“He has,” cried Freddie, who had been fighting for breath. “We travelled down in the train together.”
“What?”
“Yes. He must be waiting at the Pump Room now.”
“And at any moment Mortimer will break his way out of the cellar. The door is not strong. What shall we do?”
“There is only one tiling to do. I have all the papers …”
“You have no time to read now.”
“The legal papers, the ones my uncle has to sign in order to release my money. There is just a chance that if I rush to the Pump Room I may get him to put his name on the dotted line before the worst happens.”
“Then rush,” cried Annabel.
“I will,” said Freddie. He kissed her quickly, grabbed his hat, and was off the mark like a jack rabbit.
A man who is endeavouring to lower the record for the distance between Podagra Lodge, which is in Arterio-Sclerosis Avenue, and the Droitgate Spa Pump Room has little leisure for thinking, but Freddie managed to put in a certain amount as his feet skimmed the pavement. And the trend of his thought such as to give renewed vigour to his legs. He could scarcely have moved more rapidly if he had been a character in a two-reel film with the
police after him.
And there was need for speed. Beyond a question, Annabel had been right when she had said that Sir Alymer would never consent to their union if he found out that she had an uncle like her Uncle Joe. Uncle Joe would get right in amongst him. Let them but meet, and nothing was more certain than that the haughty old man would veto the proposed nuptials.
A final burst of speed took him panting up the Pump Room steps and into the rotunda where all that was best and most refined in Droitgate Spa was accustomed to assemble of an afternoon and listen to the band. He saw Sir Aylmer in a distant seat and hurried towards him.
“Gaw!” said Sir Aylmer. “You?”
Freddie could only nod.
“Well, stop puffing like that and sit down,” said Sir Aylmer. “They’re just going to play ‘Poet and Peasant’. “
Freddie recovered his breath.
“Uncle,” he began. But it was too late. Even as he spoke, the conductor’s baton fell and Sir Aylmer’s face assumed that reverent doughlike expression of attention so familiar to the rotundas of cure resorts.
“S’h,” he said.
Of all the uncounted millions who in their time have listened to bands playing “Poet and Peasant”, few can ever have listened with such a restless impatience as did Frederick Fitch-Fitch on this occasion. Time was flying. Every second was precious. At any moment disaster might befall. And the band went on playing as if it had taken on a life-job. It seemed to him an eternity before the final oom-pom-pa.
“Uncle,” he cried, as the echoes died away.
“S’h,” said Sir Aylmer testily, and Freddie, with a dull despair, perceived that they were going to get an encore.
Of all the far-flung myriads who year in and year out have listened to bands playing the overture to “Raymond”, few can ever have chafed as did Frederick Fitch-Fitch now. This suspense was unmanning him, this delay was torture. He took the papers and a fountain-pen from his pocket and toyed with them nervously. He wondered dully as he sat there how the opera “Raymond” had ever managed to get itself performed, if the overture was as long as this. They must have rushed it through in the last five minutes of the evening as the audience groped for its hats and wraps.
But there is an end to all things, even to the overture from “Raymond”. Just as the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea, so does this overture eventually finish. And when it did, when the last notes faded into silence and the conductor stood bowing and smiling with that cool assumption, common to all conductors, that it is they and not the perspiring orchestra who have been doing the work, he started again.
“Uncle,” he said, “may I trouble you for a moment?…These papers.”
Sir Aylmer cocked an eye at the documents. “What papers are those?”
“The ones you have to sign, releasing my capital.”
“Oh, those,” said Sir Aylmer genially. The music had plainly mellowed him. “Of course, yes. Certainly, certainly. Give me, ..”
He broke off, and Freddie saw that he was looking at a distinguished, silvery-haired man with thin, refined features, who was sauntering by.
“Afternoon, Rumbelow,” he said.
There was an unmistakable note of obsequiousness in Sir Aylmer’s voice. His voice had become pink, and he was shuffling his feet and twiddling his fingers. The man to whom he had spoken paused and looked down. Seeing who it was that accosted him, he raised a silvery eyebrow. His manner was undisguisedly supercilious.
“Ah, Bastable,” he said distantly.
