Books: The Intrusion of Jimmy
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P. G. Wodehouse >> The Intrusion of Jimmy
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"How would you get into the bedroom?"
Spike hung his head.
"Bust de catch wit' me jemmy," he whispered, shamefacedly.
"Burst the catch with your jemmy?"
"It's de only way I ever learned," pleaded Spike.
The expert was silent. He seemed to be thinking. The other watched
his face, humbly.
"How would youse do it, boss?" he ventured timidly, at last.
"Eh?"
"How would youse do it?"
"Why, I'm not sure," said the master, graciously, "whether your way
might not do in a case like that. It's crude, of course, but with a
few changes it would do."
"Gee, boss! Is dat right?" queried the astonished disciple.
"It would do," said the master, frowning thoughtfully; "it would do
quite well--quite well!"
Spike drew a deep breath of joy and astonishment. That his methods
should meet with approval from such a mind...!
"Gee!" he whispered--as who would say, "I and Napoleon."
CHAPTER VI
AN EXHIBITION PERFORMANCE
Cold reason may disapprove of wagers, but without a doubt there is
something joyous and lovable in the type of mind that rushes at the
least provocation into the making of them, something smacking of the
spacious days of the Regency. Nowadays, the spirit seems to have
deserted England. When Mr. Asquith became Premier of Great Britain,
no earnest forms were to be observed rolling peanuts along the
Strand with a toothpick. When Mr. Asquith is dethroned, it is
improbable that any Briton will allow his beard to remain unshaved
until the Liberal party returns to office. It is in the United
States that the wager has found a home. It is characteristic of some
minds to dash into a wager with the fearlessness of a soldier in a
forlorn hope, and, once in, to regard it almost as a sacred trust.
Some men never grow up out of the schoolboy spirit of "daring."
To this class Jimmy Pitt belonged. He was of the same type as the
man in the comic opera who proposed to the lady because somebody bet
him he wouldn't. There had never been a time when a challenge, a
"dare," had not acted as a spur to him. In his newspaper days, life
had been one long series of challenges. They had been the essence of
the business. A story had not been worth getting unless the getting
were difficult.
With the conclusion of his newspaper life came a certain flatness
into the scheme of things. There were times, many times, when Jimmy
was bored. He hungered for excitement, and life appeared to have so
little to offer! The path of the rich man was so smooth, and it
seemed to lead nowhere! This task of burgling a house was like an
unexpected treat to a child. With an intensity of purpose that
should have touched his sense of humor, but, as a matter of fact,
did not appeal to him as ludicrous in any way, he addressed himself
to the work. The truth was that Jimmy was one of those men who are
charged to the, brim with force. Somehow, the force had to find an
outlet. If he had undertaken to collect birds' eggs, he would have
set about it with the same tense energy.
Spike was sitting on the edge of his chair, dazed but happy, his
head still buzzing from the unhoped-for praise. Jimmy looked at his
watch. It was nearly three o'clock. A sudden idea struck him. The
gods had provided gifts: why not take them?
"Spike!"
"Huh?"
"Would you care to come and crack a crib with me, now?"
Reverential awe was written on the red-haired one's face.
"Gee, boss!"
"Would you?"
"Surest t'ing you know, boss."
"Or, rather," proceeded Jimmy, "would you care to crack a crib while
I came along with you? Strictly speaking, I am here on a vacation,
but a trifle like this isn't real work. It's this way," he
explained. "I've taken a fancy to you, Spike, and I don't like to
see you wasting your time on coarse work. You have the root of the
matter in you, and with a little coaching I could put a polish on
you. I wouldn't do this for everyone, but I hate to see a man
bungling who might do better! I want to see you at work. Come right
along, and we'll go up-town, and you shall start in. Don't get
nervous. Just work as you would if I were not there. I shall not
expect too much. Rome was not built in a day. When we are through, I
will criticize a few of your mistakes. How does that suit you?"
"Gee, boss! Great! An' I know where dere's a peach of a place, boss.
