Produced by Jim Tinsley
SOMETHING NEW
by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
CHAPTER I
The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on Londontown. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuseinto traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so thatbus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled intonot unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts--clerks,on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying topersuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of theirmaintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all thedifference. It was one of those happy mornings.
At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven ArundellStreet, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out.
Of all the spots in London which may fairly be described asbackwaters there is none that answers so completely to thedescription as Arundell Street, Leicester Square. Passing alongthe north sidewalk of the square, just where it joins Piccadilly,you hardly notice the bottleneck opening of the tiny cul-de-sac.Day and night the human flood roars past, ignoring it. ArundellStreet is less than forty yards in length; and, though there aretwo hotels in it, they are not fashionable hotels. It is just abackwater.
In shape Arundell Street is exactly like one of those flat stonejars in which Italian wine of the cheaper sort is stored. Thenarrow neck that leads off Leicester Square opens abruptly into asmall court. Hotels occupy two sides of this; the third is atpresent given up to rooming houses for the impecunious. These arealways just going to be pulled down in the name of progress tomake room for another hotel, but they never do meet with thatfate; and as they stand now so will they in all probability standfor generations to come.
They provide single rooms of moderate size, the bed modestlyhidden during the day behind a battered screen. The rooms containa table, an easy-chair, a hard chair, a bureau, and a round tinbath, which, like the bed, goes into hiding after its useful workis performed. And you may rent one of these rooms, with breakfastthrown in, for five dollars a week.
Ashe Marson had done so. He had rented the second-floor front ofNumber Seven.
Twenty-six years before this story opens there had been born toJoseph Marson, minister, and Sarah his wife, of Hayling,Massachusetts, in the United States of America, a son. This son,christened Ashe after a wealthy uncle who subsequentlydouble-crossed them by leaving his money to charities, in duecourse proceeded to Harvard to study for the ministry. So far ascan be ascertained from contemporary records, he did not study agreat deal for the ministry; but he did succeed in running themile in four minutes and a half and the half mile at acorrespondingly rapid speed, and his researches in the art oflong jumping won him the respect of all.
That he should be awarded, at the conclusion of his Harvardcareer, one of those scholarships at Oxford University institutedby the late Cecil Rhodes for the encouragement of the liberalarts, was a natural sequence of events.
That was how Ashe came to be in England.
The rest of Ashe's history follows almost automatically. He wonhis blue for athletics at Oxford, and gladdened thousands bywinning the mile and the half mile two years in successionagainst Cambridge at Queen's Club. But owing to the pressure ofother engagements he unfortunately omitted to do any studying,and when the hour of parting arrived he was peculiarly unfittedfor any of the learned professions. Having, however, managed toobtain a sort of degree, enough to enable him to call himself aBachelor of Arts, and realizing that you can fool some of thepeople some of the time, he applied for and secured a series ofprivate tutorships.
A private tutor is a sort of blend of poor relation andnursemaid, and few of the stately homes of England are withoutone. He is supposed to instill learning and deportment into thesmall son of the house; but what he is really there for is toprevent the latter from being a nuisance to his parents when heis home from school on his vacation.
Having saved a little money at this dreadful trade, Ashe came toLondon and tried newspaper work. After two years of moderatesuccess he got in touch with the Mammoth Publishing Company.
The Mammoth Publishing Company, which controls several importantnewspapers, a few weekly journals, and a number of other things,does not disdain the pennies of the office boy and the juniorclerk. One of its many profitable ventures is a series ofpaper-covered tales of crime and adventure. It was here that Ashefound his niche. Those adventures of Gridley Quayle,Investigator, which are so popular with a certain section of thereading public, were his work.
Until the advent of Ashe and Mr. Quayle, the British PluckLibrary had been written by many hands and had included theadventures of many heroes: but in Gridley Quayle the proprietorsheld that the ideal had been reached, and Ashe received acommission to conduct the entire British PluckLibrary--monthly--himself. On the meager salary paid him forthese labors he had been supporting himself ever since.
That was how Ashe came to be in Arundell Street, Leicester Square,on this May morning.
