Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 324
But to us, Alfred and me, a much more direct blow was the failure of Mr. Derringer’s gold mine. We never knew just what happened. It seemed that the mine had not exactly failed but it had never been there. Alfred heard in the City that Mr. Derringer had ‘salted’ the mine, but Alfred couldn’t see how he could do that, as it would take such a lot. At any rate it was all in the American papers, and poor Mr. Derringer’s trial, and he was sent to prison for ten years and was there for weeks and weeks before he could get out. Papa’s name came into it all, of course, as a first director, but he was out of it since, though there might have been a sort of scandal except that the American judge spoke very handsomely of Papa’s ignorance of it all. Indeed he said that what Papa didn’t know would fill a book, and that it was men like Papa who gave England the name it had.
So it all blew over, but presently Alfred and I found that after that the dividends from the mine stopped, which we couldn’t understand as they were preferred. Alfred would have been very cool with Papa over it, but as Papa was getting old it seemed wrong to get cool with him. If anything happened to Papa while Alfred was cool, it might make a difference, Indeed it was just at that time that dear Papa got a stroke, his first stroke. It didn’t really incapacitate him at first but we thought best to call in a consultant opinion, and then he got a second stroke, and so, in real alarm, we sent for a great Harley Street specialist and Papa got a third stroke. With the third stroke, he passed out.
I will not carry these Memoirs down any further than the day of Papa’s funeral which seems a good place to stop. Such a wonderful day, one of those bright crisp autumn days when it just feels good to be alive! Gloops looked so wonderful in the bright sunlight and everywhere the late autumn flowers. And such wonderful messages of sympathy! One from the House of Lords, official, to say that the House had learned with satisfaction that Lord Gloops was to be buried; and one from the Home Secretary expressing his personal appreciation of Papa’s burial; and one from the Secretary in Waiting at Windsor Castle that the whole Court was ordered to go into half mourning for a quarter of an hour. And then the funeral service in our dear little church at Gloops. Old Dr. Glowworm, though he must have been nearly a hundred at the time, preached the funeral sermon. It was just a little hard to hear him, except the text which was ‘Where has he gone?’ — we all thought it so beautifully apt — but we couldn’t quite follow Dr. Glowworm’s answer. Then as the crowning thing in the day came the reading of Papa’s will, by Papa’s own solicitor, Mr. Rust, who came from London to Gloops on purpose. Of course we knew that everything would be all right, but of course couldn’t help feeling a little nervous. Poor Papa had always been a little uncertain and when we remembered about Papa’s bank and the mine, we couldn’t feel quite sure what would happen to Gloops. The title, of course, would go to my cousin, the present Marquis of Gloops, but the entail had been cut long ago and Papa was free to do as he liked. I remember how dear Alfred sat so bolt upright, trying so hard to understand every word, though of course that was impossible as most of the will was in law terms. But the meaning came out clear enough. Dear Papa had done everything just as it should be, according to the fine old traditions of the time. Mama was given the Dower House for life, with the full right to use her own money in maintaining it. All the old servants were remembered — Papa gave them each a suit of mourning and quite a substantial sum, I forget what, but I think at least ten pounds, which meant a great deal to people in their class. For my sister Lucy, Papa could not, of course, in view of what had happened, do very much: but even in her case he left her something to remember him by, a beautiful set of books from his library — sermons bound in old leather — and a purse for each of her children — there were only five at that time — with half a sovereign in it, and a prayer book each. Alfred and I got Gloops and all the residuum — that was the word Mr. Rust used — residuum of the estate — which was only fair as we should need it to keep the estate up: on the other hand we could hardly have used the residuum if we hadn’t had the estate itself. Mr. Rust explained it all very clearly.
After it was all over Alfred said, ‘Well, it’s all over.’
