The Coming of Bill

  Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.

  The Coming of Bill

  by P. G. Wodehouse

  1920

  CONTENTS

  BOOK I

  Chapter

  I. A PAWN OF FATE

  II. RUTH STATES HER INTENTION

  III. THE MATES MEET

  IV. TROUBLED WATERS

  V. WHEREIN OPPOSITES AGREE

  VI. BREAKING THE NEWS

  VII. SUFFICIENT UNTO THEMSELVES

  VIII. SUSPENSE

  IX. THE WHITE HOPE IS TURNED DOWN

  X. AN INTERLUDE OF PEACE

  XI. STUNG TO ACTION

  XII. A CLIMAX

  BOOK II

  Chapter

  I. EMPTY-HANDED

  II. AN UNKNOWN PATH

  III. THE MISADVENTURE OF STEVE

  IV. THE WIDENING GAP

  V. THE REAL THING

  VI. THE OUTCASTS

  VII. CUTTING THE TANGLED KNOT

  VIII. STEVE TO THE RESCUE

  IX. AT ONE IN THE MORNING

  X. ACCEPTING THE GIFTS OF THE GODS

  XI. MR. PENWAY ON THE GRILL

  XII. DOLLS WITH SOULS

  XIII. PASTURES NEW

  XIV. THE SIXTY-FIRST STREET CYCLONE

  XV. MRS. PORTER'S WATERLOO

  XVI. THE WHITE-HOPE LINK

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter I

  A Pawn of Fate

  Mrs. Lora Delane Porter dismissed the hireling who had brought herautomobile around from the garage and seated herself at the wheel. Itwas her habit to refresh her mind and improve her health by a dailydrive between the hours of two and four in the afternoon.

  The world knows little of its greatest women, and it is possible thatMrs. Porter's name is not familiar to you. If this is the case, I ampained, but not surprised. It happens only too often that the uplifterof the public mind is baulked by a disinclination on the part of thepublic mind to meet him or her half-way. The uplifter does his share.He produces the uplifting book. But the public, instead of standingstill to be uplifted, wanders off to browse on coloured supplements andmagazine stories.

  If you are ignorant of Lora Delane Porter's books that is your affair.Perhaps you are more to be pitied than censured. Nature probably gaveyou the wrong shape of forehead. Mrs. Porter herself would have putit down to some atavistic tendency or pre-natal influence. She putmost things down to that. She blamed nearly all the defects of themodern world, from weak intellects to in-growing toe-nails, onlong-dead ladies and gentlemen who, safe in the family vault, imaginedthat they had established their alibi. She subpoenaed grandfathersand even great-grandfathers to give evidence to show that the reasonTwentieth-Century Willie squinted or had to spend his winters inArizona was their own shocking health 'way back in the days beyondrecall.

  Mrs. Porter's mind worked backward and forward. She had one eye on thepast, the other on the future. If she was strong on heredity, she wasstronger on the future of the race. Most of her published works dealtwith this subject. A careful perusal of them would have enabled therising generation to select its ideal wife or husband with perfectease, and, in the event of Heaven blessing the union, her littlevolume, entitled "The Hygienic Care of the Baby," which was all aboutgerms and how to avoid them, would have insured the continuance of thedirect succession.

  Unfortunately, the rising generation did not seem disposed to a carefulperusal of anything except the baseball scores and the beauty hints inthe Sunday papers, and Mrs. Porter's public was small. In fact, heronly real disciple, as she sometimes told herself in her rare moods ofdiscouragement, was her niece, Ruth Bannister, daughter of JohnBannister, the millionaire. It was not so long ago, she reflected withpride, that she had induced Ruth to refuse to marry Basil Milbank--aconsiderable feat, he being a young man of remarkable personalattractions and a great match in every way. Mrs. Porter's objection tohim was that his father had died believing to the last that he was ateapot.

  There is nothing evil or degrading in believing oneself a teapot, butit argues a certain inaccuracy of the thought processes; and Mrs.Porter had used all her influence with Ruth to make her reject Basil.It was her success that first showed her how great that influence was.She had come now to look on Ruth's destiny as something for which shewas personally responsible--a fact which was noted and resented byothers, in particular Ruth's brother Bailey, who regarded his aunt witha dislike and suspicion akin to that which a stray dog feels towardsthe boy who saunters towards him with a tin can in his hand.

