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

have to choose between poulet en casserole and kidneys a la maitre d’hotel. A man’s cross-roads!”

Jill smiled happily across the table at him. She could hardly believe that this old friend with whom she had gone through the perils of the night and with whom she was now about to feast was the sinister figure that had cast a shadow on her childhood. He looked positively incapable of pulling a little girl’s hair—as no doubt he was.

“You always were greedy,” she commented. “Just before I turned the hose on you, I remember you had made yourself thoroughly disliked by pocketing a piece of my birthday-cake.”

“Do you remember that?” His eyes lit up and he smiled back at her. He had an ingratiating smile. His mouth was rather wide, and it seemed to stretch right across his face. He reminded Jill more than ever of a big, friendly dog. “I can feel it now,—all squashy in my pocket, inextricably mingled with a catapult, a couple of marbles, a box of matches, and some string. I was quite the human general store in those days. Which reminds me that we have been some time settling down to an exchange of our childhood reminiscences, haven’t we?”

“I’ve been trying to realise that you are Wally Mason. You have altered so.”

“For the better?”

“Very much for the better! You were a horrid little brute. You used to terrify me. I never knew when you were going to bound out at me from behind a tree or something. I remember your chasing me for miles, shrieking at the top of your voice!”

“Sheer embarrassment! I told you just now how I used to worship you. If I shrieked a little, it was merely because I was shy. I did it to hide my devotion.”

“You certainly succeeded. I never even suspected it.”

Wally sighed.

“How like life! I never told my love, but let concealment like a worm i’ the bud …”

“Talking of worms, you once put one down my back!”

“No, no,” said Wally in a shocked voice. “Not that! I was boisterous, perhaps, but surely always the gentleman.”

“You did! In the shrubbery. There had been a thunderstorm and …”

“I remember the incident now. A mere misunderstanding. I had done with the worm, and thought you might be glad to have it.”

“You were always doing things like that. Once you held me over the pond and threatened to drop me into the water—in the winter! Just before Christmas. It was a particularly mean thing to do, because I couldn’t even kick your shins for fear you would let me fall. Luckily Uncle Chris came up and made you stop.”

“You considered that a fortunate occurrence, did you?” said Wally. “Well, perhaps from your point of view it may have been. I saw the thing from a different angle. Your uncle had a whangee with him, and the episode remains photographically lined on the tablets of my mind when a yesterday has faded from its page. My friends sometimes wonder what I mean when I say that my old wound troubles me in frosty weather. By the way, how is your uncle?”

“Oh, he’s very well. Just as lazy as ever. He’s away at present, down at Brighton.”

“He didn’t strike me as lazy,” said Wally thoughtfully. “Dynamic would express it better. But perhaps I happened to encounter him in a moment of energy.”

“He doesn’t look a day older than he did then.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall his appearance very distinctly. On the only occasion on which we ever really foregathered—hobnobbed, so to speak—he was behind me most of the time. Ah!” The waiter had returned with a loaded tray. “The food! Forgive me if I seem a little distrait for a moment or two. There is man’s work before me!”

“And later on, I suppose, you would like a chop or something to take away in your pocket?”

“I will think it over. Possibly a little soup. My needs are very simple these days.”

Jill watched him with a growing sense of satisfaction. There was something boyishly engaging about this man. She felt at home with him. He affected her in much the same way as did Freddie Rooke. He was a definite addition to the things that went to make her happy.

She liked him particularly for being such a good loser. She had always been a good loser herself, and the quality was one which she admired. It was nice of him to dismiss from his conversation—and apparently from his thoughts—that night’s fiasco and all that it must have cost him. She wondered how much he had lost. Certainly something very substantial. Yet it seemed to trouble him not at all. Jill considered his behavior gallant, and her heart warmed to him. This was how a man ought to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Wally sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair.

“An unpleasant exhibition!” he said apologetically. “But unavoidable. And, anyway, I take it that you would prefer to have me well-fed and happy about the place than swooning on the floor with starvation. A wonderful thing, food! I am now ready to converse intelligently on any subject you care to suggest. I have eaten rose-leaves and am no more a golden ass, so to speak! What shall we talk about?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

Wally beamed.

“There is no nobler topic! But what aspect of myself do you wish me to touch on? My thoughts, my tastes, my amusements, my career, or what? I can talk about myself for hours. My friends in New York often complain about it bitterly.”

“New York?” said Jill. “Oh then you live in America?”

“Yes. I only came over here to see that darned false alarm of a play of mine put on.”

“Why didn’t you put it on in New York?”

“Too many of the lads of the village know me over there. This was a new departure, you see. What the critics in those parts expect from me is something entitled ‘Wow! Wow!’ or ‘The Girl from Yonkers’. It would have unsettled their minds to find me breaking out in poetic drama. They are men of coarse fibre and ribald mind and they would have been very funny about it. I thought it wiser to come over here among strangers, little thinking that I should sit in the next seat to somebody I had known all my life.”

“But when did you go to America? And why?”

