Books: The Little Nugget
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P.G. Wodehouse >> The Little Nugget
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16 Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Tom Allen, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE LITTLE NUGGET
By P. G. Wodehouse
Part One
In which the Little Nugget is introduced to the reader, and plans
are made for his future by several interested parties. In which,
also, the future Mr Peter Burns is touched upon. The whole concluding
with a momentous telephone-call.
THE LITTLE NUGGET
I
If the management of the Hotel Guelph, that London landmark, could
have been present at three o'clock one afternoon in early January
in the sitting-room of the suite which they had assigned to Mrs
Elmer Ford, late of New York, they might well have felt a little
aggrieved. Philosophers among them would possibly have meditated
on the limitations of human effort; for they had done their best
for Mrs Ford. They had housed her well. They had fed her well.
They had caused inspired servants to anticipate her every need.
Yet here she was, in the midst of all these aids to a contented
mind, exhibiting a restlessness and impatience of her surroundings
that would have been noticeable in a caged tigress or a prisoner
of the Bastille. She paced the room. She sat down, picked up a
novel, dropped it, and, rising, resumed her patrol. The clock
striking, she compared it with her watch, which she had consulted
two minutes before. She opened the locket that hung by a gold
chain from her neck, looked at its contents, and sighed. Finally,
going quickly into the bedroom, she took from a suit-case a framed
oil-painting, and returning with it to the sitting-room, placed it
on a chair, and stepped back, gazing at it hungrily. Her large
brown eyes, normally hard and imperious, were strangely softened.
Her mouth quivered.
'Ogden!' she whispered.
The picture which had inspired this exhibition of feeling would
probably not have affected the casual spectator to quite the same
degree. He would have seen merely a very faulty and amateurish
portrait of a singularly repellent little boy of about eleven, who
stared out from the canvas with an expression half stolid, half
querulous; a bulgy, overfed little boy; a little boy who looked
exactly what he was, the spoiled child of parents who had far more
money than was good for them.
As Mrs Ford gazed at the picture, and the picture stared back at
her, the telephone bell rang. She ran to it eagerly. It was the
office of the hotel, announcing a caller.
'Yes? Yes? Who?' Her voice fell, as if the name was not the one
she had expected. 'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes, ask Lord Mountry to
come to me here, please.'
She returned to the portrait. The look of impatience, which had
left her face as the bell sounded, was back now. She suppressed it
with an effort as her visitor entered.
Lord Mountry was a blond, pink-faced, fair-moustached young man of
about twenty-eight--a thick-set, solemn young man. He winced as he
caught sight of the picture, which fixed him with a stony eye
immediately on his entry, and quickly looked away.
'I say, it's all right, Mrs Ford.' He was of the type which wastes
no time on preliminary greetings. 'I've got him.'
'Got him!'
Mrs Ford's voice was startled.
'Stanborough, you know.'
'Oh! I--I was thinking of something else. Won't you sit down?'
Lord Mountry sat down.
'The artist, you know. You remember you said at lunch the other
day you wanted your little boy's portrait painted, as you only had
one of him, aged eleven--'
'This is Ogden, Lord Mountry. I painted this myself.'
His lordship, who had selected a chair that enabled him to present
a shoulder to the painting, and was wearing a slightly dogged look
suggestive of one who 'turns no more his head, because he knows a
frightful fiend doth close behind him tread', forced himself
round, and met his gaze with as much nonchalance as he could
summon up.
'Er, yes,' he said.
He paused.
'Fine manly little fellow--what?' he continued.
'Yes, isn't he?'
His lordship stealthily resumed his former position.
'I recommended this fellow, Stanborough, if you remember. He's a
great pal of mine, and I'd like to give him a leg up if I could.
They tell me he's a topping artist. Don't know much about it
myself. You told me to bring him round here this afternoon, you
remember, to talk things over. He's waiting downstairs.'
'Oh yes, yes. Of course, I've not forgotten. Thank you so much,
Lord Mountry.'
