# Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3833/Too Much Notice

TOO MUCH NOTICE.
I decided to go home by bus. My season-ticket had expired painlessly the previous day, and twice already that morning I had had to satisfy the curiosity of the railway officials as to my name and address. Although I had explained to them that I was was on half-salary and promised to renew business relations with the company as soon as the War was over or Uncle Peter died—whichever event happened first—they simply would not listen to me, and hence my decision to adopt some other means of transport. I signalled to a bus to stop, and, as the driver, seeing my signal, at once put on his top speed, I just managed to fling myself on to the spring-board as the vehicle tore past.
I ran up to the first storey, and sat down in the front seat. Then I took out my cigarette-case and was about to light a cigarette when a printed notice caught my eye—
PASSENGERS WISHING TO SMOKE ARE KINDLY REQUESTED TO OCCUPY THE REAR SEATS.
If the notice had been put a little less politely I should have ignored it; but I can refuse nothing to those who are kind to me, so I refrained from lighting up, and contented myself with looking round to see if there was a rear seat vacant. There wasn't. A cluster of happy, smoking faces confronted me. I turned round again, and wished I had learnt to take snuff.
"Cheer-o, Bert!" said a refined voice just behind my ear, and at the same moment a walking-stick playfully tapped the head of the young fellow sitting next me. My neighbour faced about, kicked me on the shin, dug the point of his umbrella into my calf, knocked off my pince-nez with his newspaper, and spread himself over the back of the seat.
"'Allo, Alf!" he said. "Thought it must've been you. Look 'ere, I want to see you———"
"Perhaps," I interrupted, "your friend would like to change places with me. Then you can scrutinise him at your ease—and mine."
"You're a sport," remarked Bert.
He spoke truly. Little di dhe guess he was addressing a Double-Blue—bowls and quoits. Alf and I changed places, and my attention at once became absorbed by a notice headed
BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS.
I had just reached the exciting part when two girls arrived on the landing.
"There aren't two together; we shall have to divide," I heard one say.
"Excuse me," I said, rising. "Don't divide. I'll get into a single seat if you care to take this double one."
I was rewarded with the now almost obsolete formula of "Thank you," and moved a seat futher back. Here I found some fresh reading material provided for me in the shape of a notice to the effect that
PASSENGERS ARE WARNED NOT TO PUT THEIR ARMS OVER THE SIDE OF THE BUS.
When I had probed its beauties to the utmost depth I again turned round to see if there was a vacant seat among the smokers. To my joy I saw one. Quickly I rose and hastened to secure it, but at the same moment the bus turned a sharp corner and I sustained a violent blow on the back of my head which left me half-stunned.
The conductor, who had just appeared on deck to collect fares, helped me to my feet. Then he rounded on me.
"Why don't you read the notices?" he said by way of peroration. "Then it wouldn't 've 'appened."
"The notices?" I repeated, handing him my fare. "I've done nothing else but read notices ever since I got on this wretched reading-room. I know where I may smoke and where I may not. I know that I must beware of pick-pockets, and I know that I mustn't waggle my arms over the side-rails. Further, I have read Mr. Pinkerton's personal assurance that his Pills are the Best. If I'd had more time I daresay I should have worked my passage to the notice you refer to. I haven't reached it yet."
"Look 'ere," said the conductor, thrusting me into the vacant smoker's seat and pointing with what I at first took to be a saveloy, but which upon closer inspection proved to be his forefinger, "what does that say?—
TO AVOID ACCIDENTS PASSENGERS SHOULD REMAIN SEATED WHILE THE BUS IS PASSING UNDER RAIL- WAY BRIDGES.
There nar. Some of you blokes never look any farther than the end of your noses."
"Then if I had your nose," I retorted, "I should need a telescope to see even as far as that."
I was much disappointed that, just as I got to the caustic part, the exigencies of his profession demanded that he should punch six tickets in rapid succession. My repartee was consequently drowned amid a perfect carillon of bells. But meanwhile I had found another notice—
TO STOP THE BUS STRIKE THE BELL ONCE.
It was a friendly and sensible notice, for, to tell the truth, I was beginning to feel afraid of a bus that carried to much free literature. It could not hope to be a thoroughly reliable bus and a library at the same time. I therefore determined to forfeit several divisions of my ticket, and give my "season" one more chance. I got up and struct the bell once. As the driver didn't know it was just an ordinary passenger that struck it he pulled up immediately. I had got halfway down the staircase when somebody—it must have been the offensive conductor—gave the game away, for the bus jerked badly and started off again at a rare pace. So did I. But as I flew through the air I could not help catching a fleeting glimpse of a final advisory notice—
PASSENGERS ARE CAUTIONED AGAINST ALIGHTING FROM THE BUS WHILE IN MOTION.