Defenders of Democracy Part 13

"Well, I'm blest if I do," grumbled the driver. "And it's past my tea-time. Doncher know where yer live?"

"Years ago I had rooms in Stafford's Inn," began the Poet. "Then the Cabinet Committee..."

The cabman descended from his box for a heart to heart conversation.

"Now you look 'ere," he said. "I got a boy at 'ome the livin'

image of you..."

"But how nice!" interrupted the Poet, wondering apprehensively whether an invitation was on its way to him.

The cabman sniffed.

"Not quite righ in 'is 'ead 'e ain't. THEREfore I don't want to be 'arsh with yer. Jump inside, let me drive yer ter Stafford's Inn, pay me me legal fare and a bob ter drink yer 'ealth--and we'll say no more abaht it. If yer don't--" He made a threatening gesture towards the Poet's precariously strapped trunks--"I'll throw the blinkin' lot on ter the pivement, and yer can carry 'em 'ome on yer 'ead. See?"

"I couldn't, you know," objected the Poet gently.

"Jump inside," repeated the cabman.

One hope was as forlorn as another, and the Poet was too sick with hunger to think of resistance. In time the four-wheeler rumbled its way to think of resistance. In time the four-wheeler rumbled its way to Stafford's Inn; in time and by force of habit the Poet was mounting the bare, creaking, wooden stairs; in time he found himself fitting his unsurrendered latch key into his abandoned lock.

Beyond an eight week's layer of dust on chairs and table, the threadbare rooms were little changed. A loaf of bread, green and furred with mold, lay beside an empty marmalade pot from which a cloud of flies emerged with angry buzzing; a breakfast cup without a handle completed the furniture of the table, and in the rickety armchair was an eight-week-old "Morning Post."

"The Cabinet Committee has neglected its opportunities," grumbled the Poet, surveying with disfavor the dusty, derelict scene.

Then his eye was caught by a long envelope, thrust half-way under the door, from the Cabinet Committee itself. An indecipherable set of initials, later describing itself as his obedient servant, was directed to inform him on a date two months earlier that it had been decided not to requisition the offices and chambers of Stafford's Inn. The formal notice was accordingly to be regarded as canceled.

The Poet, who knew nothing of business, wrote instructing his solicitors to claim for two months' disturbance from the Defense of the Realm Commission on Losses and to include all legal costs in the claim.

IV

Three weeks later the Private Secretary was strolling across the Horse Guard's Parade on his way to luncheon, when he caught sight of the Poet. Since their last altercation his conscience had been as uneasy as a Private Secretary's conscience can be, and he strove to avoid the meeting. The Poet, however, was full of sunshine and smiles.

"I've not seen you for weeks!" he cried welcomingly. "How's everybody and what's everybody doing? Is the Millionaire all right again?

I understand he's been ill."

The Private Secretary eyed his friend suspiciously.

"He has not left his house for three weeks," he answered.

"And the Iron King."

"He has not either."

The Poet's eyes lit up with dawning comprehension.

"What about the Lexicographer and the Official Receiver?" he asked.

"The same? What an infernal nuisance! I wanted to call round and see whether they had got me a flat."

The Private Secretary shook his head.

"It's not the least use," he said emphatically. "None of them has been outside his front door for three weeks, no one knows when they'll come out again, no one is allowed inside. Last night I had a box given me for the theater, and I tried to make up a party; all their telephones were disconnected, and, when I drove round in person, I couldn't even get the bell answered." He paused and then enquired carelessly, "By the way, have you got into your new quarters yet? They would be interested to know."

"I haven't got any new quarters," answered the Poet. "You remember that you and the others were going to find them for me. I know nothing of business--and I'm not likely to get new rooms until I see the Millionaire and the Iron King."

