Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  “THOMAS URQUHART.”

  Our boys generally end up their letters in some such way as that, it being a method of making their epistles cover a little more paper. As I feared, Urquhart’s letter was merely diplomatic. He had not come around to the opinion that after all a book was better than the cake, but he had seen the point of Fleming’s sudden suggestion, that the best plan would be to “keep in” with his benefactress. Secundus had shown that if Miss M — was bothered about this year’s present, she would be less likely to send anything next year, and this sank into Urquhart’s mind. Hence the tone of his letter of thanks.

  It remains to follow the inglorious career of this copy of “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.”

  First, Urquhart was openly contemptuous of it, and there seemed a probability of its only being used as a missile. Soon, however, he dropped hints that it was a deeply interesting story, following these hints up with the remark that he was open to offers. He and Fleming Secundus had quite a tiff about it, though they are again good friends. Secundus, it appears, had gone the length of saying that it was worth a shilling, and had taken it to his bed to make sure of this. Urquhart considered it as good as bought, but Secundus returned it to him next day. Examination of the book roused the suspicions of Urquhart, who charged Secundus with having read it by peeping between the pages, which, to enhance its commercial value, had remained uncut. This Secundus denied, but he had left the mark of his thumb on it. Eventually the book was purchased by Cocky Jones, but not without a row. Cocky went up to Urquhart one day and held out a shilling, saying that he would give it for “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.” The owner wanted to take the shilling at once, and give up the book later in the day, but Cocky insisted on its being put into his hands immediately. That Jones should be anxious to become the possessor of an improving book surprised Urquhart, but in his haste to make sure of the shilling, he handed over “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.” Within an hour of the striking of this bargain a rumor reached Urquhart’s ears that Cocky had resold the work for one and sixpence. Inquiries were instituted, which led to a discovery. At our school there is a youth called Dicky Jenkinson, who, though not exactly a thoughtful boy, has occasional aspirations in that direction. Being for the moment wealthy, Jenkinson had remarked, in the presence of Cocky, that one and sixpence would not be too much to give for Urquhart’s copy of “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.” Feeling his way cautiously, Cocky asked whether he meant that the book would be cheap at one and sixpence to anybody who wanted it, or whether he (Dicky) was willing and able to expend that sum on it. Thus brought to bay, Jenkinson solemnly declared that he meant to make Urquhart an offer that very day. Cocky made off to think this matter over, for he was aware that the book had been already offered to Fleming Secundus for a shilling. He saw that by taking prompt action he might clear sixpence before bedtime. Unfortunately, he was not able to buy the book from Urquhart, for he was destitute of means, and he knew it would be mere folly to ask Urquhart for credit. In these painful circumstances he took Robbins into his confidence. At first he merely asked Bobbins to lend him a shilling, and Bobbins merely replied that he would do no such thing. To show that the money would be returned promptly, Cocky then made a clean breast of it, after which Bobbins was ready to lend him an ear. Robbins, however, stipulated that he should get half of the spoils.

  Cocky, as has been seen, got the book from Urquhart, but when it came to the point, Jenkinson was reluctant to part with the one and sixpence. In this extremity Cocky appealed to Robbins, who at once got hold of Dicky and threatened to slaughter him if he did not keep to his bargain. Thus frightened, Jenkinson bought the book.

  On hearing of this, Urquhart considered that he had been swindled, and set off in quest of Cocky. That boy was not to be found, however, until his threepence had disappeared in tarts. I got to know of this affair through Robbins’ backing up of Cocky, and telling Urquhart that nobody was afraid of him. A ring was immediately formed round Urquhart and Robbins, which I had the pleasure of breaking up.

  Since I sat down to write the adventures of “Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men,” I have looked through the book. Jenkinson read several chapters of it, and then offered it for next to nothing to anybody who had a fancy for being thoughtful. As no bidder was forthcoming, he in the end lost heart and presented it to the school library. A gentleman who visited us lately, and looked through the library, picked it up, and said that he was delighted to observe that the boys kept their books so clean. Yet not so long ago he was a boy at our school himself.

