In Pastures New

by George Ade

  CHAPTER III

  WITH MR. PEASLEY IN DARKEST LONDON

  We did not expect to have Mr. Peasley with us in London. He planned tohurry on to Paris, but he has been waiting here for his trunk to catchup with him. The story of the trunk will come later.

  As we steamed into Plymouth Harbour on a damp and overcast Sabbathmorning, Mr. Peasley stood on the topmost deck and gave encouraginginformation to a man from central Illinois who was on his first tripabroad. Mr. Peasley had been over for six weeks in 1895, and that gavehim license to do the "old traveller" specialty.

  In beginning a story he would say, "I remember once I was crossing onthe _Umbria_," or possibly, "That reminds me of a funny thing I oncesaw in Munich." He did not practise to deceive, and yet he gavestrangers the impression that he had crossed on the _Umbria_ possiblytwelve or fourteen times and had spent years in Munich.

  The Illinois man looked up to Mr. Peasley as a modern Marco Polo, andMr. Peasley proceeded to unbend to him.

  "A few years ago Americans were very unpopular in England," said Mr.Peasley. "Every one of them was supposed to have either a dynamitebomb or a bunch of mining stock in his pocket. All that is changednow--all changed. As we come up to the dock in Plymouth you willnotice just beyond the station a large triumphal arch of evergreenbearing the words, 'Welcome, Americans!' Possibly the band will not beout this morning, because it is Sunday and the weather is threatening,but the Reception Committee will be on hand. If we can take timebefore starting for London no doubt a committee from the CommercialClub will haul us around in open carriages to visit the publicbuildings and breweries and other points of interest. And you'll findthat your money is counterfeit out here. No use talkin', we're all onepeople--just like brothers. Wait till you get to London. You'll thinkyou're right back among your friends in Decatur."

  It was too early in the morning for the Reception Committee, but therewas a policeman--one solitary, water-logged, sad-eyedpoliceman--waiting grewsomely on the dock as the tender came alongside.He stood by the gangplank and scrutinised us carefully as we filedashore. The Illinois man looked about for the triumphal arch, butcould not find it. Mr. Peasley explained that they had taken it in onaccount of the rain.

  While the passengers were kept herded into a rather gloomy waitingroom, the trunks and larger baggage were brought ashore and sorted outaccording to the alphabetical labels in an adjoining room to await thecustoms examination. When the doors opened there was a rush somewhatlike the opening of an Oklahoma reservation. In ten minutes the trunkshad been passed and were being trundled out to the special train.Above the babel of voices and the rattle of wheels arose the sounds oflamentation and modified cuss words. Mr. Peasley could not find histrunk. It was not with the baggage marked "P." It was not in theboneyard, or the discard, or whatever they call the heap of unmarkedstuff piled up at one end of the room. It was not anywhere.

  The other passengers, intent upon their private troubles, pawed overtheir possessions and handed out shillings right and left and followedthe line of trucks out to the "luggage vans," and Mr. Peasley was leftalone, still demanding his trunk. The station agent and many portersran hither and thither, looking into all sorts of impossible places,while the locomotive bell rang warningly, and the guard begged Mr.Peasley to get aboard if he wished to go to London. Mr. Peasley tookoff his hat and leaned his head back and howled for his trunk. Thetrain started and Mr. Peasley, after momentary indecision, made arunning leap into our midst. There were six of us in a small paddedcell, and five of the six listened for the next fifteen minutes to amost picturesque and impassioned harangue on the subject of the generalinefficiency of German steamships and English railways.

  _And howled for his trunk_]

  "Evidently the trunk was not sent ashore," someone suggested to Mr.Peasley. "If the trunk did not come ashore you could not reasonablyexpect the station officials to find it and put it aboard the train."

  "But why didn't it come ashore?" demanded Mr. Peasley. "Everyone onthe boat knew that I was going to get off at Plymouth. It was talkedabout all the way over. Other people got their trunks, didn't they?Have you heard of any German being shy a trunk? Has anybody else lostanything? No; they went over the passenger list and said, 'If we musthold out a trunk on anyone, let's hold it out on Peasley--old goodthing Peasley.'"

  _Let's hold it out on Peasley_]

  "Are you sure it was put on board at Hoboken?" he was asked.

  "Sure thing. I checked it myself, or, rather, I got a fellow thatcouldn't speak any English to check it for me. Then I saw it loweredinto the cellar, or the subway, or whatever they call it."

  "Did you get a receipt for it?"

  "You bet I did, and right here she is."

  He brought out a congested card case and fumbled over a lot of papers,and finally unfolded a receipt about the size of a one-sheet poster.On top was a number and beneath it said in red letters at least twoinches tall, "This baggage has been checked to Hamburg."

  We called Mr. Peasley's attention to the reading matter, but he said itwas a mistake, because he had been intending all the time to get off atPlymouth.

  "Nevertheless, your trunk has gone to Hamburg."

