SOME MORE OFFICIAL JILLS.
(Whom Mr. Punch, with his characteristic sense of justice and fair-play, is proud to recognise as no less representative than his earlier types—although he could wish he had the pleasure of encountering them a little more frequently.)
Scene—A large Branch Post Office. The weather is oppressively warm, and the Public slightly irritable in consequence. Behind the counter are three Young Ladies, of distinctly engaging appearance, whom we will call Miss Goodchild, Miss Meekin, and Miss Mannerly, respectively. As the Curtain rises, Miss Goodchild is laboriously explaining to an old lady with defective hearing the relative advantages of a Postal and a Post Office Order.
The Old Lady. Just say it over again, so that a body can hear ye. You young Misses ought to be taught to speak out, 'stead o' mumbling the way you do. Why can't ye give me a Postal Order for five-and-fourpence, and a'done with it, eh?
Miss Goodchild (endeavouring to speak distinctly). A Post Office Order will be what you require. See, you just fill in that form, and then I'll make it out—it's quite simple.
Old Lady. Yes, I dessay, anything to save yourselves a little trouble! You're all alike, you Post-Office young women. As if I couldn't send five-and-fourpence to my boy down at Toadley in the 'Ole, without filling up a parcel o' nonsense!
Person behind (with a talent for grim irony of a heavy order). Can you inform me whether there are any arrangements for providing luncheon for the Public—because, as it appears I am to spend the entire day here——
Miss Goodchild (sweetly). I'm so very sorry to keep you waiting, Sir. As soon as ever I have attended to this lady!——
Old Lady. If you call it attending—which I don't myself. There's your form.
Miss Goodchild. Oh, but you haven't told me whom you want the order made out to!
Old Lady. I did—I told you it was my son. If you hadn't been woolgathering, you'd ha' heard me. I'm sure I speak plain enough!
Miss Goodchild (laughing good-humouredly). Oh, yes, you speak very plainly—but I want the name in full, please, to put in the instructions.
The Person with the Irony. When you have quite concluded your little conversation——
Miss Goodchild (as she fills in the order). Now, Sir, what can I do for you?
The Person with the Irony. Well, I should be glad to be informed what you mean by requiring me to take out a licence for a dog that died of distemper a fortnight after I had him—and I had a warranty with him too!
Miss Goodchild. Oh, but that isn't my department, you see. You must go——(gives him elaborate instructions as to the place he is to apply to.)
The Person. Ah, if you had had the common courtesy to tell me all that before, I should not have wasted my time like this!
[Exit in wrath.
A Feeble Lady (to Miss Meekin). Oh, I just thought as I was passing by—may I put my umbrella here—and these parcels? thank you. I daresay you can tell me. Does the Mail for New Heligoland touch at Port Sandune? They go every other Friday, don't they? or is it changed to alternate Tuesdays now? and will there be anyone on board who would look after a box of Japanese rats if I sent them?—they'll want feeding, or something I suppose.
[Miss Meekin disentangles these inquiries, and answers them categorically to the test of her knowledge, information and belief.
Feeble Lady (disappointed). Oh, I quite thought you would know all about it! Then you wouldn't send the rats, you think?
Miss Meekin. No, I don't think I should send the rats, without someone in charge.
Feeble Lady. Oh, well, but I call it very unsatisfactory—did I put my umbrella down in this corner, or not? Oh, (slightly annoyed) you have it ... there must be another parcel, do see if you haven't put it away by mistake! No? Then it will be all right about the rats?
[Exit vaguely.
A Conversational Man (to Miss Mannerly). Warm, isn't it?
Miss Mannerly. Very warm. What can I do for you?
Conv. Man. Wait a bit. Give a man time to get his breath ... phew! (In an injured tone.) Why, the mercury in this office of yours must be over eighty at least!
Miss Mannerly. I daresay ... you wanted——?
Conv. Man. Daresay! Haven't you got a thermometer—you can easily look for yourself!
Miss M. I'm afraid there isn't one. If you will tell me what you came for?
Conv. Man. Ah, you wouldn't be in such a hurry if I was a nice-looking young chap! You'd be ready enough to talk all day then—I know what you young ladies are like!
Miss M. Perhaps we are not all alike—and I really have no time to talk to anybody.
[Turns away and weighs a parcel for somebody else.
Conv. M. So that's the way you treat a civil remark, is it! I tell you what it is—you young women want taking down; a little showing up will do you good! Perhaps you haven't seen Punch lately? Well, you look out—I could give Punch some wrinkles if I liked! Ah, I thought that would make a change in you! What do I want? Well, 'pon my soul I forget what I came in for. I'll look in when you're in a better temper.
[Exit with the consciousness of having scored.
A Testy Man (to Miss Meekin). Look here, this is simply scandalous! I've brought it to show you. My little girl in the country sent home some silkworms to her sister in a light paper-box. They were marked "fragile, with care"—and this is how they arrived! (Thrusts a crushed packet, unpleasantly stained, upon Miss Meekin's notice.) That's your stamping, that is!
Miss Meekin. I'm sure I'm very sorry.
Testy M. Sorry! What's the use of that? The silkworms are dead! dead through culpable negligence on the part of someone in this office—and if you'll give me a sheet of paper, I'll let the Postmaster-General know what I think of you here. (Miss Meekin supplies him with paper and an envelope; he dashes down a strong-worded screed with a gold pencil-case.) There, you'll hear more of that—I'll bring these silkworms home to somebody, if I have to do it through Parliament! good-day to you.
Miss Meekin (as he is opening the door). Sir, one moment!
Testy Man. No, I'll listen to no apologies—disgraceful, disgraceful!
Miss Meekin (a little roused). I wasn't going to apologise—only to tell you you've left your pencil-case on the counter.
Testy Man. Oh—er—have I? much obliged. (Disarmed.) And you may give me back that letter—I'll think over it!
Miss Goodchild (to Mrs. Quiverful—a regular client). Oh, Mrs. Quiverful, do you know, you never put any stamp on that letter to Wurra-Gurra? I saw it was in your handwriting.
Mrs. Quiverful. Dear, dear me! how careless—and my boy expecting to hear as usual! So you couldn't send it?
Miss G. Oh, yes, it was sent—I thought you wouldn't like to miss the Mail.
Mrs. Q. But he'll have to pay double at his end—he'll think I grudge the expense, poor boy!
Miss G. (timidly). I—I thought you'd rather it went stamped, so I—I took the liberty of stamping it myself.
Mrs. Q. Did you? Then you're a darling, and I don't care what unkind things Mr. Punch chooses to say about you—there!
Mr. Punch (in background). If they were all like her, he would never have said any unkind things at all, Madam. O si sic omnes!
Mrs. Q. (in some alarm). A—quite so, I'm sure. What a very singular person!
[Scene closes in.
