P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

” ‘Mr. Moore,’ says Pa Tuxton, dignified, ‘we’ll leave you You’re drunk.’

” ‘I’m not drunk,’ says Jerry. ‘I’m in love.’

” ‘Jane,’ says Pa Tuxton, ‘come with me, and leave this ruffian to himself.’

” ‘Jane,’ says Jerry, ‘stop here, and come and lay your head on my shoulder.’

” ‘Jane,’ says Pa Tuxton, ‘do you hear me?’

” ‘Jane,’ says Jerry, ‘I’m waiting.’

“She looks from one to the other for a spell, and then she moves to where Jerry’s standing.

” ‘I’ll stop,’ she says, sort of quiet.

“And we drifts out.”

The waiter snorted.

“I got back home quick as I could,” he said, “and relates the proceedings to Gentleman. Gentleman’s rattled. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he says. ‘Don’t stand there and tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why, it ain’t in the man. ‘Specially after what I said to him about the way he ought to behave. How could he have done so?’ Just then in comes Jerry, beaming all over. ‘Boys,’ he shouts, ‘congratulate me. It’s all right. We’ve fixed it up. She says she hadn’t known me properly before. She says she’d always reckoned me a sheep, while all the time I was one of them strong, silent men.’ He turns to Gentleman-”

The man at the other end of the room was calling for his bill.

“All right, all right,” said the waiter. “Coming! He turns to Gentleman,” he went on rapidly, “and he says, ‘Bailey, I owe it all to you, because if you hadn’t told me to insult her folks-‘ ”

He leaned on the traveller’s table and fixed him with an eye that pleaded for sympathy.

” ‘Ow about that?” he said. “Isn’t that crisp? ‘Insult her folks!’ Them was his very words. ‘Insult her folks!’ ”

The traveller looked at him inquiringly.

“Can you beat it?” said the waiter.

“I don’t know what you are saying,” said the traveller. “If it is important, write on it a slip of paper. I am stone deaf.”

Rough-hew Them How We Will

Paul boielle was a waiter. The word “waiter” suggests a soft-voiced, deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere of luxury and shaded lamps. At Bredin’s Parisian Café and Restaurant in Soho, where Paul worked, there were none of these things; and Paul himself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless. His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions the finish of a Marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, and a monologue by an Earl’s Court side-showman. Constant acquaintance rendered regular habitués callous to the wonder, but to a stranger the sight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, his hands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went the mystic word, “Comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!” was impressive to a degree. For doing far less exacting feats on the stage musichall performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paul got eighteen shillings.

What a blessing is poverty properly considered. If Paul had received more than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in an attic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room on the second floor; and would consequently have missed what was practically a genuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was so arranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as Paul was engaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing could have been more fortunate; for Paul, like so many of our public men, lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredin’s Parisian Café became the quiet follower of Art. Ever since his childhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regretted that Fate had allowed him so little time for such work; but after all, he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles-so why not he? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end. An hour here, an hour there, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture was within measurable distance of completion. He had won through. Without models, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed. A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. And after that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene so exactly. The picture would be at the dealer’s, possibly-one must not be too sanguine-thrust away in some odd corner. The wealthy connoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece; other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He would turn from them in weary scorn, and then!…Paul wondered how big the cheque would be.