STUTTFIELD AND THE REDS.
Stuttfield was nothing of a Nero. He would never have fiddled while Rome burned. He would have been more likely to imagine that Rome was burning when there was really nothing more going on than a bonfire. He is one more example of the pernicious influence of sensational literature upon a nervous temperament.
It all began through Stuttfield finding a copy of The Daily Blast in a railway carriage last June. This journal is printed on white paper, but the tendency of its contents is ruddy—that is to say, it has "Red" leanings. It was a revelation to Stuttfield.
"Are people allowed to say such things?" he asked me in horror.
"My dear fellow, no one takes it seriously," I said. "Don't you worry."
But Stuttfield did worry. The Daily Blast had the same effect upon him as a snake has upon a rabbit; it terrified him, yet he could not run away from it. In fact he became a regular subscriber and continued so despite some rumours that it was supported financially by the Rougetanians—rumours which required, and received, a great deal of explanation.
Then, through the offices of his man-servant, he obtained a copy of The Volcano.
The Volcano appears to be in advance of The Daily Blast in its ideals, and immensely so in their expression. But here again I assured Stuttfield that no one took them seriously. "I don't suppose they take themselves seriously," I assured him. "They want to sell The Volcano, that's all."
"Yes," said Stuttfield, "but they do sell it, and people read it."
"I expect the circulation's about two thousand a week," I said consolingly. But Stuttfield, as I could see, was not consoled.
I met him at intervals after that, and on each occasion he seemed to be more obsessed with the notion that the "Reds" would overwhelm us all shortly.
"Russia is Red," he whispered; he always whispers now for fear of being overheard by a Red agent, though there was not very much risk of that in St. James's Street. "And what about India and China?"
"Red, black and yellow—the Zingari colours," I said ribaldly, and Stuttfield left me in disgust.
Then I heard from a friend that he had sold his cottage at Redhill. This was a bad sign, and I went to see him. I found him much worse.
"You've taken an overdose of The Volcano," I said.
He seized my arm with trembling fingers.
"The Red Revolution is upon us," he hissed.
I laughed. "Don't you worry about the Red Revolution. You come out to lunch."
He would hardly be persuaded. Clubs and restaurants would be attacked first, he thought. If we lunched together it had better be in an eating-house in Bermondsey. "I have a disguise," he said, and disclosed a complete proletarian outfit.
"Well, I haven't," I said. "Not that these clothes of mine will lead anyone to mistake me for a capitalist. But, so far as lunch goes, hadn't we better be killed by a Red bomb at the Fitz than by tripe in Bermondsey?"
Stuttfield could not but admit the sense of this, so we started out.
It is widely recognised that Flag Days, however admirable their objects, have been a little overdone. But it was sheer bad luck that brought Stuttfield face to face with a flag-seller just as we were entering the Fitz. She came at him with a determined aspect and began "The Red Cr——"
It was enough. Poor Stuttfield was across the pavement and into a taxi before I could stop him. There was nothing for me to do but follow him.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Waterloo," he answered through blanched lips. I could get nothing more from him.
At Waterloo he sprang out, leaving me to pay the cab, and disappeared into the station. I followed as quickly as I could, but he was nowhere to be seen.
"Where would he go to hide from the Reds?" I asked myself. Suddenly I had an idea about his destination.
I was right. In the foremost carriage I found him. I tried to persuade him to come out, but he clung to the rack. So I left him. I have not seen him since.
I hope he feels safe in the Isle of Wight.
"You can burn your slack cook in oven in our —— Grate."
—Advt. in Daily Paper.
But now that the coal strike is over we shall try to put up with our cook a little longer.
Our Reverend Spoonerist (calling at the Deanery). "Is the Bean dizzy?"
"WALLASEY'S LOW FIGURE.
Population Jump—From 21,192 to 99,493 in 28 Days."
Liverpool Paper.
We do not know why this should be described as a "low figure." To us it seems remarkably good going.
"The weather forecast for Sheffield and district for the next twenty-four years is as follows:—
Wind southerly, light, freshening later; cloudy or overcast; probably some rain later; visibility indifferent to fair; mild."
Yorkshire Paper.
It is hoped however that some improvement may be shown in 1945.
Puck's Record Eclipsed.
"For five minutes I was in the Mercantile Marine and the Navy. During these five minutes I made a complete circuit of the globe."
—Letter in Welsh Paper.
"The pruning-fork is being applied in order to bring the staff within the capacity of the accommodation."
—Provincial Paper.
After which harmony will be restored by means of the tuning-knife.
"It did one good, on entering the Queen's Hall last night, to find every seat in the building, even to those at the back of the rostrum, occupied by the London Symphony Orchestra."
—Evening Paper.
An audience is often so distracting.
Fortune-Teller (to client). "A dark man has been hovering about your path for the last month."
Client. "Oh, that must be the agent who's been worrying me to insure my life."