 CHAPTER 18. The Sausage Chappy. The personality that wins cost Archie $2 in cash and a lot of embarrassment when he asked for it at the store. To buy a treatise of that name would automatically seem to argue that you haven't a winning personality already, and Archie was at some pains to explain to the girl behind the counter that he wanted it for a friend. The girl seemed more interested in his English accent than in his explanation, and Archie was uncomfortably aware, as he receded, that she was practising it in an undertone for the benefit of her colleagues and fellow-workers. However, what is a little discomfort if endured in friendship's name? He was proceeding up Broadway after leaving the store when he encountered Reggie Vantille, who was drifting along in some nambulistic fashion near 39th Street. "'Hello, Reggie, old thing,' said Archie. "'Hello,' said Reggie, a man of few words. "'I've just been buying a book for Bill Brewster,' went on Archie. "'It appears that old Bill—what's the matter?' He broke off his recital abruptly. A sort of spasm had passed across his companion's features. The hand-holding Archie's arm had tightened convulsively. One would have said that Reginald had received a shock. "'It's nothing,' said Reggie. "'I'm all right now. I caught sight of that fellow's clothes rather suddenly. They shook me a bit.' "'I'm all right now,' he said, bravely.' Archie, following his friend's gaze, understood. Reggie Vantille was never at his strongest in the morning, and he had a sensitive eye for clothes. He had been known to resign from clubs because members exceeded the bounds in the matter of soft shirts with dinner jackets. And the short, thick-set man who was standing just in front of them in an attitude of restful immobility was certainly no dandy. His best friend could not have called him dapper. Take him for all in all and on the hoof he might have been posing as a model for a sketch of what the well-dressed man should not wear. In costume, as in most other things, it is best to take a definite line and stick to it. This man had obviously vacillated. His neck was swathed in a green scarf. He wore an evening dress coat, and his lower limbs were draped in a pair of tweed trousers built for a larger man. To the north he was bounded by a straw hat, to the south by brown shoes. Archie surveyed the man's back carefully. "'Bit thick,' he said sympathetically. But, of course, Broadway isn't Fifth Avenue. What I mean to say is Bohemian license and what not. Broadway's crammed with deucid brainy devils who don't care how they look. Probably this bird is a mastermind of some species.' All the same, man's no right to wear evening dress coat with tweed trousers. Absolutely not! I see what you mean.' At this point the sartorial offender turned. Seen from the front he was even more unnerving. He appeared to possess no shirt, though this defect was offset by the fact that the tweed trousers fitted snugly under the arms. He was not a handsome man. At his best he could never have been that, and in the recent past he had managed to acquire a scar that ran from the corner of his mouth halfway across his cheek. Even when his face was in repose he had an odd expression, and when, as he chanced to do now, he smiled, odd became a mild adjective, quite inadequate for purposes of description. It was not an unpleasant face, however. Unquestionably genial indeed. There was something in it that had a quality of humorous appeal. Archie started. He stared at the man. Memory stirred. Great scot! he cried. It's the sausage-chappy! Reginald Vantille gave a little moan. He was not used to this sort of thing. A sensitive young man as regarded scenes Archie's behavior unmanned him. For Archie, releasing his arm, had bounded forward and was shaking the other's hand warmly. Well, well, well, my dear old chap! You must remember me, what, no, yes? The man with the scar seemed puzzled. He shuffled the brown shoes, padded the straw hat, and eyed Archie questioningly. I don't seem to place you, he said. Archie slapped the back of the evening dress coat. He linked his arm affectionately with that of the dress-reformer. We met outside San Miel in the war. You gave me a bit of sausage. One of the most sporting events in history. Nobody but a real sportsman would have parted with a bit of sausage at that moment to a stranger. Never forgotten it, by Jove. Saved my life, absolutely. Hadn't chewed a morse for eight hours. Well, have you got anything on? I mean to say you aren't booked for lunch or any rot of that species, are you? Fine! Then I move we all toddle off and get a bite somewhere. He squeezed the other's arm fondly. Fancy meeting you again like this. I've often wondered what became of you. But, by Jove, I was forgetting. That should root of me. My friend, Mr. Vantil. Reggie gulped. The longer he looked at it, the harder this man's costume was to bear. His eye passed shudderingly from the brown shoes to the tweed trousers, to the green scarf, from the green scarf to the straw hat. Sorry, he mumbled. Just remembered. The important date. Late already. See you some time. He melted away a broken man. Archie was not sorry to see him go. Reggie was a good chap, but he would undoubtedly have been de-trop at this reunion. I vote we go to the Cosmopolis, he said, steering his newly found friend through the crowd. The browsing and sleuthing isn't bad there, and I can sign the bill, which is no small consideration nowadays. The sausage-chappy chuckled amusedly. I can't go to a place like the Cosmopolis looking like this. Archie was a little embarrassed. Oh, I don't know. You know, don't you know, he said? Still, since you have brought the topic up, you did get the good old wardrobe a bit mixed this morning, what? I mean to say you seem absent-mindedly, as it were, to have got hold of samples from a good number of your various suitings. Suitings? How do you mean suitings? I haven't any suitings. Who do you think I am, Vincent Aster? All I have is what I stand up in. Archie was shocked. This tragedy touched him. He himself had never had any money in his life, but somehow he had always seemed to manage to have plenty of clothes. How this was, he could not say. He had always had a vague sort of idea that Taylors were kindly birds who never failed to have a pair of trousers or something up their sleeve to present to the deserving. There was the drawback, of course, that once they had given you things they were apt to write you rather a lot of letters about it. But you soon managed to recognize their handwriting, and then it was a simple task, to extract their communications from your morning mail and drop them in the waste-paper basket. This was the first case he had encountered of a man who was really short of clothes. "'My dear old lad,' he said briskly, "'this must be remedied. Oh, positively. This must be remedied at once. I suppose my things wouldn't fit you. No. Well, I tell you what. We'll wangle something from my father-in-law, old Brewster, you know, the fellow who runs the Cosmopolis. His'll fit you like the paper on the wall, because he's a tubby little blighter, too. What I mean to say is he's also one of those sturdy, square, fine-looking chappies of about the middle height. By the way, where are you stopping these days?' Nowhere, just at present, I thought of taking one of those self-contained park benches. "'Are you broke? Am I?' Archie was concerned. You ought to get a job. I ought, but somehow I don't seem able to. What did you do before the war?' I forgotten. Forgotten?' Forgotten. "'How do you mean Forgotten? You can't mean Forgotten?' Yes, it's quite gone. But I mean to say you can't have forgotten a thing like that. Can't I? I've forgotten all sorts of things. Where I was born, how old I am, whether I married or single. What my name is?' "'Well, I'm dashed,' said Archie, staggered. But you remembered about giving me a bit of sausage outside Saint-Miel?' "'No, I didn't. I'm taking your word for it. For all I know you may be luring me into some den to rob me of my straw hat. I don't know you from Adam. But I like your conversation, especially the part about eating, and I'm taking a chance.' Archie was concerned. "'Listen, old bean, make an effort. You must remember that sausage episode. It was just outside Saint-Miel, about five in the evening. Your little lot were lying next to my little lot, and we happened to meet, and I said, What-ho? And you said, Hello? And I said, What-ho? What-ho? And you said, Have a bit of sausage? And I said, What-ho? What-ho? What-ho?' The dialogue seems to have been darn sparkling, but I don't remember it. It must have been after that that I stopped one. I don't seem quite to have caught up with myself since I got hit. Oh, that's how you got that scar. No, I got that jumping through a plate-glass window in London on Armistice night. What on earth did you do that for? Oh, I don't know. It seemed a good idea at the time. But if you can remember a thing like that, why can't you remember your name? I remember everything that happened after I came out of hospital. It's the part before you. Come on. Archie padded him on the shoulder. I know just what you want. You need a bit of quiet and repose to think things over, and so forth. You mustn't go sleeping on park benches. Won't do it all. Not a bit like it. You must shift to the cosmopolis. It isn't half a bad spot, the old cosmop. I didn't like it much the first night I was there because there was a dash of tap that went drip drip drip all night and kept me awake, but the place has its points. Is the cosmopolis giving free board and lodging these days? Rather, that'll be all right. Well, this is the spot. We'll start by trickling up to the old boy's suite and looking over his