nd him hand and foot almost
before he knew clearly that his head had struck
the floor. Then Basil sprang at Greenwood . . .
etc. etc.

There is a good deal more like this. Having taken the citadel and
captured the defenders (as Caesar might say), Basil and company reach the
sighing lady of the basement. But she refuses to be released. Whereupon
Basil explains his own queer trade, and that the lady is voluntarily
undergoing a sentence for backbiting. No explanation is vouchsafed of
the strange behaviour of Basil Grant in attacking men who, as he knew,
were doing nothing they should not. Presumably it was due to a
Chestertonian theory that there should be at least one good physical
fight in each book.

It will be seen that _The Club of Queer Trades_ tends to curl up
somewhat (quite literally, in the sense that the end comes almost where
the beginning ought to be) when it receives heavy and serious treatment.
I should therefore explain that this serious treatment has been given
under protest, and that its primary intention has been to deal with
those well-meaning critics who believe that Chesterton can write
fiction, in the ordinary sense of the word. His own excellent definition
of fictitious narrative (in _The Victorian Age in Literature_) is that
essentially "the story is told . . . for the sake of some study of the
difference between human beings." This alone is enough to exculpate him
of the charge of writing novels. The Chestertonian short story is also
in its way unique. If we applied the methods of the Higher Criticism to
the story just described, we might base all manner of odd theories upon
the defeat (_inter alios_) of Burrows, a big and burly youth, by Basil
Grant, aged sixty at the very least, and armed with antimacassars. But
there is no necessity. If Chesterton invents a fantastic world, full of
fantastic people who speak Chestertonese, then he is quite entitled to
waive any trifling conventions which hinder the liberty of his subjects.
As already pointed out, such is his humour. The only disadvantage, as
somebody once complained of the Arabian Nights, is that one is apt to
lose one's interest in a hero who is liable at any moment to turn into a
camel. None of Chesterton's heroes do, as a matter of fact, become
camels, but I would nevertheless strongly advise any young woman about
to marry one of them to take out an insurance policy against unforeseen
transformations.

Altho