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

steadily into his before transferring themselves to the statuesque being at the table.

“Don’t monkey with the man’s inkwell, Gladys. Come along up to bed.”

“What? Say, got a cigarette?”

“There’s plenty upstairs. Come along.”

The other went with perfect docility. At the door she paused, and inspected Rutherford with a grave stare.

“Good night, boy!” she said, with haughty condescension.

“Good night!” said Rutherford.

“Pleased to have met you. Good night.”

“Good night!” said Rutherford.

“Good night!”

“Come along, Gladys,” said Peggy, firmly.

Gladys went.

Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors.

II

He had lit his pipe, and was rereading his night’s work preparatory to turning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time there was no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallest noise.

“Come in!” he cried.

It was Peggy.

Rutherford jumped to his feet.

“Won’t you⁠—” he began, pushing the chair forward.

She seated herself with composure on the table. She no longer wore the picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion that the change was an improvement.

“This’ll do for me,” she said. “Thought I’d just look in. I’m sorry about Gladys. She isn’t often like that. It’s the hot weather.”

“It is hot,” said Rutherford.

“You’ve noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?”

“Good heavens, no! Why?”

“She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn’t thought to get another. She’s a good girl really, only she gets like that sometimes in the hot weather.” She looked round the room for a moment, then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Rutherford Maxwell.”

“Gee! That’s going some, isn’t it? Wants amputation, a name like that. I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like⁠—what’s it? Rutherford? I got it⁠—to go through the world with. Haven’t you got something shorter⁠—Tom, or Charles or something?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The round, grey eyes fixed him again.

“I shall call you George,” she decided at last.

“Thanks, I wish you would,” said Rutherford.

“George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton’s my name.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Say, you’re English, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You’re so strong on the gratitude thing. It’s ‘Thanks, thanks,’ all the time. Not that I mind it, George.”

“Thanks. Sorry. I should say, ‘Oh, you Peggy!’ ”

She looked at him curiously.

“How d’you like New York, George?”

“Fine⁠—tonight.”

“Been to Coney?”

“Not yet.”

“You should. Say, what do you do, George?”

“What do I do?”

“Cut it out, George! Don’t answer back as though we were a vaudeville team doing a crosstalk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds your envelope on to you Saturdays, what’s it for?”

“I’m in a bank.”

“Like it?”

“Hate it!”

“Why don’t you quit, then?”

“Can’t afford to. There’s money in being in a bank. Not much, it’s true, but what there is of it is good.”

“What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don’t work you all day, do they?”

“No; they’d like to, but they don’t. I have been writing.”

“Writing what? Say, you don’t mind my putting you on the witness stand, do you? If you do, say so, and I’ll cut out the District Attorney act and talk about the weather.”

“Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as you like.”

“Guess there’s no doubt about your being English, George. We don’t have time over here to shoot it off like that. If you’d have just said ‘Sure!’ I’d have got a line on your meaning. You don’t mind me doing schoolmarm, George, do you? It’s all for your good.”

“Sure,” said Rutherford, with a grin.

She smiled approvingly.

“That’s better! You’re Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational rail? I know⁠—about your writing. What were you writing?”

“A story.”

“For a paper?”

“For a magazine.”

“What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl whose life he saved, like you read?”

“That’s the idea.”

She looked at him with a new interest.

“Gee, George, who’d have thought it! Fancy you being one of the highbrows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary.”

“Thanks!”

“I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn’t mean you were a bad looker. You’re not. You’ve got nice eyes, George.”

“Thanks.”

“I like the shape of your nose, too.”

“I say, thanks!”

“And your hair’s just lovely!”

“I say, really. Thanks awfully!”

She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:

“You say you don’t like the bank?”

“I certainly don’t.”

“And you’d like to strike some paying line of business?”

“Sure.”

“Then why don’t you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That’s what you are. You sit there just saying ‘Thanks,’ and ‘Bai Jawve, thanks awf’lly,’ while a girl’s telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you don’t do a thing!”

Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “Slowness is our national failing, you know.”

“I believe you.”

“Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you do besides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?”

“Give you three guesses.”

“Stage?”

“Gee! You’re the human sleuth all right, all right! It’s a home run every time when you get your deductive theories unlimbered. Yes, George; the stage it is. I’m an actorine⁠—one of the pony ballet in The Island of Girls at the Melody. Seen our show?”

“Not yet. I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Great! I’ll let them know, so that they can have the awning out and the red carpet down. It’s a cute little piece.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Well, if I see you in front tomorrow, I’ll give you half a smile, so that you shan’t feel you haven’t got your money’s worth. Good night, George!”

“Good night, Peggy!”

She jumped down from the table. Her eye was caught by the photographs on the mantelpiece. She began to examine them.

“Who are these Willies?” she said,