Luck of the Bodkins

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'Oh, ah, yes,' he said.

  'Well, what about it?'

  ‘You mean, am I going to sign a contract?’ "Yes’

  'No. Emphatically no.' 'Ah, come on.' 'No, I couldnt’ 'Why not?'

  'I simply couldn't, dash it’

  Lottie Blossom stretched out an appealing hand. Her intention of attaching herself to the lapel of his bathrobe and win-somely twisting it was so plain that Monty backed a step. He had had the lapels of his garments twisted by'girls before, always with unfortunate results.

  'I simply couldn't,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why not? Is it that you have your pride, that there are some things to which a Bodkin cannot stoop? Ever hear the one about the mother who was walking with her child past the Brown Derby and a bunch of fellows came out in make-up? The kid points and says: "Look, mamma. Movie actors I" And the mother says: "Hush, dear - you don't know what you may come to some day." Is that it?'

  ‘No, no.'

  ‘Well, then?'

  'No, I simply couldnt act. I'd feel such a chump.’

  ‘Don’t you feel that already?'

  'Yes, but not that sort of chump’

  ‘Haven't you ever done any acting?'

  'Only once. It was at a kind of jamboree at my first kindergarten, when I was about five. I played the Spirit of Modem Learning. I wore white reach-me-downs, I remember, and carried a torch, and I came on and said: "I am the Spirit of Modern Learning.'' At least, I didn't, because I blew up in my lines, but that was the idea’

  This segment of autobiography seemed to depress Miss Blossom a little.

  ‘Nothing further?'

  ‘No’

  That is the whole sum of your experience?' 'Yes’

  ‘Oh? Well,' said Miss Blossom thoughtfully, 'I've known people come to the screen with a better record, I admit. George Arliss, for one. Still, you never can tell in the movies. After all, it's mostly a case of having a map that photographs well and getting a good cameraman and director. I was no Bernhardt when I broke in. All I'd done was be in musical comedy.’ 'Oh, were you in musical comedy?'

  'Sure. I used to sing in the chorus, till they found out where the noise was coming from. And then I went to Hollywood and had my photograph taken and found I was swell. It might be the same with you. Why not take a chance? You would like Hollywood, you know. Everybody does. Girdled by the everlasting hills, bathed in eternal sunshine. Honest, it kind of gets you. What I mean, there's something going on there all the time. Malibu. Catalina. Aqua Caliente. And if you aren't getting divorced yourself, there's always one of your friends is, and that gives you something to chat about in the long evenings. And it isn't half such a crazy place as they make out. I know two-three people in Hollywood that are part sane.'

  'Oh, I expect I'd enjoy it all right.'

  'Well, come along, kid, where Opportunity beckons. You might be a whale of a hit. You never know. There's plenty of room at the top. And if you can't get to the top, you can always sit at the bottom and make excuses. And think of the money. Don't you like money?'

  'Yes, I like money.'

  'Me, too, bless its heart. What great stuff it is, isn't it? Don’t you love to hear it crackling? Do you know, I still keep a little wad tucked away in my stockings, same as I used to in the old merry-merry days. Every week I would put my thirty bucks next to the skin you love to touch, and I do it to this day. It sort of seems to give me a cosy feeling. Yes, sir, there's six fives in my stocking at this very moment. Look, if you don't believe me,' said Miss Blossom, beginning to undrape a shapely leg.

  This was precisely the note which Monty wanted to discourage. The chariest maid, he felt, is prodigal enough if she unmask her beauty to the moon. With a certain feverish haste, he assured his companion that her word by itself was sufficient to carry conviction.

  'Well, then, coming back to it, if you're fond of money -'But, you see, I've such a frightful lot of my own already.' ‘You have?'

  'Yes. Hundreds of thousands of quids,’

  Lottie Blossom's animation died away.

  'Oh?' she said, discouraged. That's different. Got the stuff already, have you? I didn't know that. I knew you were a friend of Reggie's and I thought that all you prominent young London clubmen were down to your last bean, like him. If you're one of these well-to-do millionaires, I can see why you might not want to come to Hollywood. It's a pleasant enough spot, but I don't say I'd hang around there myself if somebody gave me the United States Mint. Kayo, chief. I see the thing's cold.'

