 Chapter 5 of Piccadilly Gym, by P. G. Whithouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Piccadilly Gym. Chapter 5. The Morning After. Bayless took a spectacle case from the recesses of his costume, opened it, took out a pair of gold rimmed glasses, dived into the jungle again, came out with a handkerchief, polished the spectacles, put them on his nose, closed the case, restored it to its own original position, replaced the handkerchief, and took up the paper. Why the hesitation, Bayless? Why the coiness, inquired Jimmy, lying with closed eyes? Begin. I was adjusting my glasses, sir. All set now? Yes, sir. Shall I read the headlines first? Read everything. The butler cleared his throat. Good heavens, Bayless! moaned Jimmy, starting, don't gargle, have a heart! Go on! Bayless began to read. Fraka's infashionable nightclub, sprigs of nobility brawl. Jimmy opened his eyes, interested. Am I a sprig of nobility? It is what the paper says, sir. We live and learn, carry on. The butler started to clear his throat, but checked himself. Sensational international contest. Battling Percy, England, V. Cyclone Jim, America. Full description by our expert. Jimmy sat up. Bayless, you're indulging that distorted sense of humour of yours again. That isn't it, the paper? Yes, sir. Very large headlines. Jimmy groaned. Bayless, I'll give you a piece of advice which may be useful to you when you grow up. Never go about with newspaper men. It all comes back to me. Out of pure kindness of heart I took young Bill Blake of the Sun to separate the six hundred last night. This is my reward. I suppose he thinks it funny. Newspaper men are a low lot, Bayless. Shall I go on, sir? Most doubtless, let me hear all. Bayless resumed. He was one of those readers, who, whether their subject to be a murder case or a funny anecdote, adopt a measured and subpulcral delivery which gives a suggestion of tragedy and horror to whatever they read. At the church which he attended on Sundays, of which he was one of the most influential and respected members, children would turn pale and snuggle up to their mothers when Bayless read the lessons. Young Mr. Blake's account of the overnight proceedings at the six hundred club he rendered with a gloomy gusto more marked even than his want. It had a topical interest for him which urged him to extend himself. At an early hour this morning, when our myriad readers were enjoying that refreshing and brain-restoring sleep so necessary to the proper appreciation of the daily sun at the breakfast table, one of the most interesting sporting events of the season was being pulled off at the six hundred club in Regent Street, where, after three rounds of fast exchanges, James B. Crocker, the well-known American welterweight scrapper, succeeded in stopping Lord Percy Whipple, second son of the Duke of Devises, better known as the Pride of Old England. Once again the superiority of the American over the English style of boxing was demonstrated. Captain Percy has a kind heart, but Cyclone Jim packs the punch. The immediate cause of the encounter had to do with a disputed table which each gladiator claimed to have engaged in advance over the telephone. "'I begin to remember,' said Jimmy meditatively. A pill with butter-colored hair tried to jump my claim. Honeyed words proving fruitless, I soaked him on the jaw. It may be that I was not wholly myself. I seemed to remember an animated session at the Empire earlier in the evening, which may have impaired my self-control. Proceed!' One word leading to the others, which in their turn led to several more, Cyclone Jim struck battling Percy on what a rude forefathers were accustomed to describe as the Mazard, and the gong sounded for round one. Both men came off fresh and eager to mix things, though it seems only too probable that they had already been mixing more things than was good for them. Battling Percy tried a right swing which got home on a waiter. Cyclone Jim put in a rapid one-two punch which opened a large gash in the atmosphere. Both men sparred cautiously, being hampered in their movements by the fact which neither had at this stage of the proceedings perceived that they were on opposite sides of the disputed table. A clever fit-simmons shift on the part of the battler removed this obstacle, and some brisk work ensued in neutral territory. Percy landed twice without a return. The battlers round by a shade. Round two. The Cyclone came out of his corner with a rush, getting home on the battler's shirt front and following it up with a right to the chin. They swung wildly and upset a bottle of champagne on a neighboring table. A good rally followed, both men doing impressive in-fighting. The Cyclone landed three without a return. The Cyclones round. Round three. Percy came up weak, seeming to be overtrained. The Cyclone waded in, using both hands effectively. The battler fell into a clinch, but the Cyclone broke away and, bearing his distance, picked up a haymaker from the floor and put it over. Percy down and out. Interviewed by a representative after the fight, Cyclone Jim said, The issue was never in doubt. I was handicapped at the outset by the fact that I was under the impression that I was fighting three twin brothers, and I missed several opportunities of putting over the winning wallop by attacking the outside ones. It was only in the second round that I decided to concentrate my assault on the one in the middle, when the affair speedily came to a conclusion. I shall not adopt pugilism as a profession. The prizes are attractive, but it is too much like work. Bayless ceased, and silence fell upon the room. Is that all? That is all, sir. And about enough. Very true, sir. You know Bayless, said Jimmy thoughtfully, rolling over on the couch. Life is peculiar, not to say odd. You never know what is waiting for you round the corner. You start the day with the fairest prospects, and before nightfall everything is as rocky and ding-basted as stig-tost full of doodle-gamin. Why is this, Bayless? I couldn't say so. Look at me. I go out to spend a happy evening, meaning no harm to anyone, and I come back all blue with the blood of the aristocracy. We now come to a serious point. Do you think my lady's stepmother has read that sporting chronicle? I fancy not, Mr. James. On what do you base these words of comfort? Mrs. Crocker does not read the half-penny papers, sir. True, she does not. I'd forgotten. On the other hand, the probability that she will learn about the little incident from other sources is great. I think the merest prudence suggests that I keep out of the way for the time being lest I be fallen upon and questioned. I am not equal to being questioned this morning. I have a headache which starts at the soles of my feet and gets worse all the way up. Where is my stepmother? Mrs. Crocker is in her room, Mr. James. She ordered the car to be bought round at once. It should be here at any moment now, sir. I think Mrs. Crocker intends to visit the park before luncheon. Is she lunching out? Yes, sir. Then, if I pursue the excellent common-sense tactics of the lesser sand-deal, which, as you doubtless know, buries itself tail upwards in the mud on hearing the bing of the eel-hounds and remains in that position till the danger has passed, I shall be able to postpone an interview. Should you be questioned as to my whereabouts, inflate your chest and reply in a clear and manly voice that I have gone out you know not where? May I rely on your benevolent neutrality, Bayless? Very good, Mr. James. I think I will go and sit in my father's den. A man may lie hid there with some success as a rule. Jimmy heaved himself painfully off the sofa, blinked and set out for the den, where his father, in a deep arm-chair, was smoking a restful pipe and reading the portions of the daily papers which did not deal with the game of cricket. Mr. Crocker's den was a small room at the back of the house. It was not luxurious and it looked out onto a blank wall, but it was the spot he liked best in all that vast pile which had once echoed to the tread of tidal shoes. For, as he sometimes observed to his son, it had the distinction of being the only room on the ground floor where a fellow could move without stubbing his toe on a countess or an honorable. In this peaceful backwater he could smoke a pipe, put his feet up, take off his coat, and generally indulge in that liberty and pursuit of happiness to which the Constitution entitles a free-born American. Nobody ever came there except Jimmy and himself. He did not suspend his reading at his son's entrance. He muttered a welcome through the clouds, but he did not raise his eyes. Jimmy took the other arm-chair and began to smoke silently. It was the unwritten law of the den that soothing silence rather than aimless chatter should prevail. It was not until a quarter of an hour had passed that Mr. Crocker dropped his paper and spoke. Say, Jimmy, I want to talk to you. Say on, you have our ear. Seriously. Continue, always, however, keeping before you the fact that I am a sick man. Last night was a wild night on the Moors, Dad. It's about your stepmother. She was talking at breakfast about you. She soared you for giving Spike Dillon lunch at the Carlton. You oughtn't to have taken him there, Jimmy. That's what got her goat. She was there with a bunch of swells when they had to sit and listen to Spike talking about his half-scissors hook. What's their kick against Spike's half-scissors hook? It's a darned good one. She said she was going to speak to you about it. I thought I'd let you know. Thanks, Dad. But was that all? All. All that she was going to speak to me about? Sure, there was nothing else? She didn't say anything about anything else? Then she doesn't know. Fine. Mr. Crocker's feet came down from the mantelpiece with a crash. Jimmy, you haven't been raising Cain again. No, no, Dad. Nothing serious. High-spirited, young patrician stuff, the sort of thing that's expected of a fellow in my position. Mr. Crocker was not to be comforted. Jimmy, you've got to pull up. Honest you have. I don't care for myself. I'd like to see a boy having a good time. But your stepmother says you're apt to queer us with the people up top, the way you're going on. Lord knows I wouldn't care if things were different, but I'll tell you exactly how I stand. I didn't get wise till this morning. Your stepmother sprang it on me suddenly. I've often wondered what all this stuff was about, this living in London and trailing the swells. I couldn't think what was your stepmother's idea. Now I know. Jimmy, she's trying to get them to make me appear. What? Just that. And she says, but, Dad, this is rich. This is comedy of a high order. Appear, good heavens, if it comes off, what shall I be? This title business is all so complicated. I know I should have to change my name to Honorable Rollo Charmondale or the Honorable Aubrey Marjorie Banks, but what I want to know is which. I want to be prepared for the worst. And you see, Jimmy, these people up top, the guys who arranged the giving of titles are keeping an eye on you, because you would have the title after me, and naturally they don't want to get stung. I gathered all that from your stepmother. Say, Jimmy, I'm not asking a lot of you, but there is just one thing you can do for me without putting yourself out too much. I'll do it, Dad, if it kills me. Slip me the