MONEY FOR NOTHING

Taranaki Daily News, 8 October 1934, Page 13

MONEY FOR NOTHING

By

P. G. Wodehouse

CHAPTER 11. (Continued). . “Woof!” he ejaculated, barring the fairway. ' Relief flooded over Hugo. The marts of trade had not been closed after all. “Give me those cigarettes!” panted Carmody. For an instant Hugo toyed with the idea of creating a rising market. But he was no profiteer. “Ten quid,” he said, “and they’re yours.”, Agony twisted Mr. Carmodys glowing features. “Five,” he urged. “Ten,” said Hugo. “Eight.” “ten.” Mr. Carmody made the great decision. “Very well. Give me them. Quick!” “Turkish this side, Virginian that,” said Hugo. . The rhododendron bush quivered once more from the passage of a heavy body; birds in the neighbouring trees began to sing again their anthems of joy, and Hugo, in his trousers pocket two crackling five-pound notes, was bowling off along the highway. , CHAPTER 111. “Yes, sir,” Hugo Carmody was assuring a listening world, as he turned the two-seater in at the entrance of the stable yard of Rudge Hall some thirty minutes later, “that’s my baby. No, sir, don’t mean maybe. Yes, sir, that’s my baby now. And, by the way, by the way—” . _ , “Blast you!” said his cousin John, appearing ’from nowhere. 1 “Get out of that car!” 41 _ “Hallo, John!” said Hugo. So there you are,. John! I say, John Ive just been paying a call on the head of the family over at Healthward Ho. Why they don’t run excursion trains of sightseers there is more than I can understand. It’s worth seeing, believe me. Large, fat men doing bending-and-stretching exercises. Tons of humanity leaping about with skipping-rope*. Never a dull moment from start to finish, and all clean, wholesome fun, mark you, without a taint of vulgarity or suggestiveness. Pack some sandwiches and bring the kiddies. And let me tell you the best thing of all, John “I can’t stop to listen. You’ve made me late' already.” ■ “Late what for?” • .“I’m going to London.” “You are?” said Hugo, with a smile at the happy coincidence. “So am I- You can give me a lift.” “I won’t!” “I am certainly not going to run behind.” “You’re not going to London.” “You bet I’m going to London.” “Well, go by train, then.” “And break into hard-worn cash, every penny of which will be needed for the big time in the metropolis? A pretty story!” “Well, anyway, you aren’t coming with me.” “Why not?” “I don’t want you.” “John,” said Hugo, “there is more in this than meets the dye. You can’t deceive me. You are going to London for a purpose. What purpose?” “If you really want to know, I’m going to see Pat.” * “Whht on earth for? She’ll be here to-morrow., I looked in at Chas. Bywater’s this m or ning for some cigarettes —and, gosh, how lucky it was I did!— by the way, he’s putting them down to you—and he told me she’s arriving by the three o’clock train.” “I know. Well, I happen to want to see her very particularly to-night.” Hugo' eyed his. cousin narrowly. He was marshalling the facts and drawing conclusions. “John,” he said, “this can mean but one thing. You are driving a hundred miles in a shaky car —that left front tyre wants a spot of air. I should look to it before you start, if I were you—to see a girl whom you could see tomorrow in any case by the simple process of meeting the three o’clock train. Your state of mind is such that you prefer—actually prefer—not to have my company. And, as I look at you, I note that you are blushing prettily. I see it all. You’ve at last decided to propose to Pat. Am I right or wrong? Such being the case, of course, you . must take me along. I will put in a good word for you. Pave the way. Strew roses in your path, you know.” “Listen,” said John, finding speech. “If you dare to come within twenty miles of us—” “It would be wiser. You know what you’re like. Heart of gold, but no conversation. Try to tackle this on your own and you’ll bungle it.” “You. keep out of this,” said John speaking in a low, husky voice that suggested the urgent need of one of those lozenges purveyed by Chas. Bywater and so esteemed by the dog Emily. '“You keep right out of this. I don’t' want you to spoil nt all.” Hugo shrugged his shoulders. “Just as you please. Hugo Carmody is the last map,” he said, a little stiffly, “to thrupt his .assistance on those who do not require same.” - John went upstairs and packed his bag. He packed well and thoroughly. This done, he charged down the stairs, and perceived with annoyance that Hugo was still inflicting the stable yard with his beastly presence. ' But Hugo was not there to make jarring conversation. He was present how, it appeared, solely in the capacity of good angel. “I’ve fixed up that tyre,” said Hugo, “and filled the tank and put in a drop of oil and passed an "eye over the machinery in general. She ought ■to run nicely now.” 'John melted. His mood had softened, and he was in a fitter frame of mind to remember that he had always beep fond of his cousin. “Thanks. Very good of you. Well good bye.” “Good-bye,” said Hugo. “And heaven speed your, wooing, boy.” Freed from the restrictions placed upon a light two-seater by the ruts and hillocks of country lanes, John celebrated his arrival on the broad main road that led to London by placing a large foot on the accelerator and keeping it there. He was out of Worcestershire and into Gloucestershire almost before he hlid really settled in his seat. It was only when the long wall that fringes Blenheim Park came into view that it was borne in upon him that he would be reaching Oxford in a few mihutes and could stop for a well-earned cup of tea. He noted with satisfaction that he was nicely ahead of the clock. He drifted past the Martyrs Memorial, and, picking his way through the traffic, drew up at the door of the Clarendon. He alighted stiffly and stretched himself. And as he did so, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. It was his cousin Hugo, climbing down from the dickey. “A very nice run,” said Hugo, with satisfaction. “I should say we made pretty good time." He radiated kindliness and satisfaction with all created things. That John was looking at'him in a rather peculiar way

