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

ent’usiasm, but I have not the training. To train myself to paint pictures I must study long, and even one thousand francs will not last forever. Then what shall I do? I do not know. I order one other bock, and smoke more cigarettes, but still I do not know.

And then I say to myself, “I will go back to my uncle, and plead with him. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him after dinner when he is in good temper. But for that I must be close at hand. I must be⁠—what’s your expression?⁠—‘Johnny-on-the-spot.’ ”

My mind is made up. I have my plan.

I have gone back to my uncle’s hotel, and I have engaged not too expensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his private office. I secure my room.

I dine cheaply that night, but I go to theatre and also to supper after the theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reach my bedroom.

I go to bed. I go to sleep.

But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice.

It is a voice that says, “Move and I shoot! Move and I shoot!” I lie still. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed.

And the voice says again, “Move and I shoot!” Is it robbers? Is it some marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?

I do not know. Per’aps I think yes.

“Who are you?” I have asked.

There is no answer.

I take my courage in my ’ands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door. No pistol has been fire. I have reached the passage, and have shouted for assistance.

Hotel officials run up. Doors open. “What is it?” voices cry.

“There is in my room an armed robber,” I assure them.

And then I have found⁠—no, I am mistaken. My door, you will understand, is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes ’opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot.

“Move and I shoot!” it has said to those gathered in the corridor. It then has bitten me in the ’and and passed on.

I am chagrined, monsieur. But only for a moment. Then I forget my chagrin. For a voice from a door that ’as opened says with joy, “It is my Polly, which I ’ave this evening lost!”

I turn. I gasp for admiration. It is a beautiful lady in a pink dressing-gown which ’ave spoken these words.

She has looked at me. I ’ave looked at her. I forget everything but that she is adorable. I forget those who stand by. I forget that the parrot has bitten me in the ’and. I forget even that I am standing there in pyjamas, with on my feet nothing. I can only gaze at her and worship.

I have found words.

“Mademoiselle,” I have said, “I am rejoiced that I have been the means of restoring to you your bird.”

She has thanked me with her eyes, and then with words also. I am bewitched. She is divine. I care not that my feet are cold. I could wish to stand there talking all night.

She has given a cry of dismay.

“Your ’and! It is wounded!”

I look at my ’and. Yes, it is bleeding, where the bird ’ave bitten it.

“Tchut, mademoiselle,” I have said. “It is a bagatelle.”

But no. She is distressed. She is what your poet Scott ’ave said, a ministering angel thou. She ’ave torn her ’andkerchief and is binding up my wound. I am enchanted. Such beauty! Such kindness! ’Ardly can I resist to fall on my knees before ’er and declare my passion.

We are twin souls. She has thanked me again. She has scolded the parrot. She has smiled upon me as she retires to her room. It is enough. Nothing is said, but I am a man of sensibility and discernment, and I understand that she will not be offended if I seek to renew our friendship on a more suitable occasion.

The doors shut. The guests have returned to bed, the hotel servants to their duties. And I go back to my room. But not to sleep. It is very late, but I do not sleep. I lie awake and think of ’er.

You will conceive, Monsieur, with what mixed feelings I descend next morning. On the one ’and, I must keep the sharp lookout for my uncle, for ’im I must avoid till he shall have⁠—what do you say in your idiom? Yes, I have it⁠—simmered down and tucked in his shirt. On the other ’and, I must watch for my lady of the parrot. I count the minutes till we shall meet again.

I avoid my uncle with success, and I see ’er about the hour of déjeuner. She is talking to old gentleman. I have bowed. She have smiled and motioned me to approach.

“Father,” she has said, “this is the gentleman who caught Polly.”

We have shaken hands. He is indulgent papa. He has smiled and thanked me also. We have confided to each other our names. He is English. He owns much land in England. He has been staying in Paris. He is rich. His name is ’Enderson. He addresses his daughter, and call her Marion. In my ’eart I also call her Marion. You will perceive that I am, as you say, pretty far gone.

The hour of déjeuner has arrived. I entreat them to be my guests. I can run to it, you understand, for there are still in my pockets plenty of my uncle’s francs. They consent. I am in ’eaven.

All is well. Our friendship has progressed with marvellous speed. The old gentleman and I are swiftly the dear old pals. I ’ave confided to ’im my dreams of artistic fame, and he has told me ’ow much he dislikes your Lloyd George. He has mentioned that he and Miss Marion depart for London that day. I am desolate. My face tumbles. He has observed my despair. He has