Money for Nothing

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'You can do that by letter.'

  'It's so hard to put things properly in a letter.'

  'Then put them improperly,' said Mr Carmody. 'Once and for all, you are not going to London.'

  He had started to turn away as the only means possible of concluding this interview, when he stopped, spell-bound. For Hugo, as was his habit when matters had become difficult and required careful thought, was pulling out of his pocket a cigarette case.

  'Goosh!' said Mr Carmody, or something that sounded like that.

  He made an involuntary motion with his hand, as a starving man will make towards bread: and Hugo, with a strong rush of emotion, realized that the happy ending had been achieved and that at the eleventh hour matters could at last be put on a satisfactory business basis.

  'Turkish this side, Virginian that,' he said. 'You can have the lot for ten quid.'

  'Say, I think you'd best be getting along and taking your shower, Mr Carmody,' said the voice of Doctor Twist, who had come up unobserved and was standing at his elbow.

  The proprietor of Healthward Ho had a rather unpleasant voice, but never had it seemed so unpleasant to Mr Carmody as it did at that moment. Parsimonious though he was, he would have given much for the privilege of heaving a brick at Doctor Twist. For at the very instant of this interruption he had conceived the Machiavellian idea of knocking the cigarette case out of Hugo's hand and grabbing what he could from the debris: and now this scheme must be abandoned.

  With a snort which came from the very depths of an overwrought soul Lester Carmody turned and shuffled off towards the house.

  'Say, you shouldn't have done that,' said Doctor Twist, waggling a reproachful head at Hugo. 'No, sir, you shouldn't have done that. Not right to tantalize the poor fellow.'

  Hugo's mind seldom ran on parallel lines with that of his uncle, but it was animated now by the identical thought which only a short while back Mr Carmody had so wistfully entertained. He, too, was feeling that what Doctor Twist needed was a brick thrown at him. When he was able to speak, however, he did not mention this, but kept the conversation on a pacific and businesslike note.

  'I say,' he said, 'you couldn't lend me a tenner, could you?'

  'I could not,' agreed Doctor Twist.

  In Hugo's mind the inscrutable problem of why an all-wise Creator should have inflicted a man like this on the world deepened.

  'Well, I'll be pushing along, then,' he said moodily.

  'Going already?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'I hope,' said Doctor Twist, as he escorted his young guest to his car, 'you aren't sore at me for calling you down about those students' lamps. You see, maybe your uncle was hoping you would slip him one, and the disappointment will have made him kind of mad. And part of the system here is to have the patients think tranquil thoughts.'

  'Think what?'

  'Tranquil, beautiful thoughts. You see, if your mind's all right, your body's all right. That's the way I look at it.'

  Hugo settled himself at the wheel.

  'Let's get this clear,' he said. 'You expect my uncle Lester to think beautiful thoughts?'

  'All the time.'

  'Even under a cold shower?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'God bless you!' said Hugo.

  He stepped on the self-starter, and urged the two-seater pensively down the drive. He was glad when the shrubberies hid him from the view of Doctor Twist, for one wanted to forget a fellow like that as soon as possible. A moment later, he was still gladder: for, as he turned the first corner, there popped out suddenly from a rhododendron bush a stout man with a red and streaming face. Lester Carmody had had to hurry, and he was not used to running.

  'Woof !' he ejaculated, barring the fairway.

  Relief flooded over Hugo. The marts of trade had not been closed after all.

  'Give me those cigarettes!' panted Mr Carmody.

  For an instant Hugo toyed with the idea of creating a rising market. But he was no profiteer. Hugo Carmody, the Square Dealer.

  'Ten quid,' he said, 'and they're yours.'

  Agony twisted Mr Carmody's glowing features.

  'Five,' he urged.

  'Ten,' said Hugo.

  'Eight.'

  'Ten.'

  Mr Carmody made the great decision.

  'Very well. Give me them. Quick.'

  'Turkish this side, Virginian that,' said Hugo.

  The rhododendron bush quivered once more from the passage of a heavy body: birds in the neighbouring trees began to sing again their anthems of joy: and Hugo, in his trousers pocket two crackling five-pound notes, was bowling off along the highway.