info. Your stepmother's friend, Lady Corstor Fiend's nephew. It's not the sort of story to ask a man with a headache to follow. I hope it gets simpler as it goes along. Your stepmother wants you to be a good fellow and make friends with this boy. You see, his father is in right with the premiere and has the biggest kind of a pull when it comes to handing out titles. Is that all you want? Leave it to me. Inside of a week I'll be playing Kiss in the Ring with him. The whole force of my sunny personality shall be directed towards making him love me. What's his name? Lord Percy Whipple. His pipe fell with a clatter. Dad, pull yourself together, reflect. You know you don't seriously mean Lord Percy Whipple. Eh? Jimmy laid a soothing hand on his father's shoulder. Dad, prepare yourself for the big laugh. This is where you throw your head back and roar with honest mirth. I met Lord Percy Whipple last night at the Six Hundred Club. Words ensued. I fell upon Percy and beat his block off. How it started, except that we both wanted the same table, I couldn't say. Why, that I cannot tell, said he, but was a famous victory. If I had known, Dad, nothing would have induced me to lay a hand upon Percy, save in the way of kindness, but not even knowing who he was, it would appear from contemporary accounts of the affair that I just naturally sailed in and expunged the poor dear boy. The stunning nature of this information had much the same effect on Mr. Crocker as the announcement of his ruin has upon the good old man in melodrama. He sat clutching the arms of his chair and staring into space, saying nothing. Dismay was written upon his anguished countenance. His collapse sobered Jimmy. For the first time he perceived that the situation had another side than the humorous one which had appealed to him. He had anticipated that Mr. Crocker, who as a general thing, shared his notions of what was funny and could be relied on to laugh in the right place, would have been struck, like himself, by the odd and pleasing coincidence of his having picked on for the purposes of a sultan battery, the one young man with whom his stepmother wished him to form a firm and lasting friendship. He perceived now that his father was seriously upset. Neither Jimmy nor Mr. Crocker possessed a demonstrative nature, but there had always existed between them the deepest affection. Jimmy loved his father as he loved nobody else in the world, and the thought of having hurt him was like a physical pain. His laughter died away and he set himself with a sinking heart to try to undo the effect of his words. I'm awfully sorry, Dad. I had no idea you would care. I wouldn't have done a fool thing like that for a million dollars if I'd known. Isn't there anything I can do? Gee whiz, I'll go right round to Percy now and apologize. I'll lick his boots. Don't you worry, Dad. I'll make it all right. The world of words roused Mr. Crocker from his thoughts. It doesn't matter, Jimmy. Don't worry yourself. It's only a little unfortunate, because your stepmother says she won't think of our going back to America till these people here have given me a title. She wants to put one over on her sister. That's all that's troubling me, the thought that this affair will set us back, this Lord Percy being in so strong with the guys who give the titles. I guess it will mean my staying on here for a while longer, and I'd like to have seen another ballgame. Jimmy, do you know they call baseball rounders in this country and children play it with a soft ball? Jimmy was striding up and down the little room. Ramors had him in its grip. What a damned fool I am. Never mind, Jimmy. It's unfortunate, but it wasn't your fault. You couldn't know. It was my fault. Nobody but a fool like me would go about beating people up. But don't worry, Dad. It's going to be all right. I'll fix it. I'm going right round to this fellow Percy now to make things all right. I won't come back till I've squared him. Don't you bother yourself about it any longer, Dad. It's going to be all right. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Whithouse This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Piccadilly Gym Chapter 6 Jimmy Abandons Piccadilly Jimmy removed himself sorrowfully from the doorstep of the Duke of DeVise's house in Cleveland Row. His mission had been a failure. In answer to his request to be permitted to see Lord Percy Whipple, the butler had replied that Lord Percy was confined to his bed and was seeing nobody. He eyed Jimmy on receiving his name, with an interest which he failed to conceal, for he too, like Bayless, had read and heartily enjoyed Bill Blake's spirited version of the affair of last night which had appeared in The Daily Sun. Indeed, he had clipped the report out and had been engaged in pasting it in an album when the bell rang. In face of this repulse, Jimmy's campaign broke down. He was at a loss to know what to do next. He ebbed away from the Duke's front door, like an army that has made an unsuccessful frontal attack on an impregnable fortress. He could hardly force his way in and search for Lord Percy. He walked along Pal Mal deep in thought. It was a beautiful day. The rain which had fallen in the night and relieved Mr. Crocker from the necessity of watching cricket had freshened London up. The sun was shining now from a turquoise sky. A gentle breeze blew from the south. Jimmy made his way into Piccadilly and found that thoroughfare arore with happy automobile-ists and cheery pedestrians. Their gaiety irritated him. He resented their apparent enjoyment of life. Jimmy's was not a nature that lent itself readily to introspection, but he was putting himself now through a searching self-examination which was revealing all kinds of unsuspected flaws in his character. He had been having too good a time for years past to have leisure to realize that he possessed any responsibilities. He had lived each day as it came in the spirit of the monks of Thelima. But his father's reception of the news of last night's escapade and the few words he had said had given him pause. Life had taken on, of a sudden, a less simple aspect. Dimly, for he was not accustomed to thinking along these lines, he perceived the numbing truth that we human beings are merely as many pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, and that our every movement affects the fortunes of some other piece. Just so, fatally at first, and taking shape by degrees, must the germ of civic spirit have come to prehistoric man. We are all individualists till we wake up. The thought of having done anything to make his father unhappy was bitter to Jimmy Crocker. They had always been more like brothers than father and son. Hard thoughts about himself surged through Jimmy's mind. With a dejectedness to which it is possible that his headache contributed, he put the matter squarely to himself. His father was longing to return to America. He, Jimmy, by his idiotic behavior, was putting obstacles in the way of that return. What was the answer? The answer, to Jimmy's way of thinking, was that all was not well with James Crocker, that when all the evidence was weighed, James Crocker would appear to be a fool, a worm, a selfish waster, and a hopeless, low-down skunk. Having come to this conclusion, Jimmy found himself so low in spirit that the cheerful bustle of Piccadilly was too much for him. He turned and began to retrace his steps. Arriving in due course at the top of the hay market, he hesitated, then turned down it, till he reached Coxborough Street. Here the transatlantic steamship companies have their offices, and so it came about that Jimmy, chancing to look up as he walked, perceived before him, riding gallantly on a cardboard ocean behind a plate glass window, the model of a noble vessel. He stopped, conscious of a curious thrill. There is a superstition in all of us. When an accidental happening chances to fit smoothly in with a mood, seeming to come as a direct commentary on that mood, we are apt to accept it in defiance of our pure reason as an omen. Jimmy strode to the window and inspected the model narrowly. The sight of it had started a new train of thought. His heart began to race. Hypnotic influences were at work on him. Why not? Could there be a simpler solution of the whole trouble? By the office he would see a man with whiskers buying a ticket for New York. The simplicity of the process fascinated him. All you had to do was to walk in, bend over the counter while the clerk behind it made dabs with a pencil at the illustrated plate of the ship's interior organs and hand over your money. A child could do it, if in funds. At this thought his hands strayed to his trouser pocket. A musical crackling of banknotes proceeded from the depths. His quarterly allowance had been paid to him only a short while before, and, though a willing spender, he still retained a good portion of it. He rustled the notes again. There was enough in that pocket to buy three tickets to New York. Should he, or on the other hand, always look on both sides of the question, should he not? It would certainly seem to be the best thing for all parties if he did follow the impulse. By remaining in London he was injuring everybody, himself included. Well, there was no harm in making inquiries. Probably the boat was full up anyway. He walked into the office. Have you anything left on the Atlantic this trip? The clerk behind the counter was quite the wrong sort of person for Jimmy to have had dealings with in his present mood. What Jimmy needed was a grave, sensible man, who would have laid a hand on his shoulder and said, Do nothing rash, my boy! The clerk fell short of this ideal in practically every particular. He was about twenty-two, and he seemed perfectly enthusiastic about the idea of Jimmy going to America. He beamed at Jimmy. Plenty of room, he said, very few people crossing, give you excellent accommodation. When does the boat sail? Eight tomorrow morning from Liverpool. The train leaves Paddington six to-night. Prudence came at the eleventh hour to check Jimmy. This was not a matter he perceived to be decided recklessly on the spur of a sudden impulse. Above all, it was not a matter to be decided before lunch. An empty stomach breeds imagination. He had ascertained that he could sail on the Atlantic if he wished to. The sensible thing to do now was to go and lunch and see how he felt about it after that. He thanked the clerk and started to walk up the Haymarket, feeling hard-headed and practical, yet with a strong premonition that he was going to make a fool of himself just the same. It was half-way up the Haymarket that he first became conscious of the girl with the red hair. Plunged in thought, he had not noticed her before, and yet she had been walking a few paces in front of him most of the way. He had come out of Panton Street walking briskly, as one going to keep a pleasant appointment. She carried herself admirably with a jaunty swing. Having become conscious of this girl, Jimmy, ever a warm admirer of the sex, began to feel a certain interest stealing over him. With interest came speculation. He wondered who she was. He wondered where she had bought the excellent fitting suit of Taylor made gray. He admired her back and wondered whether her face, if seen, would prove a disappointment. Thus musing he drew near to the top of the Haymarket, where it ceases