 Chapter 1 of Leave it to P. Smith, this is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Leave it to P. Smith by P. G. Wodehouse. Chapter 1. Dark Plottings at Blanding's Castle At the open window of the great library of Blanding's Castle, drooping like a wet sock, as was his habit when he had nothing to prop his spine against, the Earl of Emsworth, that amiable and bone-headed peer, stood gazing out over his domain. It was a lovely morning, and the air was fragrant with gentle summer scents. Yet in his lordship's pale blue eyes there was a look of melancholy. His brow was furrowed, his mouth peevish. And this was all the more strange in that he was normally as happy as only a fluffy-minded man with excellent health and a large income can be. A writer describing Blanding's Castle in a magazine article had once said, Tiny mosses have grown in the cavities of the stones until, viewed near at hand, the place seems shaggy with vegetation. It would not have been a bad description of the proprietor. Fifty odd years of serene and unruffled placidity had given Lord Emsworth a curiously moss-covered look. Very few things had the power to disturb him. Even his younger son, the honorable Freddie Threepwood, could only do it occasionally. Yet now he was sad, and not to make a mystery of it any longer, the reason of his sorrow was the fact that he had mislead his glasses, and without them was as blind to use his own neat simile as a bat. He was keenly aware of the sunshine that poured down on his gardens, and was yearning to pop out and potter among the flowers he loved. But no man, poppy never so wisely, can hope to potter with any good result if the world is a mere blur. The door behind him opened, and Beech, the butler, entered, a dignified procession of one. Who's that inquired, Lord Emsworth, spinning on his axis? It is I, your lordship, Beech. Have you found them? Not yet, your lordship, sighed the butler. You can't have looked. I have searched assiduously, your lordship, but without avail. Thomas in charge also announced non-success. Stokes has not yet made his report. I am redispatching Thomas and Charles to your lordship's bedroom, said the master of the hunt. I trust that their efforts will be rewarded. Beech withdrew, and Lord Emsworth turned to the window again. The scene that spread itself beneath him, though he was unfortunately not able to see it, was a singularly beautiful one. For the castle, which is one of the oldest inhabited houses in England, stands upon an oil of rising ground at the southern end of the celebrated Vale of Blandings, in the county of Shropshire. Away in the blue distance, wooded hills ran down to where the severing glen like an unsheathed sword, while up from the river rolling parkland, mounting and dipping, surged in a green wave almost to the castle walls, breaking on the terraces in a many-colored flurry of flowers that reached the spot where the province of Angus MacGallister, his lordship's head gardener, began. The day being June the 30th, which is the very high tide of summer flowers, the immediate neighborhood of the castle was ablaze with roses, pinks, pansies, carnations, hollyhocks, columbines, larkspurs, London pride, canterbury bells in a multitude of other choice blooms of which only Angus could have told you the names. A conscientious man was Angus, and in spite of being a good deal hamper by Lord M. Worth's amateur assistants, he showed excellent results in his department. In his beds there was much at which to point with pride, little to view with concern. Scarcely had Beech removed himself when Lord M. Worth was called upon to turn again. The door had opened for the second time, and a young man in a beautifully cut suit of gray flannel was standing in the doorway. He had a long and vacant face, topped by shining hair brushed back and heavily brilliant-teamed after the prevailing mode, and he was standing on one leg, for Frederick Threepwood was seldom completely at ease in his parents' presence. Hello, Governor. Well, Frederick, it would be palturing with the truth to say that Lord M. Worth greeting was a warm one. It lacked the note of true affection. A few weeks before he had had to pay a matter of five hundred pounds to settle certain racing debts for his offspring. And while this had not actually dealt an irretrievable blow at his bank account, it had undeniably tended to diminish Freddie's charm in his eyes. Here you've lashed your glasses, Governor. That is so. Nuisance, what? Undeniably. Aught to have a spare pair. I have broken my spare pair. Tough luck, and lost the other. And, as you say, lost the other. Have you looked for the ballet things? I have. Must be somewhere, I mean. Quite possibly. Where, asked Freddie, warming to his work, did you see them last? Go away, said Lord M. Worth, on whom his child's conversation had begun to exercise an oppressive effect. Eh? Go away. Go away. Yes, go away. Right-o. The door closed, his lordship returned to the window once more. He had been standing there some minutes when one of those miracles occurred, which happened in libraries. Without sound or warning, a section of books started to move away from the parent body, and swinging out in a solid chunk into the room, showed a glimpse of a small, study-like apartment. A young man in spectacles came noiselessly through, and the books returned to their place. The contrast between Lord M. Worth and the newcomer, as they stood there, was striking. Almost dramatic. Lord M. Worth was so acutely spectaculous. Robert Baxter, his secretary, so pronouncedly spectacle. It was his spectacles that struck you first, as you saw the man. They gleamed efficiently at you. You had a guilty conscience? They pierced you through and through. Even if your conscience was 100% pure, you could not ignore them. Here, you said to yourself, is an efficient young man in spectacles. In describing Rupert Baxter as efficient, you did not overestimate him. He was essentially that. Technically, but a salaried subordinate, he had become, by degrees, owing to the limp and the ability of his employer, the real master of the house. He was the brains of blandings, the man at the switch, the person in charge, and the pilot, so to speak, who weathered the storm. Lord M. Worth left everything to Baxter, only asking to be allowed to potter in peace. And Baxter, more than equal to the task, shouldered it without wincing. Having got within range, Baxter coughed, and Lord M. Worth, recognizing the sound, wheeled round with a faint flicker of hope. It might be even that this apparently insoluble problem of the missing pince-nez would yield before the other's efficiency. Baxter, my dear fellow, I've lost my glasses. My glasses. I've mislaid them. I cannot think where they have gone to. You haven't seen them anywhere by any chance. Yes, Lord M. Worth, replied the secretary, quietly equal to the crisis. There, hang down your back. Down my back? Why, bless my soul, his lordship tested the statement and found it, like all Baxter's statements, accurate. Why, bless my soul, so they are. Do you know Baxter? I really believe I must be growing absent-minded. He holed in the slack, secured the pince-nez, adjusted them beamingly. His irritability had vanished like the dew off one of the roses. Thank you, Baxter. Thank you. You are invaluable. And with a radiant smile, Lord M. Worth made buoyantly for the door and route for God's air in the Society of McAllister. The movement drew from Baxter another cough, a sharp peremptory cough this time. And his lordship paused reluctantly, like a dog whistled back from the chase. The cloud fell over the sonniness of his mood. Admirable as Baxter was in so many respects, he had a tendency to worry him at times. And something told Lord M. Worth that he was going to worry him now. The car will be at the door, said Baxter, with quiet firmness, at too sharp. Car? What car? The car to take you to the station. Station? What station? Robert Baxter preserved his calm. There were times when he found his employer a little trun, but he never showed it. You have perhaps forgotten, Lord M. Worth, that you arrange with Lady Constance to go to London this afternoon. Go to London, gasped Lord M. Worth, appalled in weather like this, with a thousand things to attend to in the garden. What a perfectly preposterous notion. Why should I go to London? I hate London. You arrange with Lady Constance that you would give Mr. Mc Todd lunch tomorrow at your club. Who the devil is Mr. Mc Todd? The well-known Canadian poet. Never heard of him. Lady Constance has long been a great admirer of his work. She wrote inviting him, should he ever come to England, to pay a visit to Blandings. He is now in London and is to come down tomorrow for two weeks. Lady Constance's suggestion was that, as a compliment to Mr. Mc Todd's eminence in the world of literature, you should meet him in London and bring him back here yourself. Lord M. Worth remembered now. He also remembered that this positively infernal scheme had not been his sister Constance's in the first place. It was Baxter who had made the suggestion, and Constance had approved. He made use of the recovered Pinznes to glower through them at his secretary. And not for the first time in recent months was aware of a feeling that this fellow Baxter was becoming a dashed inflection. Baxter was getting above himself, throwing his weight about, making himself a confounded nuisance. He wished he could get rid of the man. But where could