Big Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  He took his seat at the steering-wheel, and the car moved off. Nine o'clock struck from Big Ben.

  'Got gat,' said Mr Hoke, becoming chatty.

  'Shut up,' said Captain Kelly.

  Mr Hoke laughed softly and nestled into his seat. The car slid on towards Sloane Square. Mr Hoke nodded at the policeman on point-duty.

  'Got gat,' he informed him as one old friend to another.

  CHAPTER 12

  I

  When the poet Bunn (1790–1860) spoke of the heart being bowed down by weight of woe, he spoke, of course, as poets will, figuratively. Fortunately for the security of our public vehicles, grief has no tonnage. If the weight of human sorrow had been a thing of actual pounds and ounces, the Number Three omnibus which shortly before 8.30 p.m. set Lord Biskerton down at the corner of Croxleigh Road, Valley Fields, could never have made its trip from London. It must have faltered and stopped, and its wheels would have buckled under it. For the Biscuit was a heavyhearted young man.

  All through the long summer afternoon, starting about ten minutes after the conclusion of his interview with Mr Hoke, his gloom had been deepening. And with reason.

  'What,' J. B. Hoke had asked, in a fine passage, 'is to prevent that red-headed young hound getting together some money and starting buying directly the market opens?'

  The Biscuit could have informed him. The obstacle that stood between himself and anything in the nature of big buying in the market was the parsimony, the incredulity, the lack of broad vision displayed by the fellow human beings. Offered a vast fortune in return for open-handedness, they had declined to be open-handed. One and all, they had shrunk from entrusting him with the loan that would enable him to invade the market on the morrow and cash in on the private information he had received concerning the imminent boom in Horned Toad Copper.

  Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these – 'He knew something good, but could not make a touch.'

  The whole matter of borrowing money is extraordinarily complex, and no publicist has yet been able to explain why it is that A. can do it, while B. can't – or taking another case, that of C. and D., why C. can bite the ear at will for thousands, while D., though a certainty for a fiver, is never able to soar above that sum. The nearest one can get to a solution is to say that, in order to borrow on a large scale, one has to be a firm of some kind.

  If the Biscuit had been the Pernambuco and Fiji Trading Co., or Gold Bricks and Perpetual Motion Ltd, he would, no doubt, have been returning to his little home this evening with his pockets bulging with specie. But he had conducted his campaign as an individual – and, what is more, as an individual who was known to be in the fiver class. He had made his name in that division. When people saw Lord Biskerton coming, they automatically dipped into their note-cases for fivers. They refused, to a man, to encourage him to go out of his class by giving him a thousand pounds, which was what he wanted now.

  He had tried prospects likely and unlikely. Dogged to the last, the fine old Crusading spirit of the Biskertons had taken him even into the lair of the Messrs Dykes, Dykes and Pinweed. And all Dykes, Dykes and Pinweed had done had been to babble nastily of their account. And finally, when young Oofy Simpson, notoriously the richest property at the Drones, had failed to develop pay-ore, the Biscuit gave the thing up.

  He made his way to Mulberry Grove with slow and dragging feet. His was a tortured soul. He writhed every time he thought of what he was missing. Once, at school, he had made six shillings that R. B. (Tape-Worm) Blenkinsop could eat ten macaroons during the eleven o'clock intermission: and until now he had always looked on that as the softest snap of his career. But it was as nothing compared with the one with which Fate was tantalizing him just now. This was the real thing. This was money for jam. And he could not grab it.

  Breathing heavily, the Biscuit reached Mulberry Grove and turned in at the gate of The Nook. He wanted sympathy, and Berry Conway could supply it. Hope, moreover, not yet quite dead, whispered that Berry might possibly be able to raise a bit of money. That bird Attwater – he had once lent Berry two hundred pounds, and Berry had paid it back. Surely this must have inspired Attwater with confidence.

  Becoming almost cheerful for a moment, the Biscuit tapped at the window of the sitting-room.

  'Berry,' he called.