At the steps of his club the Private Secretary paused, as though wondering whether to say that the Poet was unlikely to see the Iron King or the Millionaire until he had got his new rooms. This prolonged voluntary self-internment was a source of inconvenience, for in the peaceful days before the Cabinet Committee on Accommodation had stepped in, there were pleasant parties in Eaton Square and Park Lane. Now the Private Secretary was reduced to paying for his own dinners more often than was agreeable. He said nothing, however, for fear of concentrating the Poet's fire on himself.

"It must be simply wrecking their business," said the Poet to himself, as he walked to Bedford Row to see how the claim for disturbance was progressing. "It serves them right, though, for talking drains when I wanted to go to bed."

Stephen McKenna

The Spell of the Kilties

What made the crowds turn out in their applauding thousands in New York, Boston, Chicago, Brooklyn, and wherever the "Kilties" from Canada appeared during their visit to the United States of America on their British Recruiting Mission, during the summer of 1917?

Or why do the inhabitants of Paris single out the kilted regiments when a March Past of the forces of the Allies is held on a National Fete Day, and press upon the soldiers with showers of flowers and tokens of admiration?

Is it simply because the dress worn is somewhat out of the common, giving a touch of color to these gray times, and bringing a.s.sociations of days of old, as the men swing along, with a swish of their kilts, to the skirl of the Pipes?

Or is there not a deeper meaning in this spontaneous welcome which comes so evidently from the hearts of the onlookers, and one which is reflected in the popularity of Colonel Walter Scott's New York kilted Highlanders, and by the many find bodies of men turned out--mostly at their own expense--by the Scottish Clan and Highland Dress a.s.sociations, in various cities of the U. S. A.?

The truth is that deep down in the hearts of the majority of the human race there exists a profound attachment to the ideals of gallantry and chivalry which were nourished by the stories we loved in childhood, and by the tales of Scottish prowess, in prose and poetry, selected for the school-books in use by the children of the English-speaking peoples.

Scotland has indeed been blessed by the possession of poets and bards who have preserved her annals and sung the deeds of her patriot heroes in so alluring a form, that her sons and daughters are a.s.sured of a welcome in any part of the world, and start with the great a.s.set of being always expected to "make good" in every land of their adoption. Wherever they may roam, we find them occupying positions of influence, and still cherishing and promulgating the traditions and customs of the Land of the Heather, which impel to high thinking, resolute doing, and the upholding of old standards, such as build up the lives both of individuals and of nations.

And thus, when the moment of emergency arrives when "to every man and nation comes the moment to decide" you will find the men and women of Scottish descent to the forefront in every fight for liberty and righteousness in every part of the globe.

And in the midst of the clash and din of arms you will catch ever and anon the sound of the up-lifting cadence of some grand old Scottish Psalm tune, bringing comfort, and courage, and clam,--and then the call of the Pipes, inspiring war-worn troops to accomplish impossible tasks, such as the feats which have made the Gordon Highlanders and their Pipers immortal--as at Dargai, and have brought fresh glory to many a Scottish Regiment in this great war--aye, and to many a regiment of brother Gaels from Ireland also, of whose exploits we have heard as they rushed into the fray, preceded by their Irish War-Pipes.

A few weeks ago, a young widow with her two months' old baby in her arms, was following the remains of her husband to his warrior's grave "somewhere in France." She was dry-eyed and rebellious in her youthful despair, as she walked at the head of the sad little procession of her husband's comrades;--and then the party met a Highland Pipe Band, whose Pipe-Major, quick to understand the situation, halted his men, wheeled them round, and gave the signal to play the lovely Lament: "Lochaber no more!"

At the sound of the familiar strains the founts of sorrow were unsealed, and weeping, but comforted, the child-wife mother was able to commit her dead hero's dust to the grave in sure and certain confidence of a glorious re-union, and turned to face life again with his little son, with strength and faith renewed.

This is but a little incident, but it ill.u.s.trates the hold that the music of the Gael has on the hearts of its children, and of its power to evoke memories and a.s.sociations full of inspiration both in joy and in sorrow.

AND IS NOT THIS THE INTERPERTATION OF THE SPELL OF THE "KILTIES"?

[signed] Lady Aberdeen and Temain