Regular soft proposition. A friend of mine told me. It's--"
"Very well, then. One moment, though."
He went to the telephone. Before he had left New York on his
travels, Arthur Mifflin had been living at a hotel near Washington
Square. It was probable that he was still there. He called up the
number. The night-clerk was an old acquaintance of his.
"Hello, Dixon," said Jimmy, "is that you? I'm Pitt--Pitt! Yes, I'm
back. How did you guess? Yes, very pleasant. Has Mr. Mifflin come in
yet? Gone to bed? Never mind, call him up, will you? Good."
Presently, the sleepy and outraged voice of Mr. Mifflin spoke at the
other end of the line.
"What's wrong? Who the devil's that?"
"My dear Arthur! Where you pick up such expressions I can't think--
not from me."
"Is that you, Jimmy? What in the name of--!"
"Heavens! What are you kicking about? The night's yet young. Arthur,
touching that little arrangement we made--cracking that crib, you
know. Are you listening? Have you any objection to my taking an
assistant along with me? I don't want to do anything contrary to our
agreement, but there's a young fellow here who's anxious that I
should let him come along and pick up a few hints. He's a
professional all right. Not in our class, of course, but quite a
fair rough workman. He--Arthur! Arthur! These are harsh words! Then,
am I to understand you have no objection? Very well. Only, don't say
later on that I didn't play fair. Good-night."
He hung up the receiver, and turned to Spike.
"Ready?"
"Ain't youse goin' to put on your gum-shoes, boss?"
Jimmy frowned reflectively, as if there was something in what this
novice suggested. He went into the bedroom, and returned wearing a
pair of thin patent-leather shoes.
Spike coughed tentatively.
"Won't youse need your gun?" he hazarded. Jimmy gave a short laugh.
"I work with brains, not guns," he said. "Let us be going."
There was a taxi-cab near by, as there always is in New York. Jimmy
pushed Spike in, and they drove off. To Jimmy, New York stopped
somewhere about Seventy-Second Street. Anything beyond that was
getting on for the Middle West, and seemed admirably suited as a
field for the cracksman. He had a vague idea of up-town as a remote,
desolate district, badly lighted--if lighted at all--and sparsely
dotted with sleepy policemen.
The luxury of riding in a taxi-cab kept Spike dumb for several
miles. Having arrived at what seemed a sufficiently remote part of
America, Jimmy paid the driver, who took the money with that
magnificently aloof air which characterizes the taxi-chauffeur. A
lesser man might have displayed some curiosity about the ill-matched
pair. The chauffeur, having lighted a cigarette, drove off without
any display of interest whatsoever. It might have been part of
his ordinary duties to drive gentlemen in evening clothes and shock-
headed youths in parti-colored sweaters about the city at three
o'clock in the morning.
"We will now," said Jimmy, "stroll on and prospect. It is up to you,
Spike. Didn't you say something about knowing a suitable house
somewhere? Are we anywhere near it?"
Spike looked at the number of the street.
"We got some way to go, boss," he said. "I wisht youse hadn't sent
away de cab."
"Did you think we were going to drive up to the door? Pull yourself
together, my dear man."
They walked on, striking eastward out of Broadway. It caused Jimmy
some surprise to find that the much-enduring thoroughfare extended
as far as this. It had never occurred to him before to ascertain
what Broadway did with itself beyond Times Square.
It was darker now that they had moved from the center of things, but
it was still far too light for Jimmy's tastes. He was content,
however, to leave matters entirely to his companion. Spike probably
had his methods for evading publicity on these occasions.
Spike plodded on. Block after block he passed, until finally the
houses began to be more scattered.
At last, he halted before a fair-sized detached house.
"Dis is de place," he said. "A friend of mine tells me of it. I
didn't know he was me friend, dough, before he puts me wise about
dis joint. I t'ought he'd got it in fer me 'cos of last week when I
scrapped wit' him about somet'in'. I t'ought after that he was
layin' fer me, but de next time he seen me he put me wise to dis
place."
