TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
* Italics are denoted by underscores as in _italics_.
* Obvious printer errors have been silently corrected.
* Original spelling was kept, but variant spellings were made
consistent when a predominant usage was found.
* Ellipses are shown spaced (“. . .” instead of “...”), as in
the printed original.
LEAVE IT TO PSMITH
WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT
Freddie Threepwood and his uncle are in difficulties. Freddie wants a
thousand pounds to start a bookmaker’s business and to marry Eve, while
his uncle wants to raise three thousand pounds, unbeknown to his wife,
to help a runaway daughter. Freddie persuades his uncle to steal his
wife’s necklace and sees Psmith’s advertisement in a daily paper.
Freddie enlists the services of Psmith to steal the necklace. There
are plots and counterplots. Psmith is not successful in stealing the
necklace but succeeds in stealing the affections of Eve.
_BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
THE HEART OF A GOOF 7s. 6d. net
CARRY ON, JEEVES 3s. 6d. net
UKRIDGE 3s. 6d. net
THE INIMITABLE JEEVES 2s. 6d. net
THE GIRL ON THE BOAT 2s. 6d. net
JILL THE RECKLESS 2s. 6d. net
A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS 2s. 6d. net
LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS 2s. 6d. net
A GENTLEMAN OF LEISURE 2s. 6d. net
INDISCRETIONS OF ARCHIE 2s. 6d. net
PICCADILLY JIM 2s. 6d. net
ADVENTURES OF SALLY 2s. 6d. net
THE CLICKING OF CUTHBERT 2s. 6d. net
THE COMING OF BILL 2s. 6d. net
LEAVE IT
TO PSMITH
BY
P. G. WODEHOUSE
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
3 YORK STREET LONDON S.W.1
[Illustration: A HERBERT JENKINS’ BOOK]
_Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and
Fakenham_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I DARK PLOTTINGS AT BLANDINGS CASTLE 7
II ENTER PSMITH 38
III EVE BORROWS AN UMBRELLA 59
IV PAINFUL SCENE AT THE DRONES CLUB 66
V PSMITH APPLIES FOR EMPLOYMENT 70
VI LORD EMSWORTH MEETS A POET 80
VII BAXTER SUSPECTS 112
VIII CONFIDENCES ON THE LAKE 135
IX PSMITH ENGAGES A VALET 167
X SENSATIONAL OCCURRENCE AT A POETRY READING 206
XI ALMOST ENTIRELY ABOUT FLOWER-POTS 239
XII MORE ON THE FLOWER-POT THEME 270
XIII PSMITH RECEIVES GUESTS 282
XIV PSMITH ACCEPTS EMPLOYMENT 313
TO MY DAUGHTER LEONORA,
QUEEN OF HER SPECIES.
LEAVE IT TO PSMITH
CHAPTER I
DARK PLOTTINGS AT BLANDINGS CASTLE
§ 1
At the open window of the great library of Blandings Castle, drooping
like a wet sock, as was his habit when he had nothing to prop his spine
against, the Earl of Emsworth, that amiable and boneheaded peer, stood
gazing out over his domain.
It was a lovely morning and the air was fragrant with gentle summer
scents. Yet in his lordship’s pale blue eyes there was a look of
melancholy. His brow was furrowed, his mouth peevish. And this was
all the more strange in that he was normally as happy as only a
fluffy-minded man with excellent health and a large income can be. A
writer, describing Blandings Castle in a magazine article, had once
said: “Tiny mosses have grown in the cavities of the stones, until,
viewed near at hand, the place seems shaggy with vegetation.” It would
not have been a bad description of the proprietor. Fifty-odd years of
serene and unruffled placidity had given Lord Emsworth a curiously
moss-covered look. Very few things had the power to disturb him.
Even his younger son, the Hon. Freddie Threepwood, could only do it
occasionally.
Yet now he was sad. And--not to make a mystery of it any longer--the
reason of his sorrow was the fact that he had mislaid his glasses and
without them was as blind, to use his own neat simile, as a bat. He was
keenly aware of the sunshine that poured down on his gardens, and was
yearning to pop out and potter among the flowers he loved. But no man,
pop he never so wisely, can hope to potter with any good result if the
world is a mere blur.
The door behind him opened, and Beach the butler entered, a dignified
procession of one.
“Who’s that?” inquired Lord Emsworth, spinning on his axis.
“It is I, your lordship--Beach.”
“Have you found them?”
“Not yet, your lordship,” sighed the butler.
“You can’t have looked.”
“I have searched assiduously, your lordship, but without avail. Thomas
and Charles also announce non-success. Stokes has not yet made his
report.”
“Ah!”
“I am re-despatching Thomas and Charles to your lordship’s bedroom,”
said the Master of the Hunt. “I trust that their efforts will be
rewarded.”
Beach withdrew, and Lord Emsworth turned to the window again. The
scene that spread itself beneath him--though he was unfortunately
not able to see it--was a singularly beautiful one, for the castle,
which is one of the oldest inhabited houses in England, stands upon
a knoll of rising ground at the southern end of the celebrated Vale
of Blandings in the county of Shropshire. Away in the blue distance
wooded hills ran down to where the Severn gleamed like an unsheathed
sword; while up from the river rolling park-land, mounting and dipping,
surged in a green wave almost to the castle walls, breaking on the
terraces in a many-coloured flurry of flowers as it reached the spot
where the province of Angus McAllister, his lordship’s head gardener,
began. The day being June the thirtieth, which is the very high-tide
time of summer flowers, the immediate neighbourhood of the castle was
ablaze with roses, pinks, pansies, carnations, hollyhocks, columbines,
larkspurs, London pride, Canterbury bells, and a multitude of other
choice blooms of which only Angus could have told you the names. A
conscientious man was Angus; and in spite of being a good deal hampered
by Lord Emsworth’s amateur assistance, he showed excellent results
in his department. In his beds there was much at which to point with
pride, little to view with concern.
