Beasts and Super-Beasts
unobtrusive public service within the province of his department.
“If he insists on feeding the infant jaguar himself, in defiance of its
mother’s wishes, there may be another by-election in the north,” said one
of his colleagues, with a hopeful inflection in his voice. “By-elections
are not very desirable at present, but we must not be selfish.”
As a matter of fact the strike collapsed peacefully without any outside
intervention. The majority of the keepers had become so attached to
their charges that they returned to work of their own accord.
And then the nation and the newspapers turned with a sense of relief to
happier things. It seemed as if a new era of contentment was about to
dawn. Everybody had struck who could possibly want to strike or who
could possibly be cajoled or bullied into striking, whether they wanted
to or not. The lighter and brighter side of life might now claim some
attention. And conspicuous among the other topics that sprang into
sudden prominence was the pending Falvertoon divorce suit.
The Duke of Falvertoon was one of those human _hors d’œuvres_ that
stimulate the public appetite for sensation without giving it much to
feed on. As a mere child he had been precociously brilliant; he had
declined the editorship of the _Anglian Review_ at an age when most boys
are content to have declined _mensa_, a table, and though he could not
claim to have originated the Futurist movement in literature, his
“Letters to a possible Grandson,” written at the age of fourteen, had
attracted considerable notice. In later days his brilliancy had been
less conspicuously displayed. During a debate in the House of Lords on
affairs in Morocco, at a moment when that country, for the fifth time in
seven years, had brought half Europe to the verge of war, he had
interpolated the remark “a little Moor and how much it is,” but in spite
of the encouraging reception accorded to this one political utterance he
was never tempted to a further display in that direction. It began to be
generally understood that he did not intend to supplement his numerous
town and country residences by living overmuch in the public eye.
And then had come the unlooked-for tidings of the imminent proceedings
for divorce. And such a divorce! There were cross-suits and allegations
and counter-allegations, charges of cruelty and desertion, everything in
fact that was necessary to make the case one of the most complicated and
sensational of its kind. And the number of distinguished people involved
or cited as witnesses not only embraced both political parties in the
realm and several Colonial governors, but included an exotic contingent
from France, Hungary, the United States of North America, and the Grand
Duchy of Baden. Hotel accommodation of the more expensive sort began to
experience a strain on its resources. “It will be quite like the Durbar
without the elephants,” exclaimed an enthusiastic lady who, to do her
justice, had never seen a Durbar. The general feeling was one of
thankfulness that the last of the strikes had been got over before the
date fixed for the hearing of the great suit.
As a reaction from the season of gloom and industrial strife that had
just passed away the agencies that purvey and stage-manage sensations
laid themselves out to do their level best on this momentous occasion.
Men who had made their reputations as special descriptive writers were
mobilised from distant corners of Europe and the further side of the
Atlantic in order to enrich with their pens the daily printed records of
the case; one word-painter, who specialised in descriptions of how
witnesses turn pale under cross-examination, was summoned hurriedly back
from a famous and prolonged murder trial in Sicily, where indeed his
talents were being decidedly wasted. Thumb-nail artists and expert kodak
manipulators were retained at extravagant salaries, and special dress
reporters were in high demand. An enterprising Paris firm of costume
builders presented the defendant Duchess with three special creations, to
be worn, marked, learned, and extensively reported at various critical
stages of the trial; and as for the cinematograph agents, their industry
and persistence was untiring. Films representing the Duke saying
good-bye to his favourite canary on the eve of the trial were in
readiness weeks before the event was due to take place; other films
depicted the Duchess holding imaginary consultations with fictitious
lawyers or making a light repast off specially advertised vegetarian
sandwiches during a supposed luncheon interval. As far as human
foresight and human enterprise could go nothing was lacking to make the
trial a success.
Two days before the case was down for hearing the advance reporter of an
important syndicate obtained an interview with the Duke for the purpose
of gleaning some final grains of information concerning his Grace’s
personal arrangements during the trial.
“I suppose I may say this will be one of the biggest affairs of its kind
during the lifetime of a generation,” began the reporter as an excuse for
the unsparing minuteness of detail that he was about to make quest for.
“I suppose so—if it comes off,” said the Duke lazily.
“If?” queried the reporter, in a voice that was something between a gasp
and a scream.
“The Duchess and I are both thinking of going on strike,” said the Duke.
“Strike!”
The baleful word flashed out in all its old hideous familiarity. Was
there to be no end to its recurrence?
“Do you mean,” faltered the reporter, “that you are contemplating a
mutual withdrawal of the charges?”
“Precisely,” said the Duke.
