Big Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'The Morning Post doesn't mention that. Still, if she's pretty and attractive, I may be wronging the Biscuit in thinking he is selling himself for gold.'

  'Why, Master Berry! What a thing to say of a friend of yours.'

  'Well, it's a bit of luck for him, anyway. I suppose this girl is rolling in money.'

  'I hope you won't ever marry for money, dear.'

  'Not me. I'm romantic. I'm one of those fellows who are practically all soul.'

  'I often say it's love that makes the world go round.'

  'I've never heard it put as well as that before,' said Berry, 'but I shouldn't wonder if you weren't absolutely right. Was that the clock striking? I must rush.'

  George, sixth Earl of Hoddesdon, father of the bridegroom-to-be, did not see his Morning Post till nearly eleven. He was a late riser and paper-reader. Having scanned the announcement with silent satisfaction, fingering at intervals the becoming grey moustache which adorned his upper lip, he put on a grey top-hat, and went round to see his sister, Lady Vera Mace.

  ''Morning, Vera.'

  'Good morning, George.'

  'Well, I see it's in.'

  'The announcement? Oh, yes.'

  Lord Hoddesdon eyed her reverently.

  'How did you work it?' he asked.

  'I?' His sister raised her eyebrows. 'Work it?'

  'Well, dash it,' said Lord Hoddesdon, who, like so many of England's aristocracy, was prone to be a little unenthusiastic about his offspring. 'Don't tell me that a girl like Ann Moon would accept a boy like Godfrey unless somebody had put in the deuce of a lot of preliminary spadework.'

  'Naturally, I did my best to throw them together.'

  'You would.'

  'I told her as often as I could what a charming boy he was.'

  'You said that!' exclaimed Lord Hoddesdon, incredulously.

  'Well, so he is, when he likes to be. At any rate, he can be quite amusing.'

  'He's never made me so much as smile,' said Lord Hoddesdon. 'Except once,' he corrected himself, 'when he tried to touch me for a tenner at Newmarket. Thank God he has found this girl.'

  Once more he inflated the chest beneath his perfectly cut waistcoat. He sighed a sigh of exquisite contentment, and his handsome face glowed.

  'It'll be the first time the family has seen the colour of real money,' he said, 'since the reign of Charles the Second.'

  There was a pause.

  'George,' said Lady Vera.

  'Hullo?'

  'I want you to attend to me very carefully, George.'

  Lord Hoddesdon surveyed his sister almost affectionately. He was seeing everything through rose-coloured spectacles on this morning of mornings: but, even making the necessary allowances for that, he was bound to admit that she looked extraordinarily attractive. Upon his word, felt Lord Hoddesdon, she seemed to get handsomer all the time. He made a mental calculation. Yes, well over forty, and anyone might take her for thirty-two. A thrill of pride passed through him, heightened as he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror. Whatever you might say about them, the family did keep their looks.

  His second thought was that, much as he admired the flawless regularity of his sister's features, he was not at all sure that he liked the expression they were wearing at the moment. An odd expression. Rather hard. She reminded him of a governess who had rapped his knuckles a good deal when he was a child.

  'I want you to remember, George, that they are not married yet.'

  'Of course. Naturally not. Announcement's only just appeared in the paper.'

  'And so will you, please,' proceeded Lady Vera, her beautiful eyes now definitely stony, 'abandon your intention of calling on Mr Frisby and asking him to oblige you with a small loan. It is just the sort of thing that might upset everything.'

  Lord Hoddesdon gasped.

  'You don't imagine I would be fool enough to go touching Frisby?'

  'Wasn't that your idea?'

  'Of course not. Certainly not. I was thinking – er – I was wondering – well, to tell you the truth, it crossed my mind that you might possibly be willing to part with a trifle.'

  'It did, eh?'

  'I don't see why you shouldn't,' said Lord Hoddesdon plaintively. 'You must have plenty. There's a lot of money in this chaperoning business. When you took on that Argentine girl three years ago you got a couple of thousand pounds.'

  'I got fifteen hundred,' corrected his sister. 'In a moment of weakness – I can't imagine what I was thinking of – I lent you the rest.'

