Ukridge Stories, P. G. Wodehouse [books suggested by bill gates txt] 📗

the world seemed to be smashing simultaneously, the populations of several cities were shouting in unison, and I could almost fancy that I saw the walls of the building shake and heave. And then somebody blew a police-whistle.

There is a magic about the sound of a police-whistle. It acts like oil on the most troubled waters. This one brought about an instant lull in the tumult. Glasses ceased to break, voices were hushed, and a moment later out came Mr. Billson, standing not upon the order of his going. His nose was bleeding a little and there was the scenario of a black eye forming on his face, but otherwise there seemed nothing much the matter with him. He cast a wary look up and down the street and sprinted for the nearest corner. And I, shaking off the dreamy aftereffects of my encounter with the barman, sprinted in his wake. I was glowing with gratitude and admiration. I wanted to catch this man up and thank him formally. I wanted to assure him of my undying esteem. Moreover, I wanted to borrow sixpence from him. The realisation that he was the only man in the whole wide East End of London who was likely to lend me the money to save me having to walk back to Ebury Street gave me a rare burst of speed.

It was not easy to overtake him, for the sound of my pursuing feet evidently suggested to Mr. Billson that the hunt was up, and he made good going. Eventually, however, when in addition to running I began to emit a plaintive “Mr. Billson! I say, Mr. Billson!” at every second stride, he seemed to gather that he was among friends.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said, halting.

He was plainly relieved. He produced a murky pipe and lit it. I delivered my speech of thanks. Having heard me out, he removed his pipe and put into a few short words the moral of the whole affair.

“Nobody don’t dot no pals of mine not when I’m around,” said Mr. Billson.

“It was awfully good of you to trouble,” I said with feeling.

“No trouble,” said Mr. Billson.

“You must have hit that barman pretty hard. He came out at about forty miles an hour.”

“I dotted him,” agreed Mr. Billson.

“I’m afraid he has hurt your eye,” I said, sympathetically.

“Him!” said Mr. Billson, expectorating with scorn. “That wasn’t him. That was his pals. Six or seven of ’em there was.”

“And did you dot them too?” I cried, amazed at the prowess of this wonder-man.

“ ’R!” said Mr. Billson. He smoked awhile. “But I dotted ’im most,” he proceeded. He looked at me with honest warmth, his chivalrous heart plainly stirred to its depths. “The idea,” he said, disgustedly, “of a ⸻ ⸻ ’is size”⁠—he defined the barman crisply and, as far as I could judge after so brief an acquaintanceship, accurately⁠—“goin’ and dottin’ a little ⸻ ⸻ like you!”

The sentiment was so admirable that I could not take exception to its phraseology. Nor did I rebel at being called “little.” To a man of Mr. Billson’s mould I supposed most people looked little.

“Well, I’m very much obliged,” I said.

Mr. Billson smoked in silence.

“Have you been back long?” I asked, for something to say. Outstanding as were his other merits, he was not good at keeping a conversation alive.

“Back?” said Mr. Billson.

“Back in London. Ukridge told me that you had gone to sea again.”

“Say, mister,” exclaimed Mr. Billson, for the first time seeming to show real interest in my remarks, “you seen ’im lately?”

“Ukridge? Oh, yes, I see him nearly every day.”

“I been tryin’ to find ’im.”

“I can give you his address,” I said. And I wrote it down on the back of an envelope. Then, having shaken his hand, I thanked him once more for his courteous assistance and borrowed my fare back to Civilisation on the Underground, and we parted with mutual expressions of good will.

The next step in the march of events was what I shall call the Episode of the Inexplicable Female. It occurred two days later. Returning shortly after lunch to my rooms in Ebury Street, I was met in the hall by Mrs. Bowles, my landlord’s wife. I greeted her a trifle nervously, for, like her husband, she always exercised a rather oppressive effect on me. She lacked Bowles’s ambassadorial dignity, but made up for it by a manner so peculiarly sepulchral that strong men quailed before her pale gaze. Scotch by birth, she had an eye that looked as if it was forever searching for astral bodies wrapped in winding-sheets⁠—this, I believe, being a favourite indoor sport among certain sets in North Britain.

“Sir,” said Mrs. Bowles, “there is a body in your sitting room.”

“A body!” I am bound to say that this Phillips-Oppenheim-like opening to the conversation gave me something of a shock. Then I remembered her nationality. “Oh, you mean a man?”

“A woman,” corrected Mrs. Bowles. “A body in a pink hat.”

I was conscious of a feeling of guilt. In this pure and modest house, female bodies in pink hats seemed to require explanation. I felt that the correct thing to do would have been to call upon Heaven to witness that this woman was nothing to me, nothing.

“I was to give you this letter, sir.”

I took it and opened the envelope with a sigh. I had recognised the handwriting of Ukridge, and for the hundredth time in our close acquaintanceship there smote me like a blow the sad suspicion that this man had once more gone and wished upon me some frightful thing.

“My dear old Horse⁠—

“It’s not often I ask you to do anything for me⁠ ⁠…

I laughed hollowly.

“My dear old Horse⁠—

“It’s not often I ask you to do anything for me, laddie, but I beg and implore you to rally round now and show yourself the true friend I know you are. The one thing I’ve always said about you, Corky my boy, is that you’re a real pal who never lets a fellow down.

“The bearer of this⁠—a delightful woman, you’ll like her⁠—is Flossie’s mother.