P G Wodehouse - Man Upstairs

by Man Upstairs

  "And this morning-what do you think! Why, he meets me as bold as you please, and gives me a cake of toilet soap. Like his impudence!"

  She paused, hopefully.

  "Always useful, soap," said Arthur, politely sententious.

  "Lovely it was," went on Maud, dully conscious of failure, but stippling in like an artist the little touches which give atmosphere and verisimilitude to a story. "All scented. Horace will tease me about it, I can tell you."

  She paused. Surely he must-Why, a sea-anemone would be torn with jealousy at such a tale.

  Arthur did not even wince. He was charming about it. Thought it very kind of the young fellow. Didn't blame him for being struck by the whiteness of her hands. Touched on the history of soap, which he happened to have been reading up in the encyclopædia at the free library. And behaved altogether in such a thoroughly gentlemanly fashion that Maud stayed awake half the night, crying.

  If Maud had waited another twenty-four hours there would have been no need for her to have taxed her powers of invention, for on the following day there entered the shop and her life a young man who was not imaginary-a Lothario of flesh and blood. He made his entry with that air of having bought most of the neighbouring property which belongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the Stock Exchange, and American professional pugilists.

  Mr. "Skipper" Shute belonged to the last-named of the three classes. He had arrived in England two months previously for the purpose of holding a conference at eight-stone four with one Joseph Edwardes, to settle a question of superiority at that weight which had been vexing the sporting public of two countries for over a year. Having successfully out-argued Mr. Edwardes, mainly by means of strenuous work in the clinches, he was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-hall tour with his celebrated inaudible monologue. As a result of these things he was feeling very, very pleased with the world in general, and with Mr. Skipper Shute in particular. And when Mr. Shute was pleased with himself his manner was apt to be of the breeziest.

  He breezed into the shop, took a seat, and, having cast an experienced eye at Maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, and observed, "Go the limit, kid."

  At any other time Maud might have resented being addressed as "kid" by a customer, but now she welcomed it. With the exception of a slight thickening of the lobe of one ear, Mr. Shute bore no outward signs of his profession. And being, to use his own phrase, a "swell dresser," he was really a most presentable young man. Just, in fact, what Maud needed. She saw in him her last hope. If any faint spark of his ancient fire still lingered in Arthur, it was through Mr. Shute that it must be fanned.

  She smiled upon Mr. Shute. She worked on his robust fingers as if it were an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. So carefully did she toil that she was still busy when Arthur, taking off his apron and putting on his hat, went out for his twenty-minutes' lunch, leaving them alone together.

  The door had scarcely shut when Mr. Shute bent forward.

  "Say!"

  He sank his voice to a winning whisper.

  "You look good to muh," he said, gallantly.

  "The idea!" said Maud, tossing her head.

  "On the level," Mr. Shute assured her.

  Maud laid down her orange-sticks.

  "Don't be silly," she said. "There-I've finished."

  "I've not," said Mr. Shute. "Not by a mile. Say!"

  "Well?"

  "What do you do with your evenings?"

  "I go home."

  "Sure. But when you don't? It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Don't you ever whoop it up?"

  "Whoop it up?"

  "The mad whirl," explained Mr. Shute. "Ice-cream soda and buck-wheat cakes, and a happy evening at lovely Luna Park."

  "I don't know where Luna Park is."

  "What did they teach you at school? It's out in that direction," said Mr. Shute, pointing over his shoulder. "You go straight on about three thousand miles till you hit little old New York; then you turn to the right. Say, don't you ever get a little treat? Why not come along to the White City some old evening? This evening?"

  "Mr. Welsh is taking me to the White City to-night."

  "And who's Mr. Welsh?"

  "The gentleman who has just gone out."

  "Is that so? Well, he doesn't look a live one, but maybe it's just because he's had bad news to-day. You never can tell." He rose. "Farewell, Evelina, fairest of your sex. We shall meet again; so keep a stout heart."

  And, taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellow gloves, Mr. Shute departed, leaving Maud to her thoughts.

  She was disappointed. She had expected better results. Mr. Shute had lowered with ease the record for gay badinage, hitherto held by the red-faced customer; yet to all appearances there had been no change in Arthur's manner. But perhaps he had scowled (or bitten his lip), and she had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr. Shute, an unbiased spectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been on her work-She hoped for the best.

  Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur was undeniably cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. His light-hearted abandon on the Wiggle-Woggle had been noted and commented upon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the Hairy Ainus, he had touched a high level of facetiousness. And now, as he sat with her listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself in accompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in the world.

  Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening. But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been-yes, flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to be cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an explanation-a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good temper and then forgiven-all this at great length-for having been in a bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or the other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her.

  She trembled.

  "Cold?" said Arthur. "Let's walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now. Lum-da-diddley-ah. That's what I call a good tune. Give me something lively and bright. Dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. Dum tum-"

  "Funny thing-" said Maud, deliberately.

  "What's a funny thing?"

  "The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon-"

  "He was," agreed Arthur, brightly. "A very funny thing."

  Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of Hairy Ainus was one thing-at her own another.

  "I was about to say," she went on precisely, "that it was a funny thing, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that the gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon should have asked me to come here, to the White City, with him to-night."

  For a moment they walked on in silence. To Maud it seemed a hopeful silence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst.

  "Oh!" he said, and stopped.

  Maud's heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone?

  A couple of paces, and he spoke again.

  "I didn't hear him ask you."

  His voice was disappointingly level.

  "He asked me after you had gone out to lunch."

  "It's a nuisance," said Arthur, cheerily, "when things clash like that. But perhaps he'll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming here twice. Well repays a second visit, I always say. I think-"

  "You shouldn't," said a voice behind him. "It hurts the head. Well, kid, being shown a good time?"

  The possibility of meeting Mr. Shute had not occurred to Maud. She had assumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, he would have stayed away. It may, however, be remarked that she did not know Mr. Shute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiled pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress and a silk hat that, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror.

&nb
sp; Maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did not seem to matter much now either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, in fact. Arthur's cheery acceptance of the news that she received invitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb and listless.

  She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other.

  "Pleased to meet you," said Mr. Shute.

  "Weather keeps up," said Arthur.

  And from that point onward Mr. Shute took command.

  It is to be assumed that this was not the first time that Mr. Shute had made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity with which he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothly was it done that it was not until she emerged from the Witching Waves, guided by the pugilist's slim but formidable right arm, that Maud realised that Arthur had gone.

  She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to be somewhat afraid of Mr. Shute. He was showing signs of being about to step out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on a larger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes all the difference.

  "Oh! He's gone!" she cried.

  "Sure," said Mr. Shute. "He got a hurry-call from the Uji Village. The chief's cousin wants a hair-cut."

  "We must find him. We must."

  "Surest thing you know," said Mr. Shute. "Plenty of time."

  "We must find him."

  Mr. Shute regarded her with some displeasure.

  "Seems to be ace-high with you, that dub," he said.

  "I don't understand you."

  "My observation was," explained Mr. Shute, coldly, "that, judging from appearances, that dough-faced lemon was Willie-boy, the first and only love."

  Maud turned on him with flaming cheeks.

  "Mr. Welsh is nothing to me! Nothing! Nothing!" she cried.

  She walked quickly on.

  "Then, if there's a vacancy, star-eyes," said the pugilist at her side, holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, "count me in. Directly I saw you-see here, what's the idea of this road-work? We aren't racing-"

  Maud slowed down.

  "That's better. As I was saying, directly I saw you, I said to myself, 'That's the one you need. The original candy kid. The-' "

  His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed. He cursed it in a brief aside.

  "That's what I said. 'The original candy kid.' So-"

  He shot out a restraining hand. "Arthur!" cried Maud. "Arthur!"

  "It's not my name," breathed Mr. Shute, tenderly. "Call me Clarence."

  Considered as an embrace, it was imperfect. At these moments a silk hat a size too small handicaps a man. The necessity of having to be careful about the nap prevented Mr. Shute from doing himself complete justice. But he did enough to induce Arthur Welsh, who, having sighted the missing ones from afar, had been approaching them at a walking pace, to substitute a run for the walk, and arrive just as Maud wrenched herself free.

  Mr. Shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replaced it with extreme care, and turned his attention to the new-comer.

  "Arthur!" said Maud.

  Her heart gave a great leap. There was no mistaking the meaning in the eye that met hers. He cared! He cared!

  "Arthur!"

  He took no notice. His face was pale and working. He strode up to Mr. Shute.

  Well?" he said between his teeth.

  An eight-stone-four champion of the world has many unusual experiences in his life, but he rarely encounters men who say "Well?" to him between their teeth. Mr. Shute eyed this freak with profound wonder.

  "I'll teach you to-to kiss young ladies!"

  Mr. Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave him the necessary time for reflection.