reach-me-downs. I know the waiter on his floor. A very sound, chappy. He let us in with his poskey. And so it came about that Mr. Daniel Brewster, returning to his suite in the middle of lunch in order to find a paper dealing with the subject he was discussing with his guest, the architect of his new hotel, was aware of a murmur of voices behind the closed door of his bedroom. Recognizing the accents of his son-in-law, he breathed an oath and charged in. He objected to Archie wandering at large about his suite. The sight that met his eyes when he opened the door did nothing to soothe him. The floor was a sea of clothes. There were coats on the chairs, trousers on the bed, shirts on the bookshelf, and in the middle of this welter stood Archie, with a man who, to Mr. Brewster's heated eye, looked like a tramp comedian out of a burlesque show. Great! God-free! ejaculated Mr. Brewster. Archie looked up with a friendly smile. Oh, hello, hello! he said affably. We were just glancing through your spare scenery to see if we couldn't find something for my pal here. This is Mr. Brewster, my father-in-law, old man. Archie scanned his relative's twisted features. Something in his expression seemed not altogether encouraging. He decided that the negotiations had better be conducted in private. One moment, old lad, he said to his new friend, I just want to have a little talk with my father-in-law in the other room, just a little friendly business-chat. You stay here. In the other room Mr. Brewster turned on Archie like a wounded lion of the desert. What the! Archie secured one of his coat-buttons and began to massage it affectionately. Or to have explained, said Archie, only didn't want to interrupt your lunch. The sportsman on the horizon is a dear old pal of mine. Mr. Brewster wrenched himself free. What the devil do you mean, you worm, by bringing tramps into my bedroom and messing about with my clothes? That's just what I'm trying to explain, if you'll only listen. This bird is a bird I met in France during the war. He gave me a bit of sausage outside Saint-Miel. Damn you and him and the sausage! Absolutely, but listen, he can't remember who he is or where he was born or what his name is. And he's broke. So dash it, I must look after him. You see, he gave me a bit of sausage. Mr. Brewster's frenzy gave way to an ominous calm. I'll give him two seconds to clear out of here. If he isn't gone by then, I'll have him thrown out. Archie was shocked. You don't mean that. I do mean that. But where's he to go? Outside. But you don't understand. This chap has lost his memory because he was wounded in the war. Keep that fact firmly fixed in the cold bean. He fought for you, fought and bled for you, bled profusely by Jove, and he saved my life. If I got nothing else against him, that would be enough. But you can't slink a chappy out into the cold hard world who bled in gallons to make the world safe for the hotel cosmopolous. Mr. Brewster looked ostentatiously at his watch. Two seconds, he said. There was a silence. Archie appeared to be thinking. Righto, he said at last. No need to get the wind up. I know where he can go. It's just occurred to me. I'll put him up at my little shop. The purple ebbed for Mr. Brewster's face. Such was his emotion that he had forgotten that infernal shop. He sat down. There was more silence. Oh, gosh! said Mr. Brewster. I knew you would be reasonable about it, said Archie approvingly. Now honestly, as man to man, how do we go? What do you want me to do? growled Mr. Brewster. I thought you might put the chappy up for a while and give him a chance to look round and knows about a bit. I absolutely refuse to give any more loafers free board and lodging. Any more? Well, he would be the second, wouldn't he? Archie looked pained. It's true, he said, that when I first came here I was temporarily resting, so to speak. But didn't I go right out and grab the manager-ship of your new hotel positively? I will not adopt this tramp. Well, find him a job then. What sort of a job? Oh, any old sort. He can be a waiter if he likes. All right, I'll put the matter before him. He returned to the bedroom. The sausage-chappy was gazing fondly into the mirror with a spotted tie draped round his neck. I say old top, said Archie apologetically. The emperor of the blighters out yonder says that you can have a job here as a waiter, and he won't do another dasher thing for you. How about it? Do waiters eat? I suppose so. Though, by Jove, come to think of it, I've never seen one at it. That's good enough for me, said the sausage-chappy. When do I begin? End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19 of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse. Read by Mark Nelson. Reggie comes to life. The advantage of having plenty of time on one's hands is that one has leisure to attend to the affairs of all one circle of friends. And Archie, assiduously as he watched over the destinies of the sausage-chappy, did not neglect the romantic needs of his brother-in-law, Bill. A few days later Lucille, returning one morning to their mutual suite, found her husband seated in an upright chair at the table, an unusually stern expression on his amiable face. A large cigar was in the corner of his mouth. The fingers of one hand rested in the arm-hole of his waistcoat. With the other hand he tapped menacingly on the table. As she gazed upon him, wondering what could be the matter with him, Lucille was suddenly aware of Bill's presence. He had emerged sharply from the bedroom and was walking briskly across the floor. He came to a halt in front of the table. Father, said Bill, Archie looked up sharply, frowning heavily over his cigar. Well, my boy! he said in a strange, rasping voice. What is it? Speak up, my boy! Speak up! Why the devil can't you speak up? This is my busy day!" What on earth are you doing? asked Lucille. Archie waved her away with the large gesture of a man of blood and iron interrupted while concentrating. Leave us, woman. We would be alone. Retire into the jolly old background and amuse yourself for a bit. Read a book. Do acrostics. Charge ahead, laddie." Father, said Bill again. Yes, my boy. Yes. What is it? Father, Archie picked up the red-covered volume that lay on the table. Half a mould, son. Sorry to stop you, but I knew there was something. I've just remembered. Your walk. All wrong. All wrong. All wrong. Where's the chapter on the art of walking? Here we are. Listen, dear old soul. Drink this in. In walking one should strive to acquire that swinging easy movement from the hips. The correctly poised walker seems to float along as it were. Now, old bean, you didn't float a damn bit. You just galloped in like a chappy charging into a railway for a bowl of soup when his train leaves in two minutes. Dashed important this walking business, you know. Get started wrong, and where are you? Try it again. Much better." He turned to Lucille. Notice him float along that time. Absolutely skimmed what? Lucille had taken a seat and was waiting for enlightenment. Are you and Bill going into vaudeville, she asked? Archie, scrutinizing his brother-in-law closely, had further criticism to make. The man of self-respect and self-confidence, he read, stands erect in an easy, natural, graceful attitude. Heels not too far apart, head erect, eyes to the front with a level gaze. Get your gaze level, old thing. Shoulders thrown back, arms hanging naturally at the sides, were not otherwise employed. That means that if he tries to hit you, it's all right to guard. Chest expanded naturally, and abdomen, this is no place for you, Lucille, leg it out of earshot. Ab, what I said before, drawn in somewhat and above all not protruded. Now, have you got all that? Yes, you look all right. Carry on, laddie, carry on. Let's have a two-penny-worth of a dynamic voice and the tone of authority. Some of the full, rich, round stuff we hear so much about. Bill fastened a gimlet-eye upon his brother-in-law and drew a deep breath. Father, he said. Father, you'll have to brighten up Bill's dialogue a lot, said Lucille critically, or you will never get bookings. Father, I mean it's all right as far as it goes, but it's sort of monotonous. Besides, one of you ought to be asking questions and the other answering. Bill ought to be saying, who was that lady I saw you coming down the street with, so that you would be able to say, that wasn't a lady, that was my wife. I know, I've been to lots of vaudeville shows. Bill relaxed his attitude. He deflated his chest, spread his heels, and ceased to draw in his abdomen. We'd better try this another time when we're alone, he said frigidly. I can't do myself justice. Why do you want to do yourself justice? Asked Lucille. Righto, said Archie affably, casting off his forbidding expression like a garment. Rehearsal postponed. I was just putting old Bill through it, he explained, with a view to getting him into mid-season form for the jolly old Peter. Ooh, Lucille's voice was the voice of one who sees light in darkness. When Bill walked in like a cat on hot bricks and stood there looking stuffed, that was just the personality that wins. That was it. Well, you couldn't blame me for not recognizing it, could you? Archie padded her head paternally. A little less of the caustic critic stuff, he said. Bill will be all right on the night. If you hadn't come in then and put him off his stroke, he would have shot out some amazing stuff, full of authority and dynamic accents and whatnot. I tell you, light of my soul, old Bill is all right. He's got the winning personality up a tree, ready whenever he wants to go and get it. Speaking as his backer and trainer, I think he'll twist your father round his little finger. Absolutely! It wouldn't surprise me if at