Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER 17

  A GHOSTLY GATHERING

  Norah Perkins is a peach, and I don't care who knows it; but, all thesame, there's no need to tell her every little detail of a man's pastlife. Not that I've been a Don What's-his-name. Far from it. Costs abit too much, that game. You simply can't do it on sixty quid a year,paid monthly, and that's all there is about it. Not but what I don'toften think of going it a bit when things are slack at the office andmy pal in the New Business Department is out for lunch. It's theloneliness makes you think of going a regular plunger. More than once,when Tommy Milner hasn't been there to talk to, I tell you I've half amind to take out some girl or other to tea at the "Cabin." I have,straight.

  Yet somehow when the assist. cash. comes round with the wicker tray onthe 1st, and gives you the envelope ("Mr. Price") and you take out thefive sovereigns--well, somehow, there's such a lot of other thingswhich you don't want to buy but have just got to. Tommy Milner said theother day, and I quite agree with him, "When I took my cleanhandkerchief out last fortnight," he said, "I couldn't help totting upwhat a lot I spend on trifles." That's it. There you've got it in anutshell. Washing, bootlaces, bus-tickets--trifles, in fact: that'swhere the coin goes. Only the other morning I bust my braces. I waslate already, and pinning them together all but lost me the 9:16, onlyit was a bit behind time. It struck me then as I ran to the stationthat the average person would never count braces an expense.Trifles--that's what it is.

  No; I may have smoked a cig. too much and been so chippy next day thatI had to go out and get a cup of tea at the A.B.C.; or I may now andagain have gone up West of an evening for a bit of a look round; butbeyond that I've never been really what you'd call vicious. Very likelyit's been my friendship for Mr. Hatton that's curbed me breaking out asI've sometimes imagined myself doing when I've been alone in the NewBusiness Room. Though I must say, in common honesty to myself, thatthere's always been the fear of getting the sack from the "Moon." The"Moon" isn't like some other insurance companies I could mentionwhich'll take anyone. Your refs. must be A1, or you don't stand anearthly. Simply not an earthly. Besides, the "Moon" isn't an InsuranceCompany at all: it's an _As_surance Company. Of course, now I'vechucked the "Moon" ("shot the moon," as Tommy Milner, who's the officecomic, put it) and taken to Literature I could do pretty well what Iliked, if it weren't for Norah.

  Which brings me back to what I was saying just now--that I'm not surewhether I shall tell her the Past. I may and I may not. I'll have tothink it over. Anyway, I'm going to write it down first and see how itlooks. If it's all right it can go into my autobiography. If it isn't,then I shall lie low about it. That's the posish.

  It all started from my friendship with Mr. Hatton--the Rev. Mr. Hatton.If it hadn't have been for that man I should still be working out ratesof percentage for the "Moon" and listening to Tommy Milner's so-calledwitticisms. Of course, I've cut him now. A literary man, a man whosupplies the _Strawberry Leaf_ with two columns of SocialInterludes at a salary I'm not going to mention in case Norah gets tohear of it and wants to lash out, a man whose Society novels arecompeted for by every publisher in London and New York--well, can a manin that position be expected to keep up with an impudent littleledger-lugger like Tommy Milner? It can't be done.

  I first met the Reverend on the top of Box Hill one Saturdayafternoon. Bike had punctured, and the Reverend gave me theloan of his cyclists' repairing outfit. We had our tea together.Watercress, bread-and-butter, and two sorts of jam--one bob perhead. He issued an invite to his diggings in the Temple. Cocoa andcigs. of an evening. Regular pally, him and me was. Then he got intothe way of taking me down to a Boys' Club that he had started.Terrors they were, so to put it. Fair out-and-out terrors. But theyall thought a lot of the Reverend, and so did I. Consequently it wasall right. The next link in the chain was a chap called Cloyster.James Orlebar Cloyster. The Reverend brought him down to teachboxing. For my own part, I don't fancy anything in the way ofbrutality. The club, so I thought, had got on very nicely withmore intellectual pursuits: draughts, chess, bagatelle, and what-not.But the Rev. wanted boxing, and boxing it had to be. Not that itwould have done for him or me to have mixed ourselves up in it. Hehad his congregation to consider, and I am often on duty at thedownstairs counter before the very heart of the public. A black eyeor a missing tooth wouldn't have done at all for either of us, being,as we were, in a sense, officials. But Cloyster never seemed torealise this. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Cloyster was notmy idea of a gentleman. He had no tact.

