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

she’s very like Eugenia in some ways. She’s the boss all right, and old Pett does just what he’s told to. I guess it’s the same with me, Jim. There’s a certain type of man that’s just born to have it put over on him by a certain type of woman. I’m that sort of man and your stepmother’s that sort of woman. No, I guess I’m going to get mine all right, and the only thing to do is to keep it from stopping me having a good time now.”

There was truth in what he said, and Jimmy recognised it. He changed the subject.

“Well, never mind that. There’s no sense in worrying oneself about the future. Tell me, dad, where did you get all the ‘dinner-is-served, madam’ stuff? How did you ever learn to be a butler?”

“Bayliss taught me back in London. And, of course, I’ve played butlers when I was on the stage.”

Jimmy did not speak for a moment.

“Did you ever play a kidnapper, dad?” he asked at length.

“Sure. I was Chicago Ed. in a crook play called This Way Out. Why, surely you saw me in that? I got some good notices.”

Jimmy nodded.

“Of course. I knew I’d seen you play that sort of part some time. You came on during the dark scene and⁠—”

“⁠—switched on the lights and⁠—”

“⁠—covered the bunch with your gun while they were still blinking! You were great in that part, dad.”

“It was a good part,” said Mr. Crocker modestly. “It had fat. I’d like to have a chance to play a kidnapper again. There’s a lot of pep to kidnappers.”

“You shall play one again,” said Jimmy. “I am putting on a little sketch with a kidnapper as the star part.”

“Eh? A sketch? You, Jim? Where?”

“Here. In this house. It is entitled ‘Kidnapping Ogden’ and opens tonight.”

Mr. Crocker looked at his only son in concern. Jimmy appeared to him to be rambling.

“Amateur theatricals?” he hazarded.

“In the sense that there is no pay for performing, yes. Dad, you know that kid Ogden upstairs? Well, it’s quite simple. I want you to kidnap him for me.”

Mr. Crocker sat down heavily. He shook his head.

“I don’t follow all this.”

“Of course not. I haven’t begun to explain. Dad, in your rambles through this joint you’ve noticed a girl with glorious red-gold hair, I imagine?”

“Ann Chester?”

“Ann Chester. I’m going to marry her.”

“Jimmy!”

“But she doesn’t know it yet. Now, follow me carefully, dad. Five years ago Ann Chester wrote a book of poems. It’s on that desk there. You were using it a moment back as second-base or something. Now, I was working at that time on the Chronicle. I wrote a skit on those poems for the Sunday paper. Do you begin to follow the plot?”

“She’s got it in for you? She’s sore?”

“Exactly. Get that firmly fixed in your mind, because it’s the source from which all the rest of the story springs.”

Mr. Crocker interrupted.

“But I don’t understand. You say she’s sore at you. Well, how is it that you came in together looking as if you were good friends when I let you in this morning?”

“I was waiting for you to ask that. The explanation is that she doesn’t know that I am Jimmy Crocker.”

“But you came here saying that you were Jimmy Crocker.”

“Quite right. And that is where the plot thickens. I made Ann’s acquaintance first in London and then on the boat. I had found out that Jimmy Crocker was the man she hated most in the world, so I took another name. I called myself Bayliss.”

“Bayliss!”

“I had to think of something quick, because the clerk at the shipping office was waiting to fill in my ticket. I had just been talking to Bayliss on the phone and his was the only name that came into my mind. You know how it is when you try to think of a name suddenly. Now mark the sequel. Old Bayliss came to see me off at Paddington. Ann was there and saw me. She said ‘Good evening, Mr. Bayliss’ or something, and naturally old Bayliss replied ‘What ho!’ or words to that effect. The only way to handle the situation was to introduce him as my father. I did so. Ann, therefore, thinks that I am a young man named Bayliss who has come over to America to make his fortune. We now come to the third reel. I met Ann by chance at the Knickerbocker and took her to lunch. While we were lunching, that confirmed congenital idiot, Reggie Bartling, who happened to have come over to America as well, came up and called me by my name. I knew that, if Ann discovered who I really was, she would have nothing more to do with me, so I gave Reggie the haughty stare and told him that he had made a mistake. He ambled away⁠—and possibly committed suicide in his anguish at having made such a bloomer⁠—leaving Ann discussing with me the extraordinary coincidence of my being Jimmy Crocker’s double. Do you follow the story of my life so far?”

Mr. Crocker, who had been listening with wrinkled brow and other signs of rapt attention, nodded.

“I understand all that. But how did you come to get into this house?”

“That is reel four. I am getting to that. It seems that Ann, who is the sweetest girl on earth and always on the lookout to do someone a kindness, had decided, in the interests of the boy’s future, to remove young Ogden Ford from his present sphere, where he is being spoiled and ruined, and send him down to a man on Long Island who would keep him for awhile and instil the first principles of decency into him. Her accomplice in this admirable scheme was Jerry Mitchell.”

“Jerry Mitchell!”

“Who, as you know, got fired yesterday. Jerry was to have done the rough work of the job. But, being fired, he was no longer available. I, therefore, offered to take his place. So here I am.”

“You’re going to kidnap that boy?”

“No. You