The Girl on the Boat

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THE GIRL ON THE BOAT

BY

P. G. WODEHOUSE

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
3 YORK STREET LONDON S.W.1

[Illustration: A HERBERT JENKINS BOOK]

_Tenth printing, completing 95,781 copies_

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT

It was Sam Marlowe's fate to fall in love with a girl on the R.M.S.
"Atlantic" (New York to Southampton) who had ideals. She was looking for
a man just like Sir Galahad, and refused to be put off with any inferior
substitute. A lucky accident on the first day of the voyage placed Sam
for the moment in the Galahad class, but he could not stay the pace.

He follows Billie Bennett "around," scheming, blundering and hoping, so
does the parrot faced young man Bream Mortimer, Sam's rival.

There is a somewhat hectic series of events at Windles, a country house
in Hampshire, where Billie's ideals still block the way and Sam comes on
in spite of everything.

Then comes the moment when Billie.... It is a Wodehouse novel in every
sense of the term.

ONE MOMENT!

Before my friend Mr. Jenkins--wait a minute, Herbert--before my friend
Mr. Jenkins formally throws this book open to the public, I should like
to say a few words. You, sir, and you, and you at the back, if you will
kindly restrain your impatience.... There is no need to jostle. There
will be copies for all. Thank you. I shall not detain you long.

I wish to clear myself of a possible charge of plagiarism. You smile.
Ah! but you don't know. You don't realise how careful even a splendid
fellow like myself has to be. You wouldn't have me go down to posterity
as Pelham the Pincher, would you? No! Very well, then. By the time this
volume is in the hands of the customers, everybody will, of course, have
read Mr. J. Storer Clouston's "The Lunatic at Large Again." (Those who
are chumps enough to miss it deserve no consideration.) Well, both the
hero of "The Lunatic" and my "Sam Marlowe" try to get out of a tight
corner by hiding in a suit of armour in the hall of a country-house.
Looks fishy, yes? And yet I call on Heaven to witness that I am
innocent, innocent. And, if the word of Northumberland Avenue Wodehouse
is not sufficient, let me point out that this story and Mr. Clouston's
appeared simultaneously in serial form in their respective magazines.
This proves, I think, that at these cross-roads, at any rate, there has
been no dirty work. All right, Herb., you can let 'em in now.

P. G. WODEHOUSE.
Constitutional Club,
Northumberland Avenue.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. A DISTURBING MORNING 11

II. GALLANT RESCUE BY WELL-DRESSED YOUNG MAN 27

III. SAM PAVES THE WAY 56

IV. SAM CLICKS 69

V. PERSECUTION OF EUSTACE 95

VI. SCENE AT A SHIP'S CONCERT 104

VII. SUNDERED HEARTS 111

VIII. SIR MALLABY OFFERS A SUGGESTION 126

IX. ROUGH WORK AT A DINNER TABLE 144

X. TROUBLE AT WINDLES 159

XI. MR. BENNETT HAS A BAD NIGHT 180

XII. THE LURID PAST OF JOHN PETERS 193

XIII. SHOCKS ALL ROUND 207

XIV. STRONG REMARKS BY A FATHER 217

XV. DRAMA AT A COUNTRY HOUSE 227

XVI. WEBSTER, FRIEND IN NEED 242

XVII. A CROWDED NIGHT 257

THE GIRL ON THE BOAT

CHAPTER I

A DISTURBING MORNING

Through the curtained windows of the furnished flat which Mrs. Horace
Hignett had rented for her stay in New York, rays of golden sunlight
peeped in like the foremost spies of some advancing army. It was a fine
summer morning. The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed to
thirteen minutes past nine; those of the ormolu clock in the
sitting-room to eleven minutes past ten; those of the carriage clock on
the bookshelf to fourteen minutes to six. In other words, it was exactly
eight; and Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her head on the
pillow, opening her eyes, and sitting up in bed. She always woke at
eight precisely.

Was this Mrs. Hignett _the_ Mrs. Hignett, the world-famous writer on
Theosophy, the author of "The Spreading Light," "What of the Morrow,"
and all the rest of that well-known series? I'm glad you asked me. Yes,
she was. She had come over to America on a lecturing tour.

