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    A Man of Means
    A Man of Means
    A Man of Means
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    A Man of Means

    By P. G. Wodehouse

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    About this ebook

    Most of us tend to think that money solves everything, but for Roland Bleke, the star of the short stories collected in A Man of Means, overnight success — and the windfall that accompanies it — brings all sorts of unexpected problems. Wodehouse fans will love the author's wry take on wealth in these finely wrought tales.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJH
    Release dateApr 6, 2019
    ISBN9788834136133
    A Man of Means
    Author

    P. G. Wodehouse

    P. G. Wodehouse was an English author and one of the most widely read humorists of the twentieth century.

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      Book preview

      A Man of Means - P. G. Wodehouse

      A Man of Means

      P. G. Wodehouse

      .

      THE EPISODE OF THE LANDLADY’S DAUGHTER

      First of a Series of Six Stories [First published in Pictorial Review, May 1916]

      When a seed-merchant of cautious disposition and an eye to the main chance receives from an eminent firm of jam-manufacturers an extremely large order for clover-seed, his emotions are mixed. Joy may be said to predominate, but with the joy comes also uncertainty. Are these people, he asks himself, proposing to set up as farmers of a large scale, or do they merely want the seed to give verisimilitude to their otherwise bald and unconvincing raspberry jam? On the solution of this problem depends the important matter of price, for, obviously, you can charge a fraudulent jam disseminator in a manner which an honest farmer would resent.

      This was the problem which was furrowing the brow of Mr. Julian Fineberg, of Bury St. Edwards, one sunny morning when Roland Bleke knocked at his door; and such was its difficulty that only at the nineteenth knock did Mr. Fineberg raise his head.

      Come in—that dashed woodpecker out there! he shouted, for it was his habit to express himself with a generous strength towards the junior members of his staff.

      The young man who entered looked exactly like a second clerk in a provincial seed-merchant’s office—which, strangely enough, he chanced to be. His chief characteristic was an intense ordinariness. He was a young man; and when you had said that of him you had said everything. There was nothing which you would have noticed about him, except the fact that there was nothing to notice. His age was twenty-two and his name was Roland Bleke.

      Please, sir, it’s about my salary.

      Mr. Fineberg, at the word, drew himself together much as a British square at Waterloo must have drawn itself together at the sight of a squadron of cuirassiers.

      Salary? he cried. What about it? What’s the matter with it? You get it, don’t you?

      Yes, sir, but——

      Well? Don’t stand there like an idiot. What is it?

      It’s too much.

      Mr. Fineberg’s brain reeled. It was improbable that the millennium could have arrived with a jerk; on the other hand, he had distinctly heard one of his clerks complain that his salary was too large. He pinched himself.

      Say that again, he said.

      If you could see your way to reduce it, sir——

      It occurred to Mr. Fineberg for one instant that his subordinate was endeavoring to be humorous, but a glance at Roland’s face dispelled that idea.

      Why do you want it reduced?

      Please, sir, I’m going to be married.

      What the deuce do you mean?

      When my salary reaches a hundred and fifty, sir. And it’s a hundred and forty now, so if you could see your way to knocking off ten pounds——

      Mr. Fineberg saw light. He was a married man himself.

      My boy, he said genially, I quite understand. But I can do you better than that. It’s no use doing this sort of thing in a small way. From now on your salary is a hundred and ten. No, no, don’t thank me. You’re an excellent clerk, and it’s a pleasure to me to reward merit when I find it. Close the door after you.

      And Mr. Fineberg returned with a lighter heart to the great clover-seed problem.

      The circumstances which had led Roland to approach his employer may be briefly recounted. Since joining the staff of Mr. Fineberg, he had lodged at the house of a Mr. Coppin, in honorable employment as porter at the local railway-station. The Coppin family, excluding domestic pets, consisted of Mr. Coppin, a kindly and garrulous gentleman of sixty, Mrs. Coppin, a somewhat negative personality, most of whose life was devoted to cooking and washing up in her underground lair, Brothers Frank and Percy, gentleman of leisure, popularly supposed to be engaged in the mysterious occupation known as lookin’ about for somethin’, and, lastly, Muriel.

      For some months after his arrival, Muriel had been to Roland Bleke a mere automaton, a something outside himself that was made only for neatly-laid breakfast tables and silent removal of plates at dinner. Gradually, however, when his natural shyness was soothed by use sufficiently to enable him to look at her when she came into the room, he discovered that she was a strikingly pretty girl, bounded to the North by a mass of auburn hair and to the South by small and shapely feet. She also possessed what, we are informed—we are children in these matters ourselves—is known as the R. S. V. P. eye. This eye had met Roland’s one evening, as he chumped his chop, and before he knew what he was doing he had remarked that it had been a fine day.

      From that wonderful moment matters had developed at an incredible speed. Roland had a nice sense of the social proprieties, and he could not bring himself to ignore a girl with whom he had once exchanged easy conversation about the weather. Whenever she came to lay his table, he felt bound to say something. Not being an experienced gagger, he found it more and more difficult each evening to hit on something bright, until finally, from sheer lack of inspiration, he kissed her.

      If matters had progressed rapidly before, they went like lightning then. It was as if he had touched a spring or pressed a button, setting vast machinery in motion. Even as he reeled back stunned at his audacity, the room became suddenly full of Coppins of every variety known to science. Through a mist he was aware of Mrs. Coppin crying in a corner, of Mr. Coppin drinking his health in the remains of sparkling limado, of Brothers Frank and Percy, one on each side trying to borrow simultaneously half-crowns, and of Muriel, flushed but demure, making bread-pellets and throwing them in an abstracted way, one by one, at the Coppin cat, which had wandered in on the chance of fish.

      Out of the chaos, as he stood looking at them with his mouth open, came the word bans, and smote him like a blast of East wind.

      It is not necessary to trace in detail Roland’s mental processes from that moment till the day when he applied to Mr. Fineberg for a reduction of salary. It is enough to say that for quite a month he was extraordinarily happy. To a man who has had nothing to do with women, to be engaged is an intoxicating experience, and at first life was one long golden glow to Roland. Secretly, like all mild men, he had always nourished a desire to be esteemed a nut by his fellow men; and his engagement satisfied that desire. It was pleasant to hear Brothers Frank and Percy cough knowingly when he came in. It was pleasant to walk abroad with a girl like Muriel in the capacity of the accepted wooer. Above all, it was pleasant to sit holding Muriel’s hand and watching the ill-concealed efforts of Mr. Albert Potter to hide his mortification. Albert was a mechanic in the motor-works round the corner, and hitherto Roland had always felt something of a worm in his presence. Albert was so infernally strong and silent and efficient. He could dissect a car and put it together again. He could drive through the thickest traffic. He could sit silent in company without having his silence attributed to shyness or imbecility. But—he could not get engaged to Muriel Coppin. That was reserved for Roland Bleke, the nut, the dasher, the young man of affairs. It was all very well being able to tell a spark-plug from a commutator at sight, but when it came to a contest in an affair of the heart with a man like Roland, Albert was in his proper place, third at the pole.

      Probably, if he could have gone on merely being engaged, Roland would never have wearied of the experience. But the word marriage began to creep more

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