Something New. P. G. Wodehouse

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СКАЧАТЬ Quayle coincidence. I am an American!"

      "Well, so are a good many other people."

      "You miss the point. We are not only fellow serfs—we are fellow exiles. You can't round the thing off by telling me you were born in Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?"

      "I was born in New York."

      "Surely not! I didn't know anybody was."

      "Why Hayling, Massachusetts?"

      "That was where I was born."

      "I'm afraid I never heard of it."

      "Strange. I know your home town quite well. But I have not yet made my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall. I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures."

      "How old are you?"

      "Twenty-six."

      "You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure? I think that is a shameful thing to say."

      "What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means of making a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories—an empire builder?"

      "How do you know it's your only means of making a living? Why don't you try something new?"

      "Such as?"

      "How should I know? Anything that comes along. Good gracious, Mr. Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, with chances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side."

      "I must be deaf. The only thing I have heard shrieking to me on every side has been Mrs. Bell—for the week's rent."

      "Read the papers. Read the advertisement columns. I'm sure you will find something sooner or later. Don't get into a groove. Be an adventurer. Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is."

      Ashe nodded.

      "Continue," he said. "Proceed. You are stimulating me."

      "But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? Surely London is enough to do it without my help? You can always find something new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my own resources about five years ago—never mind how. Since then I have worked in a shop, done typewriting, been on the stage, had a position as governess, been a lady's maid—"

      "A what! A lady's maid?"

      "Why not? It was all experience; and I can assure you I would much rather be a lady's maid than a governess."

      "I think I know what you mean. I was a private tutor once. I suppose a governess is the female equivalent. I have often wondered what General Sherman would have said about private tutoring if he expressed himself so breezily about mere war. Was it fun being a lady's maid?"

      "It was pretty good fun; and it gave me an opportunity of studying the aristocracy in its native haunts, which has made me the Gossip's established authority on dukes and earls."

      Ashe drew a deep breath—not a scientific deep breath, but one of admiration.

      "You are perfectly splendid!"

      "Splendid?"

      "I mean, you have such pluck."

      "Oh, well; I keep on trying. I'm twenty-three and I haven't achieved anything much yet; but I certainly don't feel like sitting back and calling myself a failure."

      Ashe made a grimace.

      "All right," he said. "I've got it."

      "I meant you to," said Joan placidly. "I hope I haven't bored you with my autobiography, Mr. Marson. I'm not setting myself up as a shining example; but I do like action and hate stagnation."

      "You are absolutely wonderful!" said Ashe. "You are a human correspondence course in efficiency, one of the ones you see advertised in the back pages of the magazines, beginning, 'Young man, are you earning enough?' with a picture showing the dead beat gazing wistfully at the boss' chair. You would galvanize a jellyfish."

      "If I have really stimulated you——"

      "I think that was another slam," said Ashe pensively. "Well, I deserve it. Yes, you have stimulated me. I feel like a new man. It's queer that you should have come to me right on top of everything else. I don't remember when I have felt so restless and discontented as this morning."

      "It's the Spring."

      "I suppose it is. I feel like doing something big and adventurous."

      "Well, do it then. You have a Morning Post on the table. Have you read it yet?"

      "I glanced at it."

      "But you haven't read the advertisement pages? Read them. They may contain just the opening you want."

      "Well, I'll do it; but my experience of advertisement pages is that they are monopolized by philanthropists who want to lend you any sum from ten to a hundred thousand pounds on your note of hand only. However, I will scan them."

      Joan rose and held out her hand.

      "Good-by, Mr. Marson. You've got your detective story to write, and I have to think out something with a duke in it by to-night; so I must be going." She smiled. "We have traveled a good way from the point where we started, but I may as well go back to it before I leave you. I'm sorry I laughed at you this morning."

      Ashe clasped her hand in a fervent grip.

      "I'm not. Come and laugh at me whenever you feel like it. I like being laughed at. Why, when I started my morning exercises, half of London used to come and roll about the sidewalks in convulsions. I'm not an attraction any longer and it makes me feel lonesome. There are twenty-nine of those Larsen Exercises and you saw only part of the first. You have done so much for me that if I can be of any use to you, in helping you to greet the day with a smile, I shall be only too proud. Exercise Six is a sure-fire mirth-provoker; I'll start with it to-morrow morning. I can also recommend Exercise Eleven—a scream! Don't miss it."

      "Very well. Well, good-by for the present."

      "Good-by."

      She was gone; and Ashe, thrilling with new emotions, stared at the door which had closed behind her. He felt as though he had been wakened from sleep by a powerful electric shock.

      Close beside the sheet of paper on which he had inscribed the now luminous and suggestive title of his new Gridley Quayle story lay the Morning Post, the advertisement columns of which he had promised her to explore. The least he could do was to begin at once.

      His spirits sank as he did so. It was the same old game. A Mr. Brian MacNeill, though doing no business with minors, was willing—even anxious—to part with his vast fortune to anyone over the age of twenty-one whose means happened to be a trifle straitened. This good man required no security whatever; nor did his rivals in generosity, the Messrs. Angus Bruce, Duncan Macfarlane, Wallace Mackintosh and Donald MacNab. They, too, showed a curious distaste for dealing with minors; but anyone of maturer years could simply come round to the office and help himself.

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