Chapter 22 of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Indiscretions of Archie. Chapter 22 Washi Steps Into the Hall of Fame At about nine o'clock the next morning, in a suite at the hotel Cosmopolis, Mrs. Cora Bates McCall, the eminent lecturer on rational eating, was seated at breakfast with her family.  Behind these Mr. McCall's eyes played a perpetual game of peek-a-boo, now peering over them, a non ducking down and hiding behind them. He was sipping a cup of anti-caffeine.  Mrs. McCall herself was eating a slice of health bread and nut butter, for she practised as well as preached the doctrines which she had striven for so many years to inculcate in an unthinking populace. Her day always began with a light but nutritious breakfast, at which a peculiarly uninviting cereal, which looked and tasted like an old straw hat that had been run through a meat-chopper, competed for first place in the dislike of her husband and son with a more than usually offensive brand of imitation coffee. Mr. McCall was inclined to think that he loathed the imitation coffee rather more than the cereal, but Washington held strong views on the latter's superior ghastliness. Both Washington and his father, however, would have been fair-minded enough to admit that it was a close thing. Mrs. McCall regarded her offspring with grave approval. I am glad to see Lindsay, she said to her husband, whose eyes sprang dutifully over the glass fence as he heard his name, that washy has recovered his appetite.  You noticed his flushed look? He did look flushed, very flushed, and his breathing was almost sturtorous, and when he said that he had no appetite I am bound to say that I was anxious. But he is evidently perfectly well this morning. Do you feel perfectly well this morning, washy? The air of the McCalls looked up from his cereal. He was a long, thin boy of about sixteen, with pale red hair, sandy eyelashes, and a long neck. Uh-huh, he said. Mrs. McCall nodded. Surely you now will agree, Lindsay, that a careful and rational diet is what a boy needs. Rashi's constitution is superb. He has a remarkable stamina, and I attribute it entirely to my careful supervision of his food. I shudder when I think of the growing boys who are permitted by irresponsible people to devour meat, candy, pie, she broke off. What is the matter, washy? It seemed that the habit of shuddering at the thought of pie ran in the McCall family, for at the mention of the word a kind of internal shimmy had convulsed Washington's lean frame, and over his face there had come an expression that was almost one of pain. He had been reaching out his hand for a slice of health bread, but now he withdrew it rather hurriedly and sat back, breathing hard. I'm all right, he said huskily. Pie! proceeded Mrs. McCall in her platform voice. She stopped again abruptly.  I'm all right. Mrs. McCall had lost the thread of her remarks. Moreover, having now finished her breakfast, she was inclined for a little light reading. One of the subjects allied to the matter of dietary on which she felt deeply was the question of reading at meals. She was of the opinion that the strain on the eye, coinciding with the strain on the digestion, could not fail to give the latter the short end of the contest. And it was a rule at her table that the morning paper should not even be glanced at till the conclusion of the meal. She said that it was upsetting to begin the day by reading the paper, and events were to prove that she was occasionally right. All through breakfast the New York Chronicle had been lying neatly folded beside her plate. She now opened it, and with a remark about looking for the report of her yesterday's lecture at the Butterfly Club, directed her gaze at the front page, on which she hoped that an editor with the best interests of the public at heart had decided to place her. Mr. McCall jumped up and down behind his glasses, scrutinizing her face closely as she began to read. He always did this on these occasions, for none knew better than he that his comfort for the day depended largely on some unknown reporter whom he had never met. If this unseen individual had done his work properly and as befitted the importance of his subject, Mrs. McCall's mood for the next twelve hours would be as uniformly sunny as it was possible for it to be. But sometimes the fellow scamped their job disgracefully, and once on a day which lived in Mr. McCall's memory they had failed to make a report at all. Today, he noted with relief, all seemed to be well. The report actually was on the front page, an honor rarely accorded to his wife's utterances. Moreover, judging from the time it took her to read the thing, she had evidently been reported at length. "'Good, my dear,' he ventured. Satisfactory!' "'Eh!' Mrs. McCall smiled meditatively. "'Oh, yes! Excellent! They have used my photograph, too. Not at all badly reproduced.' "'Splendid!' said Mr. McCall. Mrs. McCall gave a sharp shriek, and the paper fluttered from her hand. "'My dear,' said Mr. McCall, with concern. His wife had recovered the paper, and was reading with burning eyes. The bright wave of color had flowed over her masterful features. She was breathing as sturtiously as ever her son Washington had done on the previous night. "'Washington!' a basilisk glare shot across the table and turned the long boy to stone. McCall except his mouth, which opened feebly. "'Washington! Is this true?' Washy closed his mouth, then let it slowly open again. "'My dear,' Mr. McCall's voice was alarmed. "'What is it?' his eyes had climbed up over his glasses, and remained there. "'What is the matter? Is anything wrong?' "'Rung! Read for yourself!' Mr. McCall was completely mystified. He could not even formulate a guess at the cause of the trouble. That it appeared to concern his son Washington seemed to be the one solid fact at his disposal, and that only made the matter still more puzzling. Where, Mr. McCall asked himself, did Washington come in?' He looked at the paper and received immediate enlightenment. Headlines met his eyes. "'Good stuff in this boy! About a ton of it! Son of Korra Bates McCall, famous food reform lecturer, wins pie-eating championship of West Side!' There followed a lyrical outburst. So uplifted had the reporter evidently felt by the importance of his news that he had been unable to confine himself to prose. "'My children, if you fail to shine or triumph in your special line, if let us say your hopes are bent on some day being president, and folks ignore your proper worth and say you've not a chance on earth, cheer up for in these stirring days, fame may be won in many ways. Cheer when your spirits fall, the case of Washington McCall!' "'Yes, cast your eye on Washi, please. He looks just like a piece of cheese. He's not a brilliant sort of chap. He has a dull and vacant map.  In fact, to end these compliments, he would be dear at thirty cents. But fame has welcomed to her hall this self-same Washington McCall. His mother, nay, Miss Corabates, is one who frequently orates upon the proper kind of food which every menu should include, with eloquence the world she weans from chops and steaks and pork and beans, such horrid things she'd like to crush and make us live on milk and mush.' "'But, oh, the thing that makes her sigh is when she sees us eating pie. We heard her lecture last July upon the nation's menace pie. Alas, the hit it made was small with Master Washington McCall. For yesterday we took a trip to see the great pie-championship, where men with bulging cheeks and eyes consume vast quantities of pies. A fashionable west-side crowd beheld the champion, spikled out, endeavored to defend his throne against an upstart Blake's unknown. He wasn't an unknown at all. He was young Washington McCall. We free the own we'd give a leg if we could borrow, steal, or beg the skill old Homer used to show. He wrote the Iliad, you know. Old Homer swung a wicked pen, but we are ordinary men, and cannot even start to dream of doing justice to our theme. The subject of that great repast is too magnificent and vast. We can't describe, or even try, the way those rivals wolfed their pie. We have to say that when for hours each had extended all his powers, to ward the quiet even fall, o' doubt succumbed to young McCall. The champion was a willing lad. He gave the public all he had. His was a genuine fighting soul. He'd lots of speed and much control. No yellow streak did he evince. He tackled apple pie and mince. This was the motto on his shield, O doubts may burst, they never yield. His eyes began to start and roll. He eased his belt another hole. Poor fellow with a single glance, one saw that he had not a chance. A python would have had to crawl and own defeat from young McCall. At last, long last the finish came, his features overcast with shame, o' doubt who'd faltered once or twice, declined to eat another slice. He tottered off, and kindly men rallied around with oxygen. But washy, Cory Bates' son, seemed disappointed it was done. He somehow made those present feel he'd barely started on his meal. He asked him, aren't you feeling bad? Me, said the lion-hearted lad, lead me, he started for the street, where I can get a bite to eat.  How better can the curtain fall on Master Washington McCall? Mr. McCall read this epic through, then he looked at his son. He first looked at him over his glasses, then through his glasses, then over his glasses again, then through his glasses once more.  If such a thing had not been so impossible, one would have said that his gaze had in it something of respect, of admiration, even of reverence. But how did they find out your name? he asked at length. Mrs. McCall exclaimed impatiently. Is that all you have to say? No, no, my dear, of course not, quite so. But the point struck me as curious. Wretched boy! cried Mrs. McCall.  