growled the Sub-Warden. ‘The little wretch always manages to upset his coffee!’
I guessed at once (as perhaps the reader will also have guessed, if, like myself, he is very clever at drawing conclusions) that my Lady was the Sub-Warden’s wife, and that Uggug (a hideous fat boy, about the same age as Sylvie, with the expression of a prize-pig) was their son. Sylvie and Bruno, with the Lord Chancellor, made up a party of seven.
‘And you actually got a plunge-bath every morning?’ said the Sub-Warden, seemingly in continuation of a conversation with the Professor. ‘Even at the little roadside-inns?’
‘Oh, certainly, certainly!’ the Professor replied with a smile on his jolly face. ‘Allow me to explain. It is, in fact, a very simple problem in Hydrodynamics. (That means a combination of Water and Strength.) If we take a plunge-bath, and a man of great strength (such as myself) about to plunge into it, we have a perfect example of this science. I am bound to admit,’ the Professor continued, in a lower tone and with downcast eyes, ‘that we need a man of remarkable strength. He must be able to spring from the floor to about twice his own height, gradually turning over as he rises, so as to come down again head first.’
‘Why, you need a flea, not a man!’ exclaimed the Sub-Warden.
‘Pardon me,’ said the Professor. ‘This particular kind of bath is not adapted for a flea. Let us suppose,’ he continued, folding his table-napkin into a graceful festoon, ‘that this represents what is perhaps the necessity of this Age—the Active Tourist’s Portable Bath. You may describe it briefly, if you like,’ looking at the Chancellor, ‘by the letters A.T.P.B.’
A portable plunge-bath
The Chancellor, much disconcerted at finding everybody looking at him, could only murmur, in a shy whisper, ‘Precisely so!’
‘One great advantage of this plunge-bath,’ continued the Professor, ‘is that it requires only half-a-gallon of water—’
‘I don’t call it a plunge-bath,’ His Sub-Excellency remarked, ‘unless your Active Tourist goes right under!’
‘But he does go right under,’ the old man gently replied. ‘The A.T. hangs up the P.B. on a nail—thus. He then empties the water-jug into it—places the empty jug below the bag—leaps into the air—descends head-first into the bag—the water rises round him to the top of the bag—and there you are!’ he triumphantly concluded. ‘The A.T. is as much under water as if he’d gone a mile or two down into the Atlantic!’
‘And he’s drowned, let us say, in about four minutes—’
‘By no means!’ the Professor answered with a proud smile. ‘After about a minute, he quietly turns a tap at the lower end of the P.B.—all the water runs back into the jug—and there you are again!’
‘But how in the world is he to get out of the bag again?’
‘That, I take it,’ said the Professor, ‘is the most beautiful part of the whole invention. All the way up the P.B., inside, are loops for the thumbs; so it’s something like going up-stairs, only perhaps less comfortable; and, by the time the A.T. has risen out of the bag, all but his head, he’s sure to topple over, one way or the other—the Law of Gravity secures that. And there he is on the floor again!’
‘A little bruised, perhaps?’
‘Well, yes, a little bruised; but having had his plunge-bath: that’s the great thing.’
‘Wonderful! It’s almost beyond belief!’ murmured the Sub-Warden. The Professor took it as a compliment, and bowed with a gratified smile.
‘Quite beyond belief!’ my Lady added—meaning, no doubt, to be more complimentary still. The Professor bowed, but he didn’t smile this time.
‘I can assure you,’ he said earnestly, ‘that, provided the bath was made, I used it every morning. I certainly ordered it—that I am clear about—my only doubt is, whether the man ever finished making it. It’s difficult to remember, after so many years—’
At this moment the door, very slowly and creakingly, began to open, and Sylvie and Bruno jumped up, and ran to meet the well-known footstep.
Chapter 3
Birthday-Presents
‘It’s my brother!’ the Sub-Warden exclaimed, in a warning whisper. ‘Speak out, and be quick about it!’
The appeal was evidently addressed to the Lord Chancellor, who instantly replied, in a shrill monotone, like a little boy repeating the alphabet, ‘As I was remarking, your Sub-Excellency, this portentous movement—’
‘You began too soon!’ the other interrupted, scarcely able to restrain himself to a whisper, so great was his excitement. ‘He couldn’t have heard you. Begin again!’
‘As I was remarking,’ chanted the obedient Lord Chancellor, ‘this portentous movement has already assumed the dimensions of a Revolution!’
‘And what are the dimensions of a Revolution?’ The voice was genial and mellow, and the face of the tall dignified old man, who had just entered the room, leading Sylvie by the hand, and with Bruno riding triumphantly on his shoulder, was too noble and gentle to have scared a less guilty man: but the Lord Chancellor turned pale instantly, and could hardly articulate the words ‘The dimensions—your—your High Excellency? I—I—scarcely comprehend!’
‘Well, the length, breadth, and thickness, if you like it better!’ And the old man smiled, half-contemptuously.
The Lord Chancellor recovered himself with a great effort, and pointed to the open window. ‘If your High Excellency will listen for a moment to the shouts of the exasperated populace—’ (‘of the exasperated populace!’ the Sub-Warden repeated in a louder tone, as the Lord Chancellor, being in a state of abject terror, had dropped almost into a whisper) ‘—you will understand what it is they want.’
And at that moment there surged into the room a hoarse confused cry, in which the only clearly audible words were ‘Less—bread—More—taxes!’ The old man laughed heartily. ‘What in the world—’ he was beginning: but the Chancellor heard him not. ‘Some mistake!’ he muttered, hurrying to the window, from which he shortly returned with an air of relief. ‘Now listen!’ he exclaimed, holding up his hand impressively. And now the words came quite distinctly, and with the regularity of the ticking of a clock, ‘More—bread—Less—taxes!’
‘More bread!’ the Warden repeated in astonishment. ‘Why, the new Government Bakery was opened only last week, and I gave orders to sell the bread at cost-price during the present scarcity! What can they expect more?’
‘The Bakery’s closed, y’reince!’ the Chancellor said, more loudly and clearly than he had spoken yet. He was emboldened by the consciousness that here, at least,
