 Chapter 13 of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Indiscretions of Archie Chapter 13 Rallying Round Percy It amazed Archie through the whole of a long afternoon to reflect how swiftly and unexpectedly the blue and brilliant sky of life can cloud over, and with what abruptness a man who fancies that his feet are on solid ground can find himself immersed in fate's gumbo. He recalled with the bitterness with which one does recall such things, that that morning he had risen from his bed without a care in the world, his happiness unruffled even by the thought that Lucille would be leaving him for a short space. He had sung in his bath. Yes, he had chirrupt like a ballet-linet. And now some men would have dismissed the unfortunate affairs of Mr. George Benham from their mind as having nothing to do with themselves, but Archie had never been made of this stern stuff. The fact that Mr. Benham, apart from being an agreeable companion with whom he had lunched occasionally in New York, had no claims upon him affected him little. He hated to see his fellow man in trouble. On the other hand, what could he do? To seek Miss Silverton out and plead with her, even if he did it without cooing, would undoubtedly establish an intimacy between them, which, instinct told him, might tinge her manner after Lucille's return, with just that suggestion of old langzine which makes things so awkward. His whole being shrank from extending to Miss Silverton that inch, which the female artistic temperament is so apt to turn into an L. And when, just as he was about to go into dinner, he met her in the lobby, and she smiled brightly at him and informed him that her eye was now completely recovered, he shied away like a startled Mustang of the prairie. And, abandoning his intention of worrying the tablet hote in the same room with the amiable creature, tottered off to the smoking room where he did the best he could with sandwiches and coffee. Having got through the time as best he could till eleven o'clock he went up to bed. The room to which he and Lucille had been assigned by the management was on the second floor, pleasantly sunny by day and at night filled with cool and heartening fragrance of the pines. Hither, too, Archie had always enjoyed taking a final smoke on the balcony overlooking the woods, but tonight such was his mental stress that he prepared to go to bed directly he had closed the door. He turned to the cupboard to get his pajamas. His first thought, when even after a second scrutiny no pajamas were visible, was that this was merely another of those things which happen on days when life goes wrong. He raked the cupboard for a third time with an annoyed eye. From every hook hung various garments of Lucille's, but no pajamas. He was breathing a soft malediction preparatory to embarking on a point-to-point hunt for his missing property, when something in the cupboard caught his eye and held him for a moment puzzled. He could have sworn that Lucille did not possess a mauve negligee. Why, she had told him a dozen times that mauve was a color which she did not like. He frowned perplexedly, and as he did so from near the window came a soft cough. Archie spun round and subjected the room to as close a scrutiny as that which he had bestowed upon the cupboard. Nothing was visible. The window opening onto the balcony gaped wide. The balcony was manifestly empty. This time there was no possibility of error. The cough had come from the immediate neighborhood of the window. Archie was conscious of a pringly sensation about the roots of his closely cropped back hair as he moved cautiously across the room. The affair was becoming uncanny, and as he tiptoed towards the window old ghost stories read in lighter moments before cheerful fires with plenty of light in the room flitted through his mind. He had the feeling, precisely as every chappy in those stories had, that he was not alone. Nor was he. In a basket behind an arm chair curled up with his massive chin resting on the edge of the wicker work lay a fine bulldog. Erf! said the bulldog. Good God! said Archie! There was a lengthy pause in which the bulldog looked earnestly at Archie, and Archie looked earnestly at the bulldog. Normally Archie was a dog-lover. His hurry was never so great as to prevent him stopping when in the street and introducing himself to any dog he met. In a strange house his first act was to assemble the canine population, roll it on its back, or backs, and punch it in the ribs. As a boy his earliest ambition had been to become a veterinary surgeon, and though the years had cheated him of his career he knew all about dogs, their points, their manners, their customs, and their treatment in sickness and in health. In short he loved dogs, and had they met under happier conditions he would undoubtedly had been on excellent terms with this one within the space of a minute. But as things were he abstained from fraternizing and continued to goggle dumbly. And then his eye, wandering aside, collided with the following objects. A fluffy pink dressing gown hung over the back of a chair, an entirely strange suitcase, and on the bureau a photograph in a silver frame of a stout gentleman in evening dress whom he had never seen before in his life. Much has been written of the emotions of the wanderer who, returning to his childhood home, finds it altered out of all recognition. But poets have neglected the theme, far more poignant, of the man who goes up to his room in an hotel and finds it full of somebody else's dressing gowns and bulldogs. Bulldogs! Archie's heart jumped sideways and upwards with a wiggling movement, turning to somersaults and stopped beating. The hideous truth, working its way slowly through the concrete, had at last penetrated to his brain. He was not only in somebody else's room, and a woman's at that, he was in the room belonging to Miss Vera Silverton. He could not understand it. He would have been prepared to stake the last scent he could borrow from his father-in-law on the fact that he had made no error in the number over the door. Yet nevertheless such was the case, and below par, though his faculties were at the moment, he was sufficiently alert to perceive that it behoved him to withdraw. He leaped to the door, and as he did so, the handle began to turn. The cloud which had settled on Archie's mind lifted abruptly. For an instant he was unable to think about a hundred times more quickly than was his leisurely want. Good fortune had brought him to within easy reach of the electric light switch. He snapped it back and was in darkness. Then, diving silently and swiftly to the floor, he wriggled under the bed. The thud of his head against what appeared to be some sort of joist or support, unless it had been placed there by the maker as a practical joke on the chance of this kind of thing happening some day, coincided with the creak of the opening door. Then the light was switched on again, and the bulldog in the corner gave a welcoming wooful. And how is Mama's precious angel? Rightly concluding that the remark had not been addressed to himself and that no social obligation demanded that he reply, Archie pressed his cheek against the boards and said nothing. The question was not repeated, but from the other side of the room came the sound of a padded dog. Did he think his mother had fallen down dead and was never coming up? The beautiful picture which these words conjured up filled Archie with that yearning for the might have been which is always so painful. He was finding his position physically as well as mentally distressing. It was cramped under the bed and the boards were harder than anything he had ever encountered. Also it appeared to be the practice of the housemaids at the hotel hermitage to use the space below the beds as a depository for all the dust which they swept off the carpet, and much of this was insinuating itself into his nose and mouth. The two things which Archie would have liked most to do at that moment were, first, to kill Miss Silverton, if possible, painfully, and then to spend the remainder of his life sneezing. After a prolonged period he heard a drawer open and noted the fact as promising. As the old married man he presumed that it signified the putting away of hairpins. About now the dashed woman would be looking at herself in the glass with her hair down. Then she would brush it. Then she would twiddle it up into thin gummies. Say, ten minutes for this. And after that she would go to bed and turn out the light. And he would be able, after giving her a bit of time to go to sleep, to creep out and leg it. Allowing at a conservative estimate three quarters of, come out! Archie stiffened. For an instant a feeble hope came to him that this remark, like the others, might be addressed to the dog. Come out from under that bed! said a stern voice. And mind how you come! I've got a pistol. Well, I mean to say you know, said Archie in a propitatory voice, emerging from his lair like a tortoise, and smiling as winningly as a man can, who has just bumped his head against the leg of a bed. I suppose all this seems fairly rummy, but, for the love of Mike, said Miss Soberton. The points seem to Archie well taken, and the comment on the situation neatly expressed. What are you doing in my room? Well, if it comes to that, you know, shouldn't have mentioned it if you hadn't brought the subject up in the course of General Chitchat. What are you doing in mine? Yours. Well, apparently there's been a bloomer of some species somewhere, but this was the room I had last night, said Archie. But the desk clerk said that he had asked you if it would be quite satisfactory to you giving it up to me. And you said yes. I come here every summer when I'm not working, and I always have this room. By Joe, I remember now. The choppy did say something to me about the room, but I was thinking of something else, and it rather went over the top. So that's what he was talking about, was it? Miss Soberton was frowning. A moving picture director, scanning her face, would have perceived that she was registering disappointment. Nothing breaks right for me in this darned world, she said regretfully. When I caught sight of your legs sticking out from under the bed, I did think that everything was