  Even Doctor Twist could have found nothing to cavil at in the beauty of the thoughts he was thinking. He carolled like a linnet in the springtime.

  3 HUGO DOES HIS DAY'S GOOD DEED

  'Yes, sir,' Hugo Carmody was assuring a listening world as he turned the two-seater in at the entrance of the stable-yard of Rudge Hall some forty minutes later, 'that's my baby. No, sir, don't mean maybe. Yes, sir, that's my baby now. And, by the way, by the way...'

  'Blast you,' said his cousin John, appearing from nowhere. 'Get out of that car.'

  'Hullo, John,' said Hugo. 'So there you are, John. I say, John, I've just been paying a call on the head of the family over at Healthward Ho. Why they don't run excursion-trains of sightseers there is more than I can understand. It's worth seeing, believe me. Large, fat men doing bending and stretching exercises. Tons of humanity leaping about with skipping-ropes. Never a dull moment from start to finish, and all clean, wholesome fun, mark you, without a taint of vulgarity or suggestiveness. Pack some sandwiches and bring the kiddies. And let me tell you the best thing of all, John . . .'

  'I can't stop to listen. You've made me late already.'

  'Late for what?'

  'I'm going to London.'

  'You are?' said Hugo, with a smile at the happy coincidence. 'So am I. You can give me a lift.'

  'I won't.'

  'I am certainly not going to run behind.'

  'You're not going to London.'

  'You bet I'm going to London.'

  'Well, go by train, then.'

  'And break into hard-won cash, every penny of which will be needed for the big time in the metropolis? A pretty story!'

  'Well, anyway, you aren't coming with me.'

  'Why not?'

  'I don't want you.'

  'John,' said Hugo, 'there is more in this than meets the eye. You can't deceive me. You are going to London for a purpose. What purpose?'

  'If you really want to know, I'm going to see Pat.'

  'What on earth for? She'll be here tomorrow. I looked in at Chas Bywater's this morning for some cigarettes – and, gosh, how lucky it was I did! – by the way he's putting them down to you – and he told me she's arriving by the three o'clock train.'

  'I know. Well. I happen to want to see her very particularly tonight.'

  Hugo eyed his cousin narrowly. He was marshalling the facts and drawing conclusions.

  'John,' he said, 'this can mean but one thing. You are driving a hundred miles in a shaky car – that left front tyre wants a spot of air, I should look to it before you start, if I were you – to see a girl whom you could see tomorrow in any case by the simple process of meeting the three o'clock train. Your state of mind is such that you prefer – actually prefer – not to have my company. And, as I look at you, I note that you are blushing prettily. I see it all. You've at last decided to propose to Pat. Am I right or wrong?'

  John drew a deep breath. He was not one of those men who derive pleasure from parading their inmost feelings and discussing with others the secrets of their hearts. Hugo, in a similar situation, would have advertised his love like the hero of a musical comedy; he would have made the round of his friends, confiding in them; and, when the supply of friends had given out, would have buttonholed the gardener. But John was different. To hear his aspirations put into bald words like this made him feel as if he were being div
ested of most of his more important garments in a crowded thoroughfare.

  'Well, that settles it,' said Hugo briskly. 'Such being the case, of course you must take me along. I will put in a good word for you. Pave the way.'

  'Listen,' said John, finding speech. 'If you dare to come within twenty miles of us . . .'

  'It would be wiser. You know what you're like. Heart of gold but no conversation. Try to tackle this on your own and you'll bungle it.'

  'You keep out of this,' said John, speaking in a low, husky voice that suggested the urgent need of one of those throat-lozenges purveyed by Chas Bywater and so esteemed by the dog Emily. 'You keep right out of this.'

  Hugo shrugged his shoulders.

  'Just as you please. Hugo Carmody is the last man,' he said, a little stiffly, 'to thrust his assistance on those who do not require same. But a word from me would make all the difference, and you know it. Rightly or wrongly Pat has always looked up to me, regarded me as a wise elder brother, and, putting it in a nutshell, hung upon my lips. I could start you off right. However, since you're so blasted independent, carry on, only bear this in mind – when it's all over and you are shedding scalding tears of remorse and thinking of what might have been, don't come yowling to me for sympathy, because there won't be any.'