to be a street and becomes a whirlpool of rushing traffic. And here the girl, having paused and looked over her shoulder, stepped off the sidewalk. As she did so, a taxi cab rounded the corner quickly from the direction of Coventry Street. The agreeable surprise of finding the girl's face fully as attractive as her back had stimulated Jimmy, so that he was keyed up for the exhibition of swift presence of mind. He jumped forward and caught her arm, and swung her to one side as the cab rattled past, its driver thinking hard thoughts to himself. The whole episode was an affair of seconds. "'Thank you,' said the girl. She rubbed the arm which he had seized with rather a rueful expression. She was a little white, and her breath came quickly. "'I hope I didn't hurt you,' said Jimmy. "'You did, very much. But the taxi would have hurt me more.' She laughed. She looked very attractive when she laughed. She had a small, peekant, vivacious face. Jimmy, as he looked at it, had an odd feeling that he had seen her before, when and where he did not know. That mass of red-gold hair seemed curiously familiar. In the hinterland of his mind there lurked a memory, but he could not bring it into the open. As for the girl, if she had ever met him before, she showed no signs of recollecting it. Jimmy decided that, if he had seen her, it must have been in his reporter days. She was plainly an American, and he occasionally had the feeling that he had seen everyone in America when he had worked for the Chronicle. "'That's right,' he said approvingly. "'Always look on the bright side.' "'I only arrived in London yesterday,' said the girl, and I haven't got used to your keeping to the left rules. I don't suppose I shall ever get back to New York alive. Perhaps, as you have saved my life, you wouldn't mind doing me another service. Can you tell me which is the nearest and safest way to a restaurant called the Regent Grill?' "'It's just over there, at the corner of Regent Street. As to the safest way, if I were you, I should cross over at the top of the street there, and then work round westward, otherwise you'll have to cross Piccadilly Circus.' "'I absolutely refuse even to try to cross Piccadilly Circus. Thank you very much. I will follow your advice. I hope I shall get there. It doesn't seem at all likely.' She gave him a little nod and moved away. Jimmy turned into that drugstore at the top of the hay market, at which so many Londoners have found healing and comfort on the morning after, and bought the pink drink for which his system had been craving since he rose from bed. He wondered why, as he drained it, he should feel ashamed and guilty. A few minutes later he found himself, with mild surprise, going down the steps of the Regent Grill. It was the last place he had had in his mind when he had left the steamship company's offices in quest of lunch. He had intended to seek out some quiet, restful nook where he could be alone with his thoughts. If anybody had told him then that five minutes later he would be placing himself of his own free will within the range of a restaurant orchestra playing My Little Gray Home in the West, and the orchestra at the Regent played little else, he would not have believed him. Restaurants in all large cities have their ups and downs. At this time the Regent Grill was enjoying one of those bursts of popularity for which restaurateurs pray to whatever strange gods they worship. The more prosperous section of London's bohemia flocked to it daily. When Jimmy had deposited his hat with the robber band who had their cave just inside the main entrance, and had entered the grill-room, he found it congested. There did not appear to be a single unoccupied table. From where he stood he could see the girl of the red gold hair. Her back was towards him, and she was sitting at a table against one of the pillars with a little man with eyeglasses, a handsome woman in the forties, and a small stout boy who was skirmishing with the olives. As Jimmy hesitated the vigilant head-waiter who knew him well perceived him and hurried up. "'In one the moment, Mr. Croquer,' he said, and began to scatter commands among the underlings, "'I will place a table for you in the aisle. Next to that pillar, please,' said Jimmy. The underlings had produced a small table, apparently from up their sleeves, and were draping it in a cloth. Jimmy sat down and gave his order. Ordering was going on at the other table. The little man seemed depressed at the discovery that corn on the cob and soft-shelled crabs were not to be obtained, and his wife's reception of the news that clams were not included in the region's bill of fare was so indignant that one could have said that she regarded the fact as evidence that Great Britain was going to pieces and would shortly lose her place as a world power. A selection having finally been agreed upon, the orchestra struck up my little gray home in the west, and no attempt was made to compete with it. When the last lingering strains had died away and the violinist leader having straightened out the kinks in his person, which the rendition of the melody never failed to produce, had bowed for the last time, a clear musical voice spoke from the other side of the pillar. Jimmy Crocker is a worm! Jimmy spilled his cocktail. It might have been the voice of conscience. I despise him more than any one on earth. I hate to think that he's an American! Jimmy drank the few drops that remained in his glass, partly to make sure of them, partly as a restorative. It is an unnerving thing to be despised by a red-haired girl whose life you have just saved. To Jimmy it was not only unnerving, it was uncanny. This girl had not known him when they met on the street a few moments before. How, then, was she able to display such intimate acquaintance with his character, now as to describe him, justly enough, as a worm? Mingled with the mystery of the thing was its pathos. The thought that a girl could be as pretty as this one and yet dislike him so much was one of the saddest things Jimmy had ever come across. It was like one of those things which make me weep in this great city, so dear to the hearts of the sob-writers of his late newspaper. A waiter bustled up with a high ball. Jimmy thanked him with his eyes. He needed it. He raised it to his lips. He's always drinking. He set it down hurriedly, and making a disgraceful exhibition of himself in public. I always think Jimmy Crocker. Jimmy began to wish that somebody would stop this girl. Why couldn't the little man change the subject to the weather, or that stout child start prattling about some general topic? Surely a boy of that age, newly arrived in London, must have all sorts of things to prattle about. Yet the little man was dealing strenuously with a breaded cutlet, while a stout boy, grimly silent, surrounded fish-pie in the forthright manner of a starving python. As for the elder woman, she seemed to be wrestling with unpleasant thoughts beyond speech. I always think that Jimmy Crocker is the worst case I know of the kind of American young man who spends all his time in Europe and tries to become an imitation Englishman. Most of them are the sort any country would be glad to get rid of, but he used to work once, so you can't excuse him on the ground that he hasn't the sense to know what he's doing. He's deliberately chosen to loaf about London and make a pest of himself. He went to pieces with his eyes open. He's a perfect, utter, hopeless worm. Jimmy had never been very fond of the orchestra at the region grill, holding the view that it interfered with conversation and made for an unhygienic rapidity of mastication, but he was profoundly grateful to it now for bursting suddenly into La Bohème, the loudest item in its repertory. Under cover of that protective din he was able to toy with a steaming dish which his waiter had brought. Probably that girl was saying all sorts of things about him still, but he could not hear them. The music died away. For a moment the tortured air quivered in comparative silence. Then the girl's voice spoke again. She had, however, selected another topic of conversation. I've seen all I want to of England, she said. I've seen Westminster Abbey and the House of Parliament and his Majesty's Theatre and the Savoy and the Cheshire Cheese, and I've developed a frightful homesickness. Why shouldn't we go back to-morrow? For the first time in the proceedings the elder woman spoke. She cast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say, Yes! Then wrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparently been waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that the sooner he was on board a New York bound boat the better he would be pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished his fish pie and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of morose resolution. You're certain to be a boat, said the girl. There always is. You've got to say that for England. It's an easy place to get back to America from. She paused. What I can't understand is how, after having been in America and knowing what it is like, Jimmy Crocker could stand living. The waiter had come to Jimmy's side bearing cheese, but Jimmy looked at it with dislike and shook his head in silent negation. He was about to depart from this place. His capacity for absorbing home truths about himself was exhausted. He placed a noiseless sovereign on the table, caught the waiter's eye, registered renunciation, and departed soft-footed down the aisle. The waiter, a man who had never been able to bring himself to believe in miracles, revised the views of a lifetime. He looked at the sovereign, then at Jimmy, then at the sovereign again. Then he took up the coin and bit it furtively. A few minutes later, a hat-check boy, un-tipped for the first time in his predatory career, was staring at Jimmy with equal intensity, but with far different feelings. Speechless concern was limbed on his young face. The commissionaire at the Piccadilly entrance of the restaurant touched his hat ingratiatingly with the smug confidence of a man who was accustomed to getting sixpence a time for doing it. Taxi, Mr. Crocker? A worm, said Jimmy. Big pot-n-sa? Always drinking, explained Jimmy, and making a pest of himself. He passed on. The commissionaire stared after him as intently as the waiter and the hat-check boy. He had sometimes known Mr. Crocker like this after supper, but never before during the lunch-an-hour. Jimmy made his way to his club in Northumberland Avenue, for perhaps half an hour, he sat in a condition of coma in the smoking room. Then, his mind made up, he went to one of the writing tables. He sat awaiting inspiration for some minutes, then began to write. The letter he wrote was to his father. Dear Dad, I have been thinking over what we talked about this morning, and it seems to me the best thing I can do is to drop out of sight for a brief space. If I stay on in London, I am likely at any moment to pull some boner like last night's which will spill the beans for you once more. The least I can do for you is to give you a clear field and not interfere, so I am off to New York by tonight's boat. I went round to Percy's to try to grovel in the dust before him, but he wouldn't see me. It's no good groveling in the dust of the front steps for the benefit of a man who's in bed on the second floor, so I