  Berry was in, and he heard the tap. He also heard his friend's voice. But he did not reply. He, too, was in the depths and, much as he enjoyed the Biscuit's society as a rule, he felt unequal to the task of chatting with him now. The Biscuit, he feared, would start rhapsodizing about his Kitchie, and every word would be a dagger in the heart. A man who has recently had his world shattered into a million fragments by a woman's frown cannot lightly entertain happy lovers in his sitting-room.

  So Berry crouched in the darkness, and made no sign. And the Biscuit, with a weary curse, turned away and sat on the front steps and smoked a cigarette.

  Presently, finding no solace in nicotine, he rose, and, going to the gate, leaned upon it. He surveyed the scene before him. Darkness was falling now, but the visibility was still good enough to enable him to perceive the swan Egbert floating on the ornamental water, and he speculated idly on the possibility of picking him off at this distance with a bit of stick. When the soul is bruised, relief can sometimes be found in annoying a swan. The Biscuit stooped and possessed himself of a sizeable twig.

  He was just poising this, trying to gauge the necessary trajectory, when between him and his objective there inserted itself a body. A tall, thin man of ripe years had come round the corner and was regarding him as if he had been the tombstone of a friend.

  'Good evening, Mr Conway,' said this person, in a sad voice that reminded the Biscuit of his bank manager regretting that in the circumstances it would be inconvenient – nay, impossible – to oblige him with the suggested overdraft. 'This is Mr Conway, I suppose? My name is Robbins.'

  II

  The error into which the senior partner of the legal firm of Robbins, Robbins, Robbins and Robbins had fallen was not an unnatural one. He had been despatched by Mr Frisby to Valley Fields to deal with an adventurer residing at The Nook, Mulberry Grove, and he had reached the gate of The Nook, and here was a young man standing inside looking out. It is scarcely to be wondered at that Mr Robbins considered that he had reached Journey's End.

  'I should be glad of a word with you, Mr Conway,' he said.

  The interruption of his sporting plans annoyed the Biscuit.

  'I'm not Mr Conway,' he said, curtly. 'Mr Conway's out.'

  Mr Robbins held up a gloved hand. He had expected this sort of thing.

  'Please!' he said. 'I can readily imagine that you would prefer to avoid a discussion of your affairs, but I fear I must insist.'

  Mr Robbins had two manners – both melancholy but each quite distinct. When having a friendly talk with a client on a matter of replevin or the like, he allowed himself to ramble. When dealing with adventurers, he was crisp.

  He spoke coldly, for he disliked the scoundrel before him.

  'I represent Mr Frisby, with whose niece, I understand, you are proposing to contract an alliance. My client is fully resolved that this marriage shall not take place, and I may say that you will gain nothing by opposing his wishes. An attitude of obduracy and defiance on your part will simply mean that you lose everything. Be reasonable, however, and my client is prepared to be generous. I think you will agree with me, Mr Conway – here in camera, as one might say, and with no witnesses present – that heroics are unnecessary and that the only aspect of the matter on which we need touch is the money aspect.'

  The Biscuit had not allowed this address to be delivered without attempted punctuation. He had had far too much to put up with that afternoon to be willing to listen meekly to gibberers. The other's white hairs, just visible under his top-hat, protected him from actual assault: or he would have squashed that top-hat in with a single blow of the fist. However, he had endeavoured to speak, only to find the practised orator
riding over him and taking him in his stride. Now that his companion had paused, and he had an excellent opportunity of reiterating that a mistake had been made, he did not seize it. The thought that at the eleventh hour Fate had sent him a man who talked about money – vaguely at present, but nevertheless with a sort of golden promise in his voice – held him dumb.

  'Come now, Mr Conway,' said Mr Robbins. 'Are we going to be sensible?'

  The Biscuit choked. The twig dropped from his nerveless hand.

  'Are you offering me money to . . .'

  'Please!'

  'Let's get this straight,' said the Biscuit. 'Is there, or is there not, money on the horizon?'

  'There is. I am empowered to offer . . .'

  'How much?'

  'Two thousand pounds.'

  Mulberry Grove swam before the Biscuit's eyes. The swan Egbert looked like two swans, twin brothers.

  'Yes, think it over,' said Mr Robbins.

