THE LUCK OF THE BODKINS

Dominion, Volume 29, Issue 100, 22 January 1936, Page 8

THE LUCK OF THE BODKINS

By

P. G. WODEHOUSE

35 For some moments after lie had gone, Gerttude remained heaving gently, and staring with unseeing eyes at the back of Mr. Billington-Todd, who was having a little trouble with his inspector about if box of cigars. The recent unpleasant scene seemed "to have pu: the clock back. Once more, she seemed to be a child —raging, as she had so often raged in those distant days when they had shared a mutual nursery, because Reggie hhd worsted her in cousinly debate. Like lightning flashes athwart a stormy sky, there flickered through her mind all the bitter, clever things she would have said if only she had thought of them. As one waking from a trance, she became aware of her friend Miss Passenger at her side. On Miss Passenger’s face was a grave, kindly, solicitous look; in her muscular hand a brown paper parcel. “Well, Butter Wick.” “Oh, hullo, Jane.”

There was no welcoming ring in Gertrude’s voice. She liked Miss Passenger as a Woman and respected her as a captain and a dashing outsideright, but she did not desire her company now. She feared. . . . “That young man of yours, Butterwick; ..."

That was what Gertrude had feared, that Miss Passenger was about to twist the knife in her heart by talking of Monty. Ever since she had been so unguarded as to make the captain of the All England Ladies’ Hockey Team a confidante in the matter of her ■wrecked . romance, the latter had shown an unwelcome disposition to turn the conversation to' that topic when they found themselves alone together. “Oh, Jane!” “I’ve just been talking to him. f was coming along to see how you were getting on, and as I passed he called out to me.. He says you won’t, speak to him.” . “I won’t.”

Miss Passenger sighed. For all her rugged exterior, she was at heart a sentimentalist, and both as a private individual and as a hockey captain she mourned over tliis sundering of two young lives. As an. individual, she had been devoted to Gertrude for many years—right back, indeed, to the days of coCoa-parties.in the dormitory at the dear old school —and hated to see her unhappy. As a hockey captain, she. feared lest blighted love might put her bit her game. It Would not be the first time in Miss Passenger’s experience that that had happened. She had not forgotten that county match when, with the score at one all and three minutes to go, her goalkeeper, who had recently severed relations with the man of her choice, suddenly burst into tears during a hotrally in the goalmouth, and, covering her face with her hands, Jet a sitter go past her into the net. “You’re making a mistake, ButterWick.”

“Oh, Jane!” “Well, you are.” “I don’t want to talk about it.” Miss Passenger sighed again. “Just as you please,” she said regretfully. “Anyway, what I was going to say ,was that your Bodkin gave me this parcel to give to you. I gather that it contains a Mickey Mouse of yours.” Not even the information that the brown paper parcel contained mice in the flesh Could have made Gertrude start back- with greater aversion. ' “I don’t want it I” “Well, you seem to have got it.” “It isn’t my Mickey Mouse. It’s Mr. Bodkin’s. Give it back to him.” “He’s left.” “Then run after him.” “No, I’m dashed if I do,” said Miss Passenger. She was amiable , but there are limits. “I’m not going to chivvy young men about Customs sheds. Life’s too short.” “You don’t think I intend to keep this mouse, do you?” “I don’t see what else you can do.” . Gertrude bit her lip. “Would you like it, Jane?” “No,” said Miss Passenger, with decision. “No, Butterwick, I would not.” Through the crowd came Albert Peasemarch, looking helpful. “Peasemarch!” cried Gertrude. “Miss?” “Would you like a mouse?” “No miss.” . “Then do you know what hotel Mr. Bodkin is going to?” “The Piazza, miss. I recommend it. A nice, up-to-date hotel, possessing all the comforts of home and within easy reach of all the theatres and places of public amusement.” “Thank you.” “Thank you, miss. Anything further I can do for you?” “No, thank you.” “Very good, miss,” said Albert Peasemarch, and went off to be helpful elsewhere. “Jane,” said Gertrude, “I shan’t be coming to your hotel with the rest of the team. I’m going to the Piazza.” “Eh? Why?” Gertrude’s teeth came together with an unpleasant clicking sound. “Because,” she said, “Mr. Bodkin is there, and I intend to return this Mickey Mouse to him if I have to make him swallow it.” For the third time since this interview had begun Miss Passenger was unable to check a sigh. “Don’t be a chump, Butterwick.” “I’m not a chump.” “You arc, old chap, honestly you are. I know how you’re feeling. You’re sore, and you have every right to be sore. But why not let bygones be bygones? Wo women always regret it if we don’t make nllowancosAnd forgive. I never told you, but I Ws once engaged to a dear, good fellow, about as smart an inside-right as you ever saw, and 1 broke it off because one afternoon when wo were playing in a mixed game down in the country he kept trying to go through on his own insead of flicking the ball out to me on the wing. A selfish hound, I remember I called him. and 1 gave him back the ring. Next day, of course, I was sorry, but like an ass 1 was too proud to say so, and we parted and a couple of months later ho married a girl who played left-back for Girton. So I appeal to you, old man. be sensible. Don’t cancel this fixture. Forgive Bodkin!” “No.” “You must.” “I won’t.” “Butterwick, you're one of my oldest pais, but I toll you straight you’re behaving like a mug." “I'm not behaving like a mug!" “Yon Haller yourself." said the voice of Reggie Tennyson .-it her elbow. '‘You're Jx-li.-i vine like I lie n i-r-l young

