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

"One hundred t'ousand plunks," murmured Spike, gazing lovingly at them. "I says to myself, de boss ain't got no time to be gittin' after dem himself. He's too busy dese days wit' jollyin' along de swells. So, it's up to me, I says, 'cos de boss'll be tickled to deat', all right, all right, if we can git away wit' dem. So, I—"

Jimmy gave tongue with an energy that amazed his faithful follower. The nightmare horror of the situation had affected him much as a sudden blow in the parts about the waistcoat might have done. But, now, as Spike would have said, he caught up with his breath. The smirk faded slowly from the other's face as he listened. Not even in the Bowery, full as it was of candid friends, had he listened to such a trenchant summing-up of his mental and moral deficiencies.

"Boss!" he protested.

"That's just a sketchy outline," said Jimmy, pausing for breath. "I can't do you justice impromptu like this—you're too vast and overwhelming."

"But, boss, what's eatin' you? Ain't youse tickled?"

"Tickled!" Jimmy sawed the air. "Tickled! You lunatic! Can't you see what you've done?"

"I've got dem," said Spike, whose mind was not readily receptive of new ideas. It seemed to him that Jimmy missed the main point.

"Didn't I tell you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take those things the other day?"

Spike's face cleared. As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the point.

"Why, say, boss, yes. Sure! But dose was little, dinky t'ings. Of course, youse wouldn't stand fer swipin' chicken-feed like dem. But dese is different. Dese di'monds is boids. It's one hundred t'ousand plunks fer dese."

"Spike," said Jimmy with painful calm.

"Huh?"

"Will you listen for a moment?"

"Sure."

"I know it's practically hopeless. To get an idea into your head, one wants a proper outfit—drills, blasting-powder, and so on. But there's just a chance, perhaps, if I talk slowly. Has it occurred to you, Spike, my bonny, blue-eyed Spike, that every other man, more or less, in this stately home of England, is a detective who has probably received instructions to watch you like a lynx? Do you imagine that your blameless past is a sufficient safeguard? I suppose you think that these detectives will say to themselves, 'Now, whom shall we suspect? We must leave out Spike Mullins, of course, because he naturally wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. It can't be dear old Spike who's got the stuff.'"

"But, boss," interposed Spike brightly, "I ain't! Dat's right. I ain't got it. Youse has!"

Jimmy looked at the speaker with admiration. After all, there was a breezy delirium about Spike's methods of thought that was rather stimulating when you got used to it. The worst of it was that it did not fit in with practical, everyday life. Under different conditions—say, during convivial evenings at Bloomingdale—he could imagine the Bowery boy being a charming companion. How pleasantly, for instance, such remarks as that last would while away the monotony of a padded cell!

"But, laddie," he said with steely affection, "listen once more. Reflect! Ponder! Does it not seep into your consciousness that we are, as it were, subtly connected in this house in the minds of certain bad persons? Are we not imagined by Mr. McEachern, for instance, to be working hand-in-hand like brothers? Do you fancy that Mr. McEachern, chatting with his tame sleuth-hound over their cigars, will have been reticent on this point? I think not. How do you propose to baffle that gentlemanly sleuth, Spike, who, I may mention once again, has rarely moved more than two yards away from me since his arrival?"

An involuntary chuckle escaped Spike.

"Sure, boss, dat's all right."

"All right, is it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all right?"

"Why, say, boss, dose sleut's is out of business." A merry grin split Spike's face. "It's funny, boss. Gee! It's got a circus skinned! Listen. Dey's bin an' arrest each other."

Jimmy moodily revised his former view. Even in Bloomingdale, this sort of thing would be coldly received. Genius must ever walk alone. Spike would have to get along without hope of meeting a kindred spirit, another fellow-being in tune with his brain-processes.

"Dat's right," chuckled Spike. "Leastways, it ain't."

"No, no," said Jimmy, soothingly. "I quite understand."

"It's dis way, boss. One of dem has bin an' arrest de odder mug. Dey had a scrap, each t'inkin' de odder guy was after de jools, an' not knowin' dey was bot' sleut's, an' now one of dem's bin an' taken de odder off, an'"—there were tears of innocent joy in Spike's eyes—"an' locked him into de coal-cellar."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Spike giggled helplessly.

"Listen, boss. It's dis way. Gee! It beat de band! When it's all dark 'cos of de storm comin' on, I'm in de dressin'-room, chasin' around fer de jool-box, an' just as I gits a line on it, gee!