My Man Jeeves by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (reading cloud ebooks TXT) 📖

normal. Not a

trace of the fellow-conspirator about it. I gave him the afternoon off.

 

I had lunch—George didn’t show up—and as I was going out I was

waylaid by the girl Pilbeam. She had been crying.

 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but did Mr. Voules ask you for the afternoon?”

 

I didn’t see what business if was of hers, but she seemed all worked up

about it, so I told her.

 

“Yes, I have given him the afternoon off.”

 

She broke down—absolutely collapsed. Devilish unpleasant it was. I’m

hopeless in a situation like this. After I’d said, “There, there!”

which didn’t seem to help much, I hadn’t any remarks to make.

 

“He s-said he was going to the tables to gamble away all his savings

and then shoot himself, because he had nothing left to live for.”

 

I suddenly remembered the scrap in the small hours outside my

state-room door. I hate mysteries. I meant to get to the bottom of

this. I couldn’t have a really first-class valet like Voules going

about the place shooting himself up. Evidently the girl Pilbeam was

at the bottom of the thing. I questioned her. She sobbed.

 

I questioned her more. I was firm. And eventually she yielded up the

facts. Voules had seen George kiss her the night before; that was the

trouble.

 

Things began to piece themselves together. I went up to interview George.

There was going to be another job for persuasive Alfred. Voules’s mind

had got to be eased as Stella’s had been. I couldn’t afford to lose a

fellow with his genius for preserving a trouser-crease.

 

I found George on the foredeck. What is it Shakespeare or somebody says

about some fellow’s face being sicklied o’er with the pale cast of

care? George’s was like that. He looked green.

 

“Finished with your uncle?” I said.

 

He grinned a ghostly grin.

 

“There isn’t any uncle,” he said. “There isn’t any Alfred. And there

isn’t any money.”

 

“Explain yourself, old top,” I said.

 

“It won’t take long. The old crook has spent every penny of the

trust money. He’s been at it for years, ever since I was a kid. When

the time came to cough up, and I was due to see that he did it, he

went to the tables in the hope of a run of luck, and lost the last

remnant of the stuff. He had to find a way of holding me for a while

and postponing the squaring of accounts while he got away, and he

invented this twin-brother business. He knew I should find out sooner

or later, but meanwhile he would be able to get off to South America,

which he has done. He’s on his way now.”

 

“You let him go?”

 

“What could I do? I can’t afford to make a fuss with that man Sturgis

around. I can’t prove there’s no Alfred when my only chance of avoiding

prison is to be Alfred.”

 

“Well, you’ve made things right for yourself with Stella Vanderley,

anyway,” I said, to cheer him up.

 

“What’s the good of that now? I’ve hardly any money and no prospects.

How can I marry her?”

 

I pondered.

 

“It looks to me, old top,” I said at last, “as if things were in a bit

of a mess.”

 

“You’ve guessed it,” said poor old George.

 

I spent the afternoon musing on Life. If you come to think of it, what

a queer thing Life is! So unlike anything else, don’t you know, if you

see what I mean. At any moment you may be strolling peacefully along,

and all the time Life’s waiting around the corner to fetch you one. You

can’t tell when you may be going to get it. It’s all dashed puzzling.

Here was poor old George, as well-meaning a fellow as ever stepped,

getting swatted all over the ring by the hand of Fate. Why? That’s what

I asked myself. Just Life, don’t you know. That’s all there was about

it.

 

It was close on six o’clock when our third visitor of the day arrived.

We were sitting on the afterdeck in the cool of the evening—old

Marshall, Denman Sturgis, Mrs. Vanderley, Stella, George, and I—when

he came up. We had been talking of George, and old Marshall was

suggesting the advisability of sending out search-parties. He was

worried. So was Stella Vanderley. So, for that matter, were George and

I, only not for the same reason.

 

We were just arguing the thing out when the visitor appeared. He was a

well-built, stiff sort of fellow. He spoke with a German accent.

 

“Mr. Marshall?” he said. “I am Count Fritz von C�slin, equerry to His

Serene Highness”—he clicked his heels together and saluted—“the

Prince of Saxburg-Leignitz.”

 

Mrs. Vanderley jumped up.

 

“Why, Count,” she said, “what ages since we met in Vienna! You

remember?”

 

“Could I ever forget? And the charming Miss Stella, she is well, I

suppose not?”

 

“Stella, you remember Count Fritz?”

 

Stella shook hands with him.

 

“And how is the poor, dear Prince?” asked Mrs. Vanderley. “What a

terrible thing to have happened!”

 

“I rejoice to say that my high-born master is better. He has regained

consciousness and is sitting up and taking nourishment.”

 

“That’s good,” said old Marshall.

 

“In a spoon only,” sighed the Count. “Mr. Marshall, with your

permission I should like a word with Mr. Sturgis.”

 

“Mr. Who?”

 

The gimlet-eyed sportsman came forward.

 

“I am Denman Sturgis, at your service.”

 

“The deuce you are! What are you doing here?”

 

“Mr. Sturgis,” explained the Count, “graciously volunteered his

services–-”

 

“I know. But what’s he doing here?”

 

“I am waiting for Mr. George Lattaker, Mr. Marshall.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“You have not found him?” asked the Count anxiously.

 

“Not yet, Count; but I hope to do so shortly. I know what he looks like

now. This gentleman is his twin-brother. They are doubles.”