'Rather a good scheme occurred to me, that is, if you haven't
thought over the idea of that trip on my yacht and decided it
would bore you to death. You still feel like making one of the
party--what?'
Mrs Ford shot a swift glance at the clock.
'I'm looking forward to it,' she said.
'Well, then, why shouldn't we kill two birds with one stone?
Combine the voyage and the portrait, don't you know. You could
bring your little boy along--he'd love the trip--and I'd bring
Stanborough--what?'
This offer was not the outcome of a sudden spasm of warm-heartedness
on his lordship's part. He had pondered the matter deeply, and had
come to the conclusion that, though it had flaws, it was the best
plan. He was alive to the fact that a small boy was not an absolute
essential to the success of a yachting trip, and, since seeing
Ogden's portrait, he had realized still more clearly that the
scheme had draw-backs. But he badly wanted Stanborough to make
one of the party. Whatever Ogden might be, there was no doubt that
Billy Stanborough, that fellow of infinite jest, was the ideal
companion for a voyage. It would make just all the difference having
him. The trouble was that Stanborough flatly refused to take an
indefinite holiday, on the plea that he could not afford the time.
Upon which his lordship, seldom blessed with great ideas, had surprised
himself by producing the scheme he had just sketched out to Mrs Ford.
He looked at her expectantly, as he finished speaking, and was
surprised to see a swift cloud of distress pass over her face. He
rapidly reviewed his last speech. No, nothing to upset anyone in
that. He was puzzled.
She looked past him at the portrait. There was pain in her eyes.
'I'm afraid you don't quite understand the position of affairs,'
she said. Her voice was harsh and strained.
'Eh?'
'You see--I have not--' She stopped. 'My little boy is not--Ogden
is not living with me just now.'
'At school, eh?'
'No, not at school. Let me tell you the whole position. Mr Ford
and I did not get on very well together, and a year ago we were
divorced in Washington, on the ground of incompatibility,
and--and--'
She choked. His lordship, a young man with a shrinking horror of
the deeper emotions, whether exhibited in woman or man, writhed
silently. That was the worst of these Americans! Always getting
divorced and causing unpleasantness. How was a fellow to know? Why
hadn't whoever it was who first introduced them--he couldn't
remember who the dickens it was--told him about this? He had
supposed she was just the ordinary American woman doing Europe
with an affectionate dollar-dispensing husband in the background
somewhere.
'Er--' he said. It was all he could find to say.
'And--and the court,' said Mrs Ford, between her teeth, 'gave him
the custody of Ogden.'
Lord Mountry, pink with embarrassment, gurgled sympathetically.
'Since then I have not seen Ogden. That was why I was interested
when you mentioned your friend Mr Stanborough. It struck me that
Mr Ford could hardly object to my having a portrait of my son
painted at my own expense. Nor do I suppose that he will, when--if
the matter is put to him. But, well, you see it would be premature
to make any arrangements at present for having the picture painted
on our yacht trip.'
'I'm afraid it knocks that scheme on the head,' said Lord Mountry
mournfully.
'Not necessarily.'
'Eh?'
'I don't want to make plans yet, but--it is possible that Ogden
may be with us after all. Something may be--arranged.'
'You think you may be able to bring him along on the yacht after
all?'
'I am hoping so.'
Lord Mountry, however willing to emit sympathetic gurgles, was too
plain and straightforward a young man to approve of wilful
blindness to obvious facts.
'I don't see how you are going to override the decision of the
court. It holds good in England, I suppose?'
'I am hoping something may be--arranged.'
'Oh, same here, same here. Certainly.' Having done his duty by not
allowing plain facts to be ignored, his lordship was ready to
become sympathetic again. 'By the way, where is Ogden?'
'He is down at Mr Ford's house in the country. But--'
She was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone bell. She was
out of her seat and across the room at the receiver with what
appeared to Lord Mountry's startled gaze one bound. As she put the
instrument to her ear a wave of joy swept over her face. She gave
a little cry of delight and excitement.