he find an adequate successor? That was the trouble. With all his drawbacks, Baxter was efficient. Nevertheless, for a moment Lord M. Worth toyed with a pleasant dream of dismissing him. And it is possible such was his exasperation that he might on this occasion have done something practical in that direction. He had not the library door at this moment open for the third time to admit yet another intruder at the side of whom his lordship's militant mood faded weakly. Oh, hello Connie. He said, guiltily, like a small boy caught in the jam cupboard. Somehow his sister always had this effect upon him. Of all those who entered the library that morning, the new arrival was the best worth looking at. Lord M. Worth was tall and lean and scraggly. Rupert Baxter fixed set and handicapped by that vaguely grubby appearance which is presented by swarthy young men of bad complexion. And even Beech, though dignified and freddy, though slim, would never have gotten far in a beauty competition. But Lady Constance Keeble really took the eye. She was a strikingly handsome woman in the middle forties. She had a fair broad brow, teeth of a perfect even whiteness, and the carriage of an empress. Her eyes were large and gray and gentle, and incidentally misleading for gentle was hardly the adjective which anyone who knew her would have applied to Lady Constance. Though genial enough when she got her way, on the rare occasions when people attempted to thwart her, she was apt to comport herself in a manner reminiscent of Cleopatra on one of the latter's bad mornings. I hope I'm not disturbing you, said Lady Constance with a bright smile. I just came in to tell you to be sure not to forget, Clarence, that you were going to London this afternoon to meet Mr. McTodd. I was just telling Lord M. Worth, said Baxter, that the car would be at the door at two. Thank you, Mr. Baxter. Of course I might have known that you would not forget. You were so wonderfully capable. I don't know what in the world we would do without you. The efficient Baxter bowed, but though gratified he was not overwhelmed by the tribute, the same thought had often occurred to him independently. If you'll excuse me, he said, I have one or two things to attend to. Certainly, Mr. Baxter. The efficient one withdrew through the door in the bookshelf. He realized that his employer was in fractious mood, but knew that he was leaving him in capable hands. Lord M. Worth turned from the window out of which he had been gazing with a plaintiff's detachment. Look here, Connie, he grumbled feebly. You know I hate literary fellows. It's bad enough having them in the house, but when it comes to going to London to fetch him, he shuffled morosely. It was a perpetual grievance of his, this practice of his sisters of collecting literary celebrities and dumping them down in the hall for indeterminate visits. You never knew when she was going to spring another on you. Already since the beginning of the year, he had suffered from around a dozen of the species at brief intervals and at this very moment his life was being poisoned by the fact that Blandings was sheltering a certain Miss Eileen Peavey, the mere thought of whom was enough to turn the sunshine off as with a tap. Can't stand literary fellows preceded his lordship, never could, and by Joe of literary females are worse, Miss Peavey. Here words temporarily failed the owner of Blandings. Miss Peavey, he resumed after an eloquent pause. Who is Miss Peavey? My dear Clarence replied, lady constant tolerantly, for the fine morning had made her mild and amiable. If you do not know that Eileen is one of the leading poetesses of the younger school, you must be very ignorant. I don't mean that. I know she writes poetry. I mean, who is she? You suddenly produced here like a rabbit out of a hat, said his lordship. In a tone of strong resentment, where did you find her? I first made Eileen's acquaintance on an Atlantic liner when Joe and I were coming back from our trip round the world. She was very kind to me when I was feeling the motion of the vessel. If you mean what is her family, I think Eileen told me once that she was connected with the Rutlandshire Peaveys. Never heard of them, snap lord Elmsworth, and if there anything like Miss Peavey, God help Rutlandshire. Tranquil as lady Constance's mood was this morning, an ominous stone in us came into her grey eyes at these words. And there's little doubt that in another instant she would have discharged at her mutinous brother one of those shattering comebacks for which she had been celebrated in the family from nursery days onward. But at this juncture the efficient Baxter appeared again through the bookshelf. Excuse me, said Baxter, securing attention with a flash of his spectacles. I forgot to mention Lord Elmsworth that to suit everybody's convenience, I have arranged that Miss Halliday shall call to see you at your club tomorrow after lunch. Good Lord Baxter, the harassed peer started as if he had been bitten in the leg. Who's Miss Halliday? Not another literary female. Miss Halliday is the young lady who is coming to Blandings to catalog the library. Catalog the library? What does it want cataloging for? It has not been done since the year 1885. Well, and look how splendidly we've got along without it, said Lord Elmsworth acutely. Don't be so ridiculous, Clarence, said Lady Constance, annoyed. The catalog of a great library like this must be brought up to date. She moved to the door. I do wish you would try to wake up and take an interest in things. If it wasn't for Mr. Baxter, I don't know what would happen. And with a beaming glance of approval at her ally, she left the room. Baxter, coldly austere, returned to the subject under discussion. I have written to Miss Halliday suggesting two-thirty as the suitable hour for the interview. Yes, but look here, I wish you wouldn't go tie me up with all these appointments. I thought as you were going to London to meet Mr. McTodd, but I'm not going to London to meet Mr. McTodd. Cried Lord Elmsworth with weak fury. It's out of the question. I can't possibly leave Blandings. The weather may break at any moment. I don't want to miss a day of it. The arrangements are all made. Send the fellow wire, unavoidably detained. I could not take the responsibility for such a course myself, said Baxter coldly, but possibly if you were to make the suggestion to Lady Constance. Oh, dash it, said Lord Elmsworth unhappily, at once realizing the impossibility of this game. Oh, well, if I've got to go, I've got to go, he said, after a gloomy pause, but to leave my garden in stew in London at this time of the year. There seemed nothing further to say on the subject. He took off his glasses, polished them, put them on again and shuffled to the door. After all, he reflected, even though the car was coming for him at two, at least he had the morning, and he proposed to make the most of it. But his first careless rapture at the prospect of pottering among his flowers was dimmed and would not be recaptured. He did not entertain any project so mad as the idea of defying his sister Constance, but he felt extremely bitter about the whole affair. Confound Constance, dash Baxter, Miss Peavey. The door closed behind Lord Elmsworth. End of chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Leave it to Smith This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Leave it to Smith by PG Woodhouse. Chapter 2, Enter Smith Number 1 At about the hour when Lord Elmsworth trained whirling him and his son Freddie to London had reached the halfway point in its journey, a very tall, very thin, very solemn young man, gleaming in a speckless top hat in the morning coat of irreproachable fit, mounted the steps of Number 18, Wallingford Street, West Kensington, and rang the front door bell. This done he removed the hat, and having touched his forehead lightly with a silk handkerchief, for the afternoon sun was warm, gazed about him with a grave distaste. Scaly neighborhood, he murmured. The young man's judgment was one at which few people with an eye for beauty would have cavalled. When the great revolution against London's ugliness really starts and yelling hordes of artists and architects maddened beyond endurance, finally take the law into their own hands and rage through the city burning and destroying, Wallingford Street, West Kensington will surely not escape the torch, long since it must have been marked down for destruction. For though it possesses certain merits of a low practical kind, being inexpensive in the matter of rents and handy for the buses and the underground, it is a peculiarly beastly little street, situated in the middle of one of those districts where London breaks out into a sort of eczema of red brick. It consists of two parallel rows of semi-detached villas, all exactly alike, each guarded by a ragged evergreen hedge, each with colored glass of an extremely regrettable nature let into the panels of the front door. And sensitive young impressionists from the artist's colony of Pollen Parkway may sometimes be seen stumbling through it with hands over their eyes, muttering between clenched teeth. How long? How long? A small maid of all work appeared and answered to the bell, and stood transfixed as the visitor, producing monocle, placed it in his right eye and inspected her through it. A warm afternoon, he said cordially. Yes, sir. But Pleasant urged the young man, tell me, is Mrs. Jackson at home? No, sir. Not at