“The blighter!” he said. “I’ll give ‘im ‘ell. I’ll give ‘im bleeding ‘ell. I’ll give ‘im somethink wot ‘e don’t expect.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the inn-keeper.

  “Why,” answered the chauffeur, with abrupt composure, “I’ll give ‘im a little dornkey.”

  Mr. Pump looked troubled. “Do you think,” he observed, affecting to speak lightly, “that he’s fit to be trusted even with a little donkey?”

  “Ow, yes,” said the man. “He’s very amiable with donkeys, and donkeys we is to be amiable with ‘im.”

  Pump still looked at him doubtfully, appearing or affecting not to follow his meaning. Then he looked equally anxiously across at the other two men; but they were still talking. Different as they were in every other way, they were of the sort who forget everything, class, quarrel, time, place and physical facts in front of them, in the lust of lucid explanation and equal argument.

  Thus, when the Captain began by lightly alluding to the fact that after all it was his donkey, since he had bought it from a tinker for a just price, the police station practically vanished from Wimpole’s mind — and I fear the donkey-cart also. Nothing remained but the necessity of dissipating the superstition of personal property.

  “I own nothing,” said the poet, waving his hands outward, “I own nothing save in the sense that I own everything. All depends whether wealth or power be used for or against the higher purposes of the cosmos.”

  “Indeed,” replied Dalroy, “and how does your motor car serve the higher purposes of the cosmos?”

  “It helps me,” said Mr. Wimpole, with honourable simplicity, “to produce my poems.”

  “And if it could be used for some higher purpose (if such a thing could be), if some new purpose had come into the cosmos’s head by accident,” inquired the other, “I suppose it would cease to be your property.”

  “Certainly,” replied the dignified Dorian. “I should not complain. Nor have you any title to complain when the donkey ceases to be yours when you depress it in the cosmic scale.”

  “What makes you think,” asked Dalroy, “that I wanted to depress it?”

  “It is my firm belief,” replied Dorian Wimpole, sternly, “that you wanted to ride on it” (for indeed the Captain had once repeated his playful gesture of putting his large leg across). “Is not that so?”

  “No,” answered the Captain, innocently, “I never ride on a donkey. I’m afraid of it.”

  “Afraid of a donkey!” cried Wimpole, incredulously.

  “Afraid of an historical comparison,” said Dalroy.

  There was a short pause, and Wimpole said coolly enough, “Oh, well, we’ve outlived those comparisons.”

  “Easily,” answered the Irish Captain. “It is wonderful how easily one outlives someone else’s crucifixion.”

  “In this case,” said the other grimly, “I think it is the donkey’s crucifixion.”

  “Why, you must have drawn that old Roman caricature of the crucified donkey,” said Patrick Dalroy, with an air of some wonder. “How well you have worn; why, you look quite young! Well, of course, if this donkey is crucified, he must be uncrucified. But are you quite sure,” he added, very gravely, “that you know how to uncrucify a donkey? I assure you it’s one of the rarest of human arts. All a matter of knack. It’s like the doctors with the rare diseases, you know; the necessity so seldom arises. Granted that, by the higher purposes of the cosmos, I am unfit to look after this donkey, I must still feel a faint shiver of responsibility in passing him on to you. Will you understand this donkey? He is a delicate-minded donkey. He is a complex donkey. How can I be certain that, on so short an acquaintance, you will understand every shade of his little likes and dislikes?”

  The dog Quoodle, who had been sitting as still as the sphinx under the shadow of the pine trees, waddled out for an instant into the middle of the road and then returned. He ran out when a slight noise as of rotatory grinding was heard; and ran back when it had ceased. But Dorian Wimpole was much too keen on his philosophical discovery to notice either dog or wheel.

  “I shall not sit on its back, anyhow,” he said proudly, “but if that were all it would be a small matter. It is enough for you that you have left it in the hands of the only person who could really understand it; one who searches the skies and seas so as not to neglect the smallest creature.”

