The Prince and Betty

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER II

  MERVO AND ITS OWNER

  "By heck!" cried Mr. Benjamin Scobell.

  He wheeled round from the window, and transferred his gaze from theview to his sister Marion; losing by the action, for the view was a joyto the eye, which his sister Marion was not.

  Mervo was looking its best under the hot morning sun. Mr. Scobell'svilla stood near the summit of the only hill the island possessed, andfrom the window of the morning-room, where he had just finishedbreakfast, he had an uninterrupted view of valley, town, and harbor--atwo-mile riot of green, gold and white, and beyond the white the bluesatin of the Mediterranean. Mr. Scobell did not read poetry except thatwhich advertised certain breakfast foods in which he was interested, orhe might have been reminded of the Island of Flowers in Tennyson's"Voyage of Maeldive." Violets, pinks, crocuses, yellow and purplemesembryanthemum, lavender, myrtle, and rosemary ... his two-mile viewcontained them all. The hillside below him was all aglow with theyellow fire of the mimosa. But his was not one of those emotionalnatures to which the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts thatdo often lie too deep for tears. A primrose by the river's brim asimple primrose was to him--or not so much a simple primrose, perhaps,as a basis for a possible Primrosina, the Soap that Really Cleans You.

  He was a nasty little man to hold despotic sway over such a Paradise: agoblin in Fairyland. Somewhat below the middle height, he was lean ofbody and vulturine of face. He had a greedy mouth, a hooked nose,liquid green eyes and a sallow complexion. He was rarely seen without ahalf-smoked cigar between his lips. This at intervals he would relight,only to allow it to go out again; and when, after numerous freshstarts, it had dwindled beyond the limits of convenience, he wouldsubstitute another from the reserve supply that protruded from hisvest-pocket.

  * * * * *

  How Benjamin Scobell had discovered the existence of Mervo is notknown. It lay well outside the sphere of the ordinary financier. ButMr. Scobell took a pride in the versatility of his finance. Itdistinguished him from the uninspired who were content to concentratethemselves on steel, wheat and such-like things. It was Mr. Scobell'sway to consider nothing as lying outside his sphere. In a financialsense he might have taken Terence's _Nihil humanum alienum_ as hismotto. He was interested in innumerable enterprises, great and small.He was the power behind a company which was endeavoring, without muchsuccess, to extract gold from the mountains of North Wales, and anotherwhich was trying, without any success at all, to do the same by seawater. He owned a model farm in Indiana, and a weekly paper in NewYork. He had financed patent medicines, patent foods, patent corks,patent corkscrews, patent devices of all kinds, some profitable, somethe reverse.

  Also--outside the ordinary gains of finance--he had expectations. Hewas the only male relative of his aunt, the celebrated Mrs. JaneOakley, who lived in a cottage on Staten Island, and was reputed tospend five hundred dollars a year--some said less--out of her snugincome of eighteen million. She was an unusual old lady in many ways,and, unfortunately, unusually full of deep-rooted prejudices. The fearlest he might inadvertently fall foul of these rarely ceased to hauntMr. Scobell.

  This man of many projects had descended upon Mervo like a stone on thesurface of some quiet pool, bubbling over with modern enterprise ingeneral and, in particular, with a scheme. Before his arrival, Mervohad been an island of dreams and slow movement and putting things offtill to-morrow. The only really energetic thing it had ever done in itswhole history had been to expel his late highness, Prince Charles, andchange itself into a republic. And even that had been done with theminimum of fuss. The Prince was away at the time. Indeed, he had beenaway for nearly three years, the pleasures of Paris, London and Viennaappealing to him more keenly than life among his subjects. Mervo,having thought the matter over during these years, decided that it hadno further use for Prince Charles. Quite quietly, with none of thatvulgar brawling which its neighbor, France, had found necessary insimilar circumstances, it had struck his name off the pay-roll, anddeclared itself a republic. The royalist party, headed by GeneralPoineau, had been distracted but impotent. The army, one hundred andfifteen strong, had gone solid for the new regime, and that had settledit. Mervo had then gone to sleep again. It was asleep when Mr. Scobellfound it.

