Short Fiction P. G. Wodehouse (good books to read in english .txt) 📖

But James was not of this opinion.

“Joseph has brought me all the luck I need.”

“But the play meant everything to you.”

“It did then.”

Elizabeth hesitated.

“Jimmy, dear, it’s all right, you know. I know you will make a fortune out of your next play, and I’ve heaps for us both to live on till you make good. We can manage splendidly on my salary from the Evening Chronicle.”

“What! Have you got a job on a New York paper?”

“Yes, I told you about it. I am doing Heloise Milton. Why, what’s the matter?”

He groaned hollowly.

“And I was thinking that you would come back to Chicago with me!”

“But I will. Of course I will. What did you think I meant to do?”

“What! Give up a real job in New York!” He blinked. “This isn’t really happening. I’m dreaming.”

“But, Jimmy, are you sure you can get work in Chicago? Wouldn’t it be better to stay on here, where all the managers are, and⁠—”

He shook his head.

“I think it’s time I told you about myself,” he said. “Am I sure I can get work in Chicago? I am, worse luck. Darling, have you in your more material moments ever toyed with a Boyd’s Premier Breakfast-Sausage or kept body and soul together with a slice off a Boyd’s Excelsior Home-Cured Ham? My father makes them, and the tragedy of my life is that he wants me to help him at it. This was my position. I loathed the family business as much as dad loved it. I had a notion⁠—a fool notion, as it has turned out⁠—that I could make good in the literary line. I’ve scribbled in a sort of way ever since I was in college. When the time came for me to join the firm, I put it to dad straight. I said, ‘Give me a chance, one good, square chance, to see if the divine fire is really there, or if somebody has just turned on the alarm as a practical joke.’ And we made a bargain. I had written this play, and we made it a test-case. We fixed it up that dad should put up the money to give it a Broadway production. If it succeeded, all right; I’m the young Gus Thomas, and may go ahead in the literary game. If it’s a fizzle, off goes my coat, and I abandon pipe-dreams of literary triumphs and start in as the guy who put the Co. in Boyd & Co. Well, events have proved that I am the guy, and now I’m going to keep my part of the bargain just as squarely as dad kept his. I know quite well that if I refused to play fair and chose to stick on here in New York and try again, dad would go on staking me. That’s the sort of man he is. But I wouldn’t do it for a million Broadway successes. I’ve had my chance, and I’ve foozled; and now I’m going back to make him happy by being a real live member of the firm. And the queer thing about it is that last night I hated the idea, and this morning, now that I’ve got you, I almost look forward to it.”

He gave a little shiver.

“And yet⁠—I don’t know. There’s something rather gruesome still to my near-artist soul in living in luxury on murdered piggies. Have you ever seen them persuading a pig to play the stellar role in a Boyd Premier Breakfast-Sausage? It’s pretty ghastly. They string them up by their hind legs, and⁠—b-r-r-r-r!”

“Never mind,” said Elizabeth soothingly. “Perhaps they don’t mind it really.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said James Boyd, doubtfully. “I’ve watched them at it, and I’m bound to say they didn’t seem any too well pleased.”

“Try not to think of it.”

“Very well,” said James dutifully.

There came a sudden shout from the floor above, and on the heels of it a shock-haired youth in pyjamas burst into the apartment.

“Now what?” said James. “By the way, Miss Herrold, my fiancée; Mr. Briggs⁠—Paul Axworthy Briggs, sometimes known as the Boy Novelist. What’s troubling you, Paul?”

Mr. Briggs was stammering with excitement.

“Jimmy,” cried the Boy Novelist, “what do you think has happened! A black cat has just come into my apartment. I heard him mewing outside the door, and opened it, and he streaked in. And I started my new novel last night! Say, you do believe this thing of black cats bringing luck, don’t you?”

“Luck! My lad, grapple that cat to your soul with hoops of steel. He’s the greatest little luck-bringer in New York. He was boarding with me till this morning.”

“Then⁠—by Jove! I nearly forgot to ask⁠—your play was a hit? I haven’t seen the papers yet.”

“Well, when you see them, don’t read the notices. It was the worst frost Broadway has seen since Columbus’s time.”

“But⁠—I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to. Go back and fill that cat with fish, or she’ll be leaving you. I suppose you left the door open?”

“My God!” said the Boy Novelist, paling, and dashed for the door.

“Do you think Joseph will bring him luck?” said Elizabeth, thoughtfully.

“It depends what sort of luck you mean. Joseph seems to work in devious ways. If I know Joseph’s methods, Briggs’s new novel will be rejected by every publisher in the city; and then, when he is sitting in his apartment, wondering which of his razors to end himself with, there will be a ring at the bell, and in will come the most beautiful girl in the world, and then⁠—well, then, take it from me, he will be all right.”

“He won’t mind about the novel?”

“Not in the least.”

“Not even if it means that he will have to go away and kill pigs and things.”

“About the pig business, dear. I’ve noticed a slight tendency in you to let yourself get rather morbid about it. I know they string them up by the hind-legs, and all that sort of thing; but you must remember that a pig looks at these