  John went upstairs and packed his bag. He packed well and thoroughly. This done he charged down the stairs, and perceived with annoyance that Hugo was still inflicting the stable-yard with his beastly presence.

  But Hugo was not there to make jarring conversation. He was present now, it appeared, solely in the capacity of Good Angel.

  'I've fixed up that tyre,' said Hugo, 'and filled the tank and put in a drop of oil and passed an eye over the machinery in general. She ought to run nicely now.'

  John melted. His mood had softened, and he was in a fitter frame of mind to remember that he had always been fond of his cousin.

  'Thanks. Very good of you. Well, good-bye.'

  'Good-bye,' said Hugo. 'And heaven speed your wooing, boy.'

  Freed from the restrictions placed upon a light two-seater by the ruts and hillocks of country lanes, John celebrated his arrival on the broad main road that led to London by placing a large foot on the accelerator and keeping it there. He was behind time, and he intended to test a belief, which he had long held, that a Widgeon Seven can, if pressed, do fifty. To the scenery, singularly beautiful in this part of England, he paid no attention. Automatically avoiding wagons by an inch and dreamily putting thoughts of the hereafter into the startled minds of dogs and chickens, he was out of Worcestershire and into Gloucestershire almost before he had really settled in his seat. It was only when the long wall that fringes Blenheim Park came into view that it was borne in upon him that he would be reaching Oxford in a few minutes and could stop for a well-earned cup of tea. He noted with satisfaction that he was nicely ahead of the clock.

  He drifted past the Martyrs' Memorial, and, picking his way through the traffic, drew up at the door of the Clarendon. He alighted stiffly, and stretched himself. And as he did so, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. It was his cousin Hugo, climbing down from the dickey.

  'A very nice run,' said Hugo with satisfaction. 'I should say we made pretty good time.'

  He radiated kindliness and satisfaction with all created things. That John was looking at him in rather a peculiar way, and apparently trying to say something, he did not seem to notice.

  'A little refreshment would be delightful,' he observed. 'Dusty work, sitting in dickeys. By the way, I got on to Pat on the 'phone before we left, and there's no need to hurry. She's dining out and going to a theatre tonight.'

  'What!' cried John, in agony.

  'It's all right. Don't get the wind up. She's meeting us at eleven-fifteen at the Mustard Spoon. I'll come on there from the fight and we'll have a nice home evening. I'm still a member, so I'll sign you in. And, what's more, if all goes well at the Albert Hall and Cyril Warburton is half the man I think he is and I can get some sporting stranger to bet the other way at reasonable odds, I'll pay the bill.'

  'You're very kind!'

  'I try to be, John,' said Hugo modestly. 'I try to be. I don't think we ought to leave it all to the Boy Scouts.'

  4 DISTURBING OCCURRENCES AT A NIGHT-CLUB

  I

  A man whose uncle jerks him away from London as if he were picking a winkle out of its shell with a pin and keeps him for months and months immured in the heart of Worcestershire must inevitably lose touch with the swiftly changing kaleidoscope of metropolitan night-life. Nothing in a big city fluctuates more rapidly than the status of its supper-dancing clubs; and Hugo, had he still been a lad-about-town in good standing, would have been aware that recently the Mustard Spoon had gone down a good deal in the social scale. Society had migrated to other, newer institutions, leaving it to become the haunt of the lesser ornaments of the stage and the Portuguese, the Argentines and the Greeks.

  To John Carroll, however, as he stood waiting in the lobby, the place seemed sufficiently gay and glittering. Nearly a year had passed since his last visit to London: and the Mustard Spoon rather impressed him. An unseen orchestra was playing with extraordinary vigour, and from time to time ornate persons of both sexes drifted past him into the brightly lighted supper-room. Where an established connoisseur of night-clubs would have pursed his lips and shaken his head, John was conscious only of feeling decidedly uplifted and exhilarated.

  But then he was going to see Pat again, and that was enough to stimulate any man.