  NDINTPILE PONT (?).

  “WHAT would you say,” wrote a certain editor to me last Friday, “to doing next a paper on Ndintpile Pont?”

  I like the suggestion, but I can’t make out what Ndintpile Pont is. This rather handicaps me, especially as I have a presentiment that it is not Ndintpile Pont at all. It looks like Ndintpile Pont. The editor in question’s writing appears very easy to decipher if you hold it a little bit away, but, like the multiplication table, it is not so simple as it looks. The annoying thing is that he has written Ndintpile Pont with one dash of the pen, as if it were so well known that I could not possibly go wrong with it. Thus I have felt reluctant to write and ask him whether it really is Ndintpile Pont. I don’t want him to think that I am not well up in the topics of the day. It would be injurious to my standing in the profession and might affect my balance at the bank. Always make it a rule, never to show your ignorance; wear a confident air, and convince the editor that you are just the man he is looking for.

  But this unfortunate affair threatens to prove too much for me. I have shown the editor’s letter to several of my friends. I do this with a craft that is not natural to me. Instead of asking them openly if they can make out what these words are that look like Ndintpile Pont, I fling them the letter with affected carelessness, and say, “By the way, what do you think of that for the subject of an article?” While they read I put my hands over my face, as if I were thinking about something else, and watch them through my fingers. They take Ndintpile Pont in different ways. Sometimes they turn the letter upside down (after carefully glancing at me to see if I am observing them) or they try to read it sideways. This is satisfactory so far, for it shows that they are as much puzzled as I am, but it is no assistance. They end by asking me what this subject is that the editor proposes. Of course this foils me, and I have to reply in a careless tone, “Oh, Ndintpile Pont.” implying that they must know what Ndintpile Pont is. One had the honesty to say he never heard of it, but most of them say, “Oh,” or “Ah,” as if they understood thoroughly, and a few have had the hardihood to ask me how I meant to treat it. I reply, blandly, “In the usual way,” and that seems to satisfy them. Others to whom I have shown the letter say it is not “Ndintpile Pont,” but “Henderson’s Book,” and that has rather startled me, for on re-examination “Pont” might be “Book,” and as for “Ndintpile” it might be anything. The more you look at it the more you feel this. Suppose it is Henderson’s Book, who is Henderson, and where is his book? When they ask me this, I say that Henderson is a rising writer, but I am less ready with an answer when I put the question to myself.

  One acquaintance, after reading the letter, said that he remembered an article on the same subject the week before in the Daily News. I brightened up at this, and asked him what point of view the Daily News looked at it from. His way of taking my question made me suspect that he was like the others, too self-satisfied to admit that he could not make the writing out. He replied, however, that the Daily Neivs treated it, so far as he could recollect, in its political aspect, and presumed that I would discuss it rather in its social bearing. I admitted that that was my intention, and after he had gone I went to the office of the Daily News and examined the file. I could not, however, discover an article on Ndintpile Pont, or on anything at all like it. Had I been able to trust my friend, my position would now have been improved, for I would at least have known that the subject was one which c
ould be treated from both a political and a social standpoint. On returning home I spread the letter out before me, and after looking at it for a long time, made up my mind that it was not “Pont,” but “Polit.” This doubtless was short for “Political.”

  Next morning I looked at it again, and then it seemed more like “Punt.”