  ‘I'm sorry.'

  'Not half so sorry as I am. I was hoping you would be able to swing things for Ambrose.’ 'How do you mean?'

  'Well, you see, poor old Ambrose is in bad. That contract of his with the Superba-Llewellyn has fallen through.'

  'Good Lord! You don't mean that?'

  'Yes, sir. Ikey has just found out he didn't write "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck".'

  'But why should he?' asked Monty, mystified.

  'Because that was the Tennyson Ikey thought he was getting - the big shot, the fellow you hear his name everywhere.'

  Tennyson didn't write "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck".'

  'He did, too.’

  The Tennyson we used to have to turn into Latin verse at school, do you mean?’

  'I don't know what you turned him into at school, but there's one sure thing, you didn't turn Ambrose, and that's what Ikey is beefing about'

  'Shakespeare wrote "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck".’

  'He did not any such thing. Tennyson did. And what does it matter, anyway? The point is that there's a right Tennyson and a wrong Tennyson, and Ambrose turns out to be the wrong one. So Ikey refuses to come through with that contract

  and all that fifteen-hundred-a-week thing has gone west.’ 'Well, I'm. dashed.'

  'So am I. And I was hoping that you would be nice about coming and acting for Ikey, so that then you could have made him put in a clause that if you went Ambrose must go too. And I can't see why you won't, even if you have got all this money. You would have lots of fun at Hollywood.'

  Monty shivered.

  ‘I wouldn't act if I was starving. The mere thought of it makes me tremble like a leaf.’

  'Oh, you give me hay fever... Well?’

  The remark was addressed to Albert Peasemarch, who had just entered. One of the fascinations of travelling on R.M.S. Atlantic was that there was never any stint of Albert Peasemarch's society.

  ‘I came to bring Mr Bodkin his sponge, miss, which he inadvertently left in the state-room he vacatuated last night,’ said the steward. 'No doubt you missed the sponge, sir?'

  'Thanks. Yes. I spotted I was a sponge short.'

  'Say, listen, buddy,' said Miss Blossom, 'didn't you tell me Tennyson wrote "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck"?'

  'Quite right, miss.'

  'Mr Bodkin says he didn't.’

  Albert Peasemarch smiled a pitying smile.

  'Mr Bodkin, miss, so I understand from the ties in his drawer, was educated at Eton. That's where he's handicapped in these matters. Eton, as you may have heard, is one of our English public schools, and the English public-school system,' said Albert, warming to a subject to which he had given a good deal of thought, 'isn't at all what an educational system should be. It lacks practicality and inspiration. If you ask me, they don't learn the little perishers nothing. The whole essence of the English public school system with its hidebound insistence on -'

  ‘All right.'

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘That'll be all.’

  ‘Very good, miss,' said Albert Peasemarch, wounded, but still feudal.

  'Well, listen,' said Lottie, turning to Monty with the air of one who has successfully put a green baize cloth over a canary, 'if you won't sign up with Ikey, you can at least string him along and make him think you're going to and get him to take Ambrose on again. Go and talk to him after you've had your bath.'

  Albert Peasemarch had a word to say about this.

  'I should
n't, sir,' he advised, in a serious, friendly tone. 'I wouldn't recommend anyone to go and talk to Mr Llewellyn at the present juncture.’

  ‘You wouldn't?'

  'No, sir. Not anyone that didn't want to get his head bit off. Let me tell you a little experience of my own, sir. I was in his shed not so long ago, and purely because I happened absent-mindedly to sing a couple of bars of the "Yeoman's Wedding Song"-'

  'Eh?'

  'It's a number I'm rendering at the second-class concert tonight,’ explained Albert. 'You often find on these trips that the voluntary talent isn't enough to fill out a programme, and then the purser tells Jimmy the One to tell off a member of the corps of stewards to render a number. Usually it's me and my "Yeoman's Wedding Song", it being well and favourably known to all on this boat. Well, having this 'Yeoman's Wedding Song" to brush up, as it were, for this second-class concert and being somewhat distray, as the French say, on account of it, I inadvertently sang the bit where it goes "Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along" in Mr Llewellyn's shed while removing of his breakfast-tray. Sir, he turned on me like a tiger of the jungle. Quite an animal snarl he emitted, if I may say so. I really wouldn't advocate anyone having anything in the nature of social intercourse with Mr Llewellyn for a long time to come.’

