Ukridge Stories by P. G. Wodehouse (best large ereader TXT) 📕

and general expenses and a thoughtful ten bob to do a bit of betting with. Financially, I was on velvet.

Nor was there much wrong with the costume department. I dug out the trousers, the morning coat, the waistcoat, the shoes and the spats, and I tried on Tuppy’s topper again. And for the twentieth time I wished that old Tuppy, a man of sterling qualities in every other respect, had had a slightly bigger head. It’s a curious thing about old George Tupper. There’s a man who you might say is practically directing the destinies of a great nation⁠—at any rate, he’s in the Foreign Office and extremely well thought of by the nibs; and yet his size in hats is a small seven. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed that Tuppy’s head goes up to a sort of point. Mine, on the other hand, is shaped more like a mangel-wurzel, and this made the whole thing rather complex and unpleasant.

As I stood at the glass, giving myself a final inspection, I couldn’t help feeling what a difference a hat makes to a man. Bareheaded, I was perfect in every detail, but with the hat on I looked a good deal like a bloke about to go on and do a comic song at one of the halls. Still, there it was, and it was no good worrying about it. I put the trousers under the mattress to insure an adequate crease, and I rang the bell for Mrs. Beale and gave her the coat to press with a hot iron. I also gave her the hat and instructed her to rub stout on it. This, as you doubtless know, gives a topper the deuce of a gloss, and when a fellow is up against a Bart he can’t afford to neglect the smallest detail.

And so to bed.

I didn’t sleep very well. At about one in the morning it started to rain in buckets, and the thought suddenly struck me: What the deuce was I going to do if it rained during the day? To buy an umbrella would simply dislocate the budget beyond repair. The consequence was that I tossed pretty restlessly on my pillow.

But all was well. When I woke at eight o’clock, the sun was pouring into the room and the last snag seemed to have been removed from my path. I had breakfast, and then I dug the trouserings out from under the mattress, slipped into them, put on the shoes, buckled the spats, and rang the bell for Mrs. Beale. I was feeling debonair to a degree. The crease in the trousers was perfect.

“Oh, Mrs. Beale,” I said. “The coat and the hat, please. What a lovely morning!”

Now, this Beale woman, I must tell you, was a slightly sinister sort of female, with eyes that reminded me a good deal of my Aunt Julia’s. And I was now somewhat rattled to perceive that she was looking at me in a rather meaning kind of manner. I also perceived that she held in her hand a paper or document. And there shot through me, Corky, a nameless fear. It’s a kind of instinct, I suppose. A man who has been up against it as frequently as I have comes to shudder automatically when he sees a landlady holding a sheet of paper and looking at him in a meaning manner. A moment later it was plain that my sixth sense had not deceived me.

“I’ve brought your little account, Mr. Ukridge,” said this fearful female.

“Right!” I said heartily. “Just shove it on the table, will you. And bring the coat and hat.”

She looked more like my Aunt Julia than ever.

“I must ask you for the money now,” she said. “Being a week overdue.”

All this was taking the sunshine out of the morning, but I remained debonair.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “I quite understand. We’ll have a good long talk about that later. The hat and coat, please, Mrs. Beale.”

“I must ask you”⁠—she was beginning again, but I checked her with one of my looks. If there’s one thing I bar in this world, Corky, it’s sordidness.

“Yes, yes,” I said testily. “Some other time. I want the hat and coat, please.”

At this moment, by the greatest bad luck, her vampire gaze fell on the mantelpiece. You know how it is when you are dressing with unusual care⁠—you fill your pockets last thing. And I had most unfortunately placed my little capital on the mantelpiece. Too late I saw that she had spotted it. Take the advice of a man who has seen something of life, Corky, and never leave your money lying about. It’s bound to start a disagreeable train of thought in the mind of anyone who sees it.

“You’ve got the money there,” said Mrs. Beale.

I leaped for the mantelpiece and trousered the cash.

“No, no,” I said hastily. “You can’t have that. I need that.”

“Ho?” she said. “So do I.”

“Now listen, Mrs. Beale,” I said. “You know as well as I do⁠—”

“I know as well as you do that you owe me two pounds three and sixpence ha’penny.”

“And in good time,” I said, “you shall have it. But just for the moment you must be patient. Why, dash it, Mrs. Beale,” I said warmly, “you know as well as I do that in all financial transactions a certain amount of credit is an understood thing. Credit is the lifeblood of commerce. Without credit commerce has no elasticity. So bring the hat and coat, and later on we will thresh this matter out thoroughly.”

And then this woman showed a baseness of soul, a horrible low cunning which, I like to think, is rarely seen in the female sex.

“I’ll either have the money,” she said, “or I’ll keep the coat and hat.” And words cannot express, Corky, the hideous malignity in her voice. “They ought to fetch a bit.”

I stared at her, appalled.

“But I can’t go to Ascot without a top hat.”

“Then you’d better not go to Ascot.”

“Be reasonable!” I begged. “Reflect!”

It was no good. She stood