Disentangling Old Percy.
By P. G. Wodehouse
Illustrated by Alfred Leete.
Doesn't some poet or philosopher fellow say that it's when our intentions are best that we always make the most poisonous bloomers? I can't put my hand on the passage, but you'll find it in Shakespeare or somewhere, I'm pretty certain.
Anyhow, it's always that way with me. And the affair of Percy Craye is a case in point.
I had dined with Percy (a dear old pal of mine) one night at the Bank of England—he's in the Guards, and it was his turn to be on hand there and prevent any blighter trying to slide in and help himself—and as he was seeing me out he said, "Reggie, old top" (my name's Reggie Pepper)—"Reggie, old top, I'm rather worried."
"Are you, Percy, old pal?" I said.
"Yes, Reggie, old fellow," he said, "I am. It's like this. The Booles have asked me down to their place for the week-end, and I don't know whether to go or not. You see, they have family prayers at half-past eight sharp, and besides that there's a frightful risk of music after dinner. On the other hand, young Roderick Boole thinks he can play piquet."
"I should go," I said.
"But I'm not sure Roderick's going to be there this time."
It was a pretty tricky problem, and I didn't wonder poor old Percy had looked pale and fagged at dinner.
Then I had the idea which really started all the trobule.
"Why don't you consult a palmist?" I said.
"That's not a bad idea," said Percy.
"Go and see Dorothea in Bond Street. She's a wonder. She'll settle it for you in a second. She'll see from your lines that you are thinking of making a journey, and she'll either tell you to fizz ahead, which will mean that Roderick will be there, or else to keep away because she sees disaster."
"You seem well up in this sort of thing."
"I've been to a good many of them. You'll like Dorothea."
"What did you say her name was—Dorothea? What do I do? Do I just walk in? Sha'n't I feel a fearful ass? How much do I give her?"
"A guinea. You'd better write and make an appointment."
"All right," said Percy. "But I know I shall look a frightful fool."
You would hardly believe the trouble it took to bring him to the scratch. In the end I took him round myself and left him there, and about a week later I ran into him between the acts at the Gaiety. The old boy was beaming.
"Reggie," he said, "you did me the best turn anyone's ever done me, sending me to Mrs. Darrell."
"Mrs. Darrell?"
"You know—Dorothea. Her real name's Darrell. She's a widow. Her husband was in a line regiment, and left her without a penny. It's a frightfully pathetic story. Haven't time to tell you now. My boy, she's a marvel. She had hardly looked at my hand when she said, 'You will prosper in any venture you undertake.' And next day, by Jove, I popped down to the Booles and separated young Roderick from fourteen pounds seven and six. She's a wonderful woman. Did you ever see just that shade of hair?"
"I didn't notice her hair."
He gaped at me in a sort of petrified astonishment.
"You—didn't—notice—her—hair?" he gasped.
Just then the bell rang, and I had to nip back to my stall.
I can't fix the dates exactly, but it must have been about three weeks after this that I got a telegram, "Call Eaton Square immediately.—Florence Craye."
She needn't have signed her name. I should have known who it was from by the wording. Ever since I was a kid Percy's sister Florence has oppressed me to the most fearful extent. Not that I'm the only one. Her brothers live in terror of her. I know. Especially Lord Weeting. He's never been able to get away from her, and it's absolutely
