Uncle Fred in the Springtime by P.G. Wodehouse Read Free Book Online

Eggs, Beans
and Crumpets revelling at the bar. And Pongo, drinking in the tales of their
exploits, had just decided to raise the assessment of several of those present
another ten pounds, when through the haze of cigarette smoke he caught sight of
a familiar face. On a chair at the far end of the room sat Claude Pott.
    It was
not merely curiosity as to what Mr Pott was doing there or a fear lest he might
be feeling lonely in these unaccustomed surroundings that caused Pongo to go
and engage him in conversation. At the sight of the private investigator, there
had floated into his mind like drifting thistledown the thought that it might
be possible to start the ball rolling by obtaining a small donation from him.
He crossed the room with outstretched hand.
    ‘Why,
hullo, Mr Pott. What brings you here?’
    ‘Good
morning, sir. I came with Mr Davenport. He is at the moment in the telephone
booth, telephoning.’
    ‘I didn’t
know old Horace ever got up as early as this.’
    ‘He has
not retired to bed yet. He went to a dance last night.’
    ‘Of
course, yes. The Bohemian Ball at the Albert Hall. I remember. Well, it’s nice
seeing you again, Mr Pott. You left a bit hurriedly that time we met.’
    ‘Yes,’
said Claude Pott meditatively. ‘How did you come out with The Subject?’
    ‘Not
too well. She threw her weight about a bit.’
    ‘I had
an idea she would.’
    ‘You
were better away.’
    ‘That’s
what I thought.’
    ‘Still,’
said Pongo heartily, ‘I was very sorry you had to go, very. I could see that we
were a couple of chaps who were going to get along together. Will you have a
drink or something?’
    ‘No,
thank you, Mr T.’
    ‘A cigarette
or something?’
    ‘No,
thank you.’
    ‘A
chair or something? Oh, you’ve got one. I say, Mr Pott,’ said Pongo, ‘I was
wondering —’
    The
babble at the bar had risen to a sudden crescendo. Oofy Prosser, the club’s
tame millionaire, was repeating for the benefit of some new arrivals the story
of how he had run his bank seven times, and there had come into Mr Pott’s eyes
a dull glow, like the phosphorescent gleam on the stomach of a dead fish.
    ‘Coo!’
he said, directing at Oofy the sort of look a thoughtful vulture in the Sahara
casts at a dying camel. ‘Seems to be a lot of money in here this morning.’
    ‘Yes.
And talking of money —’
    ‘Now
would be just the time to run the old Hat Stakes.’
    ‘Hat
Stakes?’
    ‘Haven’t
you ever heard of the Hat Stakes? It sometimes seems to me they don’t teach you
boys nothing at your public schools. Here’s the way it works. You take
somebody, as it might be me, and he opens a book on the Hat Race, the finish to
be wherever you like — call it that door over there. See what I mean? The punters
would bet on what sort of hat the first bloke coming in through that door would
be wearing. You, for instance, might feel like having a tenner —’
    Pongo
flicked a speck of dust from his companion’s sleeve.
    ‘Ah,
but I haven’t got a tenner,’ he said. ‘And that’s precisely why I was saying
that I wondered —’
    ‘— on
Top Hat. Then if a feller wearing a top hat was the first to come in, you’d
cop.’
    ‘Yes, I
see the idea. Amusing. Ingenious.’
    ‘But
you can’t play the Hat Stakes nowadays, with everybody wearing these Homburgs.
There wouldn’t be enough starters. Cor!’
    ‘Cor!’
agreed Pongo sympathetically. ‘You’d have to make it clothes or something,
what? But you were speaking of tenners, and while on that subject…. Stop me
if you’ve heard this before….’
    Claude
Pott, who had seemed about to sink into a brooding reverie, came out of his
meditations with a start.
    ‘What’s
that you said?’
    ‘I was
saying that while on the subject of tenners —’
    ‘Clothes!’
Mr Pott rose from his chair with a spasmodic leap, as if he had seen The
Subject entering the room. ‘Well, strike me pink!’
    He shot
for the door at a speed quite remarkable in a man of his