Then wriggled uneasily. Unable to endure the piercing stare of his mother, he had withdrawn to the window, and was looking out with his back turned. But even there he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck. I didn't think it would matter, he mumbled. A fellow with tortoise shell-rimmed specs asked me, so I told him. How was I to know? His stumbling defense was cut short by the opening of the door. Hello, hello, hello, what-ho, what-ho! Archie was standing in the doorway, beaming ingratiatingly on the family. The apparition of an entire stranger served to divert the lightning of Mrs. McCall's gaze from the unfortunate washy. Archie, catching it between the eyes, blinked and held on to the wall. He had begun to regret that he had yielded so weakly to Lucille's entreaty that he should look in on the McCall's and use the magnetism of his personality upon them in the hope of inducing them to settle the lawsuit. He wished, too, if the visit had to be paid that he had postponed it till after lunch, for he was never at his strongest in the morning. But Lucille had urged him to go now and get it over, and here he was. I think, said Mrs. McCall, icily, that you must have mistaken your room. Archie rallied his shaken forces. Oh, no, rather not! Better introduce myself, what? My name's Moom, you know. I'm old Brewster's son-in-law, and all that sort of rot, if you know what I mean. He gulped and continued. I've come about this jolly old lawsuit, don't you know? Mr. McCall seemed about to speak, but his wife anticipated him. Mr. Brewster's attorneys are in communication with ours. We do not wish to discuss the matter. Archie took an uninvited seat, eyed the health-bread on the breakfast table for a moment with frank curiosity, and resumed his discourse. No, but I say, you know. I'll tell you what happened. I hate to totter in where I'm not wanted in all that, but my wife made such a point of it. Rightly or wrongly, she regards me as a bit of a hound in the diplomacy-line, and she begged me to look you up and see whether we couldn't do something about settling the jolly old thing. I mean to say, you know, the old bird, old Brewster, you know, is considerably perturbed about the affair, hates the thought of being in a posish where he has either got to bite his old pal McCall in the neck or be bitten by him, and, well, and so forth, don't you know? How about it?" He broke off. Great Scott! I say what! So engrossed had he been in his appeal, that he had not observed the presence of the pie-eating champion between whom and himself a large potted plant intervened. But now Washington, hearing the familiar voice, had moved from the window and was confronting him with an accusing stare. He made me do it, said Washey, with the stern joy a sixteen-year-old boy feels when he sees somebody onto whose shoulders he can shift trouble from his own. What's the fellow who took me to the place? What are you talking about, Washington? I'm telling you, he got me into the thing. Do you mean this, this, Mrs. McCall shuddered? Are you referring to this pie-eating contest? You bet I am. Is this true?" Mrs. McCall glared stonily at Archie. Was it you who lured my poor boy into that, that? Oh, absolutely! The fact is, don't you know, a dear old pal of mine who runs a tobacco-shop on Sixth Avenue was rather in the soup. He had backed a chappy against the champion, and the chappy was converted by one of your lectures and swore off pie at the 11th hour. Dash had hard luck on the poor chap, don't you know? And then I got the idea that our little friend here was the one to step in and save the situation. So I broached the matter to him, and I'll tell you one thing, said Archie handsomely. I don't know what sort of a capacity the original chappy had, but I'll bet he wasn't in your son's class. Your son has to be seen to be believed. Absolutely! You ought to be proud of him." Archie turned in friendly fashion to Washi. Rummy, we should meet again like this. Never dreamed I should find you here. And by Jove! It's absolutely marvellous how fit you look after yesterday. I had a sort of idea you would be groaning on a bed of sickness and all that. There was a strange gurgling sound in the background. It resembled something getting up steam. And this, curiously enough, is precisely what it was. The thing that was getting up steam was Mr. Lindsey McCall. The first effect of the Washi revelations on Mr. McCall had been merely to stun him. It was not until the arrival of Archie that he had had leisure to think, but since Archie's entrance he had been thinking rapidly and deeply. For many years Mr. McCall had been in a state of suppressed revolution. He had smoldered, but he had not dared to blaze. But this startling upheaval of his fellow sufferer, Washi, had acted upon him like a high explosive. There was a strange gleam in his eye, a gleam of determination. He was breathing hard. Washi! His voice had lost its deprecating mildness. It rang strong and clear. Yes, Pop? How many pies did you eat yesterday? Washi considered. A good few. How many? Twenty? More than that, I lost count. A good few. And you feel as well as ever? I feel fine. Mr. McCall dropped his glasses. He glowered for a moment at the breakfast-table. His eye took in the health-bread, the imitation-coffee-pot, the cereal, the nut-butter. Then with a swift movement he seized the cloth, jerked it forcibly, and brought the entire contents rattling and crashing to the floor. Lindsay! Mr. McCall met his wife's eye with quiet determination. It was plain that something had happened in the hinterland of Mr. McCall's soul. Cora, he said resolutely, I have come to a decision. I've been letting you run things your own way a little too long in this family. I'm going to assert myself. For one thing, I've had all I want of this food-reform foodery. Look at Washi. Yesterday that boy seems to have consumed anything from a couple of hundred weight to a ton of pie. And he has thriven on it. Thriven! I don't want to hurt your feelings, Cora, but Washington and I have drunk your last cup of anti-caffeine. If you care to go on with the stuff, that's your look-out. But Washi and I are through. He silenced his wife with a masterful gesture and turned to Archie. And there's another thing. I never liked the idea of that lawsuit, but I'd let you talk me into it. Now I'm going to do things my way. Mr. Moom, I'm glad you looked in this morning. I'll do just what you want. Take me to Dan Brewster now, and let's call the thing off, and shake hands on it.  It was Cora Bates McCall's last shot. Mr. McCall paid no attention to it. He was shaking hands with Archie. I consider you, Mr. Moom, he said, the most sensible young man I have ever met. Archie blushed modestly. Awfully good of you, old bean, he said. I wonder if you'd mind telling my jolly old father and all that. It'll be a bit of news for him. End of Chapter 23 of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Indiscretions of Archie Chapter 23 Mother's Knee Archie Moom's connection with that devastatingly popular ballad, Mother's Knee, was one to which he always looked back later with a certain pride. Mother's Knee, it will be remembered, went through the world like a pestilence. Scott's elders homed it on their way to Kierk. Cannibals crooned it to their offspring in the jungles of Borneo. It was a best-seller among the Bolshevists. In the United States alone, three million copies were disposed of. For a man who has not accomplished anything outstandingly great in his life, it is something to have been, in a sense, responsible for a song like that. And though there were moments when Archie experienced some of the emotions of a man who has punched a hole in the dam of one of the larger reservoirs, he never really regretted his share in the launching of the thing. It seems almost bizarre now to think that there was a time when even one person in the world had not heard Mother's Knee. But it came fresh to Archie one afternoon some weeks after the episode of Washi, in his suite at the Hotel Cosmopolis, where he was cementing with cigarettes and pleasant conversation his renewed friendship with Wilson Heimack, whom he had first met in the neighborhood of Armentier during the war. What are you doing these days? inquired Wilson Heimack. Me, said Archie. Well, as a matter of fact, there is what you might call a sort of species of lull in my activities at the moment. But my jolly old father-in-law is bustling about, running up a new hotel a bit farther downtown, and the scheme is for me to be the manager when it's finished. For what I see in this place it's a simple sort of job, and I fancy I shall be some what hot stuff. How are you feeling in the long hours? In my uncle's office, darn it. Starting at the bottom and learning the business and all that, a noble pursuit, no doubt, but I'm bound to say it would give me the pip in no uncertain manner. It gives me, said Wilson Heimack, a pain in the thorax. I want to be a composer! A composer, eh? Archie felt that he should have guessed this. The chap he had a distinctly artistic look. He wore a bow tie and all that sort of thing. His trousers bagged at the knees, and his hair, which during the marshal epic of his career had been pruned to the roots, fell about his ears in a luxuriant disarray. Say, do you want to hear the best thing I've ever done? Indubitably, said Archie politely, carry on, old bird. I wrote the lyric as well as the melody, said Wilson Heimack, who had already seated himself at the piano. It's got the greatest title you ever heard. It's a lullapalooza. It's called It's a Long Way Back to Mother's Knee. How's that? Poor eh? Archie expelled a smoke ring doubtfully. Isn't it a little stale? Stale? What do you mean stale? There's always room for another song boosting mother. Oh! Is it boosting mother? Archie's face cleared. I thought it was a hit at the short skirts. Why, of course, that makes all the difference. In that case, I see no reason why it should not be ripe, fruity, and pretty well all to the mustard. Let's have it. Wilson Heimack pushed as much of his hair out of his eyes as he could reach with one hand, cleared his throat, looked dreamily over the top of the piano at a photograph of Archie's father-in-law, Mr. Daniel Brewster, played a prelude, and began to sing in a weak, high composer's voice. All composers sing exactly alike, and they have to be heard to be believed. One night a young man wandered through the glitter of broad way. His money he had squandered for a meal he couldn't pay. Tough luck, murmured Archie, sympathetically. He thought about the village where his boyhood he had spent, and yearned for all the simple joys with which he'd been content. The right spirit, said Archie with approval. I'm beginning to like this, chappy. Don't interrupt. Oh, right-o, carried away in all that. He looked upon the city so frivolous and gay, and as he heaved a weary sigh, these words he then did say, It's a long way back to mother's knee, mother's knee, mother's knee, It's a long way back to mother's knee. Where I used to stand and prattle with my teddy bear and rattle, all those childhood days in Tennessee, they sure look good to me. It's a long, long way, but I'm going to start today.  