“The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway,” he said, “is to go by Underground.”
“Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway,” replied the Grand Duke suavely.
The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slippery adversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.
“The sun rises in the East,” he cried, half-choking, “but it sets—it sets!”
“So does a hen,” was the cynical reply.
The last remnants of the Prince’s self-control were slipping away. This elusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not in the mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room at some frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that the thing was his doing, it is little short of maddening.
“Hen!” he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Have you studied the habits of hens?”
The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master-diplomat before him was used to extracting himself from awkward corners.
“Pullets with a southern exposure,” he drawled, “have yellow legs and ripen quickest.”
The Prince was nonplussed. He had no answer.
The girl behind the bar spoke.
“You do talk silly, you two!” she said.
It was enough. Trivial as the remark was, it was the last straw. The Prince brought his fist down with a crash on the counter.
“Yes,” he shouted, “you are right. We do talk silly; but we shall do so no longer. I am tired of this verbal fencing. A plain answer to a plain question. Did you or did you not send your troops to give me the bird to-night?”
“My dear Prince!”
The Grand Duke raised his eyebrows.
“Did you or did you not?”
“The wise man,” said the Russian, still determined on evasion, “never takes sides, unless they are sides of bacon.”
The Prince smashed a glass.
“You did!” he roared. “I know you did! Listen to me! I’ll give you one chance. I’ll give you and your precious soldiers twenty-four hours from midnight to-night to leave this country. If you are still here then–-“
He paused dramatically.
The Grand Duke slowly drained his vermouth.
“Have you seen my professional advertisement in the Era, my dear Prince?” he asked.
“I have. What of it?”
“You noticed nothing about it?”
“I did not.”
“Ah. If you had looked more closely, you would have seen the words, ‘Permanent address, Hampstead.’”
“You mean–-“
“I mean that I see no occasion to alter that advertisement in any way.”
There was another tense silence. The two men looked hard at each other.
“That is your final decision?” said the German.
The Russian bowed.
“So be it,” said the Prince, turning to the door. “I have the honour to wish you a very good night.”
“The same to you,” said the Grand Duke. “Mind the step.”
Chapter 9
THE GREAT BATTLE
The news that an open rupture had occurred between the Generals of the two invading armies was not slow in circulating. The early editions of the evening papers were full of it. A symposium of the opinions of Dr. Emil Reich, Dr. Saleeby, Sandow, Mr. Chiozza Money, and Lady Grove was hastily collected. Young men with knobbly and bulging foreheads were turned on by their editors to write character-sketches of the two generals. All was stir and activity.
Meanwhile, those who look after London’s public amusements were busy with telephone and telegraph. The quarrel had taken place on Friday night. It was probable that, unless steps were taken, the battle would begin early on Saturday. Which, it did not require a man of unusual intelligence to see, would mean a heavy financial loss to those who supplied London with its Saturday afternoon amusements. The matinees would suffer. The battle might not affect the stalls and dress-circle, perhaps, but there could be no possible doubt that the pit and gallery receipts would fall off terribly. To the public which supports the pit and gallery of a theatre there is an irresistible attraction about a fight on anything like a large scale. When one considers that a quite ordinary street-fight will attract hundreds of spectators, it will be plainly seen that no theatrical entertainment could hope to compete against so strong a counter-attraction as a battle between the German and Russian armies.
The various football-grounds would be heavily hit, too. And there was to be a monster roller-skating carnival at Olympia. That also would be spoiled.
A deputation of amusement-caterers hurried to the two camps within an hour of the appearance of the first evening paper. They put their case plainly and well. The Generals were obviously impressed. Messages passed and repassed between the two armies, and in the end it was decided to put off the outbreak of hostilities till Monday morning.
Satisfactory as this undoubtedly was for the theatre-managers and directors of football clubs, it was in some ways a pity. From the standpoint of the historian it spoiled the whole affair. But for the postponement, readers of this history might—nay, would—have been able to absorb a vivid and masterly account of the great struggle, with a careful description of the tactics by which victory was achieved. They would have been told the disposition of the various regiments, the stratagems, the dashing advances, the skilful retreats, and the Lessons of the War.
As it is, owing to the mistaken good-nature of the rival generals, the date of the fixture was changed, and practically all that a historian can do is to record the result.
A slight mist had risen as early as four o’clock on Saturday. By nightfall the atmosphere was a little dense, but the lamp-posts were still clearly visible at a distance of some feet, and nobody, accustomed to living in London, would have noticed anything much out of the common. It was not till Sunday morning that the fog proper really began.
London awoke on Sunday to find the world blanketed in the densest, yellowest London particular that had been experienced for years. It was the sort of day when the City clerk has the exhilarating certainty that at last he has an excuse for lateness which cannot possibly be received with harsh disbelief. People spent the day indoors and hoped it would clear up by tomorrow.
“They can’t possibly fight if it’s like this,” they told each other.
But on the Monday morning the fog was, if possible, denser. It wrapped London about as with a garment. People shook their heads.
“They’ll have to put it off,” they were saying, when of a sudden—_Boom!_ And, again, Boom!
It was the sound of heavy guns.
The battle had begun!
One does not wish to grumble or make a fuss, but still it does seem a little hard that a battle of such importance, a battle so outstanding in the history of the world, should have been fought under such conditions. London at that moment was richer than ever before in descriptive reporters. It was the age of descriptive reporters, of vivid pen-pictures. In every newspaper office there were men who could have hauled up their slacks about that battle in a way that would have made a Y.M.C.A. lecturer want to get at somebody with a bayonet; men who could have handed out the adjectives and exclamation-marks till you almost heard the roar of the guns. And there they were—idle, supine—like careened battleships. They were helpless. Bart Kennedy did start an article which began, “Fog. Black fog. And the roar of guns. Two nations fighting in the fog,” but it never came to anything. It was promising for a while, but it died of inanition in the middle of the second stick.
It was hard.
The lot of the actual war-correspondents was still worse. It was useless for them to explain that the fog was too thick to give them a chance. “If it’s light enough for them to fight,” said their editors remorselessly, “it’s light enough for you to watch them.” And out they had to go.