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

“ ’At-a-boy!”

It was Mr. Crocker’s way of bestowing a father’s blessing.

Ann walked into the drawing-room, her head high, triumph in the glance which she cast upon her unconscious aunt.

“Quite an interesting little scene downstairs, aunt Nesta,” she said. “The meeting of the faithful old retainer and the young master. Skinner was almost overcome with surprise and joy when he saw Jimmy!”

Mrs. Pett could not check an incautious exclamation.

“Did Skinner recognise⁠—?” she began; then stopped herself abruptly.

Ann laughed.

“Did he recognise Jimmy? Of course! He was hardly likely to have forgotten him, surely? It isn’t much more than a week since he was waiting on him in London.”

“It was a very impressive meeting,” said Jimmy. “Rather like the reunion of Ulysses and the hound Argos, of which this bright-eyed child here⁠—” he patted Ogden on the head, a proceeding violently resented by that youth⁠—“has no doubt read in the course of his researches into the Classics. I was Ulysses, Skinner enacted the role of the exuberant dog.”

Mrs. Pett was not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed at this evidence that her suspicions had been without foundation. On the whole, relief may be said to have preponderated.

“I have no doubt he was pleased to see you again. He must have been very much astonished.”

“He was!”

“You will be meeting another old friend in a minute or two,” said Mrs. Pett.

Jimmy had been sinking into a chair. This remark stopped him in mid-descent.

“Another!”

Mrs. Pett glanced at the clock.

“Lord Wisbeach is coming to lunch.”

“Lord Wisbeach!” cried Ann. “He doesn’t know Jimmy.”

“Eugenia informed me in London that he was one of your best friends, James.”

Ann looked helplessly at Jimmy. She was conscious again of that feeling of not being able to cope with Fate’s blows, of not having the strength to go on climbing over the barriers which Fate placed in her path.

Jimmy, for his part, was cursing the ill fortune that had brought Lord Wisbeach across his path. He saw clearly that it only needed recognition by one or two more intimates of Jimmy Crocker to make Ann suspect his real identity. The fact that she had seen him with Bayliss in Paddington Station and had fallen into the error of supposing Bayliss to be his father had kept her from suspecting until now; but this could not last forever. He remembered Lord Wisbeach well, as a garrulous, irrepressible chatterer who would probably talk about old times to such an extent as to cause Ann to realise the truth in the first five minutes.

The door opened.

“Lord Wisbeach,” announced Mr. Crocker.

“I’m afraid I’m late, Mrs. Pett,” said his lordship.

“No. You’re quite punctual. Lord Wisbeach, here is an old friend of yours, James Crocker.”

There was an almost imperceptible pause. Then Jimmy stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Hello, Wizzy, old man!”

“H-hello, Jimmy!”

Their eyes met. In his lordship’s there was an expression of unmistakable relief, mingled with astonishment. His face, which had turned a sickly white, flushed as the blood poured back into it. He had the appearance of a man who had had a bad shock and is just getting over it. Jimmy, eyeing him curiously, was not surprised at his emotion. What the man’s game might be, he could not say; but of one thing he was sure, which was that this was not Lord Wisbeach, but⁠—on the contrary⁠—someone he had never seen before in his life.

“Luncheon is served, madam!” said Mr. Crocker sonorously from the doorway.

It was not often that Ann found occasion to rejoice at the presence in her uncle’s house of the six geniuses whom Mrs. Pett had installed therein. As a rule, she disliked them individually and collectively. But today their company was extraordinarily welcome to her. They might have their faults, but at least their presence tended to keep the conversation general and prevent it becoming a duologue between Lord Wisbeach and Jimmy on the subject of old times. She was still feeling weak from the reaction consequent upon the slackening of the tension of her emotions on seeing Lord Wisbeach greet Jimmy as an old acquaintance. She had never hoped that that barrier would be surmounted. She had pictured Lord Wisbeach drawing back with a puzzled frown on his face and an astonished “But this is not Jimmy Crocker.” The strain had left her relieved, but in no mood for conversation, and she replied absently to the remarks of Howard Bemis, the poet, who sat on her left. She looked round the table. Willie Partridge was talking to Mrs. Pett about the difference between picric acid and trinitrotoluene, than which a pleasanter topic for the luncheon table could hardly be selected, and the voice of Clarence Renshaw rose above all other competing noises, as he spoke of the functions of the trochaic spondee. There was nothing outwardly to distinguish this meal from any other which she had shared of late in that house.

The only thing that prevented her relief being unmixed was the fact that she could see Lord Wisbeach casting furtive glances at Jimmy, who was eating with the quiet concentration of one who, after days of boardinghouse fare, finds himself in the presence of the masterpieces of a chef. In the past few days Jimmy had consumed too much hash to worry now about anything like a furtive glance. He had perceived Lord Wisbeach’s roving eye, and had no doubt that at the conclusion of the meal he would find occasion for a little chat. Meanwhile, however, his duty was towards his tissues and their restoration. He helped himself liberally from a dish which his father offered him.

He became aware that Mrs. Pett was addressing him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Quite like old times,” said Mrs. Pett genially. Her suspicions had vanished completely since Lord Wisbeach’s recognition of the visitor, and remorse that she should have suspected him made her unwontedly amiable. “Being with Skinner again,” she explained. “It must remind you of London.”

Jimmy caught his father’s expressionless eye.

“Skinner’s,” he said handsomely, “is a character one cannot help