I'm going back, back on the seven-three, to the dear old shack where I used to be. I'm going back to mother's knee. Wilson Hymax's voice cracked on the final high note, which was of an altitude beyond his powers. He turned with a modest cough. That'll give you an idea of it. It has, old thing, it has. Is it, or is it not, a ball of fire? It has many of the ear-mocks of a sound egg, admitted Archie. Of course, of course it wants singing. That's what I was going to suggest. It wants a woman to sing it, a woman who could reach out for that last high note and teach it to take a joke. The whole refrain is working up to that. You need Tetrazini or someone who would just pick that note off the roof and hold it till the janitor came round to lock up the building for the night. I must buy a copy for my wife. Where can I get it? You can't get it. It isn't published. In music's the darndest job, Wilson Heimack snorted fiercely. It was plain that the man was pouring out the pent-up emotion of many days.  Archie lit another cigarette. I'm a jolly old child in these matters, old lad, he said. But why don't you take it direct to a publisher? As a matter of fact, if it would be any use to you, I was foregathering with a music publisher only the other day, a bird by the name of Blumenthal. He was lunching in here with a pal of mine, and we got tolerably matey. Why not let me tour you round to the office tomorrow and play it to him? No thanks. Much obliged, but I'm not going to play that melody in any publisher's office with his hired gang of tin pan alley composers listening at the keyhole and taking notes. I'll have to wait till I can find somebody to sing it. Well, I must be going along. Glad to have seen you again. Sooner or later I'll take you to hear that high note sung by someone in a way that'll make your spine tie itself in knots round the back of your neck. I'll count the days," said Archie courteously. Pip-pip! Hardly had the door closed behind the composer when it opened again to admit Lucille. Hello, light of my soul," said Archie, rising and embracing his wife. Where have you been all the afternoon? I was expecting you this many an hour past. I wanted you to meet. I've been having tea with a girl down in Greenwich Village. I couldn't get away before. Who was that who went out just as I came along the passage? Chapeau of the name of Haimac. I met him in France, a composer and what not. We seem to have been moving in artistic circles this afternoon. The girl I went to see is a singer. At least she wants to sing, but gets no encouragement. Precisely the same with my bird. He wants to get his music sung, but nobody'll sing it. But I didn't know you knew any Greenwich Village warblers, sunshine of my home. How did you meet this female?  She was registering something, but Archie could not gather what it was. Archie, darling, when you married me you undertook to share my sorrows, didn't you? Absolutely. It's all in the book of words, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. All down set him up in the other alley. Regular ironclad contract. Then share him, said Lucille. Bill's in love again. Archie blinked. Bill, when you say Bill, do you mean Bill, your brother Bill, my brother-in-law Bill, jolly old William, the son and heir of the Brewsters? I do. You say he's in love, Cupid's dot. Even so. But I say, isn't this rather, what I mean to say is, the lad's an absolute scourge. The great lover, what? Also ran Brigham Young and all that sort of thing. Why, it's only a few weeks ago that he was moaning brokenly about that vermilion-haired female who subsequently hooked on to old Reggie Vantiel. She's a little better than that girl, thank goodness. All the same, I don't think father will approve. Of what caliber is the latest exhibit? Well, she comes from the Middle West, and seems to be trying to be twice as bohemian as the rest of the girls down in Greenwich Village. She wears her hair bobbed and goes about in a kimono. She's probably read magazine stories about Greenwich Village and has modelled herself on them. It's so silly, when you can see Hicks' corners sticking out of her all the time. That one got past me before I could grab it. What did you say she had sticking out of her? I meant that anybody could see that she came from somewhere out in the wilds. As a matter of fact, Bill tells me that she was brought up in Snakebite, Michigan. Snakebite? What rummy names you have in America? Still, I'll admit, there's a village in England called Nether Wallop, so who am I to cast the first stone? How is old Bill, pretty feverish? He says this time it's the real thing. That's what they all say. I wish I had a dollar for every time—forgotten what I was going to say, broke off Archie, prudently. So you think, he went on, after a pause, that William's latest is going to be one more shock for the old dad? I can't imagine father approving of her. I've studied your merry old progenitor pretty closely, said Archie, and between you and me I can't imagine him approving of anybody. I can't understand why it is that Bill goes out of his way to pick these horrors. I know at least twenty delightful girls, all pretty and with lots of money, who would be just the thing for him, but he sneaks away and goes falling in love with someone impossible. And the worst of it is that one always feels once got to do once best to see him through. Absolutely! One doesn't want to throw a spanner into the works of love's young dream. It behooves us to rally round. Have you heard this girl sing? Yes, she sang this afternoon. What sort of a voice has she got? Well, it's loud. Could she pick a high note off the roof and hold it till the genitor came round to lock up the building for the night? What on earth do you mean? Answer me this woman, frankly. How is her high note, pretty lofty? Why, yes. Then say no more, said Archie, leave this to me, my dear old betta-four-fifths, hand the whole thing over to Archibald, the man who never lets you down, I have a scheme. As Archie approached his suite on the following afternoon he heard through the closed door the drone of a gruff male voice, and going in discovered Lucille in the company of his brother-in-law. Lucille, Archie thought, was looking a trifle fatigued. Bill, on the other hand, was in great shape. His eyes were shining, and his face looked so like that of a stuffed frog that Archie had no difficulty in gathering that he had been lecturing on the subject of his latest enslaver. Hello, Bill, old crumpet, he said. Hello, Archie. I'm so glad you've come, said Lucille. Bill is telling me all about Spectacia. Who? Spectacia, the girl, you know. Her name is Spectacia Huskesson. It can't be, said Archie incredulously. Why not, growled Bill? Well, how could it, said Archie, appealing to him as a reasonable man? I mean to say, Spectacia Huskesson. I gravely doubt whether there is such a name. What's wrong with it? demanded the incensed Bill. It's a darn sight better name than Archibald Moom. Don't fight you two children, intervened Lucille firmly. It's a good old Middle West name. Everybody knows the Huskessons of Snakebite, Michigan. Besides, Bill calls her Toodles. Poodles, corrected Bill austerely. Oh yes, Poodles, he calls her Poodles. Young blood, young blood, sighed Archie. I wish you wouldn't talk as if you were my grandfather. I look on you as a son, laddie, a favorite son.  If you had, everything would be simple. But as your actual father, if you'll allow me to say so, is one of the finest specimens of the human vampire bat in captivity, something has got to be done about it, and you're dashed lucky to have me in your corner, a guide, philosopher, and friend, full of the fruitiest ideas. Now, if you'll kindly listen to me for a moment. I've been listening to you ever since you came in. You wouldn't speak in that harsh tone of voice if you knew all. William, I have a scheme. Well, the scheme to which I elude is what Mater Link would call a lullapalooza.  He eats a lot of fish, Bill. That's what makes him so clever. Shrimps, diagnosed Bill, cheerlessly. Do you know the leader of the orchestra in the restaurant downstairs, asked Archie, ignoring the slur? I know there is a leader of the orchestra. What about him? A sound fellow, great pal of mine. I've forgotten his name. Call him poodles, suggested Lucille. Desist, said Archie, as a wordless growl proceeded from his stricken brother-in-law. Temper your hilarity with a modicum of reserve. This girlish frivolity is unseemly. Well, I'm going to have a chat with this chappy and fix it all up. Fix what up? The whole jolly business. I'm going to kill two birds with one stone. I have a composer chappy, popping about in the background, whose one ambition is to have his pet song sung before a discriminating audience. You have a singer straining at the leash. I'm going to arrange with this egg, who leads the orchestra, that your female shall sing my chappy song downstairs one night during dinner. How about it? Is it or is it not a ball of fire? It's not a bad idea, admitted Bill, brightening visibly. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you. Why not? Well, it's a capital idea, said Lucille. Quite out of the question, of course. How do you mean? Don't you know that the one thing father hates more than anything else in the world is anything like a cabaret? People are always coming to him suggesting that it would brighten up the dinner hour if he had singers and things, and he crushes them into little bits. He thinks there is nothing that lowers the tone of a place more. He'll bite you in three places when you suggest it to him. Ah, but has it escaped your notice, lighting system of my soul, that the dear old dad is not at present in residence? He went off to fish at Lake, what's its name this morning? You aren't dreaming of doing this without asking him. That was the general idea. But he'll be furious when he finds out. But will he find out? I ask you, will he? Of course he will. I don't see why he should, said Bill, on whose plastic mind the plan had made a deep impression. He won't, said Archie confidently. This wheeze is for one night only. By the time the jolly old governor returns, bitten to the bone by mosquitoes, with one small stuffed trout in his suitcase, everything will be over, and all quiet once more along the Potomac. The scheme is this. My chappy wants his song heard by a publisher.  No doubt you know such a bird whom you could invite to the hotel for a bit of dinner. I know Carl Steinberg. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of writing to him about Spectacia. You're absolutely sure that is her name? Said Archie, his voice still tinged with incredulity. Oh well, I suppose she told you so herself, and no doubt she knows best. That will be topping. Rope in your pal and hold him down at the table till the finish. Lucille, the beautiful vision on the skyline yonder, and I will be at another table entertaining Maxie Blumenthal. Who on earth is Maxie Blumenthal? asked Lucille. One of my boyhood chums, a music publisher. I'll get him to come along and then we'll all be set. At the conclusion of the performance, Miss Archie winced, Miss Spectacia Huskesson will be signed up for a forty-weeks tour, and Jovial Old Blumenthal will be making all arrangement for publishing the song. Two birds, as I indicated before, with one stone. How about it? It's a winner, said Bill. Of course, said Archie, I'm not urging you. I merely make the suggestion. If you know a better old, go to it. It's terrific, said Bill. It's absurd, said Lucille. My dear old partner of joys and sorrows, said Archie, wounded. We caught criticism, but this is mere abuse. What seems to be the difficulty? The leader of the orchestra would be afraid to do it. Ten dollars, supplied by William here, push it over, Bill, old man, will remove his tremors. And father's certain to find out. Am I afraid of father, cried Archie, manfully? Well, yes I am, he added, after a moment's reflection, but I don't see how he can possibly get to know. Of course he can't, said Bill, decidedly. Fix it up as soon as you can, Archie. This is what the doctor ordered. End of Chapter 23. Chapter 24 of Indiscretions of Archie, by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Indiscretions of Archie. Chapter 24, The Melting of Mr. Connolly. The main dining room of the Hotel Cosmopolis is a decorous place. The lighting is artistically dim, and the genuine old tapestries on the walls seem with their medieval calm to discourage any essay in the riotous. Soft-footed waders shimmer to and fro over thick, expensive carpets to the music of an orchestra which abstains wholly from the noisy modernity of jazz. To Archie, who during the past few days had been privileged to hear Miss Huskesson rehearsing, the place had a sort of brooding quiet, like the ocean just before the arrival of a cyclone. As Lucille had said, Miss Huskesson's voice was loud. It was a powerful organ, and there was no doubt that it would take the cloistered stillness of the Cosmopolis dining room and stand it on one ear. Almost unconsciously, Archie found himself bracing his muscles and holding his breath as he had done in France as the approach of the zero hour, when waiting the first roar of a barrage. He listened mechanically to the conversation of Mr. Blumenthal. The music publisher was talking with some vehemence on the subject of labor. A recent printer strike had bitten deeply into Mr. Blumenthal's soul. The working man, he considered, was rapidly landing God's country in the soup, and he had twice upset his glass with the vehemence of his gesticulation. He was an energetic right and left-hand talker. The more you give them, the more they want, he complained. There's no pleasing them. It isn't only in my business. There's your father, Mrs. Moom. Good God, where? Said Archie, starting. I say, take your father's case. He's doing all he knows to get this new hotel of his finished, and what happens? A man gets fired for loafing on his job and Connolly calls a strike, and the building operations are held up until the thing's settled. It isn't right. It's a great shame, agreed Lucille. I was reading about it in the paper this morning. That man Connolly's a tough guy. You'd think, being a personal friend of your father, he would, I didn't know they were friends, been friends for years, but a lot of difference that makes. Out come the men just the same. It isn't right. I was saying it wasn't right, repeated Mr. Blumenthal to Archie, for he was a man who liked the attention of every member of his audience. Archie did not reply. He was staring glassily across the room at two men who had just come in. One was a large, stout, square-faced man of commanding personality. The other was Mr. Daniel Brewster. Mr. Blumenthal followed his gaze. Why, there is Connolly coming in now. Father, gasped Lucille. Her eyes met Archie's. Archie took a hasty drink of ice water. This, he murmured, has torn it. Archie, you must do something. I know, but what? What's the trouble? Enquired Mr. Blumenthal, mystified. Go over to their table and talk to them, said Lucille. Me, Archie quivered. No, I say old thing really. Get them away. How do you mean? I know, cried Lucille, inspired. Father promised that you should be manager of the new hotel when it was built. Well, then this strike affects you just as much as anybody else. You have a perfect right to talk it over with them. Go and ask them to have dinner up in our suite where you can discuss it quietly. Say that up there they won't be disturbed by the music. At this moment, while Archie wavered, hesitating like a diver on the edge of a springboard who was trying to summon up the necessary nerve to project himself into the deep, a bell-boy approached the table where the messieurs Brewster and Connolly had seated themselves. He murmured something in Mr. Brewster's ear and the proprietor of the cosmopolis rose and followed him out of the room. Quick, now's your chance, said Lucille eagerly. Father's been called to the telephone, hurry. Archie took another drink of ice water to steady his shaking nerve centers, pulled down his waistcoat, straightened his tie, and then, with something of the air of a Roman gladiator entering the arena, tottered across the room. Lucille turned to entertain the perplexed music publisher. The nearer Archie got to Mr. Aloysius Connolly, the less did he like the looks of him. Even at a distance, the labor leader had had a formidable aspect. Seen close to, he looked even more uninviting. His face had the appearance of having been carved out of granite, and the eye, which collided with Archie's, as the latter, with an attempt at an ingratiating smile, pulled up a chair and sat down to the table, was hard and frosty. Mr. Connolly gave the impression that he would be a good man to have on your side during a rough and tumble fight down on the waterfront or in some lumber camp, but he did not look chummy. Hello-and-lo-and-lo, said Archie. Who to devil, inquired Mr. Connolly, are you? My name's Archibald Moom. That's not my fault. I'm Jolly old Brewster's son-in-law. Glad to meet you. Glad to meet you, said Archie, handsomely. Well, goodbye, said Mr. Connolly. Hey, run along and sail your papers, your father-in-law and I have business to discuss. Yes, I know. Private, added Mr. Connolly. Oh, but I mean on this binge, you know. I'm going to be the manager of the new hotel. Yo, absolutely. Well, well, said Mr. Connolly, noncommittally. Archie, pleased with the smoothness with which matters had opened, bent forward, winsomely.  Absolutely no, not a bit like it. No, no, far from it. Well, how about it? How do we go? What, yes, no? What on earth are you talking about? Call it awful thing. Cal, what off? This festival strike. Natanya, hello, Dan, back again. Mr. Brewster looming over the table like a thunder-cloud, regarded Archie with more than his customary hostility. Life was no pleasant thing for the proprietor of the cosmopolist just now. Once a man starts building hotels, the thing becomes like dram-drinking. Any hitch, any sudden cutting off of the daily dose has the worst effects. And the strike, which was holding up the construction of his latest effort, had plunged Mr. Brewster into a restless gloom. In addition to having this strike on his hands, he had had to abandon his annual fishing trip just when he had begun to enjoy it. And, as if all this were not enough, here was his son-in-law sitting at his table. Mr. Brewster had a feeling that this was more than man was meant to bear. What do you want, he demanded. Hello, old thing, said Archie. Come and join the party. Don't call me old thing. Right-o, old companion, just as you say. I say I was just going to suggest to Mr. Connolly that we should all go up to my suite and talk this business over quietly. He says he's the manager of your new hotel, said Mr. Connolly. Is that right? I suppose so, said Mr. Brewster, gloomily. Ten, I'm doing you a kindness, said Mr. Connolly, in not letting it be built. Archie dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. The moments were flying, and it began to seem impossible to shift these two men. Mr. Connolly was as firmly settled in his chair as some primeval rock. As for Mr. Brewster, he too had seated himself and was gazing at Archie with a weary repulsion. Mr. Brewster's glance always made Archie feel as though there were soup on his shirt front. And suddenly, from the orchestra, at the other end of the room, there came a familiar sound, the prelude of Mother's Knee. So you have started a cabaret, Dan, said Mr. Connolly in a satisfied voice. I always told you you were behind at times here. Mr. Brewster jumped. Cabaret! He stared unbelievably at the white-robed figure which had just mounted the orchestra dais and then concentrated his gaze on Archie. Archie would not have looked at his father-in-law at this juncture if he had had a free and untrammeled choice. But Mr. Brewster's eye drew his with something of the fascination which a snake's has for a rabbit. Mr. Brewster's eye was fiery and intimidating.  