The Sunny Side (12 page)

At twelve-stone-seven I shouted through the door to Celia that I shouldn't be long, and that I should want the porridge after all…

At four-stone-six I said that I had better have an egg or two as well.

At three ounces I stepped off, feeling rather shaken.

 

I have not used the weighing-machine since; partly because I do not believe it is trustworthy, partly because I spent the rest of my leave in bed with a severe cold. We are now in London again, where I am putting on flesh. At least the doctor who slapped me about yesterday said that I must, and I promised him that I would.

A Question of Light

As soon as Celia had got a cheque-book of her own (and I had explained the mysteries of “——& Co.” to her), she looked round for a safe investment of her balance, which amounted to several pounds. My offers, first of an old stocking and afterwards of mines, mortgages and aerated breads, were rejected at once.

“I'll leave a little in the bank in case of accidents,” she said, “and the rest must go somewhere absolutely safe and earn me five per cent. Otherwise they shan't have it.”

We did what we could for her; we offered the money to archdeacons and other men of pronounced probity; and finally we invested it in the Blanktown Electric Light Company. Blanktown is not its real name, of course; but I do not like to let out any information which may be of value to Celia's enemies—the wicked ones who are trying to snatch her little fortune from her. The world, we feel, is a dangerous place for a young woman with money.

“Can't I
possibly
lose it now?” she asked.

“Only in two ways,” I said. “Blanktown might disappear in the night, or the inhabitants might give up using electric light.”

It seemed safe enough. At the same time we watched the newspapers anxiously for details of the latest inventions; and anybody who happened to mention when dining with us that he was experimenting with a new and powerful illuminant was handed his hat at once.

You have Blanktown, then, as the depository of Celia's fortune. Now it comes on the scene in another guise. I made the announcement with some pride at breakfast yesterday.

“My dear,” I said, “I have been asked to deliver a lecture.”

“Whatever on?” asked Celia.

“Anything I like. The last person lectured on ‘The Minor Satellites of Jupiter,' and the one who comes after me is doing ‘The Architecture of the Byzantine Period,' so I can take something in between.”

“Like ‘Frostbites,'” said Celia helpfully. “But I don't quite understand. Where is it, and why?”

“The Blanktown Literary and Philosophical
Society ask me to lecture to them at Blanktown. The man who was coming is ill.”

“But why
you
particularly?”

“One comes down to me in the end,” I said modestly.

“I expect it's because of my electric lights. Do they give you any money for it?”

“They ask me to name my fee.”

“Then say a thousand pounds, and lecture on the need for more electric light. Fancy if I got six per cent!”

“This is a very sordid conversation,” I said. “If I agree to lecture at all, it will be simply because I feel that I have a message to deliver…I will now retire into the library and consider what that message is to be.”

I placed the encyclopaedia handy and sat down at my desk. I had already grasped the fact that the title of my discourse was the important thing. In the list of the Society's lectures sent to me there was hardly one whose title did not impress the imagination in advance. I must be equally impressive…

After a little thought I began to write.

“WASPS AND THEIR YOUNG

“Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 8th.

“Ladies and Gentlemen—”

“Well,” said Celia, drifting in, “how's it going?”

I showed her how far I had got.

“I thought you always began, ‘My Lord Mayor, Ladies and Gentlemen,'” she said.

“Only if the Lord Mayor's there.”

“But how will you know?”

“Yes, that's rather awkward. I shall have to ask the Secretary beforehand.”

I began again.

“WASPS AND THEIR YOUNG

“
Lecture delivered, etc
…

“My Lord Mayor, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen—
”

It looked much better.

“What about Baronets?” said Celia. “There's sure to be lots.”

“Yes, this is going to be difficult. I shall have to have a long talk with the Secretary…How's this?—'My Lord Mayor, Lords, Baronets, Ladies and Gentlemen and Sundries.' That's got in everybody.”

“That's all right. And I wanted to ask you: Have you got any lantern slides?”

“They're not necessary.”

