CONCLUSION
The American liner, St. Louis, lay in the Empress Dock at
Southampton, taking aboard her passengers. All sorts and conditions
of men flowed in an unceasing stream up the gangway.
Leaning over the second-class railing, Jimmy Pitt and Spike Mullins
watched them thoughtfully.
Jimmy looked up at the Blue Peter that fluttered from the fore-mast,
and then at Spike. The Bowery boy's face was stolid and
expressionless. He was smoking a short wooden pipe with an air of
detachment.
"Well, Spike," said Jimmy. "Your schooner's on the tide now, isn't
it? Your vessel's at the quay. You've got some queer-looking
fellow-travelers. Don't miss the two Cingalese sports, and the man in the
turban and the baggy breeches. I wonder if they're air-tight. Useful
if he fell overboard."
"Sure," said Spike, directing a contemplative eye toward the garment
in question. "He knows his business."
"I wonder what those men on the deck are writing. They've been
scribbling away ever since we came here. Probably, society
journalists. We shall see in next week's papers: 'Among the
second-class passengers, we noticed Mr. "Spike" Mullins, looking as cheery
as ever.' It's a pity you're so set on going, Spike. Why not change
your mind, and stop?"
For a moment, Spike looked wistful. Then, his countenance resumed
its woodenness. "Dere ain't no use for me dis side, boss," he said.
"New York's de spot. Youse don't want none of me, now you're
married. How's Miss Molly, boss?"
"Splendid, Spike, thanks. We're going over to France by to-night's
boat."
"It's been a queer business," Jimmy continued, after a pause, "a
deuced-queer business! Still, I've come very well out of it, at any
rate. It seems to me that you're the only one of us who doesn't end
happily, Spike. I'm married. McEachern's butted into society so deep
that it would take an excavating party with dynamite to get him out
of it. Molly--well, Molly's made a bad bargain, but I hope she won't
regret it. We're all going some, except you. You're going out on the
old trail again--which begins in Third Avenue, and ends in Sing
Sing. Why tear yourself away, Spike?"
Spike concentrated his gaze on a weedy young emigrant in a blue
jersey, who was having his eye examined by the overworked doctor and
seemed to be resenting it.
"Dere's nuttin' doin' dis side, boss," he said, at length. "I want
to git busy."
"Ulysses Mullins!" said Jimmy, looking at him curiously. "I know the
feeling. There's only one cure. I sketched it out for you once, but
I guess you'll never take it. You don't think a lot of women, do
you? You're the rugged bachelor."
"Goils--!" began Spike comprehensively, and abandoned the topic
without dilating on it further.
Jimmy lighted his pipe, and threw the match overboard.
The sun came out from behind a cloud, and the water sparkled.
"Dose were great jools, boss," said Spike, thoughtfully.
"I believe you're still brooding over them, Spike."
"We could have got away wit' dem, if youse would have stood fer it.
Dead easy."
"You are brooding over them. Spike, I'll tell you something which
will console you a little, before you start out on your wanderings.
It's in confidence, so keep it dark. That necklace was paste."
"What's dat?"
"Nothing but paste. I got next directly you handed them to me. They
weren't worth a hundred dollars."
A light of understanding came into Spike's eyes. His face beamed
with the smile of one to whom dark matters are made clear.
"So, dat's why you wouldn't stan' fer gittin' away wit' dem!" he
exclaimed.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Intrusion of Jimmy, by P. G. Wodehouse