The Man with Two Left Feet, and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ONE TOUCH OF NATURE

  The feelings of Mr J. Wilmot Birdsey, as he stood wedged in the crowdthat moved inch by inch towards the gates of the Chelsea FootballGround, rather resembled those of a starving man who has just beengiven a meal but realizes that he is not likely to get another for manydays. He was full and happy. He bubbled over with the joy of living anda warm affection for his fellow-man. At the back of his mind therelurked the black shadow of future privations, but for the moment he didnot allow it to disturb him. On this maddest, merriest day of all theglad New Year he was content to revel in the present and allow thefuture to take care of itself.

  Mr Birdsey had been doing something which he had not done since he leftNew York five years ago. He had been watching a game of baseball.

  New York lost a great baseball fan when Hugo Percy de WynterFramlinghame, sixth Earl of Carricksteed, married Mae Elinor, onlydaughter of Mr and Mrs J. Wilmot Birdsey of East Seventy-Third Street;for scarcely had that internationally important event taken place whenMrs Birdsey, announcing that for the future the home would be inEngland as near as possible to dear Mae and dear Hugo, scooped J.Wilmot out of his comfortable morris chair as if he had been a clam,corked him up in a swift taxicab, and decanted him into a Deck Bstateroom on the _Olympic_. And there he was, an exile.

  Mr Birdsey submitted to the worst bit of kidnapping since the days ofthe old press gang with that delightful amiability which made him sopopular among his fellows and such a cypher in his home. At an earlydate in his married life his position had been clearly defined beyondpossibility of mistake. It was his business to make money, and, whencalled upon, to jump through hoops and sham dead at the bidding of hiswife and daughter Mae. These duties he had been performingconscientiously for a matter of twenty years.

  It was only occasionally that his humble role jarred upon him, for heloved his wife and idolized his daughter. The international alliancehad been one of these occasions. He had no objection to Hugo Percy,sixth Earl of Carricksteed. The crushing blow had been the sentence ofexile. He loved baseball with a love passing the love of women, and theprospect of never seeing a game again in his life appalled him.

  And then, one morning, like a voice from another world, had come thenews that the White Sox and the Giants were to give an exhibition inLondon at the Chelsea Football Ground. He had counted the days like achild before Christmas.

  There had been obstacles to overcome before he could attend the game,but he had overcome them, and had been seated in the front row when thetwo teams lined up before King George.

  And now he was moving slowly from the ground with the rest of thespectators. Fate had been very good to him. It had given him a greatgame, even unto two home-runs. But its crowning benevolence had been toallot the seats on either side of him to two men of his own mettle, twogod-like beings who knew every move on the board, and howled likewolves when they did not see eye to eye with the umpire. Long beforethe ninth innings he was feeling towards them the affection of ashipwrecked mariner who meets a couple of boyhood's chums on a desertisland.

  As he shouldered his way towards the gate he was aware of these twomen, one on either side of him. He looked at them fondly, trying tomake up his mind which of them he liked best. It was sad to think thatthey must soon go out of his life again for ever.

  He came to a sudden resolution. He would postpone the parting. He wouldask them to dinner. Over the best that the Savoy Hotel could providethey would fight the afternoon's battle over again. He did not know whothey were or anything about them, but what did that matter? They werebrother-fans. That was enough for him.

  The man on his right was young, clean-shaven, and of a somewhatvulturine cast of countenance. His face was cold and impassive now,almost forbiddingly so; but only half an hour before it had been abattle-field of conflicting emotions, and his hat still showed the dentwhere he had banged it against the edge of his seat on the occasion ofMr Daly's home-run. A worthy guest!

  The man on Mr Birdsey's left belonged to another species of fan. Thoughthere had been times during the game when he had howled, for the mostpart he had watched in silence so hungrily tense that a lessexperienced observer than Mr Birdsey might have attributed hisimmobility to boredom. But one glance at his set jaw and gleaming eyestold him that here also was a man and a brother.

  This man's eyes were still gleaming, and under their curiously deep tanhis bearded cheeks were pale. He was staring straight in front of himwith an unseeing gaze.

