THE COUNTER-IRRITANT
Most men have a hobby. Timbrell-Timson's is to bear on his narrow shoulders the burden of Middle Europe. He calls it Mittel-Europa. Lately he has been sharing his burden with me.
"You know," he said, frowning—he always frowns, because of the burden—"I am rather uneasy about the Czecho-Slovaks."
"I'm not too comfortable about them myself," I said truthfully.
"There seems to be a certain lack of stability about their new constitution," said T.-T., "a—a—a—what shall I say?"
"A—er—um—a," I put in.
"Exactly; just so," said T.-T. He then got into his stride and gave me twenty minutes' Czecho-Slovakism when I was dying to discover whether Hobbs had scored his two-millionth run.
As T.-T. talked my mind wandered away into regions of its own—Aunt Jane's rheumatic gout, my broken niblick, the necessity for getting my hair cut. But sub-consciously I reserved a courteous minimum of attention for T.-T., and said, "H'm" and "Ha" with decent frequency. He went on and on, shedding several ounces of the burden. I decided that Aunt Jane ought to have a shot at Christian Science.
"... very much the same plight as the Poles," said T.-T., emerging from a cloud of Czecho-Slovakism and pausing to clear his meagre throat.
I felt it was up to me. "Of course," I said, "the Poles don't strike one as being—er—very—that is—"
"Precisely. They are not," said T.-T., as I knew he would. "But I am very relieved to see that M. Grabski...."
This was something new and sounded amusing. "Grabski?" I said. "What's happened to dear old—"I mean, I thought M. Paderewski was—"
"I am referring to the recent Spa Conference," said T.-T. severely.
"Of course, how silly of me," I murmured.
T.-T. gave me another twenty minutes of Poland. Then he released me, with a final word of warning against putting too much faith in M. Daschovitch. I promised I wouldn't.
T.-T. shook me cordially.by the hand and said, "It has been a pleasure to talk to such a sympathetic listener."
What led me to revolt was T.-T.'s hat-trick. Three evenings in succession he unloaded on me chunks of the burden. Probably he thought the third time made it my own property.
I asked advice from Brown, a man of commonsense.
"During the Great War," said Brown, "I went down with pneumonia. They painted my chest yellow, and, when I asked the Sister why, she said it was a counter-irritant. That's what you want to use now, my lad. Stand up to your little friend and beat him at his own game."
"But how?" I said. "I can't. What he doesn't know about the gentle Czech isn't worth a cussovitch."
"Cultivate a counter-burden," said Brown, "and make him eat it as he has made you eat his."
When I left Brown it was decided that I was henceforth to be an authority on Mittel-Afrika. The next evening I was purposely unoccupied in a corner of the smoking-room when T.-T. came in, frowning and bowed down by his burden, to which apparently I had brought no relief.
"Well, to-day's news from Mittel-Europa is hardly—" he began.
"Scarcely glanced at it," I said. "I was so busy with the news from Mittel-Afrika—Abyssinia, in fact."
T.-T. looked surprised, partly, no doubt, because he knew as well as I did that Abyssinia is nowhere near the middle of Africa. Then he gained balance and reopened with the remark that "The ineradicable weakness of the Czecho-Slovak is—"
"Just what I feel about the Ethiopians," I said.
"Of course there is in the Czecho a fundamental—" began T.-T. once more.
"Not half so fundamental as in the Abyssinians," I said promptly.
T.-T. was puzzled but obstinate. The burden, I think, was rather bad that evening. He tried me with Grabski and got as far as saying that he had little respect for that gentleman's antecedents.
I broke in by comparing Grabski's antecedents with the antecedents of B'lumbu, the Abyssinian Deputy Under-secretary of the Admiralty, much to the detriment of the latter. Then I launched out into a long and startling exposé of what I called the Swarthy Peril. I told T.-T. that the Ethiopians ate their young, and warned him that, unless he was careful, they would soon be over here devouring his own spectacled progeny. I told him about the Ethiopic secret plans for the invasion of Mexico as a stepping-stone to the subjugation of Mittel-Amerika. I hinted that Abyssinian spies were everywhere—that even one of the club waiters was not above suspicion.
For thirty-five minutes I held T.-T. in his chair (may the Abyssinian gods forgive me!). After the first three minutes he forgot his burden and never a word spake he.
Then I released him with a final warning against putting any faith at all in Gran'slâm, the Abyssinian Assistant Foreign Secretary, and as we parted I said gratefully, "It has been a pleasure to talk to such a sympathetic listener."
I don't think T.-T. really believes even now in the Swarthy Peril, but the counter-irritant has done its work.