Monty Bodkin was seated on the bed. In his hand was the Mickey Mouse. He was absently screwing its head on and off.
'Oh, hullo, Reggie,' he said dully. He screwed off the head of the Mickey Mouse, screwed it on again, and began to screw it off once more.
Reggie Tennyson was in the grip of that feeling that sometimes comes to one in dreams, the feeling that things are not making sense. Before him sat Monty Bodkin, and there, in Monty's possession, if a fellow could trust his eyesight, was the Mickey Mouse in person, the mouse of fate, the identical mouse there had been all this fuss about. Yet Monty was looking like a lump of putty, his manner listless, his tout ensemble devoid of sparkle. There was only one word that described the position of affairs adequately - the word 'inexplicable’.
'What... what...?' he ejaculated feebly, pointing a shaking finger.
Monty continued to look like a lump of putty. 'Oh, yes,' he said, 'I've got it back. Ambrose just brought it’ Reggie collapsed into a chair. He held firmly to the side of it. This seemed somehow to help a little. 'Ambrose?' 'Yes.'
'You say Ambrose restored this mouse?’
'Yes. Apparently the Blossom told him that she had got it and was holding me up with it, and Ambrose put the presidential veto on the scheme. He would have none of it. He told her it wasn't playing the game to hold chaps up with Mickey Mice, and he made her give it to him, and then he brought it tome.'
Reggie's grip on the chair tightened. Reason had been tottering on its throne already, and this amazing piece of information nearly unseated it
'You don't seriously mean that?'
‘Yes.'
'He told her it wasn't playing the game?'
‘Yes.’
'And by the sheer force of his personality made her yield up the mouse?'
Reggie drew a deep breath. He was feeling about his brother Ambrose as he had never felt before. In a tolerant sort of way he had always liked the chap, but he had never admired him particularly. Certainly he had never even begun to regard him as a bally superman. Yet, if he had really, as stated, succeeded in altering the trend of Lottie Blossom's mind when it had congealed into a determination to do dirty work at the crossroads, it was in the superman class that he must beyond a question be placed. No argument about that, whatever. He stepped straight into it, like Napoleon and Sir Stafford Cripps and the rest of the boys.
'Coo!' said Reggie, like a thunderstruck Albert Peasemarch.
'It was pretty decent of old Ambrose,' said Monty with the first sign of feeling that he had shown. 'You can't say it wasn't a square sort of thing to do. Lots of chaps would have just sat back and let the thing go on and sucked profit from it. But not old Ambrose.’
'Sound bloke,' agreed Reggie.
'He would have none of it. He made her disgorge. I thought it was pretty decent of him, and I told him so.’
There was a pause. Monty screwed on the head of the Mickey Mouse, screwed it off once more, and began to screw it on again.
'But, dash it...' said Reggie.
‘Well?'
'What about you?' ‘Me?'
'Yes. Why aren't you as bucked as dammit? What are you sitting there looking like that for, if you've got the thing back? Why no ringing cheers? Why no spring dances?'
Monty laughed a short, bitter, barking laugh.
'Oh, me? I've nothing to cheer about. Getting this mouse back doesn't make any difference to me. Everything's off.'
‘Off?' The word shot from Reggie Tennyson's lips in a sharp gasp, as if he had received a blow in some tender spot. 'Everything's off?' His eyes dilated. If the expression meant what he supposed it to mean, it was the end of all things. Bim went his two thousand quid, and as for his dreams of becoming a well-known and popular member of Hollywood's young married set, he might as well abandon them right away. 'Everything's off?' he quavered pallidly, clutching for support at his chair. 'Not you and Gertrude?'
‘Yes.'
'But why?'
Monty screwed off the head of the Mickey Mouse, screwed ·it on again, and began to screw it off once more.
'I'll tell you,' he said. 'When you fixed up that bally clever scheme of yours for my meeting the Blossom on the second-class promenade deck, you omitted to take into your calculations the fact that there was a second-class concert on tonight. You didn't know that Albert Peasemarch was singing at that concert and that he was going to ask Gertrude to come along and ginger up the applause...'
'My gosh! And Gertrude turned up?'
