Ukridge Stories - P. G. Wodehouse (e book free reading TXT) 📗

their various competitions, and, above all, the go-ahead spirit which has resulted in this accident insurance scheme are beyond praise. Have you got that down?” he enquired.

Ukridge and I looked at each other. We had been told that Teddy was practically normal again, but this sounded like delirium.

“Have we got that down, old horse?” asked Ukridge, gently.

Teddy Weeks seemed surprised.

“Aren’t you reporters?”

“How do you mean, reporters?”

“I thought you had come from one of these weekly papers that have been paying me insurance money, to interview me,” said Teddy Weeks.

Ukridge and I exchanged another glance. An uneasy glance this time. I think that already a grim foreboding had begun to cast its shadow over us.

“Surely you remember me, Teddy, old horse?” said Ukridge, anxiously.

Teddy Weeks knit his brow, concentrating painfully.

“Why, of course,” he said at last. “You’re Ukridge, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. Ukridge.”

“Of course. Ukridge.”

“Yes. Ukridge. Funny your forgetting me!”

“Yes,” said Teddy Weeks. “It’s the effect of the shock I got when that thing bowled me over. I must have been struck on the head, I suppose. It has had the effect of rendering my memory rather uncertain. The doctors here are very interested. They say it is a most unusual case. I can remember some things perfectly, but in some ways my memory is a complete blank.”

“Oh, but I say, old horse,” quavered Ukridge. “I suppose you haven’t forgotten about that insurance, have you?”

“Oh, no, I remember that.”

Ukridge breathed a relieved sigh.

“I was a subscriber to a number of weekly papers,” went on Teddy Weeks. “They are paying me insurance money now.”

“Yes, yes, old horse,” cried Ukridge. “But what I mean is you remember the Syndicate, don’t you?”

Teddy Weeks raised his eyebrows.

“Syndicate? What Syndicate?”

“Why, when we all got together and put up the money to pay for the subscriptions to these papers and drew lots, to choose which of us should go out and have an accident and collect the money. And you drew it, don’t you remember?”

Utter astonishment, and a shocked astonishment at that, spread itself over Teddy Weeks’s countenance. The man seemed outraged.

“I certainly remember nothing of the kind,” he said, severely. “I cannot imagine myself for a moment consenting to become a party to what from your own account would appear to have been a criminal conspiracy to obtain money under false pretences from a number of weekly papers.”

“But, laddie⁠—”

“However,” said Teddy Weeks, “if there is any truth in this story, no doubt you have documentary evidence to support it.”

Ukridge looked at me. I looked at Ukridge. There was a long silence.

“Shift-ho, old horse?” said Ukridge, sadly. “No use staying on here.”

“No,” I replied, with equal gloom. “May as well go.”

“Glad to have seen you,” said Teddy Weeks, “and thanks for the fruit.”

The next time I saw the man he was coming out of a manager’s office in the Haymarket. He had on a new Homburg hat of a delicate pearl grey, spats to match, and a new blue flannel suit, beautifully cut, with an invisible red twill. He was looking jubilant, and; as I passed him, he drew from his pocket a gold cigarette-case.

It was shortly after that, if you remember, that he made a big hit as the juvenile lead in that piece at the Apollo and started on his sensational career as a matinee idol.

Inside the church the organ had swelled into the familiar music of the Wedding March. A verger came out and opened the doors. The five cooks ceased their reminiscences of other and smarter weddings at which they had participated. The cameramen unshipped their cameras. The costermonger moved his barrow of vegetables a pace forward. A dishevelled and unshaven man at my side uttered a disapproving growl.

“Idle rich!” said the dishevelled man.

Out of the church came a beauteous being, leading attached to his arm another being, somewhat less beauteous.

There was no denying the spectacular effect of Teddy Weeks. He was handsomer than ever. His sleek hair, gorgeously waved, shone in the sun, his eyes were large and bright; his lissome frame, garbed in faultless morning-coat and trousers, was that of an Apollo. But his bride gave the impression that Teddy had married money. They paused in the doorway, and the cameramen became active and fussy.

“Have you got a shilling, laddie?” said Ukridge in a low, level voice.

“Why do you want a shilling?”

“Old horse,” said Ukridge, tensely, “it is of the utmost vital importance that I have a shilling here and now.”

I passed it over. Ukridge turned to the dishevelled man, and I perceived that he held in his hand a large rich tomato of juicy and overripe appearance.

“Would you like to earn a bob?” Ukridge said.

“Would I!” replied the dishevelled man.

Ukridge sank his voice to a hoarse whisper.

The cameramen had finished their preparations. Teddy Weeks, his head thrown back in that gallant way which has endeared him to so many female hearts, was exhibiting his celebrated teeth. The cooks, in undertones, were making adverse comments on the appearance of the bride.

“Now, please,” said one of the cameramen.

Over the heads of the crowd, well and truly aimed, whizzed a large juicy tomato. It burst like a shell full between Teddy Weeks’s expressive eyes, obliterating them in scarlet ruin. It spattered Teddy Weeks’s collar, it dripped on Teddy Weeks’s morning-coat. And the dishevelled man turned abruptly and raced off down the street.

Ukridge grasped my arm. There was a look of deep content in his eyes.

“Shift-ho?” said Ukridge.

Arm-in-arm, we strolled off in the pleasant June sunshine.

The Début of Battling Billson

It becomes increasingly difficult, I have found, as time goes by, to recall the exact circumstances in which one first became acquainted with this man or that; for as a general thing I lay no claim to the possession of one of those hair-trigger memories which come from subscribing to the correspondence courses advertised in the magazines. And yet I can state without doubt or hesitation that the individual afterwards known as Battling Billson entered my life at half-past four on