the end of five minutes the good old dad started pumping through hoops and sitting up for lumps of sugar. It would surprise me. Ah, that's because you haven't seen old Bill in action. You crapped his act before he had begun to spread himself. It isn't that at all. The reason I think that Bill, however winning his personality may be, won't persuade father to let him marry a girl in the chorus, is something that happened last night. Last night? Well, at three o'clock this morning, it's on the front page of the early editions of the evening papers. I brought one in for you to see, only you were so busy. Look, there it is. Archie sees the paper. Oh, great Scott! What is it? asked Bill irritably. Don't stand gobbling there. What the devil is it? Listen to this, old thing. Revelry by night, spirited battle-royal at Hotel Cosmopolis. The hotel detective had a good heart, but Pauline packed the punch. The logical contender for Jack Dempsey's championship honors has been discovered, and in an age where women are stealing men's jobs all the time, it will not come as a surprise to our readers to learn that she belongs to the sex that is more deadly than the male. Her name is Miss Pauline Preston, Mr. Wallop is vouched for under oath, under many oaths, by Mr. Timothy O'Neill, known to his intimates as Pyface, who holds down the arduous job of detective at the Hotel Cosmopolis. At three o'clock this morning, Mr. O'Neill was advised by the night-clock that the occupants of every room within earshot of No. 618 had phoned the desk to complain of a disturbance, a noise, a vocal uproar proceeding from the room mentioned. Thither therefore marched Mr. O'Neill, his face full of cheese sandwich, for he had been indulging in an early breakfast or a late supper, and his heart of devotion to duty. He phoned there the Mrs. Pauline Preston and Bobby St. Clair of the personnel chorus of the frivolities, entertaining a few friends of either sex. A pleasant time was being had by all, and at the moment of Mr. O'Neill's entry the entire strength of the company was rendering with considerable emphasis that, touching ballad, there's a place for me in heaven for my baby boy is there. The able and efficient officer at once suggested that there was a place for them in the street and the patrol wagon was there, and being a man of action as well as words, proceeded to gather up an armful of assorted guests as a preliminary to a personally conducted tour on to the cold night. It was at this point that Miss Preston stepped into the limelight. Mr. O'Neill contends that she hit him with a brick, an iron casing, and the singer building. Be that as it may, her efforts were sufficiently able to induce him to retire for reinforcements which, arriving, arrested the supper party regardless of age or sex. At the police court this morning Miss Preston maintained that she and her friends were merely having a quiet home evening and that Mr. O'Neill was no gentleman. The male guests gave their names respectively as Woodrow Wilson, David Lloyd George, and William J. Bryan. These, however, are believed to be incorrect. But the moral is, if you want excitement rather than sleep, stay at the hotel cosmopolis. Bill may have quaked inwardly as he'd listened to this epic, but outwardly he was unmoved. Well, he said, what about it? What about it? said Lucille. Why, my dear old friend, it simply means that all the time we've been putting in making your personality winning has been chucked away. Absolutely a dead loss. We might just as well have read a manual on how to knit sweaters. I don't see it, maintained Bill stoutly. Lucille turned apologetically to her husband. You mustn't judge me by him, Archie Darling. This sort of thing doesn't run in the family. We are supposed to be rather brighter on the whole. But poor Bill was dropped by his nurse when he was a baby and fell on his head. I suppose what you're driving at, said the goaded Bill, is that what has happened will make Father pretty sore against girls who happen to be in the chorus? That's absolutely it, old thing. I'm sorry to interrupt. Nothing, I'm sorry to say. The next person who mentions the word chorus girl in the jolly old governor's presence is going to take his life in his hands. I tell you, as one man to another, that I'd much rather be back in France hopping over the top than do it myself. What darn nonsense! Mabel may be in the chorus, but she isn't like those girls. Poor old Bill, said Lucille. I'm awfully sorry, but it's no use not facing facts. You know perfectly well that the reputation of the hotel is the thing Father cares more about than anything else in the world, and that this is going to make him furious with all the chorus girls in creation. It's no good trying to explain to him that your Mabel is in the chorus, but not of the chorus, so to speak. Do's it well put, said Archie, approvingly? You're absolutely right. A chorus girl by the river's brim, so to speak. A simple chorus girl is to him as it were, and she is nothing more if you know what I mean. So now, said Lucille, having shown you that the imbecile scheme which you concocted with my poor, well-meaning husband is no good at all, I will bring you words of cheer. Your own original plan of getting your Mabel apart in a comedy was always the best one, and you can do it. I wouldn't have broken the bad news so abruptly if I hadn't had some consolation to give you afterwards. I met Reggie Van Teel just now, wandering about as if the cares of the world were on his shoulders, and he told me that he was putting up most of the money for a new play that's going into rehearsal right away. Reggie's an old friend of yours. All you have to do is to go to him and ask him to use his influence to get your Mabel a small part. There's sure to be a maid or something with only a line or two that won't matter. A ripe scheme, said Archie, very sound and fruity. The cloud did not lift from Bill's corrugated brow. That's all very well, he said, but you know what a talker Reggie is. He's an obliging sort of chump, but his tongues fasten on at the middle and waggles at both ends. I don't want the whole of New York to know about my engagement and have somebody spilling the news to Father before I'm ready. That's all right, said Lucille. Archie can speak to him. There's no need for him to mention your name at all. He can just say there's a girl he wants to get a part for. You would do it, wouldn't you, angel face? Like a bird, queen of my soul. Then that's splendid. You'd better give Archie that photograph of Mabel to give to Reggie, Bill. Photograph, said Bill. Which photograph? I have twenty-four. Archie found Reggie Vantille brooding in a window of his club that looked over Fifth Avenue. Reggie was a rather melancholy young man who suffered from elephantiasis of the bankroll and other evils that arise from that complaint. Gentle and sentimental by nature, his sensibilities had been much wounded by contact with a sordid world, and the thing that had first endeared Archie to him was the fact that the latter, though chronically hard up, had never made any attempt to borrow money from him. Reggie would have parted with it on demand, but it had delighted him to find that Archie seemed to take a pleasure in his society without having any ulterior motives. He was fond of Archie, and also of Lucille, and their happy marriage was a constant source of gratification to him. For Reggie was a sentimentalist. He would have liked to live in a world of ideally united couples, himself ideally united to some charming and affectionate girl. But as a matter of cold fact he was a bachelor, and most of the couples he knew were veterans of several divorces. In Reggie's circle, therefore, the home life of Archie and Lucille shone like a good deed in a naughty world. It inspired him. In moments of depression it restored his waning faith in human nature. Consequently, when Archie, having greeted him and slipped into a chair at his side, suddenly produced from his inside pocket the photograph of an extremely pretty girl and asked him to get her a small part in the play which he was financing, he was shocked and disappointed. He was in a more than unusually sentimental mood that afternoon, and had indeed, at the moment of Archie's arrival, been dreaming wistfully of soft arms clasped snugly about his collar, and the patter of little feet, and all that sort of thing. He gazed reproachfully at Archie. Archie, his voice quivered with emotion. Is it worth it? Is it worth it, old man? Think of the poor little woman at home. Archie was puzzled. Eh, old top? Which poor little woman? Think of her trust in you, her faith. I don't absolutely get you, old bean. What would Lucille say if she knew about this? Oh, she does. She knows all about it. Good heavens! cried Reggie. He was shocked to the core of his being. One of the articles of his faith was that the union of Lucille and Archie was different from those loose partnerships which were the custom in his world. He had not been conscious of such a poignant feeling that the foundations of the universe were cracked and tottering, and that there was no light and sweetness in life since the morning, eighteen months back when a negligent valet had sent him out into Fifth Avenue with only one spat on. It was Lucille's idea, explained Archie. He was about to mention his brother-in-law's connection with the matter, but checked himself in time, remembering Bill's specific objection to having his secret revealed to Reggie. It's like this, old thing. I've never met this female, but she's a pal of Lucille's. He comforted his conscience by the reflection that, if she wasn't now, she would be in a few days. And Lucille wants to do her a bit of good. She's been on the stage in