home? No, sir. The young man sighed. Oh, well, he said, we must always remember that these disappointments are sent to us for some good purpose. No doubt they make us more spiritual. Will you inform her that I called? The name is Smith. P. Smith. P. Smith, sir? No, no. P. S. M. I. T. H. I should explain to you that I started life without the initial letter, and my father always clung ruggedly to the plain Smith, but it seemed to me that there were so many Smiths in the world that a little variety may well be introduced. Smythe I took on as a cowardly evasion, nor do I prove of the too prevalent custom of tacking another name on in front by means of a hyphen. So I decided to adopt the P. Smith. The P I should add for your guidance is silent, as in thesis, psychic, and ptomagin. You follow me? Yes, sir. You don't think he said anxiously that I did wrong in pursuing this course? No, no, sir. Splendid, said the young man, flicking a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. Splendid, splendid. And with a courteous bow he descended the steps and made his way down the street. The little maid, having followed him with bulging eyes till he was out of sight, closed the door and returned to her kitchen. Smith strolled meditatively on. The genial warmth of the afternoon soothed him. He hummed lightly, only stopping when, as he reached the end of the street, the young man of his own age, rounding the corner rapidly, almost ran into him. Sorry, said the young man. Hello, Smythe. Smythe gazed upon him with benevolent affection. Comrade Jackson, he said, this is well met, the one man of all others whom I would have wished to encounter. We will pop off somewhere, Comrade Jackson. Should your engagements permit, then restore our tissues with a cup of tea. I had hoped to touch the Jackson family for some slight refreshment, but I was informed that your wife was out. Mike Jackson laughed. Phyllis isn't out. She's not out. Then said Smythe, pained, there has been dirty work done this day, for I was turned from your door. It would not be exaggerating to say that I was given the bird. Is this the boast at Jackson Hospitality? Phyllis is giving a tea to some of her old-school pals, explained Mike. She told the maid to say she wasn't at home to anybody else. I'm not allowed in myself. Enough, Comrade Jackson, said Smythe agribly. Say no more. If you yourself have been booted out in spite of all the loving, honoring, and obeying your wife promised at the altar, who am I to complain? And possibly one can console oneself by reflecting we are well out of it. These gatherings of old girls, school chums are not the sort of function your man of affairs wants to get lugged into. Capital company as we are, Comrade Jackson, we should doubtless have been extremely in the way. I suppose the conversation would have dealt exclusively with reminiscences of the dear old school, of tales of surreptitious cocoa drinking in the dormitories, and what the deportment mistress said when Angelo was found chewing tobacco in the short break. Yes, I fancy we have not missed a lot. By the way, I don't think much of the new home. True, I only saw it from the outside, but no, I don't think much of it. Best we can afford. And who, said Smythe, am I to taunt my boyhood friend with his honest poverty, especially as I myself am standing in the brink of destitution? You, I in person, that low moaning sound you hear is the wolf bin-whacked outside my door. But I thought your uncle gave you a rather good salary. So he did, but my uncle and I are about to part company. From now on he, so to speak, will take the high road and I'll take the low road. I dine with him tonight and over the nuts and wine I shall hand him the bad news that I am not supposed to resign my position in the firm. I have no doubt that he, supposed he was doing me a good turn by starting being his fish business, but even what little experience I have had of it has convinced me that it is not my proper sphere. The whisper flies round the clubs, Smythe has not found his niche. I am not, said Smythe, an unreasonable man. I realize that humanity must be supplied with fish. I am not averse from a bit of fish myself, but to be professionally connected with a firm that handles the material in the raw is not my idea of a large life work. Remind me to tell you sometime what it feels like to sling yourself out of bed at 4 a.m. and go down to Toil and Billingsgate Market. No, there is money in fish. My uncle has made a pot of it. But what I feel is that there must be other walks in life for a bright young man. I chuck it tonight. What are you going to do then? That Comrade Jackson is more or less on the knees of the gods. Tomorrow morning I think I'll stroll around to an employment agency and see how the market for bright young men stands. Do you know a good one? Phyllis always goes to Miss Clarkson's in Shaftesbury Avenue, but Miss Clarkson's in Shaftesbury Avenue. I will make a note of it. Meanwhile, I wonder if you saw the morning globe today. No, why? I had an advertisement in it, in which I expressed myself as willing, indeed, eager to tackle any undertaking that had nothing to do with fish. I am confidently expecting shoals of replies. I look forward to winnowing the heatman selecting the most desirable. Pretty hard to get a job these days, said Mike doubtfully. Not if you have something superlatively good to offer. What have you got to offer? My services, said Smith, with faint reproach. What has? As anything, I made no restrictions. Would you care to take a look at my manifesto? I have a copy in my pocket. Smith produced from inside his immaculate waistcoat a folded clipping. I should welcome your opinion of it, comrade Jackson. I have frequently said that for sturdy common sense you stand alone. Your judgment should be invaluable. The advertisement, which some hours earlier had so electrified the honorable Freddie Threepwood in the smoking room at Blaney's castle, seemed to affect Mike, whose mind was of the stolid and serious type, somewhat differently. He finished his perusal and stared speechlessly. Neat, don't you think, said Smith? Covers the ground adequately. I think so, I think so. Do you mean to say you're going to put drivel like that in the paper? Asked Mike. I have put it in the paper, as I told you at a pier this morning. By this time tomorrow I shall no doubt have finished sorting out the first batch of replies. Mike's emotion took him back to the phraseology of school days. You are an ass. Smith restored the clipping to his waistcoat pocket. You wound me, comrade Jackson, he said. I'd expected a broader outlook from you. In fact, I rather suppose that you would have rushed round instantly to the offices of the journal and shoved in a similar advertisement yourself. But nothing you can say can damp my buoyant spirit. The cry goes round Kensington and district. Smith is off. In what direction the cry admits to state, but that information the future will supply. And now, comrade Jackson, let us trickle into Yandere tea shop and drink success to the venture and a cup of the steaming. I had a particularly hard morning today among the white bait, and I need refreshment. Number two. After Smith had withdrawn his spectacular person from it, there was an interval of perhaps 20 minutes before anything else occurred to brighten the drabness of Wallingford Street. The lethargy of afternoon held the thoroughfare in its grip. Occasionally a tradesman cart would rattle around the corner, and from time to time cats appeared, stalking purposefully among the evergreens. But at ten minutes to five, a girl ran up the steps at number eighteen and rang the bell. She was a girl of medium height, very straight and slim, and her fair hair, her cheerful smile, and the boyish suppleness of her body all contributed to a general effect of valiant gaiety, a sort of golden sonniness. Accentuated by the fact that, like all girls who looked to Paris for inspiration in their dress that season, she was wearing black. The small maid appeared again. Is Mrs. Jackson at home, said the girl? I think she's expecting me, Miss Halliday. Yes, Miss? The door at the end of the narrow hall had opened. Is that you, Eve? Hello, Phil, darling. Phyllis Jackson fluttered down the passage, like a rose leaf on the wind, and hurled herself into Eve's arms. She was small and fragile, with great brown eyes under a cloud of dark hair. She had a wistful look, and most people who knew her wanted to pet her. Eve had always petted her from their first days at school together. Am I late or early, asked Eve? You're the first, but we won't wait. Jane, will you bring tea into the drawing-loom? Yes, ma'am. Now remember, I don't want to see anyone the rest of the afternoon. If anybody calls, tell them I'm not at home, except Mrs. Clarkson and Mrs. McTodd, of course. Yes, ma'am. Who is Mrs. McTodd, in quality? Is that Cynthia? Yes. Don't you know she had married Ralston McTodd, the Canadian poet? You knew she went out to Canada? I knew that, yes, but I hadn't heard that she was married. Funny how, out of touch, one gets with girls who are one's best friends at school. Do you realize it's nearly two years since I saw you? I know, isn't it awful? I got your address from Elsa Wentworth two or three days ago, and then Clarky told me that Cynthia was over here on a visit with her husband, so I thought how jolly it would be to have a regular reunion. We three were such friends in the old days. You remember Clarky, of