Something New - P. G. Wodehouse (books to read to get smarter txt) 📗

with a picture showing the deadbeat gazing wistfully at the boss’ chair. You would galvanize a jellyfish.”

“If I have really stimulated you⁠—”

“I think that was another slam,” said Ashe pensively. “Well, I deserve it. Yes, you have stimulated me. I feel like a new man. It’s queer that you should have come to me right on top of everything else. I don’t remember when I have felt so restless and discontented as this morning.”

“It’s the spring.”

“I suppose it is. I feel like doing something big and adventurous.”

“Well, do it then. You have a Morning Post on the table. Have you read it yet?”

“I glanced at it.”

“But you haven’t read the advertisement pages? Read them. They may contain just the opening you want.”

“Well, I’ll do it; but my experience of advertisement pages is that they are monopolized by philanthropists who want to lend you any sum from ten to a hundred thousand pounds on your note of hand only. However, I will scan them.”

Joan rose and held out her hand.

“Goodbye, Mr. Marson. You’ve got your detective story to write, and I have to think out something with a duke in it by tonight; so I must be going.” She smiled. “We have traveled a good way from the point where we started, but I may as well go back to it before I leave you. I’m sorry I laughed at you this morning.”

Ashe clasped her hand in a fervent grip.

“I’m not. Come and laugh at me whenever you feel like it. I like being laughed at. Why, when I started my morning exercises, half of London used to come and roll about the sidewalks in convulsions. I’m not an attraction any longer and it makes me feel lonesome. There are twenty-nine of those Larsen Exercises and you saw only part of the first. You have done so much for me that if I can be of any use to you, in helping you to greet the day with a smile, I shall be only too proud. Exercise Six is a sure-fire mirth-provoker; I’ll start with it tomorrow morning. I can also recommend Exercise Eleven⁠—a scream! Don’t miss it.”

“Very well. Well, goodbye for the present.”

“Goodbye.”

She was gone; and Ashe, thrilling with new emotions, stared at the door which had closed behind her. He felt as though he had been wakened from sleep by a powerful electric shock.

Close beside the sheet of paper on which he had inscribed the now luminous and suggestive title of his new Gridley Quayle story lay the Morning Post, the advertisement columns of which he had promised her to explore. The least he could do was to begin at once.

His spirits sank as he did so. It was the same old game. A Mr. Brian MacNeill, though doing no business with minors, was willing⁠—even anxious⁠—to part with his vast fortune to anyone over the age of twenty-one whose means happened to be a trifle straitened. This good man required no security whatever; nor did his rivals in generosity, the Messrs. Angus Bruce, Duncan Macfarlane, Wallace Mackintosh and Donald MacNab. They, too, showed a curious distaste for dealing with minors; but anyone of maturer years could simply come round to the office and help himself.

Ashe threw the paper down wearily. He had known all along that it was no good. Romance was dead and the unexpected no longer happened. He picked up his pen and began to write “The Adventure of the Wand of Death.”

II

In a bedroom on the fourth floor of the Hotel Guelph in Piccadilly, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood sat in bed, with his knees drawn up to his chin, and glared at the day with the glare of mental anguish. He had very little mind, but what he had was suffering.

He had just remembered. It is like that in this life. You wake up, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and see the sun, and thank heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan a perfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies you met last night at the National Sporting Club; and then⁠—you remember.

“Oh, dash it!” said the Honorable Freddie. And after a moment’s pause: “And I was feeling so dashed happy!”

For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sad meditation; then, picking up the telephone from the table at his side, he asked for a number.

“Hello!”

“Hello!” responded a rich voice at the other end of the wire.

“Oh, I say! Is that you, Dickie?”

“Who is that?”

“This is Freddie Threepwood. I say, Dickie, old top, I want to see you about something devilish important. Will you be in at twelve?”

“Certainly. What’s the trouble?”

“I can’t explain over the wire; but it’s deuced serious.”

“Very well. By the way, Freddie, congratulations on the engagement.”

“Thanks, old man. Thanks very much, and so on⁠—but you won’t forget to be in at twelve, will you? Goodbye.”

He replaced the receiver quickly and sprang out of bed, for he had heard the door handle turn. When the door opened he was giving a correct representation of a young man wasting no time in beginning his toilet for the day.

An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered. He regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor.

“Are you only just getting up, Frederick?”

“Hello, gov’nor. Good morning. I shan’t be two ticks now.”

“You should have been out and about two hours ago. The day is glorious.”

“Shan’t be more than a minute, gov’nor, now. Just got to have a tub and then chuck on a few clothes.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. His father, taking a chair, placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attitude remained motionless, a figure of disapproval and suppressed annoyance.

Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth had suffered much through that problem which, with the exception of Mr. Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the British aristocratic amber⁠—the problem of what to do with the younger sons.

It is useless to try to