"Coals of fire," said Jimmy. "He was of a forgiving disposition." A
single rain-drop descended on the nape of his neck. In another
moment, a smart shower had begun.
"This matter has passed out of our hands," said Jimmy. "We must
break in, if only to get shelter. Get busy, my lad."
There was a handy window only a few feet from the ground. Spike
pulled from his pocket a small bottle.
"What's that?" inquired Jimmy.
"Molasses, boss," said Spike, deferentially.
He poured the contents of the bottle on a piece of paper, which he
pressed firmly against the window-pane. Then, drawing out a short
steel instrument, he gave the paper a sharp tap. The glass broke
almost inaudibly. The paper came away, leaving a gap in the pane.
Spike inserted his hand, shot back the catch, and softly pushed up
the window.
"Elementary," said Jimmy; "elementary, but quite neat."
There was now a shutter to be negotiated. This took longer, but in
the end Spike's persuasive methods prevailed.
Jimmy became quite cordial.
"You have been well-grounded, Spike," he said. "And, after all, that
is half the battle. The advice I give to every novice is, 'Learn to
walk before you try to run.' Master the a, b, c, of the craft first.
With a little careful coaching, you will do. Just so. Pop in."
Spike climbed cautiously over the sill, followed by Jimmy. The
latter struck a match, and found the electric light switch. They
were in a parlor, furnished and decorated with surprising taste.
Jimmy had expected the usual hideousness, but here everything from
the wall-paper to the smallest ornaments was wonderfully well
selected.
Business, however, was business. This was no time to stand admiring
artistic effects in room-furnishing. There was that big J to be
carved on the front door. If 'twere done, then 'twere well 'twere
done quickly.
He was just moving to the door, when from some distant part of the
house came the bark of a dog. Another joined in. The solo became a
duet. The air was filled with their clamor.
"Gee!" cried Spike.
The remark seemed more or less to sum up the situation.
"'Tis sweet," says Byron, "to hear the watch-dog's honest bark."
Jimmy and Spike found two watch-dogs' honest barks cloying. Spike
intimated this by making a feverish dash for the open window.
Unfortunately for the success of this maneuver, the floor of the
room was covered not with a carpet but with tastefully scattered
rugs, and underneath these rugs it was very highly polished. Spike,
treading on one of these islands, was instantly undone. No power of
will or muscle can save a man in such a case. Spike skidded. His
feet flew from under him. There was a momentary flash of red head,
as of a passing meteor. The next moment, he had fallen on his back
with a thud that shook the house. Even in the crisis, the thought
flashed across Jimmy's mind that this was not Spike's lucky night.
Upstairs, the efforts of the canine choir had begun to resemble the
"A che la morte" duet in "Il Trovatore." Particularly good work was
being done by the baritone dog.
Spike sat up, groaning. Equipped though he was by nature with a
skull of the purest and most solid ivory, the fall had disconcerted
him. His eyes, like those of Shakespeare's poet, rolling in a fine
frenzy, did glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. He
passed his fingers tenderly through his vermilion hair.
Heavy footsteps were descending the stairs. In the distance, the
soprano dog had reached A in alt., and was holding it, while his
fellow artiste executed runs in the lower register.
"Get up!" hissed Jimmy. "There's somebody coming! Get up, you idiot,
can't you!"
It was characteristic of Jimmy that it never even occurred to him to
desert the fallen one, and depart alone. Spike was his brother-in-
arms. He would as soon have thought of deserting him as a sea-
captain would of abandoning the ship.
Consequently, as Spike, despite all exhortations, continued to
remain on the floor, rubbing his head and uttering "Gee!" at
intervals in a melancholy voice, Jimmy resigned himself to fate, and
stood where he was, waiting for the door to open.
It opened the next moment as if a cyclone had been behind it.
CHAPTER VII
GETTING ACQUAINTED
A cyclone, entering a room, is apt to alter the position of things.
This cyclone shifted a footstool, a small chair, a rug, and Spike.
