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

and do it.”

“Sure. It’s up to him,” agreed Spike.

“I’m quite comfortable. Speaking for myself, I’m having a good time. How are you getting along downstairs?”

“De limit, boss. Honest, it’s to de velvet. Dere’s old gazebo, de butler, Saunders his name is, dat’s de best ever at handing out long woids. I sits and listens. Dey calls me Mr. Mullins down dere,” said Spike with pride.

“Good. I’m glad you’re all right. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have an excellent time here. I don’t think that Mr. McEachern will try to have us turned out, after he’s heard one or two little things I have to say to him⁠—just a few reminiscences of the past which may interest him. I have the greatest affection for Mr. McEachern⁠—I wish it was mutual⁠—but nothing he can say is going to make me stir from here.”

“Not on your life,” agreed Spike. “Say, boss, he must have got a lot of plunks to be able to butt in here. And I know how he got dem, too. Dat’s right. I comes from little old New York meself.”

“Hush, Spike; this is scandal!”

“Sure!” said the Bowery boy, doggedly, safely started now on his favourite subject. “I knows, and youse knows, boss. Gee! I wish I’d bin a cop. But I wasn’t tall enough. Dey’s de fellers wit de big bankrolls! Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit he’s got, and never a bit of woik for it from de start to de finish. An’ look at me, boss.”

“I do, Spike; I do.”

“Look at me. Getting busy all de year round, woiking to beat de band⁠—”

“In prisons oft,” said Jimmy.

“Sure t’ing. And chased all roun’ de town. And den what? Why, to de bad at de end of it all. Say, it’s enough to make a feller⁠—”

“Turn honest!” said Jimmy. “That’s it, Spike⁠—reform. You’ll be glad some day.”

Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for a moment; then, as if following up a train of thought, he said:

“Boss, dis is a fine big house.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Say, couldn’t we⁠—?”

“Spike!” said Jimmy warningly.

“Well, couldn’t we?” said Spike doggedly. “It ain’t often youse butts into a dead easy proposition like dis one. We shouldn’t have to do a t’ing excep’ git busy. De stuff’s just lying about, boss.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Aw, it’s a waste to leave it.”

“Spike,” said Jimmy. “I warned you of this. I begged you to be on your guard, to fight against your professional instincts. Be a man! Crush them. Try to occupy your mind. Collect butterflies.”

Spike shuffled in gloomy silence.

“ ’Member dose jools you swiped from de Duchess?” he said, musingly.

“The dear Duchess!” murmured Jimmy. “Ah, me!”

“And de bank you busted?”

“Those were happy days, Spike.”

“Gee!” said the Bowery boy.

He paused. “Dat was to de good,” he said wistfully.

Jimmy arranged his tie at the mirror.

“Dere’s a loidy here,” continued Spike, addressing the chest of drawers, “dat’s got a necklace of jools what’s worth a hundred t’ousand plunks. Honest, boss⁠—a hundred t’ousand plunks. Saunders told me that⁠—de old gazebo dat hands out de long woids. I says to him ‘Gee!’ and he says, ‘Surest t’ing you know.’ A hundred t’ousand plunks!”

“So I understand,” said Jimmy.

“Shall I rubber around and find out where is dey kept, boss?”

“Spike,” said Jimmy, “ask me no more. All this is in direct contravention of our treaty respecting keeping our fingers off the spoons. You pain me. Desist.”

“Sorry, boss. But dey’ll be willy-wonders, dem jools. A hundred t’ousand plunks! Dat’s going some, ain’t it? What’s dat dis side?”

“Twenty thousand pounds.”

“Gee! Can I help you wit de duds, boss?”

“No, thanks, Spike. I’m through now. You might just give me a brush down, though. No, not that. That’s a hairbrush. Try the big black one.”

“Dis is a boid of a dude suit,” observed Spike, pausing in his labours.

“Glad you like it, Spike. Rather chic, I think.”

“It’s de limit. Excuse me, how much did it set you back, boss?”

“Something like twelve guineas, I believe. I could look up the bill and let you know.”

“What’s dat⁠—guineas? Is that more dan a pound?”

“A shilling more. Why these higher mathematics?”

Spike resumed his brushing.

“What a lot of dude suits youse could get,” he observed meditatively, “if you had dem jools.” He became suddenly animated. He waved the clothes brush. “Oh, you boss!” he cried. “What’s eatin’ you? Aw, it’s a shame not to. Come along, you boss. Say, what’s doin’? Why ain’t you sittin’ in at de game? Oh, you boss!”

Whatever reply Jimmy might have made to this impassioned appeal was checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost immediately the handle turned.

“Gee!” cried Spike. “It’s de cop.”

Jimmy smiled pleasantly.

“Come in, Mr. McEachern,” he said, “come in. Journeys end in lovers meeting. You know my friend Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door and sit down, and let’s talk of many things.”

XIV Check, and a Countermove

Mr. McEachern stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. As the result of a long connection with evildoers, the ex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbour suspicions of those round about him, and at the present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, a more trusting man might have been excused for feeling a little doubtful as to the intentions of Jimmy and Spike. When McEachern had heard that Lord Dreever had brought home a casual London acquaintance, he had suspected as a possible drawback to the visit the existence of hidden motives on the part of the unknown. Lord Dreever, he had felt, was precisely the sort of youth to whom the professional bunco-steerer would attach himself with shouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there been a softer proposition than his lordship since bunco-steering became a profession.

When he found that the strange visitor was Jimmy Pitt, his suspicions had increased a thousandfold.

And when, going to his room to get ready for dinner, he had nearly run into Spike Mullins in the corridor, his frame of mind had been that of a man to whom a sudden ray of light reveals the