C. K. Ober - "Out of the Fog"

Azel Ames - "The Mayflower and Her Log, v3"

Henry Seton Merriman - "In Kedar's Tents"

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - "Poems of Purpose"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Jill the Reckless)

P >> P. G. Wodehouse >> Jill the Reckless)




"But, I say, you know!" Freddie was appalled. This sort of thing had
happened to him before, but only on Boat-Race Night at the Empire,
where it was expected of a chappie. "I mean to say!"

"And you too, sir. You're both in it."

"But . . ."

"Oh, come along, Freddie," said Jill quietly. "It's perfectly absurd,
but it's no use making a fuss."

"That," said the policeman cordially, "is the right spirit!".


3.

Lady Underhill paused for breath. She had been talking long and
vehemently. She and Derek were sitting in Freddie Rooke's apartment
at the Albany, and the subject of her monologue was Jill. Derek had
been expecting the attack, and had wondered why it had not come
before. All through supper on the previous night, even after the
discovery that Jill was supping at a near-by table with a man who was
a stranger to her son, Lady Underhill had preserved a grim reticence
with regard to her future daughter-in-law. But today she had spoken
her mind with all the energy which comes of suppression. She had
relieved herself with a flow of words of all the pent-up hostility
that had been growing within her since that first meeting in this
same room. She had talked rapidly, for she was talking against time.
The Town Council of the principal city in Derek's constituency in the
north of England had decided that tomorrow morning should witness the
laying of the foundation stone of their new Town Hall, and Derek as
the sitting member was to preside at the celebration. Already Parker
had been dispatched to telephone for a cab to take him to the
station, and at any moment their conversation might be interrupted.
So Lady Underhill made the most of what little time she had.

Derek had listened gloomily, scarcely rousing himself to reply. His
mother would have been gratified, could she have known how powerfully
her arguments were working on him. That little imp of doubt which had
vexed him in the cab as he drove home from Ovington Square had not
died in the night. It had grown and waxed more formidable. And, now,
aided by this ally from without, it had become a colossus, straddling
his soul. Derek looked frequently at the clock, and cursed the
unknown cabman whose delay was prolonging the scene. Something told
him that only flight could serve him now. He never had been able to
withstand his mother in one of her militant moods. She seemed to numb
his faculties. Other members of his family had also noted this
quality in Lady Underhill, and had commented on it bitterly in the
smoking-rooms of distant country-houses at the hour when men meet to
drink the final whisky-and-soda and unburden their souls.

Lady Underhill, having said all she had to say, recovered her breath
and began to say it again. Frequent iteration was one of her
strongest weapons. As her brother Edwin, who was fond of homely
imagery, had often observed, she could talk the hind-leg off a
donkey.

"You must be mad, Derek, to dream of handicapping yourself at this
vital stage of your career with a wife who not only will not be a
help to you, but must actually be a ruinous handicap. I am not
blaming you for imagining yourself in love in the first place, though
I really should have thought that a man of your strength and
character would . . . However, as I say, I am not blaming you for
that. Superficially, no doubt, this girl might be called attractive.
I do not admire the type myself, but I suppose she has that
quality--in my time we should have called it boldness--which seems to
appeal to the young men of today. I could imagine her fascinating a
weak-minded imbecile like your friend Mr Rooke. But that you . . .
Still, there is no need to go into that. What I am trying to point
out is that in your position, with a career like yours in front of
you,--it's quite certain that in a year or two you will be offered
some really big and responsible position--you would be insane to tie
yourself to a girl who seems to have been allowed to run perfectly
wild, whose uncle is a swindler . . ."

"She can't be blamed for her uncle."

". . . Who sups alone with strange men in public restaurants. . . ."

"I explained that."

"You may have explained it. You certainly did not excuse it or make
it a whit less outrageous. You cannot pretend that you really imagine
that an engaged girl is behaving with perfect correctness when she
allows a man she has only just met to take her to supper at the
Savoy, even if she did know him slightly years and years ago. It is
very idyllic to suppose that a childhood acquaintance excuses every
breach of decorum, but I was brought up to believe otherwise. I don't
wish to be vulgar, but what it amounts to is that this girl was
having supper--supper! In my days girls were in bed at
supper-time!--with a strange man who picked her up at a theatre!"

