The Wallypug in London

I was not left undisturbed long though, for a few minutes later Mrs. Putchy came to the door.

“Oh, please, sir, will you go down? Mr. Doctor-in-Law is having such a bother with the postman.”

I hurried out, and found the little man very angry indeed.

“This postman won’t give me a letter,” he cried when he saw me.

“Perhaps he hasn’t one for you,” I answered.

“But I saw him giving them away all down the street for nothing,” persisted the Doctor-in-Law. “And when I asked him in a civil way for one, he refused to give it to me. It’s no use for him to say he hasn’t one, when he has a whole packet in his hand now, and a lot more in his bag, no doubt. Are you going to give me a letter or not?” he continued, turning to the postman.

“No, sir,” continued the man, smiling. “I haven’t any for you.”

“Very well, then,” said the Doctor-in-Law decidedly, “I shall certainly write to the Queen and tell her that if she employs you any longer I shall take all my custom away, and I shall not send the twenty letters, that I intended writing to-day, off at all.”

I endeavoured to explain to the little man that the postman could not possibly give him a letter if he had not one addressed to him.

“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” he exclaimed, going off in a huff. “Of course you would take his part.”

Before I could settle down to work again the Rhymester and A. Fish, Esq., returned.

“Where’s the Wallypug?” I demanded.

“Oh, he’s coming by the next ’bus,” said the Rhymester. “Haven’t you had any rain here?”

“No,” I replied.

“Oh, we had quidt a sharb shower,” said A. Fish, Esq., “ad I was afraid of gettig wet, so we stopped a ’bus – there was odly roob for two though, ad the Wallypug said thad he would cub od by the dext.”

“I hope he will get home all right,” I said anxiously. “I don’t think you ought to have left his Majesty by himself.”

“Oh! it’s only a little way,” said the Rhymester; “he’s sure to get home all right.”

An hour passed and there was no signs of the Wallypug. I now began to get seriously anxious.

It would, of course, be the easiest thing in the world for his Majesty to take the wrong ’bus, and be taken goodness knows where.

I couldn’t think what was best to be done. The Rhymester suggested sending the Crier out, but I never remembered having seen one at Kensington, and at last, after searching for some time ourselves in Kensington Gardens, and making inquiries in High Street, and failing to glean any tidings of his Majesty, I thought it best to go to the Police Station.

Here I found a very important-looking official in uniform, with a big book in front of him.

“What is it?” he inquired, glaring at me fiercely.

“I’ve called to know if you could assist me in finding a friend who, I fear, has lost his way,” I replied.

The official did not answer me, but reached down another large book.

“What’s his name?” he inquired gruffly.

“His name? Oh – er – his name is – er – that is to say he is the – ” I had not the least idea what the Wallypug’s name really was, so I couldn’t very well say.

“What’s his name?” shouted the official. “I’ll ask you what he is presently.”

“Well, I’m very sorry, but I really do not know his name.”

The man glanced at me very suspiciously.

“You said he was a friend of yours – it’s a very odd thing that you don’t know his name. What is he?”

“He’s a – a – Wallypug,” I stammered. “That is to say he – er – ”

“Wallypug!” exclaimed the man contemptuously. “What’s that?”

“Why, it’s a kind of king, you know,” I explained, feeling that the explanation was rather a lame one.

“A kind of king!” exclaimed the police officer. “Explain yourself.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t explain more clearly than that,” I replied. “This gentleman has been staying with me for a couple of days, and went out this morning and lost his way.”

“Where did he come from?” asked the man.

“Why,” I answered.

“Why? Because I want to know,” he shouted. “Don’t let me have any further prevarication. Where did the man, or Wallypug, or whatever you call him, come from?”

“From Why. From a place called Why, you know,” I repeated.

“I don’t know,” said the officer. “I’ve never heard of such a place. Where is it?”

“Well, really,” I said, “I’m very sorry, but I cannot tell you. I don’t know myself.”

“This is very remarkable,” said the man, glaring at me through his glasses. “You don’t know your friend’s name; you call him a Wallypug, and can’t explain what that is, you don’t know where he comes from – perhaps you can tell me how he reached your house?”