A duller man than Sir Aylmer Bastable could not have failed to detect the cold hauteur in his voice. Freddie saw the flush on his uncle’s face deepen. Sir Aylmer mumbled something about hoping that the distinguished-looking man was feeling better to-day.
“Worse,” replied the other curtly. “Much worse. The doctors are baffled. Mine is a very complicated case.” He paused for a moment, and his delicately chiselled lip curled in a sneer. “And how is the gout, Bastable? Gout! Ha, ha!”
Without waiting for a reply he passed on and joined a group that stood chatting close by. Sir Aylmer choked down a mortified oath.
“Snob!” he muttered. “Thinks he’s everybody just because he’s got telangiectasis. I don’t see what’s so wonderful about having telangiectasis. Anybody could have…What on earth are you doing? What the devil’s all this you’re waving under my nose? Papers? Papers? I don’t want any papers. Take them away, sir!
And before Freddie could burst into the impassioned plea
which trembled on his lips, a commotion in the doorway distracted his attention. His heart missed a beat, and he sat there, frozen.
On the’ threshold stood Mortimer Rackstraw. He was making some inquiry of an attendant, and Freddie could guess only too well what that inquiry was. Mortimer Rackstraw was asking which of those present was Major-General Aylmer Bastable. Attached to his arm, obviously pleading with him and appealing to his better self, Annabel Purvis gazed up into his face with tear-filled eyes.
A moment later, the conjurer strode up, still towing the girl. He halted before Sir Aylmer and threw Annabel aside like a soiled glove. His face was cold and hard and remorseless. With one hand he was juggling mechanically with two billiard balls and a bouquet of roses.
“Sir Aylmer Bastable?”
“Yes.”
“I forbid the banns.”
“What banns?”
“Their banns,” said Mortimer Rackstraw, removing from his lips the hand with which he had been coldly curling his moustache and jerking it in the direction of Annabel and Freddie, who stood clasped in each other’s arms, waiting for they knew not what.
“They’re not up yet,” said Annabel.
The conjurer seemed a little taken aback.
“Oh?” he said. “Well, when they are, I forbid them. And so will you, Sir Aylmer, when you hear all.”
Sir Aylmer puffed.
“Who is this tight bounder?” he asked irritably.
Mortimer Rackstraw shook his head and took the two of clubs from it.
“A bounder, maybe,” he said, “but not tight. I have come here, Sir Aylmer, in a spirit of altruism to warn you that if you allow your nephew to marry this girl the grand old name of Bastable will be mud.”
Sir Aylmer started. “Mud?”
“Mud. She comes from the very dregs of society.”
“I don’t,” cried Annabel.
“Of course she doesn’t,” cried Freddie.
“Certainly she does not,” assented Sir Aylmer warmly. “She told me herself that her father was a colonel.”
Mortimer Rackstraw uttered a short, sneering laugh and took an egg from his left elbow.
“She did, eh? Did she add that he was a colonel in the Salvation Army?”
“What!”
“And that before he saw the light he was a Silver Ring bookie, known to all the heads as Rat-Faced Rupert, the Bermondsey Twister?”
“Good God!”
Sir Aylmer turned to the girl with an awful frown. “Is this true?”
“Of course it’s true,” said Mortimer Rackstraw. “And if you want further proof of her unfitness to be your nephew’s bride, just take a look at her Uncle Joe, who is now entering left-centre.”
And Freddie, listless now and without hope, saw that his companion of the train was advancing towards them. He heard Sir Aylmer gasp and was aware that Annabel had stiffened in his arms. He was not surprised. The sun, filtering through the glass of the rotunda, lit up the man’s flabby puffiness, his morning coat, his red waistcoat and his brown shoes, and rarely if ever, thought Freddie, could the sun of Droitgate Spa have shone on a more ghastly outsider.
There was nothing, however, in the newcomer’s demeanour to suggest that he felt himself out of place in these refined surroundings. His manner had an easy self-confidence. He sauntered up and without gêne slapped the conjurer on the back and patted Annabel on the shoulder.
“‘Ullo, Mort. ‘Ullo, Annie, my dear.”
