Pelham Wodehouse - Spring Fever

"Beak Street?"

"Or Greek Street. For goodness' sake don't go to the wrong place, like Augustus Robb's girl. And now to tackle Stanwood. Ah," said Mike, as a thunder of large feet approached along the corridor, "here, if I mistake not, Watson, is our client now."

Stanwood Cobbold came charging into the room, as if bucking an invisible line.

That his conversation on the telephone had been one fraught with interest and of the most agreeable nature was manifest at once in Stanwood's whole appearance. His eyes were starting, his hair ruffled where he had clutched it with an excited hand and his face as nearly like the Soul's Awakening as it was possible for it to look. Picture a hippopotamus that has just learned that its love is returned by the female hippopotamus for which it has long entertained feelings deeper and warmer than those of ordinary friendship, and you have Stanwood Cobbold at this important moment in his life.

"S-s-s-s-s—" he began, like a soda-water syphon, and Mike rapped the table, calling for order. One has to be pretty sharp on this sort of thing at the outset.

"Spit," he advised.

Stanwood did not spit; but he swallowed once or twice, and seemed to get a grip on his emotion. His voice, when he started again, was calmer.

"Say, I've just been talking to Eileen."

"It's a small point, but you mean your father."

"No, I don't mean my father. I mean Eileen. I called her up after I was through with Father. It's all right. She's going to marry me."

"Marry you?"

"Sure."

Mike frowned.

"Just a minute."

"Can't stop," said Stanwood, exhibiting restiveness. "I've got to rush to the inn and hire that car again and go in and see her."

"Nevertheless," said Mike, "I repeat. Just a minute. You say you're going to marry La Stoker?"

"Sure."

"That wasn't the story I heard. The way I got it was that you were going to marry Terry."

"Oh, gosh!" said Stanwood, pausing. He seemed disconcerted. It was plain that Terry had to some extent slipped his memory.

"Yes, what about me?" said Terry. "Are you proposing to throw this eager heart aside like an old tube of tooth paste?"

Stanwood reflected. It was not long before he reached his decision.

"You betcher. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not a bit," said Terry.

"Swell," said Stanwood.

"It's just as well that you've got that settled," said Mike, "because Terry is going to marry me, and the last thing we wanted was you clumping up the aisle, shouting 'I forbid the banns!'"

Stanwood gaped.

"She's going to marry you?"

"Yes."

"What, even after—"

"Mike has explained everything, Stanwood," said Terry.

A look of awe came into Stanwood's face. He regarded his friend with reverence. If Mike had explained everything, that look seemed to say, then Mike, as the latter had so often had occasion to point out himself, was good. He shook Mike's hand, and said that that was dandy.

"He turns out to be as pure as the driven snow."

"Rather purer, if anything," said Mike. "Your foul suspicions were entirely unfounded, my dear Stanwood. Ask your girl friend, when you see her, and she will tell you that I was merely signing her up in my capacity of junior partner in the firm of Schwartz and Cardinal, ham purveyors of Hollywood. The whole thing was a simple business transaction, entirely free from all taint of sex. There is absolutely nothing between your darned Stoker and me, and there never has been anything. For your information, I wouldn't touch her with a barge pole."

"Oh, say," said Stanwood, wounded, and Terry asked if that was not a little severe. Mike considered.

"Yes," he agreed. "I'm sorry. I went too far. I would touch her with a barge pole, provided it was a good long one."

"Thanks, o' man."

"Not at all."

"So that's all right," said Terry. "I'm so glad everything's settled, Stanwood."

"Yes," said Mike. "One likes to see the young folks happy."

"How sensible of her not to mind about you having no money."

"Eh?" said Stanwood. "Oh, but I do have some money. I forgot to tell you. Seems that the little guy with the nose glasses cabled Father that I was engaged to you, and Father was so tickled that he's deposited a hundred and fifty thousand smackers to my account. That's what he called up about. So I'm nicely fixed," said Stanwood, and without further words dived through the door, en route for the inn and the car that was for hire.

He left behind him a rather stunned silence.

"Well!" said Terry, and Mike agreed that "Well!" about summed it up.

"I hope he'll be happy," said Terry doubtfully.

"As a lark," said Mike. "Not in the sense that we shall be, of course. Nobody could be. But I see quite a bright and prosperous future for the lad. The Stoker's all right. A little apt to turn the conversation to the subject of her last picture, but he'll enjoy that."

"I don't like the scent she uses."

"Stanwood does. He often told me so."

"She isn't a flippertygibbet?"

"Not in the least. A quiet little homebody, never happier than among her books. I've read interviews with her that stressed that. And she often puts on a simple gingham apron and cooks a bite of dinner for herself."

"I'd hate Stanwood to be unhappy."

"Don't you worry. They're the ideal mates. She's solid ivory from the frontal bone to the occiput, and so is Stanwood. Ah, my dear Shorty," said Mike, breaking off and addressing Lord Shortlands, who had just entered.

A glance was enough to tell that this was a very different Lord Shortlands from the crushed martyr who had tottered out to go and he down in the library. It was a near thing, but he looked a little more like the Soul's Awakening than Stanwood Cobbold had done.

Terry glanced questioningly at Mike.

"Shall we tell him at once, or break it gently?"

"At once, I think."

"All right. Shorty, darling, shake hands—"

"Mitt."

"Yes, much better. Mitt Mr. Cardinal, Shorty. We're going to be married."

The unmistakable look of the man who feels that the strain is becoming too much for him came into Lord Shortlands' face. He gave the impression of having definitely given up the attempt to cope with things.

"Married?" he said feebly.

"Yes."

"You and Cardinal?"

"Yes."

"Not you and Stanwood?"

"No."

"But you and Cardinal?"

"Yes."

"My God!" murmured Lord Shortlands, passing a hand across his brow.

"The fact is, my dear Shorty," said Mike, "things have been getting a little mixed, and it has taken some time to straighten them out. There had been mistakes and misunderstandings, not unlike those which occured in Vol. Two of Percy's Promise, a work which you may or may not have read. By Marcia Huddlestone (Popgood and Grooly, 1869). These, however, are now at an end, so brush up the old top hat and get ready for the wedding. The bells of the little village church—or, rather, the little Beak Street registry office—are soon to peal out in no uncertain manner. You may take this as official. Have you seen Augustus?"

The Soul's Awakening expression, which had been temporarily erased, came back into Lord Shortlands' face. After what had occurred on the previous night, he had never expected the name of Augustus Robb to be music to his ears, but this was what it now was. Augustus Robb stood very high on the list of men he liked and respected.

"I have, indeed. I've just left him."

"Why didn't you stay and watch?"

"He wouldn't let me. Said it made him nervous. Very temperamental chap. I told him he would find me here when he was finished."

"How was he coming along?"

"He appeared entirely confident."

"Then very shortly ... Ah!"

Augustus Robb had come into the room, jauntily, like an artist conscious of having done a good piece of work. He had an excellent reception.