Lord Emsworth and Others

  The delay was fatal. Other people were familiar with Jos. Waterbury's habits. Just as he was about to take off, the swing door flew open violently, disclosing the red-haired man. And a moment later the red-haired man, pausing only to spit on his hands, had gone into action.

  The words we speak in our heat seldom stand the acid test In the very first seconds of the encounter it would have become plain to the poorest judge of form that in stating that he could eat the red-haired man for a relish with his tea. Jos. Waterbury had over-estimated his powers. He put up the rottenest kind of show, being as chaff before the red-haired bloke's sickle. Almost before the proceedings had begun, he had stopped a stinker with his chin and was on the sawdust.

  In places like Bottleton East, when you are having a scrap and your antagonist falls, you don't wait for anyone to count ten - you kick him in the slats. This is a local rule. And it was so obvious to Freddie that this was what the red-haired bird was planning to do that he did not hesitate, but with a passionate cry rushed into the fray. He isn't a chap who goes out of his way to get mixed up in bar-room brawls, but the sight of this red-haired fellow murdering the bounder he wanted to murder himself seemed to him to give him no option. He felt that his claim was being jumped, and his generous spirit resented it.

  And so moved was he by the thought of being done out of his rights, that he might have put up a very pretty fight indeed had not the chucker-out attached to the premises intervened.

  When the summons for his professional services reached him, the honest fellow had been enjoying a pint and a bit of bread and cheese in a back room. He now came in, wiping his mouth.

  These chuckers-out are no fools. A glance showed this one that a big, beefy, dangerous-looking chap was having a spot of unpleasantness with a slim, slight, slender chap, and with swift intelligence and sturdy common sense he grabbed the slim, slender chap. To pick Freddie up like a sack of coals and carry him to the door and hurl him out into the great open spaces Was with him the work of a moment.

  And so it came about that Lord Blicester, who was driving home after one of his meetings in the Conservative interest, became aware of stirrings afoot off-stage left, and the next moment perceived his nephew Frederick coming through the air like a shooting star.

  He signalled to the chauffeur to stop and poked his head out of the window.

  'Frederick!' he called - not, as you may well suppose, quite grasping the gist.

  Freddie did not reply. Already he was re-entering the swing door in order to take up the argument at the point where it had been broken off. He was by now a bit stirred. Originally he had wanted to assassinate Jos. Waterbury, but since then his conception had broadened, if you know what I mean. He now wished to blot out the red-haired chap as well - also the chucker-out and anybody else who crossed his path.

  Old Blicester emerged from the car, just in time to see his flesh and blood popping out again.

  'Frederick!' he cried. 'What is the meaning of this?' And he seized him by the arm.

  Well, anybody could have told him he was asking for it. This was no time to seize Freddie by the arm. There was an arm left over which old Blicester hadn't seized, and with this Freddie smote him a snappy one in the midriff. Then, passing a weary hand over his brow, he made for the swing door again.

  The catch about all this sort of thing - running amuck, I mean, and going berserk, or whatever they call it - is that then inevitably comes a morning after. The following morning found Freddie in bed, and so did old Blicester. He appeared as early as nine a.m., rousing Freddie from a troubled sleep, and what he wanted, it seemed, was a full explanation. And when Freddie, who was too weak for polished subterfuge, had given him a full explanation, not omitting the incident of the Brazil nut and the top hat, he put on the black cap.

  He had changed his mind about that marriage. It was no right, he said - it was not human - to inflict a fool like Freddie on so sweet a girl, or on any girl, for that matter. After: a powerful passage, in which he pointed this out, he delivered sentence. Freddie was to take the afternoon train to Blicester. Regis, repair by the station cab to Blicester Towers, and a Blicester Towers to remain secluded till further notice. Only thus, in his opinion, could the world be rendered safe for the human race. So there was nothing for Freddie to do but ring up the girl, Dora, and inform her that the big binge was off.

  The statement was not very well received.