'She did.'
'And found you with Lottie?'
'No. I got hold of Albert Peasemarch and told him to go and head Lottie off. So he went and did it, and shortly afterwards came gambolling up to me, as I stood talking to Gertrude, and saluted in a sailorly manner and said that it was all right -that he had seen Miss Blossom and told her that I couldn't get together with her then and that she had said that she quite understood and would I come to her state-room round about eleven.'
'What!'
‘Yes.'
'My sainted aunt!' ‘Yes.'
'What a dashed infernal idiot! ‘
'A trifle shortish on savoir faire, yes,' agreed Monty. 'The effect of these few words on Gertrude was a bit noticeable. You occasionally read in the paper about gas explosions in London streets which slay four. The whole thing was rather along those lines. I won't tell you exactly what she said, because I would prefer, if you don't mind, not to dwell upon it.
But you can take it from me that everything is off - finally, definitely, and absolutely.’
Silence fell upon the state-room. Reggie sat clinging to the side of his chair. Monty screwed on the head of the Mickey Mouse, screwed it off again, and began to screw it on once more.
'I'm sorry,’ said Reggie at length.
'Thanks,’ said Monty. 'Yes, it is a bit of a nuisance.’
'Quite. Well, I think,' said Reggie rising, 'I'll go and stroll for a while on the boat deck.'
He had been gone some few minutes when there was a knock on the door. Mabel Spence entered.
'Hope I didn't disturb you,' said Mabel. 'I'm looking for Reggie Tennyson.'
'Just left,' said Monty. 'Boat deck.’
'Right,' said Mabel.
It was pleasant on the boat deck, or would have been to any man whose life was not wrecked and whose hopes were not lying in ruins. A soft breeze was blowing and quiet stars shone down from a cloudless sky. Reggie hardly felt the breeze, scarcely saw the stars. He clutched the rail as a short while before he had clutched his chair. Solid wood to grasp at is what a man needs at these moments.
It was thus that Mabel Spence found him. The sound of her footsteps made him turn. He released the rail and stood staring at her.
It is never easy to see clearly on boat decks at night, but love sharpens the eyesight and despite the velvet blackness that enshrouded her Reggie was able to detect that Mabel Spence was looking like a million dollars. A hardy girl, who believed in fresh air and its health-giving effect on the skin, she wore no wrap. Her neck and arms gleamed whitely under the stars. And the realization that all this loveliness would shortly be popping off to Southern California while he stayed languishing in Montreal came home to Reggie with such poignant bitterness that the deck seemed to quake under his feet like a morass and he could not check a hollow groan.
Mabel appeared concerned.
'Something the matter?' 'Nothing, nothing.'
‘You can't be feeling seasick on a night like this.’
'I'm not feeling seasick. It's just-'
'What?'
'Oh, I don't know.' 'Love?'
Reggie clutched the rail again. ‘Eh?'
Mabel Spence was a girl who had no use for circumlocution. She never beat about the bush. When there was a matter of urgency on the agenda paper, she lost no time in getting down to it in that quietly efficient way which, though it had never appealed to her brother-in-law Ivor Llewellyn, was considered by most of those who knew her to be one of her attractions.
'I've just been talking to Lottie Blossom. She said you had told her you were in love with me.’
Reggie tried to speak, but found that his vocal cords were not working.
‘And I came hunting after you to find out if it was official. Is it?' ‘Eh?'
‘Is it true?'
The foolishness of the question annoyed Reggie so much that he found his power of speech miraculously restored. Too damn silly, he felt, her asking a thing like that when for days he had been going out of his way to make it so abundantly clear what his feelings were towards her. An intelligent girl like herself, he meant to say, was surely aware that a fellow does not look at her as he had been looking, squeeze her hand as he had been squeezing it and kiss her on dark decks as he had been kissing her on dark decks, unless he means something by it.
'Of course it's true. You know that.’ ‘Do I?'
'Well, you ought to. Haven't I been goggling at you for days?' ‘Yes, you have goggled.’ 'And squeezed your hand?’
'Yes, and squeezed my hand.’ 'And kissed you?' 'Yes, you've done that, too.’ 'Well, then.'
