THE QUESTIONABLE ALIEN.
William, my hitherto unventuresome friend William, is going abroad. I cannot be certain why. Perhaps he no longer feels his heroism equal to the strain of living in a country fit for heroes. It may be that he has unwittingly incubated a bacillus which figures in novels as the "Call of the Wild." Anyhow, William is going abroad—so much so that, if he went any farther, he would be on his way home again.
I need not say that I felt called upon to help William through this trying period, and our preparations proceeded satisfactorily until the clever geographers who arrange these things nowadays discovered that William could fetch the Far East by way of the Far West. Then the international complications set in. First, William's passport—a healthy enough document at the start—had to be carried round the diplomatic quarter of London until it broke out into a thick rash of supplementary visas. Next we sought out the moneychangers in their dens, to transmute William's viaticum bit by bit into four foreign currencies. Then a Great Power through whose territory William will have to pass apparently was nervous of his approach and instituted a grand inquisition into the status and antecedents of the Alien (William).
We unfolded the paper on our table and stared at it aghast. Its area was rather less than a square yard; in colour it favoured the yolk of bad eggs; while all over its broad expanse were ruled compartments, half of them filled with questions that no gentleman would ask another, the other half left blank for William's indignant replies. We managed with great difficulty to squeeze into the panel provided all his baptismal titles—there are four of these besides "William"—and then attacked the first real poser:—
Are you in possession of 100 dollars, or less? If less, by how much?
William groaned. "Reach me down Todhunter's Arithmetic, will you?" said he.
I did so, and turned up the Money Market page of our daily paper. Nothing was heard for the next five minutes but grunts and sighs of despair. We then gave it up on the understanding that William must make a point of winning heavily at bridge—or would it be euchre?—on the way across.
Have you ever been in the territory of the Great Power before?
"No," breathed William devoutly, "and, please Heaven, it shan't occur again!"
What is your reason for coming now?
"I suppose I'd better tell the truth," he said; "they'll never believe me if I say I've come to put Dempsey up to that right drive of Carpentier's."
Were you ever in prison, an almshouse, or an institution for the treatment of the insane? If so, which?
"Take your time, William," I said; "think carefully."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Do they want to know all the gaols and asylums I've been in," he asked, "or only the more recent?"
Are you a polygamist?
William turned deathly pale. He then fixed me with a terrible stare of accusation and reproach.
"No, no, William," I protested frantically, "I assure you on my honour that I haven't been talking."
This assurance calmed him somewhat. Bit by bit the colour came back to his cheeks and at length he was able to remark more hopefully: "Well, there's this to be said for it, most of my wives are sportswomen. I don't think they'll give me away."
Are you an anarchist?
"No," answered William frankly, "but I possess a brother-in-law who has leanings towards Rosicrucianism. Next, please."
The next was a very searching, legally-worded inquiry. It demanded at great length to be informed whether William was a person who advocated the overthrow by force or violence of the Government of the Great Power, or all forms of Law, or believed in the propriety of assassinating any or every officer of the Great Power because of his official character.
William took up the paper-knife with an expression of sheer animal ferocity. "Yes," he hissed, "the whole lot. Torturing them, too!"—and fell back into his chair with peal upon peal of maniacal laughter.
* * * * * * *
William was practically a wreck before the inquisition came to an end. He had not even sufficient spirit left to fly at me for entering his distinguishing marks as "a general air of honesty, tempered by a slight inward squint."
Runner. "Beautiful scent in cover to-day, Sir."
Post-War Sportsman. "Oh—er—is there? I haven't noticed it, but I've got a cold in my head."
"The Board of Trade have awarded a silver cup to Mr. John Bruce, D.S.C., skipper of the steam drifter Pansy, of Wick, in recognition of the promptitude and ability with which he rescued the domestic servant, Strawberry Bank, Hardgate, pleaded guilty to having bemusic, stolen a gold safety pin, a fountain pen, two pairs of gloves, two blouses and several other articles of clothing."—Fishing News.
We never believe these fishing stories.