About this time there was a good deal of suffering in the United States,
for nearly every boat that arrived from England was bringing a fresh
swarm of British lecturers to the country. Novelists, poets, scientists,
philosophers, and plain, ordinary bores; some herd instinct seemed to
affect them all simultaneously. It was like one of those great race
movements of the Middle Ages. Men and women of widely differing views on
religion, art, politics, and almost every other subject; on this one
point the intellectuals of Great Britain were single-minded, that there
was easy money to be picked up on the lecture-platforms of America, and
that they might just as well grab it as the next person.

Mrs. Hignett had come over with the first batch of immigrants; for,
spiritual as her writings were, there was a solid streak of business
sense in this woman, and she meant to get hers while the getting was
good. She was half way across the Atlantic with a complete itinerary
booked, before ninety per cent. of the poets and philosophers had
finished sorting out their clean collars and getting their photographs
taken for the passport.

She had not left England without a pang, for departure had involved
sacrifices. More than anything else in the world she loved her charming
home, Windles, in the county of Hampshire, for so many years the seat of
the Hignett family. Windles was as the breath of life to her. Its shady
walks, its silver lake, its noble elms, the old grey stone of its
walls--these were bound up with her very being. She felt that she
belonged to Windles, and Windles to her. Unfortunately, as a matter of
cold, legal accuracy, it did not. She did but hold it in trust for her
son, Eustace, until such time as he should marry and take possession of
it himself. There were times when the thought of Eustace marrying and
bringing a strange woman to Windles chilled Mrs. Hignett to her very
marrow. Happily, her firm policy of keeping her son permanently under
her eye at home and never permitting him to have speech with a female
below the age of fifty, had averted the peril up till now.

Eustace had accompanied his mother to America. It was his faint snores
which she could hear in the adjoining room as, having bathed and
dressed, she went down the hall to where breakfast awaited her. She
smiled tolerantly. She had never desired to convert her son to her own
early-rising habits, for, apart from not allowing him to call his soul
his own, she was an indulgent mother. Eustace would get up at half-past
nine, long after she had finished breakfast, read her correspondence,
and started her duties for the day.

Breakfast was on the table in the sitting-room, a modest meal of rolls,
porridge, and imitation coffee. Beside the pot containing this
hell-brew, was a little pile of letters. Mrs. Hignett opened them as she
ate. The majority were from disciples and dealt with matters of purely
theosophical interest. There was an invitation from the Butterfly Club,
asking her to be the guest of honour at their weekly dinner. There was a
letter from her brother Mallaby--Sir Mallaby Marlowe, the eminent London
lawyer--saying that his son Sam, of whom she had never approved, would
be in New York shortly, passing through on his way back to England, and
hoping that she would see something of him. Altogether a dull mail. Mrs.
Hignett skimmed through it without interest, setting aside one or two of
the letters for Eustace, who acted as her unpaid secretary, to answer
later in the day.

She had just risen from the table, when there was a sound of voices in
the hall, and presently the domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady of
advanced years, entered the room.

"Ma'am, there was a gentleman."

Mrs. Hignett was annoyed. Her mornings were sacred.

"Didn't you tell him I was not to be disturbed?"

"I did not. I loosed him into the parlour." The staff remained for a
moment in melancholy silence, then resumed. "He says he's your nephew.
His name's Marlowe."

Mrs. Hignett experienced no diminution of her annoyance. She had not
seen her nephew Sam for ten years, and would have been willing to extend
the period. She remembered him as an untidy small boy who once or twice,
during his school holidays, had disturbed the cloistral peace of Windles
with his beastly presence. However, blood being thicker than water, and
all that sort of thing, she supposed she would have to give him five
minutes. She went into the sitting-room, and found there a young man who
looked more or less like all other young men, though perhaps rather
fitter than most. He had grown a good deal since she had last met him,
as men so often do between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, and was
now about six feet in height, about forty inches round the chest, and in
weight about thirteen stone. He had a brown and amiable face, marred at
the moment by an expression of discomfort somewhat akin to that of a cat
in a strange alley.

"Hullo, Aunt Adeline!" he said awkwardly.

"Well, Samuel!" said Mrs. Hignett.