  Mr Birdsey tapped the young man on the shoulder.

  'Some game!' he said.

  The young man looked at him and smiled.

  'You bet,' he said.

  'I haven't seen a ball-game in five years.'

  'The last one I saw was two years ago next June.'

  'Come and have some dinner at my hotel and talk it over,' said MrBirdsey impulsively.

  'Sure!' said the young man.

  Mr Birdsey turned and tapped the shoulder of the man on his left.

  The result was a little unexpected. The man gave a start that wasalmost a leap, and the pallor of his face became a sickly white. Hiseyes, as he swung round, met Mr Birdsey's for an instant before theydropped, and there was panic fear in them. His breath whistled softlythrough clenched teeth.

  Mr Birdsey was taken aback. The cordiality of the clean-shaven youngman had not prepared him for the possibility of such a reception. Hefelt chilled. He was on the point of apologizing with some murmur abouta mistake, when the man reassured him by smiling. It was rather apainful smile, but it was enough for Mr Birdsey. This man might be of anervous temperament, but his heart was in the right place.

  He, too, smiled. He was a small, stout, red-faced little man, and hepossessed a smile that rarely failed to set strangers at their ease.Many strenuous years on the New York Stock Exchange had not destroyed acertain childlike amiability in Mr Birdsey, and it shone out when hesmiled at you.

  'I'm afraid I startled you,' he said soothingly. 'I wanted to ask youif you would let a perfect stranger, who also happens to be an exile,offer you dinner tonight.'

  The man winced. 'Exile?'

  'An exiled fan. Don't you feel that the Polo Grounds are a good longway away? This gentleman is joining me. I have a suite at the SavoyHotel, and I thought we might all have a quiet little dinner there andtalk about the game. I haven't seen a ball-game in five years.'

  'Nor have I.'

  'Then you must come. You really must. We fans ought to stick to oneanother in a strange land. Do come.'

  'Thank you,' said the bearded man; 'I will.'

  When three men, all strangers, sit down to dinner together,conversation, even if they happen to have a mutual passion forbaseball, is apt to be for a while a little difficult. The first finefrenzy in which Mr Birdsey had issued his invitations had begun to ebbby the time the soup was served, and he was conscious of a feeling ofembarrassment.

  There was some subtle hitch in the orderly progress of affairs. Hesensed it in the air. Both of his guests were disposed to silence, andthe clean-shaven young man had developed a trick of staring at the manwith the beard, which was obviously distressing that sensitive person.

  'Wine,' murmured Mr Birdsey to the waiter. 'Wine, wine!'

  He spoke with the earnestness of a general calling up his reserves forthe grand attack. The success of this little dinner mattered enormouslyto him. There were circumstances which were going to make it an oasisin his life. He wanted it to be an occasion to which, in grey days tocome, he could look back and be consoled. He could not let it be afailure.

  He was about to speak when the young man anticipated him. Leaningforward, he addressed the bearded man, who was crumbling bread with anabsent look in his eyes.

  'Surely we have met before?' he said. 'I'm sure I remember your face.'

  The effect of these words on the other was as curious as the effect ofMr Birdsey's tap on the shoulder had been. He looked up like a huntedanimal.

  He shook his head without speaking.

  'Curi
ous,' said the young man. 'I could have sworn to it, and I ampositive that it was somewhere in New York. Do you come from New York?'

  'Yes.'

  'It seems to me,' said Mr Birdsey, 'that we ought to introduceourselves. Funny it didn't strike any of us before. My name is Birdsey,J. Wilmot Birdsey. I come from New York.'

  'My name is Waterall,' said the young man. 'I come from New York.'

  The bearded man hesitated.

  'My name is Johnson. I--used to live in New York.'

  'Where do you live now, Mr Johnson?' asked Waterall.

  The bearded man hesitated again. 'Algiers,' he said.

  Mr Birdsey was inspired to help matters along with small-talk.

  'Algiers,' he said. 'I have never been there, but I understand that itis quite a place. Are you in business there, Mr Johnson?'

  'I live there for my health.'

  'Have you been there some time?' inquired Waterall.