'Send them right up at once,' she said, and turned to Lord Mountry
transformed.
'Lord Mountry,' she said quickly, 'please don't think me
impossibly rude if I turn you out. Some--some people are coming to
see me. I must--'
His lordship rose hurriedly.
'Of course. Of course. Certainly. Where did I put my--ah, here.'
He seized his hat, and by way of economizing effort, knocked his
stick on to the floor with the same movement. Mrs Ford watched his
bendings and gropings with growing impatience, till finally he
rose, a little flushed but with a full hand--stick, gloves, and
hat, all present and correct.
'Good-bye, then, Mrs Ford, for the present. You'll let me know if
your little boy will be able to make one of our party on the
yacht?'
'Yes, yes. Thank you ever so much. Good-bye.'
'Good-bye.'
He reached the door and opened it.
'By Jove,' he said, springing round--'Stanborough! What about
Stanborough? Shall I tell him to wait? He's down below, you know!'
'Yes, yes. Tell Mr Stanborough I'm dreadfully sorry to have to
keep him waiting, and ask him if he won't stay for a few minutes
in the Palm Room.'
Inspiration came to Lord Mountry.
'I'll give him a drink,' he said.
'Yes, yes, anything. Lord Mountry, you really must go. I know I'm
rude. I don't know what I'm saying. But--my boy is returning to
me.'
The accumulated chivalry of generations of chivalrous ancestors
acted like a spur on his lordship. He understood but dimly, yet
enough to enable him to realize that a scene was about to take
place in which he was most emphatically not 'on'. A mother's
meeting with her long-lost child, this is a sacred thing. This was
quite clear to him, so, turning like a flash, he bounded through
the doorway, and, as somebody happened to be coming in at the same
time, there was a collision, which left him breathing apologies in
his familiar attitude of stooping to pick up his hat.
The new-comers were a tall, strikingly handsome girl, with a
rather hard and cynical cast of countenance. She was leading by
the hand a small, fat boy of about fourteen years of age, whose
likeness to the portrait on the chair proclaimed his identity. He
had escaped the collision, but seemed offended by it; for, eyeing
the bending peer with cold distaste, he summed up his opinion of
him in the one word 'Chump!'
Lord Mountry rose.
'I beg your pardon,' he said for perhaps the seventh time. He was
thoroughly unstrung. Always excessively shy, he was embarrassed
now by quite a variety of causes. The world was full of eyes--Mrs
Ford's saying 'Go!' Ogden's saying 'Fool!' the portrait saying
'Idiot!' and, finally, the eyes of this wonderfully handsome girl,
large, grey, cool, amused, and contemptuous saying--so it seemed
to him in that feverish moment--'Who is this curious pink person
who cumbers the ground before me?'
'I--I beg your pardon.' he repeated.
'Ought to look where you're going,' said Ogden severely.
'Not at all,' said the girl. 'Won't you introduce me, Nesta?'
'Lord Mountry--Miss Drassilis,' said Mrs Ford.
'I'm afraid we're driving Lord Mountry away,' said the girl. Her
eyes seemed to his lordship larger, greyer, cooler, more amused,
and more contemptuous than ever. He floundered in them like an
unskilful swimmer in deep waters.
'No, no,' he stammered. 'Give you my word. Just going. Good-bye.
You won't forget to let me know about the yacht, Mrs Ford--what?
It'll be an awfully jolly party. Good-bye, good-bye, Miss
Drassilis.'
He looked at Ogden for an instant, as if undecided whether to take
the liberty of addressing him too, and then, his heart apparently
failing him, turned and bolted. From down the corridor came the
clatter of a dropped stick.
Cynthia Drassilis closed the door and smiled.
'A nervous young person!' she said. 'What was he saying about a
yacht, Nesta?'
Mrs Ford roused herself from her fascinated contemplation of
Ogden.
'Oh, nothing. Some of us are going to the south of France in his
yacht next week.'
