Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

the eleventh that Katie, having closed the little shop, sat in the dusk on the steps, as many thousands of her fellow-townsmen and townswomen were doing, turning her face to the first breeze which New York had known for two months. The hot spell had broken abruptly that afternoon, and the city was drinking in the coolness as a flower drinks water.

From round the corner, where the yellow cross of the Judson Hotel shone down on Washington Square, came the shouts of children, and the strains, mellowed by distance, of the indefatigable barrel-organ which had played the same tunes in the same place since the spring.

Katie closed her eyes, and listened. It was very peaceful this evening, so peaceful that for an instant she forgot even to think of Ted. And it was just during this instant that she heard his voice.

“That you, kid?”

He was standing before her, his hands in his pockets, one foot on the pavement, the other in the road; and if he was agitated, his voice did not show it.

“Ted!”

“That’s me. Can I see the old man for a minute, Katie?”

This time it did seem to her that she could detect a slight ring of excitement.

“It’s no use, Ted. Honest.”

“No harm in going in and passing the time of day, is there? I’ve got something I want to say to him.”

“What?”

“Tell you later, maybe. Is he in his room?”

He stepped past her, and went in. As he went, he caught her arm and pressed it, but he did not stop. She saw him go into the inner room and heard through the door as he closed it behind him, the murmur of voices. And almost immediately, it seemed to her, her name was called. It was her grandfather’s voice which called, high and excited. The door opened, and Ted appeared.

“Come here a minute, Katie, will you?” he said. “You’re wanted.”

The old man was leaning forward in his chair. He was in a state of extraordinary excitement. He quivered and jumped. Ted, standing by the wall, looked as stolid as ever; but his eyes glittered.

“Katie,” cried the old man, “this is a most remarkable piece of news. This gentleman has just been telling me⁠—extraordinary. He⁠—”

He broke off, and looked at Ted, as he had looked at Katie when he had tried to write the letter to the Parliament of England.

Ted’s eye, as it met Katie’s, was almost defiant.

“I want to marry you,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” broke in Mr. Bennett, impatiently, “but⁠—”

“And I’m a king.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s it, Katie. This gentleman is a king.”

Once more Ted’s eye met Katie’s, and this time there was an imploring look in it.

“That’s right,” he said, slowly. “I’ve just been telling your grandfather I’m the King of Coney Island.”

“That’s it. Of Coney Island.”

“So there’s no objection now to us getting married, kid⁠—Your Royal Highness. It’s a royal alliance, see?”

“A royal alliance,” echoed Mr. Bennett.

Out in the street, Ted held Katie’s hand, and grinned a little sheepishly.

“You’re mighty quiet, kid,” he said. “It looks as if it don’t make much of a hit with you, the notion of being married to me.”

“Oh, Ted! But⁠—”

He squeezed her hand.

“I know what you’re thinking. I guess it was raw work pulling a tale like that on the old man. I hated to do it, but gee! when a fellow’s up against it like I was, he’s apt to grab most any chance that comes along. Why, say, kid, it kind of looked to me as if it was sort of meant. Coming just now, like it did, just when it was wanted, and just when it didn’t seem possible it could happen. Why, a week ago I was nigh on two hundred votes behind Billy Burton. The Irish-American put him up, and everybody thought he’d be King at the Mardi Gras. And then suddenly they came pouring in for me, till at the finish I had Billy looking like a regular has-been.

“It’s funny the way the voting jumps about every year in this Coney election. It was just Providence, and it didn’t seem right to let it go by. So I went in to the old man, and told him. Say, I tell you I was just sweating when I got ready to hand it to him. It was an outside chance he’d remember all about what the Mardi Gras at Coney was, and just what being a king at it amounted to. Then I remembered you telling me you’d never been to Coney, so I figured your grandfather wouldn’t be what you’d call well fixed in his information about it, so I took the chance.

“I tried him out first. I tried him with Brooklyn. Why, say, from the way he took it, he’d either never heard of the place, or else he’d forgotten what it was. I guess he don’t remember much, poor old fellow. Then I mentioned Yonkers. He asked me what Yonkers were. Then I reckoned it was safe to bring on Coney, and he fell for it right away. I felt mean, but it had to be done.”

He caught her up, and swung her into the air with a perfectly impassive face. Then, having kissed her, he lowered her gently to the ground again. The action seemed to have relieved his feelings, for when he spoke again it was plain that his conscience no longer troubled him.

“And say,” he said, “come to think of it, I don’t see where there’s so much call for me to feel mean. I’m not so far short of being a regular king. Coney’s just as big as some of those kingdoms you read about on the other side; and, from what you see in the papers about the goings-on there, it looks to me that, having a whole week on the throne like I’m going to have, amounts to a pretty steady job as kings go.”

Death at the Excelsior I

The room was the typical bedroom of the