  “This is a very curious creature,” said the Captain, anxiously, “he has all sorts of odd antipathies. He can’t stand a motor car, for instance, especially one that throbs like that while it’s standing still. He doesn’t mind a fur coat so much, but if you wear a brown velvet jacket under it, he bites you. And you must keep him out of the way of a certain kind of people. I don’t suppose you’ve met them; but they always think that anybody with less than two hundred a year is drunk and very cruel, and that anybody with more than two thousand a year is conducting the Day of Judgment. If you will keep our dear donkey from the society of such persons — Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!”

  He turned in genuine disturbance, and dashed after the dog, who had dashed after the motor car and jumped inside. The Captain jumped in after the dog, to pull him out again. But before he could do so, he found the car was flying along too fast for any such leap. He looked up and saw the sign of “The Old Ship” erect in the front like a rigid banner; and Pump, with his cask and cheese, sitting solidly beside the driver.

  The thing was more of an earthquake and transformation to him even than to any of the others; but he rose waveringly to his feet and shouted out to Wimpole.

  “You’ve left it in the right hands. I’ve never been cruel to a motor.”

  In the moonlight of the magic pine-wood far behind, Dorian and the donkey were left looking at each other.

  To the mystical mind, when it is a mind at all (which is by no means always the case), there are no two things more impressive and symbolical than a poet and a donkey. And the donkey was a very genuine donkey, and the poet was a very genuine poet; however lawfully he might be mistaken for the other animal at times. The interest of the donkey in the poet will never be known. The interest of the poet in the donkey was perfectly genuine; and survived even that appalling private interview in the owlish secrecy of the woods.

  But I think even the poet would have been enlightened if he had seen the white, set, frantic face of the man on the driver’s seat of his vanishing motor. If he had seen it he might have remembered the name, or, perhaps, even begun to understand the nature of a certain animal which is neither the donkey nor the oyster; but the creature whom man has always found it easiest to forget, since the hour he forgot God in a Garden.

  Chapter XV: The Songs of the Car Club

  MORE than once as the car flew through black and silver fairylands of fir wood and pine wood, Dalroy put his head out of the side window and remonstrated with the chauffeur without effect. He was reduced at last to asking him where he was going.

  “I’m goin’ ‘ome,” said the driver in an undecipherable voice. “I’m a goin’ ‘ome to my mar.”

  “And where does she live?” asked Dalroy, with something more like diffidence than he had ever shown before in his life.

  “Wiles,” said the man, “but I ain’t seen ‘er since I was born. But she’ll do.”

  “You must realise,” said Dalroy, with difficulty, “that you may be arrested — it’s the man’s own car; and he’s left behind with nothing to eat, so to speak.”

  “‘E’s got ‘is dornkey,” grunted the man. “Let the stinker eat ‘is dornkey, with thistle sauce. ‘E would if ‘e was as ‘ollow as I was.”

  Humphrey Pump opened the glass window that separated him from the rear part of the car, and turned to speak to his friend over his square elbow and shoulder.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “he won’t stop for anything just yet. He’s as mad as Moody’s aunt, as they say.”

  “Do they say it?” asked the Captain, with a sort of anxiety. “They never said it in Ithaca.”

  “Honestly, I think you’d better leave him alone,” answered Pump, with his sagacious face. “He’d just run us into a Scotch Express like Dandy Mutton did, when they said he was driving carelessly. We can send the car back to Ivywood somehow later on, and really, I don’t think it’ll do the gentleman any harm to spend a night with a donkey. The donkey might teach him something, I tell you.”

  “It’s true he denied the Principle of Private Property,” said Dalroy, reflectively, “but I fancy he was thinking of a plain house fixed on the ground. A house on wheels, such as this, he might perhaps think a more permanent possession. But I never understand it;” and again he passed a weary palm across his open forehead. “Have you ever noticed, Hump, what is really odd about those people?”