'What a delightful idea!'
There was a certain pensive note in Cynthia's voice.
'A splendid idea!' she murmured.
Mrs Ford swooped. She descended on Ogden in a swirl and rustle of
expensive millinery, and clasped him to her.
'My boy!'
It is not given to everybody to glide neatly into a scene of tense
emotion. Ogden failed to do so. He wriggled roughly from the
embrace.
'Got a cigarette?' he said.
He was an extraordinarily unpleasant little boy. Physically the
portrait standing on the chair did him more than justice. Painted
by a mother's loving hand, it flattered him. It was bulgy. He was
more bulgy. It was sullen. He scowled. And, art having its
limitations, particularly amateur art, the portrait gave no hint
of his very repellent manner. He was an intensely sophisticated
child. He had the air of one who has seen all life has to offer,
and is now permanently bored. His speech and bearing were those of
a young man, and a distinctly unlovable young man.
Even Mrs Ford was momentarily chilled. She laughed shakily.
'How very matter-of-fact you are, darling!' she said.
Cynthia was regarding the heir to the Ford millions with her usual
steady, half-contemptuous gaze.
'He has been that all day,' she said. 'You have no notion what a
help it was to me.'
Mrs Ford turned to her effusively.
'Oh, Cynthia, dear, I haven't thanked you.'
'No,' interpolated the girl dryly.
'You're a wonder, darling. You really are. I've been repeating
that ever since I got your telegram from Eastnor.' She broke off.
'Ogden, come near me, my little son.'
He lurched towards her sullenly.
'Don't muss a fellow now,' he stipulated, before allowing himself
to be enfolded in the outstretched arms.
'Tell me, Cynthia,' resumed Mrs Ford, 'how did you do it? I was
telling Lord Mountry that I _hoped_ I might see my Ogden again
soon, but I never really hoped. It seemed too impossible that you
should succeed.'
'This Lord Mountry of yours,' said Cynthia. 'How did you get to
know him? Why have I not seen him before?'
'I met him in Paris in the fall. He has been out of London for a
long time, looking after his father, who was ill.'
'I see.'
'He has been most kind, making arrangements about getting Ogden's
portrait painted. But, bother Lord Mountry. How did we get
sidetracked on to him? Tell me how you got Ogden away.'
Cynthia yawned.
'It was extraordinarily easy, as it turned out, you see.'
'Ogden, darling,' observed Mrs Ford, 'don't go away. I want you
near me.'
'Oh, all right.'
'Then stay by me, angel-face.'
'Oh, slush!' muttered angel-face beneath his breath. 'Say, I'm
darned hungry,' he added.
It was if an electric shock had been applied to Mrs Ford. She
sprang to her feet.
'My poor child! Of course you must have some lunch. Ring the bell,
Cynthia. I'll have them send up some here.'
'I'll have _mine_ here,' said Cynthia.
'Oh, you've had no lunch either! I was forgetting that.'
'I thought you were.'
'You must both lunch here.'
'Really,' said Cynthia, 'I think it would be better if Ogden had
his downstairs in the restaurant.'
'Want to talk scandal, eh?'
'Ogden, _dearest!_' said Mrs Ford. 'Very well, Cynthia. Go,
Ogden. You will order yourself something substantial, marvel-child?'
'Bet your life,' said the son and heir tersely.
There was a brief silence as the door closed. Cynthia gazed at her
friend with a peculiar expression.
'Well, I did it, dear,' she said.
'Yes. It's splendid. You're a wonder, darling.'
'Yes,' said Cynthia.
There was another silence.
'By the way,' said Mrs Ford, 'didn't you say there was a little
thing, a small bill, that was worrying you?'
'Did I mention it? Yes, there is. It's rather pressing. In fact,
it's taking up most of the horizon at present. Here it is.'
'Is it a large sum?' Mrs Ford took the slip of paper and gave a slight
gasp. Then, coming to the bureau, she took out her cheque-book.