  'Er – well, yes,' said Lord Hoddesdon, not unembarrassed. 'That is, in a measure, true. It comes back to me now.'

  'It didn't come back to me – ever,' said Lady Vera, in a voice that sounded, though not to her brother, like the tinkling of silver bells.

  There was another pause.

  'Oh, well, if you won't, you won't,' said Lord Hoddesdon gloomily.

  'No,' agreed Lady Vera. 'But I'll tell you what I will do. I was going to take Ann to lunch at the Berkeley, but Mr Frisby has rung up to ask me to motor down to Brighton for the day, so I will give you the money and you can look after her.'

  Lord Hoddesdon felt a little like a tiger which has hoped for a cut off the joint and has been handed a cheese-straw, but he told himself with the splendid Hoddesdon philosophy that it was better than nothing.

  'All right,' he said. 'I'm not doing anything. Hand over the tenner.'

  'The what?'

  'Well, the fiver or whatever it may be.'

  'Lunch at the Berkeley,' said Lady Vera, 'costs eight shillings and sixpence. For two, seventeen shillings. Waiter, two shillings. Possibly Ann may like a lemonade or some water of some kind. Say two shillings again. Your hat-check, sixpence. For coffee and unforeseen emergencies, half a crown. If I give you twenty-five shillings, that will be ample.'

  'Ample?' said Lord Hoddesdon.

  'Ample,' said Lady Vera.

  Lord Hoddesdon fingered his moustache unhappily. He was feeling now as Elijah would have felt in the wilderness if the ravens had suddenly developed cut-throat business methods.

  'But suppose the girl wants a cocktail?'

  'She doesn't drink cocktails.'

  'Well, I do,' said Lord Hoddesdon mutinously.

  'No, you don't,' said Lady Vera, her resemblance to the departed governess now quite striking.

  Lord Biskerton was not a reader of the Morning Post. The first intimation he received that the announcement of his betrothal had appeared in print was when Berry Conway rang him up from Mr Frisby's office to congratulate him. He accepted his friend's good wishes in a becoming spirit and resumed his breakfast in a quiet and orderly manner.

  He was busy on the marmalade when his father arrived.

  It was not often that Lord Hoddesdon visited his son and heir, but in some mysterious way there had floated into his lordship's mind as he left Lady Vera's flat the extraordinary idea that Biskerton might possibly have a little cash in hand and be willing to part with some of it to the author of his being.

  'Er – Godfrey, my boy.'

  'Hullo, guv'nor.'

  Lord Hoddesdon coughed.

  'Er – Godfrey,' he said, 'I wonder – it so happens that I am a little short at the moment – I suppose you could not possibly—'

  'Guv'nor,' said the Biscuit, amusedly. 'This is Today's Big Laugh. Don't tell me you've come to make a touch?'

  'I thought—'

  'What on earth led you to suppose I'd got a bean?'

  'I fancied that possibly Mr Frisby might have made you some small present.'

  'Why the dickens?'

  'In celebration of the – er – happy event. After all, he is the uncle of your future bride. But, of course, if such is not the case—'

  'Such,' the Biscuit assured him, 'is decidedly not. The old, moth-eaten fossil to whom you allude, guv'nor, is the one man in this great city who never makes small presents in celebration of any happy event. His family motto is Nil desperandum–Never give up.'

  'Too bad,' s
ighed Lord Hoddesdon. 'I was hoping that you would be able to help me out. I am sorely in need of monetary assistance. Your aunt has asked me to take your fiancée to lunch at the Berkeley this afternoon, and her idea of expense-money is little short of Aberdonian. Twenty-five shillings!'

  'Lavish,' said the Biscuit firmly. 'I wish somebody would give me twenty-five bob. I've just a quid to see me through to the end of the month.'

  'As bad as that?'

  'One pound, two and twopence, to be exact.'