MODEL MEMOIRS: No. II
THROUGH ARABIA ON A MULE
By
MAJOR ALLHELL
Late Pindilwani Field Force (Third Base)
We based our expedition on Waz-el-Yaz, which is about two hours’ steam, or four hours’ hot water, from Aden. From Waz-el-Yaz, or Yaz, as the natives call it, our purpose was to strike direct into the desert. At Yaz, therefore, we spent several days in terrific heat (the thermometer standing, even at night, at over 110° Fahrenheit), in what seemed at the time the hopeless attempt at organizing the expedition. Our accommodation meantime was a wretched hotel or caravanserai, conducted by a villainous Frenchman, where for three days we drank the most abominable champagne at a most iniquitous price, our sole diversion being endless games of billiards on a perfectly impossible billiard table, or endless games of écarté with a pack of unrecognizable cards.
At last, however, after the most terrific exertions we were able to start. We had with us four Dhouris, as bearers, two Yawks for the heavier stuff, and as our guard six Hepaticas — very fine-looking fellows — on foot. My advice, by the way, for any one proposing to follow our route would emphatically be not to take Yawks. A Yawk is good enough as a bearer, reminding me very much of the Dongolas of Angola, and may do at a pinch as a beater, but only at a pinch, and is quite hopeless as a scout or tracker. If I were going again I should use every effort to get Scafaris. I give this advice merely for what it is worth. I may add that for my own transport, in addition to being carried by the Yawks, I had also a mule. The mule was less comfortable than the natives, but I needed her for these memoirs.
Our Nilghari, or dragoman, completed the procession of our escort, as apart from Major Boozer, young Charteris, myself, and Professor McTosh. The fellow seemed to know his business and professed to talk six of the Arabian desert languages — though I presently doubted if he knew anything of them except a few words of Pindi and perhaps a little Hootch.
For the use of prospective travellers who may follow in our steps, I will first set down a few words in regard to our special equipment for the desert. It consisted of 18 boxes of chocolates supplied by the kindness of Messrs. Sweets, Bonbons and Company, Ludgate Hill, Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden, London: 10 pounds of the best condensed preserved ginger, very kindly contributed to the expedition by Messrs. Ginger and Ginger, of Preserve Street, Soho; one fur sleeping-bag and a tin of arctic cough drops, supplied by the kindness of the Hudson’s Bay Company; together with a bottle of Bromo Seltzer, given to us as a send-off by the Royal Geographical Society. All these things, of course, had been given to us gratis, and I desire here to express my sense of obligation to the donors. We had also an aneroid barometer, a clinical thermometer, and part of a sextant. All these were given to us, so we took them.
As for arms we had with us one elephant gun, two cow guns, a buffalo gun — an excellent piece sighted up to fifty feet — and two fowling pieces, carrying fowl shot. Our natives were all armed with double-headed Knerries and with the usual smooth Kiboshes, very deadly at close quarters.
I prefer to say as little as possible in this place about ourselves. But the acrimonious discussion in regard to our expedition that has followed my return to London makes it perhaps necessary to say at least a few words as to my companions.
Of Major Boozer, late of the 89th Hurraws, and young Charteris, I may say, apart from any question of ill-faith or treachery, for which my narrative will speak for itself, that they were at least both gentlemen. Major Boozer was one of the well-known Boozers of Hampshire, indeed one of the best known. In the case of young Charteris, certain temporary difficulties in connection with his leaving Sandhurst, after being sent down from Oxford and sent back from Canada, had made his father, Lord Mudloft, anxious to have him out of England, and led to his being placed in our expedition. I must add in all fairness that our subsequently leaving him in the desert was due rather to a misunderstanding, on our part, of Lord Mudloft’s wishes, than any ill-will on our part; the more so as the lad was a likeable boy and had proved a good companion on the coastal steamer that took us from Suez to Aden, though, I admit, a poor hand at cards, losing so habitually that presently Boozer and I ceased to play with him.