 

“You are sure this gentleman is not Mr. George Lattaker?”

 

George put his foot down firmly on the suggestion.

 

“Don’t go mixing me up with my brother,” he said. “I am Alfred. You can

tell me by my mole.”

 

He exhibited the mole. He was taking no risks.

 

The Count clicked his tongue regretfully.

 

“I am sorry,” he said.

 

George didn’t offer to console him,

 

“Don’t worry,” said Sturgis. “He won’t escape me. I shall find him.”

 

“Do, Mr. Sturgis, do. And quickly. Find swiftly that noble young man.”

 

“What?” shouted George.

 

“That noble young man, George Lattaker, who, at the risk of his life,

saved my high-born master from the assassin.”

 

George sat down suddenly.

 

“I don’t understand,” he said feebly.

 

“We were wrong, Mr. Sturgis,” went on the Count. “We leaped to the

conclusion—was it not so?—that the owner of the hat you found was

also the assailant of my high-born master. We were wrong. I have heard

the story from His Serene Highness’s own lips. He was passing down a

dark street when a ruffian in a mask sprang out upon him. Doubtless he

had been followed from the Casino, where he had been winning heavily.

My high-born master was taken by surprise. He was felled. But before he

lost consciousness he perceived a young man in evening dress, wearing

the hat you found, running swiftly towards him. The hero engaged the

assassin in combat, and my high-born master remembers no more. His

Serene Highness asks repeatedly, ‘Where is my brave preserver?’ His

gratitude is princely. He seeks for this young man to reward him. Ah,

you should be proud of your brother, sir!”

 

“Thanks,” said George limply.

 

“And you, Mr. Sturgis, you must redouble your efforts. You must search

the land; you must scour the sea to find George Lattaker.”

 

“He needn’t take all that trouble,” said a voice from the gangway.

 

It was Voules. His face was flushed, his hat was on the back of his

head, and he was smoking a fat cigar.

 

“I’ll tell you where to find George Lattaker!” he shouted.

 

He glared at George, who was staring at him.

 

“Yes, look at me,” he yelled. “Look at me. You won’t be the first this

afternoon who’s stared at the mysterious stranger who won for two hours

without a break. I’ll be even with you now, Mr. Blooming Lattaker. I’ll

learn you to break a poor man’s heart. Mr. Marshall and gents, this

morning I was on deck, and I over’eard ‘im plotting to put up a game on

you. They’d spotted that gent there as a detective, and they arranged

that blooming Lattaker was to pass himself off as his own twin-brother.

And if you wanted proof, blooming Pepper tells him to show them his

mole and he’d swear George hadn’t one. Those were his very words. That

man there is George Lattaker, Hesquire, and let him deny it if he can.”

 

George got up.

 

“I haven’t the least desire to deny it, Voules.”

 

“Mr. Voules, if you please.”

 

“It’s true,” said George, turning to the Count. “The fact is, I had

rather a foggy recollection of what happened last night. I only

remembered knocking some one down, and, like you, I jumped to the

conclusion that I must have assaulted His Serene Highness.”

 

“Then you are really George Lattaker?” asked the Count.

 

“I am.”

 

“‘Ere, what does all this mean?” demanded Voules.

 

“Merely that I saved the life of His Serene Highness the Prince of

Saxburg-Leignitz, Mr. Voules.”

 

“It’s a swindle!” began Voules, when there was a sudden rush and the

girl Pilbeam cannoned into the crowd, sending me into old Marshall’s

chair, and flung herself into the arms of Voules.

 

“Oh, Harold!” she cried. “I thought you were dead. I thought you’d shot

yourself.”

 

He sort of braced himself together to fling her off, and then he seemed

to think better of it and fell into the clinch,

 

It was all dashed romantic, don’t you know, but there are limits.

 

“Voules, you’re sacked,” I said.

 

“Who cares?” he said. “Think I was going to stop on now I’m a gentleman

of property? Come along, Emma, my dear. Give a month’s notice and get

your ‘at, and I’ll take you to dinner at Ciro’s.”

 

“And you, Mr. Lattaker,” said the Count, “may I conduct you to the

presence of my high-born master? He wishes to show his gratitude to his

preserver.”

 

“You may,” said George. “May I have my hat, Mr. Sturgis?”

 

There’s just one bit more. After dinner that night I came up for a

smoke, and, strolling on to the foredeck, almost bumped into George and

Stella. They seemed to be having an argument.

 

“I’m not sure,” she was saying, “that I believe that a man can be so

happy that he wants to kiss the nearest thing in sight, as you put it.”

 

“Don’t you?” said George. “Well, as it happens, I’m feeling just that

way now.”

 

I coughed and he turned round.

 

“Halloa, Reggie!” he said.

 

“Halloa, George!” I said. “Lovely night.”

 

“Beautiful,” said Stella.

 

“The moon,” I said.

 

“Ripping,” said George.

 

“Lovely,” said Stella.

 

“And look at the reflection of the stars on the–-”

 

George caught my eye. “Pop off,” he said.

 

I popped.

 

DOING CLARENCE A BIT OF GOOD

 

Have you ever thought about—and, when I say thought about, I mean

really carefully considered the question of—the coolness, the cheek,

or, if you prefer it, the gall with which Woman, as a sex, fairly