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CHAPTER EIGHT
1.
Doctors, laying down the law in their usual confident way, tell us
that the vitality of the human body is at its lowest at two o'clock
in the morning: and that it is then, as a consequence, that the mind
is least able to contemplate the present with equanimity, the future
with fortitude, and the past without regret. Every thinking man,
however, knows that this is not so. The true zero hour, desolate,
gloom-ridden, and specter-haunted, occurs immediately before dinner
while we are waiting for that cocktail. It is then that, stripped for
a brief moment of our armor of complacency and self-esteem, we see
ourselves as we are,--frightful chumps in a world where nothing goes
right; a gray world in which, hoping to click, we merely get the
raspberry; where, animated by the best intentions, we nevertheless
succeed in perpetrating the scaliest bloomers and landing our loved
ones neck-deep in the gumbo.
So reflected Freddie Rooke, that priceless old bean, sitting
disconsolately in an arm-chair at the Drones Club about two weeks
after Jill's departure from England, waiting for his friend Algy
Martyn to trickle in and give him dinner.
Surveying Freddie, as he droops on his spine in the yielding leather,
one is conscious of one's limitations as a writer. Gloom like his
calls for the pen of a master. Zola could have tackled it nicely.
Gorky might have made a stab at it. Dostoievsky would have handled it
with relish. But for oneself the thing is too vast. One cannot wangle
it. It intimidates. It would have been bad enough in any case, for
Algy Martyn was late as usual and it always gave Freddie the pip to
have to wait for dinner: but what made it worse was the fact that the
Drones was not one of Freddie's clubs and so, until the blighter Algy
arrived, it was impossible for him to get his cocktail. There he sat,
surrounded by happy, laughing young men, each grasping a glass of the
good old mixture-as-before, absolutely unable to connect. Some of
them, casual acquaintances, had nodded to him, waved, and gone on
lowering the juice,--a spectacle which made Freddie feel much as the
wounded soldier would have felt if Sir Philip Sidney, instead of
offering him the cup of water, had placed it to his own lips and
drained it with a careless "Cheerio!" No wonder Freddie experienced
the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoi's
Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling
his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city
reservoir, he turns to the cupboard, only to find the vodka-bottle
empty.
Freddie gave himself up to despondency: and, as always in these days
when he was mournful, he thought of Jill. Jill's sad case was a
continual source of mental anguish to him. From the first he had
blamed himself for the breaking-off of her engagement with Derek. If
he had not sent the message to Derek from the police-station, the
latter would never have known about their arrest, and all would have
been well. And now, a few days ago, had come the news of her
financial disaster, with its attendant complications.
It had descended on Freddie like a thunderbolt through the medium of
Ronny Devereux.
"I say," Ronny had said, "have you heard the latest? Your pal,
Underhill, has broken off his engagement with Jill Mariner."
"I know; rather rotten, what!"
"Rotten? I should say so! It isn't done. I mean to say, chap can't
chuck a girl just because she's lost her money. Simply isn't on the
board, old man!"
"Lost her money? What do you mean?"
Ronny was surprised. Hadn't Freddie heard? Yes, absolute fact. He had
it from the best authority. Didn't know how it had happened and all
that, but Jill Mariner had gone completely bust; Underhill had given
her the miss-in-baulk; and the poor girl had legged it, no one knew
where. Oh, Freddie had met her and she had told him she was going to
America? Well, then, legged it to America. But the point was that the
swine Underhill had handed her the mitten just because she was broke,
and that was what Ronny thought so bally rotten. Broker a girl is,
Ronny meant to say, more a fellow should stick to her.
"But--" Freddie rushed to his hero's defence. "But it wasn't that at
all. Something quite different. I mean, Derek didn't even know Jill
had lost her money. He broke the engagement because . . ." Freddie
stopped short. He didn't want everybody to know of that rotten arrest
business, as they infallibly would if he confided in Ronny Devereux.
Sort of thing he would never hear the last of. "He broke it off
because of something quite different."
"Oh, yes!" said Ronny skeptically.
"But he did, really!"
Ronny shook his head.
"Don't you believe it, old son. Don't you believe it. Stands to
reason it must have been because the poor girl was broke. You
wouldn't have done it and I wouldn't have done it, but Underhill did,
and that's all there is to it. I mean, a tick's a tick, and there's
nothing more to say. Well, I know he's been a pal of yours, Freddie,
but, next time I meet him, by Jove, I'll cut him dead. Only I don't
know him to speak to, dash it!" concluded Ronny regretfully.