all lined up for a real fine ad at last. I could close my eyes and see the thing in the papers, on the front page with photographs, plucky actress captures burglar, darn it. Fearfully sorry, you know. I just needed something like that. I've got a press agent, and I will say for him that he eats well and he sleeps well, and has just enough intelligence to cash his monthly check without forgetting what he went into the bank for. But outside of that you can take it from me, he's not one of the world's workers. He's about as much solid use to a girl with aspirations as a pain in the lower ribs. It's three weeks since he got me into print at all, and then the brightest thing he could think up was that my favorite breakfast fruit was an apple. Well, I ask you. Rotten, said Archie. I did think that for once my guardian angel had gone back to work and was doing something for me. Stage star and midnight marauder, murmured Miss Silverton wistfully. Footlight-favorite foils felon. Bit thick, agreed Archie sympathetically. Well, you'll probably be wanting to get to bed and all that sort of rot, so I may as well be popping what, Cheerio! A sudden gleam came into Miss Silverton's compelling eyes. Wait! Eh? Wait! I've got an idea. The wistful sadness had gone from her manner. She was bright and alert. Sit down. Sit down? Sure! Sit down and take the chill off the armchair. I've thought of something. Archie sat down as directed. At his elbow the bulldog eyed him gravely from the basket. Do they know you in this hotel? Know me? Well, I've been here about a week. I mean, do they know who you are? Do they know you're a good citizen? Well, if it comes to that, I suppose they don't. But, fine! said Miss Silverton, appreciatively. Then it's all right. We can carry on. Carry on? Why, sure! All I want is to get the thing into the papers. It doesn't matter to me if it turns out later that there was a mistake and that you weren't a burglar trying for my jewels after all. It makes just as good a story either way. I can't think why that never struck me before. Here have I been kicking because you weren't a real burglar when it doesn't amount to a hill of beans whether you are or not. All I've got to do is rush out and yell and rouse the hotel and they come in and pinch you, and I give the story to the papers, and everything's fine. Archie leaped from his chair. I say what? What's on your mind? inquired Miss Silverton considerably. Don't you think it's a nifty scheme? Nifty? My dear old soul, it's frightful! Can't see what's wrong with it, grumbled Miss Silverton. After I've had someone get New York on the long-distance phone and give the story to the papers you can explain and they'll let you out. Surely to goodness you don't object, as a personal favour to me, to spending an hour or two in a cell. Why, probably, they haven't got a prison at all out in these parts and you'll simply be locked in a room. A child of ten could do it on his head, said Miss Silverton. A child of six, she amended. But, dash it! I mean, what I mean to say, I'm married! Yes, said Miss Silverton, with the politeness of faint interest. I've been married myself. I wouldn't say it's altogether a bad thing, mind you, for those that like it, but a little of it goes a long way. My first husband, she proceeded reminiscently, was a travelling man. I gave him a two-weeks tryout, and then I told him to go on travelling. My second husband, now he wasn't a gentleman in any sense of the word. I remember once. You don't grasp the point, the jolly old point. You fail to grasp it. If this belly thing comes out, my wife will be most frightfully sick. Miss Silverton regarded him with pain as a prize. Do you mean to say you would let a little thing like that stand in the way of my getting on the front page of all the papers, with photographs? Where's your chivalry? Never mind my dashed chivalry. Besides, what does it matter if she does get a little sore? She'll soon get over it. You can put that right. Buy her a box of candy. Not that I'm strong for candy myself. What I always say is, it may taste good, but look what it does to your hips. I give you my honest word that when I gave up eating candy I'd lost eleven ounces the first week. My second husband, no, I'm a liar, it was my third. My third husband said, Say, what's the big idea? Where are you going? Out, said Archie firmly. Bally, out. A dangerous light flickered in Miss Silverton's eyes. That'll be all of that, she said, raising the pistol. You stay right where you are, or I'll fire. Right-o! I mean it! My dear old soul, said Archie, in the recent unpleasantness in France I had chuppies popping off things like that at me all day and every day for close on five years. And here I am, what? I mean to say, if I've got to choose between staying here and being pinched in your room by the local constabulary and having the dasher thing get into the papers and all sorts of trouble happening and my wife getting the wind up and, I say, if I've got to choose, suck a lozinge and start again, said Miss Silverton. Well, what I mean to say is, I'd much rather take a chance of getting a bullet in the old bean than that, so loose it off and the best of luck. Miss Silverton lowered the pistol, sank into a chair, and burst into tears. I think you're the meanest man I ever met, she sobbed. You know perfectly well the bang would send me into a fit. In that case, said Archie, relieved, cheerio, good luck, pip-pip, toodle-loo, and good-bye, I'll be shifting. Yes, you will, cried Miss Silverton, energetically recovering with amazing swiftness from her collapse. Yes, you will, I by no means suppose. You think just because I'm no champion with a pistol I'm helpless. You wait. Percy! My name is not Percy. I never said it was. Percy, Percy, come to Mother! There was a creaking rustle from behind the arm-chair. A heavy body flopped on the carpet. Out into the room, heaving himself along as though sleep had stiffened his joints, and breathing sturdiously through his tilted nose moved the fine bull-dog. Seen in the open, he looked even more formidable than he had done in his basket. Guard him, Percy! Good dog, guard him! O heavens, what's the matter with him? And with these words the emotional woman, uttering a wail of anguish, flung herself on the floor beside the animal. Percy was indeed in manifestly bad shape. He seemed quite unable to drag his limbs across the room. There was a curious arch in his back, and as his mistress touched him, he cried out, plaintively. Percy! Oh, what is the matter with him? His nose is burning! Now was the time, with both sections of the enemy's forces occupied, for Archie to have departed softly from the room. But never, since the day when at the age of eleven he had carried a large, damp and muddy terrier with a sore foot three miles and deposited him on the best sofa in his mother's drawing-room had he been able to ignore the spectacle of a dog in trouble. He does look bad, what? He's dying! Oh, he's dying! Is it distemper? He's never had distemper! Archie regarded the sufferer with the grave eye of the expert. He shook his head. It's not that, he said. Dogs with distemper make a sort of sniffing noise. But he is making a sniffing noise. No, he's making a snuffling noise. Great difference between snuffling and sniffing. Not the same thing at all. I mean to say, when they sniffed, they sniffed, and when they snuffle they, as it were, snuffle. That's how you can tell. If you ask me, he passed his hand over the dog's back. Percy uttered another cry. I know what's the matter with him. A brute of a man kicked him at rehearsal. Do you think he's injured internally? It's rheumatism, said Archie. Jolly old rheumatism. That's all that's the trouble. Are you sure? Absolutely. But what can I do? Give him a good hot bath and mind and dry him well. He'll have a good sleep, then, and won't have any pain. Then first thing to-morrow, you want to give him salicylate of soda. I'll never remember that. I'll write it down for you. You ought to give him from ten to twenty grains three times a day, in an ounce of water, and rub him with any good ambrocation. And he won't die? Die! He'll live to be as old as you are. I mean to say. I could kiss you, said Miss Silverton emotionally. Archie backed hastily. No, no, absolutely not. Nothing like that required, really. You're a darling. Yes, I mean no, no, no, really. I don't know what to say. What can I say? Good night, said Archie. I wish there was something I could do. If you hadn't been here, I should have gone off my head. A great idea flashed across Archie's brain. Do you really want to do something? Anything. Then I do wish, like a dear sweet soul, you would pop straight back to New York to-morrow and go on with those rehearsals. Miss Silverton shook her head. I can't do that. Oh, right, oh! But it isn't much to ask, what? Not much to ask. I'll never forgive that man for kicking Percy. Now, listen, dear old soul, you've got the story all wrong. As a matter of fact, jolly old Benham told me himself that he has the greatest esteem and respect for Percy and wouldn't have kicked him for the world. And you know it was more a sort of push than a kick. You might almost call it a light shove. The fact is, it was beastly dark in the theatre, and he was legging at sideways for some reason or other, no doubt with the best motives, and, unfortunately, he happened to stub his toe on the poor old bean. Then why didn't he say so? As far as I could make out, you didn't give him the chance. Miss Silverton wavered. I always hate going back after I've walked out on a show, she said. It seems so weak. Not a bit of it. They'll give three hearty cheers and think you a topper. Besides, you've got to go to New York in any case. To take Percy to a vet, you know, what? Of course. How right you always are, Miss Silverton hesitated again. Would you really be glad if I went back to the show? I'd go singing about the hotel. Great pal of mine, Benham. A thoroughly cheery old bean, and very cut up by the whole affair. Besides, think of all the coves thrown out of work. The thingamabobs and the poor, what do you call them? Very well. You'll do it? Yes. I say you really are one of the best. Absolutely like Mother Maid. That's fine. Well, I think I'll be saying good night. Good night, and thank you so much. Oh no, rather not. Archie moved to the door. Oh, by the way. Yes? If I were you, I think I should catch the very first train you can get to New York. You see, uh, you ought to take Percy to the vet as soon as ever you can. You really do think of everything, said Miss Silverton. Yes, said Archie meditatively. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of In Discretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse Read by Mark Nelson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org In Discretions of Archie Chapter 14 The Sad Case of Looney Biddle Archie was a simple soul, and as is the case with most simple souls, gratitude came easily to him. He appreciated kind treatment. And when, on the following day, Lucille returned to the hermitage all smiles and affection, and made no further reference to beauty's eyes and the flies that got into them, he was conscious of a keen desire to show some solid recognition of this magnanimity. Few wives, he was aware, could have had the nobility and whatnot to refrain from occasionally turning the conversation in the direction of the above mentioned topics. It had not needed this behavior on her part to convince him that Lucille was a topper and a corker and one of the very best, for he had been cognizant of these facts since the first moment he had met her. But what he did feel was that she deserved to be rewarded in no uncertain manner, and it seemed a happy coincidence to him that her birthday should be coming along in the next week or so. Surely something would come along to relieve his chronic impicuniosity for just sufficient length of time to enable him to spread himself on this great occasion. And, as if in direct answer to prayer, an almost forgotten aunt in England suddenly, out of an absolutely blue sky, shot no less a sum than five hundred dollars across the ocean. The present was so lavish and unexpected that Archie had the odd feeling of one who participates in a miracle. He felt, like Herbert Parker, that the righteous was not forsaken. It was the sort of thing that restored a fellow's faith in human nature. For nearly a week he went about in a happy trance. And when, by thrift and enterprise, that is to say, by betting Reggie Vanteel that the New York Giants would win the opening game of the series against the Pittsburgh baseball team, he contrived to double his capital, what it amounted to was simply that life had nothing more to offer. He was actually in a position to go to a thousand dollars for Lucille's birthday present. He gathered in Mr. Vanteel, of whose taste in these matters he had a high opinion, and dragged him off to a jeweler's on Broadway. The jeweler, a stout, comfortable man, leaned on the counter and fingered lovingly the bracelet which he had lifted out of its nest of blue plush. Archie, leaning on the other side of the counter, inspected the bracelet searchingly, wishing that he knew more about these things. For he had rather a sort of idea that the merchant was scheming to do him in the eyeball. In a chair by his side Reggie Vanteel, half asleep as usual, yawned despondently. He had permitted Archie to lug him into this shop, and he wanted to buy something and go. Any form of sustained concentration fatigued Reggie. Now this, said the jeweler, I could do at eight hundred and fifty dollars. Grab it! murmured Mr. Vanteel. The jeweler eyed him approvingly, a man after his own heart. But Archie looked doubtful. It was all very well for Reggie to tell him to grab it in that careless way. Reggie was a dashed millionaire, and no doubt bought bracelets by the pound or the gross or what not, but he himself was in an entirely different position. Eight hundred and fifty dollars, he said, hesitating. Worth it! mumbled Reggie Vanteel. More than worth it! amended the jeweler. I can assure you that it is better value than you could get anywhere on Fifth Avenue. Yes, said Archie. He took the bracelet and twiddled it thoughtfully. Well, my dear old jeweler, one can't say fairer than that can one, or two as the case may be. He frowned. Oh well, all right, but it's rummy that women are so fearfully keen on these little thingummies, isn't it? I mean to say, can't see what they see in them. Stones and all that. Still, there it is, of course. There, said the jeweler, as you say it is, sir. Yes, there it is. Yes, there it is, said the jeweler. Fortunately for people in my line of business. Will you take it with you, sir? Archie reflected. No, no, not take it with me. The fact is, you know, my wife's coming back from the country to-night, and it's her birthday to-morrow, and the things for her, and if it was popping about the place to-night, she might see it, and it would sort of spoil the surprise. I mean to say, she doesn't know I'm giving it to her and all that. Besides, said Reggie, achieving a certain animation now that the tedious business interview was concluded, going to the ball-game this afternoon, might get pocket-picked. Yes, better have it said. Where shall I send it, sir? Eh? Oh, shoot it along to Mrs. Archibald Moom at the Cosmopolis. Not to-day, you know. Buzz it in first thing to-morrow. Having completed the satisfactory deal, the jeweler threw off the business manner and became chatty. So, you are going to the ball-game. It should be an interesting contest. Reggie Vantille, now, by his own standards, completely awake, took exception to this remark. Not a bit of it, he said decidedly. No contest. Can't call it a contest. Walk over for the pirates. Archie was stung to the quick. There is that about baseball which arouses enthusiasm and the partisan spirit in the unlikeliest bosoms. It is almost impossible for a man to live in America, and not become gripped by the game, and Archie had long been one of its warmest adherents. He was a whole-hearted supporter of the giants, and his only grievance against Reggie, in other respects an estimable young man, was that the latter, whose money had been inherited from steel mills in that city, had an absurd regard for the pirates of Pittsburgh. What absolute ballerote, he exclaimed. Look what the giants did to them yesterday. Yesterday isn't today, said Reggie. No, it'll be a jolly sight worse, said Archie. Looney Biddle will be pitching for the giants today. That's just what I mean. The pirates have got him rattled. Look what happened last time. Archie understood, and his generous nature chafed at the innuendo. Looney Biddle, so called by an affectionately admiring public as the result of certain marked eccentricities, was beyond dispute the greatest left-handed pitcher New York had possessed in the last decade. But there was one blot on Mr. Biddle's otherwise stainless scutcheon. Five weeks before, on the occasion of the giants' invasion of Pittsburgh, he had gone mysteriously to pieces. Few native-born partisans, brought up to baseball from the cradle, had been plunged into a profounder gloom on that occasion than Archie. But his soul revolted at the thought that that sort of thing could ever happen again. I'm not saying, continued Reggie, that Biddle isn't a very fair pitcher, but it's cruel to send him against the pirates, and somebody ought to stop it. His best friend should interfere. Once a team gets a pitcher rattled, he's never any good against them again. He loses his nerve. The jeweler nodded approval of this sentiment. They never come back, he said, sententiously. The fighting blood of the Mooms was now thoroughly stirred. Archie eyed his friend sternly. Reggie was a good chap, in many respects, an extremely sound egg, but he must not be allowed to talk rot of this description about the greatest left-handed pitcher of the age. It seems to me, old companion, he said, that a small bet is indicated at this juncture. How about it? Don't want to take your money. You won't have to. In the cool twilight of the merry old summer evening, I, friend of my youth and companion of my riper years, shall be trousers ring yours. Reggie yawned. The day was very hot, and this argument was making him feel sleepy again. Well, just as you like, of course, double or quits on yesterday's bet, if that suits you. For a moment Archie hesitated. Firm as his faith was in Mr. Biddle's stout left arm, he had not intended to do the thing on quite this scale. That thousand dollars of his was earmarked for Lucille's birthday present, and he doubted whether he ought to risk it. Then the thought that the honor of New York was in his hands decided him. Besides, the risk was negligible. Betting on Looney Biddle was like betting on the probable rise of the sun in the east. The thing began to seem to Archie a rather unusually sound and conservative investment. He remembered that the jeweler, until he drew him firmly but kindly to earth and urged him to curb his exuberance and talk business on a reasonable plane, had started brandishing bracelets that cost about two thousand. There would be time to pop in at the shop this evening after the game and change the one he had selected for one of those. Nothing was too good for Lucille on her birthday. Righto, he said, make it so, old friend! Archie walked back to the Cosmopolis. No misgivings came to mar his perfect contentment. He felt no qualms about separating Reggie from another thousand dollars, except for a little small change in the possession of the Messieurs Rockefeller and Vincent Astor, Reggie had all the money in the world and could afford to lose. He hummed a gay air as he entered the lobby and crossed to the cigar stand to buy a few cigarettes to see him through the afternoon. The girl behind the cigar counter welcomed him with a bright smile. Archie was popular with all the employees of the Cosmopolis. Say, great day, Mr. Moom! One of the brightest and best, agreed Archie. Could you dig me out two or possibly three cigarettes of the usual description? I shall want something to smoke at the ballgame. You going to the ballgame? Rather, wouldn't miss it for a fortune. No. Absolutely no. Not with jolly old biddle pitching. The cigar stand girl laughed amusedly. Is he pitching this afternoon? Say, that fellers a nut. Do you know him? Know him? Well, I've seen him pitch and so forth. I've got a girlfriend who's engaged to him. Archie looked at her with positive respect. It