Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'What's the matter?'

  'He looks to me just like a crouching leopard.'

  'I beg your purdon,' said Mabel Potter, who, her duty being to take notes of the proceedings, was seated at her employer's side. 'Did you say "crouching leopard" or "grouchy shepherd"?'

  Mr Schnellenhamer started. He had forgotten the risk of being overheard. He felt that he had been incautious.

  'Don't put that down,' he said. 'It wasn't part of the conference. Well, now, come on, come on,' he proceeded, with a pitiful attempt at the bluffness which he used at conferences, 'let's get at it. Where did we leave off yesterday, Miss Potter?'

  Mabel consulted her notes.

  'Cabot Delancy, a scion of an old Boston family, has gone to try to reach the North Pole in a submarine, and he's on an iceberg, and the scenes of his youth are passing before his eyes.'

  'What scenes?'

  'You didn't get to what scenes.'

  'Then that's where we begin,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'What scenes pass before this fellow's eyes?'

  One of the authors, a weedy young man in spectacles, who had come to Hollywood to start a Gyffte Shoppe and had been scooped up in the studio's drag-net and forced into the writing-staff much against his will, said why not a scene where Cabot Delancy sees himself dressing his window with kewpie-dolls and fancy note-paper.

  'Why kewpie-dolls?' asked Mr Schnellenhamer testily.

  The author said they were a good selling line.

  'Listen!' said Mr Schnellenhamer brusquely. 'This Delancy never sold anything in his life. He's a millionaire. What we want is something romantic.'

  A diffident old gentleman suggested a polo-game.

  'No good,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Who cares anything about polo? When you're working on a picture you've got to bear in mind the small-town population of the Middle West. Aren't I right?'

  'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.

  'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.

  'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.

  And all the Nodders nodded. Wilmot, waking with a start to the realization that duty called, hurriedly inclined his throbbing head. The movement made him feel as if a red-hot spike had been thrust through it, and he winced. Mr Levitsky plucked at Mr Schnellenhamer's sleeve.

  'He scowled!'

  'I thought he scowled, too.'

  As it might be with sullen hate.'

  'That's the way it struck me. Keep watching him.'

  The conference proceeded. Each of the authors put forward a suggestion, but it was left for Mr Schnellenhamer to solve what had begun to seem an insoluble problem.

  'I've got it,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'He sits on this iceberg and he seems to see himself- he's always been an athlete, you understand – he seems to see himself scoring the winning goal in one of these polo-games. Everybody's interested in polo nowadays. Aren't I right?'

  'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.

  'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.

  'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.

  Wilmot was quicker off the mark this time. A conscientious employee, he did not intend mere physical pain to cause him to fall short in his duty. He nodded quickly, and returned to the 'ready' a little surprised that his head was still attached to its moorings. He had felt so certain it was going to come off that time.

  The effect of this quiet, respectful, deferential and obsequious nod on Mr Schnellenhamer was stupendous. The anxious look had passed from his eyes. He was convinced now that Wilmot knew nothing. The magnate's confidence mounted high. He proceeded briskly. There was a new strength in his voice.

  'Well,' he said, 'that's set for one of the visions We want two, and the other's got to be something that'll pull in the women. Something touching and sweet and tender.'

  The young author in spectacles thought it would be kind of touching and sweet and tender if Cabot Delancy remembered the time he was in his Gyffte Shoppe and a beautiful girl came in and their eyes met as he wrapped up her order of Indian bead-work.

  Mr Schnellenhamer banged the desk.

  'What is all this about Gyffte Shoppes and Indian beadwork? Don't I tell you this guy is a prominent clubman? Where would he get a Gyffte Shoppe? Bring a girl into it, yes – so far you're talking sense. And let him gaze into her eyes – certainly he can gaze into her eyes. But not in any Gyffte Shoppe. It's got to be a lovely, peaceful, old-world exterior set, with bees humming and doves cooing and trees waving in the breeze. Listen!' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'It's spring, see, and all around is the beauty of Nature in the first shy sun-glow. The grass that waves. The buds that ... what's the word?'

  'Bud?' suggested Mr Levitsky.

  'No, it's two syllables,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, speaking a little self-consciously, for he was modestly proud of knowing words of two syllables.

  'Burgeon?' hazarded an author who looked like a trained seal.

