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The Way We Go
Ins and Outs of Life

Told By Leo Fanning

Much of life is spent in waiting for we know not what. We all laugh at Micawber's perpetual waiting for something to turn up, but most of us have a touch of Micawberism, and we should not be happy without it. Waiting on the future eases the weighting of the present.

* * *

The ancient jest about waiting for waiters in restaurants is never out of print. It used to be in the first fifteen of British standard jokes, and is still high up among the emergencies. But that kind of waiting is as nothing compared with the long waiting for a big win in “Tatt's,” or for the gold nugget of a monstrous art union.

* * *

The other day I heard an old song, which was sung when I was a boy. Here is a piece of the ditty:

Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny,
Wait till the clouds roll by;
Jenny, my own true loved one,
Wait till the clouds roll by.

Jenny's heart was true, of course, but was beginning to despair about the rise of salary for which her lover was waiting, and the vision of the cottage with the rambler roses and honeysuckle had lost some of its rosiness—but all would be well if she would only wait for another few years.

* * *

About the time when various baritone, tenor, soprano, alto, and contralto voices were busy with “Jenny” in many places, a song of a lost ship was also having a big run. Here is as much as I remember of the chorus:

Did she ever return? No, she never returned,
And her fate is still to be learned.
For years and years fond hearts have been waiting
For the ship that never returned.

* * *

They were pathetic waitings in those two songs, but there were comic or semi-comic waitings in some other songs of long ago. There was an unclassical ballad about an ill-used wife who was waiting for revenge, thus:

He knocked corners off me this morning,
But I'm waiting for him to-night.
She was waiting with half a brick for a close-up interview.

* * *

The spinster, waiting for a husband, was a favourite “property” of many novelists in the Victorian period of conventions and contradictions—but the modern maid would scoff at that stuff. Percy waits to-day for Pamela, who would have no sympathy whatever with the deserted lady of the old Lauder song:

“There was I waiting at the church!
When I found he'd left me in the lurch,
Lord, how it did upset me!”

* * *

How is it that when you urgently need a tram, you may have to wait more time than it would take you to walk to your destination? Sometimes you decide to hurry on to the next stop, but when you are half-way your tram scurries past you. Perhaps you page 44 desire to go quickly a few hundred yards along the main tramway trunk route, which is usually traversed by processions of cars. If the matter is very important, you will gaze at a deserted highway where the dreamiest poet might muse for minutes between the rails. Then many cars hustle along pell-mell as if they had all been to a conference.

If you have no need of a tram ride, and merely wish to cross a street safely, can you do it? There is an unholy alliance of trams and motors against you, until you have a feeling that the Government, acting on secret information from the Imperial Authorities, has ordered a mobilisation of these vehicles.

* * *

Many a man is waiting anxiously for bank managers to become more benevolent about overdrafts. Plenty are waiting for the thaw and flow of that “frozen finance” mentioned by a prominent politician. “Money, money everywhere, but not a bob to borrow,” is the sad feeling of many a chap who would dearly like a loan of a few hundreds or thousands, or even the price of a pint or two.

* * *

How many are waiting for the peaceful deaths of rich uncles, aunts, or other relatives? The waiters know that their wilting wealthy kin will be far happier in that Better Land, but the money folk seem to have a supernatural lease of life. It is not at all the loosehold for which the others are hoping.

* * *

However, the great majority of the public have not the kind of uncles and aunts whose wills will open up an easy way to fortune. Still, anybody may have at least a faint hope that some day the unexpected may happen, and that a newspaper advertisement may give a delicious thrill: “If A—B—communicates with X—Y—he will hear of something to his advantage.”

* * *

Some of these persons, who are not now “among the money,” are waiting for the fulfilment of fortune-tellers’ prophecies. One of my friends, who had his head and his hands read several decades ago, has a fervent belief that the money-tree will drop plenty of fruit on him soon. The shrewd lady who collected his half-crown predicted some hard knocks as well as boons and blessings. “The troubles she mentioned have come along—every one of them,” my friend said. “So why shouldn't the good things turn up, too?” He is sure they will. He has promised me half of them if they do. So I am waiting, too.

* * *

While some very healthy poor men were waiting for the wealth which may come by chance or luck, some very sick rich men are waiting for health.

* * *

A man making money by hatfuls and sack-fuls now is waiting for a time when he will cease from troubling about stocks and shares, dividends and bonuses, and will be able to read the papers in no fear that he will be pained or shocked by slides of butter, falls of cheese, or the downward gallop of tallow in the world's markets. He is looking forward to years of leisure in good health for many things which he has yearned to do. But, in the long run, more often than not, he is afraid to step out of the rut of his routine lest he should fall suddenly into such a small plot of ground as the very poorest may own some day. He has dread of a cry from the Grim Conductor: “End of section.” So he goes on with the moneymongering.

* * *

Farmers say they are waiting for drops in wages, and workers are waiting for rises. Will they both have a win?

* * *

Think of some other waitings—children waiting for Christmas or picnics; patients waiting for their turn in the dentist's chair; tigers waiting for their prey by jungle waters; confidence men waiting for the “mugs” who are sure to arrive.

Who is not waiting to be properly understood? The only reason why Tom Bracken's sentimental verses “Not Understood” appeal to the average person is because he or she believes that he or she is not understood.

* * *

Well, dear friends, whatever we may be waiting for, let us not wait longer than we should. An American philosopher has truly said: “All that comes to him who waits is whiskers.”