Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3812/All Liar's Day
"So it's ———'s birthday to-day," said Fortescue (naming a very well-known politician) as he looked up from his newspapers. "You'll call and wish him many happy returns, of course, Ferguson?"
We who travel up together each morning by this train are pretty well agreed about ———.
"Don't mention that man to me!" cried Ferguson. "He's absolutely the biggest liar on earth. I can't imagine how he faces the world as he does after having been exposed so many times. You'd think he would want to crawl away into a hole somewhere. He can't have the least sense of shame."
"Pardon me," interrupted the burly stranger seated in the corner. "Pardon me; there is reason why he should. It is not his fauly if he is addicted to inexactitude. He was predestined to it. It is the irresistible influence of the day on which he was born. Every man born on this day must inevitably grow up to be a liar; it is his fate, from which there can be no escape."
"Oh, come!" protested Ferguson. "That sounds rather far-fetched, you know, for these days."
"My dear Sir," retorted the other, brushing up his moustache aggressively and glaring at Ferguson, "I happen to be President of the Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon Character, so I presume I may claim to know what I am talking about."
So truculent was his demeanour that nobody ventured to speak.
"My Society," he continued after a pause, "has conducted its researches over a period of many years. I am going to give you just a few examples out of thousands we have collected. Let us take a significant date, February 29th. A man born on that day is a coward. It is inevitable. Pusillanimity is born in him and can never be eradicated.
"We had before us a month or two ago the case of a gentleman living in a country town—a quiet, shy, studious recluse—born on this fatal day. By some mischance he happened to pick up a journal in which was an article on the Government by Mr. Arnold White. He read it. He was so terrified that he expired from heart failure. That sounds to you incredibly, but real life is often incredible. That is one of the discoveries of our Society.
"I will give you a more remarkable instance still. A well-to-do gentleman with the same birthday, whose case we have recorded in our journals, is now, though perfectly healthy, bed-ridden under the following amazing circumstances. He accidentally discovered that his tailor, who had clothed him since boyhood, was an anarchist. After this he was afraid to have any further dealings with the man, while, on the other hand, he lacked sufficient courage to face the ordeal of being fitted by a fresh tailor. For some time he used to sit up at night and secretly sew patches into his trousers. Naturally this could not go on for ever, and at last, when his garments were dropping to pieces, he had to take to his bed... You smile, Sir. Perhaps you think I am exaggerating?"
His eyes flashed and his voice vibrated with such anger that I jumped six inches out of my seat.
"Not at all—not at all," I stammered. "Only it occurred to me—er—that he might have—er—b-bought them ready-made."
"Your knowledge of human nature must be singularly slight," replied the other icily, "if you imagine that a man without sufficient courage to be fitted by a tailor would be brave enough to wear ready-made clothes."
"It seems to me, Sir," said Dean, coming to the rescue, "that your two instances prove little, if anything. They may be mere coincidence."
The stranger leaned forward, frowned heavily and wagged his forefinger at Dean, who wilted visibly.
"The Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon Character," he said, "does not seek to build up a theory upon isolated and arbitrarily selected examples. We deal with the subject scientifically. To continue with this date, February 29th. After several cases simlar to those I have recounted had come to our notice, we made out a list of two hundred and fifty men born on this day. To each of them we sent a representative to ask for a subscription to the Society. Though they had never heard of it before, every one of those two hundred and fifty was easily intimidated into subscribing.
"Now let us consider another date—March 3rd. Several striking instances had led us to suspect that a person born on March 3rd comes into the world with an ineradicable passion for gambling. I will give you just one of these. A gentleman one day imagined he was seriously ill and called in a doctor. The latter laughed at his fears and offered to bet him that he would live to be seventy. The temptation was too great. The gambler closed with the offer, and on the eve of his seventieth birthday drowned himself."
At this point Empson sniggered audibly. The speaker turned his head and fixed his terrifying glance upon the delinquent. Poor Empson grew very red, and endeavoured to cover his lapse by coughing noisily. The other waited patiently till he had finished.
"Perhsps you wish to say something, Sir," he remarked coldly.
"N-no," said Empson. "Most interesting."
The President made a gesture which indicated that Empson was beneath contempt and renewed his discourse.
"Continuing the same method of research," he said, "we compiled a list of nearly four hundred persons born on March 3rd. To each of these we sent particulars of a Derby Sweepstake. Every one of them, gentlemen, applied for a ticket by return of post."
There was an impressive pause. The President looked round the carriage defiantly as if challenging suspicion.
"One of our tests with regard to to-day's date—liars' day," he continued presently, "was rather amusing. We hired a room in the City for a week and sent out over three hundred letters to persons born on that day. Our notepaper was headed 'Short, Stay and Hoppett, Solicitors,' and the letters were in identical terms. They said that we had been endeavouring for some time to trace the relatives of one Davy Jones, who, after acquiring a large fortune in Australia, had died intestate, and we had that morning been given to understand that the gentleman with whom we were corresponding was a nephew of the deceased, etc., etc. You guess what happened. Every one of them without exception claimed as his uncle this millionaire who never existed."
The train began to slow down, and the President rose to his feet.
"I get out here," he said. "I'm sorry. I shold like to have discussed the subject further. You, Sir"—he pointed threateningly at Ferguson—"will doubtless in future refrain from blaming Mr. ——— for a failing for which, as you see, he is in no way responsible."
Ferguson quaked and said nothing.
The President brushed up his moustache still higher and looked round in triumph. All of us were completely cowed—all of us, except little Windsor.
"Just a moment, Sir," said the latter gently. "Before you leave us will you kindly accept this?"
He took out his tie-pin and laid it in the other's hand.
For the first time the burly one's confidence deserted him. He reddened slightly and looked embarrassed.
"It's very kind of you," he said, "but really I—I don't quite understand."
"It's a birthday present for you," said Windson sweetly.