Derek shifted uneasily. There was a part of his mind which called
upon him to rise up and challenge the outrageous phrase and demand
that it be taken back. But he remained silent. The imp-colossus was
too strong for him. She is quite right, said the imp. That is an
unpleasant but accurate description of what happened. He looked at
the clock again, and wished for the hundredth time that the cab would
come. Jill's photograph smiled at him from beside the clock. He
looked away, for, when he found his eyes upon it, he had an odd
sensation of baseness, as if he were playing some one false who loved
and trusted him.

"If you were an ordinary man like hundreds of the idle young men one
meets in London, I would have nothing to say. I dislike the girl
intensely, but I would not interfere in what would be your own
private business. No doubt there are plenty of sets in society where
it matters very little what sort of a woman a man marries. But if you
have a career, especially in politics, you know as well as I do that
a suitable wife means everything. You are a public figure even now.
In a few years you will be a very big public figure. That means that
your wife will have every eye upon her. And what will she be? A
minx!" said Lady Underhill viciously.

Once more Derek stirred uneasily, and once more he remained silent. A
gleam came into Lady Underhill's black eyes. All her life she had
been a fighter, and experience had taught her to perceive when she
was winning. She blessed the dilatory cabman.

"Well, I am not going to say any more," she said, getting up and
buttoning her glove. "I will leave you to think it over. All I will
say is that, though I only met her yesterday, I can assure you that I
am quite confident that this girl is just the sort of harum-scarum,
so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day to involve herself in a
really serious scandal. I don't want her to be in a position to drag
you into it as well. Yes, Parker, what is it? Is Sir Derek's cab
here?"

The lantern-jawed Parker had entered softly, and was standing
deferentially in the doorway. There was no emotion on his face beyond
the vague sadness which a sense of what was correct made him always
wear like a sort of mask when in the presence of those of superior
station.

"The cab will be at the door very shortly, m'lady. If you please, Sir
Derek, a policeman has come with a message."

"A policeman?"

"With a message from Mr Rooke."

"What do you mean?"

"I have had a few words of conversation with the constable, sir,"
said Parker sadly, "and I understand from him that Mr Rooke and Miss
Mariner have been arrested."

"Arrested! What are you talking about?"

"Mr Rooke desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to step
round and bail them out!"

The gleam in Lady Underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlled
her voice.

"Why were Miss Mariner and Mr Rooke arrested, Parker?"

"As far as I can gather, m'lady, Miss Mariner struck a man in the
street with a stick, and they took both her and Rooke to the Chelsea
Police Station."

Lady Underhill glanced at Derek, who was looking into the fire.

"This is a little awkward, Derek," she said suavely. "If you go to
the police-station, you will miss your train."

"I fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if Sir Derek were to
dispatch me with a check for ten pounds."

"Very well. Tell the policeman to wait a moment."

"Very good, m'lady."

Derek roused himself with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy.
He sat down at the writing-table, and took out his check-book. There
was silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen.
Parker took the check and left the room.

"Now, perhaps," said Lady Underhill, "you will admit that I was
right!" She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at
just this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer.
"You can't hesitate now! You must free yourself from this detestable
entanglement!"

Derek rose without speaking. He took his coat and hat from where they
lay on a chair.

"Derek! You will! Say you will!"

Derek put on his coat.

"Derek!"

"For heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think."

"Very well. I will leave you to think it over, then." Lady Underhill
moved to the door. At the door she paused for a moment, and seemed
about to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. She was a
shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop
talking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, mother."

"I'll see you when you get back?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may go
away for a bit."

The door closed behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at the
writing-table. He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it
up. His eye travelled to the mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiled
happily down at him. He turned back to the writing-table, took out a
fresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to write
again.

The door opened softly.

"The cab is at the door, Sir Derek," said Parker.

Derek addressed an envelope, and got up.

"All right. Thanks. Oh, Parker, stop at a district-messenger office
on your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once."

"Very good, Sir Derek," said Parker.

Derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. He stood looking
for an instant, then walked quickly out of the room.



CHAPTER SIX


1.

A taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square.
Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid the
driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into a
delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had
sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which
had been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which
intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less
agreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were
wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shone
exhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow's egg.