  'Hear that?' said Monty, well pleased.

  Miss Blossom was regarding the steward with a lowering gaze.

  'You would come sticking your oar in, wouldn't you?' Albert Peasemarch bridled, like a sensitive serf unjustly rebuked by a chatelaine.

  'I was merely recommending Mr Bodkin here to allow Mr Llwellyn to simmer down to some extent before -’ ‘Of all the pests

  ‘You see,' said Monty. ‘If he's feeling like that, what's the sense of my going and talking to him? What could I hope to effect? The whole project, therefore, becomes null and void, and now, if you will excuse me, I think I'll be dashing off and having my bath. I have an urgent appointment in the library pretty soon.’

  When the spirit of a man of sensibility has been exercised by a distressing scene with a member of the opposite sex there are few things that more swiftly restore him to composure than a plunge into cold, stinging sea-water. Monty, having carefully shot the bolt of the bathroom door, for one never knew, revelled ecstatically in his tub. It is true that he howled sharply as he got in and felt the first icy touch on his spine, but after that he became all that was gay and debonair. He sang freely as he splashed about, employing for that purpose, perhaps by way of a courteous tribute to Albert Peasemarch, as much as he could remember of the 'Yeoman's Wedding Song'.

  It was not that he was callous. Nobody could have been sorrier for poor old Ambrose. A dashed shame, he considered, that things had gone into a tail spin for him like that. But remembering what had been in Gertrude's note and reflecting that in about two ticks he would be up in the library gazing into her eyes, he found it impossible not to be happy.

  It was with a certain wariness that he returned to the stateroom. To his relief, Miss Blossom had removed herself. Only Albert Peasemarch met the eye. The steward was reading the news-sheet which ocean liners provide for their passengers each morning.

  ‘I see,' he said, rising politely as Monty entered, 'where gas explosion occurs in London street, sir, slaying four.'

  'Oh, yes?' said Monty, reaching for his trousers and sliding gaily into them. He knew that it was too bad of him not to feel more grieved about this unfortunate quartette, but he simply could not pump up a decent concern. He was young, the sun was shining, and at noon Gertrude would be in the library.

  Four hundred could have been slain in a London street without spoiling his morning.

  'And well-dressed woman absent-mindedly has bonny baby in Chicago street-car. Or, rather,' said Albert Peasemarch, correcting himself after a closer scrutiny of the text, 'leaves. And that's odd, too, sir, when you come to think of it. Shows what women are like.'

  'It does,' agreed Monty, putting on the only shirt in the world worthy of being present at the forthcoming meeting in the library.

  'The fact of the matter is, sir, women haven't got the heads men have got. I believe it's something to do with the bone structure.'

  'True,' said Monty. He adjusted his tie and looked at it critically in the mirror. A little sigh escaped him. It was not a bad tie. He would go further, it was a jolly good tie. But it was not the tie with the pink roses on the dove-grey background.

  'Take my old mother,' proceeded Albert Peasemarch, with that touch of affectionate reproach which comes to a thoughtful man when he contemplates the shortcomings of the opposite sex. 'Always losing and forgetting things, she is. She could never keep her spectacles by her for two minutes on end. Many a rare hunt I've had for them when I was a young chap. She'd have lost those spectacles if she'd been alone on an iceberg.'

  'Eh?'

  'My mother, sir.' 'On an iceberg?' 'Yes, sir.'

  'When was your mother ever on an iceberg?'

  Albert Peasemarch perceived that his remarks had not secured his overlord's undivided attention.

  'My mother was never on an iceberg, sir. I'm simply saying that if she had been she'd have lost her spectacles. And it's just the same with all women, on account of the bone structure of their heads. As I say, they're always losing things and forgetting things.'

  'I expect you're right.'

  ‘I know I'm right, sir. Why, that young lady in here just now, your Miss Blossom -'

  'I wish you wouldn't call her my Miss Blossom.'

