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

“Halloa, Joe!” he said.

Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large and wholesome and restful.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said; “but I wanted to see you, Eddy, and I thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Weston yesterday⁠—after I got home from the office⁠—and one to you; and somehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn’t matter much, because they both said the same thing.”

“The same thing?”

“Yes; I told you I should be writing to you again on Thursday, to tip you something good that I was expecting from old Longwood. Jack Weston has just rung me up on the phone to say that he got a letter that doesn’t belong to him. I explained to him and thought I’d drop in here and explain to you. Why, what’s your hurry, Eddy?”

Eddy had risen from his seat.

“I’m due back at the office,” he said, hoarsely.

“Busy man! I’m having a slack day. Well, goodbye. I’ll see Mary back.”

Joe seated himself in the vacant chair.

“You’re looking tired,” he said. “Did Eddy talk too much?”

“Yes, he did⁠ ⁠… Joe, you were right.”

“Ah⁠—Mary!” Joe chuckled. “I’ll tell you something I didn’t tell Eddy. It wasn’t entirely through carelessness that I posted those letters in the wrong envelopes. In fact, to be absolutely frank, it wasn’t through carelessness at all. There’s an old gentleman in Pittsburgh by the name of John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of some of his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of the world knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to get early information too. Do you remember my telling you that your predecessor at the office left a little abruptly? There was a reason. I engaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. She confided in Eddy. From the look on your face as I came in I gathered that he had just been proposing that you should perform a similar act of Christian charity. Had he?”

Mary clenched her hands.

“It’s this awful New York!” she cried. “Eddy was never like that in Dunsterville.”

“Dunsterville does not offer quite the same scope,” said Joe.

“New York changes everything,” Mary returned. “It has changed Eddy⁠—it has changed you.”

He bent towards her and lowered his voice.

“Not altogether,” he said. “I’m just the same in one way. I’ve tried to pretend I had altered, but it’s no use. I give it up. I’m still just the same poor fool who used to hang round staring at you in Dunsterville.”

A waiter was approaching the table with the air, which waiters cultivate, of just happening by chance to be going in that direction. Joe leaned farther forward, speaking quickly.

“And for whom,” he said, “you didn’t care a single, solitary snap of your fingers, Mary.”

She looked up at him. The waiter hovered, poising for his swoop. Suddenly she smiled.

“New York has changed me too, Joe,” she said.

“Mary!” he cried.

“Ze pill, sare,” observed the waiter.

Joe turned.

“Ze what!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m hanged! Eddy’s gone off and left me to pay for his lunch! That man’s a wonder! When it comes to brain-work, he’s in a class by himself.” He paused. “But I have the luck,” he said.

Doesn’t some poet or philosopher fellow say that it’s when our intentions are best that we always make the worst breaks? I can’t put my hand on the passage, but you’ll find it in Shakespeare or somewhere, I’m pretty certain.

At any rate, it’s always that way with me. And the affair of Douglas Craye is a case in point.

I had dined with Duggie (a dear old pal of mine) one night at his club, and as he was seeing me out he said: “Reggie, old top”⁠—my name’s Reggie Pepper⁠—“Reggie, old top, I’m rather worried.”

“Are you, Duggie, old pal?” I said.

“Yes, Reggie, old fellow,” he said, “I am. It’s like this. The Booles have asked me down to their place for the weekend, and I don’t know whether to go or not. You see, they have early breakfast, and besides that there’s a frightful risk of music after dinner. On the other hand, young Roderick Boole thinks he can play piquet.”

“I should go,” I said.

“But I’m not sure Roderick’s going to be there this time.”

It was a problem, and I didn’t wonder poor old Dug had looked pale and tired at dinner.

Then I had the idea which really started all the trouble.

“Why don’t you consult a palmist?” I said.

“That sounds a good idea,” said Duggie.

“Go and see Dorothea in Forty-second Street. She’s a wonder. She’ll settle it for you in a second. She’ll see from your lines that you are thinking of making a journey, and she’ll either tell you to get a move on, which will mean that Roderick will be there, or else to keep away because she sees disaster.”

“You seem to be next to the game all right.”

“I’ve been to a good many of them. You’ll like Dorothea.”

“What did you say her name was⁠—Dorothea? What do I do? Do I just walk in? Shan’t I feel a fearful chump? How much do I give her?”

“Five bucks. You’d better write and make a date.”

“All right,” said Duggie. “But I know I shall look a frightful fool.”

About a week later I ran into him between the acts at the Knickerbocker. The old boy was beaming.

“Reggie,” he said, “you did me the best turn anyone’s ever done me, sending me to Mrs. Darrell.”

“Mrs. Darrell?”

“You know. Dorothea. Her real name’s Darrell. She’s a widow. Her husband was in some regiment, and left her without a penny. It’s a frightfully pathetic story. Haven’t time to tell you now. My boy, she’s a marvel. She had hardly looked at my hand, when she said: ‘You will prosper in any venture you undertake.’ And next day, by George, I went down to the Booles’ and separated young Roderick from seventy dollars. She’s a wonderful