The Little Warrior

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER NINE

  1.

  New York welcomed Jill, as she came out of the Pennsylvania Stationinto Seventh Avenue, with a whirl of powdered snow that touched hercheek like a kiss, the cold, bracing kiss one would expect from thisvivid city. She stood at the station entrance, a tiny figure besidethe huge pillars, looking round her with eager eyes. A wind waswhipping down the avenue. The sky was a clear, brilliant tent of thebrightest blue. Energy was in the air, and hopefulness. She wonderedif Mr Elmer Mariner ever came to New York. It was hard to see howeven his gloom would contrive to remain unaffected by theexhilaration of the place.

  Yes, New York looked good . . . good and exciting, with all thetaxi-cabs rattling in at the dark tunnel beside her, with all thepeople hurrying in and hurrying out, with all this medley ofstreet-cars and sky-signs and crushed snow and drays and horses andpolicemen, and that vast hotel across the street, towering to heavenlike a cliff. It even smelt good. She remembered an old picture inPunch, of two country visitors standing on the step of their railwaycarriage at a London terminus, one saying ecstatically to other:"Don't speak! Just sniff! Doesn't it smell of the Season!" She knewexactly how they had felt, and she approved of their attitude. Thatwas the right way to behave on being introduced to a greatmetropolis. She stood and sniffed reverently. But for the presence ofthe hurrying crowds, she could almost have imitated the example ofthat king who kissed the soil of his country on landing from hisship.

  She took Uncle Chris' letter from her bag. He had written from anaddress on East Fifty-seventh Street. There would be just time tocatch him before he went out to lunch. She hailed a taxi-cab whichwas coming out of the station.

  It was a slow ride, halted repeatedly by congestion of the traffic,but a short one for Jill. She was surprised at herself, a Londoner oflong standing, for feeling so provincial and being so impressed. ButLondon was far away. It belonged to a life that seemed years ago anda world from which she had parted for ever. Moreover, this wasundeniably a stupendous city through which her taxi-cab was carryingher. At Times Square the stream of the traffic plunged into awhirlpool, swinging out of Broadway to meet the rapids which pouredin from east, west, and north. On Fifth Avenue all the automobiles inthe world were gathered together. On the sidewalks, pedestrians,muffled against the nipping chill of the crisp air, hurried to andfro. And, above, that sapphire sky spread a rich velvet curtain whichmade the tops of the buildings stand out like the white minarets ofsome eastern city of romance.

  The cab drew up in front of a stone apartment house; and Jill,getting out, passed under an awning through a sort of mediaevalcourtyard, gay with potted shrubs, to an inner door. She wasimpressed. The very atmosphere was redolent of riches, and shewondered how in the world Uncle Chris had managed to acquire wealthon this scale in the extremely short space of time which had elapsedsince his landing. There bustled past her an obvious millionaire--or,more probably, a greater monarch of finance who looked down upon meremillionaires and out of the goodness of his heart tried to check atendency to speak patronisingly to them. He was concealed to theeyebrows in a fur coat, and, reaching the sidewalk, was instantlyabsorbed in a large limousine. Two expensive-looking ladies followedhim. Jill began to feel a little dazed. Evidently the tales one heardof fortunes accumulated overnight in this magic city were true, andone of them must have fallen to the lot of Uncle Chris. For nobody towhom money was a concern could possibly afford to live in a placelike this. If Croesus and the Count of Monte Cristo had applied forlodging there, the authorities would probably have looked on them alittle doubtfully at first and hinted at the desirability of amonth's rent in advance.

  In a glass case behind the inner door, reading a newspaper andchewing gum, sat a dignified old man in the rich uniform of a generalin the Guatemalan army. He was a brilliant spectacle. He wore nojewelry, but this, no doubt, was due to a private distaste fordisplay. As there was no one else of humbler rank at hand from whomJill could solicit an introduction and the privilege of an audience,she took the bold step of addressing him directly.

  "I want to see Major Selby, please."

