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

has made me a little nervous at times, this prominence of his. I know what an erratic fellow he is, and if he were to become the centre of some horrible scandal it would mean defeat for a certainty.”

“How do you mean, scandal?”

“I sometimes conjure up a dreadful vision,” said Boko Lawlor, with a slight shudder, “of one of his creditors suddenly rising in the audience and denouncing him for not having paid for a pair of trousers or something.”

He cast an apprehensive eye at the sleeping figure.

“You’re all right if he keeps on wearing that suit,” I said, soothingly, “because it happens to be one he sneaked from me. I have been wondering why it was so familiar.”

“Well, anyhow,” said Boko, with determined optimism, “I suppose, if anything like that was going to happen, it would have happened before. He has been addressing meetings all the week, and nothing has occurred. I’m going to let him open the ball at our last rally tomorrow night. He has a way of warming up the audience. You’ll come to that, of course?”

“If I am to see Ukridge warming up an audience, nothing shall keep me away.”

“I’ll see that you get a seat on the platform. It will be the biggest affair we have had. The polling takes place on the next day, and this will be our last chance of swaying the doubters.”

“I didn’t know doubters ever came to these meetings. I thought the audience was always solid for the speakers.”

“It may be so in some constituencies,” said Boko, moodily, “but it certainly isn’t at Redbridge.”

The monster meeting in support of Boko Lawlor’s candidature was held at that popular eyesore, the Associated Mechanics’ Hall. As I sat among the elect on the platform, waiting for the proceedings to commence, there came up to me a mixed scent of dust, clothes, orange peel, chalk, wood, plaster, pomade, and Associated Mechanics⁠—the whole forming a mixture which, I began to see, was likely to prove too rich for me. I changed my seat in order to bring myself next to a small but promising-looking door, through which it would be possible, if necessary, to withdraw without being noticed.

The principle on which chairmen at these meetings are selected is perhaps too familiar to require recording here at length, but in case some of my readers are not acquainted with the workings of political machines, I may say that no one under the age of eighty-five is eligible and the preference is given to those with adenoids. For Boko Lawlor the authorities had extended themselves and picked a champion of his class. In addition to adenoids, the Right Hon. the Marquess of Cricklewood had⁠—or seemed to have⁠—a potato of the maximum size and hotness in his mouth, and he had learned his elocution in one of those correspondence schools which teach it by mail. I caught his first sentence⁠—that he would only detain us a moment⁠—but for fifteen minutes after that he baffled me completely. That he was still speaking I could tell by the way his Adam’s apple wiggled, but what he was saying I could not even guess. And presently, the door at my side offering its silent invitation, I slid softly through and closed it behind me.

Except for the fact that I was now out of sight of the chairman, I did not seem to have bettered my position greatly. The scenic effects of the hall had not been alluring, but there was nothing much more enlivening to look at here. I found myself in a stone-flagged corridor with walls of an unhealthy green, ending in a flight of stairs. I was just about to proceed towards these in a casual spirit of exploration, when footsteps made themselves heard, and in another moment a helmet loomed into view, followed by a red face, a blue uniform, and large, stout boots⁠—making in all one constable, who proceeded along the corridor towards me with a measured step as if pacing a beat. I thought his face looked stern and disapproving, and attributed it to the fact that I had just lighted a cigarette⁠—presumably in a place where smoking was not encouraged. I dropped the cigarette and placed a guilty heel on it⁠—an action which I regretted the next moment, when the constable himself produced one from the recesses of his tunic and asked me for a match.

“Not allowed to smoke on duty,” he said, affably, “but there’s no harm in a puff.”

I saw now that what I had taken for a stern and disapproving look was merely the official mask. I agreed that no possible harm could come of a puff.

“Meeting started?” enquired the officer, jerking his head towards the door.

“Yes. The chairman was making a few remarks when I came out.”

“Ah! Better give it time to warm up,” he said, cryptically. And there was a restful silence for some minutes, while the scent of a cigarette of small price competed with the other odours of the corridor.

Presently, however, the stillness was interrupted. From the unseen hall came the faint clapping of hands, and then a burst of melody. I started. It was impossible to distinguish the words, but surely there was no mistaking that virile rhythm:⁠—

“Tum tumty tumty tumty tum,
Tum tumty tumty tum,
Tum tumty tumty tumty tum,
Tum tumty tumty tum.”

It was! It must be! I glowed all over with modest pride.

“That’s mine,” I said, with attempted nonchalance.

“Ur?” queried the constable, who had fallen into a reverie.

“That thing they’re singing. Mine. My election song.”

It seemed to me that the officer regarded me strangely. It may have been admiration, but it looked more like disappointment and disfavour.

“You on this Lawlor’s side?” he demanded, heavily.

“Yes. I wrote his election song. They’re singing it now.”

“I’m opposed to ’im in toto and root and branch,” said the constable, emphatically, “I don’t like ’is views⁠—subversive, that’s what I call ’em. Subversive.”

There seemed nothing to say to this. This divergence of opinion was unfortunate, but there it