now of the most complete unimportance to her country, had (for the first time) a sudden longing to "do something." And so, being unfitted for needlework, nursing or the kitchen, she adopted eagerly the suggestion of some stupid and unimaginative old gentleman, and constituted herself (under God) Supreme Arbiter of Men's Consciences for the South-West Suburbs of London. Patriotically aglow, she handed out white feathers to all the un-uniformed young men she chanced to meet... the whitest of all coming to John, as he made his way next morning to the recruiting office.
Old Servant (to lady who has just returned to her week-end cottage). "Dreadful this news about the war, Mum; and young Mr. Kenneth away with the Fleet, and all the gentlemen about here recalled to their regiments, and there's been a disaster I must tell you about. The moth had got into the drawing-room carpet, Mum."
I sometimes doubt whether my bank takes me really seriously. Not that it isn't businesslike. They let me know to the minute when I have overdrawn my account by five and elevenpence; but they cash my cheques with a certain air of patronage, whereas, if you look at things properly, the patronage is all on my side.
Every Saturday morning a man comes to my bank to cash a cheque for a hundred and fifty pounds (How he gets through all that money in a week I have never had the courage to ask him.) Every Saturday morning I come to my bank to cash a cheque for—well, whatever it happens to be, you know.
The trouble is that we nearly always coincide; only the other man always seems to coincide first. And, as he takes his hundred and fifty on a selective principle, I am beginning to know from bitter experience what he will ask for and how long he will take to get served. He begins with a note for fifty and going on with fifty in fivers. Then he has twenty sovereigns, and so on, down to the pound in copper. He and the cashier chat airily the while of cabbages and kaisers. Then at last goes away full, and the cashier turns to me.
The Saturday before last I ventured to ask whether, if the hundred-and-fifty pounder always insisted on arriving two seconds before me, it wouldn't be possible to cash my cheque, which is a simple little thing, in one of the intervals during which, after sending to the cellars for more gold, they relapse into easy conversation; or, alternatively, if it was really necessary to pay a customer exactly the complicated bunches of monies he demanded; and, if so, whether it couldn't be done any quicker.
The answer proving unsatisfactory I determined to arrive earlier last Saturday. I made no mistake. I hung about the door of the bank for a quarter of an hour till I saw my rival approach. I came in just ahead of him, and presented my cheque. The cashier received it with his usual little smile and turned it over. Then his usual little smile left him and he set sadly to work.
The hundred-and-fifty pound man chafed and stamped his feet behind me for ten minutes, while I gloated. It was my day—my Tag.
I think you may like to know just in what shape I demanded the payment of my modest fifty shillings:—
| £ | s. | d. | |
| 1 | 0 | 0 | in one pound notes. |
| 0 | 10 | 0 | in ten shilling notes. |
| 0 | 10 | 0 | in gold. |
| 0 | 5 | 0 | in shilling postal orders. |
| 0 | 2 | 0 | in threepenny bits. |
| 0 | 0 | 9 1/2 | in halfpennies. |
| 0 | 1 | 10 1/4 | in farthings. |
| 0 | 0 | 4 | in silver, if possible (otherwise stamps). |
| 0 | 0 | 0 1/4 | in pins. |
| 2 | 10 | 0 |