  "Where is Hamburg?"

  "In Germany. The Teuton who checked your baggage could not by anyeffort of the imagination conceive the possibility of a person startingfor anywhere except Hamburg. In two days your trunk will be lying on adock in Germany."

  "Well, there's one consolation," observed Mr. Peasley; "the clothes inthat trunk won't fit any German."

  When he arrived in London he began wiring for his trunk in severallanguages. After two days came a message couched in Volapuk or someother hybrid combination, which led him to believe that his propertyhad been started for London.

  Mr. Peasley spent a week in the world's metropolis with no clothesexcept a knockabout travelling outfit and what he called his "Tuxedo,"although, over here they say "dinner jacket." In Chicago or Omaha Mr.Peasley could have got along for a week without any embarrassment tohimself or others. Even in New York the "Tuxedo" outfit would havecarried him through, for it is regarded as a passable apology forevening dress, provided the wearer wishes to advertise himself as alonesome "stag." But in London there is no compromise. In every hotellobby or dining-room, every restaurant, theatre or music hall, afterthe coagulated fog of the daytime settles into the opaque gloom ofnight, there is but one style of dress for any mortal who does not wishto publicly pose as a barbarian. The man who affects a "Tuxedo" mightas well wear a sweater. In fact it would be better for him if he didwear a sweater, for then people would understand that he was making noeffort to dress; but when he puts on a bobtail he conveys theimpression that he is trying to be correct and doesn't understand therules.

  An Englishman begins to blossom about half-past seven p.m. The menseen in the streets during the day seem a pretty dingy lot comparedwith a well-dressed stream along Fifth Avenue. Many of the tall hatsbear a faithful resemblance to fur caps. The trousers bag and the coatcollars are bunched in the rear and all the shoes seem about two sizestoo large. Occasionally you see a man on his way to a train and hewears a shapeless bag of a garment made of some loosely woven materialthat looks like gunnysack, with a cap that resembles nothing so much asa welsh rabbit that has "spread." To complete the picture, he carriesa horse blanket. He thinks it is a rug, but it isn't. It is a horseblanket.

  If the Englishman dressed for travel is the most sloppy of allcivilised beings, so the Englishman in his night regalia is the mostcorrect and irreproachable of mortals. He can wear evening clotheswithout being conscious of the fact that he is "dressed up." Thetrouble with the ordinary American who owns an open-faced suit is thathe wears it only about once a month. For two days before assuming thesplendour of full dress he broods over the approaching ordeal. As thefateful night draws near he counts up his studs and investigates the"white vest" situation. In the deep solitude of his room he mournfullyclimbs into the camphor-laden ga
rments, and when he is ready to ventureforth, a tall collar choking him above, the glassy shoes pinching himbelow, he is just as much at ease as he would be in a full suit ofarmour, with casque and visor.

  _"Dressed down" and "Dressed up"_]

  However, all this is off the subject. Here was Mr. Peasley in London,desirous of "cutting a wide gash," as he very prettily termed it,plenty of good money from Iowa burning in his pocket, and he could notget out and "associate" because of a mere deficiency in clothing.

  At the first-class theatres his "bowler" hat condemned him and he wassent into the gallery. When he walked into a restaurant the headwaiter would give him one quick and searching glance and then put himoff in some corner, behind a palm. Even in the music halls thesurrounding "Johnnies" regarded him with wonder as another specimen ofthe eccentric Yankee.

  _His bowler hat condemned him_]

  We suggested to Mr. Peasley that he wear a placard reading "I have someclothes, but my trunk is in Hamburg." He said that as soon as hisswell duds arrived he was going to put them on and revisit all of theplaces at which he had been humiliated and turned down, just to let theflunkeys know that they had been mistaken.

  Mr. Peasley was greatly rejoiced to learn one day that he could attenda football game without wearing a special uniform. So he went out tosee a non-brutal game played according to the Association rules. Thegentle pastime known as football in America is a modification andoverdevelopment of the Rugby game as played in Great Britain. TheAssociation, or "Seeker" game, which is now being introduced in theUnited States as a counter-irritant for the old-fashioned form ofmanslaughter, is by far the more popular in England. The RugbyAssociation is waning in popularity, not because of any outcry againstthe character of the play or any talk of "brutality," but because theBritish public has a more abiding fondness for the Association game.

  In America we think we are football crazy because we have a few bigcollege games during October and November of each year. In GreatBritain the football habit is something that abides, the same as thetea habit.

  We are hysterical for about a month and then we forget the game unlesswe belong to the minority that is trying to debrutalise it and reducethe death rate.