  The Guatemalan general arrested for a moment the rhythmic action ofhis jaws, lowered his paper and looked at her with raised eyebrows.At first Jill thought that he was registering haughty contempt, thenshe saw what she had taken for scorn was surprise.

  "Major Selby?"

  "Major Selby."

  "No Major Selby living here."

  "Major Christopher Selby."

  "Not here," said the associate of ambassadors and the pampered pet ofGuatemala's proudest beauties. "Never heard of him in my life!"

  2.

  Jill had read works of fiction in which at certain crises everythinghad "seemed to swim" in front of the heroine's eyes, but never tillthis moment had she experienced that remarkable sensation herself.The Savior of Guatemala did not actually swim, perhaps, but hecertainly flickered. She had to blink to restore his prismaticoutlines to their proper sharpness. Already the bustle and noise ofNew York had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unrealitywhich one feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added thefinishing touch.

  Perhaps the fact that she had said "please" to him when she openedthe conversation touched the heart of the hero of a thousandrevolutions. Dignified and beautiful as he was to the eye of thestranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he lived in a worldwhich rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. People did notoften say "please" to him. "Here!" "Hi!" and "Gosh darn you!" yes;but seldom "please." He seemed to approve of Jill, for he shifted hischewing-gum to a position which facilitated speech, and began to behelpful.

  "What was the name again?"

  "Selby."

  "Howja spell it?"

  "S-e-l-b-y."

  "S-e-l-b-y. Oh, Selby?"

  "Yes, Selby."

  "What was the first name?"

  "Christopher."

  "Christopher?"

  "Yes, Christopher."

  "Christopher Selby? No one of that name living here."

  "But there must be."

  The veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile.

  "You want Mr Sipperley," he said tolerantly. In Guatemala thesemistakes are always happening. "Mr George Sipperley. He's on thefourth floor. What name shall I say?"

  He had almost reached the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is anage of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept anyunknown Sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for Uncle Chris.

  "I don't want Mr Sipperley. I want Major Selby."

  "Howja spell it once more?"

  "S-e-l-b-y."

  "S-e-l-b-y. No one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley--"--hespoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, tomake Jill see what was in her best interests--"Mr Sipperley's on thefourth floor. Gentleman in the real estate business," he addedinsinuatingly. "He's got blond hair and a Boston bull-dog."

  "He may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bulldogs . . ."

  "Only one. Jack his name is."

  ". . . But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote tome from this address. This _is_ Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?"

  "This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street," conceded the othercautiously.

  "I've got his letter here." She opened her bag, and gave anexclamation of dismay. "It's gone!"

  "Mr Sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A MrRobertson. Dark-complected man with a mustache."

  "I took it out to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back.I must have dropped it."

  "There's a Mr Rainsby on the seventh floor. He's a broker down onWall Street. Short man with an impediment in his speech."

  Jill snapped the clasp of her bag.

  "Never mind," she said. "I must have made a mistake. I was quite surethat this was the address, but it evidently isn't. Thank you so much.I'm so sorry to have bothered you."

  She walked away, leaving the Terror of Paraguay and all points westspe
echless: for people who said "Thank you so much" to him were evenrarer than those who said "please." He followed her with anaffectionate eye till she was out of sight, then, restoring hischewing-gum to circulation, returned to the perusal of his paper. Amomentary suggestion presented itself to his mind that what Jill hadreally wanted was Mr Willoughby on the eighth floor, but it was toolate to say so now: and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of aspirited householder in Kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet andslain six, he dismissed the matter from his mind.

  3.

  Jill walked back to Fifth Avenue, crossed it, and made her waythoughtfully along the breezy street which, flanked on one side bythe Park and on the other by the green-roofed Plaza Hotel and theapartment houses of the wealthy, ends in the humbler and moredemocratic spaces of Columbus Circle. She perceived that she was inthat position, familiar to melodrama, of being alone in a great city.The reflection brought with it a certain discomfort. The bag thatdangled from her wrist contained all the money she had in the world,the very broken remains of the twenty dollars which Uncle Chris hadsent her at Brookport. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep, andno immediately obvious means of adding to her capital. It was asituation which she had not foreseen when she set out to walk toBrookport station.