  The financier's scheme was first revealed to M. d'Orby, the Presidentof the Republic, a large, stout statesman with even more than theaverage Mervian instinct for slumber. He was asleep in a chair on theporch of his villa when Mr. Scobell paid his call, and it was not untilthe financier's secretary, who attended the seance in the capacity ofinterpreter, had rocked him vigorously from side to side for quite aminute that he displayed any signs of animation beyond a snore like thegrowling of distant thunder. When at length he opened his eyes, heperceived the nightmare-like form of Mr. Scobell standing before him,talking. The financier, impatient of delay, had begun to talk somemoments before the great awakening.

  "Sir," Mr. Scobell was saying, "I gotta proposition to which I'd likeyou to give your complete attention. Shake him some more, Crump. Sir,there's big money in it for all of us, if you and your crowd'll sit in.Money. _Lar' monnay_. No, that means change. What's money, Crump?_Arjong_? There's _arjong_ in it, Squire. Get that? Oh, shucks!Hand it to him in French, Crump."

  Mr. Secretary Crump translated. The President blinked, and intimatedthat he would hear more. Mr. Scobell relighted his cigar-stump, andproceeded.

  "Say, you've heard of _Moosieer_ Blonk? Ask the old skeesicks ifhe's ever heard of _Mersyaw_ Blonk, Crump, the feller who startedthe gaming-tables at Monte Carlo."

  Filtered through Mr. Crump, the question became intelligible to thePresident. He said he had heard of M. Blanc. Mr. Crump caught the replyand sent it on to Mr. Scobell, as the man on first base catches theball and throws it to second.

  Mr. Scobell relighted his cigar.

  "Well, I'm in that line. I'm going to put this island on the map justlike old Doctor Blonk put Monte Carlo. I've been studying up all aboutthe old man, and I know just what he did and how he did it. Monte Carlowas just such another jerkwater little place as this is before he hitit. The government was down to its last bean and wondering where theHeck its next meal-ticket was coming from, when in blows Mr. Man, tucksup his shirt-sleeves, and starts the tables. And after that the placenever looked back. You and your crowd gotta get together and pass avote to give me a gambling concession here, same as they did him.Scobell's my name. Hand him that, Crump."

  Mr. Crump obliged once more. A gleam of intelligence came into thePresident's dull eye. He nodded once or twice. He talked volubly inFrench to Mr. Crump, who responded in the same tongue.

  "The idea seems to strike him, sir," said Mr. Crump.

  "It ought to, if he isn't a clam," replied Mr. Scobell. He started torelight his cigar, but after scorching the tip of his nose, bowed tothe inevitable and threw the relic away.

  "See here," he said, having bitten the end off the next in order; "I'vethought this thing out from soup to nuts. There's heaps of room foranother Monte Carlo. Monte's a dandy place, but it's not perfect by along way. To start with, it's hilly. You have to take the elevator toget to the Casino, and when you've gotten to the end of your roll andwant to soak your pearl pin, where's the hock-shop? Half a mile away upthe side of a mountain. It ain't right. In my Casino there's going tobe a resident pawnbroker inside the building, just off the mainentrance. That's only one of a heap of improvements. Another is that myCasino's scheduled to be a home from home, a place you can be real cosyin. You'll look around you, and the only thing you'll miss will bemother's face. Yes, sir, there's no need for a gambling Casino to lookand feel and smell like the reading-room at the British Museum.Comfort, coziness and convenience. That's the ticket I'm running on.Slip that to the old gink, Crump."

  A further outburst of the French language from Mr. Crump, supplementedon the part of the "old gink" by gesticulations, interrupted theproceedings.

  "What's he saying now?" asked Mr. Scobell.


  "He wants to know--"

  "Don't tell. Let me guess. He wants to know what sort of a rake-off heand the other somnambulists will get--the darned old pirate! Is thatit?"