  Here it was, February in London, and on the first Saturday after ourarrival forty-five Association games and thirty-eight Rugby games werereported in the London papers. At sixteen of the principal Associationgames the total attendance was over two hundred and fifty thousand andthe actual receipts at these same games amounted to about $45,000.There were two games at each of which the attendance was over thirtythousand, with the receipts exceeding $5,000. A very conservativeestimate of the total attendance at the games played on this Saturdaywould be five hundred thousand. In other words, on one Saturdayafternoon in February the attendance at football games was equal to thetotal attendance at all of the big college games during an entireseason in the United States. No wonder that the English newspapers arebeginning to ask editorially "Is football a curse?" There is noclamour regarding the roughness of the game, but it is said to cost toomuch money and to take up too much time for the benefits derived.

  The game to which Mr. Peasley conducted us was played in ratherinclement weather--that is, inclement London weather--which means thatit was the most terrible day that the imagination can picture--a dark,chilly, drippy day, with frequent downpours. It has been said that onecannot obtain icewater in London. This is a mistake. We obtained itby the hogshead.

  In spite of the fact that the weather was bad beyond description,seventeen thousand spectators attended the game and saw it through to awatery finish.

  Mr. Peasley looked on and was much disappointed. He said they used toomany players and the number of fatalities was not at all in keepingwith the advertised importance of the game. It was a huge crowd, butthe prevailing spirit of solemnity worried Mr. Peasley. He spoke to anative standing alongside of him and asked:--"What's the matter withyou folks over here? Don't you know how to back up a team? Where areall of your flags and ribbons, your tally-hos and tin horns? Is this afootball game or a funeral?"

  "Why should one wear ribbons at a football game?" asked the Englishman.

  "Might as well put a little ginger into the exercises," suggested Mr.Peasley. "Do you sing during the game?"

  "Heavens, no. Sing? Why should one sing during a football game? Inwhat manner is vocal music related to an outdoor pastime of thischaracter?"

  "You ought to go to a game in Iowa City. We sing till we're black inthe face--all about 'Eat 'em up, boys,' 'Kill 'em in their tracks,' and'Buck through the line.' What's the use of coming to a game if youstand around all afternoon and don't take part? Have you got anyyells?"

  "What are those?"

  "Can you beat that?" asked Mr. Peasley, turning to us. "A footballgame without any yells!"

  The game started. By straining our eyes we could make out through thedeep gloom some thirty energetic young men, very lightly clad,splashing about in all directions, and kicking in all sorts of aimlessdirections. Mr. Peasley said it was a mighty poor excuse for football.No one was knocked out; there was no bucking the line; there didn'teven seem to be a doctor in evidence. We could not follow the finepoints of the contest. Evidently some good plays were being made, foroccasionally a low, growling sound--a concerted murmur--would arisefrom the multitude banked along the side lines.

  "What is the meaning of that sound they are making?" asked Mr. Peasley,turning to the native standing alongside of him.

  "They are cheering," was the reply.

  "They are what?"

  "Cheering."

  "Great Scott! Do you call that cheering? At home, when we want toencourage the boys we get up on our hind legs and make a noise that youcan hear in the next township. We put cracks in the azure dome.Cheering! Why, a game of croquet in the court house yard is eighttimes as thrilling as this thing. Look at those fellows juggling theball with their feet. Why doesn't somebody pick it up and butt throughthat crowd and start a little rough work?"

  The native gave Mr. Peasley one hopeless look and moved away.

  We could not blame our companion for being disappointed over thecheering. An English cheer is not the ear-splitting demoniacal shriek,such as an American patriot lets out when he hears from another batchof precincts.

  The English cheer is simply a loud grunt, or a sort of guttural "Hey!hey!" or "Hurray!"

  When an English crowd cheers the sound is similar to that made by aRoman mob in the wings of a theatre.

  After having once heard the "cheering" one can understand the meaningof a passage in the Parliamentary report, reading about as follows:"The gentleman hoped the house would not act with haste. (Cheers). Hestill had confidence in the committee (cheers), but would advise acareful consideration (cheers), etc."

  It might be supposed from such a report that Parliament was onecontinuous "rough house," but we looked in one day and it is more likea cross between a Presbyterian synod and bee-keepers' convention.

  About four o'clock we saw a large section of the football crowd movingover toward a booth at one end of the grounds. Mr. Peasley hurriedafter them, thinking that possibly someone had started a fight on theside and that his love of excitement might be gratified after all.Presently he returned in a state of deep disgust.

  "Do you know why all those folks are flockin' over there?" he asked."Goin' after their tea. Tea! Turnin' their backs on a football gameto go and get a cup of tea! Why, that tea thing over there is worsethan the liquor habit. Do you know, when the final judgment day comesand Gabriel blows his horn and all of humanity is bunched up, waitin'for the sheep to be cut out from the goats and put into a separatecorral, some Englishman will look at his watch and discover that it'sfive o'clock and then the whole British nation will turn its back onthe proceedings and go off looking for tea."

  After we had stood in the rain for about an hour someone told Mr.Peasley that one team or the other had won by three goals to nothing,and we followed the m
oist throng out through the big gates.

  "Come with me," said Mr. Peasley, "and I will take you to the only dryplace in London."

  So we descended to the "tuppenny tube."