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

“So he told me.”

“He’s wild about New York.”

“But you’re not.”

“I hate it.”

“Why?”

She dug away at the red plush with the hatpin, picking out little bits and dropping them over the edge. I could see she was bracing herself to put me wise to the whole trouble. There’s a time comes when things aren’t going right, and you’ve had all you can stand, when you have got to tell somebody about it, no matter who it is.

“I hate New York,” she said getting it out at last with a rush. “I’m scared of it. It⁠—it isn’t fair Charlie bringing me here. I didn’t want to come. I knew what would happen. I felt it all along.”

“What do you think will happen, then?”

She must have picked away at least an inch of the red plush before she answered. It’s lucky Jimmy, the balcony waiter, didn’t see her; it would have broken his heart; he’s as proud of that red plush as if he had paid for it himself.

“When I first went to live at Rodney,” she said, “two years ago⁠—we moved there from Illinois⁠—there was a man there named Tyson⁠—Jack Tyson. He lived all alone and didn’t seem to want to know anyone. I couldn’t understand it till somebody told me all about him. I can understand it now. Jack Tyson married a Rodney girl, and they came to New York for their honeymoon, just like us. And when they got there I guess she got to comparing him with the fellows she saw, and comparing the city with Rodney, and when she got home she just couldn’t settle down.”

“Well?”

“After they had been back in Rodney for a little while she ran away. Back to the city, I guess.”

“I suppose he got a divorce?”

“No, he didn’t. He still thinks she may come back to him.”

“He still thinks she will come back?” I said. “After she has been away three years!”

“Yes. He keeps her things just the same as she left them when she went away, everything just the same.”

“But isn’t he angry with her for what she did? If I was a man and a girl treated me that way, I’d be apt to murder her if she tried to show up again.”

“He wouldn’t. Nor would I, if⁠—if anything like that happened to me; I’d wait and wait, and go on hoping all the time. And I’d go down to the station to meet the train every afternoon, just like Jack Tyson.”

Something splashed on the tablecloth. It made me jump.

“For goodness’ sake,” I said, “what’s your trouble? Brace up. I know it’s a sad story, but it’s not your funeral.”

“It is. It is. The same thing’s going to happen to me.”

“Take a hold on yourself. Don’t cry like that.”

“I can’t help it. Oh! I knew it would happen. It’s happening right now. Look⁠—look at him.”

I glanced over the rail, and I saw what she meant. There was her Charlie, dancing about all over the floor as if he had just discovered that he hadn’t lived till then. I saw him say something to the girl he was dancing with. I wasn’t near enough to hear it, but I bet it was “This is the life!” If I had been his wife, in the same position as this kid, I guess I’d have felt as bad as she did, for if ever a man exhibited all the symptoms of incurable Newyorkitis, it was this Charlie Ferris.

“I’m not like these New York girls,” she choked. “I can’t be smart. I don’t want to be. I just want to live at home and be happy. I knew it would happen if we came to the city. He doesn’t think me good enough for him. He looks down on me.”

“Pull yourself together.”

“And I do love him so!”

Goodness knows what I should have said if I could have thought of anything to say. But just then the music stopped, and somebody on the floor below began to speak.

“Ladeez ’n’ gemmen,” he said, “there will now take place our great Numbah Contest. This ge-nu-ine sporting contest⁠—”

It was Izzy Baermann making his nightly speech, introducing the Love-r-ly Cup; and it meant that, for me, duty called. From where I sat I could see Izzy looking about the room, and I knew he was looking for me. It’s the management’s nightmare that one of these evenings Mabel or I won’t show up, and somebody else will get away with the Love-r-ly Cup.

“Sorry I’ve got to go,” I said. “I have to be in this.”

And then suddenly I had the great idea. It came to me like a flash, I looked at her, crying there, and I looked over the rail at Charlie the Boy Wonder, and I knew that this was where I got a stranglehold on my place in the Hall of Fame, along with the great thinkers of the age.

“Come on,” I said. “Come along. Stop crying and powder your nose and get a move on. You’re going to dance this.”

“But Charlie doesn’t want to dance with me.”

“It may have escaped your notice,” I said, “but your Charlie is not the only man in New York, or even in this restaurant. I’m going to dance with Charlie myself, and I’ll introduce you to someone who can go through the movements. Listen!”

“The lady of each couple”⁠—this was Izzy, getting it off his diaphragm⁠—“will receive a ticket containing a num-bah. The dance will then proceed, and the num-bahs will be eliminated one by one, those called out by the judge kindly returning to their seats as their num-bah is called. The num-bah finally remaining is the winning num-bah. The contest is a genuine sporting contest, decided purely by the skill of the holders of the various num-bahs.” (Izzy stopped blushing at the age of six.) “Will ladies now kindly step forward and receive their num-bahs. The winner, the holder of the num-bah left on the floor when the