would have been more dramatic, of course, if she had been engaged to the great man herself, but still the mere fact that she had a girlfriend in that astounding position gave her a sort of halo. No, really, he said. I say, by jove, really? Fancy that. Yes, she's engaged to him all right. Been engaged close on a couple of months now. I say, that's frightfully interesting. Fearfully interesting, really. It's funny about that guy, said the cigar stand girl. He's a nut. The fellow who said there's plenty of room at the top must have been thinking of Gus Biddle's head. He's crazy about my girlfriend, you know, and whenever they have a fuss it seems like he sort of flies right off the handle. Goes off the deep end, eh? Yes, sir. Loses what little sense he's got. Why, the last time he and my girlfriend got to scrapping was when he was going on to Pittsburgh to play, about a month ago. He'd been out with her the day he left for there, and he had a grouch or something, and he started making low, sneaky cracks about her Uncle Sig's bee. Well, my girlfriend's got a nice disposition, but she can get mad, and she just left him flat and told him it was all over. And he went off to Pittsburgh, and when he started into pitching the opening game, he just couldn't keep his mind on his job. And look what them assassin's done to him. Five runs in the first innings. Yes, sir, he's a nut all right. Archie was deeply concerned. So this was the explanation of that mysterious disaster, that weird tragedy which had puzzled the sporting press from coast to coast. Good God! Is he often taken like that? Oh, he's all right when he hasn't had a fuss with my girlfriend, said the cigar-stand girl, indifferently. Her interest in baseball was tepid. Women are too often like this. Mere butterflies with no concern for the deeper side of life. Yes, but I say. What I mean to say, you know, are they pretty pally now? The good old dove of peace, flapping its little wings fairly briskly and all that? Oh, I guess everything's nice and smooth just now. I seen my girlfriend yesterday, and Gus was taking her to the movies last night, so I guess everything's nice and smooth. Archie breathed a sigh of relief. Took her to the movies, did he? Stout fellow. I was at the funniest picture last week, said the cigar-stand girl. Honest, it was a scream. It was like this. Archie listened politely, then went in to get a bite of lunch. His equanimity, shaken by the discovery of the rift in the peerless one's armor, was restored. Good old Biddle had taken the girl to the movies last night. Probably he had squeezed her hand a goodish bit in the dark. With what result? Why, the fellow would be feeling like one of those chappies who used to joust for the smiles of females in the Middle Ages. What he meant to say, presumably the girl would be at the game this afternoon, whooping him on, and good old Biddle would be so full of beans and buck that there would be no holding him. Encouraged by these thoughts, Archie had lunched with an untroubled mind. Luncheon concluded he proceeded to the lobby to buy back his hat and stick from the boy brigand with whom he had left them. It was while he was conducting this financial operation that he observed that at the cigar stand, which joined the coat and hat alcove, his friend behind the counter had become engaged in conversation with another girl. This was a determined-looking young woman in a blue dress and a large hat of a bold and flowery species. Archie, happening to attract her attention, she gave him a glance out of a pair of fine brown eyes, then, as if she did not think much of him, turned to her companion and resumed their conversation, which, being of an essentially private and intimate nature, she conducted, after the manner of her kind, in a ringing soprano which penetrated into every corner of the lobby. Archie, waiting while the brigand reluctantly made change for a dollar bill, was privileged to hear her every word. Right from the start I could see he was in a ugly mood. You know how he gets, dearie, chewing his upper lip and looking at you as if you were so much dirt beneath his feet. How was I to know he'd lost fifteen dollars fifty-five playing poker? In any way, I don't see where he gets a license to work off his grouches on me. And I told him so. I said to him, Gus, I said, if you can't be bright and smiling and cheerful when you take me out, why do you come round at all? Was I wrong or right, dearie? The girl behind the counter heartily endorsed her conduct. Once you let a man think he can use you as a doormat, where are you? What happened then, honey? Well, after that we went to the movies. Archie started convulsively. The change from his dollar bill leaped in his hand. Some of it sprang overboard and tinkled across the floor, with the brigand in pursuit. A monstrous suspicion had begun to take root in his mind. Well, we got good seats, but, well, you know how it is once things start going wrong. You know that hat of mine, the one with the daisies and cherries and the feather? I'd taken it off and given it to him to hold when we went in. And what do you think that fellered done? Put it on the floor and crammed it under the seat, just to save himself the trouble of holding it on his lap. And when I showed him I was upset, all he said was that he was a pitcher and not a hat stand. Archie was paralyzed. He paid no attention to the hat-check boy, who was trying to induce him to accept treasure trove to the amount of forty-five cents. His whole being was concentrated on this frightful tragedy, which had burst upon him like a tidal wave. No possible room for doubt remained. Gus was the only Gus in New York that mattered, and this resolute and injured female before him was the girlfriend in who Slim Hands rested the happiness of New York's baseball followers, the destiny of the unconscious giants, and the fate of his thousand dollars. A strangled croak proceeded from his parched lips. Well, I didn't say anything at the moment. It just shows how them movies can work on a girl's feelings. It was a bright Washburn film, and, somehow, whenever I see him on the screen, nothing else seems to matter. I just get that gooey feeling and couldn't start a fight if you asked me to. So we go off to have a soda, and I said to him, that sure was a lovely film, Gus. And would you believe me? He says straight out that he didn't think it was such a much, and he thought Bryant Washburn was a pill, a pill! The girlfriend's penetrating voice shook with emotion. He never exclaimed the shocked cigar stand girl. He did if I died the next moment. I wasn't more than halfway through my vanilla and maple, but I got up without a word and left him, and I ain't seen a sight of him since. So there you are, dearie. Was I right or wrong? The cigar stand girl gave unqualified approval. What men like Gus Biddle needed for the salvation of their souls was an occasional good jolt right where it would do most good. I'm glad you think I acted right, dearie, said the girlfriend. I guess I've been too weak with Gus, and he's took advantage of it. I suppose I'll have to forgive him one of these old days, but believe me, it won't be for a week. The cigar stand girl was in favor of a fortnight. No, said the girlfriend regretfully. I don't believe I could hold out that long, but if I speak to him inside a week, well, well, I gotta be going. Goodbye, honey. The cigar stand girl turned to attend to an impatient customer, and the girlfriend, walking with the firm and decisive steps which indicate character, made for the swing-door leading to the street. And as she went, the paralysis which had pipped Archie released its hold. Still ignoring the forty-five cents which the boy continued to proffer, he leaped in her wake like a panther and came upon her just as she was stepping into a car. The car was full, but not too full for Archie. He dropped his five cents into the box and reached for a vacant strap. He looked down upon the flowered hat. There she was, and there he was. Archie rested his left ear against the forearm of a long, strongly built young man in a gray suit who had followed him into the car and was sharing his strap and pondered. End of Chapter 14 CHAPTER XV Of course, in a way, the thing was simple. The wheeze was, in a sense, straightforward and uncomplicated. What he wanted to do was to point out to the injured girl all that hung on her. He wished to touch her heart, to plead with her, to desire her to restate her war aims, and to persuade her, before three o'clock when that stricken gentleman would be stepping into the pitcher's box to loose off the first ball against the Pittsburgh Pirates, to let bygones be bygones and forgive Augustus Biddle. But the blighted problem was how the deuce to find the opportunity to start. He couldn't yell at the girl in a crowded streetcar, and if you let go of his strap and bent over her, somebody would step on his neck. The girlfriend, who for the first five minutes had remained entirely concealed beneath her hat, now sought diversion by looking up and examining the faces of the upper strata of passengers. Her eye caught Archies in a glance of recognition, and he smiled feebly, endeavouring to register bon ami and good will. He was surprised to see a startle expression come into her brown eyes. Her face turned pink. At least, it was pink already, but it turned pinker. The next moment, the car, having stopped to pick up more passengers, she jumped off and started to hurry across the street. Archie was momentarily taken aback. When embarking on this business, he had never intended it to become a blend of otter hunting and a moving picture chase. He followed her off the car with a sense that his grip on the affair was slipping. Preoccupied with these thoughts, he did not perceive that the long young man who had shared his strap had alighted too. His eyes were fixed on the vanishing figure of the girlfriend, who, having buzzed at a smart pace into Sixth Avenue, was now legging it in the direction of the staircase leading to one of the stations of the elevated railroad. Dashing up the stairs after her, he shortly afterwards found himself suspended as before from a strap, gazing upon the now familiar flowers on top of her hat. From another strap farther down the