Indiscretions of Archie - P. G. Wodehouse (essential books to read txt) 📗

Indiscretions of Archie

By P. G. Wodehouse.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Dedication to B. W. King-Hall Indiscretions of Archie I: Distressing Scene in a Hotel II: A Shock for Mr. Brewster III: Mr. Brewster Delivers Sentence IV: Work Wanted V: Strange Experience of an Artist’s Model VI: The Bomb VII: Mr. Roscoe Sherriff Has an Idea VIII: A Disturbed Night for Dear Old Squiffy IX: A Letter from Parker X: Doing Father a Bit of Good XI: Salvatore Chooses the Wrong Moment XII: Bright Eyes—and a Fly XIII: Rallying Round Percy XIV: The Sad Case of Looney Biddle XV: Summer Storms XVI: Archie Accepts a Situation XVII: Brother Bill’s Romance XVIII: The Sausage Chappie XIX: Reggie Comes to Life XX: The Sausage Chappie Clicks XXI: The Growing Boy XXII: Washy Steps Into the Hall of Fame XXIII: Mother’s Knee XXIV: The Melting of Mr. Connolly XXV: The Wigmore Venus XXVI: A Tale of a Grandfather Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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Dedication to B. W. King-Hall

My dear Buddy⁠—

We have been friends for eighteen years. A considerable proportion of my books were written under your hospitable roof. And yet I have never dedicated one to you. What will be the verdict of Posterity on this? The fact is, I have become rather superstitious about dedications. No sooner do you label a book with the legend⁠—

To
My Best Friend
X

than X cuts you in Piccadilly, or you bring a lawsuit against him. There is a fatality about it. However, I can’t imagine anyone quarrelling with you, and I am getting more attractive all the time, so let’s take a chance.

Yours ever,

P. G. Wodehouse.

Indiscretions of Archie I Distressing Scene in a Hotel

“I say, laddie!” said Archie.

“Sir?” replied the desk clerk alertly. All the employees of the Hotel Cosmopolis were alert. It was one of the things on which Mr. Daniel Brewster, the proprietor, insisted. And as he was always wandering about the lobby of the hotel keeping a personal eye on affairs, it was never safe to relax.

“I want to see the manager.”

“Is there anything I could do, sir?”

Archie looked at him doubtfully.

“Well, as a matter of fact, my dear old desk clerk,” he said, “I want to kick up a fearful row, and it hardly seems fair to lug you into it. Why you, I mean to say? The blighter whose head I want on a charger is the bally manager.”

At this point a massive, grey-haired man, who had been standing close by, gazing on the lobby with an air of restrained severity, as if daring it to start anything, joined in the conversation.

“I am the manager,” he said.

His eye was cold and hostile. Others, it seemed to say, might like Archie Moffam, but not he. Daniel Brewster was bristling for combat. What he had overheard had shocked him to the core of his being. The Hotel Cosmopolis was his own private, personal property, and the thing dearest to him in the world, after his daughter Lucille. He prided himself on the fact that his hotel was not like other New York hotels, which were run by impersonal companies and shareholders and boards of directors, and consequently lacked the paternal touch which made the Cosmopolis what it was. At other hotels things went wrong, and clients complained. At the Cosmopolis things never went wrong, because he was on the spot to see that they didn’t, and as a result clients never complained. Yet here was this long, thin, string-bean of an Englishman actually registering annoyance and dissatisfaction before his very eyes.

“What is your complaint?” he enquired frigidly.

Archie attached himself to the top button of Mr. Brewster’s coat, and was immediately dislodged by an irritable jerk of the other’s substantial body.

“Listen, old thing! I came over to this country to nose about in search of a job, because there doesn’t seem what you might call a general demand for my services in England. Directly I was demobbed, the family started talking about the Land of Opportunity and shot me on to a liner. The idea was that I might get hold of something in America⁠—”

He got hold of Mr. Brewster’s coat-button, and was again shaken off.

“Between ourselves, I’ve never done anything much in England, and I fancy the family were getting a bit fed. At any rate, they sent me over here⁠—”

Mr. Brewster disentangled himself for the third time.

“I would prefer to postpone the story of your life,” he said coldly, “and be informed what is your specific complaint against the Hotel Cosmopolis.”

“Of course, yes. The jolly old hotel. I’m coming to that. Well, it was like this. A chappie on the boat told me that this was the best place to stop at in New York⁠—”

“He was quite right,” said Mr. Brewster.

“Was he, by Jove! Well, all I can say, then, is