  To Bailey, his strong-minded relative was a perpetual menace, a sort ofperambulating yellow peril, and the fact that she often alluded to himas a worm consolidated his distaste for her.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Porter released the clutch and set out on her drive. She rarelyhad a settled route for these outings of hers, preferring to zigzagabout New York, livening up the great city at random. She always droveherself and, having, like a good suffragist, a contempt for maleprohibitions, took an honest pleasure in exceeding a man-made speedlimit.

  One hesitates to apply the term "joy-rider" to so eminent a leader ofcontemporary thought as the authoress of "The Dawn of Better Things,""Principles of Selection," and "What of To-morrow?" but candour compelsthe admission that she was a somewhat reckless driver. Perhaps it wasdue to some atavistic tendency. One of her ancestors may have been aRoman charioteer or a coach-racing maniac of the Regency days. At anyrate, after a hard morning's work on her new book she felt that hermind needed cooling, and found that the rush of air against her faceeffected this satisfactorily. The greater the rush, the quicker thecooling. However, as the alert inhabitants of Manhattan Island, a hardyrace trained from infancy to dodge taxicabs and ambulance wagons, hadalways removed themselves from her path with their usual agility, shehad never yet had an accident.

  But then she had never yet met George Pennicut. And George, pawn offate, was even now waiting round the corner to upset her record.

  George, man of all work to Kirk Winfield, one of the youngest and leastefficient of New York's artist colony, was English. He had been inAmerica some little time, but not long enough to accustom his ratherunreceptive mind to the fact that, whereas in his native land vehicleskept to the left, in the country of his adoption they kept to theright; and it was still his bone-headed practice, when stepping off thesidewalk, to keep a wary look-out in precisely the wrong direction.

  The only problem with regard to such a man is who will get him first.Fate had decided that it should be Lora Delane Porter.

  To-day Mrs. Porter, having circled the park in rapid time, turned hercar down Central Park West. She was feeling much refreshed by thepleasant air. She was conscious of a glow of benevolence toward herspecies, not excluding even the young couple she had almost reduced tomincemeat in the neighbourhood of Ninety-Seventh Street. They hadannoyed her extremely at the time of their meeting by occupying tillthe last possible moment a part of the road which she wanted herself.

  On reaching Sixty-First Street she found her way blocked by a lumberingdelivery wagon. She followed it slowly for a while; then, growing tiredof being merely a unit in a procession, tugged at the steering-wheel,and turned to the right.

  George Pennicut, his anxious eyes raking the middle distance--asusual, in the wrong direction--had just stepped off the kerb. Hereceived the automobile in the small of the back, uttered a yell ofsurprise and dismay, performed a few improvised Texas Tommy steps, andfell in a heap.

  In a situation which might have stimulated another to fervid speech,George Pennicut contented himself with saying "Goo!" He was a man offew words.


  Mrs. Porter stopped the car. From all points of the compass citizensbegan to assemble, many swallowing their chewing-gum in theirexcitement. One, a devout believer in the inscrutable ways ofProvidence, told a friend as he ran that only two minutes before he hadalmost robbed himself of this spectacle by going into a moving-picturepalace.

  Mrs. Porter was annoyed. She had never run over anything before excepta few chickens, and she regarded the incident as a blot on herescutcheon. She was incensed with this idiot who had flung himselfbefore her car, not reflecting in her heat that he probably had apre-natal tendency to this sort of thing inherited from some ancestorwho had played "last across" in front of hansom cabs in the streets ofLondon.

  She bent over George and passed experienced hands over his portly form.For this remarkable woman was as competent at first aid as at anythingelse. The citizens gathered silently round in a circle.

  "It was your fault," she said to her victim severely. "I accept noliability whatever. I did not run into you. You ran into me. I have ajolly good mind to have you arrested for attempted suicide."

  This aspect of the affair had not struck Mr. Pennicut. Presented to himin these simple words, it checked the recriminatory speech which, hismind having recovered to some extent from the first shock of themeeting, he had intended to deliver. He swallowed his words, awed. Hefelt dazed and helpless. Mrs. Porter had that effect upon men.

  Some more citizens arrived.

  "No bones broken," reported Mrs. Porter, concluding her examination."You are exceedingly fortunate. You have a few bruises, and one knee isslightly wrenched. Nothing to signify. More frightened than hurt. Wheredo you live?"

