Piccadilly Jim, P. G. Wodehouse [romantic novels to read .TXT] 📗

half-portion Bill Taft came joshing me about my beezer till it got something fierce,” explained Jerry. “William J. Bryan couldn’t have stood for it.”

Once again Jimmy lost the thread. The wealth of political allusion baffled him.

“What’s Taft been doing to you?”

“It wasn’t Taft. He only looks like him. It was that kid Ogden up where I work. He came butting into the gym, joshing me about⁠—makin’ pers’nal remarks till I kind of lost my goat, and the next thing I knew I was giving him his!” A faint gleam of pleasure lightened the gloom of his face. “I cert’nly give him his!” The gleam faded. “And after that⁠—well, here I am!”

Jimmy understood now. He had come to the boardinghouse the night of his meeting with Jerry Mitchell on Broadway, and had been there ever since, and frequent conversations with the pugilist had put him abreast of affairs at the Pett home. He was familiar with the personnel of the establishment on Riverside Drive, and knew precisely how great was the crime of administering correction to Ogden Ford, no matter what the cause. Nor did he require explanation of the phenomenon of Mrs. Pett dismissing one who was in her husband’s private employment. Jerry had his sympathy freely.

“You appear,” he said, “to have acted in a thoroughly capable and praiseworthy manner. The only point in your conduct which I would permit myself to criticise is your omission to slay the kid. That, however, was due, I take it, to the fact that you were interrupted. We will now proceed to examine the future. I cannot see that it is altogether murky. You have lost a good job, but there are others, equally good, for a man of your calibre. New York is crammed with dyspeptic millionaires who need an efficient physical instructor to look after them. Cheer up, Cuthbert, for the sun is still shining!”

Jerry Mitchell shook his head. He refused to be comforted.

“It’s Miss Ann,” he said. “What am I going to say to her?”

“What has she got to do with it?” asked Jimmy, interested.

For a moment Jerry hesitated, but the desire for sympathy and advice was too strong for him. And after all there was no harm in confiding in a good comrade like Jimmy.

“It’s like this,” he said. “Miss Ann and me had got it all fixed up to kidnap the kid!”

“What!”

“Say, I don’t mean ordinary kidnapping. It’s this way. Miss Ann come to me and we agree that the kid’s a pest that had ought to have some strong-arm keep him in order, so we decide to get him away to a friend of mine who keeps a dogs’ hospital down on Long Island. Bud Smithers is the guy to handle that kid. You ought to see him take hold of a dog that’s all grouch and ugliness and make it over into a dog that it’s a pleasure to have around. I thought a few weeks with Bud was what the doctor ordered for Ogden, and Miss Ann guessed I was right, so we had it all framed. And now this happens and balls everything up! She can’t do nothing with a husky kid like that without me to help her. And how am I going to help her if I’m not allowed in the house?”

Jimmy was conscious of a renewed admiration for a girl whom he had always considered a queen among women. How rarely in this world did one find a girl who combined every feminine charm of mind and body with a resolute determination to raise Cain at the slightest provocation!

“What an absolutely corking idea!”

Jerry smirked modestly at the approbation, but returned instantly to his gloom.

“You get me now? What am I to say to her? She’ll be sore!”

“The problem,” Jimmy had begun, “is one which, as you suggest, presents certain⁠—” when there was a knock at the door and the head of the boardinghouse’s maid-of-all-work popped in.

“Mr. Bayliss, is Mr. Mitchell⁠—? Oh, say, Mr. Mitchell, there’s a lady down below wants to see you. Says her name’s Chester.”

Jerry looked at Jimmy appealingly.

“What’ll I do?”

“Do nothing,” said Jimmy, rising and reaching for his shoes. “I’ll go down and see her. I can explain for you.”

“It’s mighty good of you⁠—”

“It will be a pleasure. Rely on me.”

Ann, who had returned from her drive shortly after the Ogden disaster and had instantly proceeded to the boardinghouse, had been shown into the parlour. Jimmy found her staring in a rapt way at a statuette of the Infant Samuel which stood near a bowl of wax fruit on the mantelpiece. She was feeling aggrieved with Fate and extremely angry with Jerry Mitchell, and she turned at the sound of the opening door with a militant expression in her eyes, which changed to one of astonishment on perceiving who it was that had come in.

“Mr. Bayliss!”

“Good evening, Miss Chester. We, so to speak, meet again. I have come as an intermediary. To be brief, Jerry Mitchell daren’t face you, so I offered to come down instead.”

“But how⁠—but why are you here?”

“I live here.” He followed her gaze. It rested on a picture of cows in a field. “Late American school,” he said. “Attributed to the landlady’s niece, a graduate of the Wissahickon, Pa. Correspondence School of Pictorial Art. Said to be genuine.”

“You live here?” repeated Ann. She had been brought up all her life among the carefully thought out effects of eminent interior decorators, and the room seemed more dreadful to her than it actually was. “What an awful room!”

“Awful? You must be overlooking the piano. Can’t you see the handsome plush cover from where you are standing? Move a little to the southeast and shade your eyes. We get music here of an evening⁠—when we don’t see it coming and sidestep.”

“Why in the name of goodness do you live here, Mr. Bayliss?”

“Because, Miss Chester, I am infernally hard up! Because the Bayliss bankroll has been stricken with a wasting sickness.”

Ann was looking at him incredulously.

“But⁠—but⁠—then, did you really mean all that at