‘But I know what you city slickers are like. You think nothing of trifling with the affections of the poor working girl.’ Reggie bumped back against the rail, aghast. 'What!' 'You heard.' 'You don't imagine-?’ 'Well?'
‘You don't imagine that I'm one of those butterflies, do you, that my cousin Gertrude talks about?'
'Does your cousin Gertrude talk about butterflies?'
'Yes. And she's right off them. They flit and sip. But I'm not like that. I love you like the dickens.'
‘Well, that's fine.'
'I've loved you ever since you nearly twisted my neck off that first day.' 'Great.'
‘I started in worshipping you at that precise moment’ 'Swell.'
'And day by day in every way it's been getting worse and worse ever since.’ 'Don't you mean better and better?’
'No, I don't mean better and better. I mean worse and worse. And why? Because it's all hopeless. Hopeless,' repeated Reggie, thumping the rail. 'Abso-bally-hopeless.'
Mabel Spence laid a gentle hand upon his arm.
'Hopeless?' she said. 'Why? If what's worrying you is that you think I don't love you, dismiss the foolish notion. I'm crazy about you.'
'You are?'
'Dippy.'
‘Would you marry me if I asked you?' ‘I'm going to marry you even if you dont ask me,' said Mabel.
She spoke with a happy gaiety which to many people -Reggie's uncle John, for one; Mr Ivor Llewellyn, for another
- would have seemed quite unintelligible. The world, indeed, was full of those who could not have imagined anyone talking in that cheery, light-hearted way about marrying Reginald Tennyson.
The effect of her words on Reggie was to make him plunge like a horse, as if he were about to dash his head against the rail. He was profoundly moved.
'But you aren't, dash it. That's the whole point. Can't you understand? I haven't a bean in the world. I can't go about the place marrying people.'
‘But-'
'I know. You've enough for two, what?' ‘Plenty.'
‘And it wouldn't be any different from marrying an heiress, and all that. I know, I know. But it can't be done.’ ‘Reggie!' 'It can't be done.' ‘Reggie, darling!'
'No, don't tempt me. It can't be done, I tell you. I wont live on your money. I never thought that high-mindedness of Ambrose's was catching, but so it has proved. I've gone down with it now.'
‘What do you mean?'
'I'm telling you. Watching Ambrose prancing about the ship exuding honour at every pore has made me a changed man. If you had come to me as short a while ago as yesterday and asked me, "Do the Tennysons play the game?" my reply would have been, "Some tip and some don't," but now I am compelled to answer, "Yes, blast it, every single bally one of them." I love you, young Mabel, I love you like nobody's business, but I'm positively dashed if I'm going to go through life helping myself out of your little earnings. And that's that, if I die of a broken heart.’
Mabel sighed.
‘That's that, is it?’
‘Definitely that.'
'You couldn't be just a little less noble?’ ·Not a fraction.'
‘I see. Well, I respect you, of course,’
‘And a fat lot of good that is! I don't want to be respected. I want to be married. I want to sit opposite you at breakfast, pushing my cup up for more coffee -'
- While I tell you the cute thing little Reggie said to his nurse.'
'Exactly. Now that you have brought the point up, I don't mind admitting that there was some sketchy notion of some such contingency floating at the back of my mind.'
'But you still feel you've got to be noble?'
'I'm sorry, old girl, I must. It's like getting religion.’
'I see.’
There was a silence. Reggie drew Mabel Spence to him and placed an arm about her waist. He nearly cracked a rib, but brought no comfort either to himself or her.
'The thing that makes me froth so frightfully at the mouth,’ he said moodily, breaking the long pause, 'is that everything so nearly came right this morning. Those English sequences of old Pop Llewellyn's, you remember. If he had given me a contract to look after those, I should now be in a position to marry at the drop of the handkerchief. And he was within an ace of doing so when that Ambrose business sent him shooting off the deep end.'
'Would you say within an ace?'