England, you know, supporting a jolly old widowed mother and educating a little brother and all that kind of species of rot, you understand, and now she's coming over to America, and Lucille wants you to rally round and shove her into your show and generally keep the home fires burning and so forth. How do we go? Reggie beamed with relief. He felt, just as he had felt on that other occasion, at the moments when a taxi cab had rolled up and enabled him to hide his spatless leg from the public gaze. Oh, I see, he said. Why, delighted, old man. Quite delighted. Any small part would do. Isn't there a maid or something in your Bob's worth of refined entertainment who drifts about saying, yes, madame, and all that sort of thing? Well, then, that's just the thing. Topping. I knew I could rely on you, old bird. I'll get Lucille to ship her round to your address when she arrives. I fancy she's due to totter in somewhere in the next few days. Well, I must be popping to the loo. Pip, pip, said Reggie. It was about a week later that Lucille came into the suite at the Hotel Cosmopolis that was her home and found Archie lying on the couch, smoking a refreshing pipe after the labours of the day. It seemed to Archie that his wife was not in her usual cheerful frame of mind. He kissed her, and having relieved her of her parasol, endeavored without success to balance it on his chin. Having picked it up from the floor and placed it on the table, he became aware that Lucille was looking at him in a despondent sort of way. Her gray eyes were clouded. Hello, old thing, said Archie. What's up? Lucille sighed wearily. Archie, darling, do you know any really good swear words? Well, said Archie, reflectively, let me see. I did pick up a few tolerably ripe and breezy expressions out in France. All through my military career there was something about me, some subtle magnetism, don't you know, and that sort of thing, that seemed to make kernels and blighters of that order rather inventive. I sort of inspired them, don't you know? I remember one brass hat addressing me for quite ten minutes, saying something new all the time, and even then he seemed to think he had only touched the fringe of the subject. As a matter of fact he said straight out in the most frank and confiding way that mere words couldn't do justice to me. But why? Because I want to relieve my feelings. Anything wrong? Everything's wrong. I've just been having tea with Bill and his Mabel. Oh, ah, said Archie, interested, and what's the verdict? Guilty, said Lucille, and the sentence, if I had anything to do with it, would be transportation for life. She peeled off her gloves irritably. What fools men are! Not you, precious. You're the only man in the world that isn't, it seems to me. You did marry a nice girl, didn't you? You didn't go running round after females with crimson hair, goggling at them with your eyes popping out of your head like a bulldog waiting for a bone. Oh, I say, does old Bill look like that? Worse. Archie rose to a point of order. What's one moment, old lady? You speak of crimson hair. Surely old Bill, in the extremely jolly monologues he used to deliver whenever I didn't see him coming and he got me alone, used to allude to her hair as brown. It isn't brown now. It's bright scarlet. Good gracious, I ought to know. I've been looking at it all the afternoon. It dazzled me. I've got to meet her again. I mean to go to the oculists and get a pair of those smoked glasses you wear at Palm Beach. Lucille brooded silently for a while over the tragedy. I don't want to say anything against her, of course. No, no, of course not. But of all the awful second-rate girls I ever met, she's the worst. She has vermilion hair and an imitation Oxford manner. She's so horribly refined that it's dreadful to listen to her. She's a sly, creepy, slinky, made-up, insincere vampire. She's common. She's awful. She's a cat. You're quite right not to say anything against her, said Archie approvingly. It begins to look, he went on, as if the good old Peter was about due for another shock. It was a hard life. If Bill dares to introduce that girl to father, he's taking his life in his hands. But surely that was the idea, the scheme, the wheeze, wasn't it? Or do you think there's any chance of his weakening? Weakening? You should have seen him looking at her. It was like a small boy flattening his nose against the window of a candy store. Bit thick. Archie'll kick the leg of the table. And to think, she said, that when I was a little girl, I used to look up to Bill as a monument of wisdom. I used to hug his knees and gaze into his face and wonder how anyone could be so magnificent. She gave the offending table another kick. If I could have looked into the future, she said, with feeling, I'd have bitten him in the ankle. In the days which followed, Archie found himself a little out of touch with Bill and his romance. Lucille referred to the matter only when he brought the subject up, and made it plain that the topic of her future sister-in-law was not one which she enjoyed discussing. Mr. Brewster Sr., when Archie, by way of delicately preparing his mind for what was about to befall, asked him if he liked red hair, called him a fool, and told him to go away and bother someone else when they were busy. The only person who could have kept him thoroughly abreast of the trend of affairs was Bill himself, and experience had made Archie wary in the matter of meeting Bill. The position of confidant to a young man in the early stages of love is no sinecure, and it made Archie sleepy even to think of having to talk to his brother-in-law. He sedulously avoided his love-lorn relative, and it was with a sinking feeling one day that, looking over his shoulder as he sat in the cosmopolous grill-room, preparatory to ordering lunch, he perceived Bill bearing down upon him, obviously resolved upon joining his meal. To his surprise, however, Bill did not instantly embark upon his usual monologue. Indeed, he hardly spoke at all. He champed a chop, and seemed to Archie to avoid his eye. It was not till lunch was over, and they were smoking, that he unburdened himself. Archie, he said. Hello, old thing, said Archie. Still there? I thought you had died or something. Talk about our old pals, tongue-tied Thomas, and silent Sammy. You could have beat them both on the same evening. It's enough to make me silent. What is? Bill had relapsed into a sort of waking dream. He sat frowning somberly, lost to the world. Archie, having waited what seemed to him a sufficient length of time for an answer to his question, bent forward and touched his brother-in-law's hand gently with the lighted end of his cigar. Bill came to himself with a howl. What is? said Archie. What is what? said Bill. Now listen, old thing, protested Archie. Life is short, and time is flying. Suppose we cut out the crosstalk. You hinted there was something on your mind, something worrying the old beam, and I'm waiting to hear what it is. Bill fiddled a moment with his coffee-spoon. I'm in an awful hole, he said at last. What's the trouble? It's about that darned girl. Archie blinked. What? That darned girl! Archie could scarcely credit his senses. He had been prepared, indeed, he had steeled himself, to hear Bill allude to his affinity in a number of ways, but that darned girl was not one of them. Companion of my riper years, he said, let's get this thing straight. When you say that darned girl, do you by any possibility allude to, of course I do. But William, old bird, oh, I know, I know, I know, said Bill irritably. You're surprised to hear me talk like that about her. A trifle, yes. Possibly a trifle. When last heard from Laddie, you must recollect you were speaking of the lady as your soulmate, and at least once, if I remember rightly, you alluded to her as your dusky-haired lamb. A sharp howl escaped Bill. Don't! A strong shudder convulsed his frame. Don't remind me of it. There's been a species of slump then in the dusky-haired lambs. How, demanded Bill savagely, can a girl be a dusky-haired lamb when her hair's bright scarlet? That's a difficult, admitted Archie. I suppose Lucille told you about that. She did touch on it, lightly, as it were, with a sort of gossamer touch, so to speak. Bill threw off the last fragments of reserve. Archie, I'm in a devil of a fix. I don't know why it was, but directly I saw her. Things seem so different over in England, I mean. He swallowed ice-water in gulps. I suppose it was seeing her with Lucille. Old Lou is such a thoroughbred, seemed to kind of show her up, like seeing imitation pearls by the side of real pearls. And that crimson hair, it sort of put the lid on it. Bill brooded morosely. It ought to be a criminal offence for women to dye their hair, especially red. What the devil do women do that sort of thing for? Don't blame me, old thing, it's not my fault. Bill looked furtive and harassed. It makes me feel such a cad. Here am I, feeling that I would give all I've got in the world to get out of the darn thing, and all the time the poor girl seems to be getting fonder of me than ever. How do you know? Archie surveyed his brother-in-law critically. Perhaps her feelings have changed too. Very possibly she may not like the color of your hair. I don't myself. Now, if you were to dye yourself crimson... Oh, shut up! Of course a man knows when a girl's fond of him. By no means, laddie. When you're my age... I am your age! So you are. I forgot that. Well, now, approaching the matter from another angle, let us suppose, old son, that miss what's her name, the party of the second part. Stop it, said Bill suddenly. Here comes Reggie. Eh? Here comes Reggie Vanteel. I don't want him to hear us talking about the darn thing. Archie looked over his