  'I beg your pardon,' said Mabel Potter. 'A burgeon's a sort of fish.'

  'You're thinking of sturgeon,' said the author.

  'Excuse it, please,' murmured Mabel. 'I'm not strong on fishes. Birds are what I'm best at.'

  'We'll have birds, too,' said Mr Schnellenhamer jovially. All the birds you want. Especially the cuckoo. And I'll tell you why. It gives us a nice little comedy touch. This fellow's with this girl in this old-world garden where everything's burgeoning ... and when I say burgeoning I mean burgeoning. That burgeoning's got to be done right, or somebody'll get fired ... and they're locked in a close embrace. Hold as long as the Philadelphia censors'll let you, and then comes your nice little comedy touch. Just as these two young folks are kissing each other without a thought of anything else in the world, suddenly a cuckoo close by goes "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" Meaning how goofy they are. That's good for a laugh, isn't it?'

  'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.

  'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.

  'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.

  And then, while the Nodders' heads – Wilmot's among them – were trembling on their stalks preparatory to the downward swoop, there spoke abruptly a clear female voice. It was the voice of Mabel Potter, and those nearest her were able to see that her face was flushed and her eyes gleaming with an almost fanatic light. All the bird-imitator in her had sprung to sudden life.

  'I beg your purdon, Mr Schnellenhamer, that's wrong.'

  A deadly stillness had fallen on the room. Eleven authors sat transfixed in their chairs, as if wondering if they could believe their twenty-two ears. Mr Schnellenhamer uttered a little gasp. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before in his long experience.

  'What did you say?' he asked incredulously. 'Did you say that I ... I ... was wrong?'

  Mabel met his gaze steadily. So might Joan of Arc have faced her inquisitors.

  'The cuckoo,' she said, 'does not go "Cuckoo, cuckoo" ... it goes "Wuckoo, wuckoo." A distinct "W" sound.'

  A gasp at the girl's temerity ran through the room. In the eyes of several of those present there was something that was not far from a tear. She seemed so young, so fragile.

  Mr Schnellenhamer's joviality had vanished. He breathed loudly through his nose. He was plainly mastering himself with a strong effort.

  'So I don't know the low-down on cuckoos?'

  'Wuckoos,' corrected Mabel.

  'Cuckoos!'

  'Wuckoos!'

  'You're fired,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

  Mabel flushed to the roots of her hair.

  'It's unfair and unjust,' she cried. 'I'm right, and anybody who's studied cuckoos will tell you I'm right. When it was a matter of burgeons, I was mistaken, and I admitted that I was mistaken, and apologized. But when it comes to cuckoos, let me tell you you're talking to somebody who has imitated the call of the cuckoo from the Palace, Portland, Oregon, to the Hippodrome, Sumquamset, Maine, and taken three bows after every performance. Yes, sir, I know my cuckoos! And if you don't believe me I'll put it up to Mr Mulliner there, who was born and bred on a farm and has heard more cuckoos in his time than a month of Sundays. Mr Mulliner,
how about it? Does the cuckoo go "Cuckoo"?'

  Wilmot Mulliner was on his feet, and his eyes met hers with the love-light in them. The spectacle of the girl he loved in distress and appealing to him for aid had brought my distant connection's better self to the surface as if it had been jerked up on the end of a pin. For one brief instant he had been about to seek safety in a cowardly cringing to the side of those in power. He loved Mabel Potter madly, desperately, he had told himself in that short, sickening moment of poltroonery, but Mr Schnellenhamer was the man who signed the cheques: and the thought of risking his displeasure and being summarily dismissed had appalled him. For there is no spiritual anguish like that of the man who, grown accustomed to opening the crackling envelope each Saturday morning, reaches out for it one day and finds that it is not there. The thought of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum cashier ceasing to be a fount of gold and becoming just a man with a walrus moustache had turned Wilmot's spine to Jell-o. And for an instant, as I say, he had been on the point of betraying this sweet girl's trust.

  But now, gazing into her eyes, he was strong again. Come what might, he would stand by her to the end.

  'No!' he thundered, and his voice rang through the room like a trumpet-blast. 'No, it does not go "Cuckoo." You have fallen into a popular error, Mr Schnellenhamer. The bird wooks, and, by heaven, I shall never cease to maintain that it wooks, no matter what offence I give to powerful vested interests. I endorse Miss Potter's view wholeheartedly and without compromise. I say the cuckoo does not cook. It wooks, so make the most of it!'

