“SOME YORKSHIRE POT-HOLES

“Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philosophical Society, Tuesday, December 8th.

“My Lord Mayor, my Lords—­”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” said Celia coming in suddenly, “but—­oh, what’s a pot-hole?”

“A curious underground cavern sometimes found in the North.”

“Aren’t caverns always underground?  But you’re busy.  Will you be in for lunch?”

“I shall be writing my lecture all day,” I said busily.

At lunch I decided to have a little financial talk with Celia.

“What I feel is this,” I said.  “At most I can ask ten guineas for my lecture.  Now my expense all the way to the North, with a night at an hotel, will be at least five pounds.”

“Five-pounds-ten profit,” said Celia.  “Not bad.”

“Ah, but wait.  I have never spoken in public before.  In an immense hall, whose acoustics—­”

“Who are they?”

“Well, never mind.  What I mean is that I shall want some elocution lessons.  Say five, at a guinea each.”

“That still leaves five shillings.”

“If only it left that, it might be worth it.  But there’s a new white waistcoat.  An audience soon gets tired of a lecture, and then there’s nothing for the wakeful ones to concentrate on but the white waistcoat of the lecturer.  It must be of a virgin whiteness.  Say thirty-five shillings.  So I lose thirty shillings by it.  Can I afford so much?”

“But you gain the acoustics and the waistcoat.”

“True.  Of course, if you insist—­”

“Oh, you must,” said Celia.

So I returned to the library.  By tea-time I had got as far as this:—­

“ADVENTURES WITH A CAMERA IN SOMALILAND

“Lecture delivered before the Blanktown Literary and Philo—­”

And then I had an idea.  This time a brilliant one.

“Celia,” I said at tea, “I have been wondering whether I ought to take advantage of your generosity.”

“What generosity?”

“In letting me deliver this lecture.”

“It isn’t generosity, it’s swank.  I want to be able to tell everybody.”

“Ah, but the sacrifices you are making.”

“Am I?” said Celia, with interest.

“Of course you are.  Consider.  I ask a fee of ten guineas.  They cannot possibly charge more than a shilling a head to listen to me.  It would be robbery.  So that if there is to be a profit at all, as presumably they anticipate, I shall have a gate of at least two hundred and fifty.”

“I should hope so.”

“Two hundred and fifty.  And what does that mean?  It means that at seven-thirty o’clock on the night of December the 8th two hundred and fifty residents of Blanktown will turn out the electric lights in their drawing-rooms ... PERHAPS EVEN IN THEIR HALLS ... and proceed to the lecture-room.  True, the lecture-room will be lit up—­a small compensation—­but not for long.  When the slides of Vesuvius are thrown upon the screen—­”