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

fact that he is on the brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and Spike had burgled his house together in New York; and here they were, together again, at Dreever Castle. To say that the thing struck McEachern as sinister is to put the matter badly. There was once a gentleman who remarked that he smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air. Ex-Constable McEachern smelt a regiment of rats, and the air seemed to him positively congested with them.

His first impulse had been to rush to Jimmy’s room there and then; but he had learned society’s lessons well. Though the heavens might fall, he must not be late for dinner, so he went and dressed, and an obstinate tie put the finishing touches to his wrath.

Jimmy regarded him coolly, without moving from the chair in which he had seated himself. Spike, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed; he stood first on one leg and then on the other, as if he were testing the respective merits of each and would make a definite choice later on.

“You scoundrels!” growled McEachern.

Spike, who had been standing for a few moments on his right leg, and seemed at last to have come to a decision, hastily changed to the left, and grinned feebly.

“Say, youse won’t want me any more, boss?” he whispered.

“No; you can go, Spike.”

“You stay where you are, you redheaded devil!” said McEachern tartly.

“Run along, Spike,” said Jimmy.

The Bowery boy looked doubtfully at the huge form of the ex-policeman, which blocked access to the door.

“Would you mind letting my man pass?” said Jimmy.

“You stay⁠—” began McEachern.

Jimmy got up and walked round him to the door, which he opened. Spike shot out like a rabbit released from a trap. He was not lacking in courage, but he disliked embarrassing interviews, and it struck him that Jimmy was the man to handle a situation of this kind. He felt that he himself would only be in the way.

“Now we can talk comfortably,” said Jimmy, going back to his chair.

McEachern’s deep-set eyes gleamed and his forehead grew red, but he mastered his feelings.

“And now⁠—” he said.

He stopped.

“Yes?” asked Jimmy.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

“You know what I mean. Why are you here⁠—you and that redheaded devil, Spike Mullins?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

“I am here because I was very kindly invited to come by Lord Dreever.”

“I know you.”

“You have that privilege. Seeing we only met once, it’s very good of you to remember me.”

“What’s your game? What do you mean to do?”

“To do? Well, I shall potter about the garden, you know, and shoot a bit, perhaps, and look at the horses, and think of life, and feed the chickens⁠—I suppose there are chickens somewhere about⁠—and possibly go for an occasional row on the lake. Nothing more. Oh, yes, I believe they want me to act in some theatricals.”

“You’ll miss those theatricals. You’ll leave here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But I’ve only just arrived, dear heart.”

“I don’t care about that. Out you go tomorrow. I’ll give you till tomorrow.”

“I congratulate you,” said Jimmy. “One of the oldest houses in England.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gathered from what you said that you had bought the castle. Isn’t that so? If it still belongs to Lord Dreever, don’t you think you ought to consult him before revising his list of guests?”

McEachern looked at him steadily. His manner became quieter.

“Oh! you take that tone, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘that tone.’ What tone would you take if a comparative stranger ordered you to leave another man’s house?”

McEachern’s massive jaw protruded truculently in the manner which had scared good behaviour into brawling East Siders.

“I know your sort,” he said. “I’ll call your bluff. And you won’t get till tomorrow, either⁠—it’ll be now.”

“ ‘Why should we wait for the morrow? You are queen of my heart tonight,’ ” murmured Jimmy encouragingly.

“I’ll expose you before them all. I’ll tell them everything.”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Too melodramatic,” he said. “Sort of ‘I call on Heaven to judge between this man and me’ kind of thing. I shouldn’t. What do you propose to tell, anyway?”

“Will you deny that you were a crook in New York?”

“I will. I was nothing of the kind.”

“What?”

“If you’ll listen, I can explain.”

“Explain!” The other’s voice rose again. “You talk about explaining, you scum, when I caught you in my own parlour at three in the morning, you⁠—”

The smile faded from Jimmy’s face.

“Half a minute,” he said.

It might be that the ideal course would be to let the storm expend itself and then to explain quietly the whole matter of Arthur Mifflin and the bet which had led to his one excursion into burglary. But he doubted it. Things⁠—including his temper⁠—had got beyond the stage of quiet explanations. McEachern would most certainly disbelieve his story. What would happen after that he did not know. A scene, probably⁠—a melodramatic denunciation, at the worst, before the other guests; at the best, before Sir Thomas alone. He saw nothing but chaos beyond that. His story was thin to a degree, unless backed by witnesses, and his witnesses were three thousand miles away. Worse, he had not been alone in the policeman’s parlour. A man who is burgling a house for a bet does not usually do it in the company of a professional burglar well known to the police.

No; quiet explanations must be postponed. They could do no good, and would probably lead to his spending the night and the next few nights at the local police station. And even if he were spared that fate, it was certain that he would have to leave the castle.

Leave the castle and Molly! He jumped up. The thought had stung him.

“One moment,” he said.

McEachern stopped.

“Well?”

“You’re going to tell them that?” asked Jimmy.

“I am.”

“Are you also going to tell them why you didn’t have me arrested that night?” he said.

McEachern started. Jimmy planted himself in front of him and glared up into his face. It would have been hard to