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

“The rehearsals,” admitted Mr. Mifflin, handsomely, “weren’t perfect; but you wait. It’ll be all right on the night.”

George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark.

“Besides,” said Mr. Mifflin, “I have an idea which will make the show. Lend me your ear⁠—both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: what pulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that, as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? We have that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is the thing. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in of their own free wills to see a play like The Footpills? Not on your life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will be sitting in his own private corner of the beach⁠—”

“How many corners do you think the beach has?”

“Gazing into a girl’s eyes, singing, ‘Shine on, thou harvest moon,’ and telling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. You know.”

“I don’t,” said George, coldly.

“Unless,” proceeded Mr. Mifflin, “we advertise. And by advertise, I mean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all the good he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay. Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I have resource. What’s that?”

“I said nothing.”

“I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these people like a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first. Meanwhile, let us trickle to the seafront and take a sail in one of those boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy Nature intended me for a Viking.”

Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boat belonged, they set forth. Mr. Mifflin, having remarked, “Yo-ho!” in a meditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by his failure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the Ocean Beauty’s proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and makeup, where were you? George, being skilled in the ways of boats, was in charge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat. The sun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze had sprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into a reverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voice whispers to him, “This is The One!” In George’s case the voice had not whispered; it had shouted. From now onward there could be but one woman in the world for him. From now onwards⁠—The Ocean Beauty gave a sudden plunge. George woke up.

“What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?” he inquired.

“My gentle somnambulist,” said Mr. Mifflin, aggrieved, “I was doing nothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire into what you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?”

“My fault,” said George; “I was thinking.”

“If you must break the habit of a lifetime,” said Mr. Mifflin, complainingly, “I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearly upset us.”

“It shan’t happen again. They are tricky, these sailing boats⁠—turn over in a second. Whatever you do, don’t get her broadside on. There’s more breeze out here than I thought there was.”

Mr. Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation.

“What’s the matter?” asked George.

“Just like a flash,” said Mr. Mifflin, complacently. “It’s always the way with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. Just some little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stamps the man of genius. It beats me why I didn’t think of it before. Why, of course, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times more effective.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I see now,” continued Mr. Mifflin, “that there was a flaw in my original plan. My idea was this. We were talking in the train about the bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some, and it suddenly came to me.”

Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.

“I said to myself, ‘George is a sportsman. He will be delighted to do a little thing like that.’ ”

“Like to do what?”

“Why, rescue Jane.”

“What!”

“She and you,” said Mr. Mifflin, “were to go in swimming together, while I waited on the sands, holding our boneheaded Press-agent on a leash. About a hundred yards from the shore up go her arms. Piercing scream. Agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What has happened? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. Barnert Callender, author of Fate’s Footballs, which opens at the Beach Theatre on Monday evening next, at eight-fifteen sharp, will save her. See! He has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased her mother will be! And the public, what a bit of luck for them! They will be able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Back you come to the shore. Cheering crowds. Weeping women. Strong situation. I unleash the Press-agent, and off he shoots, in time to get the story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see now there were one or two flaws in it.”

“You do, do you?” said George.

“It occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn’t have agreed to it. A something, I don’t know what, which is lacking in your nature, would have made you reject the scheme.”

“I’m glad that occurred to you.”

“And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed you and it boomed Jane, but I didn’t get a thing out of it. My revised scheme is a thousand times better in every way.”

“Don’t say you have another.”

“I have. And,” added Mr. Mifflin, with modest pride, “it is a winner. This time I unhesitatingly assert that I have the goods.