  He adjusted his coat, draping it about him so as more closely to resemble a winding-sheet. The Biscuit leaned on the gate in silence.

  'When do I get it?' asked the Biscuit at length.

  'Now.'

  'Now?'

  'I have a cheque with me. See!' said Mr Robbins, pulling it out and dangling it.

  He had no need to dangle long.

  'Gimme!' said the Biscuit hoarsely, and snatched it from his grasp.

  Mr Robbins regarded him with a sorrowful loathing. He had expected acquiescence, but not acquiescence quite so rapid as this. Despite the fact that he had stressed his disinclination for heroics, he had not supposed that this deal would have been concluded without at least an attempt on this young villain's part to affect reluctance.

  'I think I may congratulate the young lady on a fortunate escape,' he said, icily.

  'Eh?' said the Biscuit.

  'I say I may congratulate . . .'

  'Oh, ah,' said the Biscuit. 'Yes. Thanks very much.'

  Mr Robbins gave up the attempt to pierce this armoured hide.

  'Here is my card,' he said, revolted. 'You will come to my office tomorrow and sign a letter which I shall dictate. I wish you good evening, Mr Conway.'

  'Eh?' said the Biscuit.

  'Good evening, Mr Conway.'

  'What?' said the Biscuit.

  'Oh, good night,' said Mr Robbins.

  He turned, and walked away. His very back expressed his abhorrence.

  The Biscuit stood for a while gaping at the ornamental water. Then, walking slowly and dazedly to Peacehaven, he mixed himself the whisky and soda which the situation seemed to him so unquestionably to call for.

  In the intervals of imbibing it, he sang joyously in a discordant but powerful baritone. The wall separating the sitting-room of Peacehaven from the sitting-room of The Nook was composed of one thickness of lath and plaster, and Berry Conway, wrestling with his tragedy, heard every note.

  He shuddered. If that was how Love was making his neighbour feel, he was glad that he had been firm and had paid no attention to his knocking on the window.

  III

  It was some twenty minutes later that the car containing Captain Kelly and his ally, Mr Hoke, turned into Mulberry Grove.

  'Here we are,' said the Captain. 'Get out.'

  Mr Hoke got out.

  'Now,' said Captain Kelly, having, in his military fashion, surveyed the terrain, 'this is what we do, so listen, you poor sozzled fish. You go round to the back and stay there. I'll stick here, in the front. And, remember, no one is to leave either of those two houses. And, if anyone goes in, they've damn' well got to stay there. Do you understand?'

  Mr Hoke nodded eleven times with sunny goodwill.

  'Got gat,' he said.

  CHAPTER 13

  I

  A diet of large whiskies and small sodas, persisted in through the whole of a long afternoon and evening and augmented by an occasional neat brandy, is a thing which cuts, as it were, both ways. It had had the effect of bringing J. B. Hoke to the back-garden of The Nook with a revolver in his hand – a feat which he could never have achieved purely on lemonade: and so far may have been said to have answered its purpose. But it had also had the effect of blurring Mr Hoke's faculties.

  As he stood, propping himself up against The Nook's one tree and breathing the sweet night air of Valley Fields, his mind was not at its best and clearest. He had a dim recollection of a confused conversation with his friend, Captain Kelly, in the course of which much of interest had been said: but it had left him in a state of uncertainty on three cardinal points.

  These were:

  (a) Who was he?

  (b) Where was he?

  (c) Why was he?

  To the solution of this triple problem he now proceeded to address himself.

  In a way, it was the sort of thing Marcus Aurelius used to worry about. But Mr Hoke had an advantage over the Roman Emperor. The latter sought for some explanation of his presence in the great world of men. J. B. Hoke simply wanted to know why he was leaning against a tree in what appeared to be a suburban garden.

  Obviously, he felt, he must be there for some good purpose; and he fancied that, if he only remained perfectly quiet and concentrated, it would all come back to him.

  So, for a space, Mr Hoke stood and meditated on first causes. And he was still meditating when Fate assisted him by causing the hand which rested against the tree to slip. Mr Hoke, thrown off his balance, fell sideways and sustained a painful blow on the left ear. The shock accomplished what mere thought had been unable to effect. Sitting on the ground and rubbing the injured spot, he found Memory returning to her throne.