carriage swayed the long young man in the gray suit. The train rattled on. Once or twice, when it stopped, the girl seemed undecided whether to leave or remain. She half rose, then sank back again. Finally she walked resolutely out of the car, and Archie, following, found himself in a part of New York strange to him. The inhabitants of this district appeared to eke out a precarious existence, not by taking in one another's washing, but by selling one another second-hand clothes. Archie glanced at his watch. He had lunched early, but so crowded with emotions had been the period following lunch that he was surprised to find that the hour was only just two. The discovery was a pleasant one. With a full hour before the schedule start of the game much might be achieved. He hurried after the girl and came up with her just as she turned the corner into one of those forlorn New York side streets, which are populated chiefly by children, cats, desultery loafers, and empty meat-tins. The girl stopped and turned. Archie smiled a winning smile. I say, my dear sweet creature, he said. I say, my dear old thing, one moment. Is that so? said the girlfriend. I beg your pardon. Is that so? Archie began to feel certain tremors. Her eyes were gleaming, and her determined mouth had become a perfectly straight line of scarlet. It was going to be difficult to be chatty to this girl. She was going to be a hard audience. Would mere words be able to touch her heart? The thought suggested itself that, properly speaking, one would need to use a pickaxe. If you could spare me a couple of minutes of your valuable time. Say, the lady drew herself up menacingly. You tie a can to yourself and disappear. Fade away, or I'll call a cop. Archie was horrified at this misinterpretation of his motives. One or two children, playing close at hand, and a loafer who was trying to keep the wall from falling down seemed pleased. There's was a colorless existence, and to the rare purple moments which had enlivened it in the past the calling of a cop had been the unfailing preliminary. The loafer nudged a fellow loafer, sunning himself against the same wall. The children, abandoning the meat-tin round which their game had centered, drew closer. My dear old soul, said Archie, you don't understand. Don't I? I know your sort, you trailing arbutus. No, no, my dear old thing, believe me, I wouldn't dream. Are you going, or aren't you? Eleven more children joined the ring of spectators. The loafers stared silently, like awakened crocodiles. But I say, listen, I only wanted, at this point, another voice spoke. Say! The word say, more almost than any word in the American language, is capable of a variety of shades of expression. It can be genial, it can be jovial, it can be appealing, it can also be truculent. The say, which at this juncture smote upon Archie's eardrum, with a suddenness which made him leap in the air, was truculent, and the two loafers and twenty-seven children, who now form the audience, were well satisfied with the dramatic development of the performance. To their experienced ears the word had the right ring. Archie spun round. At his elbow stood a long, strongly built young man in a gray suit. Wow! said the young man, nastily. And he extended the large, freckled face toward Archie's. It seemed to the latter, as he backed against the wall, that the young man's neck must be composed of India rubber. It appeared to be growing longer every moment. His face, besides being freckled, was a dull brick red in color. His lips curled back in an unpleasant snarl, showing a gold tooth. And beside him, swaying in an ominous sort of way, hung two clenched red hands about the size of two young legs of mutton. Archie eyed him with a growing apprehension. There are moments in life, when, passing idly on our way, we see a strange face, look into strange eyes, and with a sudden glow of human warmth say to ourselves, We have found a friend. This was not one of those moments. The only person Archie had ever seen in his life, who looked less friendly, was the sergeant major, who had trained him in the early days of the war, before he got his commission. I've had my eye on you, said the young man. He still had his eye on him. It was a hot, gimlet-like eye, and it pierced the recesses of Archie's soul. He backed a little farther against the wall. Archie was, frankly, disturbed. He was no pole-troon, and had proved the fact on many occasions during the days when the entire German army seemed to be picking on him personally. But he hated and shrank from anything in the nature of a belly-public scene. What! inquired the young man, still bearing the burden of the conversation, and shifting his left hand a little farther behind his back. Do you mean by following this young lady? Archie was glad he had asked him. This was precisely what he wanted to explain. My dear old lad, he began. In spite of the fact that he had asked a question, and presumably desired to reply, the sound of Archie's voice seemed to be more than the young man could endure. It deprived him of the last vestige of restraint. With a rasping snarl, he brought his left fist round in a sweeping semicircle in the direction of Archie's head. Archie was known novice in the art of self-defense. Since his early days at school, he had learned much from the leather-faced professors of the science. He had been watching this unpleasant young man's eyes with close attention, and the latter could not have indicated his scheme of action more clearly if he had sent him a formal note. Archie saw the swing all the way. He stepped nimbly aside, and the fist crashed against the wall. The young man fell back with a yelp of anguish. Guss! screamed the girlfriend, bounding forward. She flung her arms round the injured man, who was ruefully examining a hand, which, always of an outsize, was now swelling to still further dimensions. Guss! Darling! A sudden chill gripped Archie. So engrossed had he been with his mission that it had never occurred to him that the love-lorn pitcher might have taken it into his head to follow the girl as well in the hope of putting in a word for himself. Yet such apparently had been the case. Well, this had definitely torn it. Two loving hearts were united again in complete reconciliation. But a fat lot of good that was. It would be days before the misguided Looney Biddle would be able to pitch with a hand like that. It looked like a ham already, and was still swelling. Probably the wrist was sprained. For at least a week the greatest left-handed pitcher of his time would be about as much used to the giants in any professional capacity as a cold in the head. And on that crippled hand depended the fate of all the money Archie had in the world. He wished now that he had not thwarted the fellow's simple enthusiasm. To have had his head knocked forcibly through a brick wall would not have been pleasant, but the ultimate outcome would not have been as unpleasant as this. With a heavy heart Archie prepared to withdraw, to be alone with his sorrow. At this moment, however, the girlfriend, releasing her wounded lover, made a sudden dash for him, with the plainest intention of blotting him from the earth. No, I say really, said Archie, bounding backwards, I mean to say, in a series of events all of which had been a bit thick, this, in his opinion, achieved the maximum of thickness. It was the extreme, ragged, outside edge of the limit. To brawl with a fellow man in a public street had been bad, but to be brawled with by a girl the shot was not on the board. Absolutely not on the board. There was only one thing to be done. It was dashed undignified, no doubt, for a fellow to pick up the old walkesis and leg it in the face of the enemy, but there was no other course. Archie started to run, and as he did so, one of the loafers made the mistake of gripping him by the collar of his coat. I got him, observed the loafer. There is a time for all things. This was essentially not the time for any one of the male sex to grip the collar of Archie's coat. If a syndicate of Dempsey, Carpentier, and one of the zoo gorillas had endeavored to stay his progress at that moment, they would have had reason to consider it a rash move. Archie wanted to be elsewhere, and the blood of generations of mooms, many of whom had swung a wicked axe in the free-for-all mix-ups of the Middle Ages, boiled within him at any attempt to revise his plans. There was a good deal of the loafer, but it was all soft. Releasing his hold when Archie's heel took him shrewdly on the shin, he received a nasty punch in what would have been the middle of his waistcoat if he had worn one, uttered a gurgling bleat like a wounded sheep and collapsed against the wall. Archie, with a torn coat, rounded the corner and sprinted down Ninth Avenue. The suddenness of the move gave him an initial advantage. He was halfway down the first block before the vanguard of the pursuit poured out of the side street. Continuing to travel well, he skimmed past a large dray which had pulled up across the road and moved on. The noise of those who pursued was loud and clamorous in the rear, but the dray hid him momentarily from their sight, and it was this fact which led Archie, the old campaigner, to take his next step. It was perfectly obvious. He was aware of this even in the novel excitement of the chase, that a chapie couldn't hoof it at 25 miles an hour indefinitely along a main thoroughfare of a great city without exciting remark. He must take cover. Cover! That was the wheeze he looked about him for cover. You want a nice suit? It takes a great deal to startle your commercial New Yorker. The small tailor, standing in his doorway, seemed in no way surprised at the spectacle of Archie, whom he had seen pass at a conventional walk some five minutes before, returning like this at top speed. He assumed that Archie had suddenly remembered that he wanted to buy something. This was exactly what Archie had done. More than anything else in the world, what he wanted to do now was to get into that shop and have a long talk about gents' clothing. Pulling himself up abruptly, he shot past the small tailor into the dim interior. A confused aroma of cheap clothing greeted him. Except for a small oasis behind a grubby counter, practically