  ‘Oh, dear,' she said, and Freddie, reading between the lines could see that what she really meant was 'Oh hell.' 'Why?'

  Freddie explained that he had got to go down to the country that afternoon till further notice. The girl's manner changed. Her voice, which had been sniffy, brightened.

  'Oh, but that's all right,' she said. 'We shall all miss you, of course, but I can send you the bill.'

  'Something in that,' said Freddie. 'Only the trouble is, you see, I can't pay it.'

  'Why not?'

  ‘I haven't any money.'

  'Why haven't you any money?'

  Freddie braced himself.

  'Well, the fact is that in a mistaken moment of enthusiasm, thinking - wrongly, as it turned out - that I was on a pinch, I betted -'

  And in broken accents he told her the whole story. Wasted, of course, because she had hung up with a sharp cry at the word 'betted'. And about ten minutes later, after saying 'Hullo, hullo' a good many times, he, too, hung up - sombrely, because something told him that one more girl whom he had loved had gone out of his life.

  And no sooner had he left his rooms and tottered into the street, his intention - and a very sound one - being to make his way to the club and have a few before it was too late, something small and greasy nipped out from the shadows. To cut a long story short, Jos. Waterbury.

  And Freddie was just about to summon up all that remained of his frail strength after last night's doings and let him have it right in the eyeball, when Jos. Waterbury began to thank him for saving his life.

  Well, you can't swat a man who is thanking you for saving his life, not if your own is ruled by the noblesse oblige code of the Widgeons. And when he tells you that times are hard and moots the possibility of your being able to spare a trifle, you cannot pass on unheeding. It was a bob that time, and on Freddie's return to London some three weeks later - the very day, oddly enough, when he read in the Morning Post that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between Percival Alexander, eldest son of Gregory Hotchkiss, Esq., and Mrs Hotchkiss, and Dora, only daughter of the late Sir Ramsworthy Pinfold and Lady Pinfold - it was two, Freddie not having anything smaller on him. And there you are.

  There was a thoughtful silence.

  'And so it goes on,' said the Crumpet.

  'So it goes on,' said the Senior Bean.

  The Junior Bean agreed that so it went on.

  .Chapter Seven

  Ukridge and the Home from Home

  Somebody tapped on my door. I sat up in bed, electrified. Except for Macbeth, I should imagine that few people have ever been quite so startled by a nightly knocking. The hour was three in the morning, and in London lodgings the sleeper is rarely awakened at such a time in such a manner.

  The door was now open, and I perceived, illuminated by a candle, the Roman Emperor features of Bowles, my landlord. Bowles, like all proprietors of furnished rooms in the Sloane Square neighbourhood, is an ex-butler, and even in a plaid dressing-gown he retained much of the cold majesty which so intimidated me by day.

  'Excuse me, sir,' he said, in the reserved voice in which he always addresses me. 'Do you happen to have the sum of eight shilling and sixpence?'

  'Eight shillings?'

  'And sixpence, sir. It is for Mr Ukridge.’

  As he mentioned the name, his tone seemed to take on a sort of respectful affection. One of the mysteries of my life is why this godlike man, while treating me, who pay my rent regularly, with a distant hauteur, as if I were something very young and callow in baggy trousers whom he had just caught eating the entree with
a fish-knife, should positively fawn on Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, who is - and has been for years - a recognized blot on Society.

  'For Mr Ukridge?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'What does Mr Ukridge want eight and six for?’

  'To pay his cab, sir.'

  'You mean he's here?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'In a cab?'

  'Yes, sir.

  'At three in the morning?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  I could make nothing of this. As a matter of fact, mystery had enveloped all Ukridge's movements of late. I had not seen him for months, though I knew that, in the absence of his Aunt Julia, the well-known novelist, he was residing at her house on Wimbledon Common as a sort of caretaker. The most mysterious thing of all was that I had received a letter from him one morning, enclosing ten pounds in bank-notes - part-payment, he explained, of loans floated by me in the past, for which, he said, he could never be sufficiently grateful. Of this miracle he had given no other, explanation than that his genius and opportunism had at last found the road to wealth.