I was now really in a fix, for how could I tell this man that his Majesty had stepped out of a picture.

I thought the best thing to do was to hold my tongue.

“How did he come?” repeated the officer. “By train?”

I shook my head.

“By steamer?”

I shook my head again.

“Did he drive? – or come on a bicycle, or walk?”

I remained silent.

The police officer stared at me for a moment or two, waiting for my answer.

“Look here, young man,” said he at last, evidently very angry indeed. “It strikes me that you are having a game with me. You had better go away quietly or I shall be obliged to take you in charge as a lunatic.”

“But I assure you that – ”

“How was your friend dressed?”

“Oh, he wore a somewhat battered gold crown, and carried an orb and sceptre, and was dressed in knee breeches and a velvet cloak with an ermine collar.”

The man gave me a keen glance and then rang a bell. A policeman appeared a moment or two afterwards, and the officer whispered something to him, of which I only caught the words, “harmless lunatic.”

“Lunatic, sir; yes, sir. Step this way, please,” said the policeman, and before I could realize what had happened I was bundled into a small bare room, and the key was turned in the lock and I was a prisoner.

Here was a pretty state of affairs. The stupid people had mistaken me for a lunatic, and I was no doubt to be locked up here till a doctor arrived.

Of course the only thing for me to do was to sit still and wait as patiently as I could. Fortunately the police people thought of telegraphing to the other stations to find out if anything was known of an escaped lunatic; and from Fulham came the reply, “We have found one ourselves. He calls himself a Wallypug, and is dressed like a second-hand king.” This caused inquiries to be made, and eventually I was taken in a cab to Fulham, where we found his Majesty in the charge of the police, he having been found wandering about the Fulham Road quite unable to give what they considered a satisfactory account of himself.

It was most unfortunate that his Majesty should have taken the wrong ’bus, for, not having any money with him, he was set down in a totally strange neighbourhood, and had quite forgotten my address. Of course, now that we had been brought face to face, we had no difficulty in convincing the police people that we were what we represented ourselves to be, and were soon, to our great relief, on our way home again.

“I don’t think that I should like to be a policeman,” remarked the Wallypug, on our way there.

“No?” I answered. “Why not?”

“They have to catch dogs for a living?” remarked his Majesty solemnly. “There were several brought in while I was waiting, and the policeman who had caught them seemed so pleased about it.”

I explained to the Wallypug as well as I was able about the muzzling order, and his Majesty was highly indignant, and when I pointed out several dogs with muzzles on he was more indignant still.

“And are they always obliged to wear those horrible wire cages over their heads?” he inquired.

I told his Majesty that in London the order for wearing them had been in force for some considerable time, and we had a long talk over the matter, his Majesty declaring that he should try and invent a new muzzle which should be more comfortable for the poor dogs.

“Oh, here we are at last,” he exclaimed, as we turned the corner near my house. “And there are the others on the steps!”

“Here they are! Here they are!” shouted the Rhymester to the others, and everyone rushed forward to assist his Majesty to alight, seemingly very glad to see us back again.

We were quite as delighted to get back, I can tell you, and I was so relieved at having found the Wallypug that I hadn’t the heart to refuse the Doctor-in-Law’s request that I would give him ten shillings worth of penny stamps to put into the letters which he had been writing while we had been away, although he would not give me the slightest clue as to what they were wanted for.

CHAPTER V

AN ‘AT HOME’ AND THE ACADEMY

We were quite ready for luncheon, as you may imagine, after our morning’s adventures, and directly afterwards his Majesty set to work on the new dog’s muzzle which he had promised to invent. In about half an hour he had constructed one with which he was intensely delighted, and he persuaded A. Fish, Esq., to try it on that we might see the effect.

It certainly was very simple, but as there was nothing whatever to go over the mouth, I felt sure that it could not possibly be very useful. I did not like to tell his Majesty so though, for he seemed so thoroughly proud of his achievement.

It was now time to go to the ‘At Home,’ so, wishing to do honour to the occasion, our ‘State Coach,’ as we called it, was sent for, and we drove off in fine style.