The chair, struck by a massive boot, whirled against the wall. The
foot-stool rolled away. The rug crumpled up and slid. Spike, with a
yell, leaped to his feet, slipped again, fell, and finally
compromised on an all-fours position, in which attitude he remained,
blinking.
While these stirring acts were in progress, there was the sound of a
door opening upstairs, followed by a scuttering of feet and an
appalling increase in the canine contribution to the current noises.
The duet had now taken on quite a Wagnerian effect.
There raced into the room first a white bull-terrier, he of the
soprano voice, and--a bad second--his fellow artiste, the baritone,
a massive bull-dog, bearing a striking resemblance to the big man
with the big lower jaw whose entrance had started the cyclone.
And, then, in theatrical parlance, the entire company "held the
picture." Up-stage, with his hand still on the door, stood the man
with the jaw; downstage, Jimmy; center, Spike and the bull-dog,
their noses a couple of inches apart, inspected each other with
mutual disfavor. On the extreme O. P. side, the bull-terrier, who
had fallen foul of a wicker-work table, was crouching with extended
tongue and rolling eyes, waiting for the next move.
The householder looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the householder.
Spike and the bull-dog looked at each other. The bull-terrier
distributed his gaze impartially around the company.
"A typical scene of quiet American home-life," murmured Jimmy.
The householder glowered.
"Hands up, you devils!" he roared, pointing a mammoth revolver.
The two marauders humored his whim.
"Let me explain," said Jimmy pacifically, shuffling warily around in
order to face the bull-terrier, who was now strolling in his
direction with an ill-assumed carelessness.
"Keep still, you blackguard!"
Jimmy kept still. The bull-terrier, with the same abstracted air,
was beginning a casual inspection of his right trouser-leg.
Relations between Spike and the bull-dog, meanwhile, had become more
strained. The sudden flinging up of the former's arms had had the
worst effects on the animal's nerves. Spike, the croucher on all-
fours, he might have tolerated; but Spike, the semaphore, inspired
him with thoughts of battle. He was growling in a moody, reflective
manner. His eye was full of purpose.
It was probably this that caused Spike to look at the householder.
Till then, he had been too busy to shift his gaze, but now the bull-
dog's eye had become so unpleasing that he cast a pathetic glance up
at the man by the door.
"Gee!" he cried. "It's de boss. Say, boss, call off de dawg. It's
sure goin' to nip de hull head off'n me."
The other lowered the revolver in surprise.
"So, it's you, you limb of Satan!" he remarked. "I thought I had
seen that damned red head of yours before. What are you doing in my
house?"
Spike uttered a howl in which indignation and self-pity were nicely
blended.
"I'll lay for that Swede!" he cried. "I'll soak it to him good!
Boss, I've had a raw deal. On de level, I has. Dey's a feller I
know, a fat Swede--Ole Larsen his monaker is--an' dis feller an' me
started in scrapping last week, an' I puts it all over him, so he
had it in for me. But he comes up to me, like as if he's meanin' to
be good, an' he says he's got a soft proposition fer me if I'll give
him half. So, I says all right, where is it? An' he gives me de
number of dis house, an' says dis is where a widder-lady lives all
alone, an' has got silver mugs and t'ings to boin, an' dat she's
away down Sout', so dere ain't nobody in de house. Gee! I'll soak it
to dat Swede! It was a raw deal, boss. He was just hopin' to put me
in bad wit' you. Dat's how it was, boss. Honest!"
The big man listened to this sad story of Grecian gifts in silence.
Not so the bull-dog, which growled from start to finish.
Spike eyed it uneasily.
"Won't you call off de dawg, boss?" he said.
The other stooped, and grasped the animal's collar, jerking him
away.
"The same treatment," suggested Jimmy with approval, "would also do
a world of good to this playful and affectionate animal--unless he
is a vegetarian. In which case, don't bother."
The big man glowered at him.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"My name," began Jimmy, "is--"
"Say," said Spike, "he's a champion burglar, boss--"
The householder shut the door.