course, Mrs. Clarkson, who used to be an English mistress at Wayland House? Yes, of course. Where did you run into her? Oh, I see a lot of her. She runs a domestic employment agency in Shaftesbury Avenue now, and I have to go there about once a fortnight to get a new maid. She supplied Jane. Is Cynthia's husband coming with her this afternoon? No, I wanted it to be simply us four. Do you know him? But, of course you don't. This is his first visit to England. I know his poetry. He's quite a celebrity. Cynthia's lucky. I made their way into the drawing room full of all those anti-maskars, wax flowers, and china dogs and separable from the cheaper type of London furnished house. Eve, though the exterior of number 18 should have prepared her for all this, was unable to check a slight shudder as she caught the eye at the least pre-possessing of the dogs. Googling at her from the mantelpiece. Don't look at them, recommend it, Phyllis, following your gaze. Why not, too? We've only just moved in here, so I haven't had time to make the place nice. Here's tea. All right, Jane, put it down there. Tea, Eve? Eve sat down. She was puzzled and curious. She threw her mind back to the days at school and remembered the Phyllis of that epic as almost indecently opulent. A millionaire stepfather there had been, then, she recollected what had become of him now that he should allow Phyllis to stay in his surroundings like this. Eve sent to the mystery, and in her customary straightforward way went to the heart of it. Tell me all about yourself, she said, having achieved as much comfort as the peculiar structure of her chair would permit. And remember that I haven't seen you for two years, so don't leave anything out. It's so difficult to know where to start. Well, you sign your letter, Phyllis Jackson. Start with the mysterious Jackson. Where does he come in? I heard about you was in announcement in the morning post that you were engaged to I've forgotten the name, but I'm certain it wasn't Jackson. Rollo, Mountford. Was it? Well, what has become of Rollo? You seem to have misled him. Did you break off the engagement? Well, it sort of broke itself off. I mean, you see, I went and married Mike. I loped with him, do you mean? Yes, good heavens. I'm awfully ashamed about that Eve. I suppose I treated Rollo awfully badly. Never mind a man with a name like that was made for suffering. I never cared for him. He had horrid, swimmy eyes. I understand. So you eloped with your Mike. Tell me about him. Who is he? What does he do? Well, at present he's master at his school, but he doesn't like it. He wants to get back to the country again. He has an agent on the place in the country belonging to some people named Smith. Mike had been at school in Cambridge with the son. They were very rich then and had a big estate. It was the next place to the Edge Lows. I had gone to stay with Mary Edge Law. I don't know if you remember her at school. I met Mike first at a dance and then I met him out riding and then, well, after that we used to meet every day and we fell in love right from the start and we went and got married. Oh, Eve, I wish you could have seen our darling little house. It was all over ivy and roses and we had horses and dogs and Phyllis' narrative broke off with a gulp. Eve looked at her sympathetically. All her life she herself had been joyously and pecunious, but it never seemed to matter. She was strong and adventurous and reveled in the perpetual excitement of trying to make both ends meet. But Phyllis was one of those sweet porcelain girls whom the roughness of life bruised instead of stimulating. She needed comfort and pleasant surroundings. Eve looked morosely at the china dog which leered back at her with an insufferable good fellowship. We had hardly got married, resumed Phyllis, blinking when poor Mr. Smith died and the whole place was broken up. He must have been speculating or something, I suppose, but he never really left any money and the state had to be sold and the people who bought it they were cold people from Wolverhampton had enough of you for whom they wanted the agent job so Mike had to go. So here we are. Eve put the question which he had been waiting to ask ever since she had entered the house. But what about your stepfather? Surely when we were at school you had a rich stepfather in the background as he lost his money too? No. Can he help you then? He would, I know, if he was left to himself but it's Aunt Constance. What's Aunt Constance and who is Aunt Constance? Well, I call her that but she's really my stepmother sort of. I suppose she's really my step-stepmother. My stepfather married again two years ago. It was Aunt Constance who was so furious when I married Mike. She wanted me to marry Rolo. And she won't let my stepfather do anything to help us. But the man must be a worm, said Eve indignantly. Why doesn't he insist? You always used to tell me how fond he was of you. He isn't a worm, Eve. He's a deer. It's just that he has let her boss him. She's rather a terror, you know. She can be quite nice and they're awfully fond of each other but she is as hard as nails sometimes. Phyllis broke off. And there were footsteps in the hall. Here's Clarke. I hope she brought Cynthia with her. She was to pick her up on the way. Don't talk about what I've been telling you in front of her, Eve. There's an angel. Why not? She's so motherly about it. It's sweet of her but Eve understood. All right, later on. The door opened to admit Miss Clarkson. The adjective which Phyllis had applied to her late school mistress was obviously well chosen. Miss Clarkson exuded motherliness. She was large, wholesome, and soft. And she swooped on Eve like a hen on its chicken almost before the door had closed. Eve, how nice to see you after all this time. My dear, you're looking perfectly lovely and so prosperous. What a beautiful hat. I've been emmy it ever since you came, Eve, said Phyllis. Where did you get it? Madeleine's Wars in Regent Street. Miss Clarkson, having acquired a cup of tea, started to improve the occasion. Eve had always been a favorite of hers at school. She'd been affectionately upon her. Now, doesn't this show what I always used to say to you in the dear old days, Eve, that one must never despair? However black the outlook may seem. I remember you at school, dear, as poor as a church mouse but with no prospects, none whatever. And yet here you are, rich. Eve laughed. She got up and kissed Miss Clarkson. She regretted that she was compelled to strike a jarring note, but it had to be done. I'm awfully sorry, Clarke, dear, she said, but I'm afraid I've misled you. I'm just as broke as I ever was. In fact, when Phyllis told me you were running an employment agency, I made a note to come and see you and ask if you had some attractive billet to dispose of. Govern us to a thoroughly angelic child would do, or isn't there some nice cozy author or something who wants his letters answered and his press clippings pasted in an album. Oh, my dear, Miss Clarkson was deeply concerned. I did hold that hat. The hat's the whole trouble. Of course, I had no business, even to think of it, but I saw it in the shop window and coveted it for days and finally fell. And then you see I had to live up to it by shoes and a dress to match. I tell you it was a perfect orgy and I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself now. It is usual. Oh, dear, you are always such a wild impetuous child, even at school I remember how often I used to speak to you about it. Well, when it was all over and I was saying again I found I had only a few pounds left not nearly enough to see me through till the relief expedition arrived. So I thought it over and decided to invest my little all. I hope you chose something safe. It ought to have been the Sporting Express called it today's safety bet. It was bounding Willy for the 230-erase at Sandin last Wednesday. Oh, dear. That's what I said when poor old Willy came in six, but it's no good worrying, is it? What it means is that I simply must find something to do that will carry me through till I get my next quarter's allowance. And that won't be till September. But don't let's talk business here. I'll come around to your office, Clarky, tomorrow. Where's Cynthia? Didn't you pick her up? Yes, I thought you were going to pick Cynthia up on your way, Clarky, said Phyllis. If Eve's information as to her financial affairs had caused Miss Clarkson to mourn, the mention of Cynthia plunged her into the very depths of woe. Her mouth quivered and a tear stole down her cheek. Even Phyllis exchanged bewildered glances. I say, said Eve, after a moment's pause and a silence broken only by a smothered sob from their late instructors. We aren't being very cheerful, are we? Considering this is supposed to be a joyous reunion, is anything wrong with Cynthia? So point it was Miss Clarkson's anguish that Phyllis in a flutter of alarm left the room swiftly in search of the only remedy that suggested itself to her for smelling salts. Poor dear Cynthia, ma'am, Miss Clarkson, why what's the matter with the rest, Eve? She was not callous to Miss Clarkson's grief, but she could not help the tiniest of smiles in a flash she had been transported to her school days, when the others habit of extracting the most tragedy out of the slimmest material had been a source of ever-fresh amusement to her. Not for an instant did she expect to hear any worse news of her old friend than she was in bed with a