'It's very kind of you, Nesta,' said Cynthia. 'They were beginning
to show quite a vindictive spirit about it.'
She folded the cheque calmly and put it in her purse.
'And now tell me how you did it,' said Mrs Ford.
She dropped into a chair and leaned back, her hands behind her
head. For the first time, she seemed to enjoy perfect peace of
mind. Her eyes half closed, as if she had been making ready to
listen to some favourite music.
'Tell me from the very beginning,' she said softly.
Cynthia checked a yawn.
'Very well, dear,' she said. 'I caught the 10.20 to Eastnor, which
isn't a bad train, if you ever want to go down there. I arrived at
a quarter past twelve, and went straight up to the house--you've
never seen the house, of course? It's quite charming--and told the
butler that I wanted to see Mr Ford on business. I had taken the
precaution to find out that he was not there. He is at Droitwich.'
'Rheumatism,' murmured Mrs Ford. 'He has it sometimes.'
'The man told me he was away, and then he seemed to think that I
ought to go. I stuck like a limpet. I sent him to fetch Ogden's
tutor. His name is Broster--Reggie Broster. He is a very nice
young man. Big, broad shoulders, and such a kind face.'
'Yes, dear, yes?'
'I told him I was doing a series of drawings for a magazine of the
interiors of well-known country houses.'
'He believed you?'
'He believed everything. He's that kind of man. He believed me
when I told him that my editor particularly wanted me to sketch
the staircase. They had told me about the staircase at the inn. I
forget what it is exactly, but it's something rather special in
staircases.'
'So you got in?'
'So I got in.'
'And saw Ogden?'
'Only for a moment--then Reggie--'
'Who?'
'Mr Broster. I always think of him as Reggie. He's one of Nature's
Reggies. _Such_ a kind, honest face. Well, as I was saying,
Reggie discovered that it was time for lessons, and sent Ogden
upstairs.'
'By himself?'
'By himself! Reggie and I chatted for a while.'
Mrs Ford's eyes opened, brown and bright and hard.
'Mr Broster is not a proper tutor for my boy,' she said coldly.
'I suppose it was wrong of Reggie,' said Cynthia. 'But--I was
wearing this hat.'
'Go on.'
'Well, after a time, I said I must be starting my work. He wanted
me to start with the room we were in. I said no, I was going out
into the grounds to sketch the house from the EAST. I chose the
EAST because it happens to be nearest the railway station. I added
that I supposed he sometimes took Ogden for a little walk in the
grounds. He said yes, he did, and it was just about due. He said
possibly he might come round my way. He said Ogden would be
interested in my sketch. He seemed to think a lot of Ogden's
fondness for art.'
'Mr Broster is _not_ a proper tutor for my boy.'
'Well, he isn't your boy's tutor now, is he, dear?'
'What happened then?'
'I strolled off with my sketching things. After a while Reggie and
Ogden came up. I said I hadn't been able to work because I had
been frightened by a bull.'
'Did he believe _that_?'
'_Certainly_ he believed it. He was most kind and sympathetic.
We had a nice chat. He told me all about himself. He used to be
very good at football. He doesn't play now, but he often thinks of
the past.'
'But he must have seen that you couldn't sketch. Then what became
of your magazine commission story?'
'Well, somehow the sketch seemed to get shelved. I didn't even
have to start it. We were having our chat, you see. Reggie was
telling me how good he had been at football when he was at Oxford,
and he wanted me to see a newspaper clipping of a Varsity match he
had played in. I said I'd love to see it. He said it was in his
suit-case in the house. So I promised to look after Ogden while he
fetched it. I sent him off to get it just in time for us to catch
the train. Off he went, and here we are. And now, won't you order
that lunch you mentioned? I'm starving.'
Mrs Ford rose. Half-way to the telephone she stopped suddenly.
'My dear child! It has only just struck me! We must leave here at
once. He will have followed you. He will guess that Ogden has been
kidnapped.'