He was a tall, well-built, fit-looking young man, with a cleareye and a strong chin; and he was dressed, as he closed the frontdoor behind him, in a sweater, flannel trousers, and rubber-soledgymnasium shoes. In one hand he bore a pair of Indian clubs, inthe other a skipping rope.
Having drawn in and expelled the morning air in a measured andsolemn fashion, which the initiated observer would haverecognized as that scientific deep breathing so popular nowadays,he laid down his clubs, adjusted his rope and began to skip.
When he had taken the second-floor front of Number Seven, threemonths before, Ashe Marson had realized that he must forego thosemorning exercises which had become a second nature to him, orelse defy London's unwritten law and brave London's mockery. Hehad not hesitated long. Physical fitness was his gospel. On thesubject of exercise he was confessedly a crank. He decided todefy London.
The first time he appeared in Arundell Street in his sweater andflannels he had barely whirled his Indian clubs once around hishead before he had attracted the following audience:
a) Two cabmen--one intoxicated; b) Four waiters from the Hotel Mathis; c) Six waiters from the Hotel Previtali; d) Six chambermaids from the Hotel Mathis; e) Five chambermaids from the Hotel Previtali; f) The proprietor of the Hotel Mathis; g) The proprietor of the Hotel Previtali; h) A street cleaner; i) Eleven nondescript loafers; j) Twenty-seven children; k) A cat.
They all laughed--even the cat--and kept on laughing. Theintoxicated cabman called Ashe "Sunny Jim." And Ashe kept onswinging his clubs.
A month later, such is the magic of perseverance, his audiencehad narrowed down to the twenty-seven children. They stilllaughed, but without that ringing conviction which thesympathetic support of their elders had lent them.
And now, after three months, the neighborhood, having acceptedAshe and his morning exercises as a natural phenomenon, paid himno further attention.
On this particular morning Ashe Marson skipped with even morethan his usual vigor. This was because he wished to expel bymeans of physical fatigue a small devil of discontent, of whosepresence within him he had been aware ever since getting out ofbed. It is in the Spring that the ache for the larger life comeson us, and this was a particularly mellow Spring morning. It wasthe sort of morning when the air gives us a feeling ofanticipation--a feeling that, on a day like this, things surelycannot go jogging along in the same dull old groove; apremonition that something romantic and exciting is about tohappen to us.
But the southwest wind of Spring brings also remorse. We catchthe vague spirit of unrest in the air and we regret our misspentyouth.
Ashe was doing this. Even as he skipped, he was conscious of awish that he had studied harder at college and was now in aposition to be doing something better than hack work for asoulless publishing company. Never b
efore had he been socompletely certain that he was sick to death of the rut intowhich he had fallen.
Skipping brought no balm. He threw down his rope and took up theIndian clubs. Indian clubs left him still unsatisfied. Thethought came to him that it was a long time since he had done hisLarsen Exercises. Perhaps they would heal him.
The Larsen Exercises, invented by a certain Lieutenant Larsen, ofthe Swedish Army, have almost every sort of merit. They make aman strong, supple, and slender. But they are not dignified.Indeed, to one seeing them suddenly and without warning for thefirst time, they are markedly humorous. The only reason why KingHenry, of England, whose son sank with the White Ship, neversmiled again, was because Lieutenant Larsen had not then inventedhis admirable exercises.
So complacent, so insolently unselfconscious had Ashe become inthe course of three months, owing to his success in inducing thepopulace to look on anything he did with the indulgent eye ofunderstanding, that it simply did not occur to him, when heabruptly twisted his body into the shape of a corkscrew, inaccordance with the directions in the lieutenant's book for theconsummation of Exercise One, that he was doing anything funny.
And the behavior of those present seemed to justify hisconfidence. The proprietor of the Hotel Mathis regarded himwithout a smile. The proprietor of the Hotel Previtali might havebeen in a trance, for all the interest he displayed. The hotelemployees continued their tasks impassively. The children wereblind and dumb. The cat across the way stropped its backboneagainst the railings unheeding.
But, even as he unscrambled himself and resumed a normal posture,from his immediate rear there rent the quiet morning air a clearand musical laugh. It floated out on the breeze and hit him likea bullet.