  There was a sudden whirring noise. It was Mabel Potter shooting through the air into his arms.

  'Oh, Wilmot!' she cried.

  He glared over her back-hair at the magnate.

  '"Wuckoo, wuckoo!"' he shouted, almost savagely.

  He was surprised to observe that Mr Schnellenhamer and Mr Levitsky were hurriedly clearing the room. Authors had begun to stream through the door in a foaming torrent. Presently, he and Mabel were alone with the two directors of the destinies of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation, and Mr Levitsky was carefully closing the door, while Mr Schnellenhamer came towards him, a winning, if nervous, smile upon his face.

  'There, there, Mulliner,' he said.

  And Mr Levitsky said 'There, there,' too.

  'I can understand your warmth, Mulliner,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Nothing is more annoying to the man who knows than to have people making these silly mistakes. I consider the firm stand you have taken as striking evidence of your loyalty to the Corporation.'

  'Me, too,' said Mr Levitsky. 'I was admiring it myself.'

  'For you are loyal to the Corporation, Mulliner, I know. You would never do anything to prejudice its interests, would you?'

  'Sure he wouldn't,' said Mr Levitsky.

  'You would not reveal the Corporation's little secrets, thereby causing it alarm and despondency, would you, Mulliner?'

  'Certainly he wouldn't,' said Mr Levitsky. 'Especially now that we're going to make him an executive.'

  'An executive?' said Mr Schnellenhamer, starting.

  'An executive,' repeated Mr Levitsky firmly. 'With brevet rank as a brother-in-law.'

  Mr Schnellenhamer was silent for a moment. He seemed to be having a little trouble in adjusting his mind to this extremely drastic step. But he was a man of sterling sense, who realized that there are times when only the big gesture will suffice.

  'That's right,' he said. 'I'll notify the legal department and have the contract drawn up right away.'

  'That will be agreeable to you, Mulliner?' inquired Mr Levitsky anxiously. 'You will consent to become an executive?'

  Wilmot Mulliner drew himself up. It was his moment. His head was still aching, and he would have been the last person to claim that he knew what all this was about: but this he did know – that Mabel was nestling in his arms and that his future was secure.

  'I ...'

  Then words failed him, and he nodded.

  10 THE JUICE OF AN ORANGE

  A SUDDEN cat shot in through the door of the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest, wearing the unmistakable air of a cat which has just been kicked by a powerful foot. At the same moment there came from without sounds indicative of a strong man's wrath: and recognizing the voice of Ernest Biggs, the inn's popular landlord, we stared at one another in amazement. For Ernest had always been celebrated for the kindliness of his disposition. The last man, one would have thought, to raise a number eleven shoe against a faithful friend and good mouser.

  It was a well-informed Rum and Milk who threw light on the mystery.

  'He's on a diet,' said the Rum and Milk. 'On account of gout.'

  Mr Mulliner sighed.

  A pity,' he said, 'that dieting, so excellent from a purely physical standpoint, should have this unfortunate effect on the temper. It seems to sap the self-control of the stoutest.'

  'Quite,' said the Rum and Milk. 'My stout Uncle Henry ...'

  And yet,' proceeded Mr Mulliner, 'I have known great happiness result from dieting. Take, for example, the case of my distant connection, Wilmot.'

  'Is that the Wilmot you were telling us about the other night?'

  'Was I telling you about my distant connection Wilmot the other night?'

  'The fellow I mean was a Nodder at Hollywood, and he found out that the company's child star, Little Johnny Bingley, was a midget, so to keep his mouth shut they made him an executive, and he married a girl named Mabel Potter.'

  'Yes, that was Wilmot. You are mistaken, however, in supposing that he married Mabel Potter at the conclusion of that story.'

  'But you distinctly said she fell into his arms.'

  'Many a girl has fallen into a man's arms,' said Mr Mulliner gravely, 'only to wriggle out of them at a later date.'

  We left Wilmot, as you very rightly say (said Mr Mulliner) in an extremely satisfactory position, both amatory and financial. The only cloud there had ever been between himself and Mabel Potter had been due, if you recollect, to the fact that she considered his attitude towards Mr Schnellenhamer, the head of the Corporation, too obsequious and deferential. She resented his being a Nodder. Then he was promoted to the rank of executive, so there he was, reconciled to the girl he loved and in receipt of a most satisfactory salary. Little wonder that he felt that the happy ending had arrived.

