Ukridge Stories P. G. Wodehouse (jenna bush book club txt) đ
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Book online «Ukridge Stories P. G. Wodehouse (jenna bush book club txt) đ». Author P. G. Wodehouse
It seemed the moment to spring the glad news.
âI promised him I wouldnât mention it,â I said, âfor fear it might lead to disappointment, but as a matter of fact George Tupper is trying to raise some capital for you. I left him last night starting out to get it.â
âGeorge Tupper!ââ âUkridgeâs eyes dimmed with a not unmanly emotionâ ââGeorge Tupper! By Gad, that fellow is the salt of the earth. Good, loyal fellow! A true friend. A man you can rely on. Upon my Sam, if there were more fellows about like old Tuppy, there wouldnât be all this modern pessimism and unrest. Did he seem to have any idea where he could raise a bit of capital for me?â
âYes. He went round to tell your aunt about your coming down here to train those Pekes, andâ âWhatâs the matter?â
A fearful change had come over Ukridgeâs jubilant front. His eyes bulged, his jaw sagged. With the addition of a few feet of grey whiskers he would have looked exactly like the recent Mr. Nickerson.
âMy aunt?â he mumbled, swaying on the door-handle.
âYes. Whatâs the matter? He thought, if he told her all about it, she might relent and rally round.â
The sigh of a gallant fighter at the end of his strength forced its way up from Ukridgeâs mackintosh-covered bosom.
âOf all the dashed, infernal, officious, meddling, muddling, fatheaded, interfering asses,â he said, wanly, âGeorge Tupper is the worst.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âThe man oughtnât to be at large. Heâs a public menace.â
âButâ ââ
âThose dogs belong to my aunt. I pinched them when she chucked me out!â
Inside the cottage the Pekingese were still yapping industriously.
âUpon my Sam,â said Ukridge, âitâs a little hard.â
I think he would have said more, but at this point a voice spoke with a sudden and awful abruptness from the interior of the cottage. It was a womanâs voice, a quiet, steely voice, a voice, it seemed to me, that suggested cold eyes, a beaky nose, and hair like gunmetal.
âStanley!â
That was all it said, but it was enough. Ukridgeâs eye met mine in a wild surmise. He seemed to shrink into his mackintosh like a snail surprised while eating lettuce.
âStanley!â
âYes, Aunt Julia?â quavered Ukridge.
âCome here. I wish to speak to you.â
âYes, Aunt Julia.â
I sidled out into the road. Inside the cottage the yapping of the Pekingese had become quite hysterical. I found myself trotting, and thenâ âthough it was a warm dayâ ârunning quite rapidly. I could have stayed if I had wanted to, but somehow I did not want to. Something seemed to tell me that on this holy domestic scene I should be an intruder.
What it was that gave me that impression I do not knowâ âprobably vision or the big, broad, flexible outlook.
Ukridgeâs Accident SyndicateâHalf a minute, laddie,â said Ukridge. And, gripping my arm, he brought me to a halt on the outskirts of the little crowd which had collected about the church door.
It was a crowd such as may be seen any morning during the London mating-season outside any of the churches which nestle in the quiet squares between Hyde Park and the Kingâs Road, Chelsea.
It consisted of five women of cooklike aspect, four nursemaids, half a dozen men of the non-producing class who had torn themselves away for the moment from their normal task of propping up the wall of the Bunch of Grapes public house on the corner, a costermonger with a barrow of vegetables, diverse small boys, eleven dogs, and two or three purposeful-looking young fellows with cameras slung over their shoulders. It was plain that a wedding was in progressâ âand, arguing from the presence of the cameramen and the line of smart motorcars along the kerb, a fairly fashionable wedding. What was not plainâ âto meâ âwas why Ukridge, sternest of bachelors, had desired to add himself to the spectators.
âWhat,â I enquired, âis the thought behind this? Why are we interrupting our walk to attend the obsequies of some perfect stranger?â
Ukridge did not reply for a moment. He seemed plunged in thought. Then he uttered a hollow, mirthless laughâ âa dreadful sound like the last gargle of a dying moose.
âPerfect stranger, my number eleven foot!â he responded, in his coarse way. âDo you know who it is whoâs getting hitched up in there?â
âWho?â
âTeddy Weeks.â
âTeddy Weeks? Teddy Weeks? Good Lord!â I exclaimed. âNot really?â
And five years rolled away.
It was at Baroliniâs Italian restaurant in Beak Street that Ukridge evolved his great scheme. Baroliniâs was a favourite resort of our little group of earnest strugglers in the days when the philanthropic restaurateurs of Soho used to supply four courses and coffee for a shilling and sixpence; and there were present that night, besides Ukridge and myself, the following men-about-town: Teddy Weeks, the actor, fresh from a six-weeksâ tour with the Number Three âOnly a Shop-Girlâ Company; Victor Beamish, the artist, the man who
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