  The last man I showed the letter to must have thought it was a lady’s name, for he said, “Do you think she’ll be pleased at your writing an article on her?” Though this question took me aback, I replied, with considerable presence of mind, that I was sure she would like it; and then he asked me if I knew her personally. I said I had known her intimately for years, and he said was she not a bit of an invalid, and I said one of her lungs was completely gone. That evening I drew up a list of all the celebrated women still alive that I could think of, and compared the names with Ndintpile Pont. The one that came nearest it was Mrs. Oliphant. The last four letters of her name are not so unlike Pont when you examine them with a hope that they are like it. Tack the “ile” of what seems to be the first word on to the “Pont,” and you get “Hepont.” Then look at Hepont as the editor has written it, and it might easily be Oliphant. That leaves “Ndintp” unaccounted for; but, after all, is it Ndintp? Is it not more like Margaret, which is Mrs. Oliphant’s Christian name? I sat down to write about Mrs. Oliphant with a light heart, but before the first paragraph was finished I became doubtful again. Was Mrs. Oliphant an invalid? She is not, so far as I know; indeed, if she were, she could not write so much. On the whole, it seemed rather a risky thing to trust to its being Mrs. Oliphant. More likely Ndintpile Pont is the name assumed by some lady writer. If so, it is a striking pseudonym. I could, of course, write a fancy article about her, remarking that it is quite unnecessary to tell the intelligent reader what Ndintpile Pont’s real name is, for that is an open secret. Writers do such things, I am told, and it always flatters a reader to call him intelligent and take for granted that he knows what he does not know.

  Having become despondent, I have confessed to a few particular friends that the editor has contrived to puzzle me. Looking at his suggestion in the light of that admission, they have all agreed on one point, that, whatever it is, it is certainly not Ndintpile Pont. One suggests that it is something Pond, and asks if I know anything about a pond. I remember once falling into one, so he thinks the editor wants me to describe what it felt like. Depend upon it, he says, the editor wants to know from one who has really gone through the experience what the sensation of being nearly drowned is like. They say it is a delightful death, but is it? I cannot think it is Pond, however, for, in the first place, the editor does not know that I once fell into one, and, besides, I was not nearly drowned. It was a mere puddle of water, and I was quite surprised to learn afterward that it was a pond.

  It might certainly be Punt. I am living in a houseboat at present, and, of course, am frequently in punts. Is it “ Fishing off a Punt,” or “A Day in a Punt,” or “Our Houseboat Punt?” Somehow it is difficult to feel certain that it is.

  There are points of view from which it looks not unlike the name of a quack medicine for restoring the hair or making your child cry out in the night. Or is it a new soap? If so, I prefer it to any other, and it is matchless for the hands and complexion.

  At all events, I hope there is nothing wrong about it. It sounds rather like treason. Probably I had better leave it alone. I have thought it over until the houseboat is going round and round, so my most honest course seems now to be to write to the editor, saying that I won’t be able to do an article this month, as I can’t make out the subject.

  TO THE INFLUENZA.

  THE time has come for you to leave this house. Seventeen days ago you foisted yourself upon me, and since then we have been together night and day. You were unwelcome and uninvited, and you made yourself intensely disagreeable. We wrestled, you and I, but you attacked me unawares in the back, and you threw me. Then, like the ungenerous foe that you are, you struck me while I was down. However, your designs have failed. I struggle to my feet and order you to withdraw. Nay, withdraw is too polite a word. Your cab is at the door; get out. But, stop, a word with you before you go.

  Most of your hosts, I fancy, run you out of their houses without first saying what they think of you. Their one desire is to be rid of you. Perhaps they are afraid to denounce you to your face. I want, however, to tell you that I have been looking forward to this moment ever since you put me to bed. I said little while I was there, but I thought a good deal, and most of my thoughts were of you. You fancied yourself invisible, but I saw you glaring at me, and I clenched my fists beneath the blankets. I could paint your portrait. You are very tall and stout, with, a black beard, and a cruel, unsteady eye, and you have a way of crackling your fingers while you exult in your power. I used to lie watching you as you lolled in my cane-chair. At first it was empty, but I felt that you were in it, and gradually you took shape. I could hear your fingers crackling and the chair creak as you moved in it. If I sat up in fear, you disappeared, but as soon as I lay back, there you were again. I know now that in a sense you were a creature of my imagination. I have discovered something more. I know why you seemed tall and stout and bearded, and why I heard your fingers crackling.