  "There," said George meekly.

  "Where?"

  "Them studios."

  "No. 90?"

  "Yes, ma'am." George's voice was that of a crushed worm.

  "Are you an artist?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm Mr. Winfield's man."

  "Whose?"

  "Mr. Winfield's, ma'am."

  "Is he in?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'll fetch him. And if the policeman comes along and wants to know whyyou're lying there, mind you tell him the truth, that you ran into me."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Very well. Don't forget."

  "No, ma'am."

  She crossed the street and rang the bell over which was a card hearingthe name of "Kirk Winfield". Mr. Pennicut watched her in silence.

  Mrs. Porter pressed the button a second time. Somebody came at aleisurely pace down the passage, whistling cheerfully. The door opened.

  It did not often happen to Lora Delane Porter to feel insignificant,least of all in the presence of the opposite sex. She had well-definedviews upon man. Yet, in the interval which elapsed between the openingof the door and her first words, a certain sensation of smallnessovercame her.

  The man who had opened the door was not, judged by any standard ofregularity of features, handsome. He had a rather boyish face, pleasanteyes set wide apart, and a friendly mouth. He was rather an outsize inyoung men, and as he stood there he seemed to fill the doorway.

  It was this sense of bigness that he conveyed, his cleanness, hismagnificent fitness, that for the moment overcame Mrs. Porter. Physicalfitness was her gospel. She stared at him in silent appreciation.

  To the young man, however, her forceful gaze did not convey thisquality. She seemed to him to be looking as if she had caught him inthe act of endeavouring to snatch her purse. He had been thrown alittle off his balance by the encounter.

  Resource in moments of crisis is largely a matter of preparedness, anda man, who, having opened his door in the expectation of seeing aginger-haired, bow-legged, grinning George Pennicut, is confronted by amasterful woman with eyes like gimlets, may be excused for not guessingthat her piercing stare is an expression of admiration and respect.

  Mrs. Porter broke the silence. It was ever her way to come swiftly tothe matter in hand.

  "Mr. Kirk Winfield?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you in your employment a red-haired, congenital idiot who amblesabout New York in an absent-minded way, as if he were on a desertisland? The man I refer to is a short, stout Englishman, clean-shaven,dressed in black."

  "That sounds like George Pennicut."

  "I have no doubt that that is his name. I did not inquire. It did notinterest me. My name is Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. This man of yours hasjust run into my automobile."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I cannot put it more lucidly. I was driving along the street when thisweak-minded person flung himself in front of my car. He is out therenow. Kindly come and help him in."

  "Is he hurt?"

  "More frightened than hurt. I have examined him. His left knee appearsto be slightly wrenched."

  Kirk Winfield passed a hand over his left forehead and followed her.Like George, he found Mrs. Porter a trifle overwhelming.

  Out in the street George Pennicut, now the centre of quite asubstantial section of the Four Million, was causing a granite-facedpoliceman to think that the age of miracles had returned by informinghim that the accident had been his fault and no other's. He greeted therelief-party with a wan grin.

  "Just broke my leg, sir," he announced to Kirk.

  "You have done nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Porter. "You havewrenched your knee very slightly. Have you explained to the policemanthat it was entirely your fault?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "That's right. Always speak the truth."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Mr. Winfield will help you indoors."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  She turned to Kirk.

  "Now, Mr. Winfield."

  Kirk bent over the victim, gripped him, and lifted him like a baby.

  "He's got his," observed one interested spectator.

  "I should worry!" agreed another. "All broken up."

  "Nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Porter severely. "The man is hardlyhurt at all. Be more accurate in your remarks."

  She eyed the speaker sternly. He wilted.

  "Yes, ma'am," he mumbled sheepishly.

  The policeman, with that lionlike courage which makes the New Yorkconstabulary what it is, endeavoured to assert himself at this point.

  "Hey!" he boomed.

  Mrs. Porter turned her gaze upon him, her cold, steely gaze.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "This won't do, ma'am. I've me report to make. How did this happen?"

  "You have already been informed. The man ran into my automobile."

  "But----"

  "I shall not charge him."

  She turned and followed Kirk.

  "But, say----" The policeman's voice was now almost plaintive.