  The next link was a confirmed dipsomaniac. A terrible phrase.Unavoidable, though. A very evil man is Tom Blake. Yet out of evilcometh good, and it was Tom Blake, who, indirectly, stopped the boxinglessons. The club boys never wore the gloves after drunken Blake'svisit.

  I shall never--no, positively never forget that night in June whenmatters came to a head in Shaftesbury Avenue. Oh, I say, it was a bithot--very warm.

  Each successive phase is limned indelibly--that's the sort of literarystyle I've got, if wanted--on the tablets of my memory.

  I'd been up West, and who should I run across in Oxford Street but myold friend, Charlie Cookson. Very good company is Charlie Cookson. Seehim at a shilling hop at the Holborn: he's pretty much all there allthe time. Well-known follower--of course, purely as an amateur--of thelate Dan Leno, king of comedians; good penetrating voice; writes hisown in-between bits--you know what I mean: the funny observations onmothers-in-law, motors, and marriage, marked "Spoken" in thesong-books. Fellows often tell him he'd make a mint of money in thehalls, and there's a rumour flying round among us who knew him in the"Moon" that he was seen coming out of a Bedford Street Variety Agencythe other day.

  Well, I met Charlie at something after ten. Directly he spotted me hewas at his antics, standing stock still on the pavement in a crouchingattitude, and grasping his umbrella like a tomahawk. His humour'salways high-class, but he's the sort of fellow who doesn't care a blowwhat he does. Chronic in that respect, absolutely. The passers-bycouldn't think what he was up to. "Whoop-whoop-whoop!" that's what hesaid. He did, straight. Only _yelled_ it. I thought it was going abit too far in a public place. So, to show him, I just said "Goodevening, Cookson; how are you this evening?" With all his entertainingways he's sometimes slow at taking a hint. No tact, if you see what Imean.

  In this case, for instance, he answered at the top of his voice: "BollyGolly, yah!" and pretended to scalp me with his umbrella. I immediatelyducked, and somehow knocked my bowler against his elbow. He caught itas it was falling off my head. Then he said, "Indian brave give littlepale face chief his hat." This was really too much, and I felt relievedwhen a policeman told us to move on. Charlie said: "Come and have twopenn'orth of something."

  Well, we stayed chatting over our drinks (in fact, I was well into mysecond lemon and dash) at the Stockwood Hotel until nearly eleven. Atfive to, Charlie said good-bye, because he was living in, and I walkedout into the Charing Cross Road, meaning to turn down ShaftesburyAvenue so as to get a breath of fresh air. Outside the Oxford there wasa bit of a crowd. I asked a man standing outside a tobacconist's whatthe trouble was. "Says he won't go away without kissing the girl thatsang 'Empire Boys,'" was the reply. "Bin shiftin' it, 'e 'as, not'arf!" Sure enough, from the midst of the crowd came:

  Yew are ther boys of the Empire, Steady an' brave an' trew. Yew are the wuns She calls 'er sons An' I luv yew.

  I had gone, out of curiosity, to the outskirts of the crowd, and beforeI knew what had happened I found myself close to the centre of it. Alarge man in dirty corduroys stood with his back to me. His shapeseemed strangely familiar. Still singing, and swaying to horribleangles all over the shop, he slowly pivoted round. In a moment Irecognised the bleary features of Tom Blake. At the same time herecognised me. He stretched out a long arm and seized me by theshoulder. "Oh," he sobbed, "I thought I 'ad no friend in the wide worldexcept 'er; but now I've got yew it's orlright. Yus, yus, it'sorlright." A murmur, almost a cheer it was, circu
lated among the crowd.But a policeman stepped up to me.

  "Now then," said the policeman, "wot's all this about?"

  Yew are the wuns She calls 'er sons----

  shouted Blake.

  "Ho, that's yer little game, is it?" said the policeman. "Move on,d'yer hear? Pop off."

  "I will," said Blake. "I'll never do it again. I promise faithful neverto do it again. I've found a fren'."