'Well, perhaps not quite within an ace, but I think we could have talked him into it. Doesn't it make you sick to think that there is that ghastly brother-in-law of yours, that Llewellyn, perfectly able, if he cared to, to solve all our troubles, and we can't get him into the frame of mind. Or can we? Would it be any good working on him, do you think?’
'Working on him?'
'You know. Clustering round him. Doing him little acts of kindness. Trying to fascinate the old son of a bachelor.' 'Not the least.'
‘I suppose not. Though how about putting him under some obligation? Saving his life, I mean, or something like that ... Rescuing him from a runaway horse -'
'Reggie!'
Mabel Spence's voice rang out sharply. So did Reggie's. In her excitement, she had clutched at his arm, and those dainty fingers, trained to steely strength by years of osteopathy, seemed to bite into his flesh like pincers.
'I'm sorry,' said Mabel, relaxing her grip, 'I'm sorry. But that sudden flash of intelligence of yours startled me. Reggie, do you know what you've said? A mouthful, no less. That's exactly what we are going to do.'
'Rescue Llewellyn from a runaway horse?' In spite of a naturally optimistic disposition and an inherent willingness to try anything once, Reggie seemed dubious. 'Not so dashed easy on board an ocean liner, what?'
'No, no, I mean there is something you can do for Ikey that will make him give you anything you care to ask for. Let's find him and put it up to him right away. He'll probably be in his state-room.'
‘Yes, but what-?'
‘I’ll explain as we go.’
‘Short of murder, of course?’
‘Oh, come along.'
‘Yes, but-'
Mabel extended a clutching hand.
'Do you want me to pinch your arm again?'
‘No.'
Then get a move on.'
Mr Llewellyn was not in his state-room, its only occupant at the moment of their arrival being Albert Peasemarch. Albert Peasemarch seemed delighted to see them, and at once made it plain that he would be glad to tell them all about his recent triumphs. But Mabel's way with people who tried to tell her of their triumphs was as short as Lottie Blossom's. Scarcely had the steward begun to touch upon second-class concerts and Bandoleros, when he found himself thrown for a loss. A brief ·Yes, yes' and a courteous word to the effect that at some later date he must be sure to tell her all about it, for she was dying to hear, and Mabel had sent him off in quest of her brother-in-law. And presently Mr Llewellyn appeared, looking agitated. All nervous conspirat
ors look agitated when they have just been informed that a fellow-conspirator wishes to see them immediately upon urgent business.
As he observed Reggie, his agitation became tinged with other emotions. He halted in the doorway, staring offensively. Mabel ignored the stare.
'Come on in, Ikey,' she said, in that admirably brisk way of hers. 'Don't stand there looking like a statue of the Motion Picture Industry Enlightening the World. Take a look up and down the passage and make sure that that steward isn't listening, then step along in and shut the door.'
Mr Llewellyn did as he was directed, but with an ill grace. His air was still that of a man who would shortly require Reggie to be fully explained to him.
'Now, listen, Ikey. I've just been telling Reggie about that necklace of Grayce's that you're going to smuggle through the Customs.'
A banshee-like howl broke from the motion-picture magnate's lips, causing Reggie to wince and frown disapprovingly. 'Don't sing, Llewellyn. Not now. If you must, later.' 'You - you've told him?' Reggie shot his cuffs.
'Yes, Llewellyn, she has told me. I know all, my dear Llewellyn. I am abreast of the whole position of affairs - the necklace, your spiritual agony at the prospect of having to smuggle same and, in short, everything. And in return for certain concessions on your part I have agreed to take the entire assignment off your hands.’
'What!’
'I say in return for certain concessions on your part I am willing to take the entire assignment off your hands. ‘ will smuggle that necklace. So perk up, Llewellyn. Clap your hands and jump round in circles and let us see that jolly smile of yours of which everyone speaks so highly.'
There was nothing in the look which Mr Llewellyn was directing at Reggie now to awaken the critical spirit in the latter. It was entirely free from that pop-eyed dislike which the young man had found so offensive in the early stages of this conference. It was, indeed, very much the sort of look the wounded soldier must have directed at Sir Philip Sidney.
'You don't mean that?'
'I do mean that, Llewellyn. In return for certain -'
The Luck of the Bodkins Page 24