Cynthia smiled.
'Believe me, it takes Reggie quite a long time to guess anything.
Besides, there are no trains for hours. We are quite safe.'
'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely. I made certain of that before I left.'
Mrs Ford kissed her impulsively.
'Oh, Cynthia, you really are wonderful!'
She started back with a cry as the bell rang sharply.
'For goodness' sake, Nesta,' said Cynthia, with irritation, 'do
keep control of yourself. There's nothing to be frightened about.
I tell you Mr Broster can't possibly have got here in the time,
even if he knew where to go to, which I don't see how he could.
It's probably Ogden.'
The colour came back into Mrs Ford's cheeks.
'Why, of course.'
Cynthia opened the door.
'Come in, darling,' said Mrs Ford fondly. And a wiry little man
with grey hair and spectacles entered.
'Good afternoon, Mrs Ford,' he said. 'I have come to take Ogden
back.'
II
There are some situations in life so unexpected, so trying, that,
as far as concerns our opinion of those subjected to them, we
agree, as it were, not to count them; we refuse to allow the
victim's behaviour in circumstances so exacting to weigh with us
in our estimate of his or her character. We permit the great
general, confronted suddenly with a mad bull, to turn and run,
without forfeiting his reputation for courage. The bishop who,
stepping on a concealed slide in winter, entertains passers-by
with momentary rag-time steps, loses none of his dignity once the
performance is concluded.
In the same way we must condone the behaviour of Cynthia Drassilis
on opening the door of Mrs Ford's sitting-room and admitting, not
Ogden, but this total stranger, who accompanied his entry with the
remarkable speech recorded at the close of the last section.
She was a girl who prided herself on her carefully blase' and
supercilious attitude towards life; but this changeling was too
much for her. She released the handle, tottered back, and, having
uttered a discordant squeak of amazement, stood staring, eyes and
mouth wide open.
On Mrs Ford the apparition had a different effect. The rather
foolish smile of welcome vanished from her face as if wiped away
with a sponge. Her eyes, fixed and frightened like those of a
trapped animal, glared at the intruder. She took a step forward,
choking.
'What--what do you mean by daring to enter my room?' she cried.
The man held his ground, unmoved. His bearing was a curious blend
of diffidence and aggressiveness. He was determined, but
apologetic. A hired assassin of the Middle Ages, resolved to do
his job loyally, yet conscious of causing inconvenience to his
victim, might have looked the same.
'I am sorry,' he said, 'but I must ask you to let me have the boy,
Mrs Ford.'
Cynthia was herself again now. She raked the intruder with the
cool stare which had so disconcerted Lord Mountry.
'Who is this gentleman?' she asked languidly.
The intruder was made of tougher stuff than his lordship. He met
her eye with quiet firmness.
'My name is Mennick,' he said. 'I am Mr Elmer Ford's private
secretary.'
'What do you want?' said Mrs Ford.
'I have already explained what I want, Mrs Ford. I want Ogden.'
Cynthia raised her eyebrows.
'What _does_ he mean, Nesta? Ogden is not here.'
Mr Mennick produced from his breast-pocket a telegraph form, and
in his quiet, business-like way proceeded to straighten it out.
'I have here,' he said, 'a telegram from Mr Broster, Ogden's
tutor. It was one of the conditions of his engagement that if ever
he was not certain of Ogden's whereabouts he should let me know at
once. He tells me that early this afternoon he left Ogden in the
company of a strange young lady'--Mr Mennick's spectacles flashed
for a moment at Cynthia--'and that, when he returned, both of them
had disappeared. He made inquiries and discovered that this young
lady caught the 1.15 express to London, Ogden with her. On receipt
of this information I at once wired to Mr Ford for instructions. I
have his reply'--he fished for and produced a second telegram--'here.'
'I still fail to see what brings you here,' said Mrs Ford. 'Owing
to the gross carelessness of his father's employees, my son
appears to have been kidnapped. That is no reason--'
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