cold or had twisted an ankle. She's married, you know, Sid Miss Clarkson. Well, I see no harm in that clarky. If a few more safety bets go wrong I shall probably have to rush out and marry someone myself, some nice rich, indulgent man who will spoil me. Oh, Eve, my dear, plead it Miss Clarkson bleeding with alarm. Do please be careful whom you marry. I never hear of one of my girls marrying without feeling that the worst may happen, and that all unknowing she may be stepping over the precipice. You don't tell them that, do you, because I should think it would rather cast a damper on the wedding festivities. Has Cynthia gone stepping over grim precipices? I was just saying to Phyllis that I envied her marrying a celebrity like Ralston McTodd. Miss Clarkson gulped. That man must be a fiend, she said, brokenly. I've just left poor dear Cynthia in floods of tears at the Categan Hotel. She has a very nice quiet room on the fourth floor, though the carpet does not harmonize with the wallpaper. She was brokenhearted, poor child. I did what I could to console her, but it was useless. She always was so high-strung. I must be getting back to her very soon. I only came on here because I did not want to disappoint you, two dear girls. Why, said Eve, with quiet intensity, she knew from the moment unless firmly checked would pirouette round and round the point for minutes without ever touching him. Why, echoed Miss Clarkson blanking as if the word was something solid that had struck her unexpectedly. Why was Cynthia in floods of tears? But I'm telling you, my dear, that man has left her. Left her? They had a quarrel, and he walked straight out of the hotel. That was the day before yesterday, and he has not been back since. The courteous note came from him to say that he never intended to return. He had secretly and in a most underhand way arranged for his luggage to be removed from the hotel to a district messenger service, and from there he has taken that no one knows where. He has completely disappeared. Eve stared. She had not been prepared for news of this momentous order. But what did they quarrel about? Cynthia, poor child, was too over up to tell me. Eve clenched her teeth. The beast. Poor old Cynthia. Shall I come around with you? No, my dear. Better let me look after her alone. I will tell her to write and let you know when she can see you. I must be going, Phyllis, dear, she said, as her hostess re-entered bearing a small bottle. But you've only just come, said Phyllis surprised. Poor old Cynthia's husband has left her, explained Eve briefly. And Clarkie's going back to look after her. She's in a pretty bad way, it seems. Oh, no. Yes, indeed. And I really must be going at once, said Miss Clarkson. Eve waited in the drawing room till the front door banged and Phyllis came back to her. Phyllis was more wistful than ever. She had been looking forward to this tea party and it had not been the happy occasion she had anticipated. The two girls sat in silence for a moment. And Clark said Eve at length. Mike said Phyllis dreamily is an angel. Eve welcomed the unspoken invitation to return to a more agreeable topic. She felt very deeply for the strict and Cynthia, but she hated endless talk. Nothing could have been more aimless than for her and Phyllis to sit there exchanging lamentations concerning a tragedy of which neither knew more than the bare outlines. Phyllis had her tragedy, too, and it was one where Eve saw the possibility of doing something practical and helpful. She was a girl of action and was glad to be able to attack a living issue. Yes, let's go on talking about you and Mike, she said. At present I can't understand the position at all. When Clarky came in you were just telling me about your stepfather and why he wouldn't help you. And I thought you made out a very poor case for him. Tell me some more. I've forgotten his name, by the way. Oh, well, I think you ought to write and tell him how hard up you are. He may be under the impression that you're still living in luxury and don't need any help. After all, he can't know unless you tell him. And I should ask him straight out to come to the rescue. It isn't as if it was your Mike's fault that you're broke. He married you on the strength of a very good position which looked like a permanency and lost it through no fault of his own. I should write to him, Phil. Pitch it strong. I have. I wrote today. Mike's just been offered a wonderful opportunity to sort of form place in Lincolnshire. You know, cows and things. Just what he would like and just what he would do awfully well. And we only need 3,000 pounds to get it. But I'm afraid nothing will come of it. Because of Aunt Constance, you mean? Yes. You must make something come of it. Eve's chin went up. You look like a goddess of determination. If I were you, I'd want the doorstep till they had to give you money to get rid of you. The idea of anybody doing that absurd driving into the snow business in these days, why shouldn't you marry the man you were in love with? If I were you, I'd go and chain myself to the railings. How like a dog till they rushed out with checkbooks just to get some peace. Do they live in London? They're down at Shropshire at present called Blanding's Castle. Eve started. Blanding's Castle, good gracious. Aunt Constance is Lord Hemworth's sister. But this is the most extraordinary thing. I'm going to Blanding's myself in a few days. No. They've engaged me to catalog the castle library. But Eve, were you only joking when you asked Clarky to find you something to do? She took you quite seriously. No, I wasn't joking. There's a drawback by going to Blanding's. I suppose you know the place pretty well. I've often stayed there. It's beautiful. Then you know Lord Hemworth's second son, Freddie Threatwood. Of course. Well, he's the drawback. He wants to marry me and I certainly don't want to marry him. And what I've been wondering is whether a nice easy job like that, which would tide me over beautifully till September, is attractive enough to make up for the nuisance of having to be always squelching for Freddie. I ought to have thought of it right at the beginning of course when he wrote and told me to apply for the position. But I was so delighted at the idea of regular work that it didn't occur to me. Then I began to wonder he's such a persevering young man. He proposes early and often. Where did you meet Freddie? At a theater party about two months ago. He was living in London then but he suddenly disappeared and I had a heartbroken letter from him saying that he had been running up debts and things and his father had snatched him away to live at landings which apparently is Freddie's idea of the inferno. The world seems full of hard hearted relatives. Lord Hemworth isn't really hard hearted. You will love him. He's so dreamy and absent-minded. He potters about the garden all the time. I don't think you'll like Aunt Constance much but I suppose you won't see her a great deal. Whom shall I see much of except Freddie of course. Mr. Baxter Lord Hemworth's secretary I expect I don't like him at all. He's sort of a spectacle caveman. He doesn't sound attractive but you say the place is nice. It's gorgeous. I should go if I were you Eve. Well I intend it not to but now you've told me about Mr. Keeble and Aunt Constance. I've changed my mind. I'll have to look in at Clarke's office tomorrow and tell her I'm fixed up and Shant need her help. I'm going to take your sad case in hand darling. I should go to Blandings and I will dog your stepfather's footsteps. Well I must be going. Come and see me to the front door. I'll be losing my way in the miles of stately corridors. I suppose I may have smashed that china dog before I go. Oh well I just thought I'd ask. Out in the hall the little maid of all worked bobbed and intercepted them. I forgot to tell you mom a gentleman called. I told him you was out. Quite right Jane. Said his name was Smith. Phyllis gave a cry of dismay. Oh no what a shame. I particularly wanted you to meet him Eve. I wish I had known. Smith said Eve. The name seems familiar. Why were you so anxious for me to meet him? He's Mike's best friend. Mike worships him. He's the son of the Mr. Smith I was telling you about. The one Mike was at school in Cambridge with. He's a perfect darling Eve and you would love him. He's just your sort. I do wish we had known. And now you're going to blandings for goodness knows how long and you won't be able to see him. What a pity said Eve politely uninterested. I'm so sorry for him. Why he's in the fish business. Oh well he hates it poor dear but he was left stranded like all the rest of us after the crash he was put into the business by an uncle who is a sort of fish magnate. Well why does he stay there if he dislikes it so much said Eve with indignation the helpless type of man was her pet aversion. I hate a man who's got no enterprise. I don't think you could call him on enterprising. You never struck me like that. You simply must meet him when you come back to London. All right city even differently just as you like I might put business in his way I'm very fond of fish. End of chapter two. Chapter three of leave it to P. Smith this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Leave it to P. Smith by PG Wodehouse. Chapter three borrows an umbrella. What strikes the visitor to London most forcibly as he enters the heart of that city's fashionable shopping district is the almost entire absence of ostentation