The Adventures of Sally 20 – Wodehouse · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
The Adventures of Sally 20Part 6 · Chapter 1
18
Literature · Humor
The Adventures of Sally 20
Part 6 · Chapter 1
WodehouseEnglish
It seemed to Sally in the weeks that followed her reunion with Ginger Kemp that a sort of golden age had set in. On all the frontiers of her little kingdom there was peace and prosperity, and she woke each morning in a world so neatly smoothed and ironed out that the most captious pessimist could hardly have found anything in it to criticize.
True, Gerald was still a thousand miles away. Going to Chicago to superintend the opening of “The Primrose Way”; for Fillmore had acceded to his friend Ike's suggestion in the matter of producing it first in Chicago, and he had been called in by a distracted manager to revise the work of a brother dramatist, whose comedy was in difficulties at one of the theatres in that city; and this meant he would have to remain on the spot for some time to come. It was disappointing, for Sally had been looking forward to having him back in New York in a few days; but she refused to allow herself to be depressed. Life as a whole was much too satisfactory for that. Life indeed, in every other respect, seemed perfect. Fillmore was going strong; Ginger was off her conscience; she had found an apartment; her new hat suited her; and “The Primrose Way” was a tremendous success. Chicago, it appeared from Fillmore's account, was paying little attention to anything except “The Primrose Way.” National problems had ceased to interest the citizens. Local problems left them cold. Their minds were riveted to the exclusion of all else on the problem of how to secure seats. The production of the piece, according to Fillmore, had been the most terrific experience that had come to stir Chicago since the great fire.
Of all these satisfactory happenings, the most satisfactory, to Sally's thinking, was the fact that the problem of Ginger's future had been solved. Ginger had entered the service of the Fillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. (Managing Director, Fillmore Nicholas)--Fillmore would have made the title longer, only that was all that would go on the brass plate--and was to be found daily in the outer office, his duties consisting mainly, it seemed, in reading the evening papers. What exactly he was, even Ginger hardly knew. Sometimes he felt like the man at the wheel, sometimes like a glorified office boy, and not so very glorified at that. For the most part he had to prevent the mob rushing and getting at Fillmore, who sat in semi-regal state in the inner office pondering great schemes.
But, though there might be an occasional passing uncertainty in Ginger's mind as to just what he was supposed to be doing in exchange for the fifty dollars he drew every Friday, there was nothing uncertain about his gratitude to Sally for having pulled the strings and enabled him to do it. He tried to thank her every time they met, and nowadays they were meeting frequently; for Ginger was helping her to furnish her new apartment. In this task, he spared no efforts. He said that it kept him in condition.
“And what I mean to say is,” said Ginger, pausing in the act of carrying a massive easy chair to the third spot which Sally had selected in the last ten minutes, “if I didn't sweat about a bit and help you after the way you got me that job...”
“Ginger, desist,” said Sally.
“Yes, but honestly...”
“If you don't stop it, I'll make you move that chair into the next room.”
“Shall I?” Ginger rubbed his blistered hands and took a new grip. “Anything you say.”
“Silly! Of course not. The only other rooms are my bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. What on earth would I want a great lumbering chair in them for? All the same, I believe the first we chose was the best.”
“Back she goes, then, what?”
Sally reflected frowningly. This business of setting up house was causing her much thought.
“No,” she decided. “By the window is better.” She looked at him remorsefully. “I'm giving you a lot of trouble.”
“Trouble!” Ginger, accompanied by a chair, staggered across the room. “The way I look at it is this.” He wiped a bead of perspiration from his freckled forehead. “You got me that job, and...”
“Stop!”
“Right ho... Still, you did, you know.”
Sally sat down in the armchair and stretched herself. Watching Ginger work had given her a vicarious fatigue. She surveyed the room proudly. It was certainly beginning to look cosy. The pictures were up, the carpet down, the furniture very neatly in order. For almost the first time in her life she had the restful sensation of being at home. She had always longed, during the past three years of boarding-house existence, for a settled abode, a place where she could lock the door on herself and be alone. The apartment was small, but it was undeniably a haven. She looked about her and could see no flaw in it... except... She had a sudden sense of something missing.
“Hullo!” she said. “Where's that photograph of me? I'm sure I put it on the mantelpiece yesterday.”
His exertions seemed to have brought the blood to Ginger's face. He was a rich red. He inspected the mantelpiece narrowly.
“No. No photograph here.”
“I know there isn't. But it was there yesterday. Or was it? I know I meant to put it there. Perhaps I forgot. It's the most beautiful thing you ever saw. Not a bit like me; but what of that? They touch 'em up in the dark-room, you know. I value it because it looks the way I should like to look if I could.”
“I've never had a beautiful photograph taken of myself,” said Ginger, solemnly, with gentle regret.
“Cheer up!”
“Oh, I don't mind. I only mentioned...”
“Ginger,” said Sally, “pardon my interrupting your remarks, which I know are valuable, but this chair is--not--right! It ought to be where it was at the beginning. Could you give your imitation of a pack-mule just once more? And after that I'll make you some tea. If there's any tea--or milk--or cups.”
“There are cups all right. I know, because I smashed two the day before yesterday. I'll nip round the corner for some milk, shall I?”
“Yes, please nip. All this hard work has taken it out of me terribly.”
Over the tea-table Sally became inquisitive.
“What I can't understand about this job of yours. Ginger--which as you are just about to observe, I was noble enough to secure for you--is the amount of leisure that seems to go with it. How is it that you are able to spend your valuable time--Fillmore's valuable time, rather--juggling with my furniture every day?”
“Oh, I can usually get off.”
“But oughtn't you to be at your post doing--whatever it is you do? What do you do?”
Ginger stirred his tea thoughtfully and gave his mind to the question.
“Well, I sort of mess about, you know.” He pondered. “I interview divers blighters and tell 'em your brother is out and take their names and addresses and... oh, all that sort of thing.”
“Does Fillmore consult you much?”
“He lets me read some of the plays that are sent in. Awful tosh most of them. Sometimes he sends me off to a vaudeville house of an evening.”
“As a treat?”
“To see some special act, you know. To report on it. In case he might want to use it for this revue of his.”
“Which revue?”
“Didn't you know he was going to put on a revue? Oh, rather. A whacking big affair. Going to cut out the Follies and all that sort of thing.”
“But--my goodness!” Sally was alarmed. It was just like Fillmore, she felt, to go branching out into these expensive schemes when he ought to be moving warily and trying to consolidate the small success he had had. All his life he had thought in millions where the prudent man would have been content with hundreds. An inexhaustible fount of optimism bubbled eternally within him. “That's rather ambitious,” she said.
“Yes. Ambitious sort of cove, your brother. Quite the Napoleon.”
“I shall have to talk to him,” said Sally decidedly. She was annoyed with Fillmore. Everything had been going so beautifully, with everybody peaceful and happy and prosperous and no anxiety anywhere, till he had spoiled things. Now she would have to start worrying again.
“Of course,” argued Ginger, “there's money in revues. Over in London fellows make pots out of them.”
Sally shook her head.
“It won't do,” she said. “And I'll tell you another thing that won't do. This armchair. Of course it ought to be over by the window. You can see that yourself, can't you.”
“Absolutely!” said Ginger, patiently preparing for action once more.
