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

law. Thank you, sir. Walk
up, walk up, my noble sportsmen. Nine to four the field.’
    The lead
thus given them removed the last inhibitions of the company. Business became
brisk, and it was not long before Mr Pott had vanished completely behind a mass
of eager punters.
    Among
the first to invest had been Pongo Twistleton. Hastening to the hall porter’s
desk, he had written a cheque for his last ten pounds in the world, and he was
now leaning against the bar, filled with the quiet satisfaction of the man who
has spotted the winner and got his money down in good time.
    For
from the very inception of these proceedings it had been clear to Pongo that
Fortune, hitherto capricious, had at last decided that it was no use trying to
keep a good man down and had handed him something on a plate. To be a
successful punter, what you need is information, and this he possessed in
abundant measure. Alone of those present, he was aware of the identity of the
gentleman in the telephone booth, and he had the additional advantage of
knowing the inside facts about the latter’s wardrobe.
    You
take a chap like — say — Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright, that modern Brummel, and
you might guess for hours without hitting on the precise suit he would be
wearing on any given morning. But with Horace Pendlebury-Davenport it was
different. Horace had never been a vivacious dresser. He liked to stick to the
old and tried till they came apart on him, and it was this idiosyncrasy of his
which had caused his recent fiancée, just before her departure for Le
Touquet, to take a drastic step.
    Swooping
down on Horace’s flat, at a moment when Pongo was there chatting with its
proprietor, and ignoring her loved one’s protesting cries, Valerie Twistleton
had scooped up virtually his entire outfit and borne it away in a cab, to be
given to the deserving poor. She could not actually leave the unhappy man in
the nude, so she had allowed him to retain the shabby grey flannel suit he
stood up in and also the morning clothes which he was reserving for the wedding
day. But she had got away with all the rest, and as no tailor could have
delivered a fresh supply at this early dare, Pongo had felt justified in
plunging to the uttermost. The bulk of his fortune on Grey Flannel at ten to
one and a small covering bet on Morning Suit, and there he was, sitting pretty.
    And he
was just sipping his cocktail and reflecting that, while his winnings must
necessarily fall far short of the stupendous sum which he owed to George Budd,
they would at least constitute something on account and remove the dark shadow
of Erb at any rate temporarily from his life, when like a blow on the base of
the skull there came to him the realization that he had overlooked a vital
point.
    The
opening words of his conversation with Claude Pott came back to him, and he
remembered that Mr Pott, in addition to informing him that Horace was in the
telephone booth, had stated that the latter had attended the Bohemian Ball at
the Albert Hall and had not been to bed yet. And like the knell of a tolling
bell there rang in his ears Horace’s words: ‘I am going as a Boy Scout.’
    The
smoking room reeled before Pongo’s eyes. He saw now why Claude Pott had leaped
so enthusiastically at the idea of starting these Clothes Stakes. The man had
known it would be a skinner for the book. The shrewdest and most imaginative
Drone would never think of Boy Scouts in telephone booths at this hour of the
morning.
    He
uttered a stricken cry. At the eleventh hour the road to wealth had been
indicated to him, and owing to that ready-money clause he was not in a position
to take advantage of the fact. And then he caught sight of Oofy Prosser at the
other end of the bar, and saw how by swift, decisive action he might save his
fortunes from the wreck.
    The
attitude of Oofy Prosser towards the Clothes Stakes had been from the first
contemptuous and supercilious, like that of a Wolf of Wall Street watching
small boys scrambling