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

The dish rocked in Mr. Crocker’s hand, but his face remained impassive.

“There is no vice in Skinner,” proceeded Jimmy. “His heart is the heart of a little child.”

Mrs. Pett looked at this paragon of the virtues in rather a startled way. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being laughed at. She began to dislike Jimmy again.

“For many years Skinner has been a father to me,” said Jimmy. “Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? Skinner.”

For all her suspense, Ann could not help warming towards an accomplice who carried off an unnerving situation with such a flourish. She had always regarded herself with a fair degree of complacency as possessed of no mean stock of courage and resource, but she could not have spoken then without betraying her anxiety. She thought highly of Jimmy, but all the same she could not help wishing that he would not make himself quite so conspicuous. Perhaps⁠—the thought chilled her⁠—perhaps he was creating quite a new Jimmy Crocker, a character which would cause Skinner and Lord Wisbeach to doubt the evidence of their eyes and begin to suspect the truth. She wished she could warn him to simmer down, but the table was a large one and he and she were at opposite ends of it.

Jimmy, meanwhile, was thoroughly enjoying himself. He felt that he was being the little ray of sunshine about the home and making a good impression. He was completely happy. He liked the food, he liked seeing his father buttle, and he liked these amazing freaks who were, it appeared, fellow-inmates with him of this highly desirable residence. He wished that old Mr. Pett could have been present. He had conceived a great affection for Mr. Pett, and registered a mental resolve to lose no time in weaning him from his distressing habit of allowing the office to interfere with his pleasures. He was planning a little trip to the Polo Grounds, in which Mr. Pett, his father, and a number of pop bottles were to be his companions, when his reverie was interrupted by a sudden cessation of the buzz of talk. He looked up from his plate, to find the entire company regarding Willie Partridge open-mouthed. Willie, with gleaming eyes, was gazing at a small test-tube which he had produced from his pocket and placed beside his plate.

“I have enough in this test-tube,” said Willie airily, “to blow half New York to bits.”

The silence was broken by a crash in the background. Mr. Crocker had dropped a chafing-dish.

“If I were to drop this little tube like that,” said Willie, using the occurrence as a topical illustration, “we shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t drop it,” advised Jimmy. “What is it?”

“Partridgite!”

Mrs. Pett had risen from the table, with blanched face.

“Willie, how can you bring that stuff here? What are you thinking of?”

Willie smiles a patronising smile.

“There is not the slightest danger, aunt Nesta. It cannot explode without concussion. I have been carrying it about with me all the morning.”

He bestowed on the test-tube the look a fond parent might give his favourite child. Mrs. Pett was not reassured.

“Go and put it in your uncle’s safe at once. Put it away.”

“I haven’t the combination.”

“Call your uncle up at once at the office and ask him.”

“Very well. If you wish it, aunt Nesta. But there is no danger.”

“Don’t take that thing with you,” screamed Mrs. Pett, as he rose. “You might drop it. Come back for it.”

“Very well.”

Conversation flagged after Willie’s departure. The presence of the test-tube seemed to act on the spirits of the company after the fashion of the corpse at the Egyptian banquet. Howard Bemis, who was sitting next to it, edged away imperceptibly till he nearly crowded Ann off her chair. Presently Willie returned. He picked up the test-tube, put it in his pocket with a certain jauntiness, and left the room again.

“Now, if you hear a sudden bang and find yourself disappearing through the roof,” said Jimmy, “that will be it.”

Willie returned and took his place at the table again. But the spirit had gone out of the gathering. The voice of Clarence Renshaw was hushed, and Howard Bemis spoke no more of the influence of Edgar Lee Masters on modern literature. Mrs. Pett left the room, followed by Ann. The geniuses drifted away one by one. Jimmy, having lighted a cigarette and finished his coffee, perceived that he was alone with his old friend, Lord Wisbeach, and that his old friend Lord Wisbeach was about to become confidential.

The fair-haired young man opened the proceedings by going to the door and looking out. This done, he returned to his seat and gazed fixedly at Jimmy.

“What’s your game?” he asked.

Jimmy returned his gaze blandly.

“My game?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Can the coy stuff,” urged his lordship brusquely. “Talk sense and talk it quick. We may be interrupted at any moment. What’s your game? What are you here for?”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows.

“I am a prodigal nephew returned to the fold.”

“Oh, quit your kidding. Are you one of Potter’s lot?”

“Who is Potter?”

“You know who Potter is.”

“On the contrary. My life has never been brightened by so much as a sight of Potter.”

“Is that true?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you working on your own, then?”

“I am not working at all at present. There is some talk of my learning to be an Asparagus Adjuster by mail later on.”

“You make me sick,” said Lord Wisbeach. “Where’s the sense of trying to pull this line of talk. Why not put your cards on the table? We’ve both got in here on the same lay, and there’s no use fighting and balling the thing up.”

“Do you wish me to understand,” said Jimmy, “that you are not my old friend, Lord Wisbeach?”

“No. And you’re not my old friend, Jimmy Crocker.”

“What makes you think that?”

“If you had been, would you have pretended to recognise me upstairs just now? I tell you, pal, I was all