  The car shot on amid the comfortable silence of Pump, and then the Irishman said again:

  “That poet in the pussy-cat clothes wasn’t half bad. Lord Ivywood isn’t cruel; but he’s inhuman. But that man wasn’t inhuman. He was ignorant, like most cultured fellows. But what’s odd about them is that they try to be simple and never clear away a single thing that’s complicated. If they have to choose between beef and pickles, they always abolish the beef. If they have to choose between a meadow and a motor, they forbid the meadow. Shall I tell you the secret? These men only surrender the things that bind them to other men. Go and dine with a temperance millionaire and you won’t find he’s abolished the hors d’oeuvres or the five courses or even the coffee. What he’s abolished is the port and sherry, because poor men like that as well as rich. Go a step farther, and you won’t find he’s abolished the fine silver forks and spoons, but he’s abolished the meat, because poor men like meat — when they can get it. Go a step farther, and you won’t find he goes without gardens or gorgeous rooms, which poor men can’t enjoy at all. But you will find he boasts of early rising, because sleep is a thing poor men can still enjoy. About the only thing they can still enjoy. Nobody ever heard of a modern philanthropist giving up petrol or typewriting or troops of servants. No, no! What he gives up must be some simple and universal thing. He will give up beef or beer or sleep — because these pleasures remind him that he is only a man.”

  Humphrey Pump nodded, but still answered nothing; and the voice of the sprawling Dalroy took one of its upward turns of a sort of soaring flippancy; which commonly embodied itself in remembering some song he had composed.

  “Such,” he said, “was the case of the late Mr. Mandragon, so long popular in English aristocratic society as a bluff and simple democrat from the West, until he was unfortunately sand-bagged by six men whose wives he had had shot by private detectives, on his incautiously landing on American soil.

  “Mr. Mandragon the Millionaire, he wouldn’t have wine or

  wife,

  He couldn’t endure complexity; he lived the simple life;

  He ordered his lunch by megaphone in manly, simple tones,

  And used all his motors for canvassing voters, and twenty

  telephones;

  Besides a dandy little machine,

  Cunning and neat as ever was seen,

  With a hundred pulleys and cranks between,

  Made of iron and kept quite clean,

  To hoist him out of his healthful bed on every day of his

  life,

  And wash him and brush him and shave him and dress him

  to live the Simple Life.

  “Mr. Mandragon was most refined and quietly, neatly dressed,

  Say all the American newspapers that know refinement

  best;

  Quiet and neat the hair and hat, and the coat quiet and neat,

  A trouser worn upon either leg, while boots adorned the feet;

  And not, as anyone might expect,

  A Tiger Skin, all striped and specked,

  And a Peacock Hat with the tail erect,

  A scarlet tunic with sunflowers decked — That might have had a more marked effect,

  And pleased the pride of a weaker man that yearned for

  wine or wife;

  But fame and the flagon for Mr. Mandragon obscured the

  Simple Life.

  “Mr. Mandragon the Millionaire, I am happy to say, is dead.

  He enjoyed a quiet funeral in a crematorium shed,

  And he lies there fluffy and soft and grey and certainly

  quite refined,

  When he might have rotted to flowers and fruit with Adam

  and all mankind.

  Or been eaten by bears that fancy blood,

  Or burnt on a big tall tower of wood,

  In a towering flame as a heathen should,

  Or even sat with us here at food,

  Merrily taking twopenny rum and cheese with a pocket

  knife,

  But these were luxuries lost for him that lived for the

  Simple Life.”

  Mr. Pump had made many attempts to arrest this song, but they were as vain as all attempts to arrest the car. The angry chauffeur seemed, indeed, rather inspired to further energy by the violent vocal noises behind; and Pump again found it best to fall back on conversation.