  'Five years.'

  'Then it must have been in New York that I saw you, for I have neverbeen to Algiers, and I'm certain I have seen you somewhere. I'm afraidyou will think me a bore for sticking to the point like this, but thefact is, the one thing I pride myself on is my memory for faces. It's ahobby of mine. If I think I remember a face, and can't place it, Iworry myself into insomnia. It's partly sheer vanity, and partlybecause in my job a good memory for faces is a mighty fine asset. Ithas helped me a hundred times.'

  Mr Birdsey was an intelligent man, and he could see that Waterall'stable-talk was for some reason getting upon Johnson's nerves. Like agood host, he endeavoured to cut in and make things smooth.

  'I've heard great accounts of Algiers,' he said helpfully. 'A friend ofmine was there in his yacht last year. It must be a delightful spot.'

  'It's a hell on earth,' snapped Johnson, and slew the conversation onthe spot.

  Through a grim silence an angel in human form fluttered in--a waiterbearing a bottle. The pop of the cork was more than music to MrBirdsey's ears. It was the booming of the guns of the relieving army.

  The first glass, as first glasses will, thawed the bearded man, to theextent of inducing him to try and pick up the fragments of theconversation which he had shattered.

  'I am afraid you will have thought me abrupt, Mr Birdsey,' he saidawkwardly; 'but then you haven't lived in Algiers for five years, and Ihave.'

  Mr Birdsey chirruped sympathetically.

  'I liked it at first. It looked mighty good to me. But five years of it,and nothing else to look forward to till you die....'

  He stopped, and emptied his glass. Mr Birdsey was still perturbed.True, conversation was proceeding in a sort of way, but it had taken adistinctly gloomy turn. Slightly flushed with the excellent champagnewhich he had selected for this important dinner, he endeavoured tolighten it.

  'I wonder,' he said, 'which of us three fans had the greatestdifficulty in getting to the bleachers today. I guess none of us foundit too easy.'

  The young man shook his head.

  'Don't count on me to contribute a romantic story to this ArabianNight's Entertainment. My difficulty would have been to stop away. Myname's Waterall, and I'm the London correspondent of the _New YorkChronicle_. I had to be there this afternoon in the way ofbusiness.'

  Mr Birdsey giggled self-consciously, but not without a certain impishpride.

  'The laugh will be on me when you hear my confession. My daughtermarried an English earl, and my wife brought me over here to mix withhis crowd. There was a big dinner-party tonight, at which the wholegang were to be present, and it was as much as my life was worth toside-step it. But when you get the Giants and the White Sox playingball within fifty miles of you--Well, I packed a grip and sneaked outthe back way, and got to the station and caught the fast train toLondon. And what is going on back there at this moment I don't like tothink. About now,' said Mr Birdsey, looking at his watch, 'I guessthey'll be pronging the _hors d'oeuvres_ and gazing at the emptychair. It was a shame to do it, but, for the love of Mike, what elsecould I have done?'

  He looked at the bearded man.

  'Did you have any adventures, Mr Johnson?'

  'No. I--I just came.'

  The young man Waterall leaned forward. His manner was quiet, but hiseyes were glittering.

  'Wasn't that enough of an adventure for you?' he said.

  Their eyes met across the table. Seated between them, Mr Birdsey lookedfrom one to the other, vaguely disturbed. Something was happening, adrama was going on, and he had not the key to it.

  Johnson's face was pale, and the tablecloth crumpled into a crookedridge under his fingers, but his voice was steady as he replied:

  'I don't understand.'

  'Will you understand if I give you your right name, Mr Benyon?'

  'What's all this?' said Mr Birdsey feebly.

  Waterall turned to him, the vulturine cast of his face more noticeablethan ever. Mr Birdsey was conscious of a sudden distaste for this youngman.

  'It's quite simple, Mr Birdsey. If you have not been entertainingangels unawares, you have at least been giving a dinner to a celebrity.I told you I was sure I had seen this gentleman before. I have justremembered where, and when. This is Mr John Benyon, and I last saw himfive years ago when I was a reporter in New York, and covered histrial.'