Ronny's news had upset Freddie. Derek had returned to the Albany a
couple of days ago, moody and silent. They had lunched together at
the Bachelors, and Freddie had been pained at the attitude of his
fellow clubmen. Usually, when he lunched at the Bachelors, his table
became a sort of social center. Cheery birds would roll up to pass
the time of day, and festive old eggs would toddle over to have
coffee and so forth, and all that sort of thing. Jolly! On this
occasion nobody had rolled, and all the eggs present had taken their
coffee elsewhere. There was an uncomfortable chill in the atmosphere
of which Freddie had been acutely conscious, though Derek had not
appeared to notice it. The thing had only come home to Derek
yesterday at the Albany, when the painful episode of Wally Mason had
occurred. It was this way:
"Hullo, Freddie, old top! Sorry to have kept you waiting."
Freddie looked up from his broken meditations, to find that his host
had arrived.
"Hullo!"
"A quick bracer," said Algy Martyn, "and then the jolly old
food-stuffs. It's pretty late, I see. Didn't notice how time was
slipping."
Over the soup, Freddie was still a prey to gloom. For once the
healing gin-and-vermouth had failed to do its noble work. He sipped
sombrely, so sombrely as to cause comment from his host.
"Pipped?" enquired Algy solicitously.
"Pretty pipped," admitted Freddie.
"Backed a loser?"
"No."
"Something wrong with the old tum?"
"No. . . . Worried."
"Worried?"
"About Derek."
"Derek? Who's . . . ? Oh, you mean Underhill?"
"Yes."
Algy Martyn chased an elusive piece of carrot about his soup plate,
watching it interestedly as it slid coyly from the spoon.
"Oh?" he said, with sudden coolness. "What about him?"
Freddie was too absorbed in his subject to notice the change in his
friend's tone.
"A dashed unpleasant thing," he said, "happened yesterday morning at
my place. I was just thinking about going out to lunch, when the
door-bell rang and Parker said a chappie of the name of Mason would
like to see me. I didn't remember any Mason, but Parker said the
chappie said he knew me when I was a kid. So he loosed him into the
room, and it turned out to be a fellow I used to know years ago down
in Worcestershire. I didn't know him from Adam at first, but
gradually the old bean got to work, and I placed him. Wally Mason his
name was. Rummily enough, he had spoken to me at the Leicester that
night when the fire was, but not being able to place him, I had given
him the miss somewhat. You know how it is. Chappie you've never been
introduced to says something to you in a theatre, and you murmur
something and sheer off. What?"
"Absolutely," agreed Algy Martyn. He thoroughly approved of Freddie's
code of etiquette. Sheer off. Only thing to do.
"Well, anyhow, now that he had turned up again and told me who he
was, I began to remember. We had been kids together, don't you know.
(What's this? Salmon? Oh, right ho.) So I buzzed about and did the
jovial host, you know; gave him a drink and a toofer, and all that
sort of thing; and talked about the dear old days and what not. And
so forth, if you follow me. Then he brought the conversation round to
Jill. Of course he knew Jill at the same time when he knew me, down
in Worcestershire, you see. We were all pretty pally in those days,
if you see what I mean. Well, this man Mason, it seems, had heard
somewhere about Jill losing her money, and he wanted to know if it
was true. I said absolutely. Hadn't heard any details, but Ronny had
told me and Ronny had had it from some one who had stable information
and all that sort of thing. 'Dashed shame, isn't it!' I said. 'She's
gone to America, you know.' 'I didn't know,' he said. 'I understood
she was going to be married quite soon.' Well, of course, I told him
that that was off. He didn't say anything for a bit, then he said
'Off?' I said 'Off.' 'Did she break it off?' asked the chappie.
'Well, no,' I said. 'As a matter of fact Derek broke it off.' He said
'Oh!' (What? Oh yes, a bit of pheasant will be fine.) Where was I?
Oh, yes. He said 'Oh!' Now, before this, I ought to tell you, this
chappie Mason had asked me to come out and have a bit of lunch. I had
told him I was lunching with Derek, and he said 'Right ho,' or words
to that effect, 'Bring him along.' Derek had been out for a stroll,
you see, and we were waiting for him to come in. Well, just at this
point or juncture, if you know what I mean, in he came, and I said
'Oh, what ho!' and introduced Wally Mason. 'Oh, do you know
Underhill?' I said, or something like that. You know the sort of
thing. And then . . ."
Freddie broke off and drained his glass. The recollection of that
painful moment had made him feverish. Social difficulties always did.
"Then what?" enquired Algy Martyn.
"Well, it, was pretty rotten. Derek held out his hand, as a chappie
naturally would, being introduced to a strange chappie, and Wally
Mason, giving it an absolute miss, went on talking to me just as if
we were alone, you know. Look here. Here was I, where this knife is.