  She pondered over the mystery of Uncle Chris' disappearance, andfound no solution. The thing was inexplicable. She was as sure of theaddress he had given in his letter as she was of anything in theworld. Yet at that address nothing had been heard of him. His namewas not even known. These were deeper waters than Jill was able tofathom.

  She walked on, aimlessly. Presently she came to Columbus Circle, and,crossing Broadway at the point where that street breaks out into aneruption of automobile stores, found herself suddenly hungry,opposite a restaurant whose entire front was a sheet of plate glass.On the other side of this glass, at marble-topped tables, apparentlycareless of their total lack of privacy, sat the impecunious,lunching, their every mouthful a spectacle for the passer-by. Itreminded Jill of looking at fishes in an aquarium. In the center ofthe window, gazing out in a distrait manner over piles of apples andgrape-fruit, a white-robed ministrant at a stove juggled ceaselesslywith buckwheat cakes. He struck the final note in the candidness ofthe establishment, a priest whose ritual contained no mysteries.Spectators with sufficient time on their hands to permit them tostand and watch were enabled to witness a New York mid-day meal inevery stage of its career, from its protoplasmic beginnings as astream of yellowish-white liquid poured on top of the stove to itsultimate Nirvana in the interior of the luncher in the form of anappetising cake. It was a spectacle which no hungry girl couldresist. Jill went in, and, as she made her way among the tables, avoice spoke her name.

  "Miss Mariner!"

  Jill jumped, and thought for a moment that the thing must have beenan hallucination. It was impossible that anybody in the place shouldhave called her name. Except for Uncle Chris, wherever he might be,she knew no one in New York. Then the voice spoke again, competingvaliantly with a clatter of crockery so uproarious as to be more likesomething solid than a mere sound.

  "I couldn't believe it was you!"

  A girl in blue had risen from the nearest table, and was staring ather in astonishment, Jill recognized her instantly. Those big,pathetic eyes, like a lost child's, were unmistakable. It was theparrot girl, the girl whom she and Freddie Rooke had found in thedrawing-room, at Ovington Square that afternoon when the foundationsof the world had given way and chaos had begun.

  "Good gracious!" cried Jill. "I thought you were in London!"

  That feeling of emptiness and panic, the result of her interview withthe Guatemalan general at the apartment house, vanished magically.She sat down at this unexpected friend's table with a light heart.

  "Whatever are you doing in New York?" asked the girl. "I never knewyou meant to come over."

  "It was a little sudden. Still, here I am. And I'm starving. What arethose things you're eating?"

  "Buckwheat cakes."

  "Oh, yes. I remember Uncle Chris talking about them on the boat. I'llhave some."

  "But when did you come over?"

  "I landed about ten days ago. I've been down at a place calledBrookport on Long Island. How funny running into you like this!"

  "I was surprised that you remembered me."

  "I've forgotten your name," admitted Jill frankly. "But that'snothing. I always forget names."

  "My name's Nelly Bryant."

  "Of course. And you're on the stage, aren't you?"

  "Yes. I've just got work with Goble and Cohn. . . . Hullo, Phil!"

  A young man with a lithe figure and smooth black hair brushedstraight back from his forehead had paused at the table on his way tothe cashier's desk.

  "Hello, Nelly."

  "I didn't know you lunched here."

  "Don't often. Been rehearsing with Joe up at the Century Roof, andhad a quarter of an hour to get a bite. Can I sit down?"

  "Sure. This is my friend, Miss Mariner."

  The young man shook hands with Jill, flashing an approving glance ather out of his dark, restless eyes.

  "Pleased to meet you."

  "This is Phil Brown," said Nelly. "He plays the straight for JoeWidgeon. They're the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circuit."

  "Oh, hush!" said Mr Brown modestly. "You always were a great littlebooster, Nelly."

  "Well, you know you are! Weren't you held over at the Palace lasttime! Well, then!"

