Leave It to Psmith by P. G. Wodehouse (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

take another trip in the old Atlantic⁠—force of habit or something, I guess. Anyway, I sailed, and we weren’t two days out from New York when I made the biggest kind of a hit with the dame this necklace belongs to. Seemed to take a shine to me right away⁠ ⁠…”

“I don’t blame her!” murmured Mr. Cootes devotedly.

“Now don’t you interrupt,” said Miss Peavey, administering a gratified slap. “Where was I? Oh yes. This here now Lady Constance Keeble I’m telling you about⁠ ⁠…”

“What!”

“What’s the matter now?”

“Lady Constance Keeble?”

“That’s the name. She’s Lord Emsworth’s sister, who lives at a big place up the road. Blandings Castle it’s called. She didn’t seem like she was able to let me out of her sight, and I’ve been with her off and on ever since we landed. I’m visiting at the castle now.”

A deep sigh, like the groan of some great spirit in travail, forced itself from between Mr. Cootes’s lips.

“Well, wouldn’t that jar you!” he demanded of circumambient space. “Of all the lucky ones! getting into the place like that, with the band playing and a red carpet laid down for you to walk on! Gee, if you fell down a well, Liz, you’d come up with the bucket. You’re a human horseshoe, that’s what you are. Say, listen. Lemme-tell-ya-sumf’n. Do you know what I’ve been doing this afternoon? Only trying to edge into the dam’ place myself and getting the air two minutes after I was past the front door.”

“What! You, Ed?”

“Sure. You’re not the only one that’s heard of that collection of ice.”

“Oh, Ed!” Bitter disappointment rang in Miss Peavey’s voice. “If only you could have worked it! Me and you partners again! It hurts to think of it. What was the stuff you pulled to get you in?”

Mr. Cootes so far forgot himself in his agony of spirit as to expectorate disgustedly at a passing frog. And even in this trivial enterprise failure dogged him. He missed the frog, which withdrew into the grass with a cold look of disapproval.

“Me?” said Mr. Cootes. “I thought I’d got it smooth. I’d chummed up with a fellow who had been invited down to the place and had thought it over and decided not to go, so I said to myself what’s the matter with going there instead of him. A gink called McTodd this was, a poet, and none of the folks had ever set eyes on him, except the old man, who’s too shortsighted to see anyone, so⁠ ⁠…”

Miss Peavey interrupted.

“You don’t mean to tell me, Ed Cootes, that you thought you could get into the castle by pretending to be Ralston McTodd?”

“Sure I did. Why not? It didn’t seem like there was anything to it. A cinch, that’s what it looked like. And the first guy I meet in the joint is a mutt who knows this McTodd well. We had a couple of words, and I beat it. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“But, Ed! Ed! What do you mean? Ralston McTodd is at the castle now, this very moment.”

“How’s that?”

“Sure. Been there coupla days and more. Long, thin bird with an eyeglass.”

Mr. Cootes’s mind was in a whirl. He could make nothing of this matter.

“Nothing like it! McTodd’s not so darned tall or so thin, if it comes to that. And he didn’t wear no eyeglass all the time I was with him. This⁠ ⁠…” He broke off sharply. “My gosh! I wonder!” he cried. “Liz! How many men are there in the joint right now?”

“Only four besides Lord Emsworth. There’s a big party coming down for the County Ball, but that’s all there is at present. There’s Lord Emsworth’s son, Freddie⁠ ⁠…”

“What does he look like?”

“Sort of a dude with blond hair slicked back. Then there’s Mr. Keeble. He’s short with a red face.”

“And?”

“And Baxter. He’s Lord Emsworth’s secretary. Wears spectacles.”

“And that’s the lot?”

“That’s all there is, not counting this here McTodd and the help.”

Mr. Cootes brought his hand down with a resounding report on his leg. The mildly pleasant look which had been a feature of his appearance during his interview with Psmith had vanished now, its place taken by one of an extremely sinister malevolence.

“And I let him shoo me out as if I was a stray pup!” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Of all the bunk games!”

“What are you talking about, Ed?”

“And I thanked him! Thanked him!” moaned Edward Cootes, writhing at the memory. “I thanked him for letting me go!”

“Eddie Cootes, whatever are you⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Listen, Liz.” Mr. Cootes mastered his emotion with a strong effort. “I blew into that joint and met this fellow with the eyeglass, and he told me he knew McTodd well and that I wasn’t him. And, from what you tell me, this must be the very guy that’s passing himself off as McTodd! Don’t you see? This baby must have started working on the same lines I did. Got to know McTodd, found he wasn’t coming to the castle, and came down instead of him, same as me. Only he got there first, damn him! Wouldn’t that give you a pain in the neck!”

Amazement held Miss Peavey dumb for an instant. Then she spoke.

“The big stiff!” said Miss Peavey.

Mr. Cootes, regardless of a lady’s presence, went even further in his censure.

“I had a feeling from the first that there was something not on the level about that guy!” said Miss Peavey. “Gee! He must be after that necklace too.”

“Sure he’s after the necklace,” said Mr. Cootes impatiently. “What did you think he’d come down for? A change of air?”

“But, Ed! Say! Are you going to let him get away with it?”

“Am I going to let him get away with it!” said Mr. Cootes, annoyed by the foolish question. “Wake me up in the night and ask me!”

“But what are you going to do?”

“Do!” said Mr. Cootes. “Do! I’ll tell you what I’m going to⁠ ⁠…” He paused, and the stern resolve that shone in his face seemed to flicker. “Say, what the hell am I going to do?” he went on somewhat weakly.

“You won’t get