CHAPTER II. A SHOCK FOR MR BREWSTER
CHAPTER III. MR BREWSTER DELIVERS SENTENCE
CHAPTER IV. WORK WANTED
CHAPTER V. STRANGE EXPERIENCES OF AN ARTIST’S MODEL
CHAPTER VI. THE BOMB
CHAPTER VII. MR ROSCOE SHERRIFF HAS AN IDEA
CHAPTER VIII. A DISTURBED NIGHT FOR DEAR OLD SQUIFFY
CHAPTER IX. A LETTER FROM PARKER
CHAPTER X. DOING FATHER A BIT OF GOOD
CHAPTER XI. SALVATORE CHOOSES THE WRONG MOMENT
CHAPTER XII. BRIGHT EYES—AND A FLY
CHAPTER XIII. RALLYING ROUND PERCY
CHAPTER XIV. THE SAD CASE OF LOONEY BIDDLE
CHAPTER XV. SUMMER STORMS
CHAPTER XVI. ARCHIE ACCEPTS A SITUATION
CHAPTER XVII. BROTHER BILL’S ROMANCE
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SAUSAGE CHAPPIE
CHAPTER XIX. REGGIE COMES TO LIFE
CHAPTER XX. THE-SAUSAGE-CHAPPIE-CLICKS
CHAPTER XXI. THE GROWING BOY
CHAPTER XXII. WASHY STEPS INTO THE HALL OF FAME
CHAPTER XXIII. MOTHER’S KNEE
CHAPTER XXIV. THE MELTING OF MR CONNOLLY
CHAPTER XXV. THE WIGMORE VENUS
CHAPTER XXVI. A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER
It wasn’t Archie’s fault really. Its true he went to America and fell
in love with Lucille, the daughter of a millionaire hotel proprietor
and if he did marry her—well, what else was there to do?
From his point of view, the whole thing was a thoroughly good egg; but
Mr. Brewster, his father-in-law, thought differently, Archie had
neither money nor occupation, which was distasteful in the eyes of the
industrious Mr. Brewster; but the real bar was the fact that he had
once adversely criticised one of his hotels.
Archie does his best to heal the breach; but, being something of an
ass, genus priceless, he finds it almost beyond his powers to placate
“the man-eating fish” whom Providence has given him as a father-in-law
P. G. Wodehouse
AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE WARRIOR,” “A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS,” “UNEASY MONEY,”
ETC.
NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT,1921, BY GEORGE H, DORAN
COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY
(COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE)
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DEDICATION
TO
B. W. KING-HALL
My dear Buddy,—
We have been friends for eighteen years. A considerable proportion of
my books were written under your hospitable roof. And yet I have never
dedicated one to you. What will be the verdict of Posterity on this?
The fact is, I have become rather superstitious about dedications. No
sooner do you label a book with the legend—
TO MY
BEST FRIEND
X
than X cuts you in Piccadilly, or you bring a lawsuit against him.
There is a fatality about it. However, I can’t imagine anyone
quarrelling with you, and I am getting more attractive all the time, so
let’s take a chance.
Yours ever,
P. G. WODEHOUSE.
CHAPTER I.
DISTRESSING SCENE
“I say, laddie!” said Archie.
“Sir?” replied the desk-clerk alertly. All the employes of the Hotel
Cosmopolis were alert. It was one of the things on which Mr. Daniel
Brewster, the proprietor, insisted. And as he was always wandering
about the lobby of the hotel keeping a personal eye on affairs, it was
never safe to relax.
“I want to see the manager.”
“Is there anything I could do, sir?”
Archie looked at him doubtfully.
“Well, as a matter of fact, my dear old desk-clerk,” he said, “I want
to kick up a fearful row, and it hardly seems fair to lug you into it.
Why you, I mean to say? The blighter whose head I want on a charger is
the bally manager.”
At this point a massive, grey-haired man, who had been standing close
by, gazing on the lobby with an air of restrained severity, as if
daring it to start anything, joined in the conversation.
“I am the manager,” he said.
His eye was cold and hostile. Others, it seemed to say, might like
Archie Moffam, but not he. Daniel Brewster was bristling for combat.
What he had overheard had shocked him to the core of his being. The
Hotel Cosmopolis was his own private, personal property, and the thing
dearest to him in the world, after his daughter Lucille. He prided
himself on the fact that his hotel was not like other New York hotels,
which were run by impersonal companies and shareholders and boards of
directors, and consequently lacked the paternal touch which made the
Cosmopolis what it was. At other hotels things went wrong, and clients
complained. At the Cosmopolis things never went wrong, because he was
on the spot to see that they didn’t, and as a result clients never
complained. Yet here was this long, thin, string-bean of an Englishman
actually registering annoyance and dissatisfaction before his very
eyes.
“What is your complaint?” he enquired frigidly.
Archie attached himself to the top button of Mr. Brewster’s coat, and
was immediately dislodged by an irritable jerk of the other’s
substantial body.
“Listen, old thing! I came over to this country to nose about in search
of a job, because there doesn’t seem what you might call a general
demand for my services in England. Directly I was demobbed, the family
started talking about the Land of Opportunity and shot me on to a
liner. The idea was that I might get hold of something in America—”
He got hold of Mr. Brewster’s coat-button, and was again shaken off.
“Between ourselves, I’ve never done anything much in England, and I
fancy the family were getting a bit fed. At any rate, they sent me over
here—”
Mr. Brewster disentangled himself for the third time.
“I would prefer to postpone the story of your life,” he said coldly,
“and be informed what is your specific complaint against the Hotel
Cosmopolis.”
“Of course, yes. The jolly old hotel. I’m coming to that. Well, it was
like this. A chappie on the boat told me that this was the best place
to stop at in New York—”
“He was quite right,” said Mr. Brewster.
“Was he, by Jove! Well, all I can say, then, is that the other New York
hotels must be pretty mouldy, if this is the best of the lot! I took a
room here last night,” said Archie quivering with self-pity, “and there
was a beastly tap outside somewhere which went drip-drip-drip all night
and kept me awake.”
Mr. Brewster’s annoyance deepened. He felt that a chink had been found
in his armour. Not even the most paternal hotel-proprietor can keep an
eye on every tap in his establishment.
“Drip-drip-drip!” repeated Archie firmly. “And I put my boots outside
the door when I went to bed, and this morning they hadn’t been touched.
I give you my solemn word! Not touched.”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Brewster. “My employés are honest.”
“But I wanted them cleaned, dash it!”
“There is a shoe-shining parlour in the basement. At the Cosmopolis
shoes left outside bedroom doors are not cleaned.”
“Then I think the Cosmopolis is a bally rotten hotel!”
Mr. Brewster’s compact frame quivered. The unforgivable insult had been
offered. Question the legitimacy of Mr. Brewster’s parentage, knock Mr.
Brewster down and walk on his face with spiked shoes, and you did not
irremediably close all avenues to a peaceful settlement. But make a
remark like that about his hotel, and war was definitely declared.
“In that case,” he said, stiffening, “I must ask you to give up your
room.”
“I’m going to give it up! I wouldn’t stay in the bally place another
minute.”
Mr. Brewster walked away, and Archie charged round to the cashier’s
desk to get his bill. It had been his intention in any case, though for
dramatic purposes he concealed it from his adversary, to leave the
hotel that morning. One of the letters of introduction which he had
brought over from England had resulted in an invitation from a Mrs. van
Tuyl to her house-party at Miami, and he had decided to go there at
once.
“Well,” mused Archie, on his way to the station, “one thing’s certain.
I’ll never set foot in _that_ bally place again!”
But nothing in this world is certain.