  "That's true," admitted the young man. "Maybe we didn't gool 'em, eh?Stop me on the street and ask me! Only eighteen bows second houseSaturday!"

  Jill was listening, fascinated.

  "I can't understand a word," she said. "It's like another language."

  "You're from the other side, aren't you?" asked Mr Brown.

  "She only landed a week ago," said Nelly.

  "I thought so from the accent," said Mr Brown. "So our talk sort ofgoes over the top, does it? Well, you'll learn American soon, if youstick around."

  "I've learned some already," said Jill. The relief of meeting Nellyhad made her feel very happy. She liked this smooth-haired young man."A man on the train this morning said to me, 'Would you care for themorning paper, sister?' I said, 'No, thanks, brother, I want to lookout of the window and think!'"

  "You meet a lot of fresh guys on trains," commented Mr Brownausterely. "You want to give 'em the cold-storage eye." He turned toNelly. "Did you go down to Ike, as I told you?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you cop?"

  "Yes. I never felt so happy in my life. I'd waited over an hour onthat landing of theirs, and then Johnny Miller came along, and Iyelled in his ear that I was after work, and he told me it would beall right. He's awfully good to girls who've worked in shows for himbefore. If it hadn't been for him I might have been waiting therestill."

  "Who," enquired Jill, anxious to be abreast of the conversation, "isIke?"

  "Mr Goble. Where I've just got work. Goble and Cohn, you know."

  "I never heard of them!"

  The young man extended his hand.

  "Put it there!" he said. "They never heard of me! At least, thefellow I saw when I went down to the office hadn't! Can you beat it?"

  "Oh, did you go down there, too?" asked Nelly.

  "Sure. Joe wanted to get in another show on Broadway. He'd sort ofgot tired of vodevil. Say, I don't want to scare you, Nelly, but, ifyou ask me, that show they're putting out down there is a citron! Idon't think Ike's got a cent of his own money in it. My belief isthat he's running it for a lot of amateurs. Why, say, listen! Joe andI blow in there to see if there's anything for us, and there's a tallguy in tortoiseshell cheaters sitting in Ike's office. Said he wasthe author and was engaging the principals. We told him who we were,and it didn't make any hit with him at all. He said he had neverheard of us. And, when we explained, he said no, there wasn't goingto be any of our sort of work in the show. Said he was making aneffort to give the public something rather better than the usua
l sortof thing. No specialties required. He said it was an effort torestore the Gilbert and Sullivan tradition. Say, who are theseGilbert and Sullivan guys, anyway? They get written up in the papersall the time, and I never met any one who'd run across them. If youwant my opinion, that show down there is a comic opera!"

  "For heaven's sake!" Nelly had the musical comedy performer's horrorof the older-established form of entertainment. "Why, comic operadied in the year one!"

  "Well, these guys are going to dig it up. That's the way it looks tome." He lowered his voice. "Say, I saw Clarice last night," he saidin a confidential undertone. "It's all right."

  "It is?"

  "We've made it up. It was like this . . ."

  His conversation took an intimate turn. He expounded for Nelly'sbenefit the inner history, with all its ramifications, of a recentunfortunate rift between himself and "the best little girl inFlatbush,"--what he had said, what she had said, what her sister hadsaid, and how it all come right in the end. Jill might have felt alittle excluded, but for the fact that a sudden and exciting idea hadcome to her. She sat back, thinking. . . . After all, what else wasshe to do? She must do something. . . .

  She bent forward and interrupted Mr Brown in his description of abrisk passage of arms between himself and the best little girl'ssister, who seemed to be an unpleasant sort of person in every way.

  "Mr Brown."

  "Hello?"

  "Do you think there would be any chance for me if I asked for work atGoble and Cohn's?"

  "You're joking!" cried Nelly.

  "I'm not at all."

  "But what do you want with work?"

  "I've got to find some. And right away, too."

  "I don't understand."