  'There's some money on the dressing-table.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Did Mr Ukridge mention what he thought he was doing, dashing about London in cabs at this time of night?'

  'No, sir. He merely inquired if I had a spare room, and desired me to set out the whisky and soda. I have done this.'

  'He's come to stay, then?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Bowles, with marked gratification. He looked like the father of the Prodigal Son.

  I put on a dressing-gown and went into the sitting-room. There, as Bowles had foreshadowed, was the whisky and soda. I am not a great drinker in the small hours, but I felt it prudent to mix myself a glassful. I have generally found that on the occasions when S. F. Ukridge descends on me out of the void it is best to be ready.

  The next moment the stairs shook beneath the clumping of heavy feet, and the man of wrath entered in person.

  'What on earth -!' I exclaimed.

  My emotion was not unjustified. For the appearance of Ukridge I had been prepared, but not for his appearance in his present costume. Never a natty dresser, he had sunk now to hitherto unimagined depths. Above a suit of striped pyjamas he was wearing the yellow mackintosh which has been his companion through so many discreditable adventures. On his feet were bedroom slippers. He had no socks. His whole appearance was that of one who has recently been caught in a fire.

  In answer to my exclamation, he waved a hand in silent greeting. Then, having adjusted the pince-nez which were attached to his outstanding ears by ginger-beer wire, he plunged forcefully at the decanter.

  'Ah!' he said, putting down his glass.

  'What on earth are you doing,' I asked, 'roaming about London in that costume?'

  He shook his head.

  'No roaming, Corky, old horse. I came straight as the taxi flies from Wimbledon Common. And why, laddie? Because I knew that a true friend like you would be sure to have the latch-string hanging out and the lighted candle in the window. How are you off for socks these days?'

  ‘I have a sock,' I replied guardedly.

  ‘I shall need some tomorrow. Also shirts, underlinen, cravats, a suit, a hat, boots, and a pair of braces. You see before you, Corky, a destitute man. Starting life all over again, you might say.'

  'What are you wearing those pyjamas for?'

  'The ordinary slumber-wear of an English gentleman.'

  'But you're not slumbering.'

  'I was,' said Ukridge, and it seemed to me that a look of pain flitted across his face. 'An hour ago, Corky - or perhaps nearer an hour and a half - I was slumbering like the dickens. And then-'

  He reached for the cigar-box, and smoked for a while in a rather brooding manner. 'Ah, well!' he said.

  He emitted what I suppose was intended to be a mirthless laugh.

  'Life!' he said. 'Life! That's what it is - just Life. Did you get that tenner I sent you, Corky?' 'Yes.'

  'I dare say it came as a bit of a surprise?' 'It did.'

  'When I coughed up that tenner, do you know what it was to me? A nothing. A mere nothing. A bagatelle. An inconsiderable trifle out of my income.

  'Your what?'

  'My income, old horse. A mere segment of my steady income.'

  'Where did you get a steady income?’

  ‘In the hotel business.'

  ‘What business?'

  'Hotel business. From my share of the proceeds of Ukridge's Home From Home. I didn't actually call it that, but that was how I thought of it. The Home From Home.'

  Once more a cloud passed over his expressive face.

  'What a bonanza it was, while it lasted! While,’ he repeated sadly, 'it lasted. That's the trouble with these good things - they do not last. They come to an end.'

  'How did this one come to a beginning?’

  'My aunt suggested it. At least, when I say suggested it - It was like this, Corky. You know that, now these talking pictures have come in, the studio people are scouring the world for blokes of either sex, capable of writing dialogue? It was but a question of time before my aunt was approached. She signed a contract to go to Hollywood for a year. And her last words, as she poked her head out of the boat-train at Waterloo, consisted of instructions to me on no account to let the house in her absence. I dare say you know she had a horror of strangers in the home?'