shoulder and perceived that it was indeed so. Reggie was threading his way among the tables. Well, he looks pleased with things anyway, said Bill enviously. Glad somebody's happy. He was right. Reggie Vanteel's usual mode of progress through a restaurant was a somnolent slouch. Now he was positively bounding along. Furthermore, the usual expression on Reggie's face was a sleepy sadness. Now he smiled brightly and with animation. He curved it towards their table, beaming and erect. His head up, his gaze level, and his chest expanded. For all the world, as if he had been reading the hints in the personality that wins. Archie was puzzled. Something had plainly happened to Reggie. But what? It was idle to suppose that somebody had left him money, for he had been left practically all the money there was a matter of ten years before. Hello, old Bean. He said, as the newcomer radiating goodwill and bonomy, arrived at the table and hung over it like a noon-day sun. We finished, but rally round and we'll watch you eat. Does shit interesting watching old Reggie eat? Why go to the zoo? Reggie shook his head. Sorry, old man, cat. Just on my way to the Ritz. Stepped in because I thought you might be here. I wanted you to be the first to hear the news. News? I'm the happiest man alive. You look it, darn you, growled Bill, on whose mood of gray gloom this human sunbeam was jarring heavily. I'm engaged to be married. Congratulations, old Egg! Archie shook his hand cordially. Dush it, don't you know, as an old married man, I'd like to see you young fellow settling down. I don't know how to thank you enough, Archie, old man, said Reggie fervently. Thank me. It was through you that I met her. Don't you remember the girl you sent to me? You wanted me to get her a small part. He stopped, puzzled. Archie had uttered a sound that was half gasp and half gurgle, and it was swallowed up in the extraordinary noise from the other side of the table. Bill Brewster was leaning forward with bulging eyes and soaring eyebrows. Are you engaged to Mabel Winchester? Why, by George, said Reggie, do you know her? Archie recovered himself. Slightly, he said, slightly. Old Bill knows her slightly, as it were. Not very well, don't you know, but how shall I put it? Slightly, suggested Bill. Just the word, slightly. Splendid, said Reggie Vanteel. Why don't you come along to the Ritz and meet her now? Bill stammered. Archie came to the rescue again. Bill can't come now. He's got a date. A date, said Bill. A date, said Archie. An appointment, don't you know. In fact, a date. But wish her happiness for me, said Bill cordially. Thanks very much, old man, said Reggie. And say I'm delighted, will you? Certainly. You won't forget the word, will you? Delighted. Delighted. That's right, delighted. Reggie looked at his watch. Hello, I must rush. Bill and Archie watched him as he bounded out of the restaurant. Poor old Reggie, said Bill with a fleeting compunction. Not necessarily, said Archie. What I mean to say is, tastes differ, don't you know. One man's peach is another man's poison and vice versa. There's something in that. Absolutely. Well, said Archie judicially, this would appear to be, as it were, the maddest, merriest day in all the glad new year. Yes, no? Bill drew a deep breath. You bet your sorrowful existence it is, he said. I'd like to do something to celebrate it. The right spirit, said Archie. Absolutely the right spirit. Begin by paying for my lunch. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 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 20 The Sausage Chappy Clicks Rendered restless by relief, Bill Brewster did not linger long at the luncheon table. Shortly after Reggie Van Thiel had retired, he got up and announced his intention of going for a bit of a walk to calm his excited mind. Archie dismissed him with a courteous wave of the hand, and beckoning to the Sausage Chappy, who in his role of waiter was hovering near, requested him to bring the best cigar the hotel could supply. The padded seat in which he sat was comfortable. He had no engagements, and it seemed to him that a pleasant half-hour could be passed in smoking dreamily and watching his fellow men eat. The grill room had filled up. The Sausage Chappy, having brought Archie his cigar, was attending to a table close by, at which a woman with a small boy in a sailor suit had seated themselves. The woman was engrossed with the bill of fare, but the child's attention seemed riveted upon the Sausage Chappy. He was drinking him in with wide eyes. He seemed to be brooding on him. Archie too was brooding on the Sausage Chappy. The latter made an excellent waiter. He was brisk and attentive, and did the work as if he liked it. But Archie was not satisfied. Something seemed to tell him that the man was fitted for higher things. Archie was a grateful soul. That Sausage, coming at the end of a five-hour hike, had made a deep impression on his plastic nature. Reason told him that only an exceptional man could have parted with half a Sausage at such a moment. And he could not feel that a job as a waiter at a New York hotel was an adequate job for an exceptional man. Of course, the root of the trouble lay in the fact that the fellow could not remember what his real life work had been before the war. It was exasperating to reflect, as the other moved away to take his order to the kitchen, that there, for all one knew, went the dickens of a lawyer, or doctor, or architect, or what not. His meditations were broken by the voice of the child. Mummy asked the child, interestingly, following the Sausage Chappy with his eyes as the latter disappeared towards the kitchen. Why has that man got such a funny face? Hush, darling! Yes, but why has he? I don't know, darling. The child's faith in the maternal omniscience seemed to have received a shock. He had the air of a seeker after truth who has been baffled. His eyes roamed the room discontentedly. He's got a funnier face than that man there, he said, pointing to Archie. Hush, darling! But he has! Much funnier! In a way it was a sort of compliment, but Archie felt embarrassed. He withdrew coily into the cushioned recess. Presently the Sausage Chappy returned, attended to the needs of the woman and the child, and came over to Archie. His homely face was beaming. Say, I had a big night last night, he said, leaning on the table. Yes, said Archie, party or something. No, I mean I suddenly began to remember things. Something seems to have happened to the works. Archie sat up excitedly. This was great news. No, really! My dear old lad, this is absolutely topping. This is priceless. Yes, sir, first thing I remembered was that I was born at Springfield, Ohio. It was like a mist starting to life. Springfield, Ohio. That was it. It suddenly came back to me. Splendid! Anything else? Yes, sir, just before I went to sleep I remembered my name as well. Archie was stirred to his depths. Why, the things will walk over, he exclaimed. Now you've once got started, nothing can stop you. What is your name? Why, it's... that's funny. It's gone again. I have an idea it began with an S. What was it? Skeffington? Skillington? Sanderson? No, I'll get it in a moment. Cunningham? Carrington? Wilberforce? Debenham? Denison, suggested Archie, helpfully. No, no, no. It's on the tip of my tongue. Barrington? Montgomery? Hepplewaith? I've got it. Smith? By Jove, really. Certain of it. What's the first name? An anxious expression came into the man's eyes. He hesitated. He lowered his voice. I have a horrible feeling that it's Lancelot. Good God, said Archie. It could really be that, could it? Archie looked grave. He hated to give pain, but he felt he must be honest. It might, he said. People give their children all sorts of rummy names. My second name's Tracy, and I have a pal in England who has christened Cuthbert de la Hay Horus. Fortunately, everyone calls him Stinka. The head waiter began to drift up like a bank of fog, and the sausage-chappy returned to his professional duties. When he came back, he was beaming again. Something else I remembered, he said, removing the cover. I'm married. Good Lord! At least I was before the war. She had blue eyes and brown hair and a peaking-ese dog. What was her name? I don't know. Well, you're coming on, said Archie. I'd admit that. You've still got a bit of a way to go before you become like one of those blighters who take the memory training courses in the magazine advertisements. I mean to say, you know, the lads who meet a fellow once for five minutes and then come across him again ten years later and grasp him by the hand and say, Surely, this is Mr. Watkins of Seattle. Still, you're doing fine. You only need patience. Everything comes to him who waits. Archie sat up, electrified. I say, by Jove, that's rather good, what? Everything comes to him who waits. And you're a waiter, what, what? I mean to say, what? Mummy, said the child at the other table, still speculative. Do you think something trod on his face? Hush, darling. Perhaps it was bitten by something. Eat your nice fish, darling," said the mother, who seemed to be one of those dull-witted persons whom it is impossible to interest in a discussion on first causes. Archie felt stimulated. Not even the advent of his father-in-law, who came in a few moments later and sat down at the other end of the room could depress his spirits. The sausage-chappy came to his table again. It's a funny thing, he said, like waking up after you've been asleep. Everything seems to be getting clearer. The dog's name was Marie, my wife's dog, you know, and she had a mole on her chin. The dog? No, my wife, little beast. She bit me in the leg once. Your wife? No, the dog! Good Lord," said the sausage-chappy. Archie looked up and followed his gaze. A couple of tables away, next to a sideboard, on which the management exposed for view the cold meats and puddings and pies mentioned in Volume 2 of the Bill of Fair, Buffet Foix, a man and a girl had just seated themselves. The man was stout and middle-aged. He bulged in practically every place in which a man can bulge, and his head was almost entirely free from hair. The girl was young and pretty. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was brown. She had a rather attractive little mole on the left side of her chin. Good Lord," said the sausage-chappy. Now what, said Archie? Who's that over at that table there? Archie, through long attendance at the Cosmopolis Grill, knew most of the habituaries by sight. That's a man named Gossett, James J. Gossett. He's a motion picture man. You must have seen his name around. I don't mean him. Who's the girl? I've never seen her before. It's my wife," said sausage-chappy. Your wife? Yes. Are you sure? Of course I'm sure. Well, well, well," said Archie, many happy returns of the day. At the other table the girl, unconscious of the drama which was about to enter her life, was engrossed in conversation with the stout man, and at this moment the stout man leaned forward and patted her on the cheek. It was a paternal pat, the pat which a genial uncle might bestow on a favorite niece, but it did not strike the sausage-chappy in that light. He had been advancing on the table at a fairly rapid pace, and now, stirred to his depths, he bounded forward with a hoarse cry. Archie was at some pains to explain to his father-in-law later that if the management left cold pies and things about all over the place, this sort of thing was bound to happen sooner or later. He urged that it was putting temptation in people's way, and that Mr. Brewster had only himself to blame. Whatever the rights of the case, buffet foie undoubtedly came in remarkably handy at this crisis in the sausage-chappy's life. He had almost reached the sideboard when the stout man patted the girl's cheek, and to seize a huckleberry pie was with him the work of a moment. The next instant the pie had whizzed past the other's head and burst like a shell against the wall. There are, no doubt, restaurants where this sort of thing would have excited little comment, but the cosmopolis was not one of them. Everybody had something to say, but the only one among those present who had anything sensible to say was the child in the sailor suit. Do it again, said the child, cordially. The sausage-chappy did it again. He took up a fruit salad, poised it for a moment, then decanted it over Mr. Gossett's bald head. The child's happy laughter rang over the restaurant. Whatever anybody else might think of the affair, this child liked it, and was prepared to go on record to that effect. Epic events have a stunning quality. They paralyze the faculties. For a moment there was a pause. The world stood still. Mr. Brewster bubbled inarticulately. Mr. Gossett dried himself sketchily with a napkin. The sausage-chappy snorted. The girl had risen to her feet and was staring wildly. "'John!' she cried. Even at this moment of crisis the sausage-chappy was able to look relieved. "'So it is,' he said, and I thought it was Lancelot. "'I thought you were dead!' "'I'm not,' said the sausage-chappy.' Mr. Gossett, speaking thickly through the fruit salad, was understood to say that he regretted this. And then confusion broke loose again. Everybody began to talk at once. "'I say,' said Archie, "'I say one moment!' Of the first stages of this interesting episode Archie had been a paralyzed spectator. The thing had numbed him. And then, sudden a thought came, like a full-blown rose, flushing his brow. When he reached the gesticulating group he was calm and business-like. He had a constructive policy to suggest. "'I say,' he said, "'I've got an idea.' "'Go away,' said Mr. Brewster. "'This is bad enough without you budding in!' Archie quelled him with a gesture. "'Leave us,' he said. "'We would be alone. I want to have a little business talk with Mr. Gossett.' He turned to the movie magnate, who was gradually emerging from the fruit salad, rather after the manner of a stout Venus rising from the sea. "'Can you spare me a moment of your valuable time?' "'I'll have him arrested. "'Don't you do it, laddie. "'Listen, the man's mad, throwing pies!' Archie attached himself to his coat-button. "'Be calm, laddie, calm and reasonable.' For the first time Mr. Gossett seemed to become aware that what he had been looking on as a vague annoyance was really an individual. "'Oh, that devil are you!' Archie drew himself up with dignity. "'I am this gentleman's representative,' Archie replied, indicating the sausage-chappy with a motion of the hand. "'His jolly old personal representative. I act for him, and on his behalf I have a pretty ripe proposition to lay before you. "'Reflect, dear old bean,' he proceeded earnestly. "'Are you going to let this chance slip? "'The opportunity of a lifetime which will not occur again. "'By Jove, you ought to rise up and embrace this bird. "'You ought to clasp the chappy to your bosom. "'He has thrown pies at you, hasn't he? "'Very well. You are a movie magnate. "'Your whole fortune is founded on chappies who throw pies. "'You probably scour the world for chappies who throw pies. "'Yet when one comes right to you without any fuss or trouble "'and demonstrates before your very eyes the fact that he is without peer as a pie propeller, "'you get the wind up and talk about having him arrested. "'Consider. "'There's a bit of cherry just behind your left ear. "'Be sensible. "'Why let your personal feelings stand in the way "'of doing yourself a bit of good? "'Give this chappy a job and give it him quick, "'or we go elsewhere. "'Did you ever see fatty Arbuckle handle pastry "'with a sure touch? "'Has Charlie Chaplin got this fellow speed and control? "'Absolutely not. "'I tell you, old friend, "'you're in danger of throwing away a good thing.'" He paused. The sausage chappy beamed. "'I've always wanted to go into the movies,' he said. "'I was an actor before the war. "'Just remembered.'" Mr. Brewster attempted to speak. Archie waved him down. "'How many times have I got to tell you not to butt in?' he said severely. Mr. Gossett's militant demeanor had become a trifle modified during Archie's harangue. First and foremost a man of business, Mr. Gossett was not insensible to the arguments which had been put forward. He brushed a slice of orange from the back of his neck and mused awhile. "'How do I know this fellow with Screenwell?' he said at length. "'Screenwell?' cried Archie. "'Of course he'll Screenwell. "'Look at his face. I ask you, the map. I call your attention to it.'" He turned apologetically to the sausage chappy. "'Awfully sorry, old lad, for dwelling on this, but it's business, you know.'" He turned to Mr. Gossett. "'Did you ever see a face like that?' "'Of course not. Why should I, as this gentleman's personal representative, let a face like that go to waste? There's a fortune in it. By Jove, I'll give you two minutes to think the thing over, and if you don't talk business then, I'll jolly well take my man straight round to Max Senate or someone. We don't have to ask for jobs. We consider offers.'" There was a silence. And then the clear voice of the child in the sailor suit made itself heard again. "'Mummy, yes, darling? Is the man with the funny face going to throw any more pies?' "'No, darling.'" The child uttered a scream of disappointed fury. "'I want the funny man to throw some more pies! I want the funny man to throw some more pies!' A look of almost awe came into Mr. Gossett's face. He had heard the voice of the public. He had felt the beating of the public's pulse. "'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' he said, picking a piece of banana off his right eyebrow, out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, come round to my office.'" CHAPTER XXI 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 XXI THE GROWING BOY The lobby of the Cosmopolis Hotel was a favorite stamping-ground of Mr. Daniel Brewster, its proprietor. He liked to wander about there, keeping a paternal eye on things, rather in the manner of the jolly innkeeper, here and after to be referred to as mine-host, of the old-fashioned novel. Customers who, hurrying into dinner, tripped over Mr. Brewster were apt to mistake him for the hotel detective, for his eye was keen and his aspect a trifle austere. But, nevertheless, he was being as jolly an innkeeper as he knew how. His presence in the lobby supplied a personal touch to the Cosmopolis which other New York hotels lacked, and it undeniably made the girl at the bookstore extraordinarily civil to her clients, which was all to the good. Most of the time Mr. Brewster stood in one spot and just looked thoughtful. But now and again he would wander to the marble slab behind which he kept the desk clerk and run his eye over the register to see who had booked rooms, like a child examining the stocking on Christmas morning to ascertain what Santa Claus had brought him. As a rule Mr. Brewster concluded this performance by shoving the book back across the marble slab and resuming his meditations. But one night, a week or two after the sausage-chappy's sudden restoration to the normal, he varied this procedure by starting rather violently, turning purple and uttering an exclamation which was manifestly an exclamation of chagrin. He turned abruptly and canoned into Archie, who, in company with Lucille, happened to be crossing the lobby at the moment on his way to dine in their suite. Mr. Brewster apologized gruffly, then, recognizing his victim, seemed to regret having done so. Oh, it's