Scarcely had Beach removed himself when Lord Emsworth was called upon
to turn again. The door had opened for the second time, and a young man
in a beautifully-cut suit of grey flannel was standing in the doorway.
He had a long and vacant face topped by shining hair brushed back and
heavily brilliantined after the prevailing mode, and he was standing on
one leg. For Freddie Threepwood was seldom completely at his ease in
his parent’s presence.
“Hallo, guv’nor.”
“Well, Frederick?”
It would be paltering with the truth to say that Lord Emsworth’s
greeting was a warm one. It lacked the note of true affection. A few
weeks before he had had to pay a matter of five hundred pounds to
settle certain racing debts for his offspring; and, while this had
not actually dealt an irretrievable blow at his bank account, it had
undeniably tended to diminish Freddie’s charm in his eyes.
“Hear you’ve lost your glasses, guv’nor.”
“That is so.”
“Nuisance, what?”
“Undeniably.”
“Ought to have a spare pair.”
“I have broken my spare pair.”
“Tough luck! And lost the other?”
“And, as you say, lost the other.”
“Have you looked for the bally things?”
“I have.”
“Must be somewhere, I mean.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Where,” asked Freddie, warming to his work, “did you see them last?”
“Go away!” said Lord Emsworth, on whom his child’s conversation had
begun to exercise an oppressive effect.
“Eh?”
“Go away!”
“Go away?”
“Yes, go away!”
“Right ho!”
The door closed. His lordship returned to the window once more.
He had been standing there some few minutes when one of those miracles
occurred which happen in libraries. Without sound or warning a section
of books started to move away from the parent body and, swinging out in
a solid chunk into the room, showed a glimpse of a small, study-like
apartment. A young man in spectacles came noiselessly through and the
books returned to their place.
The contrast between Lord Emsworth and the new-comer, as they stood
there, was striking, almost dramatic. Lord Emsworth was so acutely
spectacle-less; Rupert Baxter, his secretary, so pronouncedly
spectacled. It was his spectacles that struck you first as you saw the
man. They gleamed efficiently at you. If you had a guilty conscience,
they pierced you through and through; and even if your conscience was
one hundred per cent. pure you could not ignore them. “Here,” you said
to yourself, “is an efficient young man in spectacles.”
In describing Rupert Baxter as efficient, you did not overestimate him.
He was essentially that. Technically but a salaried subordinate, he
had become by degrees, owing to the limp amiability of his employer,
the real master of the house. He was the Brains of Blandings, the man
at the switch, the person in charge, and the pilot, so to speak, who
weathered the storm. Lord Emsworth left everything to Baxter, only
asking to be allowed to potter in peace; and Baxter, more than equal to
the task, shouldered it without wincing.
Having got within range, Baxter coughed; and Lord Emsworth, recognising
the sound, wheeled round with a faint flicker of hope. It might be that
even this apparently insoluble problem of the missing pince-nez would
yield before the other’s efficiency.
“Baxter, my dear fellow, I’ve lost my glasses. My glasses. I have
mislaid them. I cannot think where they can have gone to. You haven’t
seen them anywhere by any chance?”
“Yes, Lord Emsworth,” replied the secretary, quietly equal to the
crisis. “They are hanging down your back.”
“Down my back? Why, bless my soul!” His lordship tested the statement
and found it--like all Baxter’s statements--accurate. “Why, bless my
soul, so they are! Do you know, Baxter, I really believe I must be
growing absent-minded.” He hauled in the slack, secured the pince-nez,
adjusted them beamingly. His irritability had vanished like the dew off
one of his roses. “Thank you, Baxter, thank you. You are invaluable.”
And with a radiant smile Lord Emsworth made buoyantly for the door, en
route for God’s air and the society of McAllister. The movement drew
from Baxter another cough--a sharp, peremptory cough this time; and
his lordship paused, reluctantly, like a dog whistled back from the
chase. A cloud fell over the sunniness of his mood. Admirable as Baxter
was in so many respects, he had a tendency to worry him at times; and
something told Lord Emsworth that he was going to worry him now.
“The car will be at the door,” said Baxter with quiet firmness, “at two
sharp.”
“Car? What car?”
“The car to take you to the station.”
“Station? What station?”
Rupert Baxter preserved his calm. There were times when he found his
employer a little trying, but he never showed it.
“You have perhaps forgotten, Lord Emsworth, that you arranged with Lady
Constance to go to London this afternoon.”
“Go to London!” gasped Lord Emsworth, appalled. “In weather like this?
With a thousand things to attend to in the garden? What a perfectly
preposterous notion! Why should I go to London? I hate London.”
“You arranged with Lady Constance that you would give Mr. McTodd lunch
to-morrow at your club.”
“Who the devil is Mr. McTodd?”
“The well-known Canadian poet.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Lady Constance has long been a great admirer of his work. She wrote
inviting him, should he ever come to England, to pay a visit to
Blandings. He is now in London and is to come down to-morrow for two
weeks. Lady Constance’s suggestion was that, as a compliment to Mr.
McTodd’s eminence in the world of literature, you should meet him in
London and bring him back here yourself.”
Lord Emsworth remembered now. He also remembered that this positively
infernal scheme had not been his sister Constance’s in the first place.
It was Baxter who had made the suggestion, and Constance had approved.
He made use of the recovered pince-nez to glower through them at his
secretary; and not for the first time in recent months was aware of
a feeling that this fellow Baxter was becoming a dashed infliction.
Baxter was getting above himself, throwing his weight about, making
himself a confounded nuisance. He wished he could get rid of the man.
