Sam in the SuburbsWodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville)
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Sam in the Suburbs
Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville)
England -- Fiction; Gangsters -- Fiction; Humorous stories; Publishers and publishing -- Fiction
The fact is it is not easy for a young man of adventurous and
inquisitive disposition to remain dapper throughout a voyage on a tramp
steamer. The _Araminta_, which had arrived at Millwall Dock that
afternoon, had taken fourteen days to cross the Atlantic, and during
those fourteen days Sam had entered rather fully into the many-sided
life of the ship. He had spent much time in an oily engine room; he had
helped the bos’n with a job of painting; he had accompanied the chief
engineer on his rambles through the coal bunkers; and on more than one
occasion had endeared himself to languid firemen by taking their shovels
and doing a little amateur stoking. One cannot do these things and be
foppish.
Nevertheless, it would have surprised him greatly had he known that his
appearance was being adversely criticised, for he was in that happy
frame of mind when men forget they have an appearance. He had dined
well, having as his guest his old friend Hash Todhunter. He had seen a
motion picture of squashy sex appeal. And now, having put Hash on an
eastbound tram, he was filled with that pleasant sense of well-being and
content which comes on those rare occasions when the world is just about
right. So far from being abashed by the shabbiness of his exterior Sam
found himself experiencing, as he strolled along the Strand, a
gratifying illusion of having bought the place. He felt like the young
squire returned from his travels and revisiting the old village.
Nor, though he was by nature a gregarious young man and fond of human
society, did the fact that he was alone depress him. Much as he liked
Hash Todhunter, he had not been sorry to part from him. Usually an
entertaining companion, Hash had been a little tedious to-night, owing
to a tendency to confine the conversation to the subject of a dog
belonging to a publican friend of his which was running in a whippet
race at Hackney Marshes next morning. Hash had, it seemed, betted his
entire savings on this animal, and not content with this, had pestered
Sam to lend him all his remaining cash to add to the investment. And
though Sam had found no difficulty in remaining firm, it is always a
bore to have to keep saying no.
The two exquisites looked at each other apprehensively.
“Shift ho, before he touches us, what?” said the first.
“Shift absolutely ho,” assented the second.
It was too late. The companion of their boyhood had come up, and after
starting to pass had paused, peering at them from under that dreadful
hat, which seemed to cut them like a knife, in the manner of one trying
to identify half-remembered faces.
“Bates and Tresidder!” he exclaimed at length. “By Jove!”
“Hullo,” said the first exquisite.
“Hullo!” said the second.
“Well, well!” said Sam.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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