Pelham Wodehouse - Spring Fever

"Did you bring him with you?"

"Sure."

"Stanwood, old man," said Mike in a quivering voice, "I take back all the things I said about you. Forget that I called you a dish-faced moron."

"You didn't."

"Well, I meant to. You may have started badly, but you've certainly come through nicely at the finish. Augustus Robb! Of course. The hour has produced the man. It always does. Excuse me a moment. I must go and tell the boys in the back room about this."

But as he reached the door it opened, and Terry came in, followed by Lord Shortlands.

"We couldn't wait any longer. We had to come and see if you had ... Oh, hullo, Stanwood."

"Hello, Terry. Hiya, Lord Shortlands."

Terry's eye was cold and reproachful.

"You've made a nice mess of things, Stanwood."

"Yay. Mike's been telling me. I'm sorry."

"Too late to be sorry now," said Lord Shortlands sepulchrally.

His despondency was so marked that Mike thought it only kind to do something to raise his spirits. The method he chose was to utter a piercing "Whoopee!" It caused Lord Shortlands to leap like a gaffed salmon and Terry to quiver all over.

"Good news," he said. "Tidings of great joy. The problem is solved."

"What!"

"I have everything taped out. It turns out, after all, to be extraordinarily simple. We bust the safe."

Terry closed her eyes. She seemed in pain.

"You see, Shorty. He always finds the way. We bust the safe."

Lord Shortlands was feeling unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation.

"Can you—er—bust safes?"

"Myself, no. But I have influential friends. We send for Augustus Robb."

"Augustus Robb?"

"Who is this mysterious Augustus Robb you're always talking about?" asked Terry.

"My man," said Stanwood. "He's downstairs with the rest of the help."

"And before he got converted at a revival meeting," said Mike, "he used to be a burglar."

Terry's face had lost its drawn look. It had become bright and animated.

"How absolutely marvellous! Was he a good burglar?"

"One of the very best. There was a time, he gave me to understand, when the name of Robb was one to conjure with in the underworld."

"Rather a good name for a burglar, Robb."

"I told him that myself, and I thought it very quick and clever of me. Very quick and clever of you, too. If you're as good as that, we shall have many a lively duel of wit over the fireside. According to Augustus, the same crack has been made by fifty-six other people, but I don't see that that matters. You and I can't expect to be the only ones in the world with minds like rapiers."

"But if he's got religion, he'll probably have a conscience."

"We shall be able to overcome it. He will see the justice of our cause, which, of course, sticks out like a sore thumb, and, apart from that, he's a snob. He will be quite incapable of resisting an earl's appeal. Have you a coronet, Shorty?"

"Eh? Coronet? Oh yes, somewhere about."

"Then stick it on when you're negotiating with him, with a rakish tilt over one eye, and I don't think we shall have any trouble."

But there was no time to secure this adventitious aid. He had scarcely finished speaking when a hearty fist banged on the door, a hearty voice cried "Hoy!", and the man whom the hour had produced appeared in person.

"Well, cocky. I just came to see how you were getting al— Why, 'ullo," said Augustus Robb, pausing on the threshold and surveying the mob scene before him. "I didn't know you had company, chum. Excuse me."

He made as if to withdraw, but Mike, leaping forward, seized his coat in a firm grip.

"Don't be coy, Augustus. Come right in. You're just the fellow we want. Your name was on our lips at that very moment, and we were on the point of sending the bloodhounds out in search of you. So you've got to Beevor Castle, after all?"

"Yus, though it went against my conscience." Augustus Robb drew Mike aside and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Do they know about it?"

"Oh yes. All pals here."

"That's all right, then. Wouldn't have wanted to make a bloomer of any description. Nice little place you've got here," said Augustus Robb, speaking less guardedly. "Done you proud, ain't they? Where does that window look out on? The rose garden? Coo! Got a rose garden, 'ave they? Every luxury, as you might say. Well, enjoy it while you can, chum. It won't be long before you're bunged out on your blinkin' ear."

"Why do you strike this morbid note?"

"Just a feeling I 'ave. The wicked may flourish like a ruddy bay tree, as the Good Book says, but they always cop it in the end."

"You rank me among the wicked?"

"Well, you're practisin' deceit, ain't you? Living a lie, I call it. There's a tract I'd like you to read, bearing on that, only coming away in a hurry, I left me tracts behind." Augustus Robb cocked an appreciative eye at Terry and, placing a tactful hand before his mouth, spoke out of the corner of the latter in his original hoarse whisper. "Who's the little bit of fluff?" he asked.

"You recall me to my duties as a host, Augustus," said Mike. "Come and get acquainted. Stanwood, of course, you know. But I don't think you have met Lord Shortlands."

"How do you do, Mr. Robb?"

"Pip-pip, m'lord," said Augustus Robb, visibly moved.

"Welcome—ah—to Beevor Castle."

"Thanks, m'lord. Seems funny bein' inside here, m'lord. Only seen the place from the outside before, m'lord. Cycled here one Bank Holiday, when I was a lad. Took sandwiches."

"It must have seemed strange, too," said Mike, "coming in by the door. Your natural impulse, I imagine, would have been to climb through the scullery window."

Augustus Robb, displeased, pleaded for a little tact, and Mike apologized.

"Sorry. But it's a subject we shall be leading up to before long. And this is Lord Shortlands' daughter, Lady Teresa Cobbold, whose name will be familiar to you from my correspondence. Thank you, Augustus," said Mike, acknowledging the other's wink and upward jerk of the thumbs. "I'm glad you approve. Do sit down. You will find this chair comfortable."

"Have a cushion, Mr. Robb," said Terry.

"A cigar?" said Lord Shortlands.

"I'd offer you a drink," said Mike, "but Stanwood has cleaned me out."

Too late, he saw that he had said the wrong thing. Augustus Robb, the ecstasy of finding himself in such distinguished company having induced in him a state of mind comparable to the nirvana of the Buddhists, had been leaning back in his chair with a soft, contented smile on his lips. This statement brought him up with a jerk, his face hard.

"Ho! So you've been drinking again, have you?" he observed austerely, giving Stanwood a stern look. "After all I said. All right, I wash me 'ands of you. If you want a 'obnailed liver, carry on, cocky. And if eventually you kick the bucket, what of it? I don't care. It's a matter of complete in-bleedin'-difference to me."

This generous outburst brought about one of those awkward pauses. Mike looked at Lord Shortlands. Terry looked at Stanwood. She also frowned significantly, and Stanwood took the hint. His was not a very high I.Q., but even he had realized the vital necessity of conciliating this man.

"Gee, Augustus, I'm sorry."

Augustus Robb sucked his front tooth.

"I'm sure he won't do it again, Mr. Robb."

Augustus Robb preserved an icy silence.

"Augustus," said Mike gently, "Lady Teresa Cobbold is speaking to you. She is, of course, the daughter of the fifth Earl of Shortlands, connected on her mother's side with the Byng-Brown-Byngs and the Foster-Frenches. The Sussex Foster-Frenches, not the Devonshire lot."

It was as if Augustus Robb had come out of a swoon and was saying "Where am I?" He blinked at Terry through his horn-rimmed spectacles, seeming to drink in her Byng-Brown-Byngness, and looked for a moment as if he were about to rise and bow. The cold sternness died out of his eyes, and he inclined his head forgivingly.