in the shop windows the studied avoidance of garish display about the front of the premises of Messors Thorpe and Briscoe for instance who sell coal in Dover Street there is a rule nothing whatever to attract fascinated attention you might give the place a glance as you pass but you would certainly not pause and stand staring at it as at the Sistine Chapel or the Taj Mahal yet at ten thirty on the morning after Eve Halliday had taken tea with her friend Phyllis Jackson and Wes Kensington P. Smith lounging gracefully in the smoking room window of the drones club which is immediately opposite the Thorpe and Briscoe establishment have been gazing at it fixately for a full five minutes one would have said that the spectacle enthralled him he seemed unable to take his eyes off of it there is always a reason for the most apparently inexplicable happenings it is the practice of Thorpe or Briscoe during the months of summer to run out and awning over the shop a quiet gentile awning of course nothing to offend the eye but an awning which offers a quite adequate protection against those sudden showers which are such a delightfully peaking feature of the English summer one of which had just begun to sprinkle the west end of London with a good deal of heartiness and vigor and under this awning peering plaintively out at the rain Eve Halliday on a way to the Ada Clarkson Employment Bureau had taken refuge it was she who had so enchained P. Smith's interest it was his considered opinion that she improved the Thorpe and Briscoe frontage by about 95% pleased and gratified as P. Smith was to have something nice to look at out of the smoking room window he was also somewhat puzzled this girl seemed to him to radiate an atmosphere of wealth starting at far this south and proceeding northward she began in a gleam of patent leather shoes fond stockings obviously expensive led up to a black crepe frock and then just as the eye was beginning to feel that there could be nothing more it was stunned by a supreme hat of soft del satin with a blackbird a paradise feather falling down over the left shoulder even to the masculine eye which is notoriously to seek in these matters a whale of a hat and yet this sumptuously upholstered young woman had been marooned by a shower of rain beneath the awning of Miss Orr's Thorpe and Briscoe why P. Smith asked himself was this even he argued if Charles the chauffeur had been given the day off or was driving her father the millionaire to the city to attend to his vast interest she could surely afford a cab fare we who are familiar with the state of Eve's finances can understand her inability to take cabs but P. Smith was frankly perplexed being however both ready-witted and chivalrous he perceived that this was no time for idle speculation his not to reason why his obvious duty was to take steps to assist beauty in distress he left the window of the smoking room having made his way with a smooth dignity to the club's cloakroom proceeded to submit a row of umbrellas to a close inspection he was not easy to satisfy to which he went so far as to pull out of the rack he returned with a shake of the head quite good umbrellas but not fit for this special service at length however he found a beauty and a gentle smile flickered across his solemn face he put up his monocle and gay searchingly at this umbrella it seemed to answer every test he was well pleased with it who is he inquired of the intendant is this belongs to the honorable Mr. Walderwick sir ah said P. Smith tolerantly he tucked the umbrella under his arm and went out meanwhile Eve Halliday lightening up the sombre austerity of Missour's Thorpe and disco shot front continued to think hard thoughts of the English climate and to inspect this guy in the hope of detecting a spot of blue she was engaged in this cheerless occupation when at her side a voice spoke excuse me a hatless young man was standing beside her holding an umbrella he was a striking looking young man very tall very thin and very well dressed in his right eye there was a and through this he looked down at her with a grave friendliness he said nothing further but taking her fingers clasped around the handle of the umbrella which he had obligingly open and then with a courteous bow proceeded to dash with long strides across the road disappearing through the doorway of a gloomy building which from the number of men who had gone in and out during her vigil she had sat down as a club of some sort a good many surprising things had happened to Eve since first she had come to live in London but nothing quite so surprising as this for several minutes she stood where she was without moving staring round-eyed at the building opposite the episode was however apparently ended the young man did not reappear he did not even show himself at the window the club had swallowed him up and eventually Eve deciding that this was not the sort of day in which to refuse umbrellas even if they dropped inexplicably from heaven stepped out from under the awning laughing helplessly and started to resume her interrupted journey to Miss Clarkson's the offices of the Ada Clarkson International Employment Bureau Promptitude, Courtesy, Intelligence are at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue a little way past the Palace Theatre Eve closing the umbrella which had prevented even a spot of rain falling on her hat climbed the short stair leading to the door and tapped down the window marked Inquiries Can I see Miss Clarkson what name please respond at inquiries promptly and with intelligent courtesy Miss Halliday brief interlude involving business with speaking to will you go into the private office please set inquiries a moment later in a voice which now added respect to the other advertised qualities for she had had time to observe and digest the hat Eve passed in through the general waiting room with its magazine cover table and tapped at the door beyond marked private Eve dear it's fine Miss Clarkson the moment she had entered I don't know how to tell you but I've been looking through my books and I have nothing simply nothing there's not a single place that you could possibly take what is to be done that's all right Clarky but I didn't come to talk business I came to ask after Cynthia how is she Miss Clarkson side poor child she is still in a dreadful state and no wonder no news at all from her husband he has simply deserted her poor darling can't I see her not at present I have persuaded her to go down to Brighton for a day or two I think the CIA will pick her up so much better than moaning about in a London hotel she's leaving on the 11 o'clock train I gave her your love and she was most grateful that you should have remembered your old friendship and be sorry for her in her affliction well I can write to her where is she staying I don't know her Brighton address but no doubt the categin hotel would forward letters I think she would be glad to hear from you dear Eve looks sadly at the framed testimonials which decorated the wall she was not often melancholy but it was such a beast of a day and all her friends seemed to be having such a bad time oh Clarky she said what a lot of trouble there is in the world yes yes I miss Clarkson a specialist on this subject all the horses you back finished six then all the girls you like best come croppers poor little Phyllis which is sorry for her but her husband surely is most devoted yes but she's frightfully hard up and you remember how opulent she used to be at school of course it must sound funny hearing me pitting people for having no money but somehow other people's hardness always seems so much worse than mine especially poor old Phyllis because she really isn't fit to stand it I've been used to being absolutely broke all my life poor dear father always seemed to be writing an article against time with creditors scratching earnestly at the door Eve laughed but her eyes were misty he was a brick wasn't he I mean sending me to a first-class school like Wayland House when he often had enough money to buy tobacco poor angel I expect he wasn't always up to time with fees was he well my dear of course I was only an assistant mistress at Wayland House and had nothing to do with the financial side but I did hear sometimes poor darling father do you know one of my earliest recollections I couldn't have been more than ten is of a ring at the front doorbell and father diving like a seal under the sofa poking his head out and imploring me in a hoarse voice to hold the fort I went to the door and found an indignant man with a blue paper I prattled so prettily and innocently that he not only went away quite contentedly but actually patted me on the head and gave me a penny and when the door had shut father crawled out from under the sofa and gave me tuppence making three pence and all a good morning's work I had what father a diamond ring with it at a shop down the street I remember at least I thought it was a diamond they may have swindled me for I was very young you have had a hard life dear yes but hasn't it been a lark I loved every minute of it besides you can't call me really one of the submerged 10th Uncle Thomas left me 150 pounds a year and mercifully I'm not allowed to touch the capital there were no hats or safety bets in the world I should be smugly opulent but I mustn't keep you any longer clarky dear I expect the waiting room is full of dukes who want cooks and cooks who want dukes all fidgeting and wondering