  She arrived unexpectedly, at a moment when he had taken his eye off the door to direct it in mild astonishment at a lady in an orange dress who, doubtless with the best motives, had dyed her hair crimson and was wearing a black-rimmed monocle. So absorbed was he with this spectacle that he did not see her enter, and was only made aware of her presence when there spoke from behind him a clear little voice which, even when it was laughing at you, always seemed to have in it something of the song of larks on summer mornings and winds whispering across the fields in spring.

  'Hullo, Johnnie.'

  The hair, scarlet though it was, lost its power to attract. The appeal of the monocle waned. John spun round.

  'Pat!'

  She was looking lovelier than ever. That was the thing that first presented itself to John's notice. If anybody had told him that Pat could possibly be prettier than the image of her which he had been carrying about with him all these months, he would not have believed him. But so it was. Some sort of a female with plucked eyebrows and a painted face had just come in, and she might have been put there expressly for purposes of comparison. She made Pat seem so healthy, so wholesome, such a thing of the open air and the clean sunshine, so pre-eminently fit. She looked as if she had spent her time at Le Touquet playing thirty-six holes of golf a day.

  'Pat!' cried John, and something seemed to catch at his throat. There was a mist in front of his eyes. His heart was thumping madly.

  She extended her hand composedly.

  'Well, Johnnie. How nice to see you again. You're looking very brown and rural. Where's Hugo?'

  It takes two to hoist a conversation to an emotional peak. John choked, and became calmer.

  'He'll be here soon, I expect,' he said.

  Pat laughed indulgently.

  'Hugo'll be late for his own funeral – if he ever gets to it. He said eleven-fifteen and it's twenty-five to twelve. Have you got a table?'

  'Not yet.'

  'Why not?'

  'I'm not a member,' said John, and saw in her eyes the scorn which women reserve for male friends and relations who show themselves wanting in enterprise. 'You have to be a member,' he said, chafing under the look.

  'I don't,' said Pat with decision. 'If you think I'm going to wait all night for old Hugo in a small lobby with six draughts whizzing through it, correct that impression. Go and find the head waiter and get a table while I leave my cloak. Back in a minute.'

  John's emotion
s as he approached the head waiter rather resembled those with which years ago he had once walked up to a bull in a field, Pat having requested him to do so because she wanted to know if bulls in fields really are fierce or if the artists who depict them in comic papers are simply trying to be funny. He felt embarrassed and diffident. The head waiter was a large, stout, smooth-faced man who would have been better for a couple of weeks at Healthward Ho, and he gave the impression of having disliked John from the start.

  John said it was a nice evening. The head waiter did not seem to believe him.

  'Has – er – has Mr Carmody booked a table?' asked John.

  'No, monsieur.'

  'I'm meeting him here tonight.'

  The head waiter appeared uninterested. He began to talk to an underling in rapid French. John, feeling more than ever an intruder, took advantage of a lull in the conversation to make another attempt.

  'I wonder . . . Perhaps . . . Can you give me a table?'

  Most of the head waiter's eyes were concealed by the upper strata of his cheeks, but there was enough of them left visible to allow him to look at John as if he was something unpleasant that had come to light in a portion of salad.

  'Monsieur is a member?'

  'Er – no.'

  'If you will please wait in the lobby, thank you.'

  'But I was wondering . . .'

  'If you will wait in the lobby, please,' said the head waiter, and, dismissing John from the scheme of things, became gruesomely obsequious to an elderly man with diamond studs, no hair, an authoritative manner and a lady in pink. He waddled before them into the supper room, and Pat reappeared.

  'Got that table?'

  'I'm afraid not. He says . . .'

  'Oh, Johnnie, you are helpless.'

  Women are unjust in these matters. When a man comes into a night-club of which he is not a member and asks for a table he feels that he is butting in, and naturally is not at his best. This is not helplessness, it is fineness of soul. But women won't see that.

  'I'm awfully sorry.'

  The head waiter had returned, and was either doing sums or drawing caricatures on a large pad chained to a desk. He seemed so much the artist absorbed in his work that John would not have dreamed of venturing to interrupt him. Pat had no such delicacy.