  Fever — one of your dastard weapons — was no doubt what set me drawing portraits, but why did I see you a big man with a black beard? Because long ago, when the world was young, I had a schoolmaster of that appearance. He crackled his fingers too. I had forgotten him utterly. He had gone from me with the love of climbing for crows’ nests — which I once thought would never die — but during some of these seventeen days of thirty-six hours each I suppose I have been a boy again. Yet I had many schoolmasters, all sure at first that they could make something of me, all doleful when they found that I had conscientious scruples against learning. Why do I merge you into him of the crackling fingers? I know. It is because in mediæval times I hated him as I hate you. No others have I loathed with any intensity, but he alone of my masters refused to be reconciled to my favorite method of study, which consisted, I remember (without shame) in glancing at my tasks, as I hopped and skipped to school. Sometimes I hopped and skipped, but did not arrive at school in time to take solid part in lessons, and this grieved the soul of him who wanted to be my instructor. So we differed, as Gladstonian and Conservative on the result of the Parnell Commission, and my teacher, being in office, troubled me not a little. I confess I hated him, and while I sat glumly in his room, whence the better boys had retired, much solace I found in wondering how I would slay him, supposing I had a loaded pistol, a sword, and a hatchet, and he had only one life. I schemed to be a dark, morose pirate of fourteen, so that I might capture him, even at his blackboard, and make him walk the plank. I was Judge Lynch, and he was the man at the end of the rope. I charged upon him on horseback, and cut him down. I challenged him to single combat, and then I was Ivanhoe. I even found pleasure in conceiving myself shouting “Crackle-fingers” after him, and then bolting round a corner. You must see now why I pictured you heavy and dark and bearded. You are the schoolmaster of my later years. I lay in bed and gloried in the thought that presently I would be up, and fall upon you like a body of cavalry.

  What did you think of my doctor? You need not answer, for I know that you disliked him. You and I were foes, and I was getting the worst of it when he walked in and separated the combatants. His entrance was pleasant to me. He showed a contempt for you that perhaps he did not feel, and he used to take your chair. There were days when I wondered at his audacity in doing that, but I liked it, too, and by and by I may tell him why I often asked him to sit there. He was your doctor as well as mine, and every time he said that I was a little bettor, I knew he meant that you were a little weaker. You knew it, too, for I saw you scowling after he had gone. My doctor is also my friend, and so, when I am well, I say things against him behind his back. Then I see his weaknesses and smile comfortably at them with his other friends — whom I also discuss
with him. But while you had me down he was another man. He became, as it were, a foot taller, and I felt that he alone of men had anything to say that was worth listening to. Other friends came to look curiously at me and talk of politics, or Stanley, or on other frivolous topics, but he spoke of my case, which was the great affair. I was not, in my own mind, a patient for whom he was merely doing his best; I was entirely in his hands. I was a business, and it rested with him whether I was to be wound up or carried on as usual. I daresay I tried to be pleasant with him — which is not my way — took his prescriptions as if I rather enjoyed them, and held his thermometer in my mouth as though it were a new kind of pipe. This was diplomacy. I have no real pleasure in being fed with a spoon, nor do I intend in the future to smoke thermometers. But I knew that I must pander to my doctor’s weakness if he was to take my side against you. Now that I am able to snap my fingers at you I am looking forward to sneering once more at him. Just at this moment, however, I would prefer to lay a sword flat upon his shoulders, and say, gratefully, “Arise, Sir James.” He has altered the faces of the various visitors who whispered to each other in my presence, and nodded at me and said aloud that I would soon be right again, and then said something else on the other side of the door. He has opened my windows and set the sparrows a-chirping again, and he has turned on the sunshine. Lastly, he has enabled me to call your cab. I am done. Get out.

  FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS.

  THE following is a word-puzzle. It narrates the adventures of a four-in-hand novelist while trying to lose his reputation. Competitors do not require to be told that a four-in-hand novelist is a writer of fiction who keeps four serial tales running abreast in the magazines. The names of specimen four-inhand novelists will recur readily to every one. The puzzle is to discover who this particular novelist is; the description, as will be observed, answering to quite a number of them.