Derek over here--this fork--with his hand out. Mason here--this bit
of bread. Mason looks at his watch, and says 'I'm sorry, Freddie, but
I find I've an engagement for lunch. So long!' and biffed out,
without apparently knowing Derek was on the earth. I mean . . ."
Freddie reached for his glass, "What I mean is, it was dashed
embarrassing. I mean, cutting a fellow dead in my rooms. I don't know
when I've felt so rotten!"
Algy Martyn delivered judgment with great firmness.
"Chappie was perfectly right!"
"No, but I mean . . ."
"Absolutely correct-o," insisted Algy sternly. "Underhill can't dash
about all over the place giving the girl he's engaged to the mitten
because she's broke, and expect no notice to be taken of it. If you
want to know what I think, old man, your pal Underhill--I can't
imagine what the deuce you see in him, but, school together and so
forth, makes a difference, I suppose,--I say, if you want to know
what I think, Freddie, the blighter Underhill would be well advised
either to leg it after Jill and get her to marry him or else lie low
for a goodish while till people have forgotten the thing. I mean to
say, fellows like Ronny and I and Dick Wimpole and Archie Studd and
the rest of our lot,--well, we all knew Jill and thought she was a
topper and had danced with her here and there and seen her about and
all that, and naturally we feel pretty strongly about the whole
dashed business. Underhill isn't in our particular set, but we all
know most of the people he knows, and we talk about this business,
and the thing gets about, and there you are! My sister, who was a
great pal of Jill's, swears that all the girls she knows mean to cut
Underhill. I tell you, Freddie, London's going to get pretty hot for
him if he doesn't do something dashed quick and with great rapidity!"
"But you haven't got the story right, old thing!"
"How not?"
"Well, I mean you think and Ronny thinks and all the rest of you
think that Derek broke off the engagement because of the money. It
wasn't that at all."
"What was it, then?"
"Well . . . Well, look here, it makes me seem a fearful ass and all
that, but I'd better tell you. Jill and I were going down one of
those streets near Victoria and a blighter was trying to slay a
parrot . . ."
"Parrot-shooting's pretty good in those parts, they tell me,"
interjected Algy satirically.
"Don't interrupt, old man. This parrot had got out of one of the
houses, and a fellow was jabbing at it with a stick, and Jill--you
know what she's like; impulsive, I mean, and all that--Jill got hold
of the stick and biffed him with some vim, and a policeman rolled up
and the fellow made a fuss and the policeman took Jill and me off to
chokey. Well, like an ass, I sent round to Derek to bail us out, and
that's how he heard of the thing. Apparently he didn't think a lot of
it, and the result was that he broke off the engagement."
Algy Martin had listened to this recital with growing amazement.
"He broke it off because of that?"
"Yes."
"What absolute rot!" said Algy Martyn. "I don't believe a word of it!"
"I say, old man!"
"I don't believe a word of it," repeated Algy firmly. "And nobody
else will either. It's dashed good of you, Freddie, to cook up a yarn
like that to try and make things look better for the blighter, but it
won't work. Such a dam silly story, too!" said Algy with some
indignation.
"But it's true!"
"What's the use, Freddie, between old pals?" said Algy protestingly.
"You know perfectly well that Underhill's a cootie of the most
pronounced order, and that, when he found out that Jill hadn't any
money, he chucked her."
"But why should Derek care whether Jill was well off or not? He's got
enough money of his own."
"Nobody," said Algy judicially, "has got enough money of his own.
Underhill thought he was marrying a girl with a sizeable chunk of the
ready, and, when the fuse blew out, he decided it wasn't good enough.
For Heaven's sake don't let's talk any more about the blighter. It
gives me a pain to think of him."
And Algy Martyn, suppressing every effort which Freddie made to
reopen the subject, turned the conversation to more general matters.
2.
Freddie returned to the Albany in a state of gloom and uneasiness.
Algy's remarks, coming on top of the Wally Mason episode, had shaken
him. The London in which he and Derek moved and had their being is
nothing but a village, and it was evident that village gossip was
hostile to Derek. People were talking about him. Local opinion had
decided that he had behaved badly. Already one man had cut him.
Freddie blenched at a sudden vision of street-fulls of men, long
Piccadillys of men, all cutting him, one after the other. Something
had got to be done. He was devoted to Derek. This sort of thing was
as bad as being cut himself. Whatever Freddie's limitations in the
matter of brain, he had a large heart and an infinite capacity for
faithfulness in his friendships.
