A Damsel in Distress by P. G. Wodehouse


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Page 24

Yours,
THE GIRL IN THE CAB."


George read the note twice on the way down to the breakfast room,
and three times more during the meal; then, having committed its
contents to memory down to the last comma, he gave himself up to
glowing thoughts.

What a girl! He had never in his life before met a woman who could
write a letter without a postscript, and this was but the smallest
of her unusual gifts. The resource of her, to think of pawning that
brooch! The sweetness of her to bother to send him a note! More
than ever before was he convinced that he had met his ideal, and
more than ever before was he determined that a triviality like
being unaware of her name and address should not keep him from her.
It was not as if he had no clue to go upon. He knew that she lived
two hours from London and started home from Waterloo. It narrowed
the thing down absurdly. There were only about three counties in
which she could possibly live; and a man must be a poor fellow who
is incapable of searching through a few small counties for the girl
he loves. Especially a man with luck like his.

Luck is a goddess not to be coerced and forcibly wooed by those who
seek her favours. From such masterful spirits she turns away. But
it happens sometimes that, if we put our hand in hers with the
humble trust of a little child, she will have pity on us, and not
fail us in our hour of need. On George, hopefully watching for
something to turn up, she smiled almost immediately.

It was George's practice, when he lunched alone, to relieve the
tedium of the meal with the assistance of reading matter in the
shape of one or more of the evening papers. Today, sitting down to
a solitary repast at the Piccadilly grill-room, he had brought with
him an early edition of the Evening News. And one of the first
items which met his eye was the following, embodied in a column
on one of the inner pages devoted to humorous comments in prose and
verse on the happenings of the day. This particular happening the
writer had apparently considered worthy of being dignified by
rhyme. It was headed:

"THE PEER AND THE POLICEMAN."

"Outside the 'Carlton,' 'tis averred, these stirring
happenings occurred. The hour, 'tis said (and no one
doubts) was half-past two, or thereabouts. The day was
fair, the sky was blue, and everything was peaceful too,
when suddenly a well-dressed gent engaged in heated
argument and roundly to abuse began another well-dressed
gentleman. His suede-gloved fist he raised on high to dot
the other in the eye. Who knows what horrors might have
been, had there not come upon the scene old London city's
favourite son, Policeman C. 231. 'What means this conduct?
Prithee stop!' exclaimed that admirable slop. With which he
placed a warning hand upon the brawler's collarband. We
simply hate to tell the rest. No subject here for flippant
jest. The mere remembrance of the tale has made our ink
turn deadly pale. Let us be brief. Some demon sent stark
madness on the well-dressed gent. He gave the constable a
punch just where the latter kept his lunch. The constable
said 'Well! Well! Well!' and marched him to a dungeon cell.
At Vine Street Station out it came--Lord Belpher was the
culprit's name. But British Justice is severe alike on
pauper and on peer; with even hand she holds the scale; a
thumping fine, in lieu of gaol, induced Lord B. to feel
remorse and learn he mustn't punch the Force."

George's mutton chop congealed on the plate, untouched. The French
fried potatoes cooled off, unnoticed. This was no time for food.
Rightly indeed had he relied upon his luck. It had stood by him
nobly. With this clue, all was over except getting to the nearest
Free Library and consulting Burke's Peerage. He paid his bill and
left the restaurant.

Ten minutes later he was drinking in the pregnant information that
Belpher was the family name of the Earl of Marshmoreton, and that
the present earl had one son, Percy Wilbraham Marsh, educ. Eton and
Christ Church, Oxford, and what the book with its customary
curtness called "one d."--Patricia Maud. The family seat, said
Burke, was Belpher Castle, Belpher, Hants.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sat 19th Apr 2025, 11:44