But at least both Boozer and Charteris were gentlemen. It was this that induced me to take them, my experience being that if you are embarking on an expedition into the dark places of the earth, among crime and vice, what you need are gentlemen. A gentleman will go where other men refuse to; indeed will go anywhere, provided, of course, that his expenses are paid. In a tight place he will get out of it more quickly than any other man. In especial I have found that Oxford men — but I must not over-exalt my old Alma Mater (where I was up for two years and had my Blue before I was down) except to say that if I have to go anywhere among savages, give me an Oxford man every time. But as to poor Charteris, I need only add that I doubted from the first whether his physique could stand the strain of Arabian travel. Even while still waiting at Waz-el-Yaz, the boy showed signs of what looked alarmingly like Beriberi, though it turned out to be only a touch of Billi-billi. But we were hardly two days out from our base when I was compelled to discuss with Major Boozer the question of leaving him to die in the desert. In many ways it seemed the right thing to do. On all such expeditions as ours, one has to face the fact that some of the members have got to be left to die somewhere, and it is perhaps better to get it over and done with as early as may be.
Boozer, however, argued that if Charteris were left to die so near the base, natives might pick him up, so that it would be better in any case to take him as on far as he could go.
Of Professor McTosh, our other companion of the march, I say nothing. He was not at the time attached to the expedition except in a temporary capacity. Professor McTosh, who holds the chair of Archaeology at the University of Inverness, is, I suppose, one of the world’s greatest archaeologists. He has himself told me that he regards his interpretation of Mesopotamian cuneiform inscriptions as superior to anything else that he knows of. The flat stones which he brought home from the Euphrates (he has never divulged the exact spot) containing inscriptions absolutely unreadable by anyone else, were bought by the British Museum for a thousand guineas; Professor McTosh donating a Gaelic translation as a personal gift. At that stage of our expedition all that we knew of Professor McTosh’s plans was that he was entering Arabia with a view to excavating the buried city of Blob. This city, he told us, was mentioned by Herodotus, mentioned again, though somewhat dubiously, by Pythagoras and afterwards, though with great hesitation, by Pliny. Strabo never speaks of it. Then silence falls over it for more than a thousand years, and Professor McTosh argues that it is buried under the sand and claims that he knows where it is. He expects, moreover, to find inscriptions of the greatest interest, probably, he says, Coptic, but perhaps Cryptic. Major Boozer and I, as plain soldiers, could have but little interest in this. Nor had we, as in the case of young Charteris, any apprehension as to the Professor’s stamina for the desert journey. Though advanced in years McTosh’s appearance speaks of rugged strength and endurance. His wearing of a plaid and a tam o’shanter at a time when Boozer and I were glad to just wear merely a pugaree and a suttee, was merely personal eccentricity.
McTosh, by arrangement, was to come with us into the desert to a point where his route should leave ours, paying for his transport for himself and for his baggage, carried by one of our Yawks. He himself arranged the fees, a matter which Major Boozer and I, as gentlemen, could hardly discuss. He set down the price of carrying himself and his baggage, including his whiskey, in Arabian money, at one Arabian jolt (four squid) per pound for each mile. We found later this equals one Singapore cent for ten miles; a sum on which McTosh claimed a further deduction per mile when he walked, while from the weight of the whiskey he subtracted one jolt each time he took a drink, and two when he treated us.
Yet, whatever its difficulties and dangers, we soon fell under the spell of Arabian travel in the desert. I shall never forget our first night in camp. Only those who have seen the sand deserts of the tropics know how rapidly day changes into night. The glare and heat and dust passed into stillness under the great stars of a purple sky. We sat upon mats round a light fire of dried roots of desert grass, for a chill strikes when the sun is gone, the camp equipment piled in a ring around us, the natives at a respectful distance, sitting on the ground occupied with cleaning and furbishing their weapons. Even McTosh admitted that nowhere, except in the Hebrides, had he known a more peaceful scene. Little did we think that that peaceful camp — but I must not anticipate except to indicate that plenty more is coming. Boozer and I, as old campaigners, sat and discussed our route over a parchment map, dimly illuminated by the firelight.
We proposed to strike east, direct across the desert, then to turn and strike west, after that to strike north — and by this means, after three strikes, to go out.
This route eastward, if successful, would let us visit the Veiled City of Hush, as yet never penetrated by Europeans. The routes to the west and north would then afford a safe exit. The main difficulty and danger, however, lay in the fact that to reach Hush, we must go through the country of the Fusees, said to be the fiercest tribesmen of the desert, while westward — but again I must not anticipate.