"Eh?" he said.
"He's a champion burglar from de odder side. He sure is. From
Lunnon. Gee, he's de guy! Tell him about de bank you opened, an' de
jools you swiped from de duchess, an' de what-d'ye-call-it blow-
pipe."
It seemed to Jimmy that Spike was showing a certain want of tact.
When you are discovered by a householder--with revolver--in his
parlor at half-past three in the morning, it is surely an
injudicious move to lay stress on your proficiency as a burglar. The
householder may be supposed to take that for granted. The side of
your character that should be advertised in such a crisis is the
non-burglarious. Allusion should be made to the fact that, as a
child, you attended Sunday school regularly, and to what the
minister said when you took the divinity prize. The idea should be
conveyed to the householder's mind that, if let off with a caution,
your innate goodness of heart will lead you to reform and to avoid
such scenes in future.
With some astonishment, therefore, Jimmy found that these
revelations, so far from prejudicing the man with the revolver
against him, had apparently told in his favor. The man behind the
gun was regarding him rather with interest than disapproval.
"So, you're a crook from London, are you?"
Jimmy did not hesitate. If being a crook from London was a passport
into citizens' parlors in the small hours, and, more particularly,
if it carried with it also a safe-conduct out of them, Jimmy was not
the man to refuse the role. He bowed.
"Well, you'll have to come across, now you're in New York.
Understand that! And come across good."
"Sure, he will," said Spike, charmed that the tension had been
relieved, and matters placed upon a pleasant and business-like
footing. "He'll be good. He's next to de game, sure."
"Sure," echoed Jimmy, courteously. He did not understand; but things
seemed to be taking a turn for the better, so why disturb the
harmony?
"Dis gent," said Spike respectfully, "is boss of de cops. A police-
captain," he corrected himself.
A light broke upon Jimmy's darkness. He wondered he had not
understood before. He had not been a newspaper-man in New York for a
year without finding out something of the inner workings of the
police force. He saw now why the other's manner had changed.
"Pleased to meet you," he said. "We must have a talk together one of
these days."
"We must," said the police-captain, significantly. He was rich,
richer than he had ever hoped to be; but he was still on Tom
Tiddler's ground, and meant to make the most of it.
"Of course, I don't know your methods on this side, but anything
that's usual--"
"I'll see you at my office. Spike Mullins will show you where it
is."
"Very well. You must forgive this preliminary informal call. We came
in more to shelter from the rain than anything."
"You did, did you?"
Jimmy felt that it behooved him to stand on his dignity. The
situation demanded it.
"Why," he said with some hauteur, "in the ordinary course of
business I should hardly waste time over a small crib like--"
"It's banks fer his," murmured Spike, rapturously. "He eats dem
alive. An' jools from duchesses."
"I admit a partiality for jewels and duchesses," said Jimmy. "And,
now, as it's a little late, perhaps we had better--Ready, Spike?
Good-night, then. Pleased to have met you."
"I'll see you at my office."
"I may possibly look in. I shall be doing very little work in New
York, I fancy. I am here merely on a vacation."
"If you do any work at all," said the policeman coldly, "you'll look
in at my office, or you'll wish you had when it's too late."
"Of course, of course. I shouldn't dream of omitting any formality
that may be usual. But I don't fancy I shall break my vacation. By
the way, one little thing. Have you. any objections to my carving a
J on your front-door?"
The policeman stared.
"On the inside. It won't show. It's just a whim of mine. If you have
no objection?"
"I don't want any of your--" began the policeman.
"You misunderstand me. It's only that it means paying for a dinner.
I wouldn't for the world--"
The policeman pointed to the window.
"Out you get," he said, abruptly. "I've had enough of you. And don't
you forget to come to my office."
Spike, still deeply mistrustful of the bull-dog Rastus, jumped at
the invitation. He was through the window and out of sight in the
friendly darkness almost before the policeman had finished speaking.
Jimmy remained.
"I shall be delighted--" he had begun. Then, he stopped. In the
doorway was standing a girl--a girl whom he recognized. Her startled
look told him that she, too, had recognized him.