"Doesn't everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after our
prison-life!"

"Topping!"

"Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must always
make a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease you
about that fifty-pound note again."

"Fifty-pound note?"

"It certainly came in handy today!"

She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden
sagging of Freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and
the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddie
was appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless with
the exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to
Derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the
night in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there was
a risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to
get Jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If they
remained where they were overnight, the thing would get into the
papers, and that would be a thousand times worse. And if he applied
for aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that all
London would know about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, had
sent the message to Derek, and now Jill's words had reminded him that
there was no need to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere or
heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with a
sizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had
seemed to him ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might find
yourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready.
He had followed the chappie's example. And now, when the crisis had
arrived, he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had the
dashed thing on his person at all.

He followed Jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful
that she had taken it for granted that he had secured their release
in the manner indicated. He did not propose to disillusion her. It
would be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along.
Probably old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whole
bally affair like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at the
thought.

Jill was talking to the parlormaid whose head had popped up over the
banisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen.

"Major Selby hasn't arrived yet, miss."

"That's odd. I suppose he must have taken a later train."

"There's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. She
didn't give any name. She said she would wait till the major came.
She's been waiting a goodish while."

"All right, Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea."

They walked down the hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor,
a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio but
for the absence of bright light. A girl was sitting at the far end by
the fireplace. She rose: as they entered.

"How do you do?" said Jill. "I'm afraid my uncle has not come back
yet . . ."

"Say!" cried the visitor. "You _did_ get out quick!"

Jill was surprised. She had no recollection of ever having seen the
other before. Her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort of
jaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to her
tired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate liking to her.
She looked so forlorn and pathetic.

"My name's Nelly Bryant," said the girl. "That parrot belongs to me."

"Oh, I see."

"I heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so I came along to
tell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something.
The maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so I waited."

"That was awfully good of you."

"Dashed good," said Freddie.

"Oh, no! Honest, I don't know how to thank you for what you did. You
don't know what a pal Bill is to me. It would have broken me all up
if that plug-ugly had killed him."

"But what a shame you had to wait so long."

"I liked it."

Nelly Bryant looked about the room wistfully. This was the sort of
room she sometimes dreamed about. She loved its subdued light and the
pulpy cushions on the sofa.

"You'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said Jill, switching
on the lights.

"It's very kind of you."

"Why, hullo!" said Freddie. "By Jove! I say! We've met before, what?"

"Why, so we have!"

"That lunch at Oddy's that young Threepwood gave, what?"

"I wonder you remember."

"Oh, I remember. Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show,
'Follow the Girl,' Jill, at the Regal."

"Oh, yes. I remember you took me to see it."

"Dashed odd meeting again like this!" said Freddie. "Really rummy!"

Jane, the parlormaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments.

"You're American, then?" said Jill, interested. "The whole company
came from New York, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"I'm half American myself, you know. I used to live in New York when
I was very small, but I've almost forgotten what it was like. I
remember a sort of over-head railway that made an awful noise . . ."

"The Elevated!" murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of homesickness
seemed to choke her for a moment.

"And the air. Like champagne. And a very blue sky."

"Yes," said Nelly in a small voice.

"I shouldn't half mind popping over New York for a bit," said
Freddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "I've met some
very sound sportsmen who came from there. You don't know a fellow
named Williamson, do you?"

"I don't believe I do."

"Or Oakes?"

"No."

"That's rummy! Oakes has lived in New York for years."

"So have about seven million other people," interposed Jill. "Don't
be silly, Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if you
knew a man named Jenkins in London?"

"I do know a man named Jenkins in London," replied Freddie
triumphantly.

Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the
clock.

"I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to," she said. "He ought to be
here by now. I hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wild
stock-brokers down at Brighton."

Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.

"Oh, Freddie, darling!" said Jill remorsefully. "I forgot!
Stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" She turned to
Nelly. "There's been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, and
he got--what was the word, Freddie?"

"Nipped!" said Freddie with gloom.

"Nipped!"

"Nipped like the dickens!"

"Nipped like the dickens!" Jill smiled at Nelly. "He had forgotten
all about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went and
reminded him."

Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.

"A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutter
in some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is,
when you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after
dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in
yours and tells you to do some fool thing. You're so dashed nappy you
simply say 'Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!' That's the way I got
had!"