withdrew in more or less good order. Then I got the present idea. Mark how all things work together for the good. When they come to you and say, No title for you, your son slugged our pal Percy. All you have to do is to come back at them with, I know my son slugged Percy, and believe me, I didn't do a thing to him. I packed him off to America within twenty-four hours. Get me right, boys, I'm anti-Jimmy and pro-Persie. To which, their reply will be, Oh well, in that case, arise Lord Crocker, or whatever they say when slipping a title to a deserving guy. So you will see that by making this getaway I'm doing the best I can to put things straight. I shall give this to Baylis to give to you. I'm going to call him up on the phone in a minute to have him pack a few simple toothbrushes and so on for me. On landing in New York, I shall instantly proceed to the polo grounds to watch a game of rounders, and will cable you the full score. Well, I think that's about all, so good-bye, or even farewell, for the present. J. P.S. I know you'll understand, Dad. I'm doing what seems to me the only possible thing. Don't worry about me. I shall be all right. I'll get my old job back and be a terrific success all round. You go ahead and get that title and then meet me at the entrance of the polo grounds. I'll be looking for you. P.P.S., I'm a worm. The young clerk at the steamship offices appeared rejoice to see Jimmy once more. With a sunny smile he snatched a pencil from his ear and plunged it into the vitals of the Atlantic. How about E.108? Suits me. You're too late to go in the passenger list, of course. Jimmy did not reply. He was gazing rigidly at a girl who had just come in, a girl with red hair and a friendly smile. So you're sailing on the Atlantic, too, she said, with a glance at the chart on the counter. How odd! We have just decided to go back on her, too. There's nothing to keep us here and we're all homesick. Well, you see, I wasn't run over after I left you. A delicious understanding relieved Jimmy's swimming brain, as thunder relieves the tense and straining air. The feeling that he was going mad left him, as the simple solution of his mystery came to him. This girl must have heard of him in New York. Perhaps she knew people whom he knew, and it was on hearsay, not on personal acquaintance, that she based that dislike of him which she had expressed with such freedom and conviction so short a while before at the Regent Grill. She did not know who he was. According to this soothing stream of thought cut the voice of the clerk. What's name, please? Jimmy's mind rocked again. Why were these things happening to him today of all days, when he needed the tenderest treatment, when he had a headache already? The clerk was eyeing him expectantly. He had laid down his pencil and was holding aloft a pen. Jimmy gulped. Every name in the English language had passed from his mind. And then from out of the dark came inspiration. Bailess, he croaked. The girl held out her hand. Then we can introduce ourselves at last. My name is Ann Chester. How do you do, Mr. Bailess? How do you do, Miss Chester? The clerk had finished writing the ticket, and was pressing labels and a pink paper on him. The paper, he gathered dully, was a form and had to be filled up. He examined it and found it to be a searching document. Some of its questions could be answered offhand, others required thought. Height, simple, five-foot-eleven, hair, simple, brown, eyes, simple again, blue, next queries of a more offensive kind. Are you a polygamist? He could answer that, decidedly no. One wife would be ample, provided she had red-gold hair, brown-gold eyes, the right kind of mouth, and a dimple. Whatever doubts there might be in his mind on other points, on that one, he had none, whatever. Have you ever been in prison? Not yet. And then a very difficult one. Are you a lunatic? Jimmy hesitated. The ink dried on his pen. He was wondering. In the dim cavern of Paddington Station the boat train snorted impatiently, varying the process with occasional sharp shriek. The hands of the station-clock pointed to ten minutes to six. The platform was a confused mass of travelers, porters, baggage, trucks, boys with buns and fruits, boys with magazines, friends, relatives, and bales the butler, standing like a faithful watchdog beside a large suitcase. Through the human surf that broke and swirled about him, he paid no attention. He was looking for the young master. Jimmy clove the crowd like a one-man flying wedge. Two fruit-and-bun boys who impeded his passage drifted away like leaves on an autumn gale. Good man! he possessed himself of the suitcase. I was afraid you might not be able to get here. The mistress is dining out, Mr. James. I was able to leave the house. Have you packed everything I shall want? Within the scope of a suitcase, yes, sir. Splendid! Oh, by the way, give this letter to my father, will you? Very good, sir. I'm glad you were able to manage. I thought your voice sounded doubtful over the phone. I was a good deal taken aback, Mr. James. Your decision to leave was so extremely sudden. So was Columbus. You know about him? He saw an egg standing on its head and whizzed off like a jackrabbit. If you will pardon the liberty, Mr. James, is it not a little rash? Don't take the joy out of life, Bayless. I may be a chump, but try to forget it. Use your willpower. Good evening, Mr. Bayless, said a voice behind them. They both turned. The butler was gazing rather coyly at a vision in a gray, tailor-made suit. Good evening, miss, he said doubtfully, and looked at him in astonishment, then broke into a smile. How stupid of me! I meant this, Mr. Bayless, your son. We met at the steamship offices, and before that he saved my life, so we are old friends. Bayless, gaping perplexity and feeling unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation, was surprised further to perceive a warning scowl on the face of his Mr. James. Jimmy had not foreseen this thing, but he had a quick mind and was equal to it. How are you, Miss Chester? My father has come down to see me off. This is Miss Chester, Dad. A British butler has not easily robbed of his poise, but Bayless was frankly unequal to the sudden demand on his presence of mind. He lowered his jaw an inch or two, but spoke no word. Dad's a little upset at my going, whispered Jimmy confidentially. He's not quite himself. Anne was a girl possessed not only of ready tact, but of a kind heart. She had summed up Mr. Bayless at a glance. The line of him proclaimed him a respectable upper servant. No girl on earth could have been freer than she of snobbish prejudice, but she could not check a slight thrill of surprise and disappointment at the discovery of Jimmy's humble origin. She understood everything, and there were tears in her eyes as she turned away to avoid intruding on the last moments of the parting of father and son. I'll see you in the boat, Mr. Bayless, she said. Eh, said Bayless. Yes, yes, said Jimmy. Goodbye till then. Anne walked on to her compartment. She felt as if she had just read a whole long novel, one of those chunky, younger English novelist things. She knew the whole story as well as if it had been told to her in detail. She could see the father, the honest, steady butler, living his life with but one aim, to make a gentleman of his beloved only son. Year by year he had saved. Probably he had sent the son to college. And now, with a father's blessing and the remains of a father's savings, the boy was setting out for the New World, where dollar bills grew on trees and no one asked or cared who anyone else's father might be. There was a lump in her throat. Bayless would have been amazed if he could have known what a figure of pathetic fineness he seemed to her. And then her thoughts turned to Jimmy, and she was aware of a glow of kindness towards him. His father had succeeded in his life's ambition. He had produced a gentleman. How easily and simply, without a trace of snobbish shame, the young man had introduced his father. There was the right stuff in him. He was not ashamed of the humble man who had given him his chance in life. She found herself liking Jimmy amazingly. The hands of the clock pointed to three minutes to the hour. Porter skimmed to and fro like water beetles. "'I can't explain,' said Jimmy. It was in temporary insanity. It was necessity.' "'Very good, Mr. James. I think you had better be taking your seat now.' "'Quite right, I had. It would spoil the whole thing if they left me behind. Bayless, did you ever see such eyes? Such hair. Look after my father while I'm away. Don't let the dukes worry him. Oh, and Bayless!' Jimmy drew his hand from his pocket. As one pal to another. Bayless looked at the crackling piece of paper. "'I couldn't, Mr. James. I really couldn't. A five-pound note. I couldn't. Sunsets! Be a sport!' "'Begging your pardon, Mr. James, I really couldn't. You cannot afford to throw away your money like this. You cannot have a great deal of it, if you'll excuse me for saying so.' "'I won't do anything of the sort. Grab it. Oh Lord! The train's starting. Goodbye, Bayless!' The engine gave a final shriek of farewell. The train began to slide along the platform, pursued to the last by optimistic boys offering buns for sale. It gathered speed. Jimmy, leaning out the window, was amazed at a spectacle so unusual as practically to amount to a modern miracle. The spectacle Bayless running. The butler was not in the pink of condition, but he was striding out gallantly. He reached the door of Jimmy's compartment and raised his hand. "'Begging your pardon, Mr. James,' he panted, fall taking the liberty, but I really couldn't. He reached up and thrust something into Jimmy's hand, something crisp and crackling. Then, his mission performed, fell back and stood waving a snowy handkerchief. The train plunged into the tunnel. Jimmy stared at the five-pound note. He was aware, like Anne farther along the train, of a lump in his throat. He put the note slowly into his pocket. The train moved on. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Piccadilly Jim by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Piccadilly Jim, Chapter 7, On the Boat Deck. Rising waters and a fine flying scud that whipped stingingly over the side had driven most of the passengers on the Atlantic to the shelter of their staterooms or to the warm stuffiness of the library. It was the fifth evening of the voyage. For five days and four nights the ship had been racing through a placid ocean on her way to Sandy Hook, but in the early hours of this afternoon the wind had shifted to the north, bringing heavy seas. Darkness had begun to fall now. The sky was a sullen black. The white crests of the rollers gleamed faintly in the dusk and the wind sang in the ropes. Jimmy and Anne had had the Boat Deck to themselves for half an hour. Jimmy was a good sailor. It exhilarated him to fight the wind and to walk a deck that heaved and dipped and shuddered beneath his feet, but he had not expected to have Anne's company on such an evening. But she had come out of the saloon entrance, her small face framed in a hood and her slim body shapeless beneath a great cloak and joined him in his walk. Jimmy was in a mood of exaltation. He had passed the last few days in a condition of intermittent melancholy, consequent on the discovery that he was not the only man on board the Atlantic who desired the society of Anne as an alleviation of the tedium of an ocean voyage. The world, when he embarked on this venture, had consisted so exclusively of Anne and himself that, until the ship was well on its way to Queenstown, he had not conceived the possibility of intrusive males forcing their unwelcome attentions on her. And it had added bitterness to the bitter awakening that their attentions did not appear to be at all unwelcome. Almost immediately after breakfast on the very first day a creature with a small black mustache and shining teeth had descended upon Anne, and vocal with surprise and pleasure at meeting her again, he claimed damn him to have met her before at Palm Beach, Bar Harbor, and a dozen other places had carried her off to play an idiotic game known as Shuffleboard, nor was this an isolated case. It began to be borne in upon Jimmy that Anne, whom he had looked upon purely in the light of an eve playing opposite his atom in an exclusive garden of Eden, was an extremely well known and popular character. The clerk at the shipping office had lied absurdly when he had said that very few people were crossing on the Atlantic this voyage. The vessel was crammed till its sides bulged. It was loaded down in utter defiance of the plumesaw law, with rollos and clearances and dwights and twomblies who had known and gulfed and ridden and driven and motored and swum and danced with Anne for years. A ghastly being entitled Edgar Something or Teddy Something had beaten Jimmy by a short head in the race for the Deckstuart, the prize of which was the placing of his deck chair next to Anne's. Jimmy had been driven from the promenade deck by the spectacle of this beastly creature lying swathed in rugs reading best sellers to her. He had scarcely seen her to speak to since the beginning of the voyage. When she was not walking with Raleigh or playing Shuffleboard with Twombly, she was down below ministering to the comfort of a chronically seasick aunt, referred to in conversation as poor Aunt Nesta. Sometimes Jimmy saw the little man, presumably her uncle, in the smoking-room, and once he came upon the stout boy recovering from the effects of a cigar in a quiet corner of the boat-deck. But apart from these meetings the family was as distant from him as if he had never seen Anne at all, let alone saved her life. And now she had dropped down on him from heaven. They were alone together with the good clean wind and the bracing scud. Raleigh, Clarence, Dwight, and Twombly, not to mention Edgar, or possibly Teddy, were down below. He hoped, dying. They had the world to themselves. I love rough weather, said Anne, lifting her face to the wind. Her eyes were very bright. She was beyond any doubt or question the only girl on earth. Poor Aunt Nesta doesn't. She was bad enough when it was quite calm, but this storm has finished her. I've just been down below trying to cheer her up. Jimmy thrilled at the picture. Always fascinating, Anne seemed to him at her best in the role of ministering Angel. He longed to tell her so, but found no words. They reached the end of the deck and turned. Anne looked up at him. I've hardly seen anything of you since we sailed, she said. She spoke almost reproachfully. Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Baylis. Why are you going to America? He had had an impassioned indictment of the Rallos on his tongue, but she had closed the opening for it as quickly as she had made it. In face of her direct demand for information he could not hark back to it now. After all, what did the Rallos matter? They had no part in this little windswept world. They were where they belonged, in some nether hell on the sea or D-deck, moaning for death. To make a fortune, I hope, he said. Anne was pleased at this confirmation of her diagnosis. She had deduced this from the evidence at Paddington Station. How pleased your father will be if you do! The slight complexity of Jimmy's affairs caused him to pause for a moment to sort out his father's, but an instant's reflection told him that she must be referring to Baylis the Butler. Yes. He's a dear old man, said Anne. I suppose he's very proud of you? I hope so. You must do tremendously well in America, so as not to disappoint him. What are you thinking of doing? Jimmy considered for a moment. Newspaper work, I think. Oh! Why, have you had any experience? A little. Anne seemed to grow a little aloof, as if her enthusiasm had been damped. Oh, well, I suppose it's a good enough profession. I'm not very fond of it myself. I've only met one Newspaper man in my life, and I dislike him very much, so I suppose that has prejudiced me. Who was that? You wouldn't have met him. He was on an American paper, a man named Crocker. A sudden gust of wind drove them back a step, rendering talk impossible. It covered a gap when Jimmy could not have spoken. The shock of the information that Anne had met him before made him dumb. This thing was beyond him. It baffled him. Her next word supplied a solution. They were under the shelter of one of the boats now, and she could make herself heard. It was five years ago, and I only met him for a very short while, but the prejudice has lasted. Jimmy began to understand. Five years ago. It was not so strange, then, that they should not recognize each other now. Jimmy stirred up his memory. Nothing came to the surface. Not a gleam of recollection of that early meeting rewarded him. And yet something of importance must have happened, then, for her to remember it. Surely his mere personality could not have been so unpleasant as to have made such a lasting impression on her. I wish you could do something better than newspaper work, said Anne. I always think the splendid part about America is that it is such a land of adventure. There are such millions of chances. It's a place where anything may happen. Haven't you an adventurous soul, Mr. Bayless? No man lightly submits to a charge, even a hinted charge, of being deficient in the capacity for adventure. Of course I have, said Jimmy indignantly. I'm game to tackle anything that comes along. I'm glad of that. Her feeling of comradeship towards this young man deepened. She loved adventure and based her estimate of any member of the opposite sex largely on his capacity for it. She moved in a set, when at home, which was more polite than adventurous, and had frequently found the atmosphere innervating. Adventure, said Jimmy, is everything. He paused. Or a good deal. He concluded weakly. I qualify it like that. It sounds so tame. Adventure is the biggest thing in life. It seemed to Jimmy that he had received an excuse for a remark of a kind that had been waiting for utterance ever since he had met her. Often and often in the watches of the night, smoking endless pipes and thinking of her, he had conjured up just such a vision as this. They too walking the deserted deck alone, and she innocently giving him an opening for some low-voiced, tender speech, at which she would start, look at him quickly, and then ask him haltingly if the words had any particular application. And after that, oh well, all sorts of things might happen. And now the moment had come. It was true that he had always pictured the scene as taking place by moonlight, and at present there was a half-gale blowing and out of an inky sky. So on the present occasion, anything in the nature of a low-voiced speech was absolutely out of the question, owing to the uproar of the elements. Still, taking these drawbacks into consideration, the chance was far too good to miss. Such an opening might never happen again. He waited till the ship had steadied herself after an apparently suicidal dive into an enormous roller, then, staggering back to her side, spoke. "'Love is the biggest thing in life,' he roared. "'What is?' shrieked Anne. "'Love!' bellowed Jimmy.' He wished a moment later that he had postponed this statement of faith, for their next steps took them into a haven of comparative calm, where some dimly seen portion of the vessel's anatomy jutted out and formed a kind of nook where it was possible to hear the ordinary tones of the human voice. He halted here, and Anne did the same, though unwillingly. She was conscious of a feeling of disappointment and of a modification of her mood of comradeship toward her companion. She held strong views, which she believed to be unalterable, on the subject under discussion. "'Love!' she said. It was too dark to see her face, but her voice sounded unpleasantly scornful. "'I shouldn't have thought that you would have been so conventional as that. You seem different.' "'Eh?' said Jimmy blankly. "'I hate all this talk about love, as if it were something wonderful that was worth everything else in life put together. Every book you read and every song that you see in the shop windows is all about love. It's as if the whole world were in a conspiracy to persuade themselves that there's a wonderful something just round the corner which they can get if they try hard enough, and they hypnotize themselves into thinking of nothing else and miss all the splendid things of life.' "'That's Shaw, isn't it?' said Jimmy. "'What is Shaw?' "'What you were saying? It's out of one of Bernard Shaw's things, isn't it?' "'It is not.' A note of acidity had crept into Anne's voice. It is perfectly original. I'm certain I've heard it before somewhere. If you have, that simply means that you must have associated with some sensible person.' Jimmy was puzzled. "'But why the grouch?' he asked. "'I don't understand you. I mean, why do you feel that way about it?' Anne was quite certain now that she did not like this young man nearly as well as she had supposed. It is trying for a strong-minded, clear-thinking girl to have her philosophy described as a grouch. "'Because I've had the courage to think about it for myself, and not let myself be blinded by popular superstition. The whole world has united in making itself imagine that there is something called love which is the most wonderful happening in life. The poets and novelists have simply hounded them on to believe it. It's a gigantic swindle.' A wave of tender compassion swept over Jimmy. He understood it all now. Naturally, a girl who had associated all her life with the Rallos, Clarences, Dwights and Twomleys would come to despair of the possibility of falling in love with anyone. "'You haven't met the right man,' he said. She had, of course, but only recently, and anyway he could point that out later. "'There is no such thing as the right man,' said Anne resolutely. "'If you are suggesting that there is a type of man in existence who is capable of inspiring what is called romantic love?' "'I believe in marriage.' "'Good work!' said Jimmy, well satisfied.' "'But not as the result of a sort of delirium. I believe in it as a sensible partnership between two friends who know each other well and trust each other. The right way of looking at marriage is to realize, first of all, that there are no thrills, no romances, and then to pick out someone who is nice and kind and amusing and full of life and willing to do things to make you happy.' "'Ah!' said Jimmy, straightening his tie. "'Well, that's something.' "'How do you mean that's something? Are you shocked at my views?' "'I don't believe they are your views. You've been reading one of these stern, soured fellows who analyze