all the available space was occupied by suits. Stiff suits, looking like the body when discovered by the police, hung from hooks. Limp suits, with the appearance of having swooned from exhaustion, lay about on chairs and boxes. The place was a cloth morgue, a Sargasso sea of surge. Archie would not have had it otherwise. In these quiet groves of clothing, a regiment could have lain hid. Something nifty and tweeds inquired the business-like proprietor of this haven, following him amably into the shop. Or maybe, yes, a nice surge. Say, Mr., I've got a sweet thing and a blue surge that'll fit you like the paper on the wall. Archie wanted to talk about clothes, but not yet. I say laddy, he said hurriedly, lend me your ear for half a jiffy. Outside, the baying of the pack had become imminent. Stow me away for a moment in the undergrowth and I'll buy anything you want. He withdrew into the jungle. The noise outside grew in volume. The pursuit had been delayed for a priceless few instance by the arrival of another drae, moving northwards, which had drawn level with the first drae and dexterously bottled up the fairway. This obstacle had now been overcome, and the original searchers, their ranks swelled by a few dozen more of the ledgered classes, were hot on the trail again. You'd done a murder? inquired the voice of the proprietor, mildly interested, filtering through a wall of cloth. Well, boys will be boys, he said philosophically. See anything there that you like? There are some sweet things there. I'm inspecting them narrowly, replied Archie. If you don't let those chappies find me, I shouldn't be surprised if I bought one. One, said the proprietor, with a touch of austerity. Two, said Archie quickly, or possibly three or six. The proprietor's cordiality returned. You can't have too many nice suits, he said approvingly. Not a young feller like you that wants to look nice. All the nice girls like a young feller that dresses nice. When you go out of here in a suit I got hanging up there at the back, the girls will be all over you, like flies round a honey-pot. Would you mind, said Archie, would you mind, as a personal favorite to me, old companion, not mentioning that word, girls? He broke off. A heavy foot had crossed the threshold of the shop. Say, Uncle, said a deep voice, one of those beastly voices that only the most poisonous blighters have. You see a young feller run past here. Young feller. The proprietor appeared to reflect. Do you mean a young feller in blue with a Homburg hat? That's the duck. We lost him. Where did he go? Him? Why, he come running past, quick as he could go. I wondered what he was running for, a hot day like this. He went round the corner at the bottom of the block. There was silence. Well, I guess he's got away, said the voice regretfully. The way he was traveling, agreed the proprietor, I would be surprised if he was in Europe by this. You want a nice suit? The other, curtly expressing a wish that the proprietor would go to eternal perdition and take his entire stock with him, stomped out. This, said the proprietor, tranquilly burrowing his way to where Archie stood and exhibiting a saffron-colored outrage, which appeared to be a poor relation of the flannel family, would put you back fifty dollars, and cheap. Fifty dollars? Sixty, I said. I don't speak always distinct. Archie regarded the distressing garment with a shuddering horror. A young man with an educated taste in clothes, it got right in among his nerve-centers. But, honestly, old soul, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but that isn't a suit. It's just a regrettable incident. The proprietor turned to the door in a listening attitude. I believe I hear that feller coming back, he said. Archie gulped. How about trying it on, he said? I'm not sure, after all, it isn't fairly ripe. That's the way to talk, said the proprietor, curtly. You try it on. You can't judge a suit, not a real nice suit like this, by looking at it. You want to put it on. There! He led the way to a dusty mirror at the back of the shop. Isn't that a bargain at seventy dollars? Why, say, your mother would be proud if she could see her boy now. A quarter of an hour later, the proprietor, lovingly kneading a little sheaf of currency bills, eyed with a fond look the heap of clothes which lay on the counter. As nice a little lot as I've ever had in my shop. Archie did not deny this. It was, he thought, probably, only too true. I only wish I could see you walking up Fifth Avenue in them, rhapsodized the proprietor. You'll give them a treat. What are you going to do with them? Carry them under your arm? Archie shuddered strongly. Well, then, I can send them for you anywhere you like. It's all the same to me. Where'll I send them? Archie meditated. The future was black enough as it was. He shrank from the prospect of being confronted next day at the height of his misery with these appalling reach-me-downs. An idea struck him. Yes, send them, he said. What's the name and address? Daniel Brewster, said Archie, Hotel Cosmopolis. It was a long time since he had given his father-in-law a present. Archie went out into the street and began to walk pensively down a now-peaceful Ninth Avenue. Out of the depths that covered him, black as the pit from pole to pole, no single ray of hope came to cheer him. He could not, like the poet, thank whatever gods there be for his unconquerable soul, for his soul was licked to a splinter. He felt alone and friendless in a rotten world. With the best intentions he had succeeded only in landing himself squarely amongst the ribstons. Why had he not been content with his wealth, instead of risking it on that blighted bet with Reggie? Why had he trailed the girlfriend, Dasher? He might have known that he would only make an ass of himself, and, because he had done so, Looney Biddle's left hand, that priceless left hand before which opposing batters quailed and wilted, was out of action, resting in a sling, careened like a damaged battleship. And any chance the giants might have of beating the pirates was gone, gone, as surely as that thousand dollars which should have bought a birthday present for Lucille. A birthday present for Lucille! He groaned in bitterness of spirit. She would be coming back to-night, dear girl, all smiles and happiness, wondering what he was going to give her to-morrow. And when to-morrow dawned, all he would be able to give her would be a kind smile. A nice state of things, a jolly situation, a thoroughly good egg he did not think. It seemed to Archie that nature, contrary to her usual custom of indifference to human suffering, was mourning with him. The sky was overcast, and the sun had ceased to shine. There was a sort of somberness in the afternoon which fitted in with his mood. And then something splashed on his face. It says much for Archie's preoccupation that his first thought, as, after a few scattered drops as though the clouds were submitting samples for approval, the whole sky suddenly began to stream like a shower-bath, was that this was simply an additional infliction which he was called upon to bear. On top of all his other troubles he would get soaked to the skin or have to hang about in some doorway. He cursed richly and sped for shelter. The rain was setting about its work in earnest. The world was full of that rending, swishing sound which accompanies the more violent summer storms. Thunder crashed, and lightning flicked out of the grey heavens. Out in the street the raindrops bounded up off the stones like fairy fountains. Archie surveyed them morosely from his refuge in the entrance of a shop. And then suddenly, like one of those flashes which were lighting up the gloomy sky, a thought lit up his mind. By Jove! If this keeps up there won't be a ball-game today. With trembling fingers he pulled out his watch. The hands pointed to five minutes to three. A blessed vision came to him of a moist and disappointed crowd, receiving rainchecks up at the polo grounds. Switch it on, you blighters! He cried, addressing the leaden clouds. Switch it on, more and more! It was shortly before five o'clock that a young man bounded into a jeweler's shop near the hotel Cosmopolis. A young man who, in spite of the fact that his coat was torn near the collar, and that he oozed water from every inch of his drenched clothes, appeared in the highest spirits. It was only when he spoke that the jeweler recognized in the human sponge the immaculate youth who had looked in that morning to order a bracelet. I say, old lad, said this young man, you remember that jolly little what-not you showed me before lunch? The bracelet, sir. As you observe with a manly candor, which does you credit my dear old jeweler, the bracelet, well-produce, exhibit, and bring it forth, would you mind? Trot it out, slip it across on a lordly dish. You wished me, surely, to put it aside and send it to the Cosmopolis tomorrow. The young man tapped the jeweler earnestly on his substantial chest. What I wished, and what I wish now, are two ballet-separate and dashid distinct things, friend of my college days. Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today, and all that. I'm not taking any more chances. Not for me. For others, yes, but not for Archibald. Here are the doubloons. Produce the jolly bracelet. Thanks. The jeweler counted the notes with the same unction which Archie had observed earlier in the day in the proprietor of the second-hand clothes-shop. The process made him genial. A nasty wet day, sir, it's been, he observed, chattily. Archie shook his head. Old friend, he said, you're all wrong. Far otherwise, and not a bit like it, my dear old trafficker in gyms, you've put your finger on the one aspect of this blighted PM that really deserves credit and respect. Rarely in the experience of a lifetime have I encountered a day so absolutely belly in nearly every shape and form. But there was one thing that saved it, and that was its merry old wetness. Toodaloo, laddie! Good evening, sir, said the jeweler. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. In Discretions of Archie. Chapter 16. Archie accepts a situation. Lucille moved her wrist slowly round, the better to examine the new bracelet. You really are an angel, angel, she murmured. Like it, said Archie complacently. Like it? Why, it's gorgeous! It must have cost a fortune. Oh, nothing to speak of! Just a few hard-earned pieces of eight, just a few doubloons from the old oak-chest. But I didn't know there were any doubloons in the old oak-chest. Well, as a matter of fact, admitted Archie, at one point in the proceedings there weren't, but an auto-mine in England, piece beyond her head, happened to send me a chunk of the necessary at what you might call the psychological moment. And you spent it all on a birthday present for me. Archie, Lucille gazed at her husband adoringly. Archie, do you know what I think? What? You're the perfect man. No, really, what-ho? Yes, said Lucille firmly. I've long suspected it, and now I know. I don't think there's anybody like you in the world. Archie padded her hand. It's a rummy thing, he observed, but your father said almost exactly that to me only yesterday. Only, don't fancy he met the same as you. To be absolutely frank, his exact expression was that he thanked God there was only one of me. A troubled look came into Lucille's gray eyes. It's a shame about father. I do wish he appreciated you, but you mustn't be too hard on him. Me, said Archie, hard on your father. Well, dash it all, I don't think I treat him with what you might call actual brutality, but I mean to say my whole idea is rather to keep out of the old lad's way, and curl up in a ball if I can't dodge him. I'd just as soon be hard on a stampeding elephant. I wouldn't for the world say anything derogatory, as it were, to your jolly old pata, but there is no getting away from the fact that he's by way of being one of our leading man-eating fishers. It would be idle to deny that he considers that you let down the proud old name of Brewster a bit when you brought me in and laid me on the mat. Anyone would be lucky to get you for a son-in-law precious. I fear me, light of my life, that Da doesn't see eye to eye with you on that point. No, every time I get hold of a daisy I give him another chance, but it always works out he loves me not. You must make allowances for him, darling. Righto! But I hope devoutly that he doesn't catch me at it. I have a sort of idea that if the old da discovered that I was making allowances for him he would have from ten to fifteen fits. He's worry just now, you know. I didn't, though. He doesn't confide in me much. He's worried about that waiter. What waiter, queen of my soul? The man called Salvatore. Father dismissed him some time ago. Salvatore? Probably you don't remember him. He used to wait on this table. Why—and Father dismissed him, apparently, and now there's all sorts of trouble. You see, Father wants to build this new hotel of his, and he thought he'd got the site, and everything could start building right away. And now he finds that this man Salvatore's mother owns a little newspaper and tobacco shop right in the middle of the site, and there's no way of getting him out without buying the shop, and he won't sell. At least he's made his mother promise that she won't sell. A boy's best friend is his mother, said Archie approvingly. I had a sort of idea all along, so Father's in despair. Archie drew at his cigarette meditatively. I remember Chappy, a policeman he was, as a matter of fact, and incidentally, a fairly pronounced blighter, remarking to me some time ago that you could trample on the poor man's face, but you mustn't be surprised if he bit you in the leg while you were doing it. Apparently this is what has happened to the old dad. I had a sort of idea all along that old friend Salvatore would come out strong in the end if you only gave him time. Brainy sort of fella, great pal of mine. Lucille's small face lightened. She gazed at Archie with proud affection. She felt that she ought to have known that he was the one to solve this difficulty. You're wonderful, darling. Is he really a friend of yours? Absolutely. Many's the time he and I have chatted in this very grill room. Then it's all right. If you went to him and argued with him, he would agree to sell the shop and Father would be happy. Think how grateful Father would be to you. It would make all the difference. Archie turned this over in his mind. Something in that, he agreed. It would make him see what a pet Lampkin you really are. Well, said Archie, I'm bound to say that any scheme which what you might call culminates in your Father regarding me as a pet Lampkin ought to receive one's best attention. How much did he offer Salvatore for his shop? I don't know. There is Father. Call him over and ask him. Archie glanced over to where Mr. Brewster had sunk moodily into a chair at a neighbouring table. It was plain, even at that distance, that Daniel Brewster had his troubles and was bearing them with an ill grace. He was scowling absently at the tablecloth. You called him, said Archie, having inspected his formidable relative, you know him better. Let's go over to him. They crossed the room. Lucille sat down opposite her father. Archie draped himself over a chair in the background. Father, dear, said Lucille, Archie has got an idea. Archie, said Mr. Brewster, incredulously. This is me, said Archie, indicating himself with a spoon. The tall, distinguished looking bird. What new fool thing is he up to now? It's a splendid idea, Father. He wants to help you over your new hotel. What's to run it for me, I suppose? By Joe, said Archie, reflectively, that's not a bad scheme. I never thought of running an hotel. I shouldn't mind taking a stab at it. He has thought of a way of getting rid of Salvatore and his shop. For the first time, Mr. Brewster's interest in the conversation seemed to stir. He looked sharply at his son-in-law. He has, has he, he said. Archie balanced a roll on a fork and inserted a plate underneath. The roll bounded away into a corner. Sorry, said Archie. My fault, absolutely. I owe you a roll. I'll sign a bill for it. Oh, about this sportsman's Salvatore. Well, it's like this, you know. He and I are great pals. I've known him for years and years. At least, it seems like years and years. Lou was suggesting that I seek him out in his lair and ensnare him with my diplomatic manner and superior brain power and whatnot. It was your idea, precious, said Lucille. Mr. Brewster was silent. Much as it went against the grain to have to admit it, there seemed to be something in this. What do you propose to do? Become a jolly old ambassador. How much did you offer the chappy? Three thousand dollars. Twice as much as the place is worth. He's holding out on me for revenge. Ah! But how did you offer it to him? What? I mean to say, I bet you got your lawyer to write him a letter full of warehouses, preventures, and parties of the first part, and so forth. No good, old companion. Don't call me old companion. All wrong, laddie. Nothing like it, dear heart. No good at all, friend of my youth. Take it from your uncle Archibald. I'm a student of human nature, and I know a thing or two. That's not much, growled Mr. Brewster, who was finding his son-in-law superior manner a little trying. Now don't interrupt, father, said Lucille severely. Can't you see that Archie is going to be tremendously clever in a minute? He's got to show me. What you ought to do, said Archie, is to let me go and see him, taking the stuff in crackling bills. I'll roll them about on the table in front of him. That'll fetch him. He prodded Mr. Brewster encouragingly with a roll. I'll tell you what to do. Give me three thousand of the best and crispest, and I'll undertake to buy that shop. It can't fail, laddie. Don't call me laddie. Mr. Brewster pondered. Very well, he said at last. I didn't know you had so much sense, he added grudgingly. Oh, positively, said Archie, beneath a rugged exterior I hide a brain like a buzzsaw. Since I exude it, laddie, I drip with it. There were moments during the ensuing days when Mr. Brewster permitted himself to hope, but more frequently there were the moments when he told himself that a pronounced chomp like his son-in-law could not fail somehow to make a mess of the negotiations. His relief therefore, when Archie coveted into his private room and announced that he had succeeded, was great. You really managed to make that wop sell out? Archie brushed some papers off the desk with a careless gesture and seated himself on the vacant spot. Absolutely! I spoke to him as one old friend to another, sprayed the bills all over the place, and he sang a few bars from Rigoletto and signed on the dotted line. You're not such a fool as you look, owned Mr. Brewster. Archie scratched a match on the desk and lit a cigarette. It's a jolly little shop, he said. I took quite a fancy to it. Full of newspapers, don't you know, and cheap novels and some weird looking sort of chocolates, and cigars with the most fearfully attractive labels. I think I'll make a success of it. It's bang in the middle of a dash at good neighbourhood. One of these days somebody will be building a big hotel round about there, and that'll help trade a lot. I look forward to ending my days on the other side of the counter with a full set of white whiskers and a skullcap, beloved by everybody. Everybody'll say, oh, you must patronise that quaint, delightful old blighter. He's quite a character. Mr. Brewster's air of grim satisfaction had given way to a look of discomfort, almost of alarm. He presumed his son-in-law was merely indulging in badnage, but even so his words were not soothing. Well, I'm much obliged, he said. That infernal shop was holding up everything. Now I can start building right away. Archie raised his eyebrows. But, my dear old top, I'm sorry to spoil your daydreams and stop you chasing rainbows and all that, but aren't you forgetting that the shop belongs to me? I don't at all know that I want to sell, either. I gave you the money to buy that shop! And, dash it, generous of you it was, too, admitted Archie, unreservedly. It was the first money you ever gave me, and I shall always tell interviewers that it was you who founded my fortunes. Someday, when I'm the newspaper and tobacco shop king, I'll tell the world all about it in my autobiography. Mr. Brewster rose dangerously from his seat. Do you think you can hold me up, you, you worm? Well, said Archie, the way I look at it is this. Ever