ELEVEN SECONDS.
The word "schedule" always bothers me; when I see it on an income-tax paper I lose my head. In my confusion I sign my name lavishly. I confess to profits from trades, professions, employments and vocations; I reveal the presence of unsuspected gas-works, quarries, salt-springs, alum mines, streams of water, ferries, cemeteries and "other concerns of the like nature within the United Kingdom"; no secret is made of my colonial and foreign possessions. Wherever I see an inviting gap I slip in a few figures... Then the assessor looks at my paper and tells me what I ought to give him.
This year things went worse than ever. I got some noughts in the wrong place; a whole lot of gaps headed "Claim for Relief in Respect of Earned Income," which I had supplied with particular liberality, went by the board, all because I hadn't noticed in the preambulation some foolish date "before which any claim must be preferred." Those two accidents practically doubled my little tax... and then Lloyd George went and doubled it again. It began to look as if it would be cheaper to pay income on my income-tax instead of the other way round.
"Celia," I said, "we're ruined. Cancel any orders for potted salmon; we shall have to live simply in future." And I told her just what the tax-gatherer had asked for.
"But why do we have to pay so much?" she asked.
"Partly because of the Kaiser, and partly because of me. History will apportion the blaine."
Colia seemed prepared to auticipate History.
"Don't forget," I went on hastily, "that the money will be well spent. If I had to make a fool of myself, I would sooner have done it this year than any other. It is a privilege to pay for a war like this."
Celia looked thoughtful.
"How much does the war cost England?" she asked.
"Oh, lots. I think it mentioned the exact figures in The Times this morning. They'll be only too glad of my little contribution."
She retired in search of The Times.
*****
The stars denote Celia at work. I can imagine her with her head on one side and the tip of her tongue just peering out to see how she is getting on, the paper in front of her a mass of figures. The ink is creeping up her pen; hor forefinger is nervous and bids her hurry.
She has finished, and she comes into the room, trying to look grave. My letter to the Assessor, "Sir and Friend,—By the beard (if any) of your ancestor, I beseech you———" is abandoned, and I turn to her.
"Well?"
"I've worked it out," she said. "Do you know how long you'll be paying for the war?"
"Oh, quite a long time."
"Eleven seconds."
It was a little disappointing.
"Eleven seconds," repeated Celia. "One—two—three—four———"
"That's too fast. Begin again."
"One———two———three———"
"That's better."
She counted eleven. It seemed much longer now. One———two———three———four...
And all the time my brave army was fighting in Flanders, my navy was sweeping the North Sea, my million recruits were growing into soldiers. In Yorkshire my looms were busy, Armstrong's were turning out my guns, Northampton was giving my gallant boys their boots. Did an aeroplane shoot up into the sky, did a submarine dive into the deep, mine was the supporting hand. Was I not a god among men?
"Ten," said Celia—"eleven. What are you thinking about?"
I pitched my letter to the Assessor in the fire.
"I've been thinking about my war," I said. "Every shot that was fired while you were counting I paid for; I paid for the food of every soldier and sailor; for the separation allowances of their wives; for hospitals and ambulances and doctors."
"How lovely it sounds. I hadn't thought of it like that. It makes eleven seconds seem an age."
"It is an age. For eleven seconds French and Jellicoe were my men."
"Then I think you might have warned me," said Celia reproachfully, "so that we could have shared them."
"I'm sorry," I said. Then I had an idea. "It's all right," I said. "I made a mistake. Those weren't our eleven seconds at all; Carnegie or somebody paid for those. We'll have ours together later on."
"Well, let's see that they are good ones... when we're having a victory. We might tell people that the last eleven seconds off the Falkland Islands were ours."
"But I hadn't paid then. Anyway, I don't think they begin to use my money till April 5th... I say, Celia, let's do our eleven seconds in style. Let's make an occasion of it."
"Oh, do let's." She looked at her diary. "What about April 15th? I'm not doing anything then."
"But why the 15th?"
"I thought perhaps the King might like the first few days for himself. Or doesn't he pay income-tax? Anyhow, the 15th is a Thursday, which is a nice day."
So we have decided on Thursday, April 15th. Starting at 1.30 (because we want to pay for as much bully beef and jam as possible), for eleven seconds we shall support alone the British Empire... And, when those fateful moments are over, then we shall raise a glass in gratitude to the men who have served us so well.
Oh, you lucky millionaires, who may be gods, perhaps, for half-an-hour—have you filled in your income-tax forms? If not, fill them in properly this time. Leave out no quarry, no alum mine, no stream of water. Who knows? That salt spring which you were forgetting may well be the deciding second of the war.
DÎNER DU KAISER.
Le Menu.
Consommé Chiffon de Papier.
Purée Barbare.
Anguilles de la Marne.
Bulletins Variés.
Sauce Crème de Menteur.
Petites Vérités à la Dentiste.
MOI en Dégringolade.
Ôtages Fusillés à la Croix d'Enfer.
Langue de Boche à la Kultur.
Suprême de Dégoût Américain.
Incendies à l'Amour de Dieu.
Bombe Visée à la Cathédrale.
Saucissons Cent Soucis.
Amendes en Milliards.
DÎNER DU GÉNÉRAL JOFFRE.
Le Menu.
Consommé aux Gueux Pochés.
Purée de Renforts.
Filets de Sol Natal.
Sauce Balayage.
Petites Tranchées à la Baïonnette.
Soixante-Quinze en Surprise.
Aloyau Français à la Loyauté.
Concours Anglais à la French.
Timbales de Progrès à la Rongeur.
Obus en Autobus.
Silences Assortis de Journalistes en Bandeau.
Piou-Pious en Bonbonnière.
Accueil de Glace aux Correspondants.