  "I don't need it," he said. "I've graduated."

  "Put them up!" hissed Arthur.

  Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist's face. So might Raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture.

  "You aren't speaking to ME?" he said, incredulously.

  "Put them up!"

  Maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming emotion. She was terrified-yes. But stronger than the terror was the great wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts had vanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was about to give the supreme proof. He was going to joust for her.

  A couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments. You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never got any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur's face, they certainly felt justified in pausing.

  Mr. Shute spoke.

  "If it wasn't," he said, carefully, "that I don't want trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals I'd-"

  He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him smartly on the side of the head.

  Compared with the blows Mr. Shute was wont to receive in the exercise of his profession, Arthur's was a gentle tap. But there was one circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had his heel. Mr. Shute's vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead of countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with both hands at his hat.

  He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with its proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his knuckles.

  There was a calm about Mr. Shute's demeanour as, having given his treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jaw-bones. Crouching in his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.

  And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators, reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, were congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch, that Police- Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr. Shute these memorable words: " 'Ullo, 'ullo! 'Ullo, 'ullo, 'ul-lo!"

  Mr. Shute appealed to his sense of justice.

  "The mutt knocked me hat off."

  "And I'd do it again," said Arthur, truculently.

  "Not while I'm here you wouldn't, young fellow," said Mr. Bryce, with decision. "I'm surprised at you," he went on, pained. "And you look a respectable young chap, too. You pop off."

  A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all cinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed.

  "And you pop off, too, all of you," continued Mr. Bryce. "Blest if I know what kids are coming to nowadays. And as for you," he said, addressing Mr. Shute, "all you've got to do is to keep that face of yours closed. That's what you've got to do. I've got my eye on you, mind, and if I catch you a-follerin' of him"-he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Arthur's departing figure-"I'll pinch you. Sure as you're alive." He paused. "I'd have done it already," he added, pensively, "if it wasn't me birthday."

  Arthur Welsh turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware that somebody was calling his name.

  "Oh, Arthur!"

  She was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes.

  "I've been running. You walked so fast."

  He stared down at her gloomily.

  "Go away," he said. "I've done with you."

  She clutched at his coat.

  "Arthur, listen-listen! It's all a mistake. I thought you-you didn't care for me any more, and I was miserable, and I wrote to the paper and asked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try and make you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. And I hated it, but I did it, and you didn't seem to care till now. And you know that there's nobody but you."

  "You-The paper? What?" he stammered.

  "Yes, yes, yes. I wrote to Fireside Chat, and Dr. Cupid said that when jealousy flew o
ut of the window indifference came in at the door, and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen and mark your demeanour. So I-Oh!"

  Arthur, luckier than Mr. Shute, was not hampered by a too small silk hat.

  It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards the Flip-Flap-which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for the evening's emotions-that Arthur, fumbling in his waist coat pocket, produced a small slip of paper.

  "What's that?" Maud asked.

  "Read it," said Arthur. "It's from Home Moments, in answer to a letter I sent them. And," he added with heat, "I'd like to have five minutes alone with the chap who wrote it."

  And under the electric light Maud read:-

  "Answers to Correspondents.

  By the Heart Specialist.

  Arthur W.-Jealousy, Arthur W., is not only the most wicked, but the most foolish of passions. Shakespeare says:-

  It is the green eyrd monster which doth mock

  The meat it feeds on

  You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the young lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly. There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be a man, Arthur W. Fight against it. You may find it hard at first, but persevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to other men, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is the only way."

  By Advice of Counsel

  The traveller champed meditatively at his steak. He paid no attention to the altercation which was in progress between the waiter and the man at the other end of the dingy room. The sounds of strife ceased. The waiter came over to the traveller's table and stood behind his chair. He was ruffled.

  "If he meant lamb," he said, querulously, "why didn't he say 'lamb,' so's a feller could hear him? I thought he said 'ham,' so I brought ham. Now Lord Percy gets all peevish."

  He laughed bitterly. The traveller made no reply.

  "If people spoke distinct," said the waiter, "there wouldn't be half the trouble there is in the world. Not half the trouble there wouldn't be. I shouldn't be here, for one thing. In this restawrong, I mean." A sigh escaped him.

  "I shouldn't," he said, "and that's the truth. I should be getting up when I pleased, eating and drinking all I wanted, and carrying on same as in the good old days. You wouldn't think, to look at me, would you now, that I was once like the lily of the field?"