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

instance? They will ask you when you arrived in New York. How are you going to account for your delay in coming to see them?”

“I’ve thought of that. There’s a boat that docks tomorrow⁠—the Caronia, I think. I’ve got a paper upstairs. I’ll look it up. I can say I came by her.”

“That seems all right. It’s lucky you and uncle Peter never met on the Atlantic.”

“And now as to my demeanour on entering the home? How should I behave? Should I be jaunty or humble? What would a long-lost nephew naturally do?”

“A long-lost nephew with a record like Jimmy Crocker’s would crawl in with a white flag, I should think.”

A bell clanged in the hall.

“Supper!” said Jimmy. “To go into painful details, New England boiled dinner, or my senses deceive me, and prunes.”

“I must be going.”

“We shall meet at Philippi.”

He saw her to the door, and stood at the top of the steps watching her trim figure vanish into the dusk. She passed from his sight. Jimmy drew a deep breath, and, thinking hard, went down the passage to fortify himself with supper.

XII Jimmy Catches the Boss’s Eye

When Jimmy arrived at Mr. Pett’s office on Pine Street at ten-thirty the next morning⁠—his expressed intention of getting up early enough to be there by nine having proved an empty boast⁠—he was in a high state of preparedness. He had made ready for what might be a trying interview by substituting a combination of well-chosen dishes at an expensive hotel for the less imaginative boardinghouse breakfast with which he had of late been insulting his interior. His suit was pressed, his shoes gleamed brightly, and his chin was smoothly shaven. These things, combined with the perfection of the morning and that vague exhilaration which a fine day in downtown New York brings to the man who has not got to work, increased his natural optimism. Something seemed to tell him that all would be well. He would have been the last person to deny that his position was a little complicated⁠—he had to use a pencil and a sheet of paper to show himself just where he stood⁠—but what of that? A few complications in life are an excellent tonic for the brain. It was with a sunny geniality which startled that unaccustomed stripling considerably⁠—and indeed caused him to swallow his chewing gum⁠—that he handed in his card to Mr. Pett’s watchfully waiting office-boy.

“This to the boss, my open-faced lad!” he said. “Get swiftly off the mark.”

The boy departed dumbly.

From where he stood, outside the barrier which separated visitors to the office from the workers within, Jimmy could see a vista of efficient-looking young men with paper protectors round their cuffs working away at mysterious jobs which seemed to involve the use of a great deal of paper. One in particular was so surrounded by it that he had the appearance of a bather in surf. Jimmy eyed these toilers with a comfortable and kindly eye. All this industry made him feel happy. He liked to think of this sort of thing going on all round him.

The office-boy returned. “This way, please.”

The respectfulness of the lad’s manner had increased noticeably. Mr. Pett’s reception of the visitor’s name had impressed him. It was an odd fact that the financier, a cipher in his own home, could impress all sorts of people at the office.

To Mr. Pett, the announcement that Mr. James Crocker was waiting to see him had come like the announcement of a miracle. Not a day had passed since their return to America without lamentations from Mrs. Pett on the subject of their failure to secure the young man’s person. The occasion of Mrs. Pett’s reading of the article in the Sunday Chronicle descriptive of the Lord Percy Whipple affair had been unique in the little man’s domestic history. For the first time since he had known her the indomitable woman had completely broken down. Of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these “It might have been!” and the thought that, if she had only happened to know it, she had had in her hands during that interview with her sister in London a weapon which would have turned defeat into triumph was more than even Mrs. Pett’s strong spirit could endure. When she looked back on that scene and recalled the airy way in which Mrs. Crocker had spoken of her stepson’s “best friend, Lord Percy Whipple” and realised that at that very moment Lord Percy had been recovering in bed from the effects of his first meeting with Jimmy Crocker, the iron entered into her soul and she refused to be comforted. In the first instant of realisation she thought of six separate and distinct things she could have said to her sister, each more crushing than the last⁠—things which now she would never be able to say.

And now, suddenly and unaccountably, the means was at hand for restoring her to her tranquil self-esteem. Jimmy Crocker, despite what his stepmother had said, probably in active defiance of her commands, had come to America after all. Mr. Pett’s first thought was that his wife would, as he expressed it to himself, be “tickled to death about this.” Scarcely waiting for the office-boy to retire, he leaped towards Jimmy like a gambolling lamb and slapped him on the back with every evidence of joy and friendliness.

“My dear boy!” he cried. “My dear boy! I’m delighted to see you!”

Jimmy was surprised, relieved, and pleased. He had not expected this warmth. A civil coldness had been the best he had looked for. He had been given to understand that in the Pett home he was regarded as the black sheep: and, while one may admit a black sheep into the fold, it does not follow that one must of necessity fawn upon him.

“You’re very kind,” he said, rather startled.

They inspected each other for a brief moment. Mr. Pett was thinking that Jimmy was a great improvement on the picture his