Pelham Wodehouse - The Girl on the Boat

"That is another rather remarkable thing. It's Wilhelmina."

"Wilhelmina!"

"Of course, there must be hundreds of girls in the world called Wilhelmina Bennett, but still it is a coincidence."

"What colour is her hair?" demanded Eustace Hignett in a hollow voice. "Her hair! What colour is it?"

"Her hair? Now, let me see. You ask me what colour is her hair. Well, you might call it auburn ... or russet ... or you might call it Titian...."

"Never mind what I might call it. Is it red?"

"Red? Why, yes. That is a very good description of it. Now that you put it to me like that, it is red."

"Has she a trick of grabbing at you suddenly, when she gets excited, like a kitten with a ball of wool?"

"Yes. Yes, she has."

Eustace Hignett uttered a sharp cry.

"Sam," he said, "can you bear a shock?"

"I'll have a dash at it."

"Brace up!"

"I'm ready."

"The girl you are engaged to is the same girl who promised to marry me ."

"Well, well!" said Sam.

There was a silence.

"Awfully sorry, of course, and all that," said Sam.

"Don't apologise to me !" said Eustace. "My poor old chap, my only feeling towards you is one of the purest and profoundest pity." He reached out and pressed Sam's hand. "I regard you as a toad beneath the harrow!"

"Well, I suppose that's one way of offering congratulations and cheery good wishes."

"And on top of that," went on Eustace, deeply moved, "you have got to sing at the ship's concert."

"Why shouldn't I sing at the ship's concert?"

"My dear old man, you have many worthy qualities, but you must know that you can't sing. You can't sing for nuts! I don't want to discourage you, but, long ago as it is, you can't have forgotten what an ass you made of yourself at that house-supper at school. Seeing you up against it like this, I regret that I threw a lump of butter at you on that occasion, though at the time it seemed the only course to pursue."

Sam started.

"Was it you who threw that bit of butter?"

"It was."

"I wish I'd known! You silly chump, you ruined my collar."

"Ah, well, it's seven years ago. You would have had to send it to the wash anyhow by this time. But don't let us brood on the past. Let us put our heads together and think how we can get you out of this terrible situation."

"I don't want to get out of it. I confidently expect to be the hit of the evening."

"The hit of the evening! You! Singing!"

"I'm not going to sing. I'm going to do that imitation of Frank Tinney which I did at the Trinity smoker. You haven't forgotten that? You were at the piano taking the part of the conductor of the orchestra. What a riot I was—we were! I say, Eustace, old man, I suppose you don't feel well enough to come up now and take your old part? You could do it without a rehearsal. You remember how it went.... 'Hullo, Ernest!' 'Hullo, Frank!' Why not come along?"

"The only piano I will ever sit at will be one firmly fixed on a floor that does not heave and wobble under me."

"Nonsense! The boat's as steady as a rock now. The sea's like a mill-pond."

"Nevertheless, thanking you for your suggestion, no!"

"Oh, well, then I shall have to get on as best I can with that fellow Mortimer. We've been rehearsing all the afternoon, and he seems to have the hang of the thing. But he won't be really right. He has no pep, no vim. Still, if you won't ... well, I think I'll be getting along to his state-room. I told him I would look in for a last rehearsal."

The door closed behind Sam, and Eustace Hignett, lying on his back, gave himself up to melancholy meditation. He was deeply disturbed by his cousin's sad story. He knew what it meant being engaged to Wilhelmina Bennett. It was like being taken aloft in a balloon and dropped with a thud on the rocks.

His reflections were broken by the abrupt opening of the door. Sam rushed in. Eustace peered anxiously out of his berth. There was too much burnt cork on his cousin's face to allow of any real registering of emotion, but he could tell from his manner that all was not well.

"What's the matter?"

Sam sank down on the lounge.

"The bounder has quit!"

"The bounder? What bounder?"

"There is only one! Bream Mortimer, curse him! There may be others whom thoughtless critics rank as bounders, but he is the only man really deserving of the title. He refuses to appear! He has walked out on the act! He has left me flat! I went into his state-room just now, as arranged, and the man was lying on his bunk, groaning."

"I thought you said the sea was like a mill-pond."

"It wasn't that! He's perfectly fit. But it seems that the silly ass took it into his head to propose to Billie just before dinner—apparently he's loved her for years in a silent, self-effacing way—and of course she told him that she was engaged to me, and the thing upset him to such an extent that he says the idea of sitting down at a piano and helping me give an imitation of Frank Tinney revolts him. He says he intends to spend the evening in bed, reading Schopenhauer I hope it chokes him!"

"But this is splendid! This lets you out."

"What do you mean? Lets me out?"

"Why, now you won't be able to appear. Oh, you will be thankful for this in years to come."

"Won't I appear! Won't I dashed well appear! Do you think I'm going to disappoint that dear girl when she is relying on me? I would rather die."

"But you can't appear without a pianist."

"I've got a pianist."

"You have?"

"Yes. A little undersized shrimp of a fellow with a green face and ears like water-wings."

"I don't think I know him."

"Yes, you do. He's you!"

"Me!"

"Yes, you. You are going to sit at the piano to-night."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's impossible. I gave you my views on the subject just now."

"You've altered them."

"I haven't."

"Well, you soon will, and I'll tell you why. If you don't get up out of that damned berth you've been roosting in all your life, I'm going to ring for J. B. Midgeley and I'm going to tell him to bring me a bit of dinner in here and I'm going to eat it before your eyes."

"But you've had dinner."

"Well, I'll have another. I feel just ready for a nice fat pork chop...."

"Stop! Stop!"

"A nice fat pork chop with potatoes and lots of cabbage," repeated Sam firmly. "And I shall eat it here on this very lounge. Now how do we go?"

"You wouldn't do that!" said Eustace piteously.

"I would and will."

"But I shouldn't be any good at the piano. I've forgotten how the thing used to go."

"You haven't done anything of the kind. I come in and say 'Hullo, Ernest!' and you say 'Hullo, Frank!' and then you help me tell the story about the Pullman car. A child could do your part of it."

"Perhaps there is some child on board...."

"No. I want you. I shall feel safe with you. We've done it together before."

"But, honestly, I really don't think ... it isn't as if...."

Sam rose and extended a finger towards the bell.

"Stop! Stop!" cried Eustace Hignett. "I'll do it!"

Sam withdrew his finger.

"Good!" he said. "We've just got time for a rehearsal while you're dressing. 'Hullo, Ernest!'"

"'Hullo, Frank,'" said Eustace Hignett brokenly as he searched for his unfamiliar trousers.

Ships' concerts are given in aid of the Seamen's Orphans and Widows, and, after one has been present at a few of them, one seems to feel that any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and take a chance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such things. They open with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies—so long, as a rule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happen afterwards that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This done, the amateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.