“I think it must have been four—five—well, quite a number of years after the hose episode. Probably you didn’t observe that I wasn’t still around, but we crept silently out of the neighborhood round about that time and went to live in London.” His tone lost its lightness momentarily. “My father died, you know, and that sort of broke things up. He didn’t leave any too much money, either. Apparently we had been living on rather too expansive a scale during the time I knew you. At any rate, I was more or less up against it until your father got me a job in an office in New York.”

“My father!”

“Yes. It was wonderfully good of him to bother about me. I didn’t suppose he would have known me by sight, and even if he had remembered me, I shouldn’t have imagined that the memory would have been a pleasant one. But he couldn’t have taken more trouble if I had been a blood-relation.”

“That was just like father,” said Jill softly.

“He was a prince.”

“But you aren’t in the office now?”

“No. I found I had a knack of writing verses and things, and I wrote a few vaudeville songs. Then I came across a man named Bevan at a music-publisher’s. He was just starting to write music, and we got together and turned out some vaudeville sketches, and then a manager sent for us to fix up a show that was dying on the road and we had the good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it was pretty good going. Managers are just like sheep. They know nothing whatever about the show business themselves, and they come flocking after anybody who looks as if he could turn out the right stuff. They never think any one any good except the fellow who had the last hit. So, while your luck lasts, you have to keep them off with a stick. Then you have a couple of failures, and they skip off after somebody else, till you have another success, and then they all come skipping back again, bleating plaintively. George Bevan got married the other day—you probably read about it—he married Lord Marshmoreton’s daughter. Lucky devil!”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“You were faithful to my memory?” said Jill with a smile.

“I was.”

“It can’t last,” said Jill, shaking her head. “One of these days you’ll meet some lovely American girl and then you’ll put a worm down her back or pull her hair or whatever it is you do when you want to show your devotion, and … What are you looking at? Is something interesting going on behind me?”

He had been looking past her out into the room.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Only there’s a statuesque old lady about two tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervals for refreshment, for the last five minutes. You seem to fascinate her.”

“An old lady?”

“Yes. With a glare! She looks like Dunsany’s Bird of the Difficult Eye. Count ten and turn carelessly round. There, at that table. Almost behind you.”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Jill.

She turned quickly round again.

“What’s the matter? Do you know her? Somebody you don’t want to meet?”

“It’s Lady Underhill! And Derek’s with her!”

Wally had been lifting his glass. He put it down rather suddenly.

“Derek?” he said.

“Derek Underhill. The man I’m engaged to marry.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh!” said Wally thoughtfully. “The man you’re engaged to marry? Yes, I see!”

He raised his glass again, and drank its contents quickly.

§ 2.

Jill looked at her companion anxiously. Recent events had caused her completely to forget the existence of Lady Underhill. She was always so intensely interested in what she happened to be doing at the moment that she often suffered these temporary lapses of memory. It occurred to her now,—too late, as usual,—that the Savoy Hotel was the last place in London where she should have come to supper with Wally. It was the hotel where Lady Underhill was staying. She frowned. Life had suddenly ceased to be careless and happy, and had become a problem-ridden thing, full of perplexity and misunderstandings.

“What shall I do?”

Wally Mason started at the sound of her voice. He appeared to be deep in thoughts of his own.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What shall I do?”

“I shouldn’t be worried.”

“Derek will be awfully cross.”

Wally’s good-humored mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Why?” he said. “There’s nothing wrong in your having supper with an old friend.”

“N-no,” said Jill doubtfully. “But …”

“Derek Underhill,” said Wally reflectively. “Is that Sir Derek Underhill, whose name one’s always seeing in the papers?”

“Derek is in the papers a lot. He’s an M.P. and all sorts of things.”

“Good-looking fellow. Ah, here’s the coffee.”

“I don’t want any, thanks.”

“Nonsense. Why spoil your meal because of this? Do you smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

“Given it up, eh? Daresay you’re wise. Stunts the growth and increases the expenses.”

“Given it up?”

“Don’t you remember sharing one of your father’s cigars with me behind the haystack in the meadow? We cut it in half. I finished my half, but I fancy about three puffs were enough for you. Those were happy days!”

“That one wasn’t! Of course I remember it now. I don’t suppose I shall ever forget it.”

“The thing was my fault, as usual. I recollect I dared you.”

“Yes. I always took a dare.”

“Do you still?”

“What do you mean?”

Wally knocked the ash off his cigarette.

“Well,” he said slowly, “suppose I were to dare you to get up and walk over to that table and look your fiancé in the eye and say, ‘Stop scowling at my back hair! I’ve a perfect right to be supping with an old friend!’—would you do it?”

“Is he?” said Jill, startled.

“Scowling? Can’t you feel it on the back of your head?” He drew thoughtfully at his cigarette. “If I were you I should stop that sort of thing at the source. It’s a habit that can’t be discouraged in a husband too early. Scowling is the civilized man’s substitute for wife-beating.”

Jill moved uncomfortably in her chair. Her quick temper resented his tone. There was a hostility, a hardly veiled contempt in his voice which stung her. Derek was sacred. Whoever criticized him, presumed. Wally, a few minutes before a friend and an agreeable companion, seemed to her to have changed. He was once more the boy whom she had disliked in the old days. There was a gleam in her eyes which should have warned him, but he went on.

“I should imagine