Indiscretions of Archie P. G. Wodehouse (the beach read .txt) 📖

emerged sharply from the bedroom and was walking briskly across the floor. He came to a halt in front of the table.

“Father!” said Bill.

Archie looked up sharply, frowning heavily over his cigar.

“Well, my boy,” he said in a strange, rasping voice. “What is it? Speak up, my boy, speak up! Why the devil can’t you speak up? This is my busy day!”

“What on earth are you doing?” asked Lucille.

Archie waved her away with the large gesture of a man of blood and iron interrupted while concentrating.

“Leave us, woman! We would be alone! Retire into the jolly old background and amuse yourself for a bit. Read a book. Do acrostics. Charge ahead, laddie.”

“Father!” said Bill, again.

“Yes, my boy, yes? What is it?”

“Father!”

Archie picked up the red-covered volume that lay on the table.

“Half a mo’, old son. Sorry to stop you, but I knew there was something. I’ve just remembered. Your walk. All wrong!”

“All wrong?”

“All wrong! Where’s the chapter on the Art of Walking? Here we are. Listen, dear old soul. Drink this in. ‘In walking, one should strive to acquire that swinging, easy movement from the hips. The correctly-poised walker seems to float along, as it were.’ Now, old bean, you didn’t float a dam’ bit. You just galloped in like a chappie charging into a railway restaurant for a bowl of soup when his train leaves in two minutes. Dashed important, this walking business, you know. Get started wrong, and where are you? Try it again.⁠ ⁠… Much better.” He turned to Lucille. “Notice him float along that time? Absolutely skimmed, what?”

Lucille had taken a seat,-and was waiting for enlightenment.

“Are you and Bill going into vaudeville?” she asked.

Archie, scrutinising his brother-in-law closely, had further criticism to make.

“ ‘The man of self-respect and self-confidence,’ ” he read, “ ‘stands erect in an easy, natural, graceful attitude. Heels not too far apart, head erect, eyes to the front with a level gaze’⁠—get your gaze level, old thing!⁠—‘shoulders thrown back, arms hanging naturally at the sides when not otherwise employed’⁠—that means that, if he tries to hit you, it’s all right to guard⁠—‘chest expanded naturally, and abdomen’⁠—this is no place for you, Lucille. Leg it out of earshot⁠—‘ab⁠—what I said before⁠—drawn in somewhat and above all not protruded.’ Now, have you got all that? Yes, you look all right. Carry on, laddie, carry on. Let’s have two-penn’orth of the Dynamic Voice and the Tone of Authority⁠—some of the full, rich, round stuff we hear so much about!”

Bill fastened a gimlet eye upon his brother-in-law and drew a deep breath.

“Father!” he said. “Father!”

“You’ll have to brighten up Bill’s dialogue a lot,” said Lucille, critically, “or you will never get bookings.”

“Father!”

“I mean, it’s all right as far as it goes, but it’s sort of monotonous. Besides, one of you ought to be asking questions and the other answering. Bill ought to be saying, ‘Who was that lady I saw you coming down the street with?’ so that you would be able to say, ‘That wasn’t a lady. That was my wife.’ I know! I’ve been to lots of vaudeville shows.”

Bill relaxed his attitude. He deflated his chest, spread his heels, and ceased to draw in his abdomen.

“We’d better try this another time, when we’re alone,” he said, frigidly. “I can’t do myself justice.”

“Why do you want to do yourself justice?” asked Lucille.

“Right-o!” said Archie, affably, casting off his forbidding expression like a garment. “Rehearsal postponed. I was just putting old Bill through it,” he explained, “with a view to getting him into mid-season form for the jolly old pater.”

“Oh!” Lucille’s voice was the voice of one who sees light in darkness. “When Bill walked in like a cat on hot bricks and stood there looking stuffed, that was just the Personality That Wins!”

“That was it.”

“Well, you couldn’t blame me for not recognising it, could you?”

Archie patted her head paternally.

“A little less of the caustic critic stuff,” he said. “Bill will be all right on the night. If you hadn’t come in then and put him off his stroke, he’d have shot out some amazing stuff, full of authority and dynamic accents and whatnot. I tell you, light of my soul, old Bill is all right! He’s got the winning personality up a tree, ready whenever he wants to go and get it. Speaking as his backer and trainer, I think he’ll twist your father round his little finger. Absolutely! It wouldn’t surprise me if at the end of five minutes the good old dad started jumping through hoops and sitting up for lumps of sugar.”

“It would surprise me.”

“Ah, that’s because you haven’t seen old Bill in action. You crabbed his act before he had begun to spread himself.”

“It isn’t that at all. The reason why I think that Bill, however winning his personality may be, won’t persuade father to let him marry a girl in the chorus is something that happened last night.”

“Last night?”

“Well, at three o’clock this morning. It’s on the front page of the early editions of the evening papers. I brought one in for you to see, only you were so busy. Look! There it is!”

Archie seized the paper.

“Oh, Great Scot!”

“What is it?” asked Bill, irritably. “Don’t stand goggling there! What the devil is it?”

“Listen to this, old thing!”

Revelry by Night.

Spirited Battle Royal at Hotel
Cosmopolis.

The Hotel Detective Had a Good Heart
but Pauline Packed the Punch.

The logical contender for Jack Dempsey’s championship honours has been discovered; and, in an age where women are stealing men’s jobs all the time, it will not come as a surprise to our readers to learn that she belongs to the sex that is more deadly than the male. Her name is Miss Pauline Preston, and her wallop is vouched for under oath⁠—under many oaths⁠—by Mr. Timothy O’Neill, known to his intimates as Pie-Face, who holds down the arduous job of detective at the Hotel Cosmopolis.

At three o’clock this morning, Mr. O’Neill was advised by the night clerk that the occupants of every room within earshot of number 618 had phoned the desk to