  “Well, Captain,” he said, amicably. “I can’t quite agree with you about those things. Of course, you can trust foreigners too much as poor Thompson did; but then you can go too far the other way. Aunt Sarah lost a thousand pounds that way. I told her again and again he wasn’t a nigger, but she wouldn’t believe me. And, of course, that was just the kind of thing to offend an ambassador if he was an Austrian. It seems to me, Captain, you aren’t quite fair to these foreign chaps. Take these Americans, now! There were many Americans went by Pebblewick, you may suppose. But in all the lot there was never a bad lot; never a nasty American, nor a stupid American — nor, well, never an American that I didn’t rather like.”

  “I know,” said Dalroy, “you mean there was never an American who did not appreciate ‘The Old Ship.’”

  “I suppose I do mean that,” answered the inn-keeper, “and somehow, I feel ‘The Old Ship’ might appreciate the American too.”

  “You English are an extraordinary lot,” said the Irishman, with a sudden and sombre quietude. “I sometimes feel you may pull through after all.”

  After another silence he said, “You’re always right, Hump, and one oughtn’t to think of Yankees like that. The rich are the scum of the earth in every country. And a vast proportion of the real Americans are among the most courteous, intelligent, self-respecting people in the world. Some attribute this to the fact that a vast proportion of the real Americans are Irishmen.”

  Pump was still silent, and the Captain resumed in a moment.

  “All the same,” he said, “it’s very hard for a man, especially a man of a small country like me, to understand how it must feel to be an American; especially in the matter of nationality. I shouldn’t like to have to write the American National Anthem, but fortunately there is no great probability of the commission being given. The shameful secret of my inability to write an American patriotic song is one that will die with me.”

  “Well, what about an English one,” said Pump, sturdily. “You might do worse, Captain.”

  “English, you bloody tyrant,” said Patrick, indignantly. “I could no more fancy a song by an Englishman than you could one by that dog.”

  Mr. Humphrey Pump gravely took the paper from his pocket, on which he had previously inscribed the sin and desolation of grocers, and felt in another of his innumerable pockets for a pencil.

  “Hullo,” cried Dalroy. “Are you going to have a shy at the Ballad of Quoodle?”

  Quoodle lifted his ears at his name. Mr. Pump smiled a slight and embarrassed smile. He was secretly proud of Dalroy’s admiration for his previous literary attempts and he had some natural knack for verse as a game, as he had for all games; and his reading, though desultory, had not been merely rustic or low.

  “On condition,” he said, deprecatingly, “that you write a song for the English.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Patrick, with a huge sigh that really indicated the very opposite of reluctance. “We must do something till the thing stops, I suppose, and this seems a blameless parlour game. ‘Songs of the Car Club.’ Sounds quite aristocratic.”

  And he began to make marks with a pencil on the fly-leaf of a little book he had in his pocket — Wilson’s Noctes Ambrosianae. Every now and then, however, he looked up and delayed his own composition by watching Pump and the dog, whose proceedings amused him very much. For the owner of “The Old Ship” sat sucking his pencil and looking at Mr. Quoodle with eyes of fathomless attention. Every now and then he slightly scratched his brown hair with the pencil, and wrote down a word. And the dog Quoodle, with that curious canine power of either understanding or most brazenly pretending to understand what is going on, sat erect with his head at an angle, as if he were sitting for his portrait.

  Hence it happened that though Pump’s poem was a little long, as are often the poems of inexperienced poets, and though Dalroy’s poem was very short (being much hurried toward the end) the long poem was finished some time before the short one.

  Therefore it was that there was first produced for the world the song more familiarly known as “No Noses,” or more correctly called “The Song of Quoodle.” Part of it ran eventually thus: —

  “They haven’t got no noses

  The fallen sons of Eve,

  Even the smell of roses

  Is not what they supposes,

  But more than mind discloses,

  And more than men believe.

  “They haven’t got no noses,

  They cannot even tell

  When door and darkness closes

  The park a Jew encloses,

  Where even the Law of Moses

  Will let you steal a smell;

  “The brilliant smell of water,

  The brave smell of a stone,

  The smell of dew and thunder

  And old bones buried under,

  Are things in which they blunder

  And err, if left alone.

  “The wind from winter forests,