“But they're much more fun. Perhaps they'll have some old ones of Vesuvius you can work in. Well, good-bye.” And she drifted out.

I went on thinking.

“No,” I said to myself, “I'm on the wrong tack.” So I began again:—

“SOME YORKSHIRE POT-HOLES

“
Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 8th
.

“
My Lord Mayor, my Lords
—”

“I don't want to interrupt,” said Celia coming in suddenly, “but—oh, what's a pot-hole?”

“A curious underground cavern sometimes found in the North.”

“Aren't caverns always underground? But you're busy. Will you be in for lunch?”

“I shall be writing my lecture all day,” I said busily.

At lunch I decided to have a little financial talk with Celia.

“What I feel is this,” I said. “At most I can ask ten guineas for my lecture. Now my expense all the
way to the North, with a night at an hotel, will be at least five pounds.”

“Five-pounds-ten profit,” said Celia. “Not bad.”

“Ah, but wait. I have never spoken in public before. In an immense hall, whose acoustics—”

“Who are they?”

“Well, never mind. What I mean is that I shall want some elocution lessons. Say five, at a guinea each.”

“That still leaves five shillings.”

“If only it left that, it might be worth it. But there's a new white waistcoat. An audience soon gets tired of a lecture, and then there's nothing for the wakeful ones to concentrate on but the white waistcoat of the lecturer. It must be of a virgin whiteness. Say thirty-five shillings. So I lose thirty shillings by it. Can I afford so much?”

“But you gain the acoustics and the waistcoat.”

“True. Of course, if you insist—”

“Oh, you
must
,” said Celia.

So I returned to the library. By tea-time I had got as far as this:—

“ADVENTURES WITH A CAMERA IN SOMALILAND

“
Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philo
—”

And then I had an idea. This time a brilliant one.

“Celia,” I said at tea, “I have been wondering whether I ought to take advantage of your generosity.”

“What generosity?”

“In letting me deliver this lecture.”

“It isn't generosity, it's swank. I want to be able to tell everybody.”

“Ah, but the sacrifices you are making.”

“Am I?” said Celia, with interest.

“Of course you are. Consider. I ask a fee of ten guineas. They cannot possibly charge more than a shilling a head to listen to me. It would be robbery. So that if there is to be a profit at all, as presumably they anticipate, I shall have a gate of at least two hundred and fifty.”

“I should
hope
so.”

“Two hundred and fifty. And what does that mean? It means that at seven-thirty o'clock on the night of December the 8th two hundred and fifty residents of Blanktown will
turn out the electric lights in their drawing-rooms…
PERHAPS EVEN
IN THEIR HALLS…and proceed to the lecture-room. True, the lecture-room will be lit up—a small compensation—but not for long. When the slides of Vesuvius are thrown upon the screen—”

Celia was going pale.

“But if it's not you,” she faltered, “it will be somebody else.”

“No; if I refuse, it will be too late then to get a substitute. Besides, they must have tried everybody else before they got down to me…Celia it is noble of you to sacrifice—”

“Don't go!” she cried in anguish.

I gave a deep sigh.

“For your sake,” I said, “I won't.”

So that settles it. If my lecture on “First Principles in Homoeopathy” is ever to be delivered, it must be delivered elsewhere.

Enter Bingo

Before I introduce Bingo I must say a word for Humphrey, his sparring partner. Humphrey found himself on the top of my stocking last December, put there, I fancy, by Celia, though she says it was Father Christmas. He is a small yellow dog, with glass optics, and the label round his neck said, “His eyes move.” When I had finished the oranges and sweets and nuts, when Celia and I had pulled the crackers, Humphrey remained over to sit on the music-stool, with the air of one playing the pianola. In this position he found his uses. There are times when a husband may legitimately be annoyed; at these times it was pleasant to kick Humphrey off his stool on to the divan, to stand on the divan and kick him on to the sofa, to stand on the sofa and kick him on to the bookcase; and then, feeling another man, to replace him on the music-stool and apologize to Celia. It was thus that he lost his tail.