  "Do you know this covey?" asked the policeman.

  "Deny it, if yer dare," said Blake. "Jus' you deny it, that's orl, an'I'll tell the parson."

  "Slightly, constable," I said. "I mean, I've seen him before."

  "Then you'd better take 'im off if you don't want 'im locked up."

  "'Im want me locked up? We're bosum fren's, ain't we, old dear?" saidBlake, linking his arm in mine and dragging me away with him. Behindus, the policeman was shunting the spectators. Oh, it was excessivelydispleasing to any man of culture, I can assure you.

  How we got along Shaftesbury I don't know. It's a subject I do not careto think about.

  By leaning heavily on my shoulder and using me, so to speak, asballast, drunken Blake just managed to make progress, I cannot sayunostentatiously, but at any rate not so noticeably as to be taken intocustody.

  I didn't know, mind you, where we were going to, and I didn't know whenwe were going to stop.

  In this frightful manner of progression we had actually gained sight ofPiccadilly Circus when all of a sudden a voice hissed in my ear:"Sidney Price, I am disappointed in you." Hissed, mind you. I tell you,I jumped. Thought I'd bitten my tongue off at first.

  If drunken Blake hadn't been clutching me so tight you could haveknocked me down with a feather: bowled me over clean. It startled Blakea goodish bit, too. All along the Avenue he'd been making just a quietsort of snivelling noise. Crikey, if he didn't speak up quite perky."O, my fren'," he says. "So drunk and yet so young." Meaning me, if youplease.

  It was too thick.

  "You blighter," I says. "You _blooming_ blighter. You talk to melike that. Let go of my arm and see me knock you down."

  I must have been a bit excited, you see, to say that. Then I lookedround to see who the other individual was. You'll hardly credit me whenI tell you it was the Reverend. But it was. Honest truth, it was theRev. John Hatton and no error. His face fairly frightened me. Simplyblazing: red: fair scarlet. He kept by the side of us and let me haveit all he could. "I thought you knew better, Price," that's what hesaid. "I thought you knew better. Here are you, a friend of mine, amember of the Club, a man I've trusted, going about the streets ofLondon in a bestial state of disgusting intoxication. That's enough initself. But you've done worse than that. You've lured poor Blake intointemperance. Yes, with all your advantages of education andup-bringing, you deliberately set to work to put temptation in the wayof poor, weak, hard-working Blake. Drunkenness is Blake's besettingsin, and you----"

  Blake had been silently wagging his head, as pleased as Punch at beingcalled hardworking. But here he shoved in his oar.

  "'Ow dare yer!" he burst out. "I ain't never tasted a drop o' beer inmy natural. Born an' bred teetotal, that's wot I was, and don't yewforget it, neither."

  "Blake," said the Reverend, "that's not the truth."

  "Call me a drunkard, do yer?" replied Blake. "Go on. Say it again. SayI'm a blarsted liar, won't yer? Orlright, then I shall run away."

  And with that he wrenched himself away from me and set off towards theCircus. He was trying to run, but his advance took the form ofsemi-circular sweeps all over the pavement. He had circled off sounexpectedly that he had gained some fifty yards before we realisedwhat was happening. "We must stop him," said the Reverend.

  "As I'm intoxicated," I said, coldly (being a bit fed up with things),"I should recommend you stopping him, Mr. Hatton."

  "I've done you an injustice," said the Reverend.

  "You have," said I.

  Blake was now nearing a policeman. "Stop him!" we both shouted,starting to run forward.

  The policeman brought Blake to a standstill.

  "Friend of yours?" said the constable when we got up to him.

  "Yes," said the Reverend.

  "You ought to look after him better," said the constable.

  "Well, really, I like that!" said the Reverend; but he caught my eyeand began laughing. "Our best plan," he said, "is to get a four-wheelerand go down to the Temple. There's some supper there. What do you say?"

  "I'm on," I said, and to the Temple we accordingly journeyed.

  Tom Blake was sleepy and immobile. We spread him without hindrance on asofa, where he snored peacefully whilst the Reverend brought eggs and aslab of bacon out of a cupboard in the kitchen. He also brought afrying-pan, and a bowl of fat.