  Mrs. Porter ignored him and disappeared into the house. The policeman,having gulped several times in a disconsolate way, relieved hisfeelings by dispersing the crowd with well-directed prods of his locuststick. A small boy who lingered, squeezing the automobile's hooter, ina sort of trance he kicked. The boy vanished. The crowd melted. Thepoliceman walked slowly toward Ninth Avenue. Peace reigned in thestreet.

  "Put him to bed," said Mrs. Porter, as Kirk laid his burden on a couchin the studio. "You seem exceedingly muscular, Mr. Winfield. I noticedthat you carried him without an effort. He is a stout man, too. Grosslyout of condition, like ninety-nine per cent of men to-day."

  "I'm not so young as I was, ma'am," protested George. "When I was inthe harmy I was a fine figure of a man."

  "The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,"commented Mrs. Porter. "Beer?"

  A grateful smile irradiated George's face.

  "Thank you, ma'am. It's very kind of you, ma'am. I don't mind if I do."

  "The man appears a perfect imbecile," said Mrs. Porter, turningabruptly to Kirk. "I ask him if he attributes his physical decay tobeer and he babbles."

  "I think he thought you were offering him a drink," suggested Kirk. "Asa matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn't hurt him, after
the shock hehas had."

  "On no account. The worst thing possible."

  "This isn't your lucky day, George," said Kirk. "Well, I guess I'llphone to the doctor."

  "Quite unnecessary."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Entirely unnecessary. I have made an examination. There is practicallynothing the matter with the man. Put him to bed, and let him sponge hisknee with warm water."

  "Are you a doctor, Mrs. Porter?"

  "I have studied first aid."

  "Well, I think, if you don't mind, I should like to have your opinionconfirmed."

  This was rank mutiny. Mrs. Porter stared haughtily at Kirk. He met hergaze with determination.

  "As you please," she snapped.

  "Thank you," said Kirk. "I don't want to take any risks with George. Icouldn't afford to lose him. There aren't any more like him: they'vemislaid the pattern."

  He went to the telephone.

  Mrs. Porter watched him narrowly. She was more than ever impressed bythe perfection of his physique. She appraised his voice as he spoke tothe doctor. It gave evidence of excellent lungs. He was a wonderfullyperfect physical specimen.

  An idea concerning this young man came into her mind, startling as allgreat ideas are at birth. The older it grew, the more she approved ofit. She decided to put a few questions to him. She had a habit ofquestioning people, and it never occurred to her that they might resentit. If it had occurred to her, she would have done it just the same.She was like that.

  "Mr. Winfield?"

  "Yes?"

  "I should like to ask you a few questions."

  This woman delighted Kirk.

  "Please do," he said.

  Mrs. Porter scanned him closely.

  "You are an extraordinarily healthy man, to all appearances. Have youever suffered from bad health?"

  "Measles."

  "Immaterial."

  "Very unpleasant, though."

  "Nothing else?"

  "Mumps."

  "Unimportant."

  "Not to me. I looked like a water-melon."

  "Nothing besides? No serious illnesses?"

  "None."

  "What is your age?"

  "Twenty-five."

  "Are your parents living?"

  "No."

  "Were they healthy?"

  "Fit as fiddles."

  "And your grandparents?"

  "Perfect bear-cats. I remember my grandfather at the age of about ahundred or something like that spanking me for breaking his pipe. Ithought it was a steam-hammer. He was a wonderfully muscular oldgentleman."

  "Excellent."

  "By the way," said Kirk casually, "my life _is_ insured."

  "Very sensible. There has been no serious illness in your family atall, then, as far as you know?"

  "I could hunt up the records, if you like; but I don't think so."

  "Consumption? No? Cancer? No? As far as you are aware, nothing? Verysatisfactory."

  "I'm glad you're pleased."

  "Are you married?"

  "Good Lord, no!"

  "At your age you should be. With your magnificent physique andremarkable record of health, it is your duty to the future of the raceto marry."

  "I'm not sure I've been worrying much about the future of the race."

  "No man does. It is the crying evil of the day, men's selfishabsorption in the present, their utter lack of a sense of duty withregard to the future. Have you read my 'Dawn of Better Things'?"

  "I'm afraid I read very few novels."

  "It is not a novel. It is a treatise on the need for implanting a senseof personal duty to the future of the race in the modern young man."

  "It sounds a crackerjack. I must get it."

  "I will send you a copy. At the same time I will send you my'Principles of Selection' and 'What of To-morrow?' They will make youthink."

