Part 9

I did find a ladder, and fortunately it was long enough. Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow were out when I arrived, possibly on the hunt for cheap photo frames and Japanese fans. I did not want to make a mess. I removed the house neatly into a dust-pan, and wiped the street clear of every trace of it. I had just put back the ladder when Mrs. Sparrow returned with a piece of pink cotton-wool in her mouth. That was her idea of a colour scheme: apple-blossom pink and Reckitt’s blue side by side. She dropped her wool and sat on the waterspout, and tried to understand things.

“Number one, number two, number four; where the blazes”—sparrows are essentially common, and the women are as bad as the men—“is number three?”

Mr. Sparrow came up from behind, over the roof. He was carrying a piece of yellow-fluff, part of a lamp-shade, as far as I could judge.

“Move yourself,” he said, “what’s the sense of sitting there in the rain?”

“I went out just for a moment,” replied Mrs. Sparrow; “I could not have been gone, no, not a couple of minutes. When I came back—”

“Oh, get indoors,” said Mr. Sparrow, “talk about it there.”

“It’s what I’m telling you,” continued Mrs. Sparrow, “if you would only listen. There isn’t any door, there isn’t any house—”

“Isn’t any—” Mr. Sparrow, holding on to the rim of the spout, turned himself topsy-turvy and surveyed the street. From where I was standing behind the laurel bushes I could see nothing but his back.

He stood up again, looking angry and flushed.

“What have you done with the house? Can’t I turn my back a minute—”

“I ain’t done nothing with it. As I keep on telling you, I had only just gone—”

“Oh, bother where you had gone. Where’s the darned house gone? that’s what I want to know.”

They looked at one another. If ever astonishment was expressed in the attitude of a bird it was told by the tails of those two sparrows. They whispered wickedly together. The idea occurred to them that by force or cunning they might perhaps obtain possession of one of the other nests. But all the other nests were occupied, and even gentle Jenny Swallow, once in her own home with the children round about her, is not to be trifled with. Mr. Sparrow called at number two, put his head in at the door, and then returned to the waterspout.

“Lady says we don’t live there,” he explained to Mrs. Sparrow. There was silence for a while.

“Not what I call a classy street,” commented Mrs. Sparrow.

“If it were not for that terrible tired feeling of mine,” said Mr. Sparrow, “blame if I wouldn’t build a house of my own.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Sparrow, “—I have heard it said that a little bit of work, now and then, does you good.”

“All sorts of wild ideas about in the air nowadays,” said Mr. Sparrow, “it don’t do to listen to everybody.”

“And it don’t do to sit still and do nothing neither,” snapped Mrs. Sparrow. “I don’t want to have to forget I’m a lady, but—well, any man who was a man would see things for himself.”

“Why did I every marry?” retorted Mr. Sparrow.

They flew away together, quarrelling.

DO WRITERS WRITE TOO MUCH?

ON a newspaper placard, the other day, I saw announced a new novel by a celebrated author. I bought a copy of the paper, and turned eagerly to the last page. I was disappointed to find that I had missed the first six chapters. The story had commenced the previous Saturday; this was Friday. I say I was disappointed and so I was, at first. But my disappointment did not last long. The bright and intelligent sub-editor, according to the custom now in vogue, had provided me with a short synopsis of those first six chapters, so that without the trouble of reading them I knew what they were all about.

“The first instalment,” I learned, “introduces the reader to a brilliant and distinguished company, assembled in the drawing-room of Lady Mary’s maisonette in Park Street. Much smart talk is indulged in.”

I know that “smart talk” so well. Had I not been lucky enough to miss that first chapter I should have had to listen to it once again. Possibly, here and there, it might have been new to me, but it would have read, I know, so very like the old. A dear, sweet white-haired lady of my acquaintance is never surprised at anything that happens.

“Something very much of the same kind occurred,” she will remember, “one winter when we were staying in Brighton. Only on that occasion the man’s name, I think, was Robinson.”

We do not live new stories—nor write them either. The man’s name in the old story was Robinson, we alter it to Jones. It happened, in the old forgotten tale, at Brighton, in the winter time; we change it to Eastbourne, in the spring. It is new and original—to those who have not heard “something very like it” once before.

“Much smart talk is indulged in,” so the sub-editor has explained. There is absolutely no need to ask for more than that. There is a Duchess who says improper things. Once she used to shock me. But I know her now. She is really a nice woman; she doesn’t mean them. And when the heroine is in trouble, towards the middle of the book, she is just as amusing on the side of virtue. Then there is a younger lady whose speciality is proverbs. Apparently whenever she hears a proverb she writes it down and studies it with the idea of seeing into how many different forms it can be twisted. It looks clever; as a matter of fact, it is extremely easy.