The subject was not an easy one to broach to his somewhat forbidding
friend, as he discovered when the latter arrived about half an hour
later. Derek had been attending the semi-annual banquet of the
Worshipful Dry-Salters Company down in the City, understudying one of
the speakers, a leading member of Parliament, who had been unable to
appear; and he was still in the grip of that feeling of degraded
repletion which city dinners induce. The dry-salters, on these
occasions when they cast off for a night the cares and anxieties of
dry-salting, do their guests well, and Derek had that bloated sense
of foreboding which comes to a man whose stomach is not his strong
point after twelve courses and a multitude of mixed wines. A goose,
qualifying for the role of a pot of pate de foies gras, probably has
exactly the same jaundiced outlook.
Yet, unfavorably disposed as, judging by his silence and the
occasional moody grunts he uttered, he appeared to be to a discussion
of his private affairs, it seemed to Freddie impossible that the
night should be allowed to pass without some word spoken on the
subject. He thought of Ronny and what Ronny had said, of Algy and
what Algy had said, of Wally Mason and how Wally had behaved in this
very room; and he nerved himself to the task.
"Derek, old top."
A grunt.
"I say, Derek, old bean."
Derek roused himself, and looked gloomily across the room to where he
stood, warming his legs at the blaze.
"Well?"
Freddie found a difficulty in selecting words. A ticklish business,
this. One that might well have disconcerted a diplomat. Freddie was
no diplomat, and the fact enabled him to find a way in the present
crisis. Equipped by nature with an amiable tactlessness and a happy
gift of blundering, he charged straight at the main point, and landed
on it like a circus elephant alighting on a bottle.
"I say, you know, about Jill!"
He stooped to rub the backs of his legs, on which the fire was
playing with a little too fierce a glow, and missed his companion's
start and the sudden thickening of his bushy eyebrows.
"Well?" said Derek again.
Freddie nerved himself to proceed. A thought flashed across his mind
that Derek was looking exactly like Lady Underhill. It was the first
time he had seen the family resemblance quite so marked.
"Ronny Devereux was saying . . ." faltered Freddie.
"Damn Ronny Devereux!"
"Oh, absolutely! But . . ."
"Ronny Devereux! Who the devil is Ronny Devereux?"
"Why, old man, you've heard me speak of him, haven't you? Pal of
mine. He came down to the station with Algy and me to meet your mater
that morning."
"Oh, _that_ fellow? And he has been saying something about . . . ?"
"It isn't only Ronny, you know," Freddie hastened to interject. "Algy
Martyn's talking about it, too. And lots of other fellows. And Algy's
sister and a lot of people. They're all saying . . ."
"What are they saying?"
Freddie bent down and chafed the back of his legs. He simply couldn't
look at Derek while he had that Lady Underhill expression on the old
map. Rummy he had never noticed before how extraordinarily like his
mother he was. Freddie was conscious of a faint sense of grievance.
He could not have put it into words, but what he felt was that a
fellow had no right to go about looking like Lady Underhill.
"What are they saying?" repeated Derek grimly.
"Well . . ." Freddie hesitated. "That it's a bit tough . . . On Jill,
you know."
"They think I behaved badly?"
"Well . . . Oh, well, you know!"
Derek smiled a ghastly smile. This was not wholly due to mental
disturbance. The dull heaviness which was the legacy of the
Dry-Salters' dinner had begun to change to something more actively
unpleasant. A sub-motive of sharp pain had begun to run through it,
flashing in and out like lightning through a thunder-cloud. He felt
sullen and vicious.
"I wonder," he said with savage politeness, "if, when you chat with
your friends, you would mind choosing some other topic than my
private affairs."
"Sorry, old man. But they started it, don't you know."
"And, if you feel you've got to discuss me, kindly keep it to
yourself. Don't come and tell me what your damned friends said to
each other and to you and what you said to them, because it bores me.
I'm not interested. I don't value their opinions as much as you seem
to." Derek paused, to battle in silence with the imperious agony
within him. "It was good of you to put me up here," he went on, "but
I think I won't trespass on your hospitality any longer. Perhaps
you'll ask Parker to pack my things tomorrow." Derek moved, as
majestically as an ex-guest of the Worshipful Company of Dry-Salters
may, in the direction of the door. "I shall go to the Savoy."
"Oh, I say, old man! No need to do that."
"Good night."
"But, I say . . ."
"And you can tell your friend Devereux that, if he doesn't stop
poking his nose into my private business, I'll pull it off."
"Well," said Freddie doubtfully, "of course I don't suppose you know,
but . . . Ronny's a pretty hefty bird. He boxed for Cambridge in the
light-weights the last year he was up, you know. He . . ."
Derek slammed the door. Freddie was alone. He stood rubbing his legs
for some minutes, a rueful expression on his usually cheerful face.