  'Still,' Lord Hoddesdon pointed out, 'you must remember that your prospects are now of the brightest. You have been wiser in your generation than I in mine, my boy.' He stroked his moustache and heaved another regretful sigh. 'As a young man,' he said, 'my great fault was impulsiveness. I should have married money, as you are sensibly doing. How clearly I see that now. And I had my opportunity – opportunity pressed down and running over. For months after I succeeded, wall-eyed heiresses were paraded before me in droves. But I was too romantic, too idealistic. Your poor mother was at that time a humble unit of the Gaiety Theatre company, and after I had been to see the piece in which she was performing sixteen times I suddenly noticed her. She was standing on the extreme O.P. side. Our eyes met – Not that I regret it for a moment, of course,' said Lord Hoddesdon. 'As fine a pal as a man ever had. On the other hand – Yes, you have shown yourself a wiser man than your old father, my boy.'

  Several times during this address the Biscuit had given evidence of a desire to interrupt. He now spoke forcefully.

  'I wish you wouldn't talk of Ann and wall-eyed heiresses without taking a long breath in between,' he said, justly annoyed. 'When you say I'm marrying money, it makes it sound as if the cash was all I cared about. Let me tell you, guv'nor, that this is love. The real thing. I'm crazy about Ann. In fact, when I think that a girl can be such a ripper and at the same time so dashed rich, it restores my faith in the Providence which looks after good men. She's the sweetest thing on earth, and if I had more than one pound, two and twopence I'd be taking her to lunch today myself.'

  'A charming girl,' agreed Lord Hoddesdon. 'How did you ever induce her to accept you?' he asked, a father's natural bewilderment returning.

  'It was Edgeling that did it.'

  'Edgeling?'

  'Edgeling. You may say what you like against our old ancestral seat, guv'nor – it costs a fortune to keep up and it's too big to let and a white elephant generally, but there's one thing about it – it's romantic. I proposed to Ann in the old bowling-green – we had driven down in Bobby Blaythwait's two-seater – and it's my belief there isn't a girl in the world who could have held out in a setting like that. Doves were cooing, bees were buzzing, rooks were cawing, and the setting sun was gilding the ivied walls. No girl could have refused a fellow in such surroundings. Believe me, whatever its faults, Edgeling has done its bit and deserves credit.'

  'And, talking of credit,' said Lord Hoddesdon, 'it is pleasant to think that yours will now be excellent.'

  The Biscuit laughed bitterly.

  'Don't you imagine it for an instant,' he said vehemently. He indicated a pile of papers on the table. 'Look at those.'

  'What are they?'

  'Judgment summonses. If I hadn't a good, level head, I'd be in the County Court tomorrow.'

  Lord Hoddesdon uttered a startled cry.

  'You don't mean that!'

  'I do. Those fellows are out for blood. Shylock was a beginner compared with them.'

  'But, good God! Have you reflected? Do you realize? If you are taken into court, your engagement will be broken off. It is just the sort of thing that would appal a man like Frisby.'

  The Biscuit held up a soothing hand.

  'Have no fear, guv'nor. I have the situation well taped out. Trust me to take precautions. Look here.'

  He went to a drawer, took something out, concealed himself for a swift instant behind the angle of the book-case, and emerged. And as he did so Lord Hoddesdon emitted a strangled cry.

  He might well do so. Except for the fact that he possessed his mother's hair Lord Biskerton's appearance had never appealed strongly to the sixth Earl's aesthetic sense. And now with a dark wig covering that hair and a black beard of Imperial cut hiding his chin, he presented a picture so revolting that a father might be excused for making strange noises.

  'Bought 'em at Clarkson's yesterday,' said the Biscuit, regarding himself with satisfaction in the mirror. 'On tick, of course. Some eyebrows go with them. How about it?'

  'Godfrey – My boy—' Lord Hoddesdon's voice trembled, as a man's will in moments of intense emotion. 'You look terrible. Shocking. Ghastly. Like an international spy or something. Take the beastly things off !'

  'But would you recognize me?' persisted his son. 'That's the point. If, say, you were Hawes and Dawes, Shirts, Ties and Linens, twenty-three pounds, four and six, would you imagine for an instant that beneath this shrubbery, Godfrey, Lord Biskerton, lay hid?'

  'Of course I should.'

  'I'll bet you wouldn't. No, not even if you were Dykes, Dykes and Pinweed, Bespoke Tailors and Breeches-Makers, eighty-eight pounds, five and eleven. And I'll tell you how I'll prove it. You say you and Ann are lunching at the Berkeley. I'll be there, too, at a table as near yours as I can manage. And if Ann lets out so much as a single "Heavens! It is my Godfrey!" I'll call a waiter, give him beard, wig, and eyebrows, instruct him to have them fricasseed, and eat them.'

