Piccadilly Jim - P. G. Wodehouse (best romance ebooks TXT) 📗

“Very proud of myself.”

“In that case, there is no more to be said. I’d much rather hang about and try to get adopted by a millionaire, but if you insist on my working⁠—Waiter!”

“What do you want?” asked Ann.

“Will you get me a Classified Telephone Directory,” said Jimmy.

“What for?” asked Ann.

“To look for a profession. There is nothing like being methodical.”

The waiter returned, bearing a red book. Jimmy thanked him and opened it at the A.’s.

“The boy, what will he become?” he said. He turned the pages. “How about an Auditor? What do you think of that?”

“Do you think you could audit?”

“That I could not say till I had tried. I might turn out to be very good at it. How about an Adjuster?”

“An adjuster of what?”

“The book doesn’t say. It just remarks broadly⁠—in a sort of spacious way⁠—‘Adjuster.’ I take it that, having decided to become an adjuster, you then sit down and decide what you wish to adjust. One might, for example, become an Asparagus Adjuster.”

“A what?”

“Surely you know? Asparagus Adjusters are the fellows who sell those rope-and-pulley affairs by means of which the Smart Set lower asparagus into their mouths⁠—or rather Francis the footman does it for them, of course. The diner leans back in his chair, and the menial works the apparatus in the background. It is entirely superseding the old-fashioned method of picking the vegetable up and taking a snap at it. But I suspect that to be a successful Asparagus Adjuster requires capital. We now come to Awning Crank and Spring Rollers. I don’t think I should like that. Rolling awning cranks seems to me a sorry way of spending life’s springtime. Let’s try the B.’s.”

“Let’s try this omelette. It looks delicious.” Jimmy shook his head.

“I will toy with it⁠—but absently and in a distrait manner, as becomes a man of affairs. There’s nothing in the B.’s. I might devote my ardent youth to Bar-Room Glassware and Bottlers’ Supplies. On the other hand, I might not. Similarly, while there is no doubt a bright future for somebody in Celluloid, Fiberloid, and Other Factitious Goods, instinct tells me that there is none for⁠—” he pulled up on the verge of saying, “James Braithwaite Crocker,” and shuddered at the nearness of the pitfall. “⁠—for⁠—” he hesitated again⁠—“for Algernon Bayliss,” he concluded.

Ann smiled delightedly. It was so typical that his father should have called him something like that. Time had not dimmed her regard for the old man she had seen for that brief moment at Paddington Station. He was an old dear, and she thoroughly approved of this latest manifestation of his supposed pride in his offspring.

“Is that really your name⁠—Algernon?”

“I cannot deny it.”

“I think your father is a darling,” said Ann inconsequently.

Jimmy had buried himself in the directory again.

“The D.’s,” he said. “Is it possible that posterity will know me as Bayliss the Dermatologist? Or as Bayliss the Drop Forger? I don’t quite like that last one. It may be a respectable occupation, but it sounds rather criminal to me. The sentence for forging drops is probably about twenty years with hard labour.”

“I wish you would put that book away and go on with your lunch,” said Ann.

“Perhaps,” said Jimmy, “my grandchildren will cluster round my knee some day and say in their piping, childish voices, ‘Tell us how you became the Elastic Stocking King, grandpa!’ What do you think?”

“I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You are wasting your time, when you ought to be either talking to me or else thinking very seriously about what you mean to do.”

Jimmy was turning the pages rapidly.

“I will be with you in a moment,” he said. “Try to amuse yourself somehow till I am at leisure. Ask yourself a riddle. Tell yourself an anecdote. Think of life. No, it’s no good. I don’t see myself as a Fan Importer, a Glass Beveller, a Hotel Broker, an Insect Exterminator, a Junk Dealer, a Kalsomine Manufacturer, a Laundryman, a Mausoleum Architect, a Nurse, an Oculist, a Paperhanger, a Quilt Designer, a Roofer, a Ship Plumber, a Tinsmith, an Undertaker, a Veterinarian, a Wig Maker, an X-ray apparatus manufacturer, a Yeast producer, or a Zinc Spelter.” He closed the book. “There is only one thing to do. I must starve in the gutter. Tell me⁠—you know New York better than I do⁠—where is there a good gutter?”

At this moment there entered the restaurant an Immaculate Person. He was a young man attired in faultlessly fitting clothes, with shoes of flawless polish and a perfectly proportioned floweret in his buttonhole. He surveyed the room through a monocle. He was a pleasure to look upon, but Jimmy, catching sight of him, started violently and felt no joy at all; for he had recognised him. It was a man he knew well and who knew him well⁠—a man whom he had last seen a bare two weeks ago at the Bachelors’ Club in London. Few things are certain in this world, but one was that, if Bartling⁠—such was the Vision’s name⁠—should see him, he would come over and address him as Crocker. He braced himself to the task of being Bayliss, the whole Bayliss, and nothing but Bayliss. It might be that stout denial would carry him through. After all, Reggie Bartling was a man of notoriously feeble intellect, who could believe in anything.

The monocle continued its sweep. It rested on Jimmy’s profile.

“By Gad!” said the Vision.

Reginald Bartling had landed in New York that morning, and already the loneliness of a strange city had begun to oppress him. He had come over on a visit of pleasure, his suitcase stuffed with letters of introduction, but these he had not yet used. There was a feeling of homesickness upon him, and he ached for a pal. And there before him sat Jimmy Crocker, one of the best. He hastened to the table.

“I say, Crocker, old chap, I didn’t