  "I bet they will. Thank you very much."

  "And now," said Mrs. Porter, switching the conversation to the gapingGeorge, "you had better put this man to bed."

  George Pennicut's opinion of Mrs. Porter, to which he was destined toadhere on closer acquaintance, may be recorded.

  "A hawful woman, sir," he whispered as Kirk bore him off.

  "Nonsense, George," said Kirk. "One of the most entertaining ladies Ihave ever met. Already I love her like a son. But how she escaped fromBloomingdale beats me. There's been carelessness somewhere."

  The bedrooms attached to the studio opened off the gallery that ran thelength of the east wall. Looking over the edge of the gallery beforecoming downstairs Kirk perceived his visitor engaged in a tour of thestudio. At that moment she was examining his masterpiece, "Ariadne inNaxos." He had called it that because that was what it had turned into.

  At the beginning he had had no definite opinion as to its identity. Itwas rather a habit with his pictures to start out in a vague spirit ofadventure and receive their label on completion. He had an airy and adashing way in his dealings with the goddess Art.

  Nevertheless, he had sufficient of the artist soul to resent the factthat Mrs. Porter was standing a great deal too close to the masterpieceto get its full value.

  "You want to stand back a little," he suggested over the rail.

  Mrs. Porter looked up.

  "Oh, there you are!" she said.

  "Yes, here I am," agreed Kirk affably.

  "Is this yours?"

  "It is."

  "You painted it?"

  "I did."

  "It is poor. It shows a certain feeling for colour, but the drawing isweak," said Mrs. Porter. For this wonderful woman was as competent atart criticism as at automobile driving and first aid. "Where did youstudy?"

  "In Paris, if you could call it studying. I'm afraid I was not themodel pupil."

  "Kindly come down. You are giving me a crick in the neck."

  Kirk descended. He found Mrs. Porter still regarding the masterpiecewith an unfavourable eye.

  "Yes," she said, "the drawing is decidedly weak."

  "I shouldn't wonder," assented Kirk. "The dealers to whom I've tried tosell it have not said that in so many words, but they've all begged mewith tears in their eyes to take the darned thing away, so I guessyou're right."

  "Do you depend for a living on the sale of your pictures?"

  "Thank Heaven, no. I'm the only artist in captivity with a privateincome."

  "A large income?"

  "'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tisenough, 'twill serve. All told, about five thousand iron men perannum."

  "Iron men?"

  "Bones."

  "Bones?"

  "I should have said dollars."

  "You should. I detest slang."

  "Sorry," said Kirk.

  Mrs. Porter resumed her tour of the studio. She was interrupted by thearrival of the doctor, a cheerful little old man with the bearing ofone sure of his welcome. He was an old friend of Kirk's.

  "Well, what's the trouble? I couldn't come sooner. I was visiting acase. _I_ work."

  "There is no trouble," said Mrs. Porter. The doctor spun round,startled. In the dimness of the studio he had not perceived her. "Mr.Winfield's servant has injured his knee very superficially. There ispractically nothing wrong with him. I have made a thoroughexamination."

  The doctor looked from one to the other.

  "Is the case in other hands?" he asked.

  "You bet it isn't," said Kirk. "Mrs. Porter just looked in for a familychat and a glimpse of my pictures. You'll find George in bed, firstfloor on the left upstairs, and a very remarkable sight he is. He iswearing red hair with purple pyjamas. Why go abroad when you have notyet seen the wonders of your native land?"

  * * * * *

  That night Lora Delane Porter wrote in the diary which, with thatmagnificent freedom from human weakness that marked every aspect of herlife, she kept all the year round instead of only during the first weekin January.

  This is what she wrote:

  "
Worked steadily on my book. It progresses. In the afternoon anannoying occurrence. An imbecile with red hair placed himself infront of my automobile, fortunately without serious injury to themachine--though the sudden application of the brake cannot be goodfor the tyres. Out of evil, however, came good, for I have made theacquaintance of his employer, a Mr. Winfield, an artist. Mr. Winfieldis a man of remarkable physique. I questioned him narrowly, and heappears thoroughly sound. As to his mental attainments, I cannot speakso highly; but all men are fools, and Mr. Winfield is not more so thanmost. I have decided that he shall marry my dear Ruth. They will makea magnificent pair."