His gaze went right through Archie till the latter seemed to feel his back hair curling crisply in the flames. Is this one of your fool tricks? Even in this tense moment, Archie found time almost unconsciously to admire his father-in-law's penetration and intuition. He seemed to have a sort of sixth sense. No doubt this was how great fortunes were made. Well, as a matter of fact, to be absolutely accurate, it was like this. Say, cut it out, said Mr. Connolly. Can the chatter? I want to listen. Archie was only too ready to oblige him. Conversation at the moment was the last thing he himself desired. He managed, with a strong effort to disengage himself from Mr. Brewster's eye and turn to the orchestra dais where Miss Spectacia Huskesson was now beginning the first verse of Wilson-Heimach's masterpiece. Miss Huskesson, like so many of the female denizens of the Middle West, was tall and blond and constructed on substantial lines. She was a girl whose appearance suggested the old homestead and fried pancakes and pop coming home to dinner after the morning's plowing.  She looked big and strong and healthy and her lungs were obviously good. She attacked the verse of the song with something of the vigor and breadth of treatment with which in other days she had reasoned with refractory mules. Her diction was the diction of one trained to call the cattle home in the teeth of Western Hurricanes. Whether you wanted to or not, you heard every word. The subdued clatter of knives and forks had ceased. The diners, unused to this sort of thing at the Cosmopolis, were trying to adjust their faculties to cope with the outburst. Waiters stood transfixed, frozen in attitudes of service. In the momentary lull between the verse and the refrain, Archie could hear the deep breathing of Mr. Brewster. Involuntarily, he turned to gaze at him once more as refugees from Pompeii may have turned to gaze upon Vesuvius. And as he did so, he caught sight of Mr. Connolly and paused in astonishment. Mr. Connolly was an altered man. His whole personality had undergone a subtle change. His face still looked as though hewn from the living rock, but into his eyes had crept an expression which in another man might almost have been called sentimental. The incredible as it seemed to Archie, Mr. Connolly's eyes were dreamy. There was even in them a suggestion of unshed tears. And when, with a vast culmination of sound, Miss Huskesson reached the high note at the end of the refrain, and after holding it as some storming party, spent but victorious, holds the summit of a hard one, read out, broke off suddenly. In the stillness which followed, there proceeded for Mr. Connolly a deep sigh. Miss Huskesson began the second verse, and Mr. Brewster, seeming to recover from some kind of trance, leaped to his feet. Great Godfrey! Seat down, said Mr. Connolly in a broken voice, seat down, then. He kissed her on the forehead, and he whispered, I've come home. He told her he was never going any more to roam. And onward through the happy years, till he grew old and gray, he never once regretted those brave words he once did say. It's a long way back to Mother's Knee. The last high note screeched across the room like a shell, and the applause that followed was like a shell's bursting. One could hardly have recognized the refined interior of the cosmopolous dining room. Fair women were waving napkins. Brave men were hammering on the tables with a bud end of knives for all the world as if they imagined themselves to be in one of those distressing midnight review places. Miss Huskesson bowed, retired, returned, bowed, and retired again, the tears streaming down her ample face. Over in a corner Archie could see his brother-in-law clapping strenuously. A waiter with a display of manly emotion that did him credit dropped an order of new peas. "'Tirty years ago, last October,' said Mr. Connolly in a shaking voice. Hi!' Mr. Brewster interrupted him violently. "'I'll fire that orchestra leader. He goes to-morrow. I'll fire!' he turned on Archie. "'What the devil do you mean by it? You, you!' "'Tirty years ago,' said Mr. Connolly, wiping away a tear with his napkin. "'I left me dear old home in the old country.' "'My hotel, a beer-garden!' "'Frightfully sorry in all that, old companion. "'Tirty years ago, last October. "'Twas a fine autumn evening, the finest you'd ever wished to see. "'Me old mother, she came to the station to see me off.'" Mr. Brewster, who was not deeply interested in Mr. Connolly's old mother, continued to splutter inarticulately, like a firework trying to go off. "'Y'all always be a good boy, Aloysius,' she said to me, said Mr. Connolly, proceeding with his autobiography. "'And I said, yes, mother, I will,' Mr. Connolly sighed and applied the napkin again.  "'Many is that dirty I've played since then. "'It's a long way back to mother's knee. "'Tis a true word.'" He turned impulsively to Mr. Brewster. "'Din, there's a deal of trouble in this world, without me going out of me way to make more. "'Tis Drake is over.  Tears me hand on it.'" Mr. Brewster, who had just managed to coordinate his views on the situation and was about to express them with the generous strength which was ever his custom when dealing with his son-in-law, checked himself abruptly. He stared at his old friend and business enemy, wondering if he could have heard a right. Hope began to creep back into Mr. Brewster's heart, like a shame-faced dog that has been away from home hunting for a day or two.  That song was sent to guide me, then. It was mint. Thirty years ago, last October, met dear old mother.'" Mr. Brewster bent forward attentively. His views on Mr. Connolly's dear old mother had changed. He wanted to hear all about her. Twist at last note that the girl sing brought it all back to me as if it was yesterday. As we waited on the platform, dear old mother and I, out comes the train from the tunnel, and the engine lets off a screech the way you'd hear it ten miles away. Twist thirty years ago. Archie stole softly from the table. He felt that his presence, if it had ever been required, was required no longer. Looking back, he could see his father-in-law patting Mr. Connolly affectionately on the shoulder. Archie and Lucille lingered over their coffee. Mr. Blumenthal was out in the telephone box, settling the business end with Wilson Heimack. The music publisher had been unstinted in his praise of mother's knee. It was sure fire, he said. The words, stated Mr. Blumenthal, were gooey enough to hurt, and the tune reminded him of every other song hit he had ever heard. There was, in Mr. Blumenthal's opinion, nothing to stop this thing selling a million copies. Archie smoked contentedly. "'Not a bad evening's work, old thing,' he said. "'Talk about birds with one stone.' He looked at Lucille reproachfully. "'You don't seem bubbling over with joy.' "'Oh, I am precious,' Lucille sighed. "'I was only thinking about Bill.' "'What about Bill?' "'Well, it's rather awful to think of him tied for life to that—that steam-siren.' "'Oh, we mustn't look on the jolly old dog-side. "'Hello, Bill, old top. We were just talking about you.' "'Were you,' said Bill Brewster, in a dispirited voice. "'I take it that you want congratulations, what?' "'I want sympathy.' "'Sympathy?' "'Sympathy, and lots of it. She's gone.' "'Gone? Who? Spectacia!' "'How do you mean gone?' Bill glowered at the tablecloth. "'Gone home. I've just seen her off in a cab. She's gone back to Washington Square to pack. She's catching the ten o'clock train back to Snakebite. It was that damned song,' muttered Bill, in a stricken voice. She says she never realized before she sang it to-night how hollow New York was. She said it suddenly came over her.  "'What the deuce are you twiddling your fingers for?' He broke off, irritably. "'Sorry, old man. I was just counting.' "'Counting? Counting what?' "'Birds, old thing. Only birds,' said Archie.' End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 of In Discretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse Read by Mark Nelson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org In Discretions of Archie Chapter 25 The Wigmore Venus The morning was so brilliantly fine. The population popped to and fro in so active and cheery a manner, and everybody appeared to be so absolutely in the pink that a casual observer of the city of New York would have said that it was one of those happy days. Yet Archie Moom, as he turned out of the sun-bathed street into the ramshackle building on the third floor, of which was the studio belonging to his artist friend, James B. Wheeler, was faintly oppressed with a sort of a kind of feeling that something was wrong. He would not have gone so far as to say that he had the pip. It was more a vague sense of discomfort. And searching for first causes as he made his way upstairs, he came to the conclusion that the person responsible for this nebulous depression was his wife, Lucille. It seemed to Archie that at breakfast that morning Lucille's manner had been subtly rummy. Nothing you could put your finger on, still rummy. Seeing thus, he reached the studio and found the door open and the room empty. It had the air of a room whose owner has dashed in to fetch his golf-clubs and biffed off after the casual fashion of the artist's temperament without bothering to close up behind him. And such indeed was the case. The studio had seen the last of J. B. Wheeler for that day, but Archie, not realizing this and feeling that a chat with Mr. Wheeler, who was a light-hearted bird, was what he needed this morning, sat down to wait. After a few moments his gaze, straying over the room, encountered a handsomely framed picture and he went across to take a look at it. J. B. Wheeler was an artist who made a large annual income as an illustrator for the magazines, and it was a surprise to Archie to find that he also went in for this kind of thing.  