  Jill hesitated. She disliked discussing her private affairs, butthere was obviously no way of avoiding it. Nelly was round-eyed andmystified, and Mr Brown had manifestly no intention whatever ofwithdrawing tactfully. He wanted to hear all.

  "I've lost my money," said Jill.

  "Lost your money! Do you mean . . . ?"

  "I've lost it all. Every penny I had in the world."

  "Tough!" interpolated Mr Brown judicially. "I was broke once way out in atank-town in Oklahoma. The manager skipped with our salaries. Last wesaw of him he was doing the trip to Canada in nothing flat."

  "But how?" gasped Nelly.

  "It happened about the time we met in London. Do you remember FreddieRooke, who was at our house that after-noon?"

  A dreamy look came into Nelly's eyes. There had not been an hoursince their parting when she had not thought of that immaculatesportsman. It would have amazed Freddie, could he have known, but toNelly Bryant he was the one perfect man in an imperfect world.

  "Do I!" she sighed ecstatically.

  Mr Brown shot a keen glance at her.

  "Aha!" he cried facetiously. "Who is he, Nelly? Who is this blue-eyedboy?"

  "If you want to know," said Nelly, defiance in her tone, "he's thefellow who gave me fifty pounds, with no strings tied to it,--getthat!--when I was broke in London! If it hadn't been for him, I'd bethere still."

  "Did he?" cried Jill. "Freddie!"

  "Yes. Oh, Gee!" Nelly sighed once more. "I suppose I'll never see himagain in this world."

  "Introduce me to him, if you do," said Mr Brown. "He sounds just thesort of little pal I'd like to have!"

  "You remember hearing Freddie say something about losing money in aslump on the Stock Exchange," proceeded Jill. "Well, that was how Ilost mine. It's a long story, and it's not worth talking about, butthat's how things stand, and I've got to find work of some sort, andit looks to me as if I should have a better chance of finding it onthe stage than anywhere else."

  "I'm terribly sorry."

  "Oh, it's all right. How much would these people Goble and Cohn giveme if I got an engagement?"

  "Only forty a week."

  "Forty dollars a week! It's wealth! Where are they?"

  "Over at the Gotham Theatre in Forty-second Street."

  "I'll go there at once."

  "But you'll hate it. You don't realize what it's like. You wait hoursand hours and nobody sees you."

  "Why shouldn't I walk straight in and say that I've come for work?"

  Nelly's big eyes grew bigger.

  "But you couldn't!"

  "Why not?"

  "Why, you couldn't!"

  "I don't see why."

  Mr Brown intervened with decision.

  "You're dead right," he said to Jill approvingly. "If you ask me,that's the only sensible thing to do. Where's the sense of hangingaround and getting stalled? Managers are human guys, some of 'em.Probably, if you were to try it, they'd appreciate a bit of gall. Itwould show 'em you'd got pep. You go down there and try walkingstraight in. They can't eat you. It makes me sick when I see allthose poor devils hanging about outside these offices, waiting to getnoticed and nobody ever paying any attention to them. You push theoffice-boy in the face if he tries to stop you, and go in and make'em take notice. And, whatever you do, don't leave your name andaddress! That's the old, moth-eaten gag they're sure to try to pullon you. Tell 'em there's nothing doing. Say you're out for a quickdecision! Stand 'em on their heads!"

  Jill got up, fired by this eloquence. She called for her check.

  "Good-bye," she said. "I'm going to do exactly as you say. Where canI find you afterwards?" she said to Nelly.

  "You aren't really going?"

  "I am!"

  Nelly scribbled on a piece of paper.

  "Here's my address. I'll be in all evening."

  "I'll come and see you. Good-bye, Mr Brown. And thank you."

  "You're welcome!" said Mr Brown.

  Nelly watched Jill depart with wide eyes.

  "Why did you tell her to do that?" she said.

  "Why not?" said Mr Brown. "I started something, didn't I? Well, Iguess I'll have to be leaving, too. Got to get back to rehearsal.Say, I like that friend of yours, Nelly. There's no yellow streakabout her! I wish her luck!"