Three months ago Ashe would have accepted the laugh asinevitable, and would have refused to allow it to embarrass him;but long immunity from ridicule had sapped his resolution. Hespun round with a jump, flushed and self-conscious.
From the window of the first-floor front of Number Seven a girlwas leaning. The Spring sunshine played on her golden hair andlit up her bright blue eyes, fixed on his flanneled and sweateredperson with a fascinated amusement. Even as he turned, the laughsmote him afresh.
For the space of perhaps two seconds they stared at each other,eye to eye. Then she vanished into the room.
Ashe was beaten. Three months ago a million girls could havelaughed at his morning exercises without turning him from hispurpose. Today this one scoffer, alone and unaided, wassufficient for his undoing. The depression which exercise hadbegun to dispel surged back on him. He had no heart to continue.Sadly gathering up his belongings, he returned to his room, andfound a cold bath tame and uninspiring.
The breakfasts--included in the rent--provided by Mrs. Bell, thelandlady of Number Seven, were held by some authorities to bespecially designed to quell the spirits of their victims, shouldthey tend to soar excessively. By the time Ashe had done his bestwith the disheveled fried egg, the chicory blasphemously calledcoffee, and the charred bacon, misery had him firmly in its grip.And when he forced himself to the table, and began to try toconcoct the latest of the adventures of Gridley Quayle,Investigator, his spirit groaned within him.
This morning, as he sat and chewed his pen, his loathing forGridley seemed to have reached its climax. It was his habit, inwriting these stories, to think of a good title first, and thenfit an adventure to it. And overnight, in a moment ofinspiration, he had jotted down on an envelope the words: "TheAdventure of the Wand of Death."
It was with the sullen repulsion of a vegetarian who finds acaterpillar in his salad that he now sat glaring at them.
The title had seemed so promising overnight--so full of strenuouspossibilities. It was still speciously attractive; but now thatthe moment had arrived for writing the story its flaws becamemanifest.
What was a wand of death? It sounded good; but, coming down tohard facts, what was it? You cannot write a story about a wand ofdeath without knowing what a wand of death is; and, conversely,if you have thought of such a splendid title you cannot jettisonit offhand. Ashe rumpled his hair and gnawed his pen.
There came a knock at the door.
Ashe spun round in his chair. This was the last straw! If he hadtold Mrs. Ball once that he was never to be disturbed in themorning on any pretext whatsoever, he had told her twenty times.It was simply too infernal to be endured if his work time was tobe cut into like this. Ashe ran over in his mind a few openingremarks.
"Come in!" he shouted, and braced himself for battle.
A girl walked in--the girl of the first-floor front; the girlwith the blue eyes, who had laughed at his Larsen Exercises.
Various circumstances contributed to the poorness of the figureAshe cut in the opening moments of this interview. In the firstplace, he was expecting to see his landlady, whose height wasabout four feet six, and the sudden entry of somebody who wasabout five feet seven threw the universe temporarily out offocus. In the second place, in anticipation of Mrs. Bell's entry,he had twisted his face into a forbidding scowl, and it was noslight matter to change this on the spur of the moment into apleasant smile. Finally, a man who has been sitting for half anhour in front of a sheet of paper bearing the words: "TheAdventure of the Wand of Death," and trying to decide what a wandof death might be, has not his mind under proper control.
The net result of these things was that, for perhaps half aminute, Ashe behaved absurdly. He goggled and he yammered. Analienist, had one been present, would have made up his mind abouthim without further investigation. For an appreciable time he didnot think of rising from his seat. When he did, the combined leapand twist he executed practically amounted to a Larsen Exercise.
Nor was the girl unembarrassed. If Ashe had been calmer he wouldhave observed on her cheek the flush which told that she, too,was finding the situation trying. But, woman being ever betterequipped with poise than man, it was she who spoke first.
"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you."
"No, no!" said Ashe. "Oh, no; not at all--not at all! No. Oh,no--not at all--no!" And would have continued to play on thetheme indefinitely had not the girl spoken again.
"I wanted to apologize," she said, "for my abominable rudeness inlaughing at you just now. It was idiotic of me and I don't knowwhy I did it. I'm sorry."