“But think of the arrangements that have been made, the special
reporting, the cinematographs, the catering for the distinguished foreign
witnesses, the prepared music-hall allusions; think of all the money that
has been sunk—”
“Exactly,” said the Duke coldly, “the Duchess and I have realised that it
is we who provide the material out of which this great far-reaching
industry has been built up. Widespread employment will be given and
enormous profits made during the duration of the case, and we, on whom
all the stress and racket falls, will get—what? An unenviable notoriety
and the privilege of paying heavy legal expenses whichever way the
verdict goes. Hence our decision to strike. We don’t wish to be
reconciled; we fully realise that it is a grave step to take, but unless
we get some reasonable consideration out of this vast stream of wealth
and industry that we have called into being we intend coming out of court
and staying out. Good afternoon.”
The news of this latest strike spread universal dismay. Its
inaccessibility to the ordinary methods of persuasion made it peculiarly
formidable. If the Duke and Duchess persisted in being reconciled the
Government could hardly be called on to interfere. Public opinion in the
shape of social ostracism might be brought to bear on them, but that was
as far as coercive measures could go. There was nothing for it but a
conference, with powers to propose liberal terms. As it was, several of
the foreign witnesses had already departed and others had telegraphed
cancelling their hotel arrangements.
The conference, protracted, uncomfortable, and occasionally acrimonious,
succeeded at last in arranging for a resumption of litigation, but it was
a fruitless victory. The Duke, with a touch of his earlier precocity,
died of premature decay a fortnight before the date fixed for the new
trial.
THE ROMANCERS
It was autumn in London, that blessed season between the harshness of
winter and the insincerities of summer; a trustful season when one buys
bulbs and sees to the registration of one’s vote, believing perpetually
in spring and a change of Government.
Morton Crosby sat on a bench in a secluded corner of Hyde Park, lazily
enjoying a cigarette and watching the slow grazing promenade of a pair of
snow-geese, the male looking rather like an albino edition of the
russet-hued female. Out of the corner of his eye Crosby also noted with
some interest the hesitating hoverings of a human figure, which had
passed and repassed his seat two or three times at shortening intervals,
like a wary crow about to alight near some possibly edible morsel.
Inevitably the figure came to an anchorage on the bench, within easy
talking distance of its original occupant. The uncared-for clothes, the
aggressive, grizzled beard, and the furtive, evasive eye of the new-comer
bespoke the professional cadger, the man who would undergo hours of
humiliating tale-spinning and rebuff rather than adventure on half a
day’s decent work.
For a while the new-comer fixed his eyes straight in front of him in a
strenuous, unseeing gaze; then his voice broke out with the insinuating
inflection of one who has a story to retail well worth any loiterer’s
while to listen to.
“It’s a strange world,” he said.
As the statement met with no response he altered it to the form of a
question.
“I daresay you’ve found it to be a strange world, mister?”
“As far as I am concerned,” said Crosby, “the strangeness has worn off in
the course of thirty-six years.”
“Ah,” said the greybeard, “I could tell you things that you’d hardly
believe. Marvellous things that have really happened to me.”
“Nowadays there is no demand for marvellous things that have really
happened,” said Crosby discouragingly; “the professional writers of
fiction turn these things out so much better. For instance, my
neighbours tell me wonderful, incredible things that their Aberdeens and
chows and borzois have done; I never listen to them. On the other hand,
I have read ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ three times.”
The greybeard moved uneasily in his seat; then he opened up new country.
“I take it that you are a professing Christian,” he observed.
“I am a prominent and I think I may say an influential member of the
Mussulman community of Eastern Persia,” said Crosby, making an excursion
himself into the realms of fiction.
The greybeard was obviously disconcerted at this new check to
introductory conversation, but the defeat was only momentary.
“Persia. I should never have taken you for a Persian,” he remarked, with
a somewhat aggrieved air.
“I am not,” said Crosby; “my father was an Afghan.”
“An Afghan!” said the other, smitten into bewildered silence for a
moment. Then he recovered himself and renewed his attack.
“Afghanistan. Ah! We’ve had some wars with that country; now, I
daresay, instead of fighting it we might have learned something from it.
A very wealthy country, I believe. No real poverty there.”
He raised his voice on the word “poverty” with a suggestion of intense
feeling. Crosby saw the opening and avoided it.
“It possesses, nevertheless, a number of highly talented and ingenious
beggars,” he said; “if I had not spoken so disparagingly of marvellous
things that have really happened I would tell you the story of Ibrahim
and the eleven camel-loads of blotting-paper. Also I have forgotten
exactly how it ended.”
“My own life-story is a curious one,” said the stranger, apparently
stifling all desire to hear the history of Ibrahim; “I was not always as
you see me now.”
“We are supposed to undergo complete change in the course of every seven
years,” said Crosby, as an explanation of the foregoing announcement.
“I mean I was not always in such distressing circumstances as I am at
present,” pursued the stranger doggedly.
“That sounds rather rude,” said Crosby stiffly, “considering that you are
at present talking to a man reputed to be one of the most gifted
conversationalists of the Afghan border.”
“I don’t mean in that way,” said the greybeard hastily; “I’ve been very