  Now he recollected. Now everything was clear. The Captain had stationed him in this garden to prevent, by force if necessary, the exodus of young Conway and his red-headed friend. Mr Hoke rose and dusted his trousers with an air of determination. He was still conscious of a slight swimming of the head, but at least he had found the answer to the great fundamental problem.

  Instinctively feeling that it would be sure to come in useful, J. B. Hoke had provided himself for this expedition with a large pocket-flask. He now produced this, and drank deeply of its contents. And his mood, which had begun by being one of amiable vacuity and had changed to one of self-pity, changed again. If somebody had come along and flashed a light on Mr Hoke's face at this moment, he would have perceived on it an expression of sternness. He was thinking hard thoughts of Berry and his friend. Trying to sneak out and slip something across a good man, were they? Ha! thought Mr Hoke.

  With a wide and sweeping gesture, designed to indicate his contempt for and defiance of all such petty-minded plotters, he flung an arm dramatically skywards. Unfortunately, it was the arm which ended in the hand which ended in the fingers which held the flask; and the fingers, unequal to the sudden strain, relaxed their grip. The next moment, the precious object had vanished into the night, with its late owner in agonized pursuit.

  Mr Hoke had never been a reader of poetry. Had he been, those poignant words of Longfellow:

  I shot a flask into the air:

  It fell to earth, I knew not where.

  would undoubtedly have flashed into his mind, for they covered the situation exactly. The night was dark, and the grounds of The Nook, though not large compared with places like Blenheim or Knole, were quite large enough to hide a flask. For many long and weary minutes Mr Hoke traversed them from side to side and from end to end like a hunting dog. He poked in bushes. He went down on hands and knees. He scrutinized flower-beds. But all to no avail. The garden held its secret well.

  J. B. Hoke gave it up. He was beaten. Sadly he rose from the last flower-bed: and, turning, he was aware that there was light in one of the ground-floor windows, where before no light had been. Interested by this phenomenon, he hurried across the lawn and looked in.

  The young man, Conway, was there, eating cold ham and drinking whisky.

  The discovery that he was on the point of perishing of thirst and hunger had come quite suddenly to Berry
as he sat nursing his sorrow in the darkened sitting-room. At first, he had repelled it: for the mere thought of taking nourishment was, in his present frame of mind, odious to him. Then, as the urge grew greater, he had succumbed. He had gone to the larder and foraged. And now he was setting to with something like enthusiasm.

  Mr Hoke, crouching outside the window, eyed him wistfully. He could have done with a slice of that ham. He could have used that whisky. He flattened his nose against the pane and stared wolfishly. A yearning for his lost flask tormented him.

  Suddenly he observed the banqueter stiffen in his chair and raise his head, listening. Mr Hoke heard nothing, and was not aware that the front door bell had rung. But Berry had heard it, and a wild, reasonless hope shot through him that it was Ann, come to tell him that in spite of all she loved him still. True, she had given at their parting no indication of the likelihood of any such change of heart, but the possibility was enough to send Berry shooting out of the door and down the hall. Mr Hoke found himself looking into an empty room.

  Empty, that is to say, except for the ham on the table and the whisky bottle beside it. These remained, and J. B. Hoke found in their aspect something magnetic, something that drew him like a spell. He tested the window. It was not bolted. He pushed it up. He climbed in.

  What with the tumult of his thoughts and the necessity of drinking his courage to the sticking-point, Mr Hoke tonight had for perhaps the first time in his life omitted to dine, preferring to concentrate his energies on the absorption of double whiskies. He was now ravenously hungry, and he assailed the ham with a will. He also helped himself freely from the whisky bottle.

  A man who is already nearly full to the top with mixed spirits cannot do this sort of thing without experiencing some sort of spiritual change. At the beginning of the meal, J. B. Hoke had been morose and particularly unkindly disposed towards Berry. By the time he had finished, a gentler mood prevailed. He was feeling extraordinarily dizzy, but with the dizziness had come a strongly marked benevolence and a keen desire for the society of his fellows.