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

Maud turned on him with flaming cheeks.

“Mr. Welsh is nothing to me! Nothing! Nothing!” she cried.

She walked quickly on.

“Then, if there’s a vacancy, star-eyes,” said the pugilist at her side, holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, “count me in. Directly I saw you⁠—see here, what’s the idea of this road-work? We aren’t racing⁠—”

Maud slowed down.

“That’s better. As I was saying, directly I saw you, I said to myself, ‘That’s the one you need. The original candy kid. The⁠—’ ”

His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl’s increase of speed. He cursed it in a brief aside.

“That’s what I said. ‘The original candy kid.’ So⁠—”

He shot out a restraining hand. “Arthur!” cried Maud. “Arthur!”

“It’s not my name” breathed Mr. Shute, tenderly. “Call me Clarence.”

Considered as an embrace, it was imperfect. At these moments a silk hat a size too small handicaps a man. The necessity of having to be careful about the nap prevented Mr. Shute from doing himself complete justice. But he did enough to induce Arthur Welsh, who, having sighted the missing ones from afar, had been approaching them at a walking pace, to substitute a run for the walk, and arrive just as Maud wrenched herself free.

Mr. Shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replaced it with extreme care, and turned his attention to the newcomer.

“Arthur!” said Maud.

Her heart gave a great leap. There was no mistaking the meaning in the eye that met hers. He cared! He cared!

“Arthur!”

He took no notice. His face was pale and working. He strode up to Mr. Shute.

“Well?” he said between his teeth.

An eight-stone-four champion of the world has many unusual experiences in his life, but he rarely encounters men who say “Well?” to him between their teeth. Mr. Shute eyed this freak with profound wonder.

“I’ll teach you to⁠—to kiss young ladies!”

Mr. Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave him the necessary time for reflection.

“I don’t need it,” he said. “I’ve graduated.”

“Put them up!” hissed Arthur.

Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist’s face. So might Raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture.

“You aren’t speaking to me?” he said, incredulously.

“Put them up!”

Maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming emotion. She was terrified⁠—yes. But stronger than the terror was the great wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts had vanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was about to give the supreme proof. He was going to joust for her.

A couple of passersby had paused, interested, to watch developments. You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never got any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur’s face, they certainly felt justified in pausing. Mr. Shute spoke.

“If it wasn’t,” he said, carefully, “that I don’t want trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I’d⁠—”

He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him smartly on the side of the head.

Compared with the blows Mr. Shute was wont to receive in the exercise of his profession, Arthur’s was a gentle tap. But there was one circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had his heel. Mr. Shute’s vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead of countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with both hands at his hat.

He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with its proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his knuckles.

There was a calm about Mr. Shute’s demeanour as, having given his treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jawbones. Crouching in his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.

And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators, reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, were congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch, that Police-Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr. Shute these memorable words: “ ’Ullo, ’ullo! ’Ullo, ’ullo, ’ul-lo!”

Mr. Shute appealed to his sense of justice.

“The mutt knocked me hat off.”

“And I’d do it again,” said Arthur, truculently.

“Not while I’m here you wouldn’t, young fellow,” said Mr. Bryce, with decision. “I’m surprised at you,” he went on, pained. “And you look a respectable young chap, too. You pop off.”

A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all cinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed.

“And you pop off, too, all of you,” continued Mr. Bryce. “Blest if I know what kids are coming to nowadays. And as for you,” he said, addressing Mr. Shute, “all you’ve got to do is to keep that face of yours closed. That’s what you’ve got to do. I’ve got my eye on you, mind, and if I catch you a-follerin’ of him”⁠—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Arthur’s departing figure⁠—“I’ll pinch you. Sure as you’re alive.” He paused. “I’d have done it already,” he added, pensively, “if it wasn’t me birthday.”

Arthur Welsh turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware that somebody was calling his name.

“Oh, Arthur!”

She was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes.

“I’ve been running. You walked so fast.”

He stared down at her gloomily.

“Go away,” he said. “I’ve done with you.”

She clutched at his coat.

“Arthur, listen⁠—listen! It’s all a mistake. I thought you⁠—you didn’t care for me any more, and I was miserable, and I wrote to the paper and asked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try and make you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. And I hated it, but I did it, and you didn’t seem to care till now. And you know that there’s nobody but you.”

“You⁠—The paper? What?” he stammered.

“Yes, yes, yes. I