Archie was not much of a lad around the picture galleries, but he knew enough about art to recognize Venus when he saw her, though once or twice it is true artists had double-crossed him by ringing in such title as Day Dreams or When the Heart is Young. He inspected this picture for a while, then returned to his seat, lit a cigarette, and began to meditate on Lucille once more. Yes, the dear girl had been rummy at breakfast. She had not exactly said anything or done anything out of the ordinary, but, well, you know how it is. We husbands, we lads of the for-better or for-worse brigade, we learned to pierce the mask. There had been in Lucille's manner that curious, strained sweetness which comes to women whose husbands have failed to match the piece of silk or forgotten to post an important letter. If his conscience had not been as clear as crystal, Archie would have said that that was what must have been the matter. But when Lucille wrote letters, she just stepped out of the suite and dropped them in the male chute attached to the elevator. It couldn't be that. And he couldn't have forgotten anything else because, oh, my sainte-dante! Archie's cigarette smoldered, neglected, between his fingers. His jaw had fallen and his eyes were staring glassily before him. He was appalled. His memory was weak, he knew, but never before had it let him down so scurvily as this. This was a record. It stood in a class by itself, printed in red ink and marked with a star as the bloomer of a lifetime. For a man may forget many things, he may forget his name, his umbrella, his nationality, his spats, and the friends of his youth. But there is one thing which your married man, your in-sickness and in-health lizard, must not forget. And that is the anniversary of his wedding day. Remorse swept over Archie like a wave. His heart bled for Lucille. No wonder the poor girl had been rummy at breakfast. What girl wouldn't be rummy at breakfast, tied for life to a ghastly outsider like himself? He groaned hollily and sagged forlornly in his chair, and as he did so the Venus caught his eye. For it was an eye-catching picture. You might like it or dislike it, but you could not ignore it. As a strong swimmer shoots to the surface after a high dive, Archie's soul rose suddenly from the depths to which it had descended. He did not often get inspirations, but he got one now.  The one way out had presented itself to him. A rich present! That was the wheeze. If he returned to her bearing a rich present he might, with the help of heaven and a face of brass, succeed in making her believe that he had merely pretended to forget the vital date in order to enhance the surprise. It was a scheme. Like some great general forming his plan of campaign on the eve of battle, Archie had the whole binge neatly worked out inside a minute. He scribbled a note to Mr. Wheeler, explaining the situation and promising reasonable payment on the installment system, then placing the note in a conspicuous position on the easel, he leaped to the telephone, and presently found himself connected with Lucille's room at the Cosmopolis. Hello, darling, he cooed. There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire. Oh, hello, Archie! Lucille's voice was dull and listless, and Archie's experienced ear could detect that she had been crying. He raised his right foot and kicked himself indignantly on the left ankle. Many happy returns of the day, old thing! A muffled sob floated over the wire. Have you only just remembered? said Lucille in a small voice, Archie bracing himself up cackled gleefully into the receiver. Did I take you in, light of my home? Do you mean to say you really thought I had forgotten? For heaven's sake! You didn't say a word at breakfast. Ah! But that was all part of the devilish cunning! I hadn't got a present for you, then. At least I didn't know whether it was ready. Oh, Archie, you darling! Lucille's voice had lost its crushed melancholy. She trilled like a thrush, or a linnet, or any bird that goes in largely for trilling. Have you really got me a present? It's here now, the dickens of a fruity picture, one of JP Wheeler's things. You will like it. Oh, I know I shall. I'd love his work.  We'll hang it over the piano. I'll be round with it something under three ticks, star of my soul. I'll take a taxi. Yes, do hurry. I want to hug you. Right-o! said Archie, I'll take two taxis. It is not far from Washington Square to the Hotel Cosmopolis, and Archie made the journey without mishap. There was a little unpleasantness with the cabman before starting. He, on the prudish plea that he was a married man with a local reputation to keep up, declining at first to be seen in company with the masterpiece. But on Archie giving a promise to keep the front of the picture away from the public gaze, he consented to take the job on, and some ten minutes later, having made his way blushfully through the hotel lobby, and endured the frank curiosity of the boy who worked the elevator, Archie entered his suite, the picture under his arm. He placed it carefully against the wall in order to leave himself more scope for embracing Lucille, and when the joyful reunion, or the sacred scene, if you prefer so to call it, was concluded, he stepped forward to turn it round and exhibit it. Why, it's enormous, said Lucille. I didn't know Mr. Wheeler ever painted pictures that size. When you said it was one of his, I thought it must be the original of a magazine drawing, or something like, oh! Archie had moved back and given her an uninterrupted view of the work of art, and she had started, as if some unkindly disposed person had driven a broad-all into her. It's ripe, what, said Archie enthusiastically. Lucille did not speak for a moment. It may have been sudden joy that kept her silent, or, on the other hand, it may not. She stood, looking at the picture, with wide eyes and parted lips. A bird, eh? said Archie. Yes, said Lucille. I knew you'd like it, proceeded Archie with animation. You see, you're by way of being a picture-hound, know all about the things, and what not, inherited from the dear old dad I shouldn't wonder. Personally, I can't tell one picture from another as a rule, but I'm bound to say at the moment I set eyes on this, I said to myself, what ho, or words to that effect, I rather think this will add a touch of distinction to the home, yes, no, I'll hang it up, shall I? Phone down to the office, light of my soul, and tell them to send up a nail, a bit of string, and the hotel hammer. One moment, darling, I'm not quite sure, eh? Where it ought to hang, I mean. You see, over the piano, you said, the jolly old piano. Yes, but I hadn't seen it, then. A monstrous suspicion flitted for an instant into Archie's mind. I say, you do like it, don't you? He asked, anxiously. Oh, Archie, darling, of course I do, and it was so sweet of you to give it to me. But what I was trying to say was that this picture is so, so striking that I feel that we ought to wait a little while and decide where it would have the best effect. The light over the piano is rather strong. You think it ought to hang in a dimmish light, what? Yes, yes, the dimmer the, I mean yes, in a dim light. Suppose we leave it in the corner for the moment, over there, behind the sofa, and, and I'll think it over. It wants a lot of thought, you know. Right-o! Here? Yes, that will do splendidly. Oh, and Archie, hello? I think, perhaps, just turn its face to the wall, will you? Lucille gave a little gulp. It will prevent it getting dusty. It's perplexed Archie a little during the next few days to notice in Lucille, whom he had always looked on as preeminently a girl who knew her own mind, a curious streak of vacillation. Quite half a dozen times he suggested various spots on the wall as suitable for the Venus, but Lucille seemed unable to decide. Archie wished that she would settle on something definite, for he wanted to invite J.B. Wheeler to the suite to see the thing. He had heard nothing from the artist since the day he had removed the picture, and one morning, encountering him on Broadway, he expressed his appreciation of the very decent manner in which the other had taken the whole affair. Oh, that! said J.B. Wheeler. My dear fellow, you're welcome. He paused for a moment. More than welcome, he added. You aren't much of an expert on pictures, are you?  A slight purple tinge manifested itself in Mr. Wheeler's round and rosy face. His eyes bulged. What are you talking about, you tish-bite? You misguided son of Belial? Are you under the impression that I painted that thing?" "'Didn't you?' Mr. Wheeler swallowed a little convulsively. "'My fiance painted it,' he said shortly. "'Your fiance? My dear old lad, I didn't even know you were engaged. Who is she? Do I know her?' "'Her name is Alice Wigmore. You don't know her.' And she painted that picture. Archie was perturbed. "'But I say, won't she be up to wonder where the thing has got to?' I told her it had been stolen. She thought it a great compliment and was tickled to death, so that's all right.' "'And, of course, she'll paint you another.' "'Not while I have my strength, she won't,' said J. B. Wheeler firmly. "'She's given up painting, since I taught her golf, thank goodness, and my best effort shall be employed in seeing that she doesn't have a relapse.' "'But, laddie,' said Archie, puzzled, you talk, as though there was something wrong with the picture. I thought it was dashed hot stuff.' "'God bless you,' said J. B. Wheeler.' Archie proceeded on his way, still mystified. Then he reflected that artists, as a class, were all pretty weird and rummy and talked more or less consistently through their hats. You could never take an artist's opinion on a picture. Nine out of ten of them had views on art which would have admitted them to any loony bin and no questions asked. He had met several of the species who absolutely raved over things which any reasonable chappy would decline to be found dead in a ditch with. His admiration for the Wigmore Venus, which had faltered for a moment during his conversation with J. B. Wheeler, returned in all its pristine vigor. "'Absolute rot,' he meant to say, to try to make out that it wasn't one