But where could he find an adequate successor? That was the trouble.
With all his drawbacks, Baxter was efficient. Nevertheless, for a
moment Lord Emsworth toyed with the pleasant dream of dismissing him.
And it is possible, such was his exasperation, that he might on this
occasion have done something practical in that direction, had not the
library door at this moment opened for the third time, to admit yet
another intruder--at the sight of whom his lordship’s militant mood
faded weakly.
“Oh--hallo, Connie!” he said, guiltily, like a small boy caught in the
jam cupboard. Somehow his sister always had this effect upon him.
Of all those who had entered the library that morning the new arrival
was the best worth looking at. Lord Emsworth was tall and lean and
scraggy; Rupert Baxter thick-set and handicapped by that vaguely grubby
appearance which is presented by swarthy young men of bad complexion;
and even Beach, though dignified, and Freddie, though slim, would
never have got far in a beauty competition. But Lady Constance Keeble
really took the eye. She was a strikingly handsome woman in the
middle forties. She had a fair, broad brow, teeth of a perfect even
whiteness, and the carriage of an empress. Her eyes were large and
grey, and gentle--and incidentally misleading, for gentle was hardly
the adjective which anybody who knew her would have applied to Lady
Constance. Though genial enough when she got her way, on the rare
occasions when people attempted to thwart her she was apt to comport
herself in a manner reminiscent of Cleopatra on one of the latter’s bad
mornings.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” said Lady Constance with a bright
smile. “I just came in to tell you to be sure not to forget, Clarence,
that you are going to London this afternoon to meet Mr. McTodd.”
“I was just telling Lord Emsworth,” said Baxter, “that the car would be
at the door at two.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baxter. Of course I might have known that you would not
forget. You are so wonderfully capable. I don’t know what in the world
we would do without you.”
The Efficient Baxter bowed. But, though gratified, he was not
overwhelmed by the tribute. The same thought had often occurred to him
independently.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have one or two things to attend
to . . .”
“Certainly, Mr. Baxter.”
The Efficient One withdrew through the door in the bookshelf. He
realised that his employer was in fractious mood, but knew that he was
leaving him in capable hands.
Lord Emsworth turned from the window, out of which he had been gazing
with a plaintive detachment.
“Look here, Connie,” he grumbled feebly. “You know I hate literary
fellows. It’s bad enough having them in the house, but when it comes to
going to London to fetch ’em . . .”
He shuffled morosely. It was a perpetual grievance of his, this
practice of his sister’s of collecting literary celebrities and dumping
them down in the home for indeterminate visits. You never knew when
she was going to spring another on you. Already since the beginning of
the year he had suffered from a round dozen of the species at brief
intervals; and at this very moment his life was being poisoned by the
fact that Blandings was sheltering a certain Miss Aileen Peavey, the
mere thought of whom was enough to turn the sunshine off as with a tap.
“Can’t stand literary fellows,” proceeded his lordship. “Never could.
And, by Jove, literary females are worse. Miss Peavey . . .” Here words
temporarily failed the owner of Blandings. “Miss Peavey . . .” he
resumed after an eloquent pause. “Who is Miss Peavey?”
“My dear Clarence,” replied Lady Constance tolerantly, for the fine
morning had made her mild and amiable, “if you do not know that Aileen
is one of the leading poetesses of the younger school, you must be very
ignorant.”
“I don’t mean that. I know she writes poetry. I mean who _is_ she?
You suddenly produced her here like a rabbit out of a hat,” said his
lordship, in a tone of strong resentment. “Where did you find her?”
“I first made Aileen’s acquaintance on an Atlantic liner when Joe and I
were coming back from our trip round the world. She was very kind to me
when I was feeling the motion of the vessel. . . . If you mean what is
her family, I think Aileen told me once that she was connected with the
Rutlandshire Peaveys.”
“Never heard of them!” snapped Lord Emsworth. “And, if they’re anything
like Miss Peavey, God help Rutlandshire!”
Tranquil as Lady Constance’s mood was this morning, an ominous
stoniness came into her grey eyes at these words, and there is little
doubt that in another instant she would have discharged at her mutinous
brother one of those shattering come-backs for which she had been
celebrated in the family from nursery days onward; but at this juncture
the Efficient Baxter appeared again through the bookshelf.
“Excuse me,” said Baxter, securing attention with a flash of his
spectacles. “I forgot to mention, Lord Emsworth, that, to suit
everybody’s convenience, I have arranged that Miss Halliday shall call
to see you at your club to-morrow after lunch.”
“Good Lord, Baxter!” The harassed peer started as if he had been bitten
in the leg. “Who’s Miss Halliday? Not another literary female?”
“Miss Halliday is the young lady who is coming to Blandings to
catalogue the library.”
“Catalogue the library? What does it want cataloguing for?”
“It has not been done since the year 1885.”
“Well, and look how splendidly we’ve got along without it,” said Lord
Emsworth acutely.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Clarence,” said Lady Constance, annoyed. “The
catalogue of a great library like this must be brought up to date.”
She moved to the door. “I do wish you would try to wake up and take
an interest in things. If it wasn’t for Mr. Baxter, I don’t know what
would happen.”
And with a beaming glance of approval at her ally she left the room.
Baxter, coldly austere, returned to the subject under discussion.
“I have written to Miss Halliday suggesting two-thirty as a suitable
hour for the interview.”
“But look here . . .”
“You will wish to see her before definitely confirming the engagement.”
“Yes, but look here, I wish you wouldn’t go tying me up with all these
appointments.”
“I thought that as you were going to London to meet Mr. McTodd . . .”