There were a great many people invited to meet us, and I could see that there was quite a little flutter of excitement when the Wallypug entered.

His Majesty, however, in his simple, good-natured way soon put everybody at their ease, and laughed and chattered with the utmost affability.

Girlie and Boy had both been allowed to come into the drawing-room, and Girlie quite claimed the Wallypug as her own particular guest, while Boy renewed his acquaintance with the Rhymester, whom he had met before at Zum, and despite their mother’s protests they carried these two members of our party off in triumph to show them their play-room and toys and to talk over old times.

While they were away the Doctor-in-Law made himself very agreeable to the ladies, and I watched him bowing and smiling and chatting, first with one group, then with another, with great amusement. I found out afterwards that he had promised several of them portraits of his Majesty and suite for 2s. 6d. each as soon as they should be taken, and in every case had asked for the money in advance; but the great event of the afternoon was when A. Fish, Esq., wrapped up in Mrs. Putchy’s pink woollen shawl, borrowed for the occasion, and surrounded by a group of young ladies, consented after much pressing to deliver part of his lecture on the “Perhapness of the Improbable.”

“You bust sed for the Rhymebster though to help be to read id, for by cold is still so bad thad I can’d do id by byself,” he explained.

So the Rhymester was sent for, and his Majesty also came down to hear the wonderful lecture. It had been turned into verse by the Rhymester, who, after an affected attempt to clear his throat, read as follows:

THE PERHAPNESS OF THE IMPROBABLEIf this were that, and these were those,And hither nearer thither,Why, which might be whate’er it chose,And there be any whither.Somehow ’twould be the simpler wayTo dearer be than cheaper,And that’s why when (each other day)Would higher be than deeper.So worst would be the best of all,And far more less than either;While short would certainly be tall,And therefore thus be neither.

“Beautiful! charming!” echoed all the young ladies at once when he had finished, while one lady sitting near me exclaimed, “How sweetly simple!” For my own part I thought that it was anything but simple, and caught myself trying to follow the line of argument with the most brain-confusing results.

The Wallypug was greatly distressed when he discovered that while listening to the reading, and looking at the charming young lady with whom he had been conversing, he had absent-mindedly spilt the whole of his cup of tea over her dress.

“You see, they didn’t give me a plate to put my cake on,” I heard him explain apologetically, “and it was so awkward, for my cup would keep slipping about on the saucer.”

The young lady smiled very sweetly and assured his Majesty that it didn’t matter in the least, and shortly afterwards we left, having stayed, as it was, far beyond the regulation time.

When we arrived home we found a letter addressed to the Rhymester in the letter-box, which in a state of great excitement he tore open with trembling fingers.

Upon reading the contents he burst into tears.

“Poor man, poor man!” he sobbed. “I am so sorry to have caused him so much trouble.”

“It is a letter from an Editor,” he explained through his tears, “and he is in great distress through not being able to publish my poem. He says he greatly regrets his inability to make use of it! Poor man, he evidently feels it very keenly. I must write and tell him not to be too unhappy about it.”

I had some letters to write too, one to a photographer in Regent Street, asking for an appointment the next morning, for I was determined that the Doctor-in-Law should send the promised photographs to the young ladies without delay.

The first thing in the morning came a telegram to say that we could be photographed at eleven o’clock, so, after my guests had made themselves as spruce as possible, we started off and reached there in good time.

It was suggested that the Wallypug should be taken by himself, but when he saw the camera pointed directly at him while the operator disappeared beneath the black cloth, he came to the conclusion that it was too dangerous a machine to be faced with impunity, so he suddenly turned his back upon it, and nervously fled from the room.

It was only by promising that the others should be taken with him that we could get him to sit at all, and even then there was a strained and nervous expression upon his face, which suggested that he was in momentary fear that the thing would “go off.”

The Rhymester insisted upon being taken with one of his poems in his hand, the Doctor-in-Law wore his usual complacent smile, and altogether the group was quite a success.

