One of the favourite stories was told of him when travelling down with Joe to the beautiful old moated house at Ightham, which our American friends, General and Mrs. Palmer, had made their English home. Stopping at a wayside station above which a lordly mansion stood among the trees, Toole beckoned a porter and, in the gibberish that he used so glibly at these moments, pretended to utter the name of its owner.
“Oh, you mean Mr. So-and-So,” said the porter.
“Of course—I said so!” retorted the shameless comedian. “Well, here’s half a crown. When the train’s off, run up to the house and say ‘we shall be seven to dinner and the game will follow.’”
The whistle went as the porter, holding on to the door, enquired: “Who shall I say, Sir?”
But the train moved on and Toole returned to the reading of his paper, leaving a gaping man on the platform.
This same Ightham Mote was the scene of many of our happiest hours. Its charming hostess was a dear friend whose rare gifts of sympathy and true hospitality enabled her not only to attract to her house the brightest of spirits, but also to draw from them their best. Children, too, to whom she was a fairy godmother, were welcome as friends in their own right. Our daughter and younger son were specially dear to her in their different ways, and many was the grave, childish saying of the latter that she would repeat to the proud father, though perhaps the one he oftenest told himself was said to Alma Tadema when the five-year-old boy remarked that he preferred a gas to a coal fire, because the first went out when you liked, and the latter when it liked.
Joe was appreciated of all children and always won their favour easily; but I remember one little lady administering a severe rebuff to him when, after many lures, he said at last: “Well, I don’t care whether you come or not!” to which she replied: “Oh, yes, you do!”
But that was an exception; they were usually his slaves, and loved his stories as much as their elders did. He treated them as his equals only requiring that they should do the same; and when his first grandson was born and some one alluded to him as a proud grandfather, he said: “I like the child, but there’s to be no grandfather about it. I’m to be Joe to him as to others.” And so he was to the children of that dear lady in beautiful Ightham Mote.
Christmas was a real Yuletide in the fine old wainscoted hall and library, where Joe was always ready for the revel, as he was for the outdoor sports with his own children and those of the house. There were games in the beautiful old quadrangle and fishing feats from the bridges that lead across the moat to the bowling-green beyond; but the latter must have been worse than a bad joke to an expert angler such as my husband—consisting as they did in trying to lure the trout by a bait tied on to a hairpin; luckily the fish swam away merrily and perhaps enjoyed the fun too.