“But I’m not going to London to meet Mr. McTodd,” cried Lord Emsworth
with weak fury. “It’s out of the question. I can’t possibly leave
Blandings. The weather may break at any moment. I don’t want to miss a
day of it.”
“The arrangements are all made.”
“Send the fellow a wire . . . ‘unavoidably detained.’”
“I could not take the responsibility for such a course myself,” said
Baxter coldly. “But possibly if you were to make the suggestion to Lady
Constance . . .”
“Oh, dash it!” said Lord Emsworth unhappily, at once realising the
impossibility of the scheme. “Oh, well, if I’ve got to go, I’ve got to
go,” he said after a gloomy pause. “But to leave my garden and stew in
London at this time of the year . . .”
There seemed nothing further to say on the subject. He took off his
glasses, polished them, put them on again, and shuffled to the door.
After all, he reflected, even though the car was coming for him at two,
at least he had the morning, and he proposed to make the most of it.
But his first careless rapture at the prospect of pottering among his
flowers was dimmed, and would not be recaptured. He did not entertain
any project so mad as the idea of defying his sister Constance, but he
felt extremely bitter about the whole affair. Confound Constance! . . .
Dash Baxter! . . . Miss Peavey . . .
The door closed behind Lord Emsworth.
§ 2
Lady Constance meanwhile, proceeding downstairs, had reached the big
hall, when the door of the smoking-room opened and a head popped out. A
round, grizzled head with a healthy pink face attached to it.
“Connie!” said the head.
Lady Constance halted.
“Yes, Joe?”
“Come in here a minute,” said the head. “Want to speak to you.”
Lady Constance went into the smoking-room. It was large and cosily
book-lined, and its window looked out on to an Italian garden. A wide
fire-place occupied nearly the whole of one side of it, and in front
of this, his legs spread to an invisible blaze, Mr. Joseph Keeble had
already taken his stand. His manner was bluff, but an acute observer
might have detected embarrassment in it.
“What is it, Joe?” asked Lady Constance, and smiled pleasantly at her
husband. When, two years previously, she had married this elderly
widower, of whom the world knew nothing beyond the fact that he had
amassed a large fortune in South African diamond mines, there had
not been wanting cynics to set the match down as one of convenience,
a purely business arrangement by which Mr. Keeble exchanged his
money for Lady Constance’s social position. Such was not the case. It
had been a genuine marriage of affection on both sides. Mr. Keeble
worshipped his wife, and she was devoted to him, though never foolishly
indulgent. They were a happy and united couple.
Mr. Keeble cleared his throat. He seemed to find some difficulty
in speaking. And when he spoke it was not on the subject which he
had intended to open, but on one which had already been worn out in
previous conversations.
“Connie, I’ve been thinking about that necklace again.”
Lady Constance laughed.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Joe. You haven’t called me into this stuffy room
on a lovely morning like this to talk about that for the hundredth
time.”
“Well, you know, there’s no sense in taking risks.”
“Don’t be absurd. What risks can there be?”
“There was a burglary over at Winstone Court, not ten miles from here,
only a day or two ago.”
“Don’t be so fussy, Joe.”
“That necklace cost nearly twenty thousand pounds,” said Mr. Keeble, in
the reverent voice in which men of business traditions speak of large
sums.
“I know.”
“It ought to be in the bank.”
“Once and for all, Joe,” said Lady Constance, losing her amiability
and becoming suddenly imperious and Cleopatrine, “I will _not_ keep
that necklace in a bank. What on earth is the use of having a beautiful
necklace if it is lying in the strong-room of a bank all the time?
There is the County Ball coming on, and the Bachelors’ Ball after that,
and . . . well, I _need_ it. I will send the thing to the bank when we
pass through London on our way to Scotland, but not till then. And I
do wish you would stop worrying me about it.”
There was a silence. Mr. Keeble was regretting now that his unfortunate
poltroonery had stopped him from tackling in a straightforward and
manly fashion the really important matter which was weighing on his
mind: for he perceived that his remarks about the necklace, eminently
sensible though they were, had marred the genial mood in which his wife
had begun this interview. It was going to be more difficult now than
ever to approach the main issue. Still, ruffled though she might be,
the thing had to be done: for it involved a matter of finance, and in
matters of finance Mr. Keeble was no longer a free agent. He and Lady
Constance had a mutual banking account, and it was she who supervised
the spending of it. This was an arrangement, subsequently regretted by
Mr. Keeble, which had been come to in the early days of the honeymoon,
when men are apt to do foolish things.
Mr. Keeble coughed. Not the sharp, efficient cough which we have heard
Rupert Baxter uttering in the library, but a feeble, strangled thing
like the bleat of a diffident sheep.
“Connie,” he said. “Er--Connie.”
And at the words a sort of cold film seemed to come over Lady
Constance’s eyes: for some sixth sense told her what subject it was
that was now about to be introduced.
“Connie, I--er--had a letter from Phyllis this morning.”
Lady Constance said nothing. Her eyes gleamed for an instant, then
became frozen again. Her intuition had not deceived her.
Into the married life of this happy couple only one shadow had
intruded itself up to the present. But unfortunately it was a shadow
of considerable proportions, a kind of super-shadow; and its effect
had been chilling. It was Phyllis, Mr. Keeble’s stepdaughter, who had
caused it--by the simple process of jilting the rich and suitable young
man whom Lady Constance had attached to her (rather in the manner
of a conjurer forcing a card upon his victim) and running off and
marrying a far from rich and quite unsuitable person of whom all that
seemed to be known was that his name was Jackson. Mr. Keeble, whose
simple creed was that Phyllis could do no wrong, had been prepared to
accept the situation philosophically; but his wife’s wrath had been
deep and enduring. So much so that the mere mentioning of the girl’s
name must be accounted to him for a brave deed, Lady Constance having
specifically stated that she never wished to hear it again.