  "Is your cooking anything extra good?" he asked.

  "No, Mr. Hatton," I answered, rather stiff; "I've never cooked anythingin my life." I may not be in a very high position in the "Moon," butI've never descended to menial's work yet.

  For about five minutes after that the Reverend was too busy to speak.Then he said, without turning his head away from the hissing pan, "Iwish you'd do me a favour, Price."

  "Certainly," I said.

  "Look in the cupboard and see whether there are any knives, forks,plates, and a loaf and a bit of butter, will you?"

  I looked, and, sure enough, they were there.

  "Yes, they're all here," I called to him.

  "And is there a tray?"

  "Yes, there's a tray."

  "Now, it's a funny thing that my laundress," he shouted back, "can'tbring in breakfast things for more than one on that particular tray.She's always complaining it's too small, and says I ought to buy abigger one."

  "Nonsense," I exclaimed, "she's quite wrong about that. You watch whatI can carry in one load." And I packed the tray with everything he hadmentioned.

  "What price that?" I said, putting the whole boiling on thesitting-room table.

  The Reverend began to roar with laughter. "It's ridiculous," hechuckled. "I shall tell her it's ridiculous. She ought to be ashamed ofherself."

  Shortly after we had supper, previously having aroused Blake.

  The drunken fellow seemed completely restored by his repose. He atemore than his share of the eggs and bacon, and drank five cups of tea.Then he stretched himself, lit a clay pipe, and offered us his tobaccobox, from which the Reverend filled his briar. I remained true to mypacket of "Queen of the Harem." I shall think twice before chucking upcig. smoking as long as "Queen of the Harem" don't go abovetuppence-half-penny per ten.

  We were sitting there smoking in front of the fire--it was a shadeparky for the time of year--and not talking a great deal, when theReverend said to Blake, "Things are looking up on the canal, aren'tthey, Tom?"

  "No," said Blake; "things ain't lookin' up on the canal."

  "Got a little house property," said the Reverend, "to spend when youfeel like it?"

  "No," said the other; "I ain't got no 'ouse property to spend."

  "Ah." said the Reverend, cheesing it, and sucking his pipe.

  "Dessay yer think I'm free with the rhino?" said Blake after a while.

  "I was only wondering," said the Reverend.

  Blake stared first at the Reverend and then at me.

  "Ever remember a party of the name of Cloyster, Mr. James OrlebarCloyster?" he inquired.

  "Yes," we both said.

  "'E's a good man," said Blake.

  "Been giving you money?" asked the Reverend.

  "'E's put me into the way of earning it. It's the sorfest job ever Istruck. 'E told me not to say nothin', and I said as 'ow I wouldn't.But it ain't fair to Mr. Cloyster, not keeping of it dark ain't. Yewdon't know what a noble 'eart that man's got, an' if you weren't fren'of 'is I couldn't have told you. But as you are fren's of 'is, as we'reall fren's of 'is, I'll take it on myself to tell you wot thatnoble-natured man is giving me money for. Blowed if 'e shall 'ide hisbloomin' light under a blanky bushel any longer." And
then he explainedthat for putting his name to a sheet or two of paper, and addressing afew envelopes, he was getting more money than he knew what to do with."Mind you," he said, "I play it fair. I only take wot he says I'm totake. The rest goes to 'im. My old missus sees to all that part of it'cos she's quicker at figures nor wot I am."

  While he was speaking, I could hardly contain myself. The Reverend waslistening so carefully to every word that I kept myself frominterrupting; but when he'd got it off his chest, I clutched theReverend's arm, and said, "What's it mean?"

  "Can't say," said he, knitting his brows.

  "Is he straight?" I said, all on the jump.

  "I hope so."

  "'Hope so.' You don't think there's a doubt of it?"

  "I suppose not. But surely it's very unselfish of you to be soconcerned over Blake's business."

  "Blake's business be jiggered," I said. "It's my business, too. I'mdoing for Mister James Orlebar Cloyster exactly what Blake's doing. AndI'm making money. You don't understand."

  "On the contrary, I'm just beginning to understand. You see, I'm doingfor Mr. James Orlebar Cloyster exactly the same service as you andBlake. And I'm getting money from him, too."