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Page 14
R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve
complexion, jovial among his friends, and perhaps even more
jovial with chance acquaintances. It was estimated by envious
intimates that his joviality with chance acquaintances, specially
with young men of the upper classes, with large purses and small
foreheads--was worth hundreds of pounds a year to him. There was
something about his comfortable appearance and his jolly manner
that irresistibly attracted a certain type of young man. It was
his good fortune that this type of young man should be the type
financially most worth attracting.
Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his short
but crowded life in London. They had met for the first time at
the Derby; and ever since then R. Jones had held in Freddie's
estimation that position of guide, philosopher and friend which
he held in the estimation of so many young men of Freddie's
stamp.
That was why, at twelve o'clock punctually on this Spring day, he
tapped with his cane on R. Jones' ground glass, and showed such
satisfaction and relief when the door was opened by the
proprietor in person.
"Well, well, well!" said R. Jones rollickingly. "Whom have we
here? The dashing bridegroom-to-be, and no other!"
R. Jones, like Lord Emsworth, was delighted that Freddie was
about to marry a nice girl with plenty of money. The sudden
turning off of the tap from which Freddie's allowance had flowed
had hit him hard. He had other sources of income, of course; but
few so easy and unfailing as Freddie had been in the days of his
prosperity.
"The prodigal son, by George! Creeping back into the fold after
all this weary time! It seems years since I saw you, Freddie.
The old gov'nor put his foot down--didn't he?--and stopped the
funds. Damned shame! I take it that things have loosened up a bit
since the engagement was announced--eh?"
Freddie sat down and chewed the knob of his cane unhappily.
"Well, as a matter of fact, Dickie, old top," he said, "not so
that you could notice it, don't you know! Things are still pretty
much the same. I managed to get away from Blandings for a night,
because the gov'nor had to come to London; but I've got to go
back with him on the three-o'clock train. And, as for money, I
can't get a quid out of him. As a matter of fact, I'm in the
deuce of a hole; and that's why I've come to you."
Even fat, jovial men have their moments of depression. R. Jones'
face clouded, and jerky remarks about hardness of times and
losses on the Stock Exchange began to proceed from him. As
Scotland Yard had discovered, he lent money on occasion; but he
did not lend it to youths in Freddie's unfortunate position.
"Oh, I don't want to make a touch, you know," Freddie hastened to
explain. "It isn't that. As a matter of fact, I managed to raise
five hundred of the best this morning. That ought to be enough."
"Depends on what you want it for," said R. Jones, magically genial
once more.
The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the world
was full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the money-lender
who had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie five
hundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom.
Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and from
it extracted a newspaper clipping.
"Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, you
know?"
"Percy?"
"Lord Stockheath, you know."
"Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that.
I was in court all three days." R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle.
"Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him in
the witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! The
funniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! They
read them out in court; and of all--"
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