  'I noticed it that time I was dining with you there and she came in.'

  'Well, I give you my honest word, Corky, that up to that moment I had had not the slightest idea of doing anything but stay in the house and bark at burglars. I anticipated a quiet and reposeful year, during which I could look about me and try to find my niche. The butler and the rest of the servants were on board wages. I was assured of three square meals a day. The future, if placid, looked rosy. I was content.

  'And then my aunt spoke those ill-judged words.

  'I don't know if you are a student of history, Corky, but if you are you'll agree with me that half the trouble in this world has come from women speaking ill-judged words. Everything is set and looks nice and smooth, and then along comes some woman with a few ill-judged words, and there you are. Upon my Sam, until my Aunt Julia delivered that parting speech with one elbow in the eye of a fellow passenger and the other arm waving authoritatively in my direction, the idea of turning The Cedars, Wimbledon Common, into a residential hotel had never so much as crossed my mind.’

  This seemed to me to be on a major scale. I gasped reverently.

  ‘You turned your aunt’s house into a hotel?’

  It would have been flouting Providence not to. There was big money in the scheme. If you are acquainted with the suburbs, you are aware that these residential hotels are springing up on every side. There is an ever-increasing demand for them. Owners of private houses find it’s too much of a sweat to keep them up, so the hire a couple of Swiss waiters with colds in their head and advertise in the papers that her is the ideal home for the City man.

  ‘But mark the difference between joints like those and the Maison Ukridge. One the one hand, comparative squalor. On the other, luxury. You may not look on my Aunt Julia as a personal friend, Corky, but even you can’t deny that she knows how to furnish a house. Taste. Elegance. The dernier cri in refinement.

  ‘And then the staff!’ No Swiss waiters here, but a butler, alone worth price of admission. Parlourmaids trained to the last ounce. A cook in a million. Outstanding housemaids. A tweeny renowned throughout Wimbledon. I tell you that, as I tottered out of Waterloo Station to go to the nearest newspaper office and insert my advertisement, I sang. Not for long, because people began to look at me. But nevertheless, I sang.

  'You would have been surprised, Corky - I will go further, you would have been astounded at the number of replies I got I had planned the terms on a liberal scale, for of course before floating an enterprise of this kind it had been necessary to square a butler, two parlourmaids, two housemaids, a cook, a tweeny, and the boy who c
leaned the boots - bloodsuckers to a man and woman; but, in spite of that, half the population of London seemed anxious to chip in.

  'The fact is, you see, Wimbledon Common is a good address. It means something, lends a lustre. The cognoscenti, hearing it, are impressed. You are one of these City blokes, and you meet another City bloke and say to him casually, "Drop in and see me some time, old man. I am always to be found at The Cedars, Wimbledon Common," and he fawns on you and probably stands you lunch.

  'So, as I say, I was flooded, positively inundated with requests to be allowed to sit in. All that remained to do was to throw the handkerchief. I bunged it eventually to a well-chosen six, headed by Lieutenant-Colonel B. B. Bagnew, late of the Fourth Loyal Lincolnshires, and Lady Bastable, widow of one of those birds who get knighted up North. The rest were good, solid fellows who were busy being the backbone of England, but not so busy as to forget to settle up regularly every Friday night.

  'They came trooping in, one by one, and presently the nest was full and the venture a going concern.'

  Well, it couldn't have been a bigger success (continued Ukridge). Everything from the start was one grand, sweet song. It was idyllic, Corky, that's what it was. I am not a man who speaks hastily. I weigh my words. And I tell you it was idyllic. We were just a great, big, happy family.

  Too often in the past it has happened that circumstances have compelled me to appear in the role of guest, but you can take it from me that Nature really intended me for a host. I have the manner, the air. I wish you could have seen me presiding over the dinner-table of a night. Suave, genial, beloved by all. A kind word here, a quick smile there. The aristocrat of the old school, nothing less.