The Adventures of Sally, P. G. Wodehouse [interesting novels in english txt] 📗

say, it's a bit of an effort. I don't know why it is, but talking French always makes me feel as if my nose were coming off. Couldn't we just leave him to have his cry out by himself?”

“The idea!” said Sally. “Have you no heart? Are you one of those fiends in human shape?”

He turned reluctantly to Jules, and paused to overhaul his vocabulary.

“You ought to be thankful for this chance,” said Sally. “It's the only real way of learning French, and you're getting a lesson for nothing. What did he say then?”

“Something about losing something, it seemed to me. I thought I caught the word perdu.”

“But that means a partridge, doesn't it? I'm sure I've seen it on the menus.”

“Would he talk about partridges at a time like this?”

“He might. The French are extraordinary people.”

“Well, I'll have another go at him. But he's a difficult chap to chat with. If you give him the least encouragement, he sort of goes off like a rocket.” He addressed another question to the sufferer, and listened attentively to the voluble reply.

“Oh!” he said with sudden enlightenment. “Your job?” He turned to Sally. “I got it that time,” he said. “The trouble is, he says, that if we yell and rouse the house, we'll get out all right, but he will lose his job, because this is the second time this sort of thing has happened, and they warned him last time that once more would mean the push.”

“Then we mustn't dream of yelling,” said Sally, decidedly. “It means a pretty long wait, you know. As far as I can gather, there's just a chance of somebody else coming in later, in which case he could let us out. But it's doubtful. He rather thinks that everybody has gone to roost.”

“Well, we must try it. I wouldn't think of losing the poor man his job. Tell him to take the car down to the ground-floor, and then we'll just sit and amuse ourselves till something happens. We've lots to talk about. We can tell each other the story of our lives.”

Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car to the ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keys on the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast at the Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in a heap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably as possible in her corner.

“You'd better smoke,” she said. “It will be something to do.”

“Thanks awfully.”

“And now,” said Sally, “tell me why Scrymgeour fired you.”

Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnal adventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion which had rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in the hall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him once more. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face, and he stammered.

“I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!”

“About Scrymgeour?”

“You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass of myself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English.”

“Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary. Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but...”

“No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump.”

“And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're a fair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault.”

“Don't rub it in,” pleaded the young man. “As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think,” he proceeded, a little feverishly, “that you are the most indescribable topper that ever...”

“You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour,” said Sally.

The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object while sleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away.

“Scrymgeour?” he said. “Oh, that would bore you.”

“Don't be silly,” said Sally reprovingly. “Can't you realize that we're practically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do till to-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you, and then I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident about starting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine is Sally Nicholas. What's yours?”

“Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean.”

“I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what is it?”

“Kemp.”

“And the first name?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said the young man, “I've always rather hushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked a low-down trick on me!”

“You can't shock me,” said Sally, encouragingly. “My father's name was Ezekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore.”

Mr. Kemp brightened. “Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don't mean that,” he broke off apologetically. “Both awfully jolly names, of course...”

“Get on,” said Sally.

“Well, they called me Lancelot. And, of course, the thing is that I don't look like a Lancelot and never shall. My pals,” he added in a more cheerful strain, “call me Ginger.”

“I don't blame them,” said Sally.

“Perhaps you wouldn't mind thinking of me as Ginger?'' suggested the young man diffidently.

“Certainly.”

“That's awfully good of you.”

“Not at all.”

Jules stirred in his sleep and grunted. No other sound came to disturb the stillness of the night.

“You were going to tell me about yourself?” said Mr. Lancelot (Ginger) Kemp.

“I'm going to tell you all about myself,” said Sally, “not because I think it will interest you...”

“Oh, it will!”

“Not, I say, because I think it will interest you...”

“It will, really.”

Sally looked at him coldly.

“Is this a duet?” she inquired, “or have I the floor?”

“I'm awfully sorry.”

“Not, I repeat for the third time, because I think It will interest you, but because if I