Pelham Wodehouse - Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel

Blake had been silently wagging his head, as pleased as Punch at being called hardworking. But here he shoved in his oar.

"'Ow dare yer!" he burst out. "I ain't never tasted a drop o' beer in my natural. Born an' bred teetotal, that's wot I was, and don't yew forget it, neither."

"Blake," said the Reverend, "that's not the truth."

"Call me a drunkard, do yer?" replied Blake. "Go on. Say it again. Say I'm a blarsted liar, won't yer? Orlright, then I shall run away."

And with that he wrenched himself away from me and set off towards the Circus. He was trying to run, but his advance took the form of semi-circular sweeps all over the pavement. He had circled off so unexpectedly that he had gained some fifty yards before we realised what was happening. "We must stop him," said the Reverend.

"As I'm intoxicated," I said, coldly (being a bit fed up with things), "I should recommend you stopping him, Mr. Hatton."

"I've done you an injustice," said the Reverend.

"You have," said I.

Blake was now nearing a policeman. "Stop him!" we both shouted, starting to run forward.

The policeman brought Blake to a standstill.

"Friend of yours?" said the constable when we got up to him.

"Yes," said the Reverend.

"You ought to look after him better," said the constable.

"Well, really, I like that!" said the Reverend; but he caught my eye and began laughing. "Our best plan," he said, "is to get a four-wheeler and go down to the Temple. There's some supper there. What do you say?"

"I'm on," I said, and to the Temple we accordingly journeyed.

Tom Blake was sleepy and immobile. We spread him without hindrance on a sofa, where he snored peacefully whilst the Reverend brought eggs and a slab of bacon out of a cupboard in the kitchen. He also brought a frying-pan, and a bowl of fat.

"Is your cooking anything extra good?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Hatton," I answered, rather stiff; "I've never cooked anything in my life." I may not be in a very high position in the "Moon," but I've never descended to menial's work yet.

For about five minutes after that the Reverend was too busy to speak. Then he said, without turning his head away from the hissing pan, "I wish you'd do me a favour, Price."

"Certainly," I said.

"Look in the cupboard and see whether there are any knives, forks, plates, and a loaf and a bit of butter, will you?"

I looked, and, sure enough, they were there.

"Yes, they're all here," I called to him.

"And is there a tray?"

"Yes, there's a tray."

"Now, it's a funny thing that my laundress," he shouted back, "can't bring in breakfast things for more than one on that particular tray. She's always complaining it's too small, and says I ought to buy a bigger one."

"Nonsense," I exclaimed, "she's quite wrong about that. You watch what I can carry in one load." And I packed the tray with everything he had mentioned.

"What price that?" I said, putting the whole boiling on the sitting-room table.

The Reverend began to roar with laughter. "It's ridiculous," he chuckled. "I shall tell her it's ridiculous. She ought to be ashamed of herself."

Shortly after we had supper, previously having aroused Blake.

The drunken fellow seemed completely restored by his repose. He ate more than his share of the eggs and bacon, and drank five cups of tea. Then he stretched himself, lit a clay pipe, and offered us his tobacco box, from which the Reverend filled his briar. I remained true to my packet of "Queen of the Harem." I shall think twice before chucking up cig. smoking as long as "Queen of the Harem" don't go above tuppence-half-penny per ten.

We were sitting there smoking in front of the fire—it was a shade parky for the time of year—and not talking a great deal, when the Reverend said to Blake, "Things are looking up on the canal, aren't they, Tom?"

"No," said Blake; "things ain't lookin' up on the canal."

"Got a little house property," said the Reverend, "to spend when you feel like it?"

"No," said the other; "I ain't got no 'ouse property to spend."

"Ah." said the Reverend, cheesing it, and sucking his pipe.

"Dessay yer think I'm free with the rhino?" said Blake after a while.

"I was only wondering," said the Reverend.

Blake stared first at the Reverend and then at me.

"Ever remember a party of the name of Cloyster, Mr. James Orlebar Cloyster?" he inquired.

"Yes," we both said.

"'E's a good man," said Blake.

"Been giving you money?" asked the Reverend.

"'E's put me into the way of earning it. It's the sorfest job ever I struck. 'E told me not to say nothin', and I said as 'ow I wouldn't. But it ain't fair to Mr. Cloyster, not keeping of it dark ain't. Yew don't know what a noble 'eart that man's got, an' if you weren't fren' of 'is I couldn't have told you. But as you are fren's of 'is, as we're all fren's of 'is, I'll take it on myself to tell you wot that noble-natured man is giving me money for. Blowed if 'e shall 'ide his bloomin' light under a blanky bushel any longer." And then he explained that for putting his name to a sheet or two of paper, and addressing a few envelopes, he was getting more money than he knew what to do with. "Mind you," he said, "I play it fair. I only take wot he says I'm to take. The rest goes to 'im. My old missus sees to all that part of it 'cos she's quicker at figures nor wot I am."

While he was speaking, I could hardly contain myself. The Reverend was listening so carefully to every word that I kept myself from interrupting; but when he'd got it off his chest, I clutched the Reverend's arm, and said, "What's it mean?"

"Can't say," said he, knitting his brows.

"Is he straight?" I said, all on the jump.

"I hope so."

"'Hope so.' You don't think there's a doubt of it?"

"I suppose not. But surely it's very unselfish of you to be so concerned over Blake's business."

"Blake's business be jiggered," I said. "It's my business, too. I'm doing for Mister James Orlebar Cloyster exactly what Blake's doing. And I'm making money. You don't understand."

"On the contrary, I'm just beginning to understand. You see, I'm doing for Mr. James Orlebar Cloyster exactly the same service as you and Blake. And I'm getting money from him, too."

"Serpose I oughtn't ter 'ave let on, that's it, ain't it?" from Tom Blake.

"Seemed to me that if one of the three gave the show away to the other two, the compact made by each of the other two came to an end automatically," from myself.

"The reason I have broken my promise of secrecy is this: that I'm determined we three shall make a united demand for a higher rate of payment. You, of course, have your own uses for the money, I need mine for those humanitarian objects for which my whole life is lived," from the Reverend.

"Wot 'o," said Blake. "More coin. Wot 'o. Might 'ave thought o' that before."

"I'm with you, sir," said I. "We're entitled to a higher rate, I'll make a memo to that effect."

"No, no," said the Reverend. "We can do better than that. We three should have a personal interview with Cloyster and tell him our decision."

"When?" I asked.

"Now. At once. We are here together, and I see no reason to prevent our arranging the matter within the hour."

"But he'll be asleep," I objected.

"He won't be asleep much longer."

"Yus, roust 'im outer bed. That's wot I say. Wot 'o for more coin."

It was now half-past two in the morning. I'd missed the 12:15 back to Brixton slap bang pop hours ago, so I thought I might just as well make a night of it. We jumped into our overcoats and hats, and hurried to Fleet Street. We walked towards the Strand until we found a four-wheeler. We then drove to No. 23, Walpole Street.