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

poison them. Here are the cards of the other gentlemen who were kind enough to think that I might wish to set up for a dog-fancier in my old age. Perhaps you will kindly return them to their owners, and tell them what I have just said.” And he strode off, leaving the young man in a species of trance.

“Sylvia!” said the colonel, on arriving home.

“Yes, papa.”

“Do you still want to marry that Dallas fellow? Now, for Heaven’s sake, don’t start crying! Goodness knows I’ve been worried enough this morning without that. Please answer a plain question in a fairly sane manner. Do you, or do you not?”

“Of course I do, papa.”

“Then you may. He’s the furthest from being a fool of any of the young puppies who live about here, and he knows one end of a gun from the other. I’ll write to him now.”

“Dear Dallas” (wrote the colonel)⁠—“I find, on consideration, that you are the only sensible person in the neighbourhood. I hope you will come to lunch today. And if you still want to marry my daughter, you may.”

To which Dallas replied by return of messenger:

“Thanks for both invitations. I will.”

An hour later he arrived in person, and the course of true love pulled itself together, and began to run smooth again.

Tom, Dick, and Harry

“It’s like this.”

Tom Ellison sat down on the bed, and paused.

“Whack it out,” said Dick Henley encouragingly.

“We’re all friends here, and the password’s ‘Portland.’ What’s the matter?”

“I hate talking to a man when he’s shaving. I don’t want to have you cutting your head off.”

“Don’t worry about me. This is a safety razor. And, anyhow, what’s the excitement? Going to make my flesh creep?”

Tom Ellison kicked uncomfortably at the chair he was trying to balance on one leg.

“It’s so hard to explain.”

“Have a dash at it.”

“Well, look here, Dick, we’ve always been pals. What?”

“Of course we have.”

“We went to the Empire last Boatrace night together⁠—”

“And got chucked out simultaneously.”

“In fact, we’ve always been pals. What?”

“Of course we have.”

“Then, whenever there was a rag on, and a bonner in the quad, you always knew you could help yourself to my chairs.”

“You had the run of mine.”

“We’ve shared each other’s baccy.”

“And whisky.”

“In short, we’ve always been pals. What?”

“Of course we have.”

“Then,” said Tom Ellison, “what are you trying to cut me out for?”

“Cut you out?”

“You know what I mean. What do you think I came here for? To play cricket? Rot! I’d much rather have gone on tour with the Authentics. I came here to propose to Dolly Burn.”

Dick Henley frowned.

“I wish you’d speak of her as Miss Burn,” he said austerely.

“There you are, you see,” said Tom with sombre triumph; “you oughtn’t to have noticed a thing like that. It oughtn’t to matter to you what I call her. I always think of her as Dolly.”

“You’ve no right to.”

“I shall have soon.”

“I’ll bet you won’t.”

“How much?”

“Ten to one in anything.”

“Done,” said Tom. “I mean,” he added hastily, “don’t be a fool. There are some things one can’t bet on. As you ought to have known,” he said primly.

“Now, look here,” said Dick, “this thing has got to be settled. You say I’m trying to cut you out. I like that! We may fairly describe that as rich. As if my love were the same sort of passing fancy that yours is. You know you fall in love, as you call it, with every girl you meet.”

“I don’t.”

“Very well. If the subject is painful we won’t discuss it. Still, how about that girl you used to rave about last summer? Ethel Something?”

Tom blushed.

“A mere platonic friendship. We both collected autographs. And, if it comes to that, how about Dora Thingummy? You had enough to say about her last winter.”

Dick reddened.

“We were on good terms. Nothing more. She always sliced with her brassy. So did I. It formed a sort of bond.”

There was a pause.

“After all,” resumed Dick, “I don’t see the point of all this. Why rake up the past? You aren’t writing my life.”

“You started raking.”

“Well, to drop that, what do you propose to do about this? You’re a good chap, Tom, when you aren’t making an ass of yourself; but I’m hanged if I’m going to have you interfering between me and Dolly.”

“Miss Burn.”

Another pause.

“Look here,” said Dick. “Cards on the table. I’ve loved her since last Commem.”

“So have I.”

“We went up the Char together in a Canader. Alone.”

“She also did the trip with me. No chaperone.”

“Twice with me.”

“Same here.”

“She gave me a couple of dances at the Oriel ball.”

“So she did me. She said my dancing was so much better than the average young man’s.”

“She told me I must have had a great deal of practice at waltzing.”

“In the matter of photographs,” said Tom, “she gave me one.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you mean ‘also’ or ‘a brace’?” inquired Tom anxiously.

“ ‘Also,’ ” confessed Dick with reluctance.

“Signed?”

“Rather!”

A third pause.

“I tell you what it is,” said Tom; “we must agree on something, or we shall both get left. All we’re doing now is to confuse the poor girl. She evidently likes us both the same. What I mean is, we’re both so alike that she can’t possibly make a choice unless one of us chucks it. You don’t feel like chucking it, Dick. What?”

“You needn’t be more of an idiot than you can help.”

“I only asked. So we are evidently both determined to stick to it. We shall have to toss, then, to settle which is to back out and give the other man a show.”

“Toss!” shouted Dick. “For Dolly! Never!”

“But we must do something. You won’t back out like a sensible man. We must settle it somehow.”

“It’s all right,” said Dick. “I’ve got it. We both seem to have come here and let ourselves in for this rotten little village match, on a wicket which will probably be all holes and hillocks, simply for Dolly’s sake. So it’s only right that we should let the match decide this thing for us.