As soon as the “operation,” as the Wallypug would insist upon calling it, was over, we went downstairs, his Majesty leading the way, while the Doctor-in-Law stayed behind for a moment to make some arrangements with the photographer about commission. We had intended going home by ’bus, but when we got to the door his Majesty was nowhere to be seen. What could have become of him? We looked up and down the street, but could see no signs of him anywhere; and at last, after hunting about for a considerable time, he was discovered calmly sitting inside a furniture removal van, waiting for it to start, under the impression that it was an omnibus.

“I’m sure this is the right one,” he explained, “for it has ‘Kensington’ printed in large letters on it. Come along, there’s plenty of room inside; the conductor and the driver will be here presently, I suppose.”

I laughingly explained to his Majesty the mistake which he had made, and we walked on as far as Piccadilly Circus, where we found a ’bus to take us to the Academy, which we intended visiting on our way home. We had not gone far though, when I suddenly remembered that the 22nd June was very close at hand, and that I had better make arrangements for seats to view the Jubilee Procession or I should be too late. So it was arranged that the Doctor-in-Law should take charge of the party while I went on to the agents to see about the seats. They would have no difficulty in getting home by themselves for the ’buses ran from just outside the Academy doors straight to Kensington, so I felt sure that they would be all right.

“How much is the entrance fee to the Academy?” asked the Doctor-in-Law, as I was getting down from the ’bus.

“A shilling each,” I replied, and I saw the little man collecting the money from the others as the ’bus disappeared from view.

I was very fortunate at the agents in being able to secure a capital window in Piccadilly, and some Stores in the neighbourhood undertook to provide a luncheon and to suitably decorate the window for us.

These arrangements being satisfactorily concluded, I hurried home, and was greatly relieved to find my guests there before me.

“How did you enjoy the Academy?” I inquired.

“Not at all!” said his Majesty decidedly.

“Waste of money, I call it,” said the Rhymester, sniffing contemptuously.

“I was dever so disappointed id edythig id all by life!” declared A. Fish, Esq.

“Besides, the catalogue was no good at all,” complained his Majesty. “We could make neither head nor tail of it.”

The Doctor-in-Law was silent, and it was only by very careful inquiry that I found out that, after pocketing their money, he had taken them to an immense hoarding covered with advertisement posters, and had gammoned them into believing that that was the Academy, while it was no wonder that the poor Wallypug could not understand the ‘catalogue,’ for it was nothing more nor less than an old illustrated stores price list.

It was really too bad of the Doctor-in-Law.

CHAPTER VI

THE JUBILEE

The few days which elapsed before the memorable 22nd of June passed very quickly, and we were all more or less busy making preparations for the festival. His Majesty would insist upon polishing up his regalia himself in order to do honour to the occasion, and spent hours over his crown with a piece of chamois leather and some whitening till, though somewhat battered by the rough usage it had sustained, it shone quite brilliantly. Mrs. Putchy herself suggested making his Majesty some new red silk rosettes for his shoes, which he very graciously consented to accept. The Doctor-in-Law was always so spick and span that we scarcely noticed any change in his appearance, but the Rhymester had made arrangements with General Mary Jane to wash, starch, and iron his lace collar, and he remained in his room one entire day while it was being done up. A. Fish, Esq., purchased a necktie of most brilliant colouring, and One-and-Nine touched himself up here and there with some red enamel where his tunic had become shabby in places, so that altogether our party looked very smart as we drove at a very early hour to our seats in Piccadilly. To avoid the crowd we went by way of Bayswater Road, and then passed down Park Lane and through Berkeley Square, in order to reach the back entrance to the house in Piccadilly where I had booked seats. Our gorgeous carriage was everywhere hailed with great delight, being of course mistaken for a portion of the Jubilee procession, and many were the conjectures heard on all sides as to who the Wallypug could possibly be.

Our window was in the centre of the building on the first floor, and we had it all to ourselves. A table at the back of the room was tastefully set out with an excellent cold collation, and in front of the window, which was most elaborately decorated with velvet curtains, flags, and trophies, and which was surmounted by a device which was understood to be the Wallypug’s coat-of-arms, a gorgeous, gilded, high-backed chair was placed as a throne for his Majesty, and comfortable seats were also provided for the rest of the party.

