
Wildersley was a man of middle age who, like many artists, retained something of the child in his composition. He was a big, good-tempered man of rather rugged appearance. The cigars provided by the club, good though they were, had no attraction for him. He was a pipe-smoker, and between his sentences he contrived to keep his pipe alight.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I mayn’t be a winner, but I can’t be far out. I’ll tell you how I set about it. You may have noticed that chaps in the country with little places—three or four acres—are often very keen about them. In fact, the smaller the place the keener they are. My frame-maker, who lives near Harrow, used to spend most of his Sunday afternoon sitting behind a curtain with the window open, listening to what passers-by had to say about the godetias in his front garden. His daughter sometimes sits for me, and she told me that if the compliments on the garden came in nicely it put him in such a good temper that he used to let the family off church in the evening. I decided to work on the pride that the owner or tenant has in his place. I went down to the outer suburban belt—the part that they call the real country—and put up at an hotel. Then bright and early one morning I started out with my painting contraptions. I very soon spotted a place that I knew must be picturesque, because it had got some clipped yews and a sun-dial; besides, as the gate informed me, it was called the Dream House, and that proved it. So in I went, pitched my easel half-way up the drive, and got to work. An old gardener came up and asked me if I knew that I was trespassing. So I gave him a shilling, my card, and my apologies. I told him to keep the shilling and to deliver the card and apologies to his master as soon as that gentleman got down. That seemed to meet the case. In half an hour I had knocked off something showy, and then down the drive towards me came the owner, all smiles and Norfolk jacket, with a Cocker spaniel trailing behind him. I gave him the sketch, and he was as pleased as Punch about it. He took me round the garden to point out other picturesque spots, and then brought me into the house to introduce me to his family. Nice people, very. Almost before I knew it I was breakfasting with them, and being hungry I was pleased to find that they took breakfast seriously. They’d have kept me there all day if I could have stopped, but the business of this problem required me to move on.
‘At half-past twelve I played the same trick again six miles up the road. Once more it worked perfectly. My hostess was an old lady of the almost extinct type that knows how to live. Everything about the place was just exactly. The luncheon was just exactly. And she gave me a very fine old Amontillado—a wine that we don’t see enough of nowadays. I can’t say whether it was the sherry or the success, but when I left I felt that I had got the club’s cheque for one hundred and ten pounds in my pocket and was listening to the chairman’s kindly words of congratulation. My mistake, of course. Begin well, but not too well. If you begin too well, mistrust it.
‘About seven that evening I was painting a garden which was really rather good in that light. (I’d sent in my card and got permission.) As I was finishing the job and rather wrapped up in it I heard a Scotch accent behind me, saying that the sketch was “no bad” and “verra like.” He and I discussed the comparative merits of painting and photography. For accuracy he “prefaired the photograph, but then it didna give the colours.” As before, I presented the sketch, and I still think that he was pleased with it. He asked me to sign it, so as to prove to his friends that he “wasna lying” when he said that it was by a professed painter, and admitted that he would not grudge the money it would cost for framing and glazing. He then said he made no doubt I would be hurrying home for my dinner, and he would wish me good-evening. And so, in a manner of speaking, I fell at the last hurdle. Still, I suppose I score the breakfast and luncheon.’
The Hon. James Feldane addressed the chairman:—
‘I’d like your ruling on that point, sir. And it’s quite impartial, because I am not competing myself this time.’
‘Not competing?’ said the chairman. ‘Might I ask what stopped you? Hitherto you have been one of the keenest and most sporting of our members, in spite of your air of—er—lassitude.’
‘What stopped me,’ said Jimmy simply, ‘was breakfast. Breakfast is bad enough at any time, especially if you’ve been rather late and busy the night before. But to breakfast with an absolute stranger on chance food, and to go out and dig for the invitation first—well, it was unthinkable. I’m sorry to spoil old Wildersley’s score, and if he’d bunged me one of his sketches instead of chucking them about the suburbs I might have been able to stifle the voice of conscience. As it is, I feel bound to raise the objection that he gave remuneration for the breakfast and luncheon—to wit, two sketches.’
‘The gift of the sketches was precedent to the meals and was unconditional, as we see by the fact that the third sketch produced no meal. The sketches were a lure, and the use of a lure is not prohibited. They were not remuneration given in return for a meal. I should not even say that the meals were remuneration for the sketches; they were merely an expression of gratitude. Mr Feldane’s objection is disallowed.’
That habitual non-starter Mr Harding Pope, M.P., was now asked if he had made his choice between competition or resignation.
‘I have competed, of course. But I have only the most dismal of failures to record. I was down at my constituency, and I picked out three new residents on whom I had a plausible excuse for calling. I ’phoned the first to ask if he could see me at nine, apologising for the earliness of the hour. He said that the time suited him very well, and that, as a matter of fact, he always breakfasted at seven, so as to begin work early. The man whom I called on at lunch-time could only give me ten minutes, he said, as he was lunching out. The third did ask me to dinner, but not on that day. And probably all three have put me down as a man who calls at tactless and inconvenient times. I can only say that I am ready to suffer far worse things for the privilege of retaining my membership.’
Sir Charles Bunford had perhaps shown rather more strategy, but had only one degree less of failure to report. He had obtained letters of introduction to three noted food-cranks, all of them ardent proselytisers. To the first he represented himself as suffering from a list of symptoms. Sir Charles had memorised them carefully from the advertisement of a patent pill. He said that he was sorry to call at so early an hour, but after a night of suffering he had determined that he would begin on a new system of diet at once.
‘For instance,’ he said, ‘what ought I to have for breakfast this morning? What do you have yourself?’
The food-crank said that he would not only tell him; he would ask him to share his simple but healthful fare.
At this point in his narrative the chairman interposed.
‘This is a case where the question of definition may arise. I must ask you to tell us, Sir Charles, what the food-crank gave you for breakfast.’
‘It was not so much breakfast as a premature dessert with a hospital flavour to it. It consisted of uncooked fruit and lessons in the difficult art of mastication. With that we drank a special sort of coffee, from which all deleterious matter, including the taste of coffee, had been entirely removed. But the question of definition need not worry you, as I can’t claim to have won. The second food-crank, whom I visited at lunch-time, told me that his chief secret was never to eat in the middle of the day. The third, whom I tackled in the evening, was so ascetic in his conversation and so extremely anxious to keep me out of his dining-room, that I formed a suspicion, perhaps unworthy, that the man’s practice differed somewhat from his preaching. So I’ve failed, but it was quite an amusing day.’
That great epicure, Mr Matthews, had not competed, and gave his reasons with a solemnity that contrasted with his usual cheeriness.
‘Thank Heaven,’ he said, ‘I have a sophisticated appetite! Thank Heaven again I have an over-educated palate! Starvation for twenty-four hours I might have possibly faced. But the horrors of casual hospitality were more than I could risk.’