  Mr. Crump said that that was just it.

  "That'll be all right," said Mr. Scobell. "Old man Blong's offer to thePrince of Monaco was five hundred thousand francs a year--that'ssomewhere around a hundred thousand dollars in real money--and half theprofits made by the Casino. That's my offer, too. See how that hitshim, Crump."

  Mr. Crump investigated.

  "He says he accepts gladly, on behalf of the Republic, sir," heannounced.

  M. d'Orby confirmed the statement by rising, dodging the cigar, andkissing Mr. Scobell on both cheeks.

  "Cut it out," said the financier austerely, breaking out of the clinch."We'll take the Apache Dance as read. Good-by, Squire. Glad it'ssettled. Now I can get busy."

  He did. Workmen poured into Mervo, and in a very short time, dominatingthe town and reducing to insignificance the palace of the late Prince,once a passably imposing mansion, there rose beside the harbor amammoth Casino of shining stone.

  Imposing as was the exterior, it was on the interior that Mr. Scobellmore particularly prided himself, and not without reason. Certainly, aman with money to lose could lose it here under the most charmingconditions. It had been Mr. Scobell's object to avoid the cheerlessgrandeur of the rival institution down the coast. Instead of one largehall sprinkled with tables, each table had a room to itself, separatedfrom its neighbor by sound-proof folding-doors. And as the buildingprogressed, Mr. Scobell's active mind had soared above the originalidea of domestic coziness to far greater heights of ingenuity. Each ofthe rooms was furnished and arranged in a different style. The note ofindividuality extended even to the _croupiers_. Thus, a man withmoney at his command could wander from the Dutch room, where, in thepicturesque surroundings of a Dutch kitchen, _croupiers_ in thecostume of Holland ministered to his needs, to the Japanese room, wherehis coin would be raked in by quite passable imitations of the Samurai.If he had any left at this point, he was free to dispose of it underthe auspices of near-Hindoos in the Indian room, of merry Swisspeasants in the Swiss room, or in other appropriately furnishedapartments of red-shirted, Bret Harte miners, fur-clad Esquimaux, orlanguorous Spaniards. He could then, if a man of spirit, who did notknow when he was beaten, collect the family jewels, and proceed downthe main hall, accompanied by the strains of an excellent band, to theoffice of a gentlemanly pawnbroker, who spoke seven languages like anative and was prepared to advance money on reasonable security in allof them.

  It was a colossal venture, but it suffered from the defect from whichmost big things suffer; it moved slowly. That it also moved steadilywas to some extent a consolation to Mr. Scobell. Undoubtedly it wouldprogress quicker and quicker, as time went on, until at length theCasino became a permanent gold mine. But at present it was beingconducted at a loss. It was inevitable, but it irked Mr. Scobell. Hepaced the island and brooded. His mind dwelt incessantly on theproblem. Ideas for promoting the prosperity of his nursling came to himat all hours--at meals, in the night watches, when he was shaving,walking, washing, reading, brushing his hair.

  And now one had come to him as he stood looking at the view from thewindow of his morning-room, listening absently to his sister Marion asshe read stray items of interest from the columns of the _New YorkHerald_, and had caused him to utter the exclamation recorded at thebeginning of the chapter.

  * * * * *

  "By Heck!" he said. "Read that again, Marion. I gottan idea."

  Miss Scobell, deep in her paper, paid no attention. Few people wouldhave taken her for the sister of the financier. She was his exactopposite in almost every way. He was small, jerky and aggressive; she,tall, deliberate and negative. She was one of those women whom natureseems to have produced with the object of attaching them to some man ina peculiar position of independent dependence, and who defy theimagination to picture them in any other condition whatsoever. Onecould not see Miss Scobell doing anything but pour out her brother'scoffee, darn his socks, and sit placidly by while he talked. Yet itwould have been untrue to describe her as dependent upon him. She had adetached mind. Though her whole life had been devoted to his comfortand though she admired him intensely, she never appeared to give hisconversation any real attention. She listened to him much as she wouldhave listened to a barking Pomeranian.