of the ones and just like mother used to make. Look how Lucille had liked it! But breakfast next morning Archie once more brought up the question of the hanging of the picture. It was absurd to let a thing like that go on wasting its sweetness behind a sofa with its face to the wall. Touching on the jolly old masterpiece, he said, how about it? I think it's time we hoisted it up somewhere. Lucille fiddled pensively with her coffee-spoon. Archie, dear, she said, I've been thinking. And a very good thing to do, said Archie. I've often meant to do it myself, when I've got a bit of time. About that picture, I mean. Did you know it was Father's birthday to-morrow? Why, no, old thing, I didn't, to be absolutely honest. Your revered parent doesn't confide in me much these days, as a matter of fact. Well, it is. And I think we ought to give him a present. Absolutely! But how? I'm all for spreading sweetness and light and cheering up the jolly old painter's sorrowful existence, but I haven't a bean. And what is more, things have come to such a pass that I scan the horizon without seeing a single soul I can touch. I suppose I could get into Reggie Van Teel's ribs for a bit, but I don't know. Touching poor old Reggie always seemed to me rather like potting a sitting bird. Of course, I don't want you to do anything like that. I was thinking... Archie, darling, would you be very hurt if I gave Father the picture? Oh, I say. Well, I can't think of anything else. But wouldn't you miss it most frightfully? Oh, of course I should. But you see, Father's birthday... Archie had always thought Lucille the dearest and most unselfish angel in the world, but never had the fact come home to him so forcibly as now. He kissed her fondly. By Jove, he exclaimed, you really are, you know. This is the biggest thing since jolly old Sir Philip, what's his name, gave the drink of water to the poor blighter whose need was greater than his, if you recall the incident. I had to sweat it up at school, I remember. Sir Philip, poor old Bean, had a most ghastly thirst on, and he was just going to have one on the house, so to speak, when, but it's all in the history books. This is the sort of thing Boy Scouts do. Well, of course, it's up to you, Queen of my soul. If you feel like making the sacrifice, righto, shall I bring the peter up here and show him the picture? No, I shouldn't do that. Do you think you could get into his suite tomorrow morning and hang it up somewhere? You see, if he had the chance of, what I mean is, if, yes, I think it would be best to hang it up and let him discover it there. It would give him a surprise, you mean, what? Yes. Lucille sighed inaudibly. She was a girl with a conscience, and that conscience was troubling her a little. She agreed with Archie that the discovery of the Wigmore Venus in his artistically furnished suite would give Mr. Brewster a surprise. Surprise indeed was perhaps an inadequate word. Archie was sorry for her father, but the instinct of self-preservation is stronger than any other emotion. Archie whistled merrily on the following morning, as, having driven a nail into his father-in-law's wallpaper, he adjusted the cord from which the Wigmore Venus was suspended. He was a kind-hearted young man, and, though Mr. Daniel Brewster had on many occasions treated him with a good deal of austerity, his simple soul was pleased at the thought of doing him a good turn. He had just completed his work and was stepping cautiously down when a voice behind him nearly caused him to overbalance. What, that devil? Archie turned beamingly. Hello, old thing! Many happy returns of the day! Mr. Brewster was standing in a frozen attitude. His strong face was slightly flushed. What! What! he gurgled. Mr. Brewster was not in one of his sunniest moods that morning. The proprietor of a large hotel has many things to disturb him, and today things have been going wrong. He had come up to his suite with the idea of restoring his shaken nerve system with a quiet cigar, and a sight of his son-in-law had, as so frequently happened, made him feel worse than ever. But when Archie had descended from the chair and moved aside to allow him an uninterrupted view of the picture, Mr. Brewster realized that a worse thing had befallen him than a mere visit from one who always made him feel that the world was a bleak place. He stared at the Venus, dumbly. Like most hotel proprietors, Daniel Brewster was a connoisseur of art. Connoisseuring was, in fact, his hobby. Even the public rooms of the Cosmopolis were decorated with taste, and his own private suite was a shrine of all that was best and most artistic. His tastes were quiet and restrained, and it is not too much to say that the wig-morvenous hit him behind the ear like a stuffed eelskin. So great was the shock that for some moments it kept him silent, and before he could recover speech Archie had explained. It's a birthday present from Lucille, don't you know? Mr. Brewster crushed down the breezy speech he had intended to utter. Lucille gave me that, he muttered. He swallowed pathetically. He was suffering, but the iron courage of the Brewsters stood him in good stead. This man was no weakling. Presently the rigidity of his face relaxed. He was himself again. Of all things in the world he loved his daughter most, and if, in whoever mood of temporary insanity, she had brought herself to suppose that this beastly daub was the sort of thing he would like for a birthday present, he must accept the situation like a man. He would, on the whole, have preferred death to a life lived in the society of the wig-morvenous, but even that torment must be endured if the alternative was the hurting of Lucille's feelings. I think I've chosen a pretty likely spot to hang the thing, what, said Archie cheerily. It looks well alongside those Japanese prints, don't you think, sort of stands out. Mr. Brewster licked his dry lips and grinned a ghastly grin. It does stand out, he agreed. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of Indiscretions of Archie by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Indiscretions of Archie. Chapter 26, A Tale of a Grandfather. Archie was not a man who readily allowed himself to become worried, especially about people who were not in his own immediate circle of friends, but in the course of the next week he was bound to admit that he was not altogether easy in his mind about his father-in-law's mental condition. He had read all sorts of things in the Sunday papers, and elsewhere, about the constant strain to which captains of industry are subjected, a strain which sooner or later is only too apt to make the victim go all bluey, and it seemed to him that Mr. Brewster was beginning to find the going a trifle too tough for his stamina. Undeniably he was behaving in an odd manner, and Archie, though no physician, was aware that when the American businessman, that restless, ever-active human machine, starts behaving in an odd manner, the next thing you know is that two strong men, one attached to each arm, are hurrying him into the cab bound for Bloomingdale. He did not confide his misgivings to Lucille, not wishing to cause her anxiety. He hunted up Reggie Van Teel at the club, and sought advice from him. I say, Reggie, old thing, present company accepted, have there been any loonies in your family? Reggie stirred in his slumber which always gripped him in the early afternoon. Loonies? He mumbled sleepily. Rather, my Uncle Edgar thought he was Twins. Twins, eh? Yes, silly idea. I mean, you'd have thought one of my Uncle Edgar would have been enough for any man. How did the things start? asked Archie. Start? Well, the first thing we noticed was when he began wanting two of everything. Had to set two places for him at dinner, and so on. Always wanted two seats at the theatre. Ran into money, I can tell you. He didn't behave rumbly up till then. I mean to say, wasn't sort of jumpy and all that? That I remember, why? Archie's tone became grave. Well, I'll tell you, old man, though I don't want it to go any farther, that I'm a bit worried about my jolly old father-in-law. I believe he's about to go in off the deep end. I think he's cracking under the strain. Dashard weared his behaviour has been the last few days. Such as, murmured Mr. Van Teel. Well, the other morning I happened to be in his suite. Incidentally he wouldn't go above ten dollars, and I wanted twenty-five. And he suddenly picked up a whacking big paperweight and bunged it for all he was worth. At you? Not at me. That was the rummy part of it. At a mosquito on the wall, he said. Well, I mean to say, do chappies bung paperweights at mosquitoes? I mean, is it done? Smash anything? Curiously enough, no. But he only just missed a rather decent picture which Lucille had given him for his birthday. Another foot to the left, and it would have been a garner. Sounds queer. And, talking of that picture, I looked in on him about a couple of afternoons later, and he'd taken it down from the wall and laid it on the floor, and was staring at it in a dashard-market sort of manner. That was peculiar, what? On the floor. On the jolly old carpet. When I came in, he was gogling at it in a sort of glassy way. Absolutely rapt, don't you know. My coming in gave him a start, seemed to rouse him from a kind of trance, you know, and he jumped like an antelope, and if I hadn't happened to grab him, he would have trampled bang on the thing. It was deucid unpleasant, you know. His manner was rummy. He seemed to be brooding on something. What ought I to do about it, do you think? It's not my affair, of course, but it seems to me that if he goes on like this, one of these days he'll be stabbing someone with a pickle-fork. To Archie's relief, his father-in-law's symptoms showed no signs of development. In fact, his manner reverted to the normal once more, and a few days later, meeting Archie in the lobby of the hotel, he seemed quite cheerful. It was not often that he wasted his time talking to his son-in-law, but on this occasion he chatted with him for several minutes about the big picture robbery which had formed the chief item of news on the front pages of the morning papers that day. It was Mr. Brewster's opinion that the outrage had been the work of a gang and that nobody was safe. Daniel Brewster had spoken of this matter with strange earnestness, but his words had slipped from Archie's mind when he made his way that night to his father-in-law's suite. Archie was in an exalted mood. During the course of dinner he had had a bit of good news, which was occupying his thoughts to the exclusion of all other matters. It had left him in a comfortable, if rather dizzy, condition of benevolence to all created things. He had smiled at the room clerk as he crossed the lobby, and, if he had had a dollar, he would have given it to the boy who took him up in the elevator. He found the door of the Brewster's suite unlocked, which at any other time would have struck him as unusual. But tonight he was in no frame of mind to notice these trivialities. He went in, and finding the room dark and no one at home, sat down, too absorbed in his thoughts to switch on the lights, and gave himself up to dreamy meditation. There are certain moods in which one loses count of time, and Archie could not have said how long he had been sitting in the deep armchair near the window when he first became aware that he was not alone in the room. He had closed his eyes the better to meditate, so had not seen any one enter, nor had he heard the door open.  