author - "Pelham Grenville Wodehouse"
ladys Maud cried, because she had taken a sudden dislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the corner and opened a magazine.
He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last week of the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board the train at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entry into Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate, his magazines, and his reflections.
The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He had been petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowed to leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing had come about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain's was, and whether they had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had no earthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson's. He wondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if he himself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfully reported e
er. It struck at the root of all things.
'But I do mind,' objected Jelliffe. 'It's most important. A lot of money hangs on it. We've got a sweepstake on in the company, the holder of the winning name to take the entire receipts. Come on. Who is he?'
Henry rose and made for the door. His feelings were too deep for words. Even a minor detective has his professional pride; and the knowledge that his espionage is being made the basis of sweepstakes by his quarry cuts this to the quick.
'Here, don't go! Where are you going?'
'Back to London,' said Henry, bitterly. 'It's a lot of good my staying here now, isn't it?'
'I should say it was--to me. Don't be in a hurry. You're thinking that, now we know all about you, your utility as a sleuth has waned to some extent. Is that it?'
'Well?'
'Well, why worry? What does it matter to you? You don't get paid by results, do you? Your boss said "Trail along." Well, do it, then. I should hate to lose you. I don't suppose you know
moking a cigarette and entertaining himself with meditations in which thoughts of Alice competed for precedence with graver reflections connected with the subject of the correct stance for his approach-shots. Reggie's was a troubled spirit these days. He was in love, and he had developed a bad slice with his mid-iron. He was practically a soul in torment.
"Lady Caroline asked me to tell you that she wishes to speak to you, Mr. Byng."
Reggie leaped from his seat.
"Hullo-ullo-ullo! There you are! I mean to say, what?"
He was conscious, as was his custom in her presence, of a warm, prickly sensation in the small of the back. Some kind of elephantiasis seemed to have attacked his hands and feet, swelling them to enormous proportions. He wished profoundly that he could get rid of his habit of yelping with nervous laughter whenever he encountered the girl of his dreams. It was calculated to give her a wrong impression of a chap--make her think him a fearful chump and what not!
"La
the actual composition of the volume fora small fee. It is only necessary that the young lady's name shouldappear on the title page."
"That's true," said Corky. "Sam Patterson would do it for a hundreddollars. He writes a novelette, three short stories, and ten thousandwords of a serial for one of the all-fiction magazines under differentnames every month. A little thing like this would be nothing to him.I'll get after him right away."
"Fine!"
"Will that be all, sir?" said Jeeves. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."
I always used to think that publishers had to be devilish intelligentfellows, loaded down with the grey matter; but I've got their numbernow. All a publisher has to do is to write cheques at intervals, whilea lot of deserving and industrious chappies rally round and do the realwork. I know, because I've been one myself. I simply sat tight in theold apartment with a fountain-pen, and in due season a topping, shinybook came along.
I happened to be down at Corky's place when
The Sunshine Of A Fair Spring Morning Fell Graciously On London
Town. Out In Piccadilly Its Heartening Warmth Seemed To Infuse
Into Traffic And Pedestrians Alike A Novel Jauntiness, So That
Bus Drivers Jested And Even The Lips Of Chauffeurs Uncurled Into
Not Unkindly Smiles. Policemen Whistled At Their Posts--Clerks,
On Their Way To Work; Beggars Approached The Task Of Trying To
Persuade Perfect Strangers To Bear The Burden Of Their
Maintenance With That Optimistic Vim Which Makes All The
Difference. It Was One Of Those Happy Mornings.
ladys Maud cried, because she had taken a sudden dislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the corner and opened a magazine.
He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last week of the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board the train at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entry into Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate, his magazines, and his reflections.
The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He had been petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowed to leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing had come about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain's was, and whether they had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had no earthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson's. He wondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if he himself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfully reported e
er. It struck at the root of all things.
'But I do mind,' objected Jelliffe. 'It's most important. A lot of money hangs on it. We've got a sweepstake on in the company, the holder of the winning name to take the entire receipts. Come on. Who is he?'
Henry rose and made for the door. His feelings were too deep for words. Even a minor detective has his professional pride; and the knowledge that his espionage is being made the basis of sweepstakes by his quarry cuts this to the quick.
'Here, don't go! Where are you going?'
'Back to London,' said Henry, bitterly. 'It's a lot of good my staying here now, isn't it?'
'I should say it was--to me. Don't be in a hurry. You're thinking that, now we know all about you, your utility as a sleuth has waned to some extent. Is that it?'
'Well?'
'Well, why worry? What does it matter to you? You don't get paid by results, do you? Your boss said "Trail along." Well, do it, then. I should hate to lose you. I don't suppose you know
moking a cigarette and entertaining himself with meditations in which thoughts of Alice competed for precedence with graver reflections connected with the subject of the correct stance for his approach-shots. Reggie's was a troubled spirit these days. He was in love, and he had developed a bad slice with his mid-iron. He was practically a soul in torment.
"Lady Caroline asked me to tell you that she wishes to speak to you, Mr. Byng."
Reggie leaped from his seat.
"Hullo-ullo-ullo! There you are! I mean to say, what?"
He was conscious, as was his custom in her presence, of a warm, prickly sensation in the small of the back. Some kind of elephantiasis seemed to have attacked his hands and feet, swelling them to enormous proportions. He wished profoundly that he could get rid of his habit of yelping with nervous laughter whenever he encountered the girl of his dreams. It was calculated to give her a wrong impression of a chap--make her think him a fearful chump and what not!
"La
the actual composition of the volume fora small fee. It is only necessary that the young lady's name shouldappear on the title page."
"That's true," said Corky. "Sam Patterson would do it for a hundreddollars. He writes a novelette, three short stories, and ten thousandwords of a serial for one of the all-fiction magazines under differentnames every month. A little thing like this would be nothing to him.I'll get after him right away."
"Fine!"
"Will that be all, sir?" said Jeeves. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."
I always used to think that publishers had to be devilish intelligentfellows, loaded down with the grey matter; but I've got their numbernow. All a publisher has to do is to write cheques at intervals, whilea lot of deserving and industrious chappies rally round and do the realwork. I know, because I've been one myself. I simply sat tight in theold apartment with a fountain-pen, and in due season a topping, shinybook came along.
I happened to be down at Corky's place when
The Sunshine Of A Fair Spring Morning Fell Graciously On London
Town. Out In Piccadilly Its Heartening Warmth Seemed To Infuse
Into Traffic And Pedestrians Alike A Novel Jauntiness, So That
Bus Drivers Jested And Even The Lips Of Chauffeurs Uncurled Into
Not Unkindly Smiles. Policemen Whistled At Their Posts--Clerks,
On Their Way To Work; Beggars Approached The Task Of Trying To
Persuade Perfect Strangers To Bear The Burden Of Their
Maintenance With That Optimistic Vim Which Makes All The
Difference. It Was One Of Those Happy Mornings.