things.' Anne stamped. The sound was inaudible, but Jimmy noticed the movement. "'Cold,' he said. "'Let's walk on.' Anne's sense of humour reasserted itself. It was not often that it remained dormant for so long. She laughed. "'I know exactly what you are thinking,' she said. "'You believe that I am posing. But those aren't my real opinions.' "'They can't be. But I don't think you are posing. It's getting on for dinner time, and you've got that wane sinking feeling that makes you look upon the world and find it a hollow fraud. The bugle will be blowing in a few minutes, and half an hour after that you will be yourself again.' "'I myself now. I suppose you can't realize that a pretty girl can hold such views.' Jimmy took her arm. "'Let me help you,' he said. "'There's a knot-hold in the deck. Watch your step.' "'Now listen to me. I'm glad you've brought up this subject. I mean the subject of you being the prettiest girl in the known world.' "'I never said that.' "'Your modesty prevented you. But it's a fact, nevertheless. I'm glad, I say, because I have been thinking a lot along those lines myself, and I have been anxious to discuss the point with you. You have the most glorious hair I have ever seen. Do you like red hair?' "'Red gold.' "'It is nice of you to put it like that. When I was a child, all except a few of the other children called me Carrots. They have undoubtedly come to a bad end by this time. If bears were sent to attend to the children who criticized Elijah, your little friends were in line for a troop of tigers. But there were some of a finer fiber. There were a few who didn't call you Carrots. One or two they called me Bricktop. They have probably been electrocuted since. Your eyes are perfectly wonderful.' And withdrew her arm. An extensive acquaintance of young men told her that the topic of conversation was now due to be changed. "'You will like America,' she said. "'We are not discussing America. I am. It is a wonderful country for a man who wants to succeed. If I were you, I should go out west.' "'Do you live out west?' "'No.' "'Then why suggest mine going there? Where do you live?' "'I live in New York. I shall stay in New York, then.' And was wary but amused. Proposals of marriage and Jimmy seemed to be moving swiftly towards one, were no novelty in her life. In the course of several seasons at Bar Harbor, Tuxedo, Palm Beach, and in New York itself, she had spent much of her time foiling and discouraging the ardor of a series of sentimental youths who had laid their unwelcome hearts at her feet. New York is open for staying in about this time, I believe. Jimmy was silent. He had done his best to fight a tendency to become depressed, and had striven by means of a light tone to keep himself resolutely cheerful, but the girl's apparently total indifference to him was too much for his spirits. One of the young men who had had to pick up the heart he had flung at Anne's feet and carried away for repairs, had once confided to an intimate friend, after the sting had to some extent passed, that the feelings of a man who made love to Anne might be likened to the emotions which hot chocolate might be supposed to entertain on contact with vanilla ice cream. Jimmy, had the comparison been presented to him, would have endorsed its perfect accuracy. The wind from the sea, until now keen and bracing, had become merely infernally cold. The song of the wind and the rigging, erstwhile melodious, had turned into a damned, depressing howling. I used to be as sentimental as anyone a few years ago," said Anne, returning to the dropped subject. Just after I left college, I was quite modlin. I dreamed of moons and dunes and loves and doves all the time. Then something happened which made me see what a little fool I was. It wasn't pleasant at the time, but it had a very bracing effect. I have been quite different ever since. It was a man, of course, who did it. His method was quite simple. He just made fun of me, and nature did the rest. Jimmy scowled in the darkness. Murderous thoughts towards the unknown brute flooded his mind. I wish I could meet him, he growled. You aren't likely to, said Anne. He lives in England. His name is Crocker, Jimmy Crocker. I spoke about him just now. Through the howling of the wind cut the sharp notes of a bugle, and turned to the saloon entrance. "'Dinner,' she said brightly. How hungry one gets on board ship!' She stopped. "'Aren't you coming down, Mr. Bayless?' "'Not just yet,' said Jimmy, thickly. End of Chapter 6. CHAPTER VIII. OF PICCADILLI GYM. By PG Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER VIII. PAINTFUL SCENE IN A CAFE. The noonday sun beat down on Park Row. Hurrying mortals, released from a thousand offices, congested the sidewalks, their thoughts busy with the vision of lunch. Up and down the canyon of Nassau Street, the crowds moved more slowly. Candy-selling aliens jostled newsboys, and huge, dray horses, endeavored to the best of their ability not to grind the citizenry beneath their hooves. Eastward, pressing on to the city hall, surged the usual dense army of happy lovers on their way to buy marriage licenses. Men popped in and out of the subway entrances like rabbits. It was a stirring, bustling scene, typical of this nerve-center of New York's vast body. Jimmy Crocker, standing in the doorway, watched the throngs enviously. There were men in that crowd who chewed gum. There were men who wore white satin ties with imitation diamond stick-pins. There were men who, having smoked seven-tenths of a cigar, were eating the remainder. But there was not one with whom he would not at that moment willingly have exchanged identities. For these men had jobs. And in his present frame of mind it seemed to him that no further ingredient was needed for the recipe of the ultimate human bliss. The poet has said some very searching and unpleasant things about the man whose heart has ne'er within him burned as home his footsteps he has turned from wandering on some foreign strand. But he might have excused Jimmy for feeling just then not so much a warmth of heart as a cold and clammy sensation of dismay. He would have had to admit that the words, high though his titles, proud his name, boundless his wealth as wish can claim, did not apply to Jimmy Crocker. The latter may have been concentrated all on self, but his wealth consisted of one hundred and thirty-three dollars and forty cents, and his name was so far from being proud that the mere sight of it in the files of the New York Sunday Chronicle, the record room of which he had just been visiting, had made him consider the fact that he had changed it to Bayless the most sensible act of his career. The reason for Jimmy's lack of enthusiasm as he surveyed the portion of his native land, visible from his doorway, is not far to seek. The Atlantic had docked on Saturday night, and Jimmy, having driven to an excellent hotel and engaged in expensive room therein, had left instructions at the desk that breakfast should be served to him at ten o'clock, and with it the Sunday issue of the Chronicle. Five years had passed since he had seen the dear old rag for which he had reported so many fires, murders, street accidents, and weddings. And he looked forward to its perusal as a formal taking season of his long neglected country. Nothing could be more fitting and symbolic than that the first morning of his return to America should find him propped up in bed reading the good old Chronicle. Among his final meditations as he dropped off to sleep was a gentle speculation as to who was city auditor now and whether the comic supplement was still featuring the sprightly adventures of the doughnut family. A wave of not unmanly sentiment passed over him on the following morning as he reached out for the paper. The skyline of New York, seen as the boat comes up the bay, has its points, and the rattle of the elevated trains and the quaint odor of the subway extend a kindly welcome. But the thing that really convinces the return traveller that he is back on Manhattan Island is the first Sunday paper. Jimmy, like everyone else, began by opening the comic supplement. And as he scanned it a chilly discomfort almost a premonition of evil came upon him. The doughnut family was no more. He knew that it was unreasonable of him to feel as if he had just been informed of the death of a dear friend, for Pa doughnut and his associates had been having their adventures five years before he had left the country, and even the toughest comic supplementary hero rarely endures for a decade, but nevertheless the shadow did fall upon his morning optimism, and he derived no pleasure whatever from the artificial rollikings of a degraded creature called Old Pop Dill Pickle who was offered as a substitute. But this he was to discover almost immediately was a trifling disaster. It distressed him, but it did not affect his material welfare. Jimmy really began when he turned to the magazine section. Scarcely had he started to glance at it when this headline struck him like a bullet. Piccadilly Jim added again, and beneath it his own name. Nothing is so capable of diversity as the emotion we feel on seeing our own name unexpectedly in print. We may soar to the heights or we may sink to the depths. Jimmy did the latter. A mere cursory first inspection of the article revealed the fact that it was no eulogy. With an unsparing hand the writer had muck-raked his eventful past, the text on which he hung his remarks being that ill-fated encounter with Lord Percy Whipple at the Six Hundred Club. This the scribe had recounted at length, and with a boisterous of him which outdid even Bill Blake's effort in the London Daily Sun. Bill Blake had been handicapped by consideration of space and the fact that he had turned in his copy at an advanced hour when the paper was almost made up. The present writer was shackled by no restrictions. He had plenty of room to spread himself in, and he had spread himself. So liberal had been the editor's views in the respect that in addition to the letterpress the pages contained an unspeakably offensive picture of a burly young man in an obviously advanced condition of alcoholism raising his fist to strike a monocle youth in evening dress, who had so little chin that Jimmy was surprised that he had ever been able to hit it. The only gleam of consolation that he could discover in this repellent drawing was the fact that the artist had treated Lord Percy even more scurvally than himself. Among other things the second son of the Duke of Devises was depicted as wearing a coronet, a thing which would have excited remark even in a London nightclub. Jimmy read the thing through in its entirety three times before he appreciated a nuance which his disordered mind had at first failed to grasp, to wit that this character's sketch of himself was no mere isolated outburst, but apparently one of a series. In several places the writer alluded unmistakably to other theses on the same subject. Jimmy's breakfast congealed on its tray untouched. That boon which the gods so seldom bestow of seeing ourselves as others see us had been accorded to him in full measure. By the time he had completed his third reading he was regarding himself in a purely objective fashion, not unlike the attitude of a naturalist towards some strange and loathsome manifestation of insect life. So this was the sort of fellow he