Freddie hated rows. He liked everything to jog along smoothly. What a
rotten place the world was these days! Just one thing after another.
First, poor old Jill takes the knock and disappears. He would miss
her badly. What a good sort! What a pal! And now--gone. Biffed off.
Next, Derek. Together, more or less, ever since Winchester, and
now--bing! . . .
Freddie heaved a sigh, and reached out for the Sporting Times, his
never-failing comfort in times of depression. He lit another cigar
and curled up in one of the arm-chairs. He was feeling tired. He had
been playing squash all the afternoon, a game at which he was
exceedingly expert and to which he was much addicted.
Time passed. The paper slipped to the floor. A cold cigar followed
it. From the depths of the chair came a faint snore . . .
* * *
A hand on his shoulder brought Freddie with a jerk troubled dreams.
Derek was standing beside him. A tousled Derek, apparently in pain.
"Freddie!"
"Hullo!"
A spasm twisted Derek's face.
"Have you got any pepsin?"
Derek uttered a groan. What a mocker of our petty human dignity is
this dyspepsia, bringing low the haughtiest of us, less than love
itself a respecter of persons. This was a different Derek from the
man who had stalked stiffly from the room two hours before. His pride
had been humbled upon the rack.
"Pepsin?"
Freddie blinked, the mists of sleep floating gently before his eyes.
He could not quite understand what his friend was asking for. It had
sounded just like pepsin, and he didn't believe there was such a
word.
"Yes. I've got the most damned attack of indigestion."
The mists of sleep rolled away from Freddie. He was awake again, and
became immediately helpful. These were the occasions when the Last of
the Rookes was a good man to have at your side. It was Freddie who
suggested that Derek should recline in the arm-chair which he had
vacated; Freddie who nipped round the corner to the all-night
chemist's and returned with a magic bottle guaranteed to relieve an
ostrich after a surfeit of soda-water bottles; Freddie who mixed and
administered the dose.
His ministrations were rewarded. Presently the agony seemed to pass.
Derek recovered.
One would say that Derek became himself again, but that the mood of
gentle remorse which came upon him as he lay in the arm-chair was one
so foreign to his nature. Freddie had never seen him so subdued. He
was like a convalescent child. Between them, the all-night chemist
and the Dry-Salters seemed to have wrought a sort of miracle. These
temporary softenings of personality frequently follow city dinners.
The time to catch your Dry-Salter in angelic mood is the day after
the semi-annual banquet. Go to him then and he will give you his
watch and chain.
"Freddie," said Derek.
They were sitting over the dying fire. The clock on the mantelpiece,
beside which Jill's photograph had stood, pointed to ten minutes past
two. Derek spoke in a low, soft voice. Perhaps the doctors are right
after all, and two o'clock is the hour at which our self-esteem
deserts us, leaving in its place regret for past sins, good
resolutions for future behavior.
"What do Algy Martyn and the others say about . . . you know?"
Freddie hesitated. Pity to start all that again.
"Oh, I know," went on Derek. "They say I behaved like a cad."
"Oh, well . . ."
"They are quite right. I did."
"Oh, I shouldn't say that, you know. Faults on both sides and all
that sort of rot."
"I did!" Derek stared into the fire. Scattered all over London at
that moment, probably, a hundred worshipful Dry-Salters were equally
sleepless and subdued, looking wide-eyed into black pasts. "Is it
true she has gone to America, Freddie?"
"She told me she was going."
"What a fool I've been!"
The clock ticked on through the silence. The fire sputtered faintly,
then gave a little wheeze, like a very old man. Derek rested his chin
on his hands, gazing into the ashes.
"I wish to God I could go over there and find her."
"Why don't you?"
"How can I? There may be an election coming on at any moment. I can't
stir."
Freddie leaped from his seat. The suddenness of the action sent a
red-hot corkscrew of pain through Derek's head.
"What the devil's the matter?" he demanded irritably. Even the gentle
mood which comes with convalescence after a City Dinner is not
guaranteed to endure against this sort of thing.
"I've got an idea, old bean!"
"Well, there's no need to dance, is there?"
"I've nothing to keep me here, you know. What's the matter with my
popping over to America and finding Jill?" Freddie tramped the floor,
aglow. Each beat of his foot jarred Derek, but he made no complaint.
"Could you?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course I could. I was saying only the other day that I had half a
mind to buzz over. It's a wheeze! I'll get on the next boat and
charge over in the capacity of a jolly old ambassador. Have her back
in no time. Leave it to me, old thing! This is where I come out
strong!"
Content of CHAPTER EIGHT [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Little Warrior]
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