Sir Aylmer, who had blinked, staggered and finally recovered himself, spoke in a voice of thunder. “You, sir! Is this true?”
What’s that, old cock?”
“Are you this girl’s uncle?”
“That’s right.”
“Gaw!” said Sir Aylmer.
He would have spoken further, but at this point the band burst into “Pomp and Circumstance”, and conversation was temporarily suspended. When it became possible once more for the human voice to make itself heard, it was Annabel’s Uncle Joe who took the floor. He had recognized Freddie.
“Why, I’ve met you,” he said. “We travelled clown in the train together. Who’s this young feller, Annie, that’s huggin’ and squeezin’ you?”
“He is the man I am going to marry,” said Annabel.
“He is not the man you are going to marry,” said Sir Aylmer.
“Yes, I am the man she is going to marry,” said Freddie.
“No, you’re not the man she is going to marry,” said Mortimer Rackstraw.
Annabel’s Uncle Joe seemed puzzled. He appeared not to know what to make of this conflict of opinion.
“Well, settle it among yourselves,” he said genially. “All I know is that whoever does marry you, Annie, is going to get a good wife.”
“That’s me,” said Freddie.
“No, it isn’t,” said Sir Aylmer.
“Yes, it is,” said Annabel.
“No, it’s not,” said Mortimer Rackstraw.
“Because I’m sure no man,” proceeded Uncle Joe, “ever had a better niece. I’ve never forgotten the way you used to come and smooth my pillow and bring me cooling drinks when I was in the hospital.”
There was the sound of a sharp intake of breath. Sir Aylmer, who was saying, “It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t,” had broken off abruptly.
“Hospital?” he said. “Were you ever in a hospital?” Mr. Boffin laughed indulgently.
“Was I ever in a hospital! That’s a good ‘un. That would make the boys on the Medical Council giggle. Ask them at St. Luke’s if Joe Boffin was ever in a hospital. Ask them at St. Christopher’s. Why, I’ve spent most of my life in hospitals. Started as a child with Congenital Pyloric Hypertrophy of the Stomach and never looked back.”
Sir Aylmer was trembling violently. A look of awe had come into his face, the look which a small boy wears when he sees a heavyweight champion of the world.
“Did you say your name was Joe Boffin?”
“That’s right.”
“Not the Joe Boffin? Not the man there was that interview with in the Christmas number of The Lancet?”
“That’s me.”
Sir Aylmer started forward impulsively. “May I shake your hand?”
“Put it there.”
“I am proud to meet you, Mr. Boffin. I am one of your greatest admirers.”
“Nice of you to say so, old man.”
“Your career has been an inspiration to me. Is it really true…that you have Thrombosis of the Heart and Vesicular Emphysema of the Lungs?”
“That’s right.”
“And that your temperature once went up to 107.5?”
“Twice. When I had Hyperpyrexia.”
Sir Aylmer sighed.
“The best I’ve ever done is 102.2.”
Joe Boffin patted him on the back.
“Well, that’s not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
“Excuse me,” said a well-bred voice.
It was the distinguished-looking man with the silvery hair who had approached them, the man Sir Aylmer had addressed as Rumbelow. His manner was diffident. Behind him stood an eager group, staring and twiddling their fingers.
“Excuse me, my dear Bastable, for intruding on a private conversation, but I fancied…and my friends fancied…”
“We all fancied,” said the group.
“That we overheard the name Boffin. Can it be, sir, that you are Mr. Joseph Boffin?”
“That’s right.”
“Boffin of St. Luke’s?”
“That’s right.”
The silvery-haired man seemed overcome by a sudden shyness. He giggled nervously.
“Then may we say—my friends and I—how much … We felt we would just like…Unwarrantable intrusion, of course, but we are all such great admirers. I suppose you have to go through a good deal of this sort of thing, Mr. Boffin…. People coming up to you, I mean, and … Perfect strangers, I mean to say …”
“Quite all right, old man, quite all right. Always glad to meet the fans.”
“Then may I introduce myself. I am Lord Rumbelow. These are my friends, the Duke of Mull, the Marquis of Peckham, Lord Percy…”
“’Ow are you, ‘ow are you? Come and join us, boys. My niece, Miss Purvis.”