Science, with a thousand triumphs to her credit, has not yetsucceeded in discovering the correct reply for a young man tomake who finds himself in the appalling position of beingapologized to by a pretty girl. If he says nothing he seemssullen and unforgiving. If he says anything he makes a fool ofhimself. Ashe, hesitating between these two courses, suddenlycaught sight of the sheet of paper over which he had been poringso long.
"What is a wand of death?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A wand of death?"
"I don't understand."
The delirium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burstout laughing. A moment later the girl did the same. Andsimultaneously embarrassment ceased to be.
"I suppose you think I'm mad?" said Ashe.
"Certainly," said the girl.
"Well, I should have been if you hadn't come in."
"Why was that?"
"I was trying to write a detective story."
"I was wondering whether you were a writer."
"Do you write?"
"Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?"
"Never!"
"You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It's ahorrid little paper--all brown-paper patterns and advice to thelovelorn and puzzles. I do a short story for it every week, undervarious names. A duke or an earl goes with each story. I loatheit intensely."
"I am sorry for your troubles," said Ashe firmly; "but we arewandering from the point. What is a wand of death?"
"A wand of death?"
"A wand of death."
The girl frowned reflectively.
"Why, of course; it's the sacred ebony stick stolen from theIndian temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoeverp
ossesses it. The hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog himand send him threatening messages. What else could it be?"
Ashe could not restrain his admiration.
"This is genius!"
"Oh, no!"
"Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle,and that patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wickedcoincidences, solves the mystery; and there am I, with anothermonth's work done."
She looked at him with interest.
"Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?"
"Don't tell me you read him!"
"I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm thatpublishes Home Gossip, and I can't help seeing his coversometimes while I am waiting in the waiting room to see theeditress."
Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood's chum on a desert island.Here was a real bond between them.
"Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades inmisfortune--fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we befriends?"
"I should be delighted."
"Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves alittle?"
"But I am keeping you from your work."
"An errand of mercy."
She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, likeeverything else, it may be an index to character. There wassomething wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which thisgirl did it. She neither seated herself on the extreme edge ofthe easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did shewallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the week-end.She carried herself in an unconventional situation with anunstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire.
Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, agirl in a first-floor front may be excused for showing surpriseand hesitation when invited to a confidential chat with asecond-floor front young man whom she has known only fiveminutes. But there is a freemasonry among those who live in largecities on small earnings.
"Shall we introduce ourselves?" said Ashe. "Or did Mrs. Bell tellyou my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?"
"I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you arethe author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn't it?"
"Good heavens, no! Surely you don't think anyone's name couldreally be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which Ihide my shame. My real name is Marson--Ashe Marson. And yours?"
"Valentine--Joan Valentine."
"Will you tell me the story of your life, or shall I tell minefirst?"
"I don't know that I have any particular story. I am anAmerican."
"Not American!"
"Why not?"
"Because it is too extraordinary, too much like a Gridley Quaylecoincidence. I am an American!"
"Well, so are a good many other people."
"You miss the point. We are not only fellow serfs--we are fellowexiles. You can't round the thing off by telling me you were bornin Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?"
"I was born in New York."
"Surely not! I didn't know anybody was."
"Why Hayling, Massachusetts?"
"That was where I was born."
"I'm afraid I never heard of it."
"Strange. I know your home town quite well. But I have not yetmade my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall.I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure? I thinkthat is a shameful thing to say."
"What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means ofmaking a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories--anempire builder?"
"How do you know it's your only means of making a living? Whydon't you try something new?"
"Such as?"
"How should I know? Anything that comes along. Good gracious, Mr.Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, withchances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side."
"I must be deaf. The only thing I have heard shrieking to me onevery side has been Mrs. Bell--for the week's rent."
"Read the papers. Read the advertisement columns. I'm sure youwill find something sooner or later. Don't get into a groove. Bean adventurer. Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is."
Ashe nodded.
"Continue," he said. "Proceed. You are stimulating me."
"But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? SurelyLondon is enough to do it without my help? You can always findsomething new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my ownresources about five years ago--never mind how. Since then I haveworked in a shop, done typewriting, been on the stage, had aposition as governess, been a lady's maid--"
"A what! A lady's maid?"