The crowd outside greeted our appearance with quite a demonstration, as by the enormous placard outside announcing the name of the decorators, and stating that they were by appointment to his Majesty the Wallypug of Why, of course everybody knew who we were. Indeed, one learned-looking person in the crowd was holding forth to an eager audience, and explaining exactly where Why was situated, and pretending that he had been there, and had seen the Wallypug before, ever so many times.

As the time approached for the procession to pass, the Wallypug became very excited and nervous. “Shall I really see the Queen of England?” he kept asking over and over again. “Do you think she will see me? Will she bow to me? What must I say? Must I keep my crown on or take it off?” and innumerable other questions of the same nature.

Presently the excitement and enthusiasm reached their height, as amid a confused shouting of “Here they are,” the Guards in advance came in sight. Slowly the mighty procession, with its innumerable squadrons and bands passed, and at last, after the English and Foreign princes and Eastern potentates, the eight cream-coloured Hanoverian horses, drawing the Jubilee landau, made their appearance, and the Queen was seen, smiling and bowing graciously to the cheering populace. The Doctor-in-Law, in his excitement, scrambled on to the window ledge in order to obtain a better view; the Wallypug loyally waved his crown; while the Rhymester, hurriedly unrolling a lengthy ode which he had written especially for the occasion, began reading it in a loud voice, and, though nobody paid the slightest attention to him, did not desist until long after the procession had passed.

The Wallypug was very thoughtful for some time after the Queen had gone by, and, during the drive home, expressed his great surprise that her Majesty had not worn a crown, and apparently could not understand why it should not be worn on all occasions.

“I suppose her Majesty has a crown of her own, hasn’t she?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh yes, of course!” I replied.

“Where is it then?” persisted his Majesty.

“I believe all of the regalia is kept carefully locked up and guarded in the Tower of London,” I said.

“Well, I think it’s very unkind of them not to let her Majesty have them out on an occasion like this. I shall see what I can do about it.”

The dear Wallypug’s intentions were evidently so good that I did not say anything in reply to this, though I wondered to myself whatever his Majesty thought that he could do in the matter.

There were so many people about that we considered it best to spend the rest of the day quietly at home, though we did venture out in the evening to see the illuminations, which delighted his Majesty exceedingly.

The next afternoon the whole party, with the exception of One-and-Nine, drove over the route taken by the procession, in order to see the street decorations. I remained at home, and late in the afternoon there was a knock at my door, and General Mary Jane entered. She was nervously wringing a handkerchief wet with tears, and her eyes were quite red with weeping.

“Please, sir,” she began, sniffing pathetically, “I want to gi – gi – give no – notice.”

“Why! what ever for?” I asked in surprise, for General Mary Jane was an excellent servant, and Mrs. Putchy had always been very pleased with her.

“Please, sir, it’s Sergeant One-and-Nine; he’s broken my ’art, sir, and I can’t bear it no longer,” and the poor girl burst into a flood of tears.

“Bless me!” I cried, “whatever do you mean?”

“Well, sir, you see ever since he’s been ’ere, sir, he’s been a making hup to me; leastwise that’s what I thought he meant, sir; but this afternoon bein’ my day hout, I went up to Kensington Gardens for a walk (him a saying as he would be there), and what should I see when I gets there, but him a walkin’ about with half-a-dozen of them nursemaids in white frocks a followin’ of him. Not that I says as it’s altogether his fault; they will run after the military; but it’s more than I can stand, sir, me bein’ that proud at ’avin’ a soldier for a sweetheart, and all,” and she began to cry again.

I hardly knew what to do, but suggested that she should not think too seriously about it, and General Mary Jane, saying she hoped I would excuse her troubling me in the matter, decided to go to her married sister at Barnes and spend the rest of her day out there, and talk the matter over with her. I had a lot of writing to do all the afternoon, and the time passed so quickly that until the gong sounded for dinner I did not realize that the Wallypug and his party had not returned. It was now past seven, and they should have been home hours since.

I was so anxious about them that I could scarcely eat any dinner, and as soon as the meal was over I hurried to the livery stables to hear if they knew anything about the matter.

The first person I encountered when I arrived there was the coachman, now divested of his fine livery, and busy in the yard.