Short Fiction - P. G. Wodehouse (top ten ebook reader txt) 📗

The species of trance which had held Lord Emsworth in its grip during the preceding conversational exchanges was wearing off. And now, perceiving that Miss Yorke was apparently as unpopular with the rest of the company as with himself, he came gradually to life again. His recovery was hastened by the slamming of the door and the spectacle of his son Frederick clasping in his arms a wife who, his lordship had never forgotten, was the daughter of probably the only millionaire in existence who had that delightful willingness to take Freddie off his hands which was, in Lord Emsworth’s eyes, the noblest quality a millionaire could possess.

He sat up and blinked feebly. Though much better, he was still weak.

“What was your scenario about, sweetness?” asked Mrs. Freddie.

“I’ll tell you, angel-face. Or should we stir up the guv’nor? He seems a bit under the weather.”

“Better leave him to rest for awhile. That woman Jane Yorke upset him.”

“She would upset anybody. If there’s one person I bar, it’s the blister who comes between man and wife. Not right, I mean, coming between man and wife. My scenario’s about a man and wife. This fellow, you understand, is a poor cove⁠—no money, if you see what I mean⁠—and he has an accident, and the hospital coves say they won’t operate unless he can chip in with five hundred dollars down in advance. But where to get it? You see the situation?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Strong, what?”

“Awfully strong.”

“Well, it’s nothing to how strong it gets later on. The cove’s wife gets hold of a millionaire bloke and vamps him and lures him to the flat and gets him to promise he’ll cough up the cash. Meanwhile, cutbacks of the doctor at the hospital on the phone. Subtitle: Have you got the money? And she laughing merrily so as not to let the millionaire bloke guess that her heart is aching. I forgot to tell you the cove had to be operated on immediately or he would hand in his dinner-pail. Dramatic, eh?”

“Frightfully.”

“Well, then the millionaire bloke demands his price. I thought of calling it A Woman’s Price.”

“Splendid.”

“And now comes the blowout. They go into the bedroom and⁠—Oh, hullo, guv’nor! Feeling better?”

Lord Emsworth had risen. He was tottering a little as he approached them, but his mind was at rest.

“Much better, thank you.”

“You know my wife, what?”

“Oh, Lord Emsworth,” said Mrs. Freddie, “I’m so dreadfully sorry. I wouldn’t have had anything like this happen for the world. But⁠—”

Lord Emsworth patted her hand paternally. Once more he was overcome with astonishment that his son Frederick should have been able to win the heart of a girl so beautiful, so sympathetic, so extraordinarily rich.

“The fault was entirely mine, my dear child. But⁠—” He paused. Something was plainly troubling him. “Tell me, when Frederick was wearing that beard⁠—when Frederick was⁠—was⁠—when he was wearing that beard, did he really look like me?”

“Oh, yes. Very like.”

“Thank you, my dear. That was all I wanted to know. I will leave you now. You will want to be alone. You must come down to Blandings, my dear child, at the very earliest opportunity.”

He walked thoughtfully from the room.

“Does this hotel,” he inquired of the man who took him down in the lift, “contain a barber’s shop?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wonder if you would direct me to it?” said his lordship.

Lord Emsworth sat in his library at Blandings Castle, drinking that last restful whisky-and-soda of the day. Through the open window came the scent of flowers and the little noises of the summer night.

He should have been completely at rest, for much had happened since his return to sweeten life for him. Angus McAllister had reported that the greenfly were yielding to treatment with whale-oil solution; and the stricken cow had taken a sudden turn for the better, and at last advices was sitting up and taking nourishment with something of the old appetite. Moreover, as he stroked his shaven chin, his lordship felt a better, lighter man, as if some burden had fallen from him.

And yet, as he sat there, a frown was on his forehead.

He rang the bell.

“Your lordship?”

Lord Emsworth looked at his faithful butler with appreciation. Deuce of a long time Beach had been at the Castle, and would, no doubt, be there for many a year to come. A good fellow. Lord Emsworth had liked the way the man’s eyes had lighted up on his return, as if the sight of his employer had removed a great weight from his mind.

“Oh, Beach,” said his lordship, “kindly put in a trunk-call to London on the telephone.”

“Very good, your lordship.”

“Get through to Suite Number Sixty-Seven at the Savoy Hotel, and speak to Mr. Frederick.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Say that I particularly wish to know how that scenario of his ended.”

“Scenario, your lordship?”

“Scenario.”

“Very good, your lordship.”

Lord Emsworth returned to his reverie. Time passed. The butler returned.

“I have spoken to Mr. Frederick, your lordship.”

“Yes?”

“He instructed me to give your lordship his best wishes, and to tell you that, when the millionaire and Mr. Cove’s wife entered the bedroom, there was a black jaguar tied to the foot of the bed.”

“A jaguar?”

“A jaguar, your lordship. Mrs. Cove stated that it was there to protect her honour, whereupon the millionaire, touched by this, gave her the money. Mr. Cove made a satisfactory recovery after his operation, your lordship.”

“Ah!” said Lord Emsworth, expelling a deep breath. “Thank you, Beach, that is all.”

Short Fiction
was compiled from short stories published between 1901 and 1926 by
P. G. Wodehouse.

This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
B. Timothy Keith,
and is based on a transcription produced between 2003 and 2012 by
Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks, Chuck Greif, and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team
for
Project Gutenberg (The Man Upstairs, The Man With Two Left Feet, Death at The Excelsior, A Wodehouse Miscellany, and My Man Jeeves)
and on digital scans available at the
Internet Archive (The Man Upstairs and The Man