  One effect of his new-found happiness on my distant connection Wilmot was to fill him with the utmost benevolence and goodwill towards all humanity. His sunny smile was the talk of the studio, and even got a couple of lines in Louella Parsons's column in the Los Angeles Examiner. Love, I believe, often has this effect on a young man. He went about the place positively seeking for ways of doing his fellow human beings good turns. And when one morning Mr Schnellenhamer summoned him to his office Wilmot's chief thought was that he hoped that the magnate was going to ask some little favour of him, because it would be a real pleasure to him to oblige.

  He found the head of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation looking grave.

  'Times are hard, Mulliner,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

  'And yet,' replied Wilmot cheerily, 'there is still joy in the world; still the happy laughter of children and the singing of blue-birds.'

  'That's all right about blue-birds,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, 'but we've got to cut down expenses. We'll have to do some salary-slicing.'

  Wilmot was concerned. This seemed to him morbid.

  'Don't dream of cutting your salary, Chief,' he urged. 'You're worth every cent of it. Besides, reflect. If you reduce your salary, it will cause alarm. People will go about saying that things must be in a bad way. It is your duty to the community to be a man and bite the bullet and, no matter how much it may irk you, to stick to your eight hundred thousand dollars a year like glue.'

  'I wasn't thinking of cutting my salary so much,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Yours, more, if you see what I mean.'

  'Oh, mine?' cried Wilmot buoyantly. 'Ah, that's different. That's another thing altogether. Yes, that's certainly an idea. If you
think it will be of assistance and help to ease matters for all these dear chaps on the P-F lot, by all means cut my salary. About how much were you thinking of?'

  'Well, you're getting fifteen hundred a week.'

  'I know, I know,' said Wilmot. 'It's a lot of money.'

  'I thought if we said seven hundred and fifty from now on ...'

  'It's an awkward sort of sum,' said Wilmot dubiously. 'Not round, if you follow me. I would suggest five hundred.'

  'Or four?'

  'Four, if you prefer it.'

  'Very well,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Then from now on we'll put you on the books as three. It's a more convenient sum than four,' he explained. 'Makes less book-keeping.'

  'Of course,' said Wilmot. 'Of course. What a perfectly lovely day it is, is it not? I was thinking as I came along here that I had never seen the sun shining more brightly. One just wanted to be out and about, doing lots of good on every side. Well, I'm delighted if I have been able to do anything in my humble way to make things easier for you, Chief. It has been a real pleasure.'

  And with a merry 'Tra-la' he left the room and made his way to the commissary, where he had arranged to give Mabel Potter lunch.

  She was a few minutes late in arriving, and he presumed that she had been detained on some matter by Mr Schnellenhamer, whose private secretary, if you remember, she was. When she arrived, he was distressed to see that her lovely face was overcast, and he was just about to say something about blue-birds when she spoke abruptly.

  'What is all this I hear from Mr Schnellenhamer?'

  'I don't quite understand,' said Wilmot.

  'About your taking a salary cut.'

  'Oh, that. I see. I suppose he drafted out a new agreement for you to take to the legal department. Yes,' said Wilmot, 'Mr Schnellenhamer sent for me this morning, and I found him very worried, poor chap. There is a world-wide money shortage at the moment, you see, and industry is in a throttled state and so on. He was very upset about it. However, we talked things over, and fortunately we found a way out. I've reduced my salary. It has eased things all round.'

  Mabel's face was stony.

  'Has it?' she said bitterly. 'Well, let me tell you that, as far as I'm concerned, it has done nothing of the sort. You have failed me, Wilmot. You have forfeited my respect. You have proved to me that you are still the same cold-asparagus-backboned worm who used to cringe to Mr Schnellenhamer. I thought, when you became an executive, that you would have the soul of an executive. I find that at heart you are still a Nodder. The man I used to think you – the strong, dominant man of my dreams – would have told Mr Schnellenhamer to take a running jump up an alley at the mere hint of a cut in the weekly envelope. Ah, yes, how woefully I have been deceived in you. I think that we had better consider our engagement at an end.'