how much longer you're going to keep them goodbye darling and having kissed Miss Clarkson fondly and straightened her hat which the others motherly embrace had disarranged Eve left the room and of chapter 3 chapter 4 of leave it to smith this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Grace Buchanan leave it to smith by PG Woodhouse chapter 4 painful scene at the drones club meanwhile at the drones club a rather painful scene had been taking place smith regaining the shelter of the building had made his way to the washroom where having studied his features with interest for a moment in the mirror he smoothed his hair which the rain had somewhat disordered and brushed his clothes with extreme care he then went to the cloak room for his hat the attendant regarded him as he entered with the air of one whose mind is not holy at rest Mr. Waldrick was in here a moment to go sir said the attendant yes said smith mildly interested an energetic bustling soul comrade Waldrick always somewhere now here now there asking about his umbrella he was pursued the attendant with a touch of coldness indeed asking about his umbrella a made a great fuss about it sir he did and rightly said smith with approval the good man loves his umbrella of course I had to tell him that you took it sir I would not have it otherwise assented smith heartily I like this spirit of candor there must be no reservations no subterfuges between you and comrade Waldrick let all be open and above board he seemed very put out sir he went off to find you I am always glad of a chat with comrade Waldrick said smith always he left the cloak room and made for the hall where he desired the porter to procure him a cab this having drawn up in front of the club he descended the steps and was about to enter it when there was a horse cry in his rear and through the front door there came bounding a pinkly indignant youth who called loudly here hi smith dash it smith climbed into the cab and gazed benevolently out at the newcomer ah comrade Waldrick he said what have we on our mind where's my umbrella demanded the pink one the cloak room waiter says you took my umbrella I mean a joke's a joke good umbrella it was indeed smith agreed cordially it may be of interest to you to know that I selected it as the only possible one from among a number of competitors I fear that this club is becoming very mixed comrade Waldrick you with your pure mind would hardly believe the rottenness of some of the umbrellas I inspected in the cloak room where is it the cloak room you turn to the left as you go in at the main entrance at my umbrella dash it where's my umbrella ah there said smith and there was a touch of manly regret in his voice you have me I gave it to a young lady in the street where she is at the present moment I could not say the pink youth tottered slightly you gave my umbrella to a girl a very loose way of describing her you would not speak of her in that light fashion if you had seen her comrade Waldrick she was wonderful I am a plain blunt rugged man above the softer emotions as a general thing but I frankly confess that she stirred a cord in me which is not often stirred she thrilled my battered old heart comrade Waldrick there is no other word thrilled it but dash it smith reached out a long arm and laid his hand paternally on the other's shoulder be brave comrade Waldrick he said face this thing like a man I am sorry to have been the means of depriving you an excellent umbrella but as you will readily understand I had no alternative it was raining she was over there crouched despairingly beneath the awning of that shop she wanted to be elsewhere but the moisture lay in wait to damage her hat what could I do what could any man worthy of the name do but go down to the cloakroom and pinch the best umbrella in sight and take it to her yours was easily the best there was absolutely no comparison I gave it to her and she has gone off with it happy once more this explanation said smith will I am sure sensibly diminish your natural chagrin you have lost your umbrella comrade Waldrick but in what a cause in what a cause comrade Waldrick you are now entitled to rank with sir philip sydney and sir walter rally the latter is perhaps the closer historical parallel he spread his cloak to keep a queen from wetting her feet you by proxy yielded up your umbrella to save a girl's hat posterity will be proud of you comrade Waldrick I shall be vastly surprised if you do not go down in legend and song children in ages will come to cluster about their grandfather's knees saying tell us how the great Waldrick lost his umbrella grandpapa and he will tell them and they will rise from the recital better deeper broader children but now as I see that the driver has started his meter I fear I must conclude this little chat which I for one have heartily enjoyed drive on he said leaning out of the window I want to go to Ada Clarkson's international employment bureau in shaftsbury avenue the cab moved off the honorable Hugo Waldrick after one passionate glance in its wake realized that he was getting wet and went back into the club arriving at the address named smith paid his cab and having mounted the stairs delicately knuckled the ground glass window of enquiries my dear miss Clarkson he began in an affable voice the instant the window had shot up if you can spare me a few moments of your valuable time miss Clarkson's engaged Smith scrutinized her gravely through his monocle aren't you miss Clarkson enquiries said she was not then said Smith there has been a misunderstanding for which he added cordially I am to blame perhaps I could see her anon you will find me in the waiting room when required he went into the waiting room and having picked up a magazine from the table settled down to read a story in the girls pet the January number of the year 1919 for employment agencies like dentists prefer their literature of a matured vintage he was absorbed in this when Eve came out of the private office end of chapter 4 recording by Grace Buchanan chapter 5 of leave it to p smith this is a LibraVox recording all LibraVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibraVox.org recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Bellevue Washington leave it to p smith by p g Woodhouse chapter 5 p smith applies for employment p smith rose courteously as she entered my dear miss Clarkson he said good gracious said Eve how extraordinary a single or coincidence agreed p smith you never gave me time to thank you for the umbrella said Eve reproachfully you must have thought me awfully rude but you took my breath away my dear miss Clarkson please do not why do you keep calling me that aren't you miss Clarkson either of course I'm not then said p smith I must start my quest all over again these constant chacks are trying to an ardent spirit perhaps you are a young bride come to engage her first cook no I am not married good Eve found his relieved thankfulness in the momentary pause which followed his remark inquiries entered alertly miss Clarkson will see you now sir leave us said p smith with a wave of his hand we would be alone inquiries stared then awed by his manner and general appearance of magnificence withdrew I suppose really said Eve toying with the umbrella I ought to give this back to you she glanced at the dripping window but it is raining rather hard isn't it like the dickens assented p smith then would you mind very much if I kept it till this evening please do thanks ever so much I will send it back to you tonight if you will give me the name and address p smith waved his hand depreciatingly no no if it is of any use to you I hope that you will look on it as a present a present a gift explained p smith but I really can't go about accepting expensive umbrellas from people where shall I send it if you insist you may send it to the honorable Hugo Wolderwick drones club dover street but it really isn't necessary I won't forget and thank you very much Mr. Wolderwick why do you call me that well you said ah I see a slight confusion of ideas no I am not Mr. Wolderwick and between ourselves I should hate to be he is a very C3 intelligence comrade Wolderwick is merely the man to whom the umbrella belongs eaves eyes opened wide do you mean to say you gave me somebody else's umbrella I had unfortunately omitted to bring my own out with me this morning I never heard of such a thing merely practical socialism other people are content to talk about the redistribution of property I go out and do it but won't he be awfully angry when he finds out that it has gone he has found out and it was pretty to see his delight I explained the circumstances and he was charmed to have been of service to you the door opened again and this time it was Miss Clarkson in person who entered she had found inquiries statement over the speaking tube rambling and unsatisfactory and had come to investigate for herself the reason why the machinery of the office was being held up oh I must go said Eve as she saw her I am interrupting your business I am so glad you're still here dear said Miss Clarkson I have just been looking over my files and I see that there is one vacancy for a nurse said Miss Clarkson with a touch of the apologetic inner voice oh no that's alright said Eve I don't really need anything but thanks ever so much for bothering she smiled affectionately and a little pietrus bestowed another smile upon P. Smith as he opened the door for her and went out P. Smith turned