Here we say good-bye to Humphrey for the present; Bingo claims our attention. Bingo arrived as an absurd little black tub of puppiness, warranted (by a pedigree as long as your arm) to grow into a Pekinese. It was Celia's idea to call him Bingo; because (a ridiculous reason) as a child she had had a poodle called Bingo. The less said about poodles the better; why rake up the past?

“If there is the slightest chance of Bingo—of this animal growing up into a poodle,” I said, “he leaves my house at once.”

“
My
poodle,” said Celia, “was a lovely dog.”

(Of course, she was only a child then. She wouldn't know.)

“The point is this,” I said firmly, “our puppy is meant for a Pekinese—the pedigree says so. From the look of him it will be touch and go whether he pulls it off. To call him by the name of a late poodle may just be the deciding factor. Now I hate poodles; I hate pet dogs. A Pekinese is not a pet dog; he is an undersized lion. Our puppy may grow into a small lion, or a mastiff, or anything like that; but I will
not
have him a poodle. If we call him Bingo, will you promise never to mention in his presence that you once had a—a—you know what I mean—called Bingo?”

She promised. I have forgiven her for having once loved a poodle. I beg you to forget about it. There is now only one Bingo, and he is a Pekinese puppy.

However, after we had decided to call him Bingo, a difficulty arose. Bingo's pedigree is full of names like Li Hung Chang and Sun Yat Sen; had we chosen a sufficiently Chinese name for him? Apart from what was due to his ancestors, were we encouraging him enough to grow into a Pekinese? What was there Oriental about “Bingo”?

In itself, apparently, little. And Bingo himself must have felt this; for his tail continued to be nothing but a rat's tail, and his body to be nothing but a fat tub, and his head to be almost the head of any little puppy in the world. He felt it deeply. When I ragged him about it he tried to eat my ankles. I had only to go into the room in which he was, and murmur, “Rat's tail,” to myself, or (more offensive still) “Chewed string,” for him to rush at me. “Where, O Bingo, is that delicate feather curling gracefully over the back, which was the pride and glory of thy great-grandfather? Is the caudal affix of the rodent thy apology for it?” And Bingo would whimper with shame.

Then we began to look him up in the map.

I found a Chinese town called “Ning-po,” which strikes me as very much like “Bing-go,” and Celia found another one called “Yung-Ping,” which might just as well be “Yung-Bing,” the obvious name of Bingo's heir when he has one. These facts being communicated to Bingo, his nose immediately began to go back a little and his tub to develop something of a waist. But what finally decided him was a discovery of mine made only yesterday.
There is a Japanese province called Bing
o. Japanese, not Chinese, it is true; but at least it is Oriental. In any case conceive one's pride in realizing suddenly that one has been called after a province and not after a poodle. It has determined Bingo unalterably to grow up in the right way.

You have Bingo now definitely a Pekinese. That being so, I may refer to his ancestors, always an object of veneration among these Easterns. I speak of (hats off, please!) Ch. Goodwood Lo.

Of course you know (I didn't myself till last week) that “Ch.” stands for “Champion.” On the male side Champion Goodwood Lo is Bingo's great-great-grandfather. On the female side the same animal is Bingo's great-grandfather. One
couldn't be a poodle after that. A fortnight after Bingo came to us we found in a Pekinese book a photograph of Goodwood Lo. How proud we all were! Then we saw above it, “Celebrities of the Past. The Late—”

Champion Goodwood Lo was no more! In one moment Bingo had lost both his great-grandfather and his great-great-grandfather!

We broke it to him as gently as possible, but the double shock was too much, and he passed the evening in acute depression. Annoyed with my tactlessness in letting him know anything about it, I kicked Humphrey off his stool. Humphrey, I forgot to say, has a squeak if kicked in the right place. He squeaked.

Bingo, at that time still uncertain of his destiny, had at least the courage of the lion. Just for a moment he hesitated. Then with a pounce he was upon Humphrey.