was. He wondered they had let him in at a reputable hotel. The rest of the day he passed in a state of such humility that he could have wept when the waiters were civil to him. On the Monday morning he made his way to the park row to read the files of the Chronicle, a morbid enterprise akin to the eccentric behavior of those priests of Baal who gashed themselves with knives, or of authors who subscribed to press-clipping agencies. He came upon another of the articles almost at once, in an issue not a month old. Then there was a gap of several weeks, and hope revived that things might not be as bad as he had feared, only to be crushed by another trench at Screed. After that he said about his excavations methodically, resolved to know the worst. He knew it in just under two hours. There it all was, his row with the booky, his bad behavior at the political meeting, his breach of promise case. It was a complete biography. In the name they called him, Piccadilly Jim, Ugg. He went out into park row and sought a quiet doorway where he could brood upon these matters. It was not immediately that the practical or financial aspect of the affair came to scourge him. For an appreciable time he suffered in his self-esteem alone. It seemed to him that all these bustling persons who passed knew him, that they were casting side-long glances at him and laughing derisively, that those who chewed gum chewed it sneeringly, and that those who ate their cigars ate them with thin veil disapproval and scorn. Then the passage of time blunting sensitiveness he found that there were other and weightier things to consider. As far as he had had any connected plan of action in his sudden casting off of the flesh pots of London, he had determined as soon as possible after landing to report at the office of his old paper and apply for his ancient position. So little thought had he given to the minutia of his future plans that it had not occurred to him that he had anything to do but walk in, slap the gang on the back, and announce that he was ready to work. Work! On the staff of a paper whose chief diversion appeared to be the satirizing of his escapades. Then had he possessed the moral courage, or gall to make the application, what good would it be? He was a byword in a world where he had once been a worthy citizen. What paper would trust Piccadilly Jim with an assignment? What paper would consider Piccadilly Jim even on space rates? A chill dismay crept over him. He seemed to hear the grave voice of Bayless the Butler, speaking in his car as he had spoken so short a while before at Paddington Station. Is it not a little rash, Mr. James? Rash was the word. Here he stood, in a country that had no possible use for him, a country where competition was keen and jobs for the unskilled infrequent. What on earth was there that he could do? Well, he could go home. No, he couldn't. His pride revolted at that solution. Little son's stuff was all very well in its way, but it lost its impressiveness if you turned up again at home two weeks after you had left. A decent interval among the husks and swine was essential. Besides, there was his father to consider. He might be a poor specimen of a fellow, as witnessed the Sunday Chronicle Passum, but he was not so poor as to come slinking back to upset things for his father just when he had done the only decent thing by removing himself. No, that was out of the question. What remained? The air of New York is bracing and healthy, but a man cannot live on it. Obviously, he must find a job. But what job? What could he do? Annoying sensation in the region of the waistcoat answered the question. The solution, which it put forward was it was true but a temporary one, yet it appealed strongly to Jimmy. He had found it admirable at many crises. He would go and lunch, and it might be that food would bring inspiration. He moved from his doorway and crossed to the entrance of the subway. He caught a timely express and a few minutes later emerged into the sunlight again at Grand Central. He made his way westward along 42nd Street to the hotel which he thought would meet his needs. He had scarcely entered it when, in a chair by the door, he perceived Ann Chester, and at the side of her all his depression vanished and he was himself again. Why, how do you do, Mr. Bayless? Are you lunching here? Unless there is some other place that you would prefer, said Jimmy. I hope I haven't kept you waiting. Ann laughed. She was looking very delightful in something soft and green. I'm not going to lunch with you. I'm waiting for Mr. Rowstone and his sister. Do you remember him? He crossed over with us. His chair was next to mine on the promenade deck. Jimmy was shocked. When he thought how narrowly she had escaped, poor girl, from lunching with that insufferable pill teddy, or was it Edgar, he felt quite weak. Recovering himself, he spoke firmly. When were they to have met you? At one o'clock. It is now five past. You are certainly not going to wait any longer. Come with me, and we will whistle for cabs. Don't be absurd! Come along. I want to talk to you about my future. I shall certainly do nothing of the kind, said Ann, rising. She went with him to the door. Teddy would never forgive me. She got into the cab. It's only because you have appealed to me to help you discuss your future, she said, as they drove off. Nothing else would have induced me. I know, said Jimmy. I felt that I could rely on your womanly sympathy. Where shall we go? Where do you want to go? Oh, I forget that you have never been in New York before. By the way, what are your impressions of our glorious country? Just gratifying, if only I could get a job. Tell him to drive to Delmonico's. It's just round the corner on 44th Street. There are some things round the corner then? That sounds cryptic. What do you mean? You've forgotten our conversation that night on the ship. You refuse to admit the existence of wonderful things just round the corner. You said some very regrettable things that night. Love, if you remember? You can't be going to talk about love at one o'clock in the afternoon. Talk about your future. Love is inextricably mixed up with my future. Not with your immediate future. I thought you said that you were trying to get a job. Have you given up the idea of newspaper work then? Absolutely. Well, I'm rather glad. The cab drew up at the restaurant door, and the conversation was interrupted. When they were seated at their table, Jimmy had given an order to the waiter of absolutely inexcusable extravagance and returned to the topic. Well, now the thing is to find something for you to do. Jimmy looked round the restaurant with appreciative eyes. The summer exodus from New York was still several weeks distant, and the place was full of prosperous-looking luncheers, not one of whom appeared to have a care or an unpaid bill in the world. The atmosphere was redolent of substantial bank balances, solvency shown from the closely shaven faces of the men and reflected itself in the dresses of the women. Jimmy sighed. I suppose so, he said, though for choice I'd like to be one of the idle rich. In my mind the ideal profession is strolling into the office and touching the old dead for another thousand. Anne was severe. You revolt me, she said. I never heard anything so thoroughly disgraceful. You need work. One of these days, said Jimmy plaintively, I shall be sitting by the roadside with my dinner-pale, and you will come by in your limousine, and I shall look up at you and say, you hounded me into this, how will you feel then? Very proud of myself. In that case there is no more to be said. I'd much rather hang about and try to get adopted by a millionaire, but if you insist on my working. Waiter! What do you want? asked Anne. Will you get me a class if I telephone directory, said Jimmy. What for? asked Anne. To look for a profession. There is nothing like being methodical. The waiter returned, bearing a red book. Jimmy thanked him and opened it at the A's. The boy! What will he become? he said. He turned the pages. How about an auditor? What do you think of that? Do you think you could audit? That I could not say till I had tried. I might turn out to be very good at it. How about an adjuster? An adjuster of what? The book doesn't say, it just remarks broadly, in a sort of spacious way, adjuster. I take it that, having decided to become an adjuster, you then sit down and decide what you wish to adjust. One might, for example, become an asparagus adjuster. A what? Surely you know, asparagus adjusters are the fellows who sell those roping pulley affairs by means of which the smart set lower asparagus into their mouths, or rather, Francis the footman does it for them, of course. The diner leans back in his chair, and the menial works the apparatus in the background. It's entirely superseding the old-fashioned method of picking the vegetable up and taking a snap at it. But I suspect that to be a successful asparagus adjuster requires capital. We now come to awning crank and spring rollers. I don't think I should like that. Rolling awning crank seems to me a sorry way of spending life springtime. Let's try the bees. Let's try this omelette. It looks delicious. Jimmy shook his head. I will toy with it, but absolutely and in a distraite manner, as becomes a man of affairs. There's nothing in the bees. I might devote my art and youth to bar room glassware and bottler supplies. On the other hand, I might not. Similarly, while there is no doubt a bright future for somebody in celluloid, fibreloid, and other factitious goods, instinct tells me that there is none for... He pulled up on the verge of saying James Braithway Crocker and shuddered at the nearness of the pitfall. For... he hesitated again. For Algernon Bailus he concluded. And smiled delightedly. It was so typical that his father should have called him something like that. Time had not dimmed her regard for the old man she had seen for that brief moment at Paddington Station. He was an old deer, and she thoroughly approved of this latest manifestation of his supposed pride in his offspring. Is that really your name, Algernon? I cannot deny it. I think your father is a darling," said Anne, inconsequently. Jimmy had buried himself in the directory again. The dees, he said. Is it possible that posterity will know me as Bailus the dermatologist, or as Bailus the drop-forger? I don't quite like that last one. It may be a respectable occupation, but it sounds rather criminal to me. The sentence for forging drops is probably about twenty years with hard labour. I wish you would put that book away and go on with your lunch, said Anne. Perhaps, said Jimmy, my grandchildren will cluster round my knees some day and say in their piping, childish voices, tell us how you became the elastic stocking-king grandpa. What do you think? I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You are wasting your time when you ought to be either talking to me or else thinking very seriously about what you mean to do. Jimmy was turning the pages rapidly. I will be with you in a moment, he said. Try to amuse yourself somehow till I am at leisure. Ask yourself a riddle. Tell yourself an anecdote. Think of life. No, it's no good. I don't see myself as a fan importer, a glass beveler, a hotel broker, an insect exterminator, a junk dealer, a calcimine manufacturer, a laundryman, a mausoleum