you! Why can't you look where you're going? He demanded. He had suffered much from his son-in-law. Frightfully sorry, said Archie, amably. Never thought you were going to Foxtrot backwards all over the fairway. You mustn't bully Archie, said Lucille, severely, attaching herself to her father's back hair and giving it a punitive tug, because he's an angel and I love him and you must learn to love him, too. Give your lessons at a reasonable rate, murmured Archie. Mr. Brewster regarded his young relative with a lowering eye. What's the matter, Father Darling? asked Lucille. You seem upset. I am upset, Mr. Brewster snorted. Some people have got a nerve! He glowered, forbiddingly, at an inoffensive young man in a light overcoat who had just entered, and the young man, though his conscience was quite clear and Mr. Brewster, an entire stranger to him, stopped dead, blushed, and went out again to dine elsewhere. Some people have got the nerve of an army mule. Why, what's happened? Those darned McCalls have registered here! No! Bits beyond me this, said Archie, insinuating himself into the conversation. Deep waters and what not? Who are the McCalls? Some people father dislikes, said Lucille, and they've chosen his hotel to stop at. But, Father Dear, you mustn't mind. It's really a compliment. They've come because they know it's the best hotel in New York. Absolutely, said Archie, good accommodation for man and beast. All the comforts of home. Look on the bright side, old bean. No good getting the wind up. Cheerio, old companion. Don't call me old companion. Eh, what? Oh, right-o. Lucille steered her husband out of the danger zone, and they entered the lift. Poor Father, she said, as they went to their suite. It's a shame. They must have done it to annoy him. This man McCall has a place next to some property Father bought in Westchester, and he's bringing a lawsuit against Father about a bit of land which he claims belongs to him. He might have had the tack to go to another hotel. But, after all, I don't suppose it was the poor little fellow's fault. He does whatever his wife tells him to. We all do that, said Archie, the married man. Lucille eyed him fondly. Isn't it a shame precious that all husbands haven't nice wives like me? When I think of you, by Jove, said Archie fervently, I want to babble. Absolutely babble. Oh, I was telling you about the McCalls. Mr. McCall is one of those little meek men, and his wife's one of those big, bullying women. It was she who started all the trouble with Father. Father and Mr. McCall were very fond of each other till she made him begin the suit. I feel sure she made him come to this hotel just to annoy Father. Still, they've probably taken the most expensive suite in the place, which is something. Archie was at the telephone. His mood was now one of quiet peace. Of all the happenings which went to make up existence in New York, he liked best the cozy Tetta-Tett dinners with Lucille in their suite, which, owing to their engagements, for Lucille was a popular girl with many friends, occurred all too seldom. Touching now the question of brousing and sluicing, he said, I'll be getting them to send along a waiter. Oh, good gracious! What's the matter? I've just remembered. I promised faithfully I would go and see Jane Murchison today, and I clean forgot. I must rush. But, light of my soul, I can't wait to eat. Pop a round and see her after dinner. I can't. She's going to a theatre tonight. Give her the jolly old Missian Balk then for the nonce and spring round tomorrow. She's sailing for England to-morrow morning, early. No, I must go and see her now. What a shame! She's sure to make me stop to dinner, I tell you what. Order something for me, and if I'm not back in half an hour, start. Jane Murchison, said Archie, is a belly nuisance. Yes, but I've known her since she was eight. If her parents had had any proper feeling, said Archie, they would have drowned her long before that. He unhooked the receiver and asked despondently to be connected with room service. He thought bitterly of the exigent Jane whom he recollected dimly as a tall female with teeth. He half thought of going down to the grill-room on the chance of finding a friend there, but the waiter was on his way to the room. He decided that he might as well stay where he was. The waiter arrived, booked the order, and departed. Archie had just completed his toilet after a shower-bath when a musical clinking without announced the advent of the meal. He opened the door. The waiter was there and the table congested with things under covers from which escaped a savory and appetizing odor. In spite of his depression Archie's soul perked up a trifle. Suddenly he became aware that he was not the only person present who was deriving enjoyment from the scent of the meal. Standing beside the waiter and gazing wistfully at the foodstuffs was a long, thin boy of about sixteen. He was one of those boys who seemed all legs and knuckles. He had pale red hair, sandy eyelashes, and a long neck. And his eyes, as he removed them from the table and raised them to Archie's, had a hungry look. He reminded Archie of a half-grown, half-starved hound. "'That smells good,' said the long boy. He inhaled deeply. "'Yes, sir,' he continued, as one whose mind is definitely made up. "'That smells good.'" Before Archie could reply the telephone bell rang. It was Lucille confirming her prophecy that the pest Jane would insist on her staying to dine. "'Jane,' said Archie into the telephone, is a pot of poison. The waiter is here now, setting out a rich banquet, and I shall have to eat two of everything by myself.' He hung up the receiver and, turning, met the pale eye of the long boy who had propped himself up in the doorway. "'Were you expecting somebody to dinner?' asked the boy. "'Why, yes, old friend, I was. I wish. Yes. Oh, nothing!' The waiter left. The long boy hitched his back more firmly against the door-post and returned to his original theme. "'That surely does smell good!' he bashed a moment in the aroma. "'Yes, sir. I'll tell the world it does.'" Archie was not an abnormally rapid thinker, but he began at this point to get a clearly defined impression that this lad, if invited, would wave the formalities and consent to join his meal. Indeed, the idea Archie got was that if he were not invited pretty soon he would invite himself. "'Yes,' he agreed. "'It doesn't smell bad, what?' "'It smells good,' said the boy. "'Oh, does it it. Wake me up in the night and ask me if it doesn't.' "'Poulet on casserole,' said Archie. "'Golly!' said the boy reverently. There was a pause. The situation began to seem to Archie a trifle difficult. He wanted to start his meal but it began to appear that he must either do so under the penetrating gaze of his new friend or else eject the ladder forcibly. The boy showed no signs of ever wanting to leave the doorway. "'You've dined, I suppose, what?' said Archie. "'I never dined.' "'What?' "'Not really dined, I mean. I only get vegetables and nuts and things.' "'Dieting?' "'Mother is.' "'I don't absolutely catch the drift, old bean,' said Archie. The boy sniffed with half-closed eyes as a wave of the perfume from the poulet on casserole floated past him. He seemed to be anxious to intercept as much of it as possible before it got through the door. "'Mother's a food reformer,' he vouchsafed. She lectures on it. She makes pop and me live on vegetables and nuts and things.' Archie was shocked. It was like listening to a tale from the abyss. "'My dear old chap, you must suffer agonies, absolute shooting pains.' He had no hesitation now. Common humanity pointed out his course. "'Would you care to join me in a bite now?' "'Would I?' the boy smiled a wan smile. "'Would I? Just stop me on the street and ask me.' "'Come on in, then,' said Archie, rightly taking his peculiar and closed the door. The fat had calf is getting cold.' Archie was not a man with a wide visiting list among people with families, and it was so long since he had seen a growing boy in action at the table that he had forgotten what sixteen is capable of doing with a knife and fork, when it really squares its elbows, takes a deep breath and gets going. The spectacle which he witnessed was consequently at first a little unnerving. The long boy's idea of trifling with a meal appeared to be to swallow it whole and reach out for more. He ate like a starving Eskimo. Archie, in the time he had spent in the trenches making the world safe for the working man to strike in, had occasionally been quite peckish, but he sat dazed before this majestic hunger. This was real eating. There was little conversation. The growing boy evidently did not believe in table-talk when he could use his mouth for more practical purposes. It was not until the final roll had been devoured to its last crumb that the guest found leisure to address his host. Then he leaned back with a contented sigh. Mother, said the human python, says you ought to chew every mouthful thirty-three times. Yes, sir, thirty-three times. He sighed again. I haven't ever had a meal like that. All right, was it? What? Was it? Was it? Call me up on the phone and ask me. Yes, sir. Mother's tipped off these darned waiters not to serve me anything but vegetables and nuts and things, darn it. The mater seems to have drastic ideas about the good old feed-bag, what? I'll say she has. Pop hates it as much as me, but he's scared to kick. Mother says vegetables contain all the proteins you want. Mother says if you eat meat your blood pressure goes all bluey. Do you think it does? Mine seems pretty well in the pink. She's great on talking. Conceited the boy. She's out to-night somewhere giving a lecture on rational eating to some ginks. I'll have to be slipping