He sat up silently. The fact that the room was still in darkness made it obvious that something nefarious was afoot. Plainly there was dirty work in preparation at the crossroads. He stared into the blackness, and as his eyes grew accustomed to it was presently able to see an indistinct form bending over something on the floor. The sound of rather sturdierous breathing came to him. Archie had many defects which prevented him being the perfect man, but lack of courage was not one of them. His somewhat rudimentary intelligence had occasionally led his superior officers during the war to thank God that Great Britain had a navy. But even the stern critics found nothing to complain of in the manner in which he bounded over the top. Some of us are thinkers, others men of action. Archie was a man of action, and he was out of his chair and sailing in the direction of the back of the intruder's neck before a wiser man would have completed his plan of campaign. The miscreant collapsed under him with a squashy sound, like the wind going out of a pair of bellows, and Archie, taking a firm seat on his spine, rubbed the other's face in the carpet and awaited the progress of events. At the end of half a minute it became apparent that there was going to be no counter-attack. The dashing swiftness of the assault had apparently had the effect of depriving the marauder of his entire stock of breath. He was gurgling to himself in a pain sort of way, and making no effort to rise. Archie, feeling that it would be safe to get up and switch on the light, did so, and turning after completing his maneuver, was greeted by the spectacle of his father-in-law, seated on the floor in a breathless and disheveled condition, blinking at the sudden illumination. On the carpet beside Mr. Brewster lay a long knife, and beside the knife lay the handsomely-framed masterpiece of J. B. Wheeler's fiancée, Miss Alice Wigmore. Archie stared at this collection dumbly. Oh, what-ho! he observed at length, feebly. A distinct chill manifested itself in the region of Archie's spine. This could mean only one thing. His fears had been realized. The strain of modern life, with all its hustle and excitement, had at last proved too much for Mr. Brewster. But by the thousand and one anxieties and worries of a millionaire's existence, Daniel Brewster had gone off his onion. Archie was nonplussed. This was his first experience of this kind of thing. What, he asked himself, was the proper procedure in a situation of this sort? What was the local rule? Where, in a word, did he go from here? He was still musing in an embarrassed and baffled way, having taken the precaution of kicking the knife under the sofa when Mr. Brewster spoke. And there he was, in both the words and the method of their delivery, so much of his old familiar self that Archie felt quite relieved. So it's you, is it? You wretched blight! You miserable weed! Demanded Mr. Brewster, having recovered enough breath to be going on with, he glowered at his son-in-law despondently. I might have expected it. If I was on the North Pole, I could count on you budding in. Shall I get you a drink of water, said Archie?  Well—Archie hesitated delicately. I had a sort of idea that you had been feeling the strain a bit. I mean to say, rush of modern life and all that sort of thing. What are you doing in my room? said Mr. Brewster, changing the subject. Well, I came to tell you something, and I came in here and was waiting for you, and I saw some chappy biffing about in the dark, and I thought it was a burglar or something after some of your things. So, thinking it over, I got the idea that it would be a fairly juicy scheme to land on him with both feet. No idea it was you, old thing—frightfully sorry, and all that meant well. Mr. Brewster sighed deeply. He was a just man, and he could not but realize that, in the circumstances, Archie had behaved not unnaturally. Oh, well, he said, I might have known something would go wrong. Awfully sorry. It can't be helped. What was it you wanted to tell me? He eyed his son-in-law piercingly. Not a cent over twenty dollars, he said coldly. Archie hastened to dispel the pardonable error. Oh, it wasn't anything like that, he said. As a matter of fact, I think it's a good egg. It has bucked me up to no inconsiderable degree. I was dining with Lucille just now, and as we dallied with the food stuffs, she told me something which—well, I'm bound to say—it made me feel considerably braced. She told me to trot along and ask you, if you would mind. I gave Lucille a hundred dollars only last Tuesday. Archie was pained. Adjust this sordid outlook, old thing, he urged. You simply aren't anywhere near it. Right off the target, absolutely. What Lucille told me to ask you was if you would mind, at some tolerably near date, being a grandfather. Rotten thing to be, of course, proceeded Archie commiseratingly.  Do you mean to say—I mean, apt to make a fellow feel a bit of a patriarch, snowy hair and what not, and, of course, for a chappy in the prime of life like you—do you mean to tell me, is this true? Absolutely. Of course, speaking for myself, I'm all for it. I don't know when I felt more bucked. I sang as I came up here, absolutely wobbled in the elevator. But you— A curious change had come over, Mr. Brewster. He was one of those men who have the appearance of having been hewn out of the solid rock, but now, in some indescribable way, he seemed to have melted. For a moment he gazed at Archie. Then, moving quickly forward, he grasped his hand in an iron grip. "'This is the best news I've ever had,' he mumbled. "'Awfully good of you to take it like this,' said Archie cordially.  Mr. Brewster smiled. Of a man of his appearance one could hardly say that he smiled playfully, but there was something in his expression that remotely suggested playfulness. "'My dear old bean,' he said. Archie started. "'My dear old bean,' repeated Mr. Brewster firmly, "'I'm the happiest man in America.' His eye fell on the picture which lay on the floor. He gave a slight shudder, but recovered himself immediately. "'After this,' he said, "'I can reconcile myself to living with that thing for the rest of my life. I feel it doesn't matter.' "'I say,' said Archie, "'how about that?' Would now brought the thing up if you hadn't introduced the topic, but speaking as man to man, what the dickens were you up to when I landed on your spine just now?' "'I suppose you thought I had gone off my head.' "'Well, I'm bound to say.' Mr. Brewster cast an unfriendly glance at the picture. "'Well, I had every excuse, after living with that infernal thing for a week.' Archie looked at him, astonished. "'I say, old thing, I don't know if I've got your meaning exactly, but you somehow give me the impression that you don't like that jolly old work of art.' "'Like it,' cried Mr. Brewster. "'It's nearly driven me mad. Every time it caught my eye, it gave me a pain in the neck. Tonight, I felt as if I couldn't stand it any longer.  Why, that's exactly what old Wheeler did!' "'Who is old Wheeler?' "'Artist, chappy, pal of mine. His fiancee painted the thing, and when I lifted it off him, he told her it had been stolen. He didn't seem frightfully keen on it, either. Your friend Wheeler has evidently good taste.' Archie was thinking. "'Well, all this rather gets past me,' he said. Personally, I've always admired the thing. Dash it right bit of work, I've always considered. Still, of course, if you feel that way. You may take it from me, that I do.' "'Well, then, in that case, you know what a clumsy devil I am. You can tell to Lucille it was all my fault.' The Wigmore Venus smiled up at Archie. It seemed to Archie with a pathetic, pleading smile. For a moment he was conscious of a feeling of guilt. Then, closing his eyes and hardening his heart, he sprang lightly in the air and descended with both feet on the picture. There was a sound of rending canvas, and the Venus ceased to smile. "'Golly,' said Archie, regarding the wreckage remorsefully. Mr. Brewster did not share his remorse. For the second time that night he gripped him by the hand. "'My boy,' he quavered. He stared at Archie as if he were seeing him with new eyes. "'My dear boy, you were through the war, were you not?' "'Eh? Oh yes, right through the jolly old war.' "'What was your rank?' "'Oh, second lieutenant.' "'You ought to have been a general.' Mr. Brewster clasped his hand once more in a vigorous embrace. I only hope,' he added, that your son will be like you.' "'There are certain compliments, or compliments coming from certain sources, before which modesty reels stunned.' Archie's did.' He swallowed convulsively. He had never thought to hear these words from Daniel Brewster. "'How would it be, old thing?' He said, almost brokenly. If you and I trickled down to the bar and had a spot of sherbet. The End of Indiscretions of Archie, by P. G. Woodhouse.