“Charmed.”
“The young chap she’s going to marry.”
“How do you do?”
“And his uncle, Sir Aylmer Bastable.”
All heads were turned towards the Major-General. Lord Rumbelow spoke in awed voice.
“Is this really so, Bastable? Your nephew is actually going to marry Mr. Boffin’s niece? I congratulate you, my dear fellow. A most signal honour.” A touch of embarrassment came into his manner. He coughed. “We were just talking about you, oddly enough, Bastable, my friends and I. Saying what a pity it was that we saw so little of you. And we were wondering—it was the Duke’s suggestion—if you would care to become a member of a little club we have—quite a small affair—rather exclusive, we like to feel—the Twelve Jolly Stretcher-Cases…”
“My dear Rumbelow!”
“We have felt for a long time that our company was incomplete without you. So you will join us? Capital, capital! Perhaps you will look in there to-night? Mr. Boffin, of course,” he went on deprecatingly, “would, I am afraid, hardly condescend to allow himself to be entertained by so humble a little circle. Otherwise–”
Joe Boffin slapped him affably on the back. “My dear feller, I’d be delighted. There’s nothing stuck-up about me.”
“Well, really! I hardly know what to say…”
“We can’t all be Joe Boffins. That’s the way I look at it.”
“The true democratic spirit.”
“Why, I was best man at a chap’s wedding last week, and all he’d got was emotional dermatitis.”
“Amazing! Then you and Sir Aylmer will be with us to-night? Delightful. We can give you a bottle of lung tonic which I think you will appreciate. We pride ourselves on our cellar.”
A babble of happy chatter had broken out, almost drowning the band, and Mr. Boffin, opening his waistcoat, was showing the Duke of Mull the scar left by his first operation. Sir Aylmer, watching them with throbbing heart, was dizzily aware of a fountain-pen being thrust into his hand.
/> “Eh?” he said. “What? What’s this? What, what?”
“The papers,” said Freddie. “The merry old documents in the case. You sign here, where my thumb is.”
“Eh? What? Eh? Ah, yes, to be sure. Yes, yes, yes,” said Sir Aylmer, absently affixing his signature.
“Thank you, uncle, a thousand …”
“Quite, quite. But don’t bother me now, my boy. Busy. Got a lot to talk about to those friends of mine. Take the girl away and give her a sulphur water.”
And, brushing aside Mortimer Rackstraw, who was offering him a pack of cards, he joined the group about Joe Boffin. Freddie clasped Annabel in a fond embrace. Mortimer Rackstraw stood glaring for a moment, twisting his moustache. Then he took the flags of all nations from Annabel’s back hair and, with a despairing gesture, strode from the room.
A Bit of Luck for Mabel
LIFE, laddie,” said Ukridge, “is very rum.” He had been lying for some time silent on the sofa, his face towards the ceiling; and I had supposed that he was asleep. But now it appeared that it was thought, not slumber, that had caused his unwonted quietude. “Very, very rum,” said Ukridge.
He heaved himself up and stared out of the window. The sitting-room window of the cottage which I had taken in the country looked upon a stretch of lawn, backed by a little spinney; and now there stole in through it from the waking world outside that first cool breeze which heralds the dawning of a summer day.
“Great Scott!” I said, looking at my watch. “Do you realize you’ve kept me up talking all night?”
Ukridge did not answer. There was a curious, far-away look on his face, and he uttered a sound like the last gurgle of an expiring soda-water siphon; which I took to be his idea of a sigh. I saw what had happened. There is a certain hour at the day’s beginning which brings with it a strange magic, tapping wells of sentiment in the most hard-boiled. In this hour, with the sun pinking the eastern sky and the early bird chirping over its worm, Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, that battered man of wrath, had become maudlin; and, instead of being allowed to go to bed, I was in for some story of his murky past.
“Extraordinarily rum,” said Ukridge. “So is Fate. It’s curious to think, Corky, old horse, that if things had not happened as they did I might now be a man of tremendous importance, looked up to and respected by all in Singapore.”