mug th.-t ever broke biscuit. Gertrude,” said Reggie, “I’ve brought Ambrose to have a little talk with you.” YVHILE these conversations were in ’’ progress in Section B of the Customs sheds, in the street outside into which the voyager steps as he comes off the White Star pier Lottie Blossom was standing waiting for Ambrose. The mind of the New York Customs inspector being the unpleasant, suspicious thing it is, a motion picture star returning to her native land from a visit to Europe usually finds the clearing of her luggage a rather lengthy process. But to-day Lottie had got through quickly. The, oflicial told off to examine her b'elongings had begun by examining the little wickerwork basket which she was carrying, and after that had seemed unable to put any real heart and thoroughness into his work. His sense of duly was strong enough to inake him ask her to unlock her trunks, but his whole attitude when going through them had been that of a man who has had his lesson and feels that .'prudence is best. Perfunctory about sums it up.

Tins, taken in conjunction with the fact that she perceived herself to be an object of frank admiration to the group of stevedores and gentlemen of leisure standing by, should have made her happy* for She hated hanging about Customs sheds and was a girl who enjoyed admiration, even from the humblest. Nevertheless, she chafed as she stood there. A frown was on her face, and from time to time she spurned the ! sidewalk irritably. She was getting tired of waiting for Ambrose. I She was, indeed, on the point of givi ing him up and hailing a cab to take her to the Hotel Piazza, where she always stayed when in New York, when Mabel Spence came out into the street. “Oh, there you are, Lottie,” said Mabel. “I’ve a message for you from Ambrose Tennyson. He says not to wait.” “He does, does he?” said Lottie. “I wonder what he thinks I’ve been doing this last ten minutes, the poor fish! What’s keeping him?” “He and Reggie are wrestling with the Butterwick girl—” “Who’s winning?” “In prayer,” explained Mabel. “I only had a hurried word with Reggie before he jumped back into the ring, but it seems they’re trying to get Miss Butterwick to forgive Mr. Bodkin.” "What’s Mr. Bodkin done?” “Well, you ought to know. It’s about you that all the trouble is.” Amazement shone ffoin Lottie Blossom’s flue eyes. She stared like a girl with ti spotless conscience Who is Completely bewildered. “Me?” “That’s what Reggie told me.” ! “Why, I never so much as touched the man.” “As pure as the driven snow, are you?” “Purer. I may have sauntered into his stateroom once or twice to pass the time of day, but, jiminy Christmas—” “Well, all right,” said Mabel. “YoU don’t have to convince me. I’m just ,an innocent bystander. But that’s how the scenario is, and Reggie seems all worked up about it. He’s fond of Mr, Bodkin. So, anyway, it’s no use yout pounding the pavement out here. They may be hours. Where are you off to?” “The Piazza.” “Then .1 can’t offer you a lift. I’m headed for the Bar building. I’ve got to see a lawyer.” “A what?” “Lawyer. A man skilled in the law. I want legal advice.” ' “What for? Has Reggie backed out already, and are you bringing an action for breach?” Mabel’s eyes lost their efficient brightness for an instant and became soft and dreamy. “Reggie’s a precious little pink-and-white lamb ” “Ugh!” said Lottie, revolted. “And he’s just as crazy about me as lam about him. No, what I’m seeing lawyers about is this contract of his. I’ve got that letter, of course, but ” “Contract? What are you talking about?” “Hasn’t Reggie told you? Ikey’s signed him up. for five years to superintend his English sequences, and all we’ve got so far to hold him to it is a few lines I made him scribble on a bit of paper. And, knowing what Ikej is like, I want a regular legal contract drawn up, with as many seals stuck on it as there’s room for. I wouldn’t put it past Ikey to have written that letter in vanishing ink. Hi, taxi,” said Mabel.