Keenly alive to this prejudice of hers, Mr. Keeble stopped after making
his announcement, and had to rattle his keys in his pocket in order to
acquire the necessary courage to continue. He was not looking at his
wife, but he knew just how forbidding her expression must be. This task
of his was no easy, congenial task for a pleasant summer morning.
“She says in her letter,” proceeded Mr. Keeble, his eyes on the carpet
and his cheeks a deeper pink, “that young Jackson has got the chance of
buying a big farm . . . in Lincolnshire, I think she said . . . if he
can raise three thousand pounds.”
He paused, and stole a glance at his wife. It was as he had feared. She
had congealed. Like some spell, the name Jackson had apparently turned
her to marble. It was like the Pygmalion and Galatea business working
the wrong way round. She was presumably breathing, but there was no
sign of it.
“So I was just thinking,” said Mr. Keeble, producing another
_obbligato_ on the keys, “it just crossed my mind . . . it isn’t
as if the thing were a speculation . . . the place is apparently
coining money . . . present owner only selling because he wants to go
abroad . . . it occurred to me . . . and they would pay good interest
on the loan . . .”
“What loan?” inquired the statue icily, coming to life.
“Well, what I was thinking . . . just a suggestion, you know . . . what
struck me was that if you were willing we might . . . good investment,
you know, and nowadays it’s deuced hard to find good investments . . .
I was thinking that we might lend them the money.”
He stopped. But he had got the thing out and felt happier. He
rattled his keys again, and rubbed the back of his head against the
mantelpiece. The friction seemed to give him confidence.
“We had better settle this thing once and for all, Joe,” said Lady
Constance. “As you know, when we were married, I was ready to do
everything for Phyllis. I was prepared to be a mother to her. I gave
her every chance, took her everywhere. And what happened?”
“Yes, I know. But . . .”
“She became engaged to a man with plenty of money . . .”
“Shocking young ass,” interjected Mr. Keeble, perking up for a moment
at the recollection of the late lamented, whom he had never liked. “And
a rip, what’s more. I’ve heard stories.”
“Nonsense! If you are going to believe all the gossip you hear about
people, nobody would be safe. He was a delightful young man and he
would have made Phyllis perfectly happy. Instead of marrying him, she
chose to go off with this--Jackson.” Lady Constance’s voice quivered.
Greater scorn could hardly have been packed into two syllables. “After
what has happened, I certainly intend to have nothing more to do with
her. I shall not lend them a penny, so please do not let us continue
this discussion any longer. I hope I am not an unjust woman, but I must
say that I consider, after the way Phyllis behaved . . .”
The sudden opening of the door caused her to break off. Lord Emsworth,
mould-stained and wearing a deplorable old jacket, pottered into the
room. He peered benevolently at his sister and his brother-in-law, but
seemed unaware that he was interrupting a conversation.
“‘Gardening As A Fine Art,’” he murmured. “Connie, have you seen a
book called ‘Gardening As A Fine Art’? I was reading it in here last
night. ‘Gardening As A Fine Art.’ That is the title. Now, where can
it have got to?” His dreamy eye flitted to and fro. “I want to show
it to McAllister. There is a passage in it that directly refutes his
anarchistic views on . . .”
“It is probably on one of the shelves,” said Lady Constance shortly.
“On one of the shelves?” said Lord Emsworth, obviously impressed by
this bright suggestion. “Why, of course, to be sure.”
Mr. Keeble was rattling his keys moodily. A mutinous expression was
on his pink face. These moments of rebellion did not come to him very
often, for he loved his wife with a dog-like affection and had grown
accustomed to being ruled by her, but now resentment filled him.
She was unreasonable, he considered. She ought to have realised how
strongly he felt about poor little Phyllis. It was too infernally
cold-blooded to abandon the poor child like an old shoe simply
because . . .
“Are you going?” he asked, observing his wife moving to the door.
“Yes. I am going into the garden,” said Lady Constance. “Why? Was there
anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No,” said Mr. Keeble despondently. “Oh, no.”
Lady Constance left the room, and a deep masculine silence fell.
Mr. Keeble rubbed the back of his head meditatively against the
mantelpiece, and Lord Emsworth scratched among the book-shelves.
“Clarence!” said Mr. Keeble suddenly. An idea--one might almost say an
inspiration--had come to him.
“Eh?” responded his lordship absently. He had found his book and was
turning its pages, absorbed.
“Clarence, can you . . .”
“Angus McAllister,” observed Lord Emsworth bitterly, “is an obstinate,
stiff-necked son of Belial. The writer of this book distinctly states
in so many words . . .”
“Clarence, can you lend me three thousand pounds on good security and
keep it dark from Connie?”
Lord Emsworth blinked.
“Keep something dark from Connie?” He raised his eyes from his book in
order to peer at this visionary with a gentle pity. “My dear fellow, it
can’t be done.”
“She would never know. I will tell you just why I want this money . . .”
“Money?” Lord Emsworth’s eye had become vacant again. He was reading
once more. “Money? Money, my dear fellow? Money? Money? What money? If
I have said once,” declared Lord Emsworth, “that Angus McAllister is
all wrong on the subject of hollyhocks, I’ve said it a hundred times.”
“Let me explain. This three thousand pounds . . .”
“My dear fellow, no. No, no. It was like you,” said his lordship with
a vague heartiness, “it was like you--good and generous--to make
this offer, but I have ample, thank you, ample. I don’t _need_ three
thousand pounds.”
“You don’t understand. I . . .”
“No, no. No, no. But I am very much obliged, all the same. It was kind
of you, my dear fellow, to give me the opportunity. Very kind. Very,
very, very kind,” proceeded his lordship, trailing to the door and
reading as he went. “Oh, very, very, very . . .”
