The Intrusion of Jimmy by P. G. Wodehouse (new books to read .txt) 📗

Jimmy had imagined that his friend had dropped in to return the five-pound note he had borrowed, but his lordship maintained a complete reserve on the subject. Jimmy was to discover later that this weakness of memory where financial obligations were concerned was a leading trait in Lord Dreever's character.

"To-day, do you mean?" said Jimmy.

"Well, in the near future. What I mean is, why not put off that Japan trip you spoke about, and come down to Dreever with me?"

Jimmy reflected. After all, Japan or Dreever, it made very little difference. And it would be interesting to see a place about which he had read so much.

"That's very good of you," he said. "You're sure it will be all right? It won't be upsetting your arrangements?"

"Not a bit. The more the merrier. Can you catch the two-fifteen? It's fearfully short notice."

"Heavens, yes. I can pack in ten minutes. Thanks very much."

"Good business. There'll be shooting and all that sort of rot. Oh, and by the way, are you any good at acting? I mean, there are going to be private theatricals of sorts. A man called Charteris insisted on getting them up—always getting up theatricals. Rot, I call it; but you can't stop him. Do you do anything in that line?"

"Put me down for what you like, from Emperor of Morocco to Confused Noise Without. I was on the stage once. I'm particularly good at shifting scenery."

"Good for you. Well, so long. Two-fifteen from Paddington, remember. I'll meet you there. I've got to go and see a fellow now."

"I'll look out for you."

A sudden thought occurred to Jimmy. Spike! He had forgotten Spike for the moment. It was vital that the Bowery boy should not be lost sight of again. He was the one link with the little house somewhere beyond One Hundred and Fiftieth Street. He could not leave the Bowery boy at the flat. A vision rose in his mind of Spike alone in London, with Savoy Mansions as a base for his operations. No, Spike must be transplanted to the country. But Jimmy could not seem to see Spike in the country. His boredom would probably be pathetic. But it was the only way.

Lord Dreever facilitated matters.

"By the way, Pitt," he said, "you've got a man of sorts, of course? One of those frightful fellows who forgot to pack your collars? Bring him along, of course."

"Thanks," said Jimmy. "I will."

The matter had scarcely been settled when the door opened, and revealed the subject of discussion. Wearing a broad grin of mingled pride and bashfulness, and looking very stiff and awkward in one of the brightest tweed suits ever seen off the stage, Spike stood for a moment in the doorway to let his appearance sink into the spectator, then advanced into the room.

"How do dese strike you, boss?" he inquired genially, as Lord Dreever gaped in astonishment at this bright being.

"Pretty nearly blind, Spike," said Jimmy. "What made you get those? We use electric light here."

Spike was full of news.

"Say, boss, dat clothin'-store's a willy wonder, sure. De old mug what showed me round give me de frozen face when I come in foist. 'What's doin'?' he says. 'To de woods wit' you. Git de hook!' But I hauls out de plunks you give me, an' tells him how I'm here to get a dude suit, an', gee! if he don't haul out suits by de mile. Give me a toist, it did, watching him. 'It's up to youse,' says de mug. 'Choose somet'in'. You pays de money, an' we does de rest.' So, I says dis is de one, an' I put down de plunks, an' here I am, boss."

"I noticed that, Spike," said Jimmy. "I could see you in the dark."

"Don't you like de duds, boss?" inquired Spike, anxiously.

"They're great," said Jimmy. "You'd make Solomon in all his glory look like a tramp 'cyclist."

"Dat's right," agreed Spike. "Dey'se de limit."

And, apparently oblivious to the presence of Lord Dreever, who had been watching him in blank silence since his entrance, the Bowery boy proceeded to execute a mysterious shuffling dance on the carpet.

This was too much for the overwrought brain of his lordship.

"Good-bye, Pitt," he said, "I'm off. Got to see a man."

Jimmy saw his guest to the door.

Outside, Lord Dreever placed the palm of his right hand on his forehead.

"I say, Pitt," he said.

"Hullo?"

"Who the devil's that?"

"Who? Spike? Oh, that's my man."

"Your man! Is he always like that? I mean, going on like a frightful music-hall comedian? Dancing, you know! And, I say, what on earth language was that he was talking? I couldn't understand one word in ten."

"Oh, that's American, the Bowery variety."

"Oh, well, I suppose it's all right if you understand it. I can't. By gad," he broke off, with a chuckle, "I'd give something to see him talking to old Saunders, our butler at home. He's got the manners of a duke."

"Spike should revise those," said Jimmy.

"What do you call him?"

"Spike."

"Rummy name, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Short for Algernon."

"He seemed pretty chummy."

"That's his independent bringing-up. We're all like that in America."

"Well, so long."

"So long."

On the bottom step, Lord Dreever halted.

"I say. I've got it!"

"Good for you. Got what?"

"Why, I knew I'd seen that chap's face somewhere before, only I couldn't place him. I've got him now. He's the Johnny who came into the shelter last night. Chap you gave a quid to."

Spike's was one of those faces that, without being essentially beautiful, stamp themselves on the memory.

"You're quite right," said Jimmy. "I was wondering if you would recognize him. The fact is, he's a man I once employed over in New York, and, when I came across him over here, he was so evidently wanting a bit of help that I took him on again. As a matter of fact, I needed somebody to look after my things, and Spike can do it as well as anybody else."

"I see. Not bad my spotting him, was it? Well, I must be off.