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

protective din he was able to toy with a steaming dish which his waiter had brought. Probably that girl was saying all sorts of things about him still but he could not hear them.

The music died away. For a moment the tortured air quivered in comparative silence; then the girl’s voice spoke again. She had, however, selected another topic of conversation.

“I’ve seen all I want to of England,” she said, “I’ve seen Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament and His Majesty’s Theatre and the Savoy and the Cheshire Cheese, and I’ve developed a frightful homesickness. Why shouldn’t we go back tomorrow?”

For the first time in the proceedings the elder woman spoke. She cast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say “Yes,” then wrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparently been waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that the sooner he was on board a New York-bound boat the better he would be pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished his fish-pie, and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of morose resolution.

“There’s certain to be a boat,” said the girl. “There always is. You’ve got to say that for England⁠—it’s an easy place to get back to America from.” She paused. “What I can’t understand is how, after having been in America and knowing what it was like, Jimmy Crocker could stand living⁠ ⁠…”

The waiter had come to Jimmy’s side, bearing cheese; but Jimmy looked at it with dislike and shook his head in silent negation. He was about to depart from this place. His capacity for absorbing home-truths about himself was exhausted. He placed a noiseless sovereign on the table, caught the waiter’s eye, registered renunciation, and departed soft-footed down the aisle. The waiter, a man who had never been able to bring himself to believe in miracles, revised the views of a lifetime. He looked at the sovereign, then at Jimmy, then at the sovereign again. Then he took up the coin and bit it furtively.

A few minutes later, a hat-check boy, untipped for the first time in his predatory career, was staring at Jimmy with equal intensity, but with far different feelings. Speechless concern was limned on his young face.

The commissionaire at the Piccadilly entrance of the restaurant touched his hat ingratiatingly, with the smug confidence of a man who is accustomed to getting sixpence a time for doing it.

“Taxi, Mr. Crocker?”

“A worm,” said Jimmy.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Always drinking,” explained Jimmy, “and making a pest of himself.”

He passed on. The commissionaire stared after him as intently as the waiter and the hat-check boy. He had sometimes known Mr. Crocker like this after supper, but never before during the luncheon hour.

Jimmy made his way to his club in Northumberland Avenue. For perhaps half an hour he sat in a condition of coma in the smoking-room; then, his mind made up, he went to one of the writing-tables. He sat awaiting inspiration for some minutes, then began to write.

The letter he wrote was to his father:

Dear Dad:

I have been thinking over what we talked about this morning, and it seems to me the best thing I can do is to drop out of sight for a brief space. If I stay on in London, I am likely at any moment to pull some boner like last night’s which will spill the beans for you once more. The least I can do for you is to give you a clear field and not interfere, so I am off to New York by tonight’s boat.

I went round to Percy’s to try to grovel in the dust before him, but he wouldn’t see me. It’s no good grovelling in the dust of the front steps for the benefit of a man who’s in bed on the second floor, so I withdrew in more or less good order. I then got the present idea. Mark how all things work together for good. When they come to you and say “No title for you. Your son slugged our pal Percy,” all you have to do is to come back at them with “I know my son slugged Percy, and believe me I didn’t do a thing to him! I packed him off to America within twenty-four hours. Get me right, boys! I’m anti-Jimmy and pro-Percy.” To which their reply will be “Oh, well, in that case arise, Lord Crocker!” or whatever they say when slipping a title to a deserving guy. So you will see that by making this getaway I am doing the best I can to put things straight. I shall give this to Bayliss to give to you. I am going to call him up on the phone in a minute to have him pack a few simple toothbrushes and so on for me. On landing in New York, I shall instantly proceed to the Polo Grounds to watch a game of Rounders, and will cable you the full score. Well. I think that’s about all. So goodbye⁠—or even farewell⁠—for the present.

J.

P.S. I know you’ll understand, dad. I’m doing what seems to me the only possible thing. Don’t worry about me. I shall be all right. I’ll get back my old job and be a terrific success all round. You go ahead and get that title and then meet me at the entrance of the Polo Grounds. I’ll be looking for you.

P.P.S. I’m a worm.

The young clerk at the steamship offices appeared rejoiced to see Jimmy once more. With a sunny smile he snatched a pencil from his ear and plunged it into the vitals of the Atlantic.

“How about E. a hundred and eight?”

“Suits me.”

“You’re too late to go in the passenger-list, of course.”

Jimmy did not reply. He was gazing rigidly at a girl who had just come in, a girl with red hair and a friendly smile.

“So you’re sailing on the Atlantic, too!” she said, with a glance at