  Lord Hoddesdon uttered a faint moan and shut his eyes.

  CHAPTER 4

  I

  With his usual masterful dash in the last fifty yards Berry Conway had beaten the 8.45 express into Valley Fields station by the split-second margin which was his habit. Alien though he felt the suburbs were to him, he possessed in a notable degree that gift which marks off suburbanites from other men – the uncanny ability always to catch a train and never to catch it by more than three and a quarter seconds. And, as those who race for early expresses to the City have sterner work to do en route than the observing of weather conditions, it was only after he had taken his seat and regained his breath and had leisure to look about him that he realized how particularly pleasant this particular day was.

  It was, he perceived, a day for joy and adventure and romance. The sun was shining from a sapphire sky. Under its rays Herne Hill looked quite poetic. So did Brixton. And the river, as he crossed it, positively laughed up at him. By the time he reached Pudding Lane, he had come definitely to the conclusion that this was a morning which it would be a crime to waste cooped up in a stuffy office.

  He had frequently felt like this before, but never had Mr Frisby appeared to see eye to eye with him. Hard, prosaic stuff had gone to the making of T. Paterson Frisby. You didn't find him flinging work to the winds and going out and dancing Morris dances in Cornhill just because the sun happened to be shining. As a rule, it was precisely those magic mornings of gold and blue that seemed to stimulate the old buzzard to perfectly horrid orgies of toil. 'C'mon now!' he would say, eyeing a sunbeam as if it wanted to borrow money from him, and on Berry would have to come.

  But miracles do happen, if one is patient and prepared to wait for them. Just as Berry had finished sorting as dull a collection of letters as ever offended a young man's sensibilities on a glowing summer day, the door was flung open and there came in something so extraordinarily effulgent that he had to blink twice before he could focus it.

  It was not merely that T. Paterson Frisby was wearing a suit of light grey flannel. It was not even the fact that he had a panama hat on his head and a Brigade of Guards tie round his neck that stupefied the observer. The really amazing thing about him was his air of radiant bonhomie. The man seemed positively roguish. He had gone gay. As Berry stared at him dumbly, a sort of spasm passed over T. Paterson Frisby's face, causing a hideous distortion. It was a smile.

  ''Morning, Conway!'

  'Good morning, sir,' said Berry blankly.

  'Anything in the mail?'

  'Nothing of importance,
sir.'

  'Well, leave it all till tomorrow.'

  'Till tomorrow?'

  'Yes. I'm off to Brighton.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You can take the day off.'

  'Thank you very much, sir,' said Berry.

  He was stunned. Such a thing had never happened before. Not once in the whole course of his association with Mr Frisby had there ever been even the suggestion of such a thing. He could hardly believe that it was happening now.

  'Got to start right away. Motoring. Shan't be back till this evening. Two things I want you to do. Go to Mellon and Pirbright in Bond Street and get me a couple of aisle seats for some good show tonight. Put them down to my account and have them sent to my apartment.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Tell them I want something good. They know what I've seen. And then go on to the Berkeley and book me a table for supper.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Table for two. Not too near the band.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Right. By the way, I knew there was something. I saw that man Hoke last night. I told him about that mine of yours. He's interested.'

  A thrill shot through Berry.

  'Is he, sir?'

  'Yes. Oddly enough, he happens to know that particular property. Will you be in this evening?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I'll tell him to run down and see you. Between ourselves – don't let him know I told you – he will go to five hundred pounds.'

  'He will!'

  'He told me so. He was going to have tried for less, but I said that was your lowest figure. So, if you're satisfied, he'll bring down all the papers and you can get the thing settled tonight. And I won't charge you agent's commission,' said Mr Frisby chuckling like a Cheeryble brother.

  Berry blinked. Exquisite remorse racked him when he thought that not once but several times in his private reflections he had labelled this golden-hearted man a fish-faced little slave-driver. He saw him now for what he was – an angel in disguise.

  'I'm most awfully obliged, sir,' he stammered.