It was not often that Lottie Blossom permitted those with whom she was conversing to utter without interruptidn speeches as long as the one to which she had just been listening, but tile astounding nature of the information which Mabel's words had conveyed had made interruption impossible. She could ouly gape. Not until her companion had stepped into the cab and closed the door was she able to utter. “Wait!” sh c cried, recovering speech and the power of movement simultaneously. She leaped forward and clutched the edge of the window. “What did you say? They has given Reggie a contract. “Yes. As a superintendent of Eng lish sequences. “But — “I really must be getting along,” said Mabel. “I may have to spend the rest Of the afternoon with these people. You know what lawyers are like.” Gently but firmly detaching Lottie’s fingers, she instructed the driver to snap into it, and ho did so. The cab rolled off, and Lottie was left to ponder over this extraordinary occurrence alone. Her mind was in a whirl. If this news was true, strange things must have been happening to Ivor Llewellyn. It was obvious that no balanced imrsoij would employ Reggie. Nobody but a Santa Claus would even content plate it. The only explanation, therefore, that offered itself was that Mr Llewellyn must suddenly have turned into a Santa Clauij. He must have been overcome by one of those curious lite of universal benevolence hitherto confined to characters in the novels of Charles Dickens. Yet why? It was not Christmas-time. He could not have been hearing carol-singers. But wait. Yes, it came back to her now. Once, in the days when she had been in the chorus in musical comedy, she had heard in the dressing-room a fantastic tale of a prominent theatrical manager who, emerging from an automobile accident with an eggshaped lump on his head, had become a changed man, even to the extent of deliberately refraining from chiselling .-in aillhor mil: of his .share of the movie | rights That was what must have Imp

pened to Ivor Llewellyn, something on those lines. Perhaps he had bumped his head against the bureau while groping for a dropped collar-stud. She thrilled with joyous excitement. If Ivor Llewellyn had bumped himself badly enough to make him give fiveyear contracts to Reggie, he wag clearly in a mental condition to do the same by Ambrose. This, she felt, was a good thing and must be pushed along. Without delay she must repair to the offices of the Superba-Llewellyn on Seventh Avenue, whither the man always went like a homing pigeon the moment he stepped off the boat, and strike while the iron was hot—slip it across him, in other words, before he had tin>» to come out from under the influence. There was, however, as it happened, no necessity for her to make the jour ney to Seventh Avenue, for at this moment the man she was seeking came out into the street, attended by a porter with suit-cases, and passed her by with a jaunty wave of the hand which had doubled up his brother-in-law George. With this wave of the hand, as if feeling in big benevolence that there must be no stint, Mr. Llewellyn threw in a genial smile and a “Hello, there, Lottie!”—a smile so genial, in fact, and a “Hello, there, Lottie” sa gay and cordial that she had no hesitation in making one of her tigrine leaps and seizing him by the lapel of his coat. She was convinced. Once a ten-minute egg, Ivor Llewellyn had become a Cheeryble brother. “Hey, Ikey!” she cried, beaming up at him with all the confidence of a favourite child about to ask a fond father for candy. “Listen, Ikey, what’s all this I hear?” “Eh?” “From Mabel. Mabel's been telling me about your deal with Reggie Tennyson.”

(To be continued.)