  'No, sir. Very good, sir. But what I was about to say was that she'd got half-way down the corridor without remembering to take her plaything with her. I had to run after her and give it to her. "Hi, miss," I said, "you omitted to fetch away your mouse." And she said: "Oh, thank you, steward, so I did."... Sir?'

  Monty had not spoken. What had proceeded from his lips had been a mere animal wail. He raked the dressing-table with starting eyes, hoping against hope that he had not heard his companion aright.

  But there was no mistake. That broad, friendly smile was not there to greet him. Desolation reigned on the dressing-table. The Mickey Mouse had gone.

  'Everything in good shape now?' ‘Oh, yes."

  Reggie was a little piqued. A man may say to himself that he desires no thanks, that he is only too delighted and so forth, but he does like a certain measure of recognition of his acts of kindness.

  'You don't seem overpleased,' he said frigidly. 'Reggie,' said Monty, 'the most awful thing has happened. The Blossom has got away with Gertrude's mouse.' 'Mouse?' ‘Yes.'

  ‘White mouse?'

  ‘Mickey Mouse. You remember that Mickey Mouse I gave her and she sent back...'

  'Ah, yes.' Reggie shook his head rather censoriously. 'You shouldn't have given Gertrude's mouse to Lottie, old man.'

  Monty raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading with heaven not to allow him to be pushed too far.

  ‘I didn't give it to her.’

  'But she's got it?'

  ‘Yes.'

  Tell me the story in your own words,' said Reggie. 'So far, it sounds goofy to me.'

  But when the tale had been told he had no comfort to offer. It seemed to him that his friend was in a spot, and he said so’

  'Your best plan is to get that mouse back,' he suggested.

  'Yes,' said Monty. This had occurred to him independently.

  ‘If Gertrude sees it in Lottie's possession-'

  'Yes,' said Monty.

  'She'll-'

  'Yes,' said Monty.

  Reggie clicked his tongue impatiently.

  ‘You'll have to do something better than go about looking like a frog and saying "Yes", my lad. I'd get in touch with her immediately, if I were you.’

  'But I've got to meet Gertrude in the library.’

  'Well, directly you've pushed her off. What are you going to say to Gertrude, by the way, if she asks you for the thing?’

  'I don't know.'

  'You don't know much, do you? Listen. This is w
hat you say. No,' said Reggie, after a moment's thought, 'that's no good. How about this? No, that's no good, either. I'll tell you what to do. Go off in a corner somewhere and think of something.'

  And with these helpful words Reggie Tennyson took his departure. He had suddenly remembered that, what with one thing and another, he had not yet had that game of shuffle’ board with Mabel Spence.

  Monty tottered off to the library.

  The library was empty. Gertrude had not yet arrived at the tryst, and even the most hardened indoor knitters and picture-postcard writers had been shamed into the open by the glorious sunshine. Sinking into a chair and clutching his head with both hands in order to assist thought, Monty gave himself up to a supreme effort to formulate a plan of action.

  The mouse - how to recover it?

  It would be no easy task. That much was certain, If ever Monty had seen love at first sight, it was when Lotus Blossom had come into«his state-room and focused that mouse. She had unmistakably yearned for it. And now that Fate, aided by its old crony Albert Peasemarch, had enabled her to secure it, would she lightly let it go?

  Monty feared not. Her whole attitude had been so patently that of a girl from whose grasp it was going to be exceedingly difficult to prise this particular mouse, once she had frozen on to it. Still...

  Yes, it might be done. The woman presumably had a conscience and had been taught, either at her mother's knee or elsewhere, the fundamentals of an ethical system. If he could get in touch with her and point out to her that in accepting at Albert Peasemarch's hands a Mickey Mouse which she was perfectly well aware it was not in his power to bestow she had been guilty of something approaching very close to grand larceny, she might consent to disgorge. Much, of course, depended on the extent to which life in Hollywood had warped her sense of right and wrong. If it had warped it a good deal, all was lost. If, on the other hand, it had not warped it very much, surely an appeal to her better feelings ...

  A voice broke in upon his thoughts, just as he seemed to be beginning to get somewhere.