Not for the first time since he had set out from his flat that night
in Spike's company, Jimmy was conscious of a sense of the unreality
of things. It was all so exactly as it would have happened in a
dream! He had gone to sleep thinking of this girl, and here she was.
But a glance at the man with the revolver brought him back to earth.
There was nothing of the dream-world about the police-captain.
That gentleman, whose back was toward the door, had not observed the
addition to the company. Molly had turned the handle quietly, and
her slippered feet made no sound. It was the amazed expression on
Jimmy's face that caused the captain to look toward the door.
"Molly!"
The girl smiled, though her face was white. Jimmy's evening clothes
had reassured her. She did not understand how he came to be there,
but evidently there was nothing wrong. She had interrupted a
conversation, not a conflict.
"I heard the noise and you going downstairs, and I sent the dogs
down to help you, father," she said. "And, then, after a little, I
came down to see if you were all right."
Mr. McEachern was perplexed. Molly's arrival had put him in an
awkward position. To denounce the visitor as a cracksman was now
impossible, for he knew too much. The only real fear of the
policeman's life was lest some word of his money-making methods
might come to his daughter's ears.
Quite a brilliant idea came to him.
"A man broke in, my dear," he said. "This gentleman was passing, and
saw him."
"Distinctly," said Jimmy. "An ugly-looking customer!"
"But he slipped out of the window, and got away," concluded the
policeman.
"He was very quick," said Jimmy. "I think he may have been a
professional acrobat."
"He didn't hurt you, father?"
"No, no, my dear."
"Perhaps I frightened him," said Jimmy, airily.
Mr. McEachern scowled furtively at him.
"We mustn't detain you, Mr.-"
"Pitt," said Jimmy. "My name is Pitt." He turned to Molly. "I hope
you enjoyed the voyage."
The policeman started.
"You know my daughter?"
"By sight only, I'm afraid. We were fellow-passengers on the
Lusitania. Unfortunately, I was in the second-cabin. I used to see
your daughter walking the deck sometimes."
Molly smiled.
"I remember seeing you--sometimes."
McEachern burst out.
"Then, you--!"
He stopped, and looked at Molly. The girl was bending over Rastus,
tickling him under the ear.
"Let me show you the way out, Mr. Pitt," said the policeman,
shortly. His manner was abrupt, but when one is speaking to a man
whom one would dearly love to throw out of the window, abruptness is
almost unavoidable.
"Perhaps I should be going," said Jimmy.
"Good-night, Mr. Pitt," said Molly.
"I hope we shall meet again," said Jimmy.
"This way, Mr. Pitt," growled McEachern, holding the door.
"Please don't trouble," said Jimmy. He went to the window, and,
flinging his leg over the sill, dropped noiselessly to the ground.
He turned and put his head in at the window again.
"I did that rather well," he said, pleasantly. "I think I must take
up this--sort of thing as a profession. Good-night."
CHAPTER VIII
AT DREEVER
In the days before he began to expend his surplus energy in playing
Rugby football, the Welshman was accustomed, whenever the monotony
of his everyday life began to oppress him, to collect a few friends
and make raids across the border into England, to the huge
discomfort of the dwellers on the other side. It was to cope with
this habit that Dreever Castle, in the county of Shropshire, came
into existence. It met a long-felt want. In time of trouble, it
became a haven of refuge. From all sides, people poured into it,
emerging cautiously when the marauders had disappeared. In the whole
history of the castle, there is but one instance recorded of a
bandit attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack was an
emphatic failure. On receipt of a ladleful of molten lead, aimed to
a nicety by one John, the Chaplain (evidently one of those sporting
parsons), this warrior retired, done to a turn, to his mountain
fastnesses, and was never heard of again. He would seem, however, to
have passed the word around among his friends, for subsequent
raiding parties studiously avoided the castle, and a peasant who had
succeeded in crossing its threshold was for the future considered to
he "home" and out of the game.
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