  "Marion!" cried Mr. Scobell.

  "A five-legged rabbit has been born in Carbondale, Southern Illinois,"she announced.

  Mr. Scobell cursed the five-legged rabbit.

  "Never mind about your rabbits. I want to hear that piece you readbefore. The one about the Prince of Monaco. Will--you--listen, Marion!"

  "The Prince of Monaco, dear? Yes. He has caught another fish orsomething of that sort, I think. Yes. A fish with 'telescope eyes,' thepaper says. And very convenient too, I should imagine."

  Mr. Scobell thumped the table.

  "I've got it. I've found out what's the matter with this darned place.I see why the Casino hasn't struck its gait."

  "_I_ think it must be the _croupiers_, dear. I'm sure I neverheard of _croupiers_ in fancy costume before. It doesn't seemright. I'm sure people don't like those nasty Hindoos. I am quitenervous myself when I go into the Indian room. They look at me sooddly."

  "Nonsense! That's the whole idea of the place, that it should bedifferent. People are sick and tired of having their money gathered inby seedy-looking Dagoes in second-hand morning coats. We give 'emvariety. It's not the Casino that's wrong: it's the darned island.What's the use of a republic to a place like this? I'm not saying thatyou don't want a republic for a live country that's got its way to makein the world; but for a little runt of a sawn-off, hobo, one-nightstand like this you gotta have something picturesque, something that'lladvertise the place, something that'll give a jolt to folks' curiosity,and make 'em talk! There's this Monaco gook. He snoops around in hisyacht, digging up telescope-eyed fish, and people talk about it.'Another darned fish,' they say. 'That's the 'steenth bite the Prince ofMonaco has had this year.' It's like a soap advertisement. It works bysuggestion. They get to thinking about the Prince and his pop-eyedfishes, and, first thing they know, they've packed their grips and comealong to Monaco to have a peek at him. And when they're there, it's asafe bet they aren't going back again without trying to get a mess ofeasy money from the Bank. That's what this place wants. Whoever heardof this blamed Republic doing anything except eat and sleep? They usedto have a prince here 'way back in eighty-something. Well, I'm going tohave him working at the old stand again, right away."

  Miss Scobell looked up from her paper, which she had been reading withabsorbed interest throughout tins harangue.

  "Dear?" she said enquiringly.

  "I say I'm going to have him back again," said Mr. Scobell, a littledamped. "I wish you would listen."

  "I think you're quite right, dear. Who?"

  "The Prince. Do listen, Marion. The Prince of this island, HisHighness, the Prince of Mervo. I'm going to send for him and put him onthe throne again."

  "You can't, dear. He's dead."

  "I know he's dead. You can't faze me on the history of this place. Hedied in ninety-one. But before he died he married an American girl, andthere's a son, who's in America now, living with his uncle. It's theson I'm going to send for. I got it all from General Poineau. He's aroyalist. He'll be tickled to pieces when Johnny comes marching homeagain. Old man Poineau told me all about it. The Prince married a girlcalled Westley, and then he was killed in an automobile accident, andhis widow went back to America with the kid, to live with her brother.Poineau says he could lay his hand on him any time he pleased."

  "I hope you won't do anything rash, dear," said his sister comfortably."I'm sure we don't want any horrid revolution here, with peopleshooting and stabbing each other."

  "Revolution?" cried Mr. Scobell. "Revolution! Well, I should say nix!Revolution nothing. I'm the man with t
he big stick in Mervo. Prettynear every adult on this island is dependent on my Casino for hisweekly envelope, and what I say goes--without argument. I want aprince, so I gotta have a prince, and if any gazook makes a noise likea man with a grouch, he'll find himself fired."

  Miss Scobell turned to her paper again.

  "Very well, dear," she said. "Just as you please. I'm sure you knowbest."

  "Sure!" said her brother. "You're a good guesser. I'll go and beat upold man Poineau right away."