There was a pause. Mrs. Hignett, who was not fond of young men and
disliked having her mornings broken into, was thinking that he had not
improved in the slightest degree since their last meeting; and Sam, who
imagined that he had long since grown to man's estate and put off
childish things, was embarrassed to discover that his aunt still
affected him as of old. That is to say, she made him feel as if he had
omitted to shave and, in addition to that, had swallowed some drug which
had caused him to swell unpleasantly, particularly about the hands and
feet.

"Jolly morning," said Sam, perseveringly.

"So I imagine. I have not yet been out."

"Thought I'd look in and see how you were."

"That was very kind of you. The morning is my busy time, but ... yes,
that was very kind of you!"

There was another pause.

"How do you like America?" said Sam.

"I dislike it exceedingly."

"Yes? Well, of course, some people do. Prohibition and all that.
Personally, it doesn't affect me. I can take it or leave it alone. I
like America myself," said Sam. "I've had a wonderful time. Everybody's
treated me like a rich uncle. I've been in Detroit, you know, and they
practically gave me the city and asked me if I'd like another to take
home in my pocket. Never saw anything like it. I might have been the
missing heir! I think America's the greatest invention on record."

"And what brought you to America?" said Mrs. Hignett, unmoved by this
rhapsody.

"Oh, I came over to play golf. In a tournament, you know."

"Surely at your age," said Mrs. Hignett, disapprovingly, "you could be
better occupied. Do you spend your whole time playing golf?"

"Oh, no! I play cricket a bit and shoot a bit and I swim a good lot and
I still play football occasionally."

"I wonder your father does not insist on your doing some useful work."

"He is beginning to harp on the subject rather. I suppose I shall take a
stab at it sooner or later. Father says I ought to get married, too."

"He is perfectly right."

"I suppose old Eustace will be getting hitched up one of these days?"
said Sam.

Mrs. Hignett started violently.

"Why do you say that?"

"Eh?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, well, he's a romantic sort of fellow. Writes poetry, and all that."

"There is no likelihood at all of Eustace marrying. He is of a shy and
retiring temperament, and sees few women. He is almost a recluse."

Sam was aware of this, and had frequently regretted it. He had always
been fond of his cousin in that half-amused and rather patronising way
in which men of thews and sinews are fond of the weaker brethren who run
more to pallor and intellect; and he had always felt that if Eustace had
not had to retire to Windles to spend his life with a woman whom from
his earliest years he had always considered the Empress of the Washouts,
much might have been made of him. Both at school and at Oxford, Eustace
had been--if not a sport--at least a decidedly cheery old bean. Sam
remembered Eustace at school, breaking gas globes with a slipper in a
positively rollicking manner. He remembered him at Oxford playing up to
him manfully at the piano on the occasion when he had done that
imitation of Frank Tinney which had been such a hit at the Trinity
smoker. Yes, Eustace had had the makings of a pretty sound egg, and it
was too bad that he had allowed his mother to coop him up down in the
country, miles away from anywhere.

"Eustace is returning to England on Saturday," said Mrs. Hignett. She
spoke a little wistfully. She had not been parted from her son since he
had come down from Oxford; and she would have liked to keep him with her
till the end of her lecturing tour. That, however, was out of the
question. It was imperative that, while she was away, he should be at
Windles. Nothing would have induced her to leave the place at the mercy
of servants who might trample over the flowerbeds, scratch the polished
floors, and forget to cover up the canary at night. "He sails on the
'Atlantic.'"

"That's splendid!" said Sam. "I'm sailing on the 'Atlantic' myself. I'll
go down to the office and see if we can't have a state-room together.
But where is he going to live when he gets to England?"

"Where is he going to live? Why, at Windles, of course. Where else?"

"But I thought you were letting Windles for the summer?"

Mrs. Hignett stared.

"Letting Windles!" She spoke as one might address a lunatic. "What put
that extraordinary idea into your head?"

"I thought father said something about your letting the place to some
American."

"Nothing of the kind!"