  'His trial?'

  'He robbed the New Asiatic Bank of a hundred thousand dollars, jumpedhis bail, and was never heard of again.'

  'For the love of Mike!'

  Mr Birdsey stared at his guest with eyes that grew momently wider. Hewas amazed to find that deep down in him there was an unmistakablefeeling of elation. He had made up his mind, when he left home thatmorning, that this was to be a day of days. Well, nobody could callthis an anti-climax.

  'So that's why you have been living in Algiers?'

  Benyon did not reply. Outside, the Strand traffic sent a faint murmurinto the warm, comfortable room.

  Waterall spoke. 'What on earth induced you, Benyon, to run the risk ofcoming to London, where every second man you meet is a New Yorker, Ican't understand. The chances were two to one that you would berecognized. You made a pretty big splash with that little affair ofyours five years ago.'

  Benyon raised his head. His hands were trembling.

  'I'll tell you,' he said with a kind of savage force, which hurt kindlylittle Mr Birdsey like a blow. 'It was because I was a dead man, andsaw a chance of coming to life for a day; because I was sick of thedamned tomb I've been living in for five centuries; because I've beenaching for New York ever since I've left it--and here was a chance ofbeing back there for a few hours. I knew there was a risk. I took achance on it. Well?'

  Mr Birdsey's heart was almost too full for words. He had found him atlast, the Super-Fan, the man who would go through fire and water for asight of a game of baseball. Till that moment he had been regardinghimself as the nearest approach to that dizzy eminence. He had bravedgreat perils to see this game. Even in this moment his mind would notwholly detach itself from speculation as to what his wife would say tohim when he slunk back into the fold. But what had he risked comparedwith this man Benyon? Mr Birdsey glowed. He could not restrain hissympathy and admiration. True, the man was a criminal. He had robbed abank of a hundred thousand dollars. But, after all, what was that? Theywould probably have wasted the money in foolishness. And, anyway, abank which couldn't take care of its money deserved to lose it.

  Mr Birdsey felt almost a righteous glow of indignation against the NewAsiatic Bank.

  He broke the silence which had followed Benyon's words with apeculiarly immoral remark:

  'Well, it's lucky it's only us that's recognized you,' he said.

  Waterall stared. 'Are you proposing that we should hush this thing up,Mr Birdsey?' he said coldly.

  'Oh, well--'

  Waterall rose and went to the telephone.

  'What are you going to do?'

  'Call up Scotland Yard, of course. What did you think?'

  Undoubtedly the young man was doing his duty as
a citizen, yet it is tobe recorded that Mr Birdsey eyed him with unmixed horror.

  'You can't! You mustn't!' he cried.

  'I certainly shall.'

  'But--but--this fellow came all that way to see the ball-game.'

  It seemed incredible to Mr Birdsey that this aspect of the affairshould not be the one to strike everybody to the exclusion of all otheraspects.

  'You can't give him up. It's too raw.'

  'He's a convicted criminal.'

  'He's a fan. Why, say, he's _the_ fan.'

  Waterall shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the telephone. Benyonspoke.

  'One moment.'

  Waterall turned, and found himself looking into the muzzle of a smallpistol. He laughed.

  'I expected that. Wave it about all you want.'

  Benyon rested his shaking hand on the edge of the table.

  'I'll shoot if you move.'

  'You won't. You haven't the nerve. There's nothing to you. You're justa cheap crook, and that's all. You wouldn't find the nerve to pull thattrigger in a million years.'

  He took off the receiver.

  'Give me Scotland Yard,' he said.

  He had turned his back to Benyon. Benyon sat motionless. Then, with athud, the pistol fell to the ground. The next moment Benyon had brokendown. His face was buried in his arms, and he was a wreck of a man,sobbing like a hurt child.

  Mr Birdsey was profoundly distressed. He sat tingling and helpless.This was a nightmare.

  Waterall's level voice spoke at the telephone.

