P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

“My personal likes and dislikes,” he said, “have nothing to do with the matter, Mr. Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter to consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Vince, approvingly. “Don’t have anything to do with the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police.”

Mr. Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth’s occupation. But necessity compelled.

“Mr. Vince, my daughter is employed at the mont-de-piété, and was a witness to all that took place this afternoon.”

Mr. Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of concern.

“You don’t mean to say that you have been slaving away in that stuffy-Great Scott! I’ll have you out of that quick. You mustn’t go there again.”

He stooped and kissed her.

“Perhaps you had better let me explain,” he said. “Explanations, I always think, are the zero on the roulette- board of life. They’re always somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard of Vince’s Stores, Mr. Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, my father is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children’s toys, but we haven’t picked a real winner for years, and my father when I last saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I’d see if I couldn’t whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of the Billiken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I’m not used to brain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came here to recuperate, and the very first morning I got the inspiration. You may have noticed that the manager of the monte-de-piété here isn’t strong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and the thing flashed on me. He thinks his name’s Gandinot, but it isn’t. It’s Uncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man Who Makes You Smile.”

He pressed Ruth’s hand affectionately.

“I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that I discovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can’t go to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, the

Hump-Curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in the way of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in. That’s the whole story. Do I pass?”

Mr. Warden’s frosty demeanour had gradually thawed during this recital, and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr. Vince’s hand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did not seem to know what to do. Eventually he did what was certainly the best thing, by passing gently from the room. On his face, as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit of Pisgah.

It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark.

“I want you to promise me something,” she said. “Promise that you won’t go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so much money, but it might hurt poor M. Gandinot’s feelings, and he has been very kind to me.”

“That settles it,” said Mr. Vince. “It’s hard on the children of Great Britain, but say no more. No Uncle Zip for them.”

Ruth looked at him, almost with awe.

“You really won’t go on with it? In spite of all the money you would make? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what it costs you?”

He nodded sadly.

“You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my married life. I feel an awful fraud. And I had encouraged you to look forward to years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage without it? I’m afraid it’s going to be shockingly dull for you,” said Mr. Vince, regretfully.

Archibald’s Benefit

Archibald mealing was one of those golfers in whom desire outruns performance. Nobody could have been more willing than Archibald. He tried, and tried hard. Every morning before he took his bath he would stand in front of his mirror and practise swings. Every night before he went to bed he would read the golden words of some master on the subject of putting, driving, or approaching. Yet on the links most of his time was spent in retrieving lost balls or replacing America. Whether it was that Archibald pressed too much or pressed too little, whether it was that his club deviated from the dotted line which joined the two points A and B in the illustrated plate of the man making the brassy shot in the Hints on Golf book, or whether it was that he was pursued by some malignant fate, I do not know. Archibald rather favoured the last theory.