Young Men in Spats by P. G. Wodehouse Page A

did you not inform me of this earlier, you chump of a barmaid? With your gift for listening at doors you must long since have become aware that this gentlemen here and myself were deeply enamoured of Miss Briscoe. And yet you kept these facts under your hat, causing us to waste our time and experience the utmost alarm and despondency. Do you realize, barmaid,that, had you spoken sooner, my friend here would not have been subjected to nameless indignities at the School Treat. . . .’
    â€˜Yes, sir. It was the School Treat that Mr Briscoe was so bent on not having to go to, which he would have had to have done, Miss Angelica insisting. He had a terrible time there last year, poor gentleman. He was telling me about it. And that was why he asked me as a particular favour not to mention that he was engaged to Miss Briscoe, because he said that, if he played his cards properly and a little secrecy and silence were observed in the proper quarters, there was a mug staying at the inn that he thought he could get to go instead of him. It would have done you good, sir, to have seen the way his face lit up as he said it. He’s a very nice gentleman, Mr Briscoe, and we’re all very fond of him. Well, I mustn’t stay talking here, sir. I’ve got my bar to see to.’
    She withdrew, and for some minutes there was silence in the room. It was Barmy who was the first to break it.
    â€˜After all, we still have our Art,’ said Barmy.
    He crossed the room and patted Pongo on the shoulder.
    â€˜Of course, it’s a nasty knock, old man . . .’
    Pongo had raised his face from his hands and was fumbling for his cigarette-case. There was a look in his eyes as if he had just wakened from a dream.
    â€˜Well,
is
it?’ he said. ‘You’ve got to look at these things from every angle. Is a girl who can deliberately allow a man to go through the horrors of a School Treat worth bothering about?’
    Barmy started.
    â€˜I never thought of that. Or a girl, for that matter, who could callously throw a fellow to the Village Mothers.’
    â€˜Remind me some time to tell you about a game called “Is Mr Smith At Home?” where you put your head in a sack and the younger generation jab you with sticks.’
    â€˜And don’t let me forget to tell you about that Mother in the puce mantle on the Bump the Bumps.’
    â€˜There was a kid called Horace . . .’
    â€˜There was a Mother in a Homburg hat . . .’
    â€˜The fact is,’ said Pongo, ‘we have allowed ourselves to lose our sober judgment over a girl whose idea of a mate is a mere “Hey, you,” to be ordered hither and thither at her will, and who will unleash the juvenile population of her native village upon him without so much as a pang of pity – in a word, a parson’s daughter. If you want to know the secret of a happy and successful life, Barmy, old man, it is this: Keep away from parsons’ daughters.’
    â€˜Right away,’ agreed Barmy. ‘How do you react to hiring a car and pushing off to the metropolis at once?’
    â€˜I am all for it. And if we’re to give of our best on the evening of the eleventh
prox.
we ought to start rehearsing again immediately.’
    â€˜We certainly ought.’
    â€˜We haven’t any too much time, as it is.’
    â€˜We certainly haven’t. I’ve got an aunt who complains of rheumatism.’
    â€˜Well, who wouldn’t? My father can’t meet his creditors.’
    â€˜Does he want to? My uncle Joe’s in very low water just now.’
    â€˜Too bad. What’s he doing?’
    â€˜Teaching swimming. Listen, Pongo,’ said Barmy, ‘I’ve been thinking. You take the green whiskers this year.’
    â€˜No, no.’
    â€˜Yes, really. I mean it. If I’ve said it to myself once, I’ve said it a hundred times – good old Pongo simply must have the green whiskers this