  'Is this Scotland Yard? I am Waterall, of the _New YorkChronicle_. Is Inspector Jarvis there? Ask him to come to thephone.... Is that you, Jarvis? This is Waterall. I'm speaking from theSavoy, Mr Birdsey's rooms. Birdsey. Listen, Jarvis. There's a man herethat's wanted by the American police. Send someone here and get him.Benyon. Robbed the New Asiatic Bank in New York. Yes, you've a warrantout for him, five years old.... All right.'

  He hung up the receiver. Benyon sprang to his feet. He stood, shaking,a pitiable sight. Mr Birdsey had risen with him. They stood looking atWaterall.

  'You--skunk!' said Mr Birdsey.

  'I'm an American citizen,' said Waterall, 'and I happen to have someidea of a citizen's duties. What is more, I'm a newspaper man, and Ihave some idea of my duty to my paper. Call me what you like, you won'talter that.'

  Mr Birdsey snorted.

  'You're suffering from ingrowing sentimentality, Mr Birdsey. That'swhat's the matter with you. Just because this man has escaped justicefor five years, you think he ought to be considered quit of the wholething.'

  'But--but--'

  'I don't.'

  He took out his cigarette case. He was feeling a great deal morestrung-up and nervous than he would have had the others suspect. He hadhad a moment of very swift thinking before he had decided to treat thatugly little pistol in a spirit of contempt. Its production had givenhim a decided shock, and now he was suffering from reaction. As aconsequence, because his nerves were strained, he lit his cigarettevery languidly, very carefully, and with an offensive superiority whichwas to Mr Birdsey the last straw.

  These things are matters of an instant. Only an infinitesimal fractionof time elapsed between the spectacle of Mr Birdsey, indignant butinactive, and Mr Birdsey berserk, seeing red, frankly and undisguisedlyrunning amok. The transformation took place in the space of timerequired for the lighting of a match.

  Even as the match gave out its flame, Mr Birdsey sprang.

  Aeons before, when the young blood ran swiftly in his veins and lifewas all before him, Mr Birdsey had played football. Once a footballer,always a potential footballer, even to the grave. Time had removed theflying tackle as a factor in Mr Birdsey's life. Wrath brought it back.He dived at young Mr Waterall's neatly trousered legs as he had divedat other legs, less neatly trousered, thirty years ago. They crashed tothe floor together; and with the crash came Mr Birdsey's shout:

  'Run! Run, you fool! Run!'

  And, even as he clung to his man, breathless, bruised, feeling as ifall the world had dissolved in one vast explosion of dynamite, the dooropened, banged to, and feet fled down the passage.

  Mr Birdsey disentangled himself, and rose painfully. The shock hadbrought him to himself. He was no longer berserk. He was a middle-agedgentleman of high respectability who had been behaving in a verypeculiar way.

  Waterall, flushed and dishevelled, glared at him speechlessly. Hegulped. 'Are you crazy?'

  Mr Birdsey tested gingerly the mechanism of a leg which lay undersuspicion of being broken. Relieved, he put his foot to the groundagain. He shook his head at Waterall. He was slightly crumpled, but heachieved a manner of dignified reproof.

  'You shouldn't have done it, young man. It was raw work. Oh, yes, Iknow all about that duty-of-a-citizen stuff. It doesn't go. There areexceptions to every rule, and this was one of them. When a man riskshis liberty to come and root at a ball-game, you've got to hand it tohim. He isn't a crook. He's a fan. And we exiled fans have got to sticktogether.'

  Waterall was quivering with fury, disappointment, and the peculiarunpleasantness of being treated by an elderly gentleman like a sack ofcoals. He stammered with rage.

  'You damned old fool, do you realize what you've done? The police willbe here in another minute.'

  'Let them come.'

  'But what am I to say to them? What explanation can I give? What storycan I tell them? Can't you see what a hole you've put me in?'

  Something seemed to click inside Mr Birdsey's soul. It was the berserkmood vanishing and reason leaping back on to her throne. He was ablenow to think calmly, and what he thought about filled him with a suddengloom.

  'Young man,' he said, 'don't worry yourself. You've got a cinch. You'veonly got to hand a story to the police. Any old tale will do for them.I'm the man with the really difficult job--I've got to square myselfwith my wife!'