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

“No, but see here,” I said, “are you going to marry him?”

“I’m only a palmist. I don’t pretend to be a clairvoyant. A marriage may be indicated in Mr. Craye’s hand, but I couldn’t say without looking at it.”

“But I shall have to tell her something definite, or she won’t give me a moment’s peace.”

“Tell her her brother is of age. Surely that’s definite enough?”

And I couldn’t get any more out of her. I went back to Florence and reported. She got pretty excited about it.

“Oh, if I were a man!” she said.

I didn’t see how that would have helped. I said so.

“I’d go straight to Edwin and drag him away. He is staying at his club. If I were a man I could go in and find him⁠—”

“Not if you weren’t a member,” I said.

“⁠—And tell him what I thought of his conduct. As I’m only a woman, I have to wait in the hall while a deceitful small boy pretends to go and look for him.”

It had never struck me before what a splendid institution a club was. Only a few days back I’d been thinking that the subscription to mine was a bit steep. But now I saw that the place earned every cent of the money.

“Have you no influence with him, Reginald?”

I said I didn’t think I had. She called me something. Invertebrate, or something. I didn’t catch it.

“Then there’s only one thing to do. You must find my father and tell him all. Perhaps you may rouse him to a sense of what is right. You may make him remember that he has duties as a parent.”

I thought it far more likely that I should make him remember that he had a foot. I hadn’t a very vivid recollection of old man Craye. I was quite a kid when he made his great speech on the Egg Question and beat it for Europe⁠—but what I did recollect didn’t encourage me to go and chat with him about the duties of a parent.

As I remember him, he was a rather large man with elephantiasis of the temper. I distinctly recalled one occasion when I was spending a school vacation at his home, and he found me trying to shave old Duggie, then a kid of fourteen, with his razor.

“I shouldn’t be able to find him,” I said.

“You can get his address from his lawyers.”

“He may be at the North Pole.”

“Then you must go to the North Pole.”

“But say⁠—!”

“Reginald!”

“Oh, all right.”

I knew just what would happen. Parbury and Stevens, the lawyers, simply looked at me as if I had been caught snatching bags. At least, Stevens did. And Parbury would have done it, too, only he had been dead a good time. Finally, after drinking me in for about a quarter of an hour, Stevens said that if I desired to address a communication to his client, care of this office, it would be duly forwarded. Good morning. Good morning. Anything further? No, thanks. Good morning. Good morning.

I handed the glad news on to Florence and left her to do what she liked about it. She went down and interviewed Stevens. I suppose he’d had experience of her. At any rate, he didn’t argue. He yielded up the address in level time. Old man Craye was living in Paris, but was to arrive in New York that night, and would doubtless be at his club.

It was the same club where Edwin was hiding from Florence. I pointed this out to her.

“There’s no need for me to butt in after all,” I said. “He’ll meet Edwin there, and they can fight it out in the smoking room. You’ve only to drop him a line explaining the facts.”

“I shall certainly communicate with him in writing, but, nevertheless, you must see him. I cannot explain everything in a letter.”

“But doesn’t it strike you that he may think it pretty bad gall⁠—impertinence, don’t you know, for a comparative stranger like me to be tackling a delicate family affair like this?”

“You will explain that you are acting for me.”

“It wouldn’t be better if old Duggie went along instead?”

“I wish you to go, Reginald.”

Well, of course, it was all right, don’t you know, but I was losing several pounds a day over the business. I was getting so light that I felt that, when the old man kicked me, I should just soar up to the ceiling like an air balloon.

The club was one of those large clubs that look like prisons. I used to go there to lunch with my uncle, the one who left me his money, and I always hated the place. It was one of those clubs that are all red leather and hushed whispers.

I’m bound to say, though, there wasn’t much hushed whispering when I started my interview with old man Craye. His voice was one of my childhood’s recollections.

He was most extraordinarily like Florence. He had just the same eyes. I felt boneless from the start.

“Good morning,” I said.

“What?” he said. “Speak up. Don’t mumble.”

I hadn’t known he was deaf. The last time we’d had any conversation⁠—on the subject of razors⁠—he had done all the talking. This seemed to me to put the lid on it.

“I only said ‘Good morning,’ ” I shouted.

“Good what? Speak up. I believe you’re sucking candy. Oh, good morning? I remember you now. You’re the boy who spoiled my razor.”

I didn’t half like this reopening of old wounds. I hurried on.

“I came about Edwin,” I said.

“Who?”

“Edwin. Your son.”

“What about him?”

“Florence told me to see you.”

“Who?”

“Florence. Your daughter.”

“What about her?”

All this vaudeville team business, mind you, as if we were bellowing at each other across the street. All round the room you could see old gentlemen shooting out of their chairs like rockets and dashing off at a gallop to write to the governing board about it. Thousands of waiters had appeared from nowhere, and were hanging about, dusting table legs. If ever a business wanted to be discussed privately, this seemed to me to