up to our suite before she gets back. He rose sluggishly. That isn't a bit of roll under the napkin, is it? He asked anxiously. Aren't you raised the napkin? No, nothing of that species. Oh, well! Said the boy, residedly. Then I believe I'll be going. Thanks very much for the dinner. Not a bit, old top. Come again if you're ever trickling round in this direction. The long boy removed himself slowly, loathe to leave. At the door he cast an affectionate glance back at the table. Some meal, he said devoutly. Considerable meal. Archie lit a cigarette. He felt like a boy scout who has done his day's act of kindness. On the following morning it chanced that Archie needed a fresh supply of tobacco. It was his custom, when this happened, to repair to a small shop on Sixth Avenue, which he had discovered accidentally in the course of his rambles about the great city. His relations with John Blake, were friendly and intimate. The discovery that Mr. Blake was English, and had, indeed, until a few years back, maintained an establishment only a dozen doors or so from Archie's London Club had served as a bond. Today he found Mr. Blake in a depressed mood. The tobacconist was a hearty, red-faced man who looked like an English sporting-publican, the kind of man who wears a neon-colored topcoat and drives to the derby in a dog cart. And usually there seemed to be nothing on his mind except the vagaries of the weather, concerning which he was a great conversationalist. But now moodiness had claimed him for its own. After a short and melancholy good morning he turned to the task of measuring out the tobacco in silence. Archie's sympathetic nature was perturbed. What's the matter, laddie? he inquired. You would seem to be feeling a bit of an onion this bright morning. What, yes, no? I can see it with a naked eye. Mr. Blake grunted sorrowfully. I've had a knock, Mr. Moom. Tell me all, friend of my youth. Mr. Blake, with a jerk of his thumb, indicated a poster which hung on the wall behind the counter. Archie had noticed it as he came in for it was designed to attract the eye. It was printed in black letters on a yellow ground and ran as follows. Cloverleaf Social and Outing Club Grand Contest Pi Eating Championship of the West Side Spike O'Dowd Champion vs. Blake's Unknown for a purse of $50 and side bet. Archie examined this document gravely. It conveyed nothing to him except what he had long suspected that his sporting-looking friend had sporting blood as well as that kind of exterior. He expressed a kindly hope that the others unknown would bring home the bacon. Mr. Blake laughed one of those hollow, mirthless laughs. There ain't no bloomin' unknown, he said bitterly. This man had plainly suffered. Yesterday, yes, but not now. Archie sighed. In the midst of life, dead, he inquired delicately. As good as," replied the stricken tobacconist, he cast aside his artificial restraint and became voluble. Archie was one of those sympathetic souls in whom even strangers readily confided their most intimate troubles. He was, to those in travail of spirit, very much what catnip is to a cat. It's odd, sir. It's bloomin' hard. I'd got the event all sewed up in a parcel, and now this young fellow me lad as to give me the knock. This lad of mine, sort of cousin he is, comes from London, like you and me, as always had, since he'd landed in his country, a most amazing knack of stowing away grub. He'd been a bit underfed these last two or three years over in the old country, what, with food restrictions and all, and he took to the food over here amazing. I'd have backed him against a ruddy ostrich. I'd have backed him against a dozen ostriches. Take him on one after the other in the same ring on the same evening, and given him a handicap too. I'd do that, boy. I've seen him polish off four pounds of steak and mealy potatoes, and then look round kind of wolfish, as much as to ask when dinner was going to begin. That's the kind of lad he was to this very morning. He would have outswadowed this year old Dowd without turning a hair, as a relish before his tea. I'd got a couple of hundred dollars on him, and I thought myself lucky to get the odds. And now Mr. Blake relapsed into a tortured silence. But what's the matter with the blighter? Why can't he go over the top? Has he got indigestion? Indigestion! Mr. Blake laughed another of his hollow laughs. You couldn't give that boy indigestion if you fed him on safety razor blades. Religion's more like what he's got. Religion? Well, you can call it that. Seems last night, instead of going and resting his mind at a picture palace like I told him to, he sneaked off to some sort of a lecture down on Eighth Avenue. He said he'd seen a piece about it in the papers, and it was about rational eating, and that kind of attracted him. He sort of thought he might pick up a few hints like. He didn't know what rational eating was, but it sounded to him as if it must be something to do with food, and he didn't want to miss it. He came in here just now, said Mr. Blake, Dolly, and he was a changed lad. Scared to death he was. Said the way he'd been going on in the past, it was a wonder he'd got any stomach left. It was a lady that gave the lecture, and this boy said it was amazing that she told him about blood pressure and things he didn't even know he had. She showed him pictures, colored pictures of what happens inside the injudicious eater's stomach who doesn't chew his food, and it was like a battlefield. He said he would no more think of eating a lot of pie than he would have shooting himself, and anyhow eating pie would be a quicker death. I reasoned with him, Mr. Moom, with tears in my eyes. I asked him was he going to chuck away fame and wealth just because a woman who didn't know what she was talking about had shown him a lot of fake pictures? But there wasn't any doing anything with him. He gave me the knock and upped it down the street to buy nuts. Mr. Blake moaned. Two hundred dollars and more gone pop. Not to talk of the fifty dollars he would have won and me to get twenty-five of. Archie took his tobacco and walked pensively back to the hotel. He was fond of John Blake and grieved for the trouble that had come upon him. It was odd, he felt, how things seem to link themselves up together. The woman who had delivered the fateful lecture to injudicious eaters could not be other than the mother of his young guest of last night. An uncomfortable woman. Not content with starving her own family. Archie stopped in his tracks. A pedestrian walking behind him charged into his back, but Archie paid no attention. He had had one of those sudden luminous ideas which help a man who does not do much thinking as a rule to restore his average. He stood there for a moment almost dizzy at the brilliance of his thoughts, then hurried on. Napoleon, he mused as he walked, must have felt rather like this after thinking up a hot one to spring on the enemy. As if destiny were suiting her plans to his, one of the first persons he saw as he entered the lobby of the Cosmopolis was the long boy. He was standing at the bookstore reading as much of a morning paper as could be read free under the vigilant eyes of the presiding girl. Both he and she were observing the unwritten rules which govern these affairs, to wit that you may read without interference as much as can be read without touching the paper. Maybe if you touch the paper you lose and you have to buy. Well, well, well said Archie. Here we are again, what? He prodded the boy amably in the lower ribs. You're just a chap I was looking for. Got anything gone for the time being? The boy said he had no engagements. Then I want you to stag around with me to a chapy I know on Sixth Avenue. He walks away. I think I can do you a bit of good. Put you on to something tolerably ripe, if you know what I mean. Trick it along, Daddy. You don't need a hat. They found Mr. Blake brooding over his troubles in an empty shop. Cheer up, old thing, said Archie. The relief expedition has arrived. He directed his companion's gaze to the poster. Cast your eyes over that. How does that strike you? The long boy scanned the poster. A gleam appeared in his rather dull eye. Well, some people have all the luck, said the long boy, feelingly. Would you like to compete what? The boy smiled a sad smile. Would I, would I, say I know, interrupted Archie, wake you up in the night and ask you. I knew I could rely on you, old thing. He turned to Mr. Blake. Here's the fellow you've been wanting to meet. The finest left and right hand eater east of the Rockies. He'll fight the good fight for you. Mr. Blake's English training had not been wholly overcome by residents in New York. He still retained a nice eye for the distinctions of class. But this young gentleman's a young gentleman, he urged, doubtfully yet with hope shining in his eye. He wouldn't do it? Of course he would. Don't be ridiculous, old thing. Wouldn't do what? asked the boy. Why save the old homestead by taking on the champion? Dashed sad case between ourselves. This poor egg's nominee has given him the money, and only you can save him. And you owe it to him to do something, you know, because it was your jolly old Mata's lecture last night that made the nominee quit. You must charge in and take his place. Sort of poetic justice, don't you know, and what not?" He turned to Mr. Blake. When is the conflict supposed to start? Two-thirty? You haven't any important engagement in the future. I'm looking at some lady's club giving a lecture afterwards. I can slip away. Archie patted his head. Then leg it where glory waits you, old being. The long boy was gazing earnestly at the poster. It seemed to fascinate him. He said in a hushed voice. The word was like a battle cry. End of Chapter 21