"Why not? It was all experience; and I can assure you I wouldmuch rather be a lady's maid than a governess."
"I think I know what you mean. I was a private tutor once. Isuppose a governess is the female equivalent. I have oftenwondered what General Sherman would have said about privatetutoring if he expressed himself so breezily about mere war. Wasit fun being a lady's maid?"
"It was pretty good fun; and it gave me an opportunity ofstudying the aristocracy in its native haunts, which has made methe Gossip's established authority on dukes and earls."
Ashe drew a deep breath--not a scientific deep breath, but one ofadmiration.
"You are perfectly splendid!"
"Splendid?"
"I mean, you have such pluck."
"Oh, well; I keep on trying. I'm twenty-three and I haven'tachieved anything much yet; but I certainly don't feel likesitting back and calling myself a failure."
Ashe made a grimace.
"All right," he said. "I've got it."
"I meant you to," said Joan placidly. "I hope I haven't bored youwith my autobiography, Mr. Marson. I'm not setting myself up as ashining example; but I do like action and hate stagnation."
"You are absolutely wonderful!" said Ashe. "You are a humancorrespondence course in efficiency, one of the ones you seeadvertised in the back pages of the magazines, beginning, 'Youngman, are you earning enough?' with a picture showing the deadbeat gazing wistfully at the boss' chair. You would galvanize ajellyfish."
"If I have really stimulated you-----"
"I think that was another slam," said Ashe pensively. "Well, Ideserve it. Yes, you have stimulated me. I feel like a new man.It's queer that you should have come to me right on top ofeverything else. I don't remember when I have felt so restlessand discontented as this morning."
"It's the Spring."
"I suppose it is. I feel like doing something big andadventurous."
"Well, do it then. You have a Morning Post on the table. Have youread it yet?"
"I glanced at it."
"But you haven't read the advertisement pages? Read them. Theymay contain just the opening you want."
"Well, I'll do it; but my experience of advertisement pages isthat they are monopolized by philanthropists who want to lend youany sum from ten to a hundred thousand pounds on your note ofhand only. However, I will scan them."
Joan rose and held out her hand.
"Good-by, Mr. Marson. You've got your detective story to write,and I have to think out something with a duke in it by to-night;so I must be going." She smiled. "We have traveled a good wayfrom the point where we started, but I may as well go back to itbefore I leave you. I'm sorry I laughed at you this morning."
Ashe clasped her hand in a fervent grip.
"I'm not. Come and laugh at me whenever you feel like it. I likebeing laughed at. Why, when I started my morning exercises, halfof London used to come and roll about the sidewalks inconvulsions. I'm not an attraction any longer and it makes mefeel lonesome. There are twenty-nine of those Larsen Exercisesand you saw only part of the first. You have done so much for methat if I can be of any use to you, in helping you to greet theday with a smile, I shall be only too proud. Exercise Six is asure-fire mirth-provoker; I'll
start with it to-morrow morning. Ican also recommend Exercise Eleven--a scream! Don't miss it."
"Very well. Well, good-by for the present."
"Good-by."
She was gone; and Ashe, thrilling with new emotions, stared atthe door which had closed behind her. He felt as though he hadbeen wakened from sleep by a powerful electric shock.
Close beside the sheet of paper on which he had inscribed the nowluminous and suggestive title of his new Gridley Quayle story laythe Morning Post, the advertisement columns of which he hadpromised her to explore. The least he could do was to begin atonce.
His spirits sank as he did so. It was the same old game. A Mr.Brian MacNeill, though doing no business with minors, waswilling--even anxious--to part with his vast fortune to anyoneover the age of twenty-one whose means happened to be a triflestraitened. This good man required no security whatever; nor didhis rivals in generosity, the Messrs. Angus Bruce, DuncanMacfarlane, Wallace Mackintosh and Donald MacNab. They, too,showed a curious distaste for dealing with minors; but anyone ofmaturer years could simply come round to the office and helphimself.
Ashe threw the paper down wearily. He had known all along that itwas no good. Romance was dead and the unexpected no longerhappened. He picked up his pen and began to write "The Adventureof the Wand of Death."