Something New, P. G. Wodehouse [best desktop ebook reader .TXT] 📗

R. Jones

Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity. You wonder, as you look at it⁠—if you have time to look at and wonder about these things⁠—who this Jones may be; and what is the business he conducts with such coy reticence.

As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed through suspicious minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time taken not a little interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining that he bought and sold curios, did a certain amount of bookmaking during the flat-racing season, and had been known to lend money, Scotland Yard did not find out much about Mr. Jones and presently dismissed him from its thoughts.

On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that it is the lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and that the “fat, sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights,” are harmless, R. Jones should have been above suspicion. He was infinitely the fattest man in the west-central postal district of London. He was a round ball of a man, who wheezed when he walked upstairs, which was seldom, and shook like jelly if some tactless friend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped him unexpectedly on the shoulder. But this occurred still less frequently than his walking upstairs; for in R. Jones’ circle it was recognized that nothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form than to tap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt, should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it.

R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve complexion, jovial among his friends, and perhaps even more jovial with chance acquaintances. It was estimated by envious intimates that his joviality with chance acquaintances, specially with young men of the upper classes, with large purses and small foreheads⁠—was worth hundreds of pounds a year to him. There was something about his comfortable appearance and his jolly manner that irresistibly attracted a certain type of young man. It was his good fortune that this type of young man should be the type financially most worth attracting.

Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his short but crowded life in London. They had met for the first time at the Derby; and ever since then R. Jones had held in Freddie’s estimation that position of guide, philosopher and friend which he held in the estimation of so many young men of Freddie’s stamp.

That was why, at twelve o’clock punctually on this spring day, he tapped with his cane on R. Jones’ ground glass, and showed such satisfaction and relief when the door was opened by the proprietor in person.

“Well, well, well!” said R. Jones rollickingly. “Whom have we here? The dashing bridegroom-to-be, and no other!”

R. Jones, like Lord Emsworth, was delighted that Freddie was about to marry a nice girl with plenty of money. The sudden turning off of the tap from which Freddie’s allowance had flowed had hit him hard. He had other sources of income, of course; but few so easy and unfailing as Freddie had been in the days of his prosperity.

“The prodigal son, by George! Creeping back into the fold after all this weary time! It seems years since I saw you, Freddie. The old gov’nor put his foot down⁠—didn’t he?⁠—and stopped the funds. Damned shame! I take it that things have loosened up a bit since the engagement was announced⁠—eh?”

Freddie sat down and chewed the knob of his cane unhappily.

“Well, as a matter of fact, Dickie, old top,” he said, “not so that you could notice it, don’t you know! Things are still pretty much the same. I managed to get away from Blandings for a night, because the gov’nor had to come to London; but I’ve got to go back with him on the three-o’clock train. And, as for money, I can’t get a quid out of him. As a matter of fact, I’m in the deuce of a hole; and that’s why I’ve come to you.”

Even fat, jovial men have their moments of depression. R. Jones’ face clouded, and jerky remarks about hardness of times and losses on the Stock Exchange began to proceed from him. As Scotland Yard had discovered, he lent money on occasion; but he did not lend it to youths in Freddie’s unfortunate position.

“Oh, I don’t want to make a touch, you know,” Freddie hastened to explain. “It isn’t that. As a matter of fact, I managed to raise five hundred of the best this morning. That ought to be enough.”

“Depends on what you want it for,” said R. Jones, magically genial once more.

The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the world was full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the moneylender who had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie five hundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom.

Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and from it extracted a newspaper clipping.

“Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, you know?”

“Percy?”

“Lord Stockheath, you know.”

“Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that. I was in court all three days.” R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle. “Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him in the witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! The funniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! They read them out in court; and of all⁠—”

“Don’t, old man! Dickie, old top⁠—please! I know all about it. I read the reports. They made poor old Percy look like an absolute ass.”

“Well, Nature had done that already; but I’m bound to say they improved on Nature’s work. I should think your Cousin Percy must have felt like a plucked chicken.”

A spasm of pain passed over the Honorable Freddie’s vacant face. He wriggled in his chair.

“Dickie, old man, I wish you