A Gentleman of Leisure, P. G. Wodehouse [speld decodable readers .TXT] 📗

Dat’s de finish. I’m down and out.”

Jimmy shook his head sadly.

“Give up burglary,” he said. “It’s not in your line. Better try poultry farming.”

Spike twiddled his glass, abashed.

“Now I,” said Jimmy airily, “am thinking of breaking into a house tonight.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Spike, his suspicions confirmed at last. “I t’ought youse was in de game, boss. Sure, you’re de guy dat’s onto all de curves. I t’ought so all along.”

“I should like to hear,” said Jimmy amusedly, as one who draws out an intelligent child, “how you would set about burgling one of those uptown villas. My own work has been on a somewhat larger scale and on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“De odder side?”

“I have done as much in London as anywhere else,” said Jimmy. “A great town, London. Full of opportunities for the fine worker. Did you hear of the cracking of the new Asiatic Bank in Lombard Street?”

“No, boss,” whispered Spike. “Was dat you?”

“The police would like an answer to the same question,” he said self-consciously. “Perhaps you heard nothing of the disappearance of the Duchess of Havent’s diamonds?”

“Was dat⁠—?”

“The thief,” said Jimmy, flicking a speck of dust from his coat sleeve, “was discovered to have used an oxyacetylene blowpipe.”

The rapturous intake of Spike’s breath was the only sound that broke the silence. Through the smoke his eyes could be seen slowly widening.

“But about this villa,” said Jimmy. “I am always interested even in the humblest sides of the profession. Now, tell me, supposing you were going to break into a villa, what time of night would you do it?”

“I always t’inks it’s best either late like dis or when de folks is in at supper,” said Spike respectfully.

Jimmy smiled a faint, patronizing smile, and nodded.

“Well, and what would you do?”

“I’d rubber around some to see isn’t dere a window open somewheres,” said Spike diffidently.

“And if there wasn’t?”

“I’d climb up de porch and into one of de bedrooms,” said Spike, almost blushing. He felt like a boy reading his first attempts at original poetry to an established critic. What would this master cracksman, this polished wielder of the oxyacetylene blowpipe, this expert in toxicology, microscopy, and physics, think of his callow outpourings?

“How would you get into the bedroom?”

Spike hung his head.

“Bust de catch wit me jemmy,” he whispered shamefacedly.

“Burst the catch with your jemmy?”

“It’s de only way I ever learned,” pleaded Spike.

The expert was silent. He seemed to be thinking. The other watched his face humbly.

“How would youse do it, boss?” he ventured timidly, at last.

“Eh?”

“How would youse do it?”

“Why, I’m not sure,” said the master graciously, “whether your way might not do in a case like that. It’s crude, of course, but with a few changes it would do.”

“Gee, boss! Is dat right?” queried the astonished disciple.

“It would do,” said the master, frowning thoughtfully. “It would do quite well⁠—quite well.”

Spike drew a deep breath of joy and astonishment. That his methods should meet with approval from such a mind!

“Gee!” he whispered. As who should say, “I am Napoleon.”

VI An Exhibition Performance

Cold reason may disapprove of wagers, but without a doubt there is something joyous and lovable in the type of mind which rushes at the least provocation into the making of them, something smacking of the spacious days of the Regency. Nowadays the spirit seems to have deserted England. When Mr. Lloyd George became Premier of Great Britain no earnest forms were to be observed rolling peanuts along the Strand with a toothpick. When Mr. George is dethroned it is improbable that any Briton will allow his beard to remain unshaved until his pet party returns to office. It is in the United States that the wager has found a home. It is characteristic of some minds to dash into a wager with the fearlessness of a soldier in a forlorn hope, and, once in, to regard it almost as a sacred trust. Some men never grow up out of the schoolboy spirit of “daring.”

To this class Jimmy Pitt belonged. He was of the same type as the man in the comic opera who proposed to the lady because somebody bet him he wouldn’t. There had never been a time when a challenge, a “dare,” had not acted as a spur to him. In his newspaper days life had been one long series of challenges. They had been the essence of the business. A story had not been worth getting unless the getting were difficult.

With the conclusion of his newspaper life came a certain flatness into the scheme of things. There were times, many times, when Jimmy was bored. He hungered for excitement, and life appeared to have so little to offer. The path of the rich man was so smooth, and it seemed to lead nowhere. This task of burgling a house was like an unexpected treat to a child. With an intensity of purpose which should have touched his sense of humour, but which, as a matter of fact, did not appeal to him as ludicrous in any way, he addressed himself to the work. The truth was that Jimmy was one of those men who are charged to the brim with force. Somehow the force had to find an outlet. If he had undertaken to collect birds’ eggs, he would have set about it with the same tense energy.

Spike was sitting on the edge of his chair, dazed but happy, his head still buzzing from the unhoped-for praise. Jimmy looked at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock. A sudden idea struck him. The gods had provided gifts⁠—why not take them?

“Spike!”

“Huh?”

“Would you care to come and crack a crib with me now?”

“Gee, boss!”

“Would you?”

“Surest t’ing you know, boss.”

“Or, rather,” proceeded Jimmy, “would you care to crack a crib while I come along with you? Strictly speaking, I am here on vacation, but a trifle like this isn’t real work. It’s this way,” he explained. “I’ve taken a fancy to you, Spike, and I don’t like to see you wasting