The door closed behind him.
“Oh, _damn_!” said Mr. Keeble.
He sank into a chair in a state of profound dejection. He thought of
the letter he would have to write to Phyllis. Poor little Phyllis . . .
he would have to tell her that what she asked could not be managed.
And why, thought Mr. Keeble sourly, as he rose from his seat and went
to the writing-table, could it not be managed? Simply because he was a
weak-kneed, spineless creature who was afraid of a pair of grey eyes
that had a tendency to freeze.
“_My dear Phyllis_,” he wrote.
Here he stopped. How on earth was he to put it? What a letter to have
to write! Mr. Keeble placed his head between his hands and groaned
aloud.
“Hallo, Uncle Joe!”
The letter-writer, turning sharply, was aware--without pleasure--of his
nephew Frederick, standing beside his chair. He eyed him resentfully,
for he was not only exasperated but startled. He had not heard the door
open. It was as if the smooth-haired youth had popped up out of a trap.
“Came in through the window,” explained the Hon. Freddie. “I say, Uncle
Joe.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I say, Uncle Joe,” said Freddie, “can you lend me a thousand quid?”
Mr. Keeble uttered a yelp like a pinched Pomeranian.
§ 3
As Mr. Keeble, red-eyed and overwrought, rose slowly from his chair
and began to swell in ominous silence, his nephew raised his hand
appealingly. It began to occur to the Hon. Freddie that he had perhaps
not led up to his request with the maximum of smooth tact.
“Half a jiffy!” he entreated. “I say, don’t go in off the deep end for
just a second. I can explain.”
Mr. Keeble’s feelings expressed themselves in a loud snort.
“Explain!”
“Well, I can. Whole trouble was, I started at the wrong end. Shouldn’t
have sprung it on you like that. The fact is, Uncle Joe, I’ve got a
scheme. I give you my word that, if you’ll only put off having apoplexy
for about three minutes,” said Freddie, scanning his fermenting
relative with some anxiety, “I can shove you on to a good thing.
Honestly I can. And all I say is, if this scheme I’m talking about is
worth a thousand quid to you, will you slip it across? I’m game to
spill it and leave it to your honesty to cash up if the thing looks
good to you.”
“A thousand pounds!”
“Nice round sum,” urged Freddie ingratiatingly.
“Why,” demanded Mr. Keeble, now somewhat recovered, “do you want a
thousand pounds?”
“Well, who doesn’t, if it comes to that?” said Freddie. “But I don’t
mind telling you my special reason for wanting it at just this moment,
if you’ll swear to keep it under your hat as far as the guv’nor is
concerned.”
“If you mean that you wish me not to repeat to your father anything you
may tell me in confidence, naturally I should not dream of doing such a
thing.”
Freddie looked puzzled. His was no lightning brain.
“Can’t quite work that out,” he confessed. “Do you mean you will tell
him or you won’t?”
“I will not tell him.”
“Good old Uncle Joe!” said Freddie, relieved. “A topper! I’ve always
said so. Well, look here, you know all the trouble there’s been about
my dropping a bit on the races lately?”
“I do.”
“Between ourselves, I dropped about five hundred of the best. And I
just want to ask you one simple question. _Why_ did I drop it?”
“Because you were an infernal young ass.”
“Well, yes,” agreed Freddie, having considered the point, “you might
put it that way, of course. But why was I an ass?”
“Good God!” exclaimed the exasperated Mr. Keeble. “Am I a
psycho-analyst?”
“I mean to say, if you come right down to it, I lost all that stuff
simply because I was on the wrong side of the fence. It’s a mug’s game
betting on horses. The only way to make money is to be a bookie, and
that’s what I’m going to do if you’ll part with that thousand. Pal
of mine, who was up at Oxford with me, is in a bookie’s office, and
they’re game to take me in too if I can put up a thousand quid. Only I
must let them know quick, because the offer’s not going to be open for
ever. You’ve no notion what a deuce of a lot of competition there is
for that sort of job.”
Mr. Keeble, who had been endeavouring with some energy to get a word in
during this harangue, now contrived to speak.
“And do you seriously suppose that I would . . . But what’s the use of
wasting time talking? I have no means of laying my hands on the sum you
mention. If I had,” said Mr. Keeble wistfully. “If I had . . .” And his
eye strayed to the letter on the desk, the letter which had got as far
as “My dear Phyllis” and stuck there.
Freddie gazed upon him with cordial sympathy.
“Oh, I know how you’re situated, Uncle Joe, and I’m dashed sorry for
you. I mean, Aunt Constance and all that.”
“What!” Irksome as Mr. Keeble sometimes found the peculiar condition
of his financial arrangements, he had always had the consolation of
supposing that they were a secret between his wife and himself. “What
do you mean?”
“Well, I know that Aunt Constance keeps an eye on the doubloons and
checks the outgoings pretty narrowly. And I think it’s a dashed shame
that she won’t unbuckle to help poor old Phyllis. A girl,” said
Freddie, “I always liked. Bally shame! Why the dickens shouldn’t she
marry that fellow Jackson? I mean, love’s love,” said Freddie, who felt
strongly on this point.
Mr. Keeble was making curious gulping noises.
“Perhaps I ought to explain,” said Freddie, “that I was having a quiet
after-breakfast smoke outside the window there and heard the whole
thing. I mean, you and Aunt Constance going to the mat about poor old
Phyllis and you trying to bite the guv’nor’s ear and so forth.”
Mr. Keeble bubbled for awhile.
“You--you listened!” he managed to ejaculate at length.
“And dashed lucky for you,” said Freddie with a cordiality unimpaired
by the frankly unfriendly stare under which a nicer-minded youth would
have withered; “dashed lucky for you that I did. Because I’ve got a
scheme.”
