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

laddie, it suddenly flashed upon me like an inspiration from above that nobody ever does know what they are coughing up for when they meet a girl with a tray of flags. I hit upon the great truth, old horse⁠—one of the profoundest truths in this modern civilization of ours⁠—that any given man, confronted by a pretty girl with a tray of flags, will automatically and without inquiry shove a coin into her box. So I got hold of a girl I know⁠—a dear little soul, full of beans⁠—and arranged for her to come here this afternoon. I confidently anticipate a cleanup on an impressive scale. The outlay on the pins and bits of paper was practically nil, so there is no overhead and all that comes in will be pure velvet.”

A strong pang shot through me.

“Do you mean to say,” I demanded with feeling, “that that half-crown of mine goes into your beastly pocket?”

“Half of it. Naturally my colleague and partner is in on the division. Did you really give half a crown?” said Ukridge, pleased. “It was like you, laddie. Generous to a fault. If everyone had your lavish disposition, this world would be a better, sweeter place.”

“I suppose you realize,” I said, “that in about ten minutes at the outside your colleague and partner, as you call her, will be arrested for obtaining money under false pretences?”

“Not a chance.”

“After which, they will⁠—thank God!⁠—proceed to pinch you.”

“Quite impossible, laddie. I rely on my knowledge of human psychology. What did she say when she stung you?”

“I forget. ‘Buy a buttercup’ or something.”

“And then?”

“Then I asked what it was all about, and she said ‘Buttercup Day.’ ”

“Exactly. And that’s all she will need to say to anyone. Is it likely, is it reasonable to suppose, that even in these materialistic days Chivalry has sunk so low that any man will require to be told more, by a girl as pretty as that, than that it is Buttercup Day?” He walked to the window and looked out. “Ah! She’s come round into the back garden,” he said, with satisfaction. “She seems to be doing a roaring trade. Every second man is wearing a buttercup. She is now putting it across a curate, bless her heart.”

“And in a couple of minutes she will probably try to put it across a plain-clothes detective, and that will be the end.”

Ukridge eyed me reproachfully.

“You persist in looking on the gloomy side, Corky. A little more of the congratulatory attitude is what I could wish to see in you, laddie. You do not appear to realize that your old friend’s foot is at last on the ladder that leads to wealth. Suppose⁠—putting it at the lowest figure⁠—I net four pounds out of this buttercup business. It goes on Caterpillar in the two o’clock selling race at Kempton. Caterpillar wins, the odds being⁠—let us say⁠—ten to one. Stake and winnings go on Bismuth for the Jubilee Cup, again at ten to one. There you have a nice, clean four hundred pounds of capital, ample for a man of keen business sense to build a fortune on. For, between ourselves, Corky, I have my eye on what looks like the investment of a lifetime.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I was reading about it the other day. A cat ranch out in America.”

“A cat ranch?”

“That’s it. You collect a hundred thousand cats. Each cat has twelve kittens a year. The skins range from ten cents each for the white ones to seventy-five for the pure black. That gives you twelve million skins per year to sell at an average price of thirty cents per skin, making your annual revenue at a conservative estimate three hundred and sixty thousand dollars. But, you will say, what about overhead expenses?”

“Will I?”

“That has all been allowed for. To feed the cats you start a rat ranch next door. The rats multiply four times as fast as cats, so if you begin with a million rats it gives you four rats per day per cat, which is plenty. You feed the rats on what is left over of the cats after removing the skins, allowing one-fourth of a cat per rat, the business thus becoming automatically self-supporting. The cats will eat the rats, the rats will eat the cats⁠—”

There was a knock upon the door.

“Come in,” bellowed Ukridge, irritably. These captains of industry hate to be interrupted when in conference.

It was the butler who had broken in upon his statistics.

“A gentleman to see you, sir,” said he.

“Who is he?”

“He did not give his name, sir. He is a gentleman in Holy Orders.”

“Not the vicar?” cried Ukridge, in alarm.

“No, sir. The gentleman is a curate. He inquired for Miss Ukridge. I informed him that Miss Ukridge was absent, but that you were on the premises, and he then desired to see you, sir.”

“Oh, all right,” said Ukridge, resignedly. “Show him in. Though we are running grave risks, Corky,” he added, as the door closed. “These curates frequently have subscription lists up their sleeves and are extremely apt, unless you are very firm, to soak you for a donation to the Church Organ Fund or something. Still, let I us hope⁠—”

The door opened, and our visitor entered. He was a rather small size in curates, with an engaging, ingenuous face, adorned with a pair of pince-nez. He wore a paper buttercup in his coat; and, directly he began to speak, revealed himself as the possessor of a peculiar stammer.

“Pup-pup-pup⁠—” he said.

“Eh?” said Ukridge.

“Mr. pup-pup-pup Ukridge?”

“Yes. This is my friend, Mr. Corcoran.”

I bowed. The curate bowed.

“Take a seat,” urged Ukridge, hospitably. “You’ll have a drink?”

The visitor raised a deprecatory hand.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I find it more beneficial to my health to abstain entirely from alcoholic liquids. At the University I was a moderate drinker, but since I came down I have found it better to pup-pup-pup completely. But pray do not let me stop you. I am no bigot.”

He beamed for an instant in friendly fashion; then there came into his face