THE PICTURE POSTCARDS.
A little family party, with an acquaintance or two added, sat in deck chairs (at twopence each) at the head of the pier. Their complexions proved that there had been sun at Brightbourne in some strength. Their noses were already peeling a little, and the ladies had bright scarlet patches in the V of their blouses. To supply any defects in the entertainment provided by the ocean itself they had brought paper-covered novels, the two most popular illustrated dailies and chocolate. The boy and girl shared Roaring Chips or some such comic weekly. The father and his gentleman-friend smoked their pipes. All were placid and contented, extending their limbs to receive every benediction that sun and sea air could confer.
A little desultory conversation having occurred—"There's a lady at our boarding-house," said one of the acquaintances, "who reads your hand wonderfully," a languid argument following on palmistry, in which one of the gentlemen disbelieved, but the other had had extraordinary experiences of the accuracy of the science—the mother of the boy and girl suddenly remembered that not yet had postcards been sent to Auntie and Uncle, Gus and Beatty, Mr. Brown and Mrs. Venning.
"We promised, you know," she said guiltily.
"Better late than never," said the father's friend jocularly.
"That's right," said the father.
"Come along," said the gentleman-friend to the boy and girl, "we'll go and choose the cards. There's a stall close by," and off they started.
"Don't let them see everything," the prudent mother called out, having some acquaintance with the physical trend of the moment in postcard humour, which has lost nothing in the general moral enfranchisement brought about by the War, one of the most notable achievements of which is the death and burial of Mrs. Grundy.
"Go on!" said the boy, with all the laughing scorn of youth. "We've seen them all already."
"You can't keep kids from seeing things nowadays," said the father sententiously. "Bring them up well and leave the rest to chance, is what I say."
"Very wise of you," remarked one of the lady-friends. "Besides, aren't all things pure to the pure?"
Having probably a very distinct idea as to the purity of many of the postcards which provide Brightbourne with its mirth, the father made no reply, but turned his attention to the deep-water bathers as they dived and swam and climbed on the raft and tumbled off it....
"Well, let's see what you've got," said the mother as the foraging party returned.
"We've got some beauties," said the daughter—"real screams, haven't we, Mr. Gates?"
"Yes, I think we selected the pick of the bunch," said Mr. Gates complacently, speaking as a man of the world who knows a good thing when he sees it.
"My husband's a rare one for fun," said his wife. "A regular connoozer."
"There's a pretty girl at the postcard place," said the boy. "Mr. Gates didn't half get off with her, did you?"
Mr. Gates laughed the laugh of triumph.
"She's not bad-looking," he said, "but not quite my sort. Still—" He stroked his moustache.
"Now, Fred," said Mrs. Gates archly, "that'll do; let's see the cards."
"This one," said the girl, "is for Gus. He's been called up, you know, so we got him a military one. You see that girl the soldier's squeezing? She's rather like his young lady, you know, and it says, 'Come down to Brightbourne and learn how to carry on.' Gus'll show it to her."
The mother agreed that it was well chosen.
"Where's Beatty's?" she asked.
"Here's Beatty's," said the boy; "I chose it. The one with the shrimp on it. It says, 'At Breezy Brightbourne. From one giddy young shrimp to another.' Jolly clever, isn't it? And this is for Mr. Hatton, because he's so fond of beer. You see there's a glass of beer, and it says underneath, 'Come where the girls are bright and the tonic's all right.' There was another one with a bottle called 'The Spirit of Brightbourne,' but we thought beer was best."
"What about Uncle?" the mother asked.
"Oh!" said the girl, "there's a lovely one for him. Three men on their hands and knees licking up the whisky spilt from broken bottles."
"Good Heavens!" said the father, "you can't send him that."
"I think not," said the mother. "If you sent Uncle that, all the fat would be in the fire."
"It's very funny," said the boy.
"Funny, yes," said the father. "But funniness can be very dangerous. Good Heavens!" and he mopped his brow, "you gave me quite a turn."
"Very well, who shall we give it to?" the boy asked. "We mustn't waste it."
"I don't care who has it so long as it's not your Uncle," said the father. "And what have you got for your Aunt Tilly?"
"This one," said the girl. "An old maid looking under the bed for a man and hoping she'll find one."
"Goodness, Maria!" said the father, "are your children mad? The idea of sending such a thing to Tilly!"
"But she is an old maid," said the girl.
"Of course she is," said the father. "That's the mischief."
"Well, there's rather a good one where a wife is going through her husband's trousers and saying, 'Brightbourne's the place for change,'" said the girl. "Would that suit?"
"Of course not," snapped her father.
"Or the one where the bed is full of fleas?" the boy suggested.
"No jokes about fleas," said the father sternly. "No, you must change those for something else. Don't be funny at all with either your Uncle or Aunt. We can't run any risks. Send them local views—coloured ones, of course, but strictly local."
"Mr. Gates helped us," said the boy meanly.
"Mr. Gates doesn't know all the facts," said the father.
"He can guess one or two of them," said Mr. Gates, jingling his pocket.
"Fred is so quick," said his admiring wife.
"Well, and what are the others?" the mother asked. "There's Mr. Brown and Mrs. Venning. Why shouldn't Mr. Brown have the whisky one? I'm sure he'd laugh. But you couldn't send Mrs. Venning the old maid."
"We got this for Mr. Brown," said the boy. "The nurse bringing the father twins and calling them two 'pink forms.'"
"That's dashed good," said Mr. Gates, "don't you think?"
"Very smart," said the father. "That's all right. And what about Mrs. Venning?"
"Well," said the girl, "we thought she'd like this one—a man and a woman kissing in a tunnel, and he says the tunnel cost ten thousand pounds to make, and she says it's worth it, every penny."
"Very good," said the father; "I like that. Get me another of those and I'll send it to a friend of mine in the City. And I'll go to the shop myself and help you to choose the local views for your Uncle and Aunt Tilly. It's a case where care is necessary."