The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse (best romance ebooks txt) 📕

A taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square. Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid the driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into a delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which had been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shone exhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow’s egg.

“Doesn’t everything smell lovely, Freddie,” said Jill, “after our prison-life!”

“Topping!”

“Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I’m arrested, I must always make a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease you about that fifty-pound note again.”

“Fifty-pound note?”

“It certainly came in handy today!”

She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden sagging of Freddie’s jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddie was appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless with the exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to Derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the night in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there was a risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to get Jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If they remained where they were overnight, the thing would get into the papers, and that would be a thousand times worse. And if he applied for aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that all London would know about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, had sent the message to Derek, and now Jill’s words had reminded him that there was no need to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere or heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with a sizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had seemed to him ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might find yourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready. He had followed the chappie’s example. And now, when the crisis had arrived, he had forgotten—absolutely forgotten!—that he had the dashed thing on his person at all.

He followed Jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful that she had taken it for granted that he had secured their release in the manner indicated. He did not propose to disillusion her. It would be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along. Probably old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whole bally affair like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at the thought.

Jill was talking to the parlormaid whose head had popped up over the banisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen.

“Major Selby hasn’t arrived yet, miss.”

“That’s odd. I suppose he must have taken a later train.”

“There’s a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. She didn’t give any name. She said she would wait till the major came. She’s been waiting a goodish while.”

“All right, Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea.”

They walked down the hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor, a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio but for the absence of bright light. A girl was sitting at the far end by the fireplace. She rose: as they entered.

“How do you do?” said Jill. “I’m afraid my uncle has not come back yet …”

“Say!” cried the visitor. “You did get out quick!”

Jill was surprised. She had no recollection of ever having seen the other before. Her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort of jaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to her tired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate liking to her. She looked so forlorn and pathetic.

“My name’s Nelly Bryant,” said the girl. “That parrot belongs to me.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so I came along to tell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something. The maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so I waited.”

“That was awfully good of you.”

“Dashed good,” said Freddie.

“Oh, no! Honest, I don’t know how to thank you for what you did. You don’t know what a pal Bill is to me. It would have broken me all up if that plug-ugly had killed him.”

“But what a shame you had to wait so long.”

“I liked it.”

Nelly Bryant looked about the room wistfully. This was the sort of room she sometimes dreamed about. She loved its subdued light and the pulpy cushions on the sofa.

“You’ll have some tea before you go, won’t you?” said Jill, switching on the lights.

“It’s very kind of you.”

“Why, hullo!” said Freddie. “By Jove! I say! We’ve met before, what?”

“Why, so we have!”

“That lunch at Oddy’s that young Threepwood gave, what?”

“I wonder you remember.”

“Oh, I remember. Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show, ‘Follow the Girl,’ Jill, at the Regal.”

“Oh, yes. I remember you took me to see it.”

“Dashed odd meeting again like this!” said Freddie. “Really rummy!”

Jane, the parlormaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments.

“You’re American, then?” said Jill, interested. “The whole company came from New York, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“I’m half American myself, you know. I used to live in New York when I was very small, but I’ve almost forgotten what it was like. I remember a sort of over-head railway that made an awful noise …”

“The Elevated!” murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of homesickness seemed to choke her for a moment.

“And the air. Like champagne. And a very blue sky.”

“Yes,” said Nelly in a small voice.

“I shouldn’t half mind popping over New York for a bit,” said Freddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. “I’ve met some very sound sportsmen who came from there. You don’t know a fellow named Williamson, do you?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Or Oakes?”

“No.”

“That’s rummy! Oakes has lived in New York for years.”

“So have about seven million other people,” interposed Jill. “Don’t be silly, Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if you knew a man named Jenkins in London?”

“I do know a man named Jenkins in London,” replied Freddie triumphantly.

Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the clock.

“I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to,” she said. “He ought to be here by now. I hope he hasn’t got into any mischief among the wild stock-brokers down at Brighton.”

Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.

“Oh, Freddie, darling!” said Jill remorsefully. “I forgot! Stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren’t they!” She turned to Nelly. “There’s been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, and he got—what was the word, Freddie?”

“Nipped!” said Freddie with gloom.

“Nipped!”

“Nipped like the dickens!”

“Nipped like the dickens!” Jill smiled at Nelly. “He had forgotten all about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went and reminded him.”

Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.

“A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutter in some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is, when you’re feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in yours and tells you to do some fool thing. You’re so dashed nappy you simply say ‘Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!’ That’s the way I got had!”

Jill laughed unfeelingly.

“It will do you good, Freddie. It’ll stir you up and prevent you being so silly again. Besides, you know you’ll hardly notice it. You’ve much too much money as it is.”

“It’s not the money. It’s the principle of the thing. I hate looking a frightful chump.”

“Well, you needn’t tell anybody. We’ll keep it a secret. In fact, we’ll start at once, for I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let us dissemble. We are observed!… Hullo, Uncle Chris!”

She ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall, soldierly man who entered.

“Well, Jill, my dear.”

“How late you are. I was expecting you hours ago.”

“I had to call on my broker.”

“Hush! Hush!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing. … We’ve got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke, of course?”

“How are you, Freddie, my boy?”

“Cheerio!” said Freddie. “Pretty fit?”

“And Miss Bryant,” said Jill.

“How do you do?” said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, in his younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of the pockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes of their sisters, their cousins, and their aunts.

“Come and have some tea,” said Jill. “You’re just in time.”

Nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big armchair. Somehow she felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris had addressed her. Most people felt like that after encountering Jill’s Uncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not precisely condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treated you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the fact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chris affected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight of the Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he had cast aside social distinctions for awhile and hobnobbed with the latter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that he abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.

To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was a fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed so carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright blue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though he had served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian’s sun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub,—a misleading impression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took his morning bath as hot as he could get it.

It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance, fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, as distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and trousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London is full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of the word,—the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, while it is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops some sort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only hatter—using the term in its deeper sense—is the man who enjoyed the patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, in short, from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris was perfect. He was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolis looked better for him. One seems to picture London as a mother with a horde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children with wrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as she beheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restored complacency, “Ah, well, I still have Uncle Chris!”

“Miss Bryant is American, Uncle Chris,” said Jill.

Uncle Chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down kindly at Nelly.

“Indeed?” He took a cup of tea and stirred it. “I was in America as a young man.”

“Whereabouts?” asked Nelly eagerly.

“Oh, here and there and everywhere. I travelled considerably.”

“That’s how it is with me,” said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence as she warmed to the favorite topic. “I guess I know most every town in every State, from New York to the last one-night stand. It’s