Mr. Keeble’s estimate of his young relative’s sagacity was not a high
one, and it is doubtful whether, had the latter caught him in a less
despondent mood, he would have wasted time in inquiring into the
details of this scheme, the mention of which had been playing in and
out of Freddie’s conversation like a will-o’-the-wisp. But such was his
reduced state at the moment that a reluctant gleam of hope crept into
his troubled eye.
“A scheme? Do you mean a scheme to help me out of--out of my
difficulty?”
“Absolutely! You want the best seats, we have ’em. I mean,” Freddie
went on in interpretation of these peculiar words, “you want three
thousand quid, and I can show you how to get it.”
“Then kindly do so,” said Mr. Keeble; and, having opened the door,
peered cautiously out, and closed it again, he crossed the room and
shut the window.
“Makes it a bit fuggy, but perhaps you’re right,” said Freddie, eyeing
these manœuvres. “Well, it’s like this, Uncle Joe. You remember what
you were saying to Aunt Constance about some bird being apt to sneak up
and pinch her necklace?”
“I do.”
“Well, why not?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why don’t you?”
Mr. Keeble regarded his nephew with unconcealed astonishment. He had
been prepared for imbecility, but this exceeded his expectations.
“Steal my wife’s necklace!”
“That’s it. Frightfully quick you are, getting on to an idea. Pinch
Aunt Connie’s necklace. For, mark you,” continued Freddie, so far
forgetting the respect due from a nephew as to tap his uncle sharply
on the chest, “if a husband pinches anything from a wife, it isn’t
stealing. That’s law. I found that out from a movie I saw in town.”
The Hon. Freddie was a great student of the movies. He could tell a
super-film from a super-super-film at a glance, and what he did not
know about erring wives and licentious clubmen could have been written
in a sub-title.
“Are you insane?” growled Mr. Keeble.
“It wouldn’t be hard for you to get hold of it. And once you’d got it
everybody would be happy. I mean, all you’d have to do would be to draw
a cheque to pay for another one for Aunt Connie--which would make her
perfectly chirpy, as well as putting you one up, if you follow me. Then
you would have the other necklace, the pinched one, to play about with.
See what I mean? You could sell it privily and by stealth, ship Phyllis
her three thousand, push across my thousand, and what was left over
would be a nice little private account for you to tuck away somewhere
where Aunt Connie wouldn’t know anything about it. And a dashed useful
thing,” said Freddie, “to have up your sleeve in case of emergencies.”
“Are you . . . ?”
Mr. Keeble was on the point of repeating his previous remark when
suddenly there came the realisation that, despite all preconceived
opinions, the young man was anything but insane. The scheme, at which
he had been prepared to scoff, was so brilliant, yet simple, that it
seemed almost incredible that its sponsor could have worked it out for
himself.
“Not my own,” said Freddie modestly, as if in answer to the thought.
“Saw much the same thing in a movie once. Only there the fellow, if
I remember, wanted to do down an insurance company, and it wasn’t a
necklace that he pinched but bonds. Still, the principle’s the same.
Well, how do we go, Uncle Joe? How about it? Is that worth a thousand
quid or not?”
Even though he had seen in person to the closing of the door and the
window, Mr. Keeble could not refrain from a conspirator-like glance
about him. They had been speaking with lowered voices, but now words
came from him in an almost inaudible whisper.
“Could it really be done? Is it feasible?”
“Feasible? Why, dash it, what the dickens is there to stop you? You
could do it in a second. And the beauty of the whole thing is that, if
you were copped, nobody could say a word, because husband pinching from
wife isn’t stealing. Law.”
The statement that in the circumstances indicated nobody could say a
word seemed to Mr. Keeble so at variance with the facts that he was
compelled to challenge it.
“Your aunt would have a good deal to say,” he observed ruefully.
“Eh? Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Well, you would have to risk that.
After all, the chances would be dead against her finding out.”
“But she might.”
“Oh, well, if you put it like that, I suppose she might.”
“Freddie, my boy,” said Mr. Keeble weakly, “I daren’t do it!”
The vision of his thousand pounds slipping from his grasp so wrought
upon Freddie that he expressed himself in a manner far from fitting in
one of his years towards an older man.
“Oh, I say, don’t be such a rabbit!”
Mr. Keeble shook his head.
“No,” he repeated, “I daren’t.”
It might have seemed that the negotiations had reached a deadlock, but
Freddie, with a thousand pounds in sight, was in far too stimulated
a condition to permit so tame an ending to such a promising plot. As
he stood there, chafing at his uncle’s pusillanimity, an idea was
vouchsafed to him.
“By Jove! I’ll tell you what!” he cried.
“Not so loud!” moaned the apprehensive Mr. Keeble. “Not so loud!”
“I’ll tell you what,” repeated Freddie in a hoarse whisper. “How would
it be if _I_ did the pinching?”
“What!”
“How would it . . .”
“Would you?” Hope, which had vanished from Mr. Keeble’s face, came
flooding back. “My boy, would you really?”
“For a thousand quid you bet I would.”
Mr. Keeble clutched at his young relative’s hand and gripped it
feverishly.
“Freddie,” he said, “the moment you place that necklace in my hands, I
will give you not a thousand but two thousand pounds.”
“Uncle Joe,” said Freddie with equal intensity, “it’s a bet!”
Mr. Keeble mopped at his forehead.
“You think you can manage it?”
“Manage it?” Freddie laughed a light laugh. “Just watch me!”
Mr. Keeble grasped his hand again with the utmost warmth.
“I must go out and get some air,” he said. “I’m all upset. May I really
leave this matter to you, Freddie?”