Jill laughed unfeelingly.

"It will do you good, Freddie. It'll stir you up and prevent you
being so silly again. Besides, you know you'll hardly notice it.
You've much too much money as it is."

"It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. I hate looking
a frightful chump."

"Well, you needn't tell anybody. We'll keep it a secret. In fact,
we'll start at once, for I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let us
dissemble. We are observed! . . . Hullo, Uncle Chris!"

She ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall,
soldierly man who entered.

"Well, Jill, my dear."

"How late you are. I was expecting you hours ago."

"I had to call on my broker."

"Hush! Hush!"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing. . . . We've got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke,
of course?"

"How are you, Freddie, my boy?"

"Cheerio!" said Freddie. "Pretty fit?"

"And Miss Bryant," said Jill.

"How do you do?" said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, in
his younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of the
pockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes of
their sisters, their cousins, and their aunts.

"Come and have some tea," said Jill. "You're just in time."

Nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big armchair. Somehow
she felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris had
addressed her. Most people felt like hat after encountering Jill's
Uncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not precisely
condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treated
you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the
fact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chris
affected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight
of the Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he
had cast aside social distinctions for awhile and hobnobbed with the
latter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that he
abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.

To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was a
fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in
spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed
so carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and
pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright
blue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though he
had served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian's
sun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. He
looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub,--a misleading
impression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took his
morning bath as hot as he could get it.

It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance,
fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, as
distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and
trousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London is
full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of
foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of
the word,--the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, while
it is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops some
sort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only
hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyed
the patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, in
short, from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris was
perfect. He was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolis
looked better for him. One seems to picture London as a mother with a
horde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children with
wrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as she
beheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restored
complacency, "Ah, well, I still have Uncle Chris!"

"Miss Bryant is American, Uncle Chris," said Jill.

Uncle Chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down
kindly at Nelly.

"Indeed?" He took a cup of tea and stirred it. "I was in America as a
young man."

"Whereabouts?" asked Nelly eagerly.

"Oh, here and there and everywhere. I travelled considerably."

"That's how it is with me," said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence as
she warmed to the favorite topic. "I guess I know most every town in
every State, from New York to the last one-night stand. It's a great
old country, isn't it?"

"It is!" said Uncle Chris. "I shall be returning there very shortly."
He paused meditatively. "Very shortly indeed."

Nelly bit her lip. It seemed to be her fate today to meet people who
were going to America.

"When did you decide to do that?" asked Jill.

She had been looking at him, puzzled. Years of association with Uncle
Chris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was sure
that there was something on his mind. It was not likely that the
others had noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane as
ever. But something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went,
an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was not
well. She was a little troubled, but not greatly. Uncle Chris was not
the sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. It was probably
some mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes,
once they were alone together. She reached out and patted his sleeve
affectionately. She was fonder of Uncle Chris than of anyone in the
world except Derek.

"The thought," said Uncle Chris, "came to me this morning, as I read
my morning paper while breakfasting. It has grown and developed
during the day. At this moment you might almost call it an obsession.
I am very fond of America. I spent several happy years there. On that
occasion, I set sail for the land of promise, I admit, somewhat
reluctantly. Of my own free will I might never have made the
expedition. But the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favor of
my doing so that I yielded to what I might call a public demand. The
willing hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, and
I did not resist them. I have never regretted it. America is a part
of every young man's education. You ought to go there, Freddie."

"Rummily enough," said Freddie, "I was saying just before you came in
that I had half a mind to pop over. Only it's rather a bally fag,
starting. Getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing."

Nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silent
sigh. Mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties.

"America," said Uncle Chris, "taught me poker, for which I can never
be sufficiently grateful. Also an exotic pastime styled Craps,--or,
alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a very
present help in time of trouble. At Craps, I fear, my hand in late
years had lost much of its cunning. I have had little opportunity of
practising. But as a young man I was no mean exponent of the art. Let
me see," said Uncle Chris meditatively. "What was the precise ritual?
Ah! I have it, 'Come, little seven!'"

"'Come, eleven!'" exclaimed Nelly excitedly.

"'Baby . . .' I feel convinced that in some manner the word baby
entered into it."