The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

this. Remember I’ve known the old devil …”

“Freddie Rooke! Where do you pick up such expressions? Not from me!”

“Well, that’s how I always think of her! I say I’ve known her ever since I used to go and stop at their place when I was at school, and I know exactly the sort of things that put her back up. She’s a what-d’you-call-it.”

“I see no harm in that. Why shouldn’t the dear old lady be a what-d’you-call-it? She must do something in her spare time.”

“I mean to say, one of the old school, don’t you know. And you’re so dashed impulsive, old girl. You know you are! You are always saying things that come into your head.”

“You can’t say a thing unless it comes into your head.”

“You know what I mean,” Freddie went on earnestly, not to be diverted from his theme. “You say rummy things and you do rummy things. What I mean to say is, you’re impulsive.”

“What have I ever done that the sternest critic could call rummy?”

“Well, I’ve seen you with my own eyes stop in the middle of Bond Street and help a lot of fellows shove along a cart that had got stuck. Mind you, I’m not blaming you for it …”

“I should hope not. The poor old horse was trying all he knew to get going, and he couldn’t quite make it. Naturally, I helped.”

“Oh, I know. Very decent and all that, but I doubt if Lady Underhill would have thought a lot of it. And you’re so dashed chummy with the lower orders.”

“Don’t be a snob, Freddie.”

“I’m not a snob,” protested Freddie, wounded. “When I’m alone with Parker—for instance—I’m as chatty as dammit. But I don’t ask waiters in public restaurants how their lumbago is.”

“Have you ever had lumbago?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a very painful thing, and waiters get it just as badly as dukes. Worse, I should think, because they’re always bending and stooping and carrying things. Naturally one feels sorry for them.”

“But how do you ever find out that a waiter has got lumbago?”

“I ask him; of course.”

“Well, for goodness sake,” said Freddie, “if you feel the impulse to do that sort of thing tonight, try and restrain it. I mean to say, if you’re curious to know anything about Parker’s chilblains, for instance, don’t enquire after them while he’s handing Lady Underhill the potatoes! She wouldn’t like it.”

Jill uttered an exclamation.

“I knew there was something! Being so cold and wanting to rush in and crouch over a fire put it clean out of my head. He must be thinking me a perfect beast!” She ran to the door. “Parker! Parker!”

Parker appeared from nowhere.

“Yes, miss?”

“I’m so sorry I forgot to ask before. How are your chilblains?”

“A good deal better, miss, thank you.”

“Did you try the stuff I recommended?”

“Yes, miss. It did them a world of good.”

“Splendid!”

Jill went back into the sitting-room.

“It’s all right,” she said reassuringly. “They’re better.”

She wandered restlessly about the room, looking at the photographs.

“What a lot of girls you seem to know, Freddie. Are these all the ones you’ve loved and lost?” She sat down at the piano and touched the keys. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour. “I wish to goodness they would arrive,” she said.

“They’ll be here pretty soon, I expect.”

“It’s rather awful,” said Jill, “to think of Lady Underhill racing all the way from Mentone to Paris and from Paris to Calais and from Calais to Dover and from Dover to London simply to inspect me. You can’t wonder I’m nervous, Freddie.”

The eye-glass dropped from Freddie’s eye.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, astonished.

“Of course I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be in my place?”

“Well, I should never have thought it.”

“Why do you suppose I’ve been talking such a lot? Why do you imagine I snapped your poor, innocent head off just now? I’m terrified inside, terrified!”

“You don’t look it, by Jove!”

“No, I’m trying to be a little warrior. That’s what Uncle Chris always used to call me. It started the day when he took me to have a tooth out, when I was ten. ‘Be a little warrior, Jill!’ he kept saying—‘Be a little warrior!’ And I was.” She looked at the clock. “But I shan’t be if they don’t get here soon. The suspense is awful.” She strummed the keys. “Suppose she doesn’t like me, Freddie! You see how you’ve scared me.”

“I didn’t say she wouldn’t. I only said you’d got to watch out a bit.”

“Something tells me she won’t. My nerve is oozing out of me.” Jill shook her head impatiently. “It’s all so vulgar! I thought this sort of thing only happened in the comic papers and in music-hall songs. Why, it’s just like that song somebody used to sing.” She laughed. “Do you remember? I don’t know how the verse went, but …

John took me round to see his mother,
                    his mother,
                    his mother!
And when he’d introduced us to each other,
    She sized up everything that I had on.
She put me through a cross-examination:
I fairly boiled with aggravation:
    Then she shook her head,
    Looked at me and said:
        ‘Poor John! Poor John!’

“Chorus, Freddie! Let’s cheer ourselves up! We need it!”

‘John took me round to see his mother … !

“His mo-o-o-other!” croaked Freddie. Curiously enough, this ballad was one of Freddie’s favorites. He had rendered it with a good deal of success on three separate occasions at village entertainments down in Worcestershire, and he rather flattered himself that he could get about as much out of it as the next man. He proceeded to abet Jill heartily with gruff sounds which he was under the impression constituted what is known in musical circles as “singing seconds.”

“His mo-o-o-other!” he growled with frightful scorn.

“And when she’d introduced us to each other …”

“O-o-o-other!”

“She sized up everything that I had on!”

“Pom-pom-pom!”

“She put me through a cross-examination …”

Jill had thrown her head back, and was singing jubilantly at the top of her voice. The appositeness of the song had cheered her up. It seemed somehow to make her forebodings rather ridiculous, to reduce them to absurdity, to turn into farce the gathering tragedy which had been weighing upon her nerves.

“Then she shook her head,
Looked at me and said:
        ‘Poor John!’…”

“Jill,” said a voice at the door. “I want you to meet my mother!”

“Poo-oo-oor John!” bleated the hapless Freddie, unable to check himself.

“Dinner,” said Parker the valet, appearing at the door and breaking a silence that seemed to fill the room like a tangible presence, “is served!”