It seemed to Sam that his aunt spoke somewhat vehemently, even
snappishly, in correcting what was a perfectly natural mistake. He could
not know that the subject of letting Windles for the summer was one
which had long since begun to infuriate Mrs. Hignett. People had
certainly asked her to let Windles. In fact, people had pestered her.
There was a rich, fat man, an American named Bennett, whom she had met
just before sailing at her brother's house in London. Invited down to
Windles for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place, and
had begged her to name her own price. Not content with this, he had
pursued her with his pleadings by means of the wireless telegraph while
she was on the ocean, and had not given up the struggle even when she
reached New York. She had not been in America two days when there had
arrived a Mr. Mortimer, bosom friend of Mr. Bennett, carrying on the
matter where the other had left off. For a whole week Mr. Mortimer had
tried to induce her to reconsider her decision, and had only stopped
because he had had to leave for England himself, to join his friend. And
even then the thing had gone on. Indeed, this very morning, among the
letters on Mrs. Hignett's table, the buff envelope of a cable from Mr.
Bennett had peeped out, nearly spoiling her breakfast. No wonder, then,
that Sam's allusion to the affair had caused the authoress of "The
Spreading Light" momentarily to lose her customary calm.

"Nothing will induce me ever to let Windles," she said with finality,
and rose significantly. Sam, perceiving that the audience was at an
end--and glad of it--also got up.

"Well, I think I'll be going down and seeing about that state-room" he
said.

"Certainly. I am a little busy just now, preparing notes for my next
lecture."

"Of course, yes. Mustn't interrupt you. I suppose you're having a great
time, gassing away--I mean--well, good-bye!"

"Good-bye!"

Mrs. Hignett, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed
that equable frame of mind which is so vital to the preparation of
lectures on Theosophy, sat down at the writing-table and began to go
through the notes which she had made overnight. She had hardly succeeded
in concentrating herself when the door opened to admit the daughter of
Erin once more.

"Ma'am, there was a gentleman."

"This is intolerable!" cried Mrs. Hignett. "Did you tell him that I was
busy?"

"I did not. I loosed him into the dining-room."

"Is he a reporter from one of the newspapers?"

"He is not. He has spats and a tall-shaped hat. His name is Bream
Mortimer."

"Bream Mortimer!"

"Yes, ma'am. He handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, being
slippy from the dishes."

Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as
she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream Mortimer.
He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted Windles. This visit could
only have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went into the
dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimer
family, in the person of their New York representative, once and for
all.

"Good morning, Mr. Mortimer."

Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small bright eyes and a sharply
curving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most parrots do. It
gave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they saw Bream
Mortimer in restaurants, eating roast beef. They had the feeling that he
would have preferred sunflower seeds.

"Morning, Mrs. Hignett."

"Please sit down."

Bream Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a
perch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming, excited
eyes.

"Mrs. Hignett, I must have a word with you alone!"

"You _are_ having a word with me alone."

"I hardly know how to begin."

"Then let me help you. It is quite impossible. I will never consent."

Bream Mortimer started.

"Then you have heard about it?"

"I have heard about nothing else since I met Mr. Bennett in London. Mr.
Bennett talked about nothing else. Your father talked about nothing
else. And now," cried Mrs. Hignett, fiercely, "you come and try to
re-open the subject. Once and for all, nothing will alter my decision.
No money will induce me to let my house."

"But I didn't come about that!"

"You did not come about Windles?"

"Good Lord, no!"

"Then will you kindly tell me why you have come?"

Bream Mortimer seemed embarrassed. He wriggled a little, and moved his
arms as if he were trying to flap them.

"You know," he said, "I'm not a man who butts into other people's
affairs...." He stopped.

"No?" said Mrs. Hignett.

Bream began again.

"I'm not a man who gossips with valets...."

"No?"

"I'm not a man who...."

Mrs. Hignett was never a very patient woman.

"Let us take all your negative qualities for granted," she said curtly.
"I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us
confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you
have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment,
that you wish to see me about?"

"This marriage."

"What marriage?"

"Your son's marriage."

"My son is not married."

"No, but he's going to be. At eleven o'clock this morning at the Little
Church Round the Corner!"

Mrs. Hignett stared.

"Are you mad?"

"Well, I'm not any too well pleased, I'm bound to say," admitted Mr.
Mortimer. "You see, darn it all, I'm in love with the girl myself!"

"Who is this girl?"

"Have been for years. I'm one of those silent, patient fellows who hang
around and look a lot but never tell their love...."

"Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?"

"I've always been one of those men who...."

"Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive
qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all.
You come to me with this absurd story...."

"Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet who had it from her
maid."

"Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to
marry?"

"I don't know that I'd call him misguided," said Mr. Mortimer, as one
desiring to be fair. "I think he's a right smart picker! She's such a
corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I've loved her
for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is--somehow one never
seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the
summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I'm not one of these
smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I'm not...."

"If you will kindly," said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, "postpone this
essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly
obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to
marry."

"Haven't I told you?" said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. "That's odd. I
haven't. It's funny how one doesn't do the things one thinks one does.
I'm the sort of man...."

"What is her name?"

"... the sort of man who...."

"What is her name?"

"Bennett."

"Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The
red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father's house?"

"That's it. You're a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the
thing."

"I intend to."

"Fine!"

"The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son
do not vibrate on the same plane."

"That's right. I've noticed it myself."

"Their auras are not the same colour."

"If I've thought that once," said Bream Mortimer, "I've thought it a
hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've thought it. Not
the same colour. That's the whole thing in a nutshell."

"I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall
take immediate steps."

"That's good. But what's the procedure? It's getting late. She'll be
waiting at the church at eleven."

"Eustace will not be there."

"You think you can fix it?"

"Eustace will not be there," repeated Mrs. Hignett.

Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair.

"Well, you've taken a weight off my mind."

"A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights."

"I'll be going. Haven't had breakfast yet. Too worried to eat breakfast.
Relieved now. This is where three eggs and a rasher of ham get cut off
in their prime. I feel I can rely on you."

"You can!"

"Then I'll say good-bye."

"Good-bye."

"I mean really good-bye. I'm sailing for England on Saturday on the
'Atlantic.'"

"Indeed? My son will be your fellow-traveller."

Bream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive.

"You won't tell him that I was the one who spilled the beans?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You won't wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?"

"I do not understand you."

"You won't tell him that I crabbed his act ... gave the thing away ...
gummed the game?"

"I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention."

"Chivalrous?" said Bream Mortimer a little doubtfully. "I don't know
that I'd call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all's fair in love
and war. Well, I'm glad you're going to keep my share in the business
under your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board."

"You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent
sailor and spends most of his time in his cabin."

"That's good! Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye. When you reach England, remember me to your father."

"He won't have forgotten you," said Bream Mortimer, confidently. He did
not see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman. She
was like a celebrated chewing-gum. The taste lingered.

Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while her
late visitor was speaking, schemes had begun to form in her mind like
bubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the door
had closed behind Bream Mortimer she had at her disposal no fewer than
seven, all good. It took her but a moment to select the best and
simplest. She tiptoed softly to her son's room. Rhythmic snores greeted
her listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in.

CHAPTER II

GALLANT RESCUE BY WELL-DRESSED YOUNG MAN

Sec. 1

The White Star liner "Atlantic" lay at her pier with steam up and
gangway down, ready for her trip to Southampton. The hour of departure
was near, and there was a good deal of mixed activity going on. Sailors
fiddled about with ropes. Junior officers flitted to and fro.
White-jacketed stewards wrestled with trunks. Probably the captain,
though not visible, was also employed on some useful work of a nautical
nature and not wasting his time. Men, women, boxes, rugs, dogs, flowers,
and baskets of fruits were flowing on board in a steady stream.

The usual drove of citizens had come to see the travellers off. There
were men on the passenger-list who were being seen off by fathers, by
mothers, by sisters, by cousins, and by aunts. In the steerage, there
was an elderly Jewish lady who was being seen off by exactly
thirty-seven of her late neighbours in Rivington Street. And two men in
the second cabin were being seen off by detectives, surely the crowning
compliment a great nation can bestow. The cavernous Customs sheds were
congested with friends and relatives, and Sam Marlowe, heading for the
gang-plank, was only able to make progress by employing all the muscle
and energy which Nature had bestowed upon him, and which during the
greater part of his life he had developed by athletic exercise. However,
after some minutes of silent endeavour, now driving his shoulder into
the midriff of some obstructing male, now courteously lifting some stout
female off his feet, he had succeeded in struggling to within a few
yards of his goal, when suddenly a sharp pain shot through his right
arm, and he spun round with a cry.

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