Tot Sententlæ

by Barry Pain

TOT SENTENTLÆ.

By Barry Pain.

There were five men in the hotel smoking-room. The tired-looking man in the easy chair in the corner seemed anxious to go to sleep. Sleep was impossible, however, because the other four men were talking. They were talking about a certain paper that lay on the table.

"Yes," said the young man with the drooping pipe, and the velveteen coat, and the weak mouth; "it's not a bad paper, but I could improve it."

"You mean," said the man with the horseshoe pin, "by giving more space to sport? Yes; I've thought so myself."

"But I don't mean that," said the Poet.

"Of course you don't!" said the City Man with the waistcoat and the watch-chain. "There's only one thing wrong with the paper—it's not got enough commercial news. The most important thing in England is its commerce. The Press must realise that. The space now wasted on sport must be taken up by it. The——"

"But I don't mean commerce, either," said the Poet. "What disappoints me in the paper is——"

"Say no more!" interrupted the Parson, with a wave of his white hand, and settling his white tie. "I know exactly what you mean, and I fully sympathise with you. There are in the Church of England at the present moment three parties—the Evangelical, the Broad, and the Ritualistic. Two are wrong, and one is right. Personally, I belong to the right, and I need not say which that is. Bat I hold that it is the duty of the Press to take up a strong position on this subject—to let loose all its invective and all its satire on the two parties that are in the wrong. In that duty—in that point, and in that alone—this paper is lacking." He finished his something and soda, and put the glass down dramatically.

"I'm sorry to disagree with you all," said the Poet, "but I do not attach any importance to the sectarian question——"

"Then you're wrong!" interrupted the Parson.

"Or to sport——"

"Then you ought to!" interrupted the Sportsman.

"Or to commerce."

"But that's absurd!" said the City Man.

"My complaint is this. I sent some time ago to the office of the paper a poem which, if printed, would have ran to five pages."

The Parson, the Sportsman, and the City Man checked a low whistle.

"It may have been a good poem, or it may not." He looked steadily round the room, but received no response.

"It may," he repeated, "have been p good poem, or it may not. I will not speak of that. But I offered it to the editor for nothing—actually nothing!—and, you can believe me or not, but he refused it!"

There was a moment's pause. The tired-looking man rolled another cigarette with one motion of one hand (this takes some practice) and fell back on his former compromise between keeping a cigarette-alight and falling asleep.

Then the Parson, the Sportsman, and the City Man all began speaking together. Up to a certain point they all said the same thing, which was—

"I don't say your poem wasn't excellent; it probably was. But I——"

And here they branched off into different things. The Sportsman upheld sport, the City Man upheld the City, the Parson advocated his views, and the Poet interrupted with his plea for more poetry more of his own poetry. An hour later they were still arguing, discussing, and contradicting each other.

The tired-looking man slowly extracted himself from the easy chair, said "Good-night," and went out into the hall. The others followed him in a body.

"You act as umpire!" said the Sportsman.

"Let's have your criticism!" said the Poet.

"You arbitrate in this case!" said the City Man. "What would you do, if you were the editor of this paper?"

"But I am!" said the tired-looking man, with a sigh. "But I am!"

And the four men looked at one another.

And next week the paper was no better—and no worse.