During our deliberation, McTosh, who had mixed himself an evening toddy for fear that the desert might get damp, said nothing, but sat adding up accounts and shaking his head from time to time. Young Charteris lay trying in vain to sleep, but groaning slightly. The lad had complained of fatigue so I had given him a heavy dose from our medicine chest; on his again complaining I gave him another, after which his complaint had ceased.
But whatever the charm of an evening encampment, with the first streak of dawn our day’s work, the stern routine of desert travel, began again. I warn all prospective travellers that it cannot be undertaken except by those who have the physique to stand it. With the earliest daylight our Swas — the word is the same as the Indian Kitmutgar — called Major Boozer and myself, bringing us a long cool swizzle-stick, which we drank somewhat slowly to allow our bearers, all Mohammedans, to make their prayer to the rising sun just visible in the east. Our Yawks then lifted us into the two palanquins, or sedan chairs, that they carried (my mule I seldom rode till the cool of evening) and the march over the sand, unremitting and relentless, went on for three hours, till a halt was called for breakfast. At midday a longer halt enabled the bearers to prepare us our tiffin. We ate in such shade as we could find, there being no trees, either under the shady edge of a broken nullah, or under a canvas shelter set up on spears.... Here we slept for the three hours of the afternoon siesta, a necessity of tropical travel, after which the march began again, and we were carried five hours, sleeping as best we could, or waking from time to time to take a drink of Rhine wine and Seltzer, a wise precaution against tropic disease of any kind.
Our first fortnight’s journey had brought us far out into the tropical Arabian Desert. I can best describe it as flat, quite deserted and entirely without vegetation or vegetables. The soil is what one would call sandyish, but here and there roughish and even rockyish, and some of it clayish. The reader may form a mental picture of the Arabian desert by imagining a flat country covered with a dense forest and then removing the forest. We had, however, now reached a region where the flat desert began to change to a country of rolling sand hills, called, I believe, ‘dunes’ in Scotland, or ‘djinns’ in Iceland, and in Norway, where they don’t have any, ‘dumps.’ From this we knew that we were entering the country of the Fusees, a fact confirmed by the obvious trepidation of our natives and their anxious glances from time to time at the horizon. Even my mule at times humped me up sharply in the air as if scenting danger.
It was just at this stage of our journey that the unfortunate incident occurred which led to our separation from Professor McTosh. Under the circumstances I fear I can call his departure little else than treacherous desertion. The circumstances were these. Major Boozer made the astounding discovery that Professor McTosh was carrying a large sum of gold money in a belt around his person. His laying it aside for a few moments enabled Major Boozer, the soul of honour, I may say, to estimate rapidly with his fingers that it contained at least two hundred sovereigns. He had just opened one end of the belt to ascertain whether the coins really were sovereigns and had removed one with a view of biting it, when McTosh reappeared and with some heat demanded his belt. Both Major Boozer and I explained to him the folly of his carrying such a sum of money when unarmed in the dangerous region we were entering, We showed him the obvious advantage of transferring it to us — I think the suggestion was made for a transfer in half and half. McTosh absolutely refused this, although Boozer offered to give him a written receipt and our words as gentlemen.
That night, after the camp was quiet, Major Boozer and I discussed the propriety, in the Professor’s own interest, of taking his money into safe keeping. Something may have been said about chloroform or even a tap on the head, nothing very severe, with a stick. No decision was reached.
Judge of our amazement on finding in the morning that McTosh had disappeared. A brief note, left on a piece of rock, explained that he proposed to leave our company and make his own way to the buried city of Blob. The note contained the sum of ten pounds ten shillings and sixpence for his board as from Yaz and in compensation for two Hepaticas and one Yawk, persuaded, apparently, to go with him.
This treacherous desertion of McTosh was a severe blow. We had relied on him for our line of march as neither Major Boozer nor I could use a sextant. It had been understood also that McTosh would collect and classify the flora and fauna of the desert which should have formed the appendix to these memoirs, now unfortunately missing. We ourselves saw no flora that we recognized as such, and, as for fauna, the few bugs we were afterwards able to collect made too poor a showing afterwards. In any case, we lost track of which was which.
