The Intrusion of Jimmy by P. G. Wodehouse (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

"Fluke."

"I wonder."

Jimmy lighted a cigarette.

"Do you know New York at all?" he asked.

"Been there."

"Ever been in the Strollers' Club?"

Hargate turned his back, but Jimmy had seen his face, and was satisfied.

"Don't know it," said Hargate.

"Great place," said Jimmy. "Mostly actors and writers, and so on. The only drawback is that some of them pick up queer friends."

Hargate did not reply. He did not seem interested.

"Yes," went on Jimmy. "For instance, a pal of mine, an actor named Mifflin, introduced a man a year ago as a member's guest for a fortnight, and this man rooked the fellows of I don't know how much at billiards. The old game, you know. Nursing his man right up to the end, and then finishing with a burst. Of course, when that happens once or twice, it may be an accident, but, when a man who poses as a novice always manages by a really brilliant shot—"

Hargate turned round.

"They fired this fellow out," said Jimmy.

"Look here!"

"Yes?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's a dull yarn," said Jimmy, apologetically. "I've been boring you. By the way, Dreever asked me to square up with you for that game, in case he shouldn't be back. Here you are."

He held out an empty hand.

"Got it?"

"What are you going to do?" demanded Hargate.

"What am I going to do?" queried Jimmy.

"You know what I mean. If you'll keep your mouth shut, and stand in, it's halves. Is that what you're after?"

Jimmy was delighted. He knew that by rights the proposal should have brought him from his seat, with stern, set face, to wreak vengeance for the insult, but on such occasions he was apt to ignore the conventions. His impulse, when he met a man whose code of behavior was not the ordinary code, was to chat with him and extract his point of view. He felt as little animus against Hargate as he had felt against Spike on the occasion of their first meeting.

"Do you make much at this sort of game?" he asked.

Hargate was relieved. This was business-like.

"Pots," he said, with some enthusiasm. "Pots. I tell you, if you'll stand in—"

"Bit risky, isn't it?"

"Not a bit of it. An occasional accident—"

"I suppose you'd call me one?"

Hargate grinned.

"It must be pretty tough work," said Jimmy. "You must have to use a tremendous lot of self-restraint."

Hargate sighed.

"That's the worst of it," he admitted, "the having to seem a mug at the game. I've been patronized sometimes by young fools, who thought they were teaching me, till I nearly forgot myself and showed them what real billiards was."

"There's always some drawback to the learned professions," said Jimmy.

"But there's a heap to make up for it in this one," said Hargate. "Well, look here, is it a deal? You'll stand in—"

Jimmy shook his head.

"I guess not," he said. "It's good of you, but commercial speculation never was in my line. I'm afraid you must count me out of this."

"What! You're going to tell—?"

"No," said Jimmy, "I'm not. I'm not a vigilance committee. I won't tell a soul."

'"Why, then—" began Hargate, relieved.

"Unless, of course," Jimmy went on, "you play billiards again while you're here."

Hargate stared.

"But, damn it, man, if I don't, what's the good—? Look here. What am I to do if they ask me to play?"

"Give your wrist as an excuse."

"My wrist?"

"Yes. You sprained it to-morrow after breakfast. It was bad luck. I wonder how you came to do it. You didn't sprain it much, but just enough to stop you playing billiards."

Hargate reflected.

"Understand?" said Jimmy.

"Oh, very well," said Hargate, sullenly. "But," he burst out, "if I ever get a chance to get even with you—"

"You won't," said Jimmy. "Dismiss the rosy dream. Get even! You don't know me. There's not a flaw in my armor. I'm a sort of modern edition of the stainless knight. Tennyson drew Galahad from me. I move through life with almost a sickening absence of sin. But hush! We are observed. At least, we shall be in another minute. Somebody is coming down the passage. You do understand, don't you? Sprained wrist is the watchword."

The handle turned. It was Lord Dreever, back again, from his interview.

"Hullo, Dreever," said Jimmy. "We've missed you. Hargate has been doing his best to amuse me with acrobatic tricks. But you're too reckless, Hargate, old man. Mark my words, one of these days you'll be spraining your wrist. You should be more careful. What, going? Good-night. Pleasant fellow, Hargate," he added, as the footsteps retreated down, the passage. "Well, my lad, what's the matter with you? You look depressed."

Lord Dreever flung himself on to the lounge, and groaned hollowly.

"Damn! Damn!! Damn!!!" he observed.

His glassy eye met Jimmy's, and wandered away again.

"What on earth's the matter?" demanded Jimmy. "You go out of here caroling like a song-bird, and you come back moaning like a lost soul. What's happened?"

"Give me a brandy-and-soda, Pitt, old man. There's a good chap. I'm in a fearful hole."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"I'm engaged," groaned his lordship.

"Engaged! I wish you'd explain. What on earth's wrong with you? Don't you want to be engaged? What's your—?"

He broke off, as a sudden, awful suspicion dawned upon him. "Who is she?" he cried.

He gripped the stricken peer's shoulder, and shook it savagely. Unfortunately, he selected the precise moment when the latter was in the act of calming his quivering nerve-centers with a gulp of brandy-and-soda, and