architect, a nurse, an oculus, a paper hanger, a quilt designer, a roofer, a ship plumber, a tinsmith, an undertaker, a veterinarian, a wigmaker, an x-ray apparatus manufacturer, a yeast producer, or a zinc spelter. He closed the book. There is only one thing to do. I must starve in the gutter. Tell me, you know New York better than I do. Where is there a good gutter? At this moment, there entered the restaurant an immaculate person. He was a young man, attired in faultlessly fitting clothes, with shoes of flawless polish and a perfectly proportioned floret in his buttonhole. He surveyed the room through a monocle. It was a pleasure to look upon, but Jimmy, catching sight of him, started violently and felt no joy at all, for he had recognized him. It was a man he knew well and knew him well, a man whom he had last seen a bear two weeks ago at the Bachelors Club in London. Few things are certain in this world, but one was that, if Bartling, such was the vision's name, should see him, he would come over and address him as Crocker. He braced himself to the task of being balus, the whole balus, and nothing but balus. It might be that stout denial would carry him through. After all, Reggie Bartling was a man of notoriously feeble intellect who could believe in anything. The monocle continued its sweep. It rested on Jimmy's profile. By God! said the vision. Reginald Bartling had landed in New York that morning, and already the loneliness of a strange city had begun to oppress him. He had come over on a visit of pleasure, his suitcase stuffed with letters of introduction, but these he had not yet used. There was a feeling of homesickness upon him, and he ached for a pal, and there before him sat Jimmy Crocker, one of the best. He hastened to the table. I say, Crocker, old chap, I didn't know you were over here. When did you arrive? Jimmy was profoundly thankful that he had seen this pest in time to be prepared for him. Suddenly assailed in this fashion, he would undoubtedly have incriminated himself by recognition of his name. But having anticipated the visitation, he was able to say a whole sentence to Anne before showing himself aware that it was he who was addressed. I say, Jimmy Crocker! Jimmy achieved one of the blankest stares of modern times. He looked at Anne, then he looked at Bartling again. I think there's some mistake, he said. My name is Bavis. Before his stony eye the immaculate Bartling wilted. It was a perfectly astounding likeness, but it was apparent to him when what he had ever heard and read about doubles came to him. He was confused. He blushed. It was deucid bad form going up to a perfect stranger like this and pretending you knew him. Probably the chap he thought he was some kind of a confidence Johnny or something. It was absolutely rotten. He continued to blush till one could have fancied him scarlet to the ankles. He backed away, apologizing in ragged mutters. He was not insensible to the pathos of his suffering acquaintances' position. He knew Reggie and his devotion to good form sufficiently well to enable him to appreciate the other's horror at having spoken to a fellow to whom he had never been introduced, but necessity forbade any other course. However Reggie's soul might writhe and however sleepless Reggie's nights might become as a result of this encounter he was prepared to fight it out on those lines if it took all summer. And anyway it was darn good for Reggie to get a jolt like that every once in a while, kept him bright and lively. So thinking he turned to Anne again, while the crimson Bartling tottered off to restore his nerve-centres to their normal tone at some other hostelry. He found Anne staring amazedly at him, eyes wide and lips parted. Ah, at that! He observed with a light carelessness which he admired extremely and of which he would not have believed himself capable. I suppose I must be somebody's double. What was the name, he said? Jimmy Crocker, cried Anne. Jimmy raised his glass, sipped, and put it down. Oh yes, I remember, so it was. It's a curious thing, too, that it sounds familiar. I've heard the name before somewhere. I was talking about Jimmy Crocker on the ship, that evening on deck. Jimmy looked at her doubtfully. Were you? Oh yes, of course. I've got it now. He is the one you dislike so. Anne was still looking at him as if he had undergone a change into something new and strange. I hope you aren't going to let the resemblance prejudice you against me, said Jimmy. Some were born Jimmy Crocker's, others have Jimmy Crocker's thrust upon them. I hope you'll bear in mind that I belong to the latter class. It's such an extraordinary thing. Oh, I don't know, you often hear of doubles. There was a man in England a few years ago who kept getting sent to prison for things some genial stranger who happened to look like him had done. I don't mean that, of course there are doubles, but it is curious that you should have come over here and that we should have met like this at just this time. You see, the reason I went over to England at all was to try to get Jimmy Crocker to come back here. What? I don't mean that I did. I mean that I went with my uncle and aunt, who wanted to persuade him to come and live with them. Jimmy was now feeling completely out of his depth. Your uncle and aunt, why? I ought to have explained that they are his uncle and aunt, too. My aunt's sister married his father. But it's quite simple, though it doesn't sound so. Perhaps you haven't read the Sunday Chronicle lately. It has been publishing articles about Jimmy Crocker's disgusting behavior in London. They called him Piccadilly Jim, you know. In print that name had shocked Jimmy. Spoken, and by Anne, it was lowly. The moors for his painful past tore at him. There was another one printed yesterday. I saw it, said Jimmy, to avert description. Oh, did you? Well, just to show you what sort of a man Jimmy Crocker is, the Lord Percy Whipple, whom he attacked in the club, was his very best friend. His stepmother told my aunt so. He seems to be absolutely hopeless. She smiled. You're looking quite sad, Mr. Bayless. Cheer up! You may look like him, but you aren't he, him, no, he is right. The soul is what counts. If you've got a good, virtuous, algae-nonish soul, it doesn't matter if you're so like Jimmy Crocker that his friends come up and talk to you in restaurants. In fact, it's rather an advantage, really. I'm sure that if you were to go to my aunt and pretend to be Jimmy Crocker, who had come over after all in a fit of repentance, she would be so pleased that there would be nothing she wouldn't do for you. You might even realize her ambition of being adopted by a millionaire. Why don't you try it? I won't give you away. Before they found me out and hauled me off to prison, I should have been near you for a time. I should have lived in the same house with you, spoken to you." Jimmy's voice shook. Anne turned her head to address an imaginary companion. You must listen to this, my dear, she said in an undertone. He speaks wonderfully. They used to call him the boy oratory in his hometown. Sometimes that and sometimes eloquent algae-non. Jimmy eyed her fixedly. He disapproved of this frivolity. One of these days you will try me too high. Oh! You didn't hear what I was saying to my friend, did you? She said in concern. But I meant it every word. I love to hear you talk. You have such feeling. Jimmy attuned himself to the key of the conversation. Have you no sentiment in you? He demanded. I was just warming up, too. In another minute you would have heard something worthwhile. You've damped me now. Let's talk about my life work again. Have you thought of anything? I'd like to be one of those fellows who sit in offices and sign checks and tell the office boy to tell Mr. Rockefeller that they can give him five minutes. But of course I should need a check-book and I haven't got one. Oh, well, I shall find something to do all right. Now tell me something about yourself. Let's drop the future for a while. An hour later Jimmy turned into Broadway. He walked pensively, for he had much to occupy his mind. How strange that the pets should have come over to England to try to induce him to return to New York, and how galling that, now that he was in New York, this avenue to a prosperous future was closed by the fact that something which he had done five years ago, that he could remember nothing about was quite maddening, had caused Anne to nurse this abiding hatred of him. He began to dream tenderly of Anne, bumping from pedestrian to pedestrian in a gentle trance. From this trance the seventh pedestrian aroused him by uttering his name, the name which circumstances had compelled him to abandon. Jimmy Crocker! Surprise brought Jimmy back from his dreams to the hard world, surprise and a certain exasperation. It was ridiculous to be incognito in a city which he had not visited in five years and to be instantly recognized in this way by every second man he met. Jimmy looked sourly at the man. The other was a sturdy, square-shouldered, battered young man, who wore on his homely face a grin of recognition and regard. Jimmy was not particularly good at remembering faces, but this person's was of a kind which the poorest memory might have recalled. It was, as the advertisements say, distinctly individual. The broken nose, the exiguous forehead, and the enlarged ears all clamored for recognition. The last time Jimmy had seen Jerry Mitchell had been two years before at the National Sporting Club in London, and, placing him at once, he brazed himself, as a short while ago he had brazed himself to confound immaculate Reggie. "'Ho!' said the battered one. "'Hello, indeed,' said Jimmy courteously. "'In what way can I brighten your life?' The grin faded from the other's face. He looked puzzled. "'You're Jimmy Crocker, ain't you?' "'No. My name chances to be Algernon Bailess.' Jerry Mitchell reddened. "'Scuse me, my mistake.' He was moving off, but Jimmy stopped him. Parting from Ann had left a large gap in his life, and he craved human society. "'I know you now,' he said. "'You're Jerry Mitchell. I saw you fight Kid Burke four years ago in London.' The grin returned to the pugilist's face, wider than ever. He beamed with gratification. "'Gee, think of that. I've quit since then. I'm working for an old guy named Pet.' "'Funny thing. He's Jimmy Crocker's uncle that I mistook you for. Say, you're a dead ringer for that guy. I could have sworn it was him when you bumped into me. Say, are you doing anything?' "'Nothing in particular.' "'Come and have a yarn. There's a place I know just round by here.' Delighted. They made their way to the place. "'What's yours?' said Jerry Mitchell. "'I'm on the wagon myself,' he said apologetically. "'So am I,' said Jimmy. "'It's the only way. No sense in always drinking and making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself in public!' Jerry Mitchell received this homily in silence. It disposed definitely of the lurking doubt in his mind as to the possibility of this man really being Jimmy Crocker. Though outwardly convinced by the other's denial, he had not been able to rid himself till now of a nebulous suspicion. But this convinced him. Jimmy Crocker would never have said a thing like that, nor would have refused the offer of alcohol. He fell into pleasant conversation with him. His mind eased. End of chapter 8.