“Rather!”
“Good! Then to-night I will write to Phyllis and say that I may be able
to do what she wishes.”
“Don’t say ‘may,’” cried Freddie buoyantly. “The word is ‘will.’ Bally
will! What ho!”
§ 4
Exhilaration is a heady drug; but, like other drugs, it has the
disadvantage that its stimulating effects seldom last for very
long. For perhaps ten minutes after his uncle had left him, Freddie
Threepwood lay back in his chair in a sort of ecstasy. He felt strong,
vigorous, alert. Then by degrees, like a chilling wind, doubt began
to creep upon him--faintly at first, then more and more insistently,
till by the end of a quarter of an hour he was in a state of pronounced
self-mistrust. Or, to put it with less elegance, he was suffering from
an exceedingly severe attack of cold feet.
The more he contemplated the venture which he had undertaken, the
less alluring did it appear to him. His was not a keen imagination,
but even he could shape with a gruesome clearness a vision of the
frightful bust-up that would ensue should he be detected stealing his
Aunt Constance’s diamond necklace. Common decency would in such an
event seal his lips as regarded his Uncle Joseph’s share in the matter.
And even if--as might conceivably happen--common decency failed at the
crisis, reason told him that his Uncle Joseph would infallibly disclaim
any knowledge of or connection with the rash act. And then where would
he be? In the soup, undoubtedly. For Freddie could not conceal it from
himself that there was nothing in his previous record to make it seem
inconceivable to his nearest and dearest that he should steal the
jewellery of a female relative for purely personal ends. The verdict
in the event of detection would be one of uncompromising condemnation.
And yet he hated the idea of meekly allowing that two thousand pounds
to escape from his clutch . . .
A young man’s cross-roads.
* * * * *
The agony of spirit into which these meditations cast him had brought
him up with a bound from the comfortable depths of his arm-chair and
had set him prowling restlessly about the room. His wanderings led him
at this point to collide somewhat painfully with the long table on
which Beach the butler, a tidy soul, was in the habit of arranging in
a neat row the daily papers, weekly papers, and magazines which found
their way into the castle. The shock had the effect of rousing him
from his stupor, and in an absent way he clutched the nearest daily
paper, which happened to be the _Morning Globe_, and returned to his
chair in the hope of quieting his nerves with a perusal of the racing
intelligence. For, though far removed now from any practical share
in the doings of the racing world, he still took a faint melancholy
interest in ascertaining what Captain Curb, the Head Lad, Little
Brighteyes, and the rest of the newspaper experts fancied for the day’s
big event. He lit a cigarette and unfolded the journal.
The next moment, instead of passing directly, as was his usual
practice, to the last page, which was devoted to sport, he was gazing
with a strange dry feeling in his throat at a certain advertisement on
page one.
It was a well-displayed advertisement, and one that had caught the
eye of many other readers of the paper that morning. It was worded to
attract attention, and it had achieved its object. But where others
who read it had merely smiled and marvelled idly how anybody could
spend good money putting nonsense like this in the paper, to Freddie
its import was wholly serious. It read to him like the Real Thing.
His motion-picture-trained mind accepted this advertisement at its
face-value.
It ran as follows:--
_LEAVE IT TO PSMITH!_
Psmith Will Help You
Psmith Is Ready For Anything
DO YOU WANT
Someone To Manage Your Affairs?
Someone To Handle Your Business?
Someone To Take The Dog For A Run?
Someone To Assassinate Your Aunt?
PSMITH WILL DO IT
CRIME NOT OBJECTED TO
Whatever Job You Have To Offer
(Provided It Has Nothing To Do With Fish)
_LEAVE IT TO PSMITH!_
Address Applications To ‘R. Psmith, Box 365’
_LEAVE IT TO PSMITH!_
Freddie laid the paper down with a deep intake of breath. He picked it
up again, and read the advertisement a second time. Yes, it sounded
good.
More, it had something of the quality of a direct answer to prayer.
Very vividly now Freddie realised that what he had been wishing for was
a partner to share the perils of this enterprise which he had so rashly
undertaken. In fact, not so much to share them as to take them off his
shoulders altogether. And such a partner he was now in a position to
command. Uncle Joe was going to give him two thousand if he brought the
thing off. This advertisement fellow would probably be charmed to come
in for a few hundred . . .
* * * * *
Two minutes later, Freddie was at the writing-desk, scribbling a
letter. From time to time he glanced furtively over his shoulder at the
door. But the house was still. No footsteps came to interrupt him at
his task.
§ 5
Freddie went out into the garden. He had not wandered far when from
somewhere close at hand there was borne to him on the breeze a remark
in a high voice about Scottish obstinacy, which could only have
proceeded from one source. He quickened his steps.
“Hallo, guv’nor.”
“Well, Frederick?”
Freddie shuffled.
“I say, guv’nor, do you think I might go up to town with you this
afternoon?”
“What!”
“Fact is, I ought to see my dentist. Haven’t been to him for a deuce of
a time.”
“I cannot see the necessity for you to visit a London dentist. There
is an excellent man in Shrewsbury, and you know I have the strongest
objection to your going to London.”
“Well, you see, this fellow understands my snappers. Always been to
him, I mean to say. Anybody who knows anything about these things will
tell you greatest mistake go buzzing about to different dentists.”
Already Lord Emsworth’s attention was wandering back to the waiting
McAllister.
“Oh, very well, very well.”
“Thanks awfully, guv’nor.”
“But on one thing I insist, Frederick. I cannot have you loafing about
London the whole day. You must catch the twelve-fifty train back.”
“Right ho. That’ll be all right, guv’nor.”
“Now, listen to reason, McAllister,” said his lordship. “That is all I
ask you to do--listen to reason . . .”