away from the door with a thoughtful look upon his face is that young lady a nurse he asked do you want a nurse inquired Miss Clarkson at once the woman of business I want that nurse conviction she is a delightful girl said Miss Clarkson with enthusiasm there is no one in whom I would feel more confidence in recommending to a position she is a Miss Holiday the daughter of a very clever but erratic writer who died some years ago I can speak with particular knowledge of Miss Holiday for I was for many years a servant mistress at Wayland House where she was at school she is a charming warm-hearted impulsive girl but you will hardly want to hear all this on the contrary said P. Smith I could listen for hours you have stumbled upon my favorite subject Miss Clarkson I hum a little doubtfully and decided that it would be reintroduce the business theme perhaps when you say you are looking for a nurse you mean you need a hospital nurse my friends have sometimes suggested it Miss Holiday's greatest experience has of course being as a governess a governess is just as good said P. Smith agreeably Miss Clarkson began to be conscious of a sensation being out of her depth how old are your children sir she asked I fear said P. Smith you are peeping into volume 2 this romance has only just started I am afraid said Miss Clarkson now completely fogged I do not quite understand what exactly are you looking for P. Smith flicked a speck of fluff from his coat sleeve a job he said a job echoed Miss Clarkson her voice breaking in an amazed squeak P. Smith raised his eyebrows you seem surprised isn't this a job eporium this is an employment bureau admitted Miss Clarkson I knew it I knew it said P. Smith something seemed to tell me possibly it was the legend employment bureau over the door and those framed testimonials would convince the most skeptical yes Miss Clarkson I want a job and I feel somehow that you are the woman to find it for me I have inserted an advertisement in the papers expressing my readiness to undertake any form of employment that I have since begun to wonder if after all this will lead to wealth and fame at any rate it is wise to attack the great world from another angle as well so I come to you but you must excuse me if I remark that this application of yours strikes me as most extraordinary why I am young and extremely broke but your your clothes P. Smith squinted not without complacency down a faultless fitting waistcoat and flicked another speck of dust off his sleeve you consider me well dressed you find me natty well well perhaps you are right perhaps you are right but consider Miss Clarkson if one expects to find employment in these days of strenuous competition one must be neatly and decently clad employers look at a baggy trouser leg a zippy waistcoat is more to them than an honest heart this beautiful crease was obtained with the aid of the mattress upon which I tossed feverishly last night in my attic room I can't take you seriously oh don't say that please you really want me to find you work I prefer the term employment Miss Clarkson produced a notebook if you are really not making this application just as a joke I assure you no my entire capital consists of about 10 pounds then perhaps you will tell me your name ah things are beginning to move the name is P. Smith P. Smith the P is silent P. Smith P. Smith Miss Clarkson brooded over this for a moment in almost pained silence then recovered her slipping grip of affairs I think she said you had better give me a few particulars about yourself there is nothing I should like better responded P. Smith warmly I am always ready I may say eager to tell people the story of my life but in this rushing age I get little encouragement let's start at the beginning my infancy when I was but a babe my elder sister was bribed with six pence an hour by my nurse to keep an eye on me and see that I did not raise Cain at the end of the first day she struck for a shilling and got it we now pass to my boyhood at an early age I was sent to Ethan everybody predicting a bright for me those were happy days Miss Clarkson a merry laughing lad with curly hair and a sunny smile it is not too much to say that I was the pet of the place the old cloisters but I am boring you I can see it in your eye no no protested Miss Clarkson but what I meant was I thought you might have some experience in some particular line of in fact what sort of work employment what sort of employment do you require broadly speaking said p smith any recently salaried position that has nothing to do with fish fish quavered Miss Clarkson slipping again why fish because Miss Clarkson the fish trade was until this morning my walk in life and my soul has sickened of it you are in the fish trade squeak Miss Clarkson with an amazed glance at the knife like crease in his trousers these are not my working clothes said p smith following and interpreting her glance yes owing to a financial upheaval in my branch of the family I was not until this morning at the back and call of my uncle who unfortunately happens to be an macro monarch or a sardine sultan or whatever these merchant princes are called who rule the fish market he insisted on my going into the business to learn it from the bottom up thinking no doubt that I would follow in his footsteps and evidently work my way to the position of a white bait wizard alas he was too sanguine it was not to be said p smith fixing an owl like gaze on Miss Clarkson through his eyeglass no said Miss Clarkson no last night I was obliged to inform him that the fish business was alright but it wouldn't do and that I propose to sever my connection with the firm forever I may say at once that there ensued something in the nature of a family earthquake hard words side p smith black looks unseemly wrangle and the upshot of it all was that my uncle washed his hands of me and drove me forth into the great world hence my anxiety to find employment my uncle has definitely withdrawn his counterance from me Miss Clarkson dear dear murmured the proprietor sympathetically yes he is a hard man and he judges his fellows solely by their devotion to fish I never in my life met a man so wrapped up in the subject for years he has been practically a monomiac on the subject of fish so much so that he actually looks like one it is as if he has taken one of those auto suggestion courses and had kept saying to himself every day in every way I grow more and more like a fish his closest friends can hardly tell now whether he more nearly resembles a halibut or a cod but I am boring you again with this family gossip he eyed Miss Clarkson with such a sudden and penetrating glance that she started nervously no no she exclaimed you relieve my apprehensions I am only too well aware that when fairly launched on the topic of fish I am more than apt to weary my audience I cannot understand this enthusiasm for fish my uncle used to talk about an unusually large catch of pitchards in Cornwall in much the same odd way as a right-minded curate would talk about the spiritual excellence of his bishop to me Miss Clarkson from the very start the fish business was what I can only describe as a wash out it nauseated my finer feelings it got right in amongst my fibers I had to rise and partake of a simple breakfast at about four in the morning after which I would make my way to Billingsgate market and stand for some hours deep in dead fish of every description a jolly life for a cat no doubt but a bit too thick for a sharp shire piece myth mine Miss Clarkson is a refined and poetic nature I like to be surrounded by joy and life and I know nothing more joyous and deader than a dead fish multiply that dead fish by a million you have an environment which only a Dante could contemplate with equal amity my uncle used to tell me that the way to ascertain whether a fish was fresh was to peer into its eyes could I spend the springtime of life staring into the eyes of dead fish no he rose well I will not detain you any longer the unfailing courtesy and attention with which you have listened to me you can understand now why my talents are on the market and why I am compelled to state specifically that no employment can be considered which has anything to do with fish I am convinced that you will shortly have something particularly good to offer me oh that I can say that Mr. P. Smith the P. is silent as in shrimp he reminded her oh by the way he said pausing at the door there is one other thing before I go while I was waiting for you to be disengaged I chanced on an instalment of a serial story in the girl's pet in January 1919 my search for the remaining issues proved fruitless the title was her honour at stake by Jane Emeline Moss you don't happen to know how it all came out in the end do you did Lord Oostace ever learn that when he found Calise in Sir Jasper's rooms at midnight he said you don't know I feared as much well good morning Miss Clarkson I leave my future in your hands with a light heart I will do my best for you of course and what could be better than Miss Clarkson's best he closed the door gently behind him and went out shocked by a kindly thought he tapped on Inquiry's window and beamed benevolently as her bobbed head shot into view they tell me he said that Apidestra is much fancied for the four o'clock race at Birmingham this afternoon I give the information without prejudice for what it is worth good day End of chapter 5 Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, BC