Something New P. G. Wodehouse (best classic books .txt) 📖

wouldn’t talk like that. It makes me feel ill.”

“Why, is he such a pal of yours as all that?”

“It’s not that. It’s⁠—the fact is, Dickie, old top, I’m in exactly the same bally hole as poor old Percy was, myself!”

“What! You have been sued for breach of promise?”

“Not absolutely that⁠—yet. Look here; I’ll tell you the whole thing. Do you remember a show at the Piccadilly about a year ago called The Baby Doll? There was a girl in the chorus.”

“Several⁠—I remember noticing.”

“No; I mean one particular girl⁠—a girl called Joan Valentine. The rotten part is that I never met her.”

“Pull yourself together, Freddie. What exactly is the trouble?”

“Well⁠—don’t you see?⁠—I used to go to the show every other night, and I fell frightfully in love with this girl⁠—”

“Without having met her?”

“Yes. You see, I was rather an ass in those days.”

“No, no!” said R. Jones handsomely.

“I must have been or I shouldn’t have been such an ass, don’t you know! Well, as I was saying, I used to write this girl letters, saying how much I was in love with her; and⁠—and⁠—”

“Specifically proposing marriage?”

“I can’t remember. I expect I did. I was awfully in love.”

“How was that if you never met her?”

“She wouldn’t meet me. She wouldn’t even come out to luncheon. She didn’t even answer my letters⁠—just sent word down by the Johnny at the stage door. And then⁠—”

Freddie’s voice died away. He thrust the knob of his cane into his mouth in a sort of frenzy.

“What then?” inquired R. Jones.

A scarlet blush manifested itself on Freddie’s young face. His eyes wandered sidewise. After a long pause a single word escaped him, almost inaudible:

“Poetry!”

R. Jones trembled as though an electric current had been passed through his plump frame. His little eyes sparkled with merriment.

“You wrote her poetry!”

“Yards of it, old boy⁠—yards of it!” groaned Freddie. Panic filled him with speech. “You see the frightful hole I’m in? This girl is bound to have kept the letters. I don’t remember whether I actually proposed to her or not; but anyway she’s got enough material to make it worth while to have a dash at an action⁠—especially after poor old Percy has just got soaked for such a pile of money and made breach-of-promise cases the fashion, so to speak.

“And now that the announcement of my engagement is out she’s certain to get busy. Probably she has been waiting for something of the sort. Don’t you see that all the cards are in her hands? We couldn’t afford to let the thing come into court. That poetry would dish my marriage for a certainty. I’d have to emigrate or something! Goodness knows what would happen at home! My old gov’nor would murder me! So you see what a frightful hole I’m in, don’t you, Dickie, old man?”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Why, to get hold of this girl and get back the letters⁠—don’t you see? I can’t do it myself, cooped up miles away in the country. And besides, I shouldn’t know how to handle a thing like that. It needs a chappie with a lot of sense and a persuasive sort of way with him.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Freddie; but I should imagine that something a little more solid than a persuasive way would be required in a case like this. You said something a while ago about five hundred pounds?”

“Here it is, old man⁠—in notes. I brought it on purpose. Will you really take the thing on? Do you think you can work it for five hundred?”

“I can have a try.”

Freddie rose, with an expression approximating to happiness on his face. Some men have the power of inspiring confidence in some of their fellows, though they fill others with distrust. Scotland Yard might look askance at R. Jones, but to Freddie he was all that was helpful and reliable. He shook R. Jones’ hand several times in his emotion.

“That’s absolutely topping of you, old man!” he said. “Then I’ll leave the whole thing to you. Write me the moment you have done anything, won’t you? Goodbye, old top, and thanks ever so much!”

The door closed. R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingers straying luxuriously among the crackling paper. A feeling of complete happiness warmed R. Jones’ bosom. He was uncertain whether or not his mission would be successful; and to be truthful he was not letting that worry him much. What he was certain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedly and dropped five hundred pounds into his lap.

III

The Earl of Emsworth stood in the doorway of the Senior Conservative Club’s vast dining-room, and beamed with a vague sweetness on the two hundred or so Senior Conservatives who, with much clattering of knives and forks, were keeping body and soul together by means of the coffee-room luncheon. He might have been posing for a statue of amiability. His pale blue eyes shone with a friendly light through their protecting glasses; the smile of a man at peace with all men curved his weak mouth; his bald head, reflecting the sunlight, seemed almost to wear a halo.

Nobody appeared to notice him. He so seldom came to London these days that he was practically a stranger in the club; and in any case your Senior Conservative, when at lunch, has little leisure for observing anything not immediately on the table in front of him. To attract attention in the dining-room of the Senior Conservative Club between the hours of one and two-thirty, you have to be a mutton chop⁠—not an earl.

It is possible that, lacking the initiative to make his way down the long aisle and find a table for himself, he might have stood there indefinitely, but for the restless activity of Adams, the head steward. It was Adams’ mission in life to flit to and fro, hauling would-be lunchers to their destinations, as a St. Bernard dog hauls travelers