since we met, you've been after me to become one of the world's workers, and earn a living for myself and what not, and now I see a way to repay you for your confidence and encouragement. You'll look me up sometimes at the good old shop, won't you? He slid off the table and moved towards the door. There won't be any formalities where you are concerned. You can sign bills for any reasonable amount any time you want a cigar or a stick of chocolate. Well, toodaloo! Stop! Now what? How much do you want for that damn shop? I don't want money. I want a job. If you are going to take my life work away from me, you ought to give me something else to do. What job? You suggested it yourself the other day. I want to manage your new hotel. Don't be a fool. What do you know about managing an hotel? Nothing. It will be your pleasing task to teach me the business while the shanty is being run up. There was a pause while Mr. Brewster chewed three inches off a pen-holder. Very well, he said at last. Topping, said Archie. I knew you'd see it. I'll study your methods, what? Adding some of my own, of course. You know, I've thought of one improvement on the Cosmopolis already. Improvement on the Cosmopolis, cried Mr. Brewster, gashed in his finest feelings. Yes, there's one point where the old Cosmop slips up badly, and I'm going to see that it's corrected at my little shack. Customers will be entreated to leave their boots outside their doors at night, and they'll find them cleaned in the morning. Well, pip-pip, I must be popping. Time is money, you know, with us businessmen. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse Read by Mark Nelson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org Indiscretions of Archie Chapter 17 Brother Bill's Romance Her eyes, said Bill Brewster, are like, like, what's the word I want? He looked across at Lucille and Archie. Lucille was leaning forward with an eager and interested face. Archie was leaning back with his fingertips together and his eyes closed. This was not the first time since their meeting in Bill's auction rooms that his brother-in-law had touched on the subject of the girl he had become engaged to marry during his trip to England. Indeed, Brother Bill had touched on very little else, and Archie, though of a sympathetic nature and fond of his young relative, was beginning to feel that he had heard all he wished to hear about Mabel Winchester. Lucille, on the other hand, was absorbed. Her brother's recital had thrilled her. Like, said Bill, like, stars, suggested Lucille. Stars, said Bill, gratefully. Exactly the word. Twin stars shining in a clear sky on a summer night. Her teeth are like, what shall I say? Pearls? Pearls. And her hair is a lovely brown, like, leaves in autumn. In fact, concluded Bill, slipping down from the heights with something of a jerk. She's a corker, isn't she, Archie? Archie opened his eyes. Quite right, old top, he said. It was the only thing to do. What the devil are you talking about? demanded Bill coldly. He had been suspicious all along of Archie's statement that he could listen better with his eyes shut. Hey, oh, sorry, thinking of something else. You were asleep. No, no, positively and distinctly not. Frightfully interested and wrapped in all that, only I didn't quite get what you said. I said that Mabel was a corker. Oh, absolutely in every respect. There! Bill turned to Lucille triumphantly. You hear that? And Archie has only seen her photograph, wait till he sees her in the flesh. My dear old chap, said Archie, shocked. Ladies present, I mean to say what. I'm afraid that father will be the one you'll find it hard to convince. Yes, admitted her brother gloomily. Your Mabel sounds perfectly charming. But, well, you know what father is. It is a pity she sings in the chorus. She hasn't much of a voice, argued Bill in extenuation. All the same. Archie, the conversation having reached a topic on which he considered himself one of the greatest living authorities, to wit the unlovable disposition of his father-in-law, addressed the meeting as one who has a right to be heard. Lucille's absolutely right, old thing. Absolutely correcto. Your esteemed progenitor is a pretty tough nut. And it's no good trying to get away from it. And I'm sorry to have to say it, old bird, but if you come bounding in with that part of the personnel of the ensemble on your arm, and try to dig a father's blessing out of him, he's extremely apt to stab you in the gizzard. I wish, said Bill, annoyed, you wouldn't talk as though Mabel were the ordinary kind of chorus girl. She's only on the stage because her mother's hard up, and she wants to educate her little brother. I say, said Archie, concerned, take my tip, old top, in chatting the matter over with the pater, don't dwell too much on that aspect of the affair. I've been watching him closely, and it's about all he can stick having to support me. If you ring in a mother and a little brother on him, he'll crack under the strain. Well, I've got to do something about it. Mabel will be over here in a week. Great, Scott, you never told us that! Yes, she's going to be in the new Billington show, and, naturally, she will expect to meet my family. I've told her all about you. Did you explain father to her, asked Lucille? Well, I just said she mustn't mind him, as his bark was worse than his bite. Well, said Archie thoughtfully, he hasn't bitten me yet, so you may be right. But you've got to admit that he's a bit of a barker. Lucille considered. Really, Bill, I think your best plan would be to go straight to father and tell him the whole thing. You don't want him to hear about it in a roundabout way. The trouble is that, whenever I'm with father, I can't think of anything to say. Archie found himself envying his father-in-law this merciful dispensation of providence, for, where he himself was concerned, there had been no lack of eloquence on Bill's part. In the brief period in which he had known him, Bill had talked all the time and always on the one topic. As unpromising a subject as the tariff-laws was easily diverted by him to a discussion of the absent Mabel. When I'm with father, said Bill, I sort of lose my nerve and yammer. Dashard awkward, said Archie politely, he sat up suddenly. I say, by Joe, I know what you want, old friend, just thought of it. That busy brain is never still, explained Lucille. Saw it in the paper this morning, and an advertisement of a book, don't you know? I've no time for reading. You've time for reading this one, laddie, for you can't afford to miss it. It's a what-you-call-it book. What I mean to say is, if you read it and take its tips to heart, it guarantees to make you a convincing talker. The advertisement's all about a chappy, whose name I forget, whom everybody loved because he talked so well. And, Mark you, before he got hold of this book, the personality that wins was the name of it, if I remember rightly, he was known to all the lads in the office as Silent Samuel, or something. Or it may have been tongue-tied Thomas. Well, one day he happened by good luck to blow in the necessary for the good old P. that W's, and now whenever they want someone to go and talk Rockefeller, or someone into lending them a million or so, they send for Samuel. Only now they call him Sammy the Spellbinder and fawn upon him pretty copiously and all that. How about it, old son? How do we go? What perfect nonsense, said Lucille. I don't know, said Bill, plainly impressed. There might be something in it. Absolutely, said Archie. I remember it said, talk convincingly, and no man will ever treat you with cold, unresponsive indifference. Well, cold, unresponsive indifference is just what you don't want the peter to treat you with, isn't it? Or is it? Or isn't it? What? I mean what? It sounds all right, said Bill. It is all right, said Archie. It's a scheme. I'll go father. It's an egg. The idea I had, said Bill, was to see if I couldn't get Mabel a job in some straight comedy. That would take the curse off the thing a bit. Then I wouldn't have to dwell on the chorus end of the business, you see. Much more sensible, said Lucille. But what a deuce of a sweat, argued Archie. I mean to say, having to pop round and nose about and all that. Aren't you willing to take a little trouble for your stricken brother-in-law, Worm, said Lucille, severely? Oh, absolutely! My idea was to get this book and coach the dear old chap. Rehearse him, don't you know? He could bone up the early chapters a bit and then drift round and try his convincing talk on me. It might be a good idea, said Bill, reflectively. Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do, said Lucille. I'm going to get Bill to introduce me to his Mabel, and if she's as nice as he says she is, I'll go to father and talk convincingly to him. You're an ace, said Bill. Absolutely! agreed Archie cordially. My partner, what? All the same. We ought to keep the book as a second string, you know. I mean to say, you were a young and delicately nurtured girl, full of sensibility and shrinking what's its name and all that. And you know what the jolly old painter is. He might bark at you and put you out of action in the first round. Well, then, if anything like that happened, don't you see, we could unleash old Bill, the trained, silver-tongued expert, and let him have a shot. Personally, I'm all for the P that W's. Me too, said Bill. Lucille looked at her watch. Good gracious, it's nearly one o'clock. No! Archie heaved himself from his chair. Well, it's a shame to break up this feast of reason and flow of soul and all that, but if we don't leg it with some speed, we shall be late. We're lunching at the Nicholson's, explained Lucille to her brother. I wish you were coming too. Lunch! Bill shook his head with a kind of tolerant scorn. Lunch means nothing to me these days. I have other things to think of besides food. He looked as spiritual as his rugged features would permit. I haven't written to her yet to-day. But, dash it old scream, if she's going to be over here in a week, what's the good of writing? The letter would cross her. I'm not mailing my letters to England, said Bill. I'm keeping them for her to read when she arrives. My sainted aunt, said Archie. Devotion like this was something beyond his outlook.