Piccadilly Jim by P. G. Wodehouse (most motivational books TXT) 📕
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Piccadilly Jim, by P. G. Wodehouse, was first published on February 24, 1917 by Dodd, Mead and Company in New York. It was subsequently published in London in May 1918 by Herbert Jenkins. It is based on a story originally published in the Saturday Evening Post from September 16 to November 11, 1916. The book sees Jimmy Crocker, also known as “Piccadilly Jim,” trying to escape his increasingly bad reputation by returning to New York from London. On the way, he meets and falls in love with Ann Chester, and agrees to help her kidnap Ogden, her cousin, for his own good. Their plans go awry and become more convoluted as impersonations, explosives and a determined detective get in the way.
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- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
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“I’ve arranged it all with Jerry,” said Ann. “He’s going to help me smuggle Ogden away to that friend of his I told you about who keeps the dog-hospital: and the friend is going to keep him until he reforms. Isn’t it a perfectly splendid idea?”
Mr. Pett blanched. The frightfulness of reality had exceeded anticipation.
“But, Ann!”
The words came from him in a strangled bleat. His whole being was paralysed by a clammy horror. This was beyond the uttermost limit of his fears. And, to complete the terror of the moment, he knew, even while he rebelled against the insane lawlessness of her scheme, that he was going to agree to it, and—worst of all—that deep, deep down in him there was a feeling toward it which did not dare to come to the surface but which he knew to be approval.
“Of course Jerry would do it for nothing,” said Ann, “but I promised him that you would give him something for his trouble. You can arrange all that yourselves later.”
“But, Ann! … But, Ann! … Suppose your aunt finds out who did it!”
“Well, there will be a tremendous row!” said Ann composedly. “And you will have to assert yourself. It will be a splendid thing for you. You know you are much too kind to everyone, uncle Peter. I don’t think there’s anyone who would put up with what you do. Father told me in one of his letters that he used to call you Patient Pete as a boy.”
Mr. Pett started. Not for many a day had a nickname which he considered the most distasteful of all possible nicknames risen up from its grave to haunt him. Patient Pete! He had thought the repulsive title buried forever in the same tomb as his dead youth. Patient Pete! The first faint glimmer of the flame of rebellion began to burn in his bosom.
“Patient Pete!”
“Patient Pete!” said Ann inexorably.
“But, Ann,”—there was pathos in Mr. Pett’s voice—“I like a peaceful life.”
“You’ll never have one if you don’t stand up for yourself. You know quite well that father is right. You do let everyone trample on you. Do you think father would let Ogden worry him and have his house filled with affected imitation geniuses so that he couldn’t find a room to be alone in?”
“But, Ann, your father is different. He likes fusses. I’ve known your father contradict a man weighing two hundred pounds out of sheer exuberance. There’s a lot of your father in you, Ann. I’ve often noticed it.”
“There is! That’s why I’m going to make you put your foot down sooner or later. You’re going to turn all these loafers out of the house. And first of all you’re going to help us send Ogden away to Mr. Smithers.”
There was a long silence.
“It’s your red hair!” said Mr. Pett at length, with the air of a man who has been solving a problem. “It’s your red hair that makes you like this, Ann. Your father has red hair, too.”
Ann laughed.
“It’s not my fault that I have red hair, uncle Peter. It’s my misfortune.”
Mr. Pett shook his head.
“Other people’s misfortune, too!” he said.
II The Exiled FanLondon brooded under a grey sky. There had been rain in the night, and the trees were still dripping. Presently, however, there appeared in the leaden haze a watery patch of blue: and through this crevice in the clouds the sun, diffidently at first but with gradually increasing confidence, peeped down on the fashionable and exclusive turf of Grosvenor Square. Stealing across the square, its rays reached the massive stone walls of Drexdale House, until recently the London residence of the earl of that name; then, passing through the window of the breakfast-room, played lightly on the partially bald head of Mr. Bingley Crocker, late of New York in the United States of America, as he bent over his morning paper. Mrs. Bingley Crocker, busy across the table reading her mail, the rays did not touch. Had they done so, she would have rung for Bayliss, the butler, to come and lower the shade, for she endured liberties neither from Man nor from Nature.
Mr. Crocker was about fifty years of age, clean-shaven and of a comfortable stoutness. He was frowning as he read. His smooth, good-humoured face wore an expression which might have been disgust, perplexity, or a blend of both. His wife, on the other hand, was looking happy. She extracted the substance from her correspondence with swift glances of her compelling eyes, just as she would have extracted guilty secrets from Bingley, if he had had any. This was a woman who, like her sister Nesta, had been able all her life to accomplish more with a glance than other women with recrimination and threat. It had been a popular belief among his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburg millionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in
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