Piccadilly Jim by P. G. Wodehouse (most motivational books TXT) 📕

of the world. Oh yes, it is extremely probable that Mr. Crocker’s name will appear in the next Honours List. He is very highly thought of by the Powers. So naturally James is quite aware that he must behave in a suitable manner. He is a dear boy! He was handicapped at first by getting into the wrong set, but now his closest friend is Lord Percy Whipple, the second son of the Duke of Devizes, who is one of the most eminent men in the kingdom and a personal friend of the Premier.”

Mrs. Pett was in bad shape under this rain of titles, but she rallied herself to reply in kind.

“Indeed?” she said. “I should like to meet him. I have no doubt he knows our great friend, Lord Wisbeach.”

Mrs. Crocker was a little taken aback. She had not supposed that her sister had even this small shot in her locker.

“Do you know Lord Wisbeach?” she said.

“Oh yes,” replied Mrs. Pett, beginning to feel a little better. “We have been seeing him every day. He always says that he looks on my house as quite a home. He knows so few people in New York. It has been a great comfort to him, I think, knowing us.”

Mrs. Crocker had had time now to recover her poise.

“Poor dear Wizzy!” she said languidly.

Mrs. Pett started.

“What!”

“I suppose he is still the same dear, stupid, shiftless fellow? He left here with the intention of travelling round the world, and he has stopped in New York! How like him!”

“Do you know Lord Wisbeach?” demanded Mrs. Pett.

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.

“Know him? Why, I suppose, after Lord Percy Whipple, he is James’ most intimate friend!”

Mrs. Pett rose. She was dignified even in defeat. She collected Ogden and Mr. Pett with an eye which even Ogden could see was not to be trifled with. She uttered no word.

“Must you really go?” said Mrs. Crocker. “It was sweet of you to bother to come all the way from America like this. So strange to meet anyone from America nowadays. Most extraordinary!”

The cortège left the room in silence. Mrs. Crocker had touched the bell, but the mourners did not wait for the arrival of Bayliss. They were in no mood for the formalities of polite Society. They wanted to be elsewhere, and they wanted to be there quick. The front door had closed behind them before the butler reached the morning-room.

“Bayliss,” said Mrs. Crocker with happy, shining face, “send for the car to come round at once.”

“Very good, madam.”

“Is Mr. James up yet?”

“I believe not, madam.”

Mrs. Crocker went upstairs to her room. If Bayliss had not been within earshot, she would probably have sung a bar or two. Her amiability extended even to her stepson, though she had not altered her intention of speaking eloquently to him on certain matters when she could get hold of him. That, however, could wait. For the moment, she felt in vein for a gentle drive in the Park.

A few minutes after she had disappeared, there was a sound of slow footsteps on the stairs, and a young man came down into the hall. Bayliss, who had finished telephoning to the garage for Mrs. Crocker’s limousine and was about to descend to those lower depths where he had his being, turned, and a grave smile of welcome played over his face.

“Good morning, Mr. James,” he said.

IV Jimmy’s Disturbing News

Jimmy Crocker was a tall and well-knit young man who later on in the day would no doubt be at least passably good-looking. At the moment an unbecoming pallor marred his face, and beneath his eyes were marks that suggested that he had slept little and ill. He stood at the foot of the stairs, yawning cavernously.

“Bayliss,” he said, “have you been painting yourself yellow?”

“No, sir.”

“Strange! Your face looks a bright gamboge to me, and your outlines wobble. Bayliss, never mix your drinks. I say this to you as a friend. Is there anyone in the morning-room?”

“No, Mr. James.”

“Speak softly, Bayliss, for I am not well. I am conscious of a strange weakness. Lead me to the morning-room, then, and lay me gently on a sofa. These are the times that try men’s souls.”

The sun was now shining strongly through the windows of the morning-room. Bayliss lowered the shades. Jimmy Crocker sank onto the sofa, and closed his eyes.

“Bayliss.”

“Sir?”

“A conviction is stealing over me that I am about to expire.”

“Shall I bring you a little breakfast, Mr. James?”

A strong shudder shook Jimmy.

“Don’t be flippant, Bayliss,” he protested. “Try to cure yourself of this passion for being funny at the wrong time. Your comedy is good, but tact is a finer quality than humour. Perhaps you think I have forgotten that morning when I was feeling just as I do today and you came to my bedside and asked me if I would like a nice rasher of ham. I haven’t and I never shall. You may bring me a brandy-and-soda. Not a large one. A couple of bathtubs full will be enough.”

“Very good, Mr. James.”

“And now leave me, Bayliss, for I would be alone. I have to make a series of difficult and exhaustive tests to ascertain whether I am still alive.”

When the butler had gone, Jimmy adjusted the cushions, closed his eyes, and remained for a space in a state of coma. He was trying, as well as an exceedingly severe headache would permit, to recall the salient events of the previous night. At present his memories refused to solidify. They poured about in his brain in a fluid and formless condition, exasperating to one who sought for hard facts.

It seemed strange to Jimmy that the shadowy and inchoate vision of a combat, a fight, a brawl of some kind persisted in flitting about in the recesses of his mind, always just far enough away to elude capture. The absurdity of the thing annoyed him. A man has either indulged in a fight overnight or he has not indulged in a fight overnight. There can be no middle course. That he should be uncertain on