I and apparently trying to say something, Ihe did not seem to notice. “A little refreshment would be delightful,” he observed. “Dusty work, sitting in dickeys. By the way, I got on to Pat on the ’phone before we left, and no need to hurry. Shes dining out and going to a theatre to-night. “What!” cried John, in agony.“It’s, all right. Don’t get the wind up. She’s meeting us at eleven-fifteen at the Mustard Spoon. I’ll come on there from the fight and we’ll have a nice home evening. I’m still a member, so 111 sign you in. And, what’s more, if all goes well at the Albert Hall and Cyril Warburton is half the man I think he is, and I can get some sporting stranger to bet the other way at reasonable odds, I’ll , pay the bill.” “You’re very kind!” “I try to be, John,” said Hugo modestly. “I try to 1 be. I don’t think we ought to leave it .all to the Boy. Scouts.” John Carroll stood waiting- in the lobby of the Mustard Spoon. Nearly a year had passed since his last visit to London, and the Mustard Spoon rather impressed him. An unseen orchestra was playing with extraordinary vigour, and from time to time ornate persons of both sexes drifted past him into the brightly-lighted, supper room, and John was conscious of feeling decidedly uplifted and exilarated. But then he was going to see Pat again, and that was enough to stimulate any man. She arrived unexpectedly, at a moment when he had taken his eye off the door to direct it in mild astonishment at a lady in an. orange dress who, doubtless with the best motives, had ayed her hair crimson and was wearing a blackrimmed monocle. So absorbed was he with this spectacle that he did not see Pat enter, and was only made aware o£ her presence when there spoke from behind him a clear little voice which, even when .it was laughing at you, always seemed to have in it something of the song of the larks on summer mornings and winds whispering across the fields in spring. “Hallo, .Johnnie!” The hair, scarlet though it was, lost its power to attract. The appeal of the monocle waned. John spun round. “Pat!” She was looking lovelier than ever. That was the thing that first presented itself to John’s notice. If anybody had told him that Pat could possibly be prettier than the image of her which he had been carrying about with him all these months, he would not have believed him. But so it was. Some sort of a female with plucked eyebrows and a painted face had just come in, and she might have been put there expressly for purposes of comparison. She made Pat seem so healthy, SO wholesome, such a thing of ’open air and the clean sunshine, so pre-eminently fit. She looked as if she had spent her time at Le Touquet playing thirty-six holes of golf a day. “Pat!” cried John, and something seemed to catch at his throat. There was a mist in front of his eyes. His heart was thumping madly. She extended her hand composedly. In her this meeting after long separation had apparently stirred no. depths. Her demeanour ! was friendly, but mat-ter-of-fact. “Well, Johnnie, how nice to see you again. You’re looking very brown and rural. Where’s Hugo?” It takes two to hoist a conversation to an emotional peak, John choked and became calmer. “He’ll be here soon, I expect,” he said. Pat laughed indulgently. "Hugo’ll be late for his own funeral—if he ever gets to it. He said elevenfifteen, and it’s twenty-five to twelve. Have you got a table?’-’ “Not yet.” “Why not?” “I’m not a member,” said John, and saw in her eyes the scorn which women reserve for male friends and relations who show themselves wanting in enterprise. “You have to be a member,” he said, chafing under the look. (To be continued).