The Little Nugget. P. G. Wodehouse
I heard him talking about it to the matron. The kid's name's Ford, I believe the kid's father's awfully rich. Would you like to be rich, sir? I wish I was rich. If I was rich, I'd buy all sorts of things. I believe I'm going to be rich when I grow up. I heard father talking to a lawyer about it. There's a new parlour-maid coming soon, sir. I heard cook telling Emily. I'm blowed if I'd like to be a parlour-maid, would you, sir? I'd much rather be a cook.'
He pondered the point for a moment. When he spoke again, it was to touch on a still more profound problem.
'If you wanted a halfpenny to make up twopence to buy a lizard, what would you do, sir?'
He got it.
Ogden Ford, the El Dorado of the kidnapping industry, entered Sanstead House at a quarter past nine that evening. He was preceded by a Worried Look, Mr. Arnold Abney, a cabman bearing a large box, and the odd-job man carrying two suitcases. I have given precedence to the Worried Look because it was a thing by itself. To say that Mr. Abney wore it would be to create a wrong impression. Mr. Abney simply followed in its wake. He was concealed behind it much as Macbeth's army was concealed behind the woods of Dunsinane.
I only caught a glimpse of Ogden as Mr. Abney showed him into his study. He seemed a self-possessed boy, very like but, if anything, uglier than the portrait of him which I had seen at the Hotel Guelph.
A moment later the door opened, and my employer came out. He appeared relieved at seeing me.
'Ah, Mr. Burns, I was about to go in search of you. Can you spare me a moment? Let us go into the dining-room.'
'That is a boy called Ford, Mr. Burns,' he said, when he had closed the door. 'A rather—er—remarkable boy. He is an American, the son of a Mr. Elmer Ford. As he will be to a great extent in your charge, I should like to prepare you for his—ah—peculiarities.'
'Is he peculiar?'
A faint spasm disturbed Mr. Abney's face. He applied a silk handkerchief to his forehead before he replied.
'In many ways, judged by the standard of the lads who have passed through my hands—boys, of course, who, it is only fair to add, have enjoyed the advantages of a singularly refined home-life—he may be said to be—ah—somewhat peculiar. While I have no doubt that au fond … au fond he is a charming boy, quite charming, at present he is—shall I say?—peculiar. I am disposed to imagine that he has been, from childhood up, systematically indulged. There has been in his life, I suspect, little or no discipline. The result has been to make him curiously unboylike. There is a complete absence of that diffidence, that childish capacity for surprise, which I for one find so charming in our English boys. Little Ford appears to be completely blase'. He has tastes and ideas which are precocious, and—unusual in a boy of his age. … He expresses himself in a curious manner sometimes. … He seems to have little or no reverence for—ah—constituted authority.'
He paused while he passed his handkerchief once more over his forehead.
'Mr. Ford, the boy's father, who struck me as a man of great ability, a typical American merchant prince, was singularly frank with me about his domestic affairs as they concerned his son. I cannot recall his exact words, but the gist of what he said was that, until now, Mrs. Ford had had sole charge of the boy's upbringing, and—Mr. Ford was singularly outspoken—was too indulgent, in fact—ah—spoilt him. Indeed—you will, of course, respect my confidence—that was the real reason for the divorce which—ah—has unhappily come about. Mr. Ford regards this school as in a measure—shall I say?—an antidote. He wishes there to be no lack of wholesome discipline. So that I shall expect you, Mr. Burns, to check firmly, though, of course, kindly, such habits of his as—ah—cigarette-smoking. On our journey down he smoked incessantly. I found it impossible—without physical violence—to induce him to stop. But, of course, now that he is actually at the school, and subject to the discipline of the school … '
'Exactly,' I said.
'That was all I wished to say. Perhaps it would be as well if you saw him now, Mr. Burns. You will find him in the study.'
He drifted away, and I went to the study to introduce myself.
A cloud of tobacco-smoke rising above the back of an easy-chair greeted me as I opened the door. Moving into the room, I perceived a pair of boots resting on the grate. I stepped to the light, and the remainder of the Little Nugget came into view.
He was lying almost at full length in the chair, his eyes fixed in dreamy abstraction upon the ceiling. As I came towards him, he drew at the cigarette between his fingers, glanced at me, looked away again, and expelled another mouthful of smoke. He was not interested in me.
Perhaps this indifference piqued me, and I saw him with prejudiced eyes. At any rate, he seemed to me a singularly unprepossessing youth. That portrait had flattered him. He had a stout body and a round, unwholesome face. His eyes were dull, and his mouth dropped discontentedly. He had the air of one who is surfeited with life.
I am disposed to imagine, as Mr. Abney would have said, that my manner in addressing him was brisker and more incisive than Mr. Abney's own. I was irritated by his supercilious detachment.
'Throw away that cigarette,' I said.
To my amazement, he did, promptly. I was beginning to wonder whether I had not been too abrupt—he gave me a curious sensation of being a man of my own age—when he produced a silver case from his pocket and opened it. I saw that the cigarette in the fender was a stump.
I took the case from his hand and threw it on to a table. For the first time he seemed really to notice my existence.
'You've got a hell of a nerve,' he said.
He was certainly exhibiting his various gifts in rapid order, This, I took it, was what Mr. Abney had called 'expressing himself in a curious manner'.
'And don't swear,' I said.
We eyed each other narrowly for the space of some seconds.
'Who are you?' he demanded.
I introduced myself.
'What do you want to come butting in for?'
'I am paid to butt in. It's the main duty of an assistant-master.'
'Oh, you're the assistant-master, are you?'
'One of them. And, in passing—it's a small technical point—you're supposed to call me "sir" during these invigorating little chats of ours.'
'Call you what? Up an alley!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Fade away. Take a walk.'
I gathered that he was meaning to convey that he had considered my proposition, but regretted his inability to entertain it.
'Didn't you call your tutor "sir" when you were at home?'
'Me? Don't make me laugh. I've got a cracked lip.'
'I gather you haven't an overwhelming respect for those set in authority over you.'
'If you mean my tutors, I should say nix.'
'You use the plural. Had you a tutor before Mr. Broster?'
He laughed.
'Had I? Only about ten million.'
'Poor devils!' I said.
'Who's swearing now?'
The point was well taken. I corrected myself.
'Poor brutes! What happened to them? Did they commit suicide?'
'Oh, they quit. And I don't blame them. I'm a pretty tough proposition, and you don't want to forget it.'
He reached out for the cigarette-case. I pocketed it.
'You make me tired,' he said.
'The sensation's mutual.'
'Do you think you can swell around, stopping