VISIT TO MARS.
So Mr. PUNCH, holding TIME by the forelock, continued his journey.
"Where are we now?" asked the more elderly gentleman.
"My good friend," replied the Sage of Fleet Street, "we are approaching Mars, which as you know, or should know (if your education has been completed under the supervision of the School Board) is sometimes called the Red Planet."
"So I have often heard. But why?"
"That is what we shall soon discover. But now keep quiet, as we have arrived."
With the gentlest of gentle shocks Mr. Punch and his companion found themselves on a mound, which they soon recognised as a mountain. Looking below them, they saw masses of scarlet, apparently in motion. It was then that TIME regretted that he had not brought with him his telescope.
"It would have been so useful," he murmured, "and if a little bulky, what of that? Surely Mr. Punch is accustomed to make light of everything?"
"See, some one is approaching," observed the Sage of Fleet Street, whose eye-sight was better than that of his companion. And sure enough a lively young officer at this moment put in an appearance, and saluted.
"Glad to see you both," said he; "and, by order of the General Commander-in-Chief, you are to make what use you please of me. I am entirely at your service."
"Why, you speak English!" exclaimed Mr. Punch.
"That is so!" returned the young officer in American; "and why not? Besides I know French, Russian, German, and all the languages spoken on your little globe, to say nothing of the dialects used by those who inhabit the rest of the planets. It's our system. Nowadays, a man in the Service is expected to be up in everything. If he wasn't, how on earth could he fight, or do anything else in a satisfactory fashion? And now let us bustle along."
"But first," put in TIME, who did not relish being silent, "will you kindly tell us what those masses of colour are?"
"Certainly. They are troops. We put them in scarlet in peace, but they appear in their shirtsleeves the moment war's declared. Novel idea, isn't it?"
And then the pleasant-spoken young officer led the way to a lift, and, touching a button, the three descended from the top of the mountain to the valley beneath.
"On the counterweight system," explained the A.D.C. "We cribbed the idea from Folkestone, and Lynmouth. And here, Mr. Punch, is something that will interest you. We absolutely howled at that sketch of yours showing the mechanical policeman. Don't you know—old woman puts a penny in the slot and stops the traffic? And here's the idea developed. See that mechanical sentry. I put a penny in the slot, and he pays me the usual compliment. He shoulders arms, as I am only a captain—worse luck! If I were of field rank he would come smartly to the present."
And sure enough the mechanical soldier saluted.
"It's not half a bad idea," continued the agreeable A.D.C. "You see sentry-go is awfully unpopular, and a figure of iron in times of peace is every bit as good as a man of brass. The pence go to the Canteen Fund along with the fines for drunkenness. It seems reasonable enough that a fellow, if he wants to be saluted, should pay for the swagger. If a fellow likes to turn out the guard, he can do it with sixpence—but then of course he hasn't the right unless his rank permits it—see?"
By this time the mechanical soldier had returned to the slope, and was parading his beat in a somewhat jerky manner.
"And now what would you fellows like to do?" asked the A.D.C. "Pardon the familiarity, but nowadays age doesn't count, does it? Everybody's young. One of the best Juliets I ever knew had turned sixty, and played to a Romeo who was twenty years her senior. Nothing like that down below, I suppose?"
"Nothing," returned Mr. Punch.
"So I have always understood. Well, where shall we go first?"
"Anywhere you like," said the Sage of Fleet Street. "But are you sure that we are not unduly trespassing on your time?"
"Not at all—only too delighted. It's all in the day's work. We have a lot of distinguished visitors that we have to take round. I like it myself, but some of our fellows kick against it. Of course it doesn't refer to you two; but you can fancy what a nuisance it must be for all our fellows to have to get up in full rig, and bow and scrape, and march and countermarch, and go through the whole bag of tricks, to some third-rate Royalty? Ah! they are happier off at Aldershot, aren't they?"
"No doubt," was the prompt reply.
Mr. Punch and Father TIME had now entered a barrack square, wherein a number of trembling recruits were standing in front of a sergeant.
"I am just putting them through their paces, Sir," said he: "they are a bit rusty in bowing drill."
The A.D.C. nodded, and, turning on his heel, explained to the visitors that it was the object of the Authorities to introduce as much as possible of the civil element into the Army.
"You will see this idea carried out a little further in the institution we are now entering," he added, as the three walked into a building that looked like a handsome Club-house. At the door was an officer in the uniform of the Guards.
"Hullo, HUGHIE," said the A.D.C., "on duty to-day?"
"As hall-porter. CHARLIE is smoking-room waiter. I say, do you want to take your friends round?"
"Well, I should like to let them get a glimpse of TOMMY ATKINS at his ease."
"All right, you can pass. But, I say, just warn them to keep quiet when they get near him. We have had no end of a time to smooth him down."
Thus warned, the Sage and Father TIME passed through the hall and entered the smoking-room. Stretched at full length on a couple of chairs was a Private, lazily sipping a glass of brandy and soda-water, that had just been supplied to him by an officer of his own battalion. On withdrawing, the A.D.C. greeted the commissioned waiter who answered to the name of CHARLIE.
"Rather rough, eh?" said he, with a glance at a tray containing a cork-screw and an empty bottle.
"A bit better than Bermuda. If we don't coerce them, we must be polite. After all, fagging turned out the heroes of Winchester and Westminster, and wasn't Waterloo won on the playing-fields of Eton?"
"Rather a dangerous game, isn't it?" observed Mr. Punch. "You'll have to fall in next, and TOMMY will inspect you, and give you a couple of days' extra drill for not having cleaned your rifle!"
"Well, if I don't look after my arms, I shall have merited the punishment; and, after all, it will only be a case of turn and turn about," was the reply. Then the A.D.C. added, "Hang me, too, I believe, with all we fellows have to do nowadays, that if we did change with TOMMY ATKINS, we, and not he, would have the best of the bargain!"
Leaving the Soldiers' Club, Mr. Punch and Father TIME continued their journey. They had not proceeded far, when the A.D.C. invited them to enter a building known as the Museum.
"It really is a most useful and interesting institution," said the officer of the Planet Mars. "Here, you see, we have portrait models of the officer of the past and present. In the past, you will notice, he sacrificed everything to athletic sports—if he could fence, shoot, hunt, and play cricket, polo, and football, he was quite satisfied. His successor of to-day devotes all his time to study. He must master the higher branches of mathematics before he is considered fit to inspect the rear-rank of a company, and know the modern languages before he can be entrusted with the command of a left half-battalion. Here again we have the uniform of an officer in peace and war—swagger and gold lace on the one side, and stern simplicity and kharki on the other."
In another room Mr. Punch and Father TIME discovered that everyone was fast asleep. There was a Cabinet Minister supported by two minor officials—all three of them absolutely unconscious. There were any number of Generals decorated from belt to neck—any quantity of higher-grade clerks—one and all slumbering: "This is called the Intelligence Department of the Army," explained the A.D.C. "You have nothing like it in England?"
"Nothing!" returned Mr. Punch, as he disappeared.