Plum Punch: Four Short Tales
P. G. WODEHOUSE
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
DUDLEY JONES, BORE-HUNTER
I.
II.
MISUNDERSTOOD (A STORY OF THE STONE AGE)
EGBERT, BULL-FROG
THE SLUGGARD
DUDLEY JONES, BORE-HUNTER
I.
As is now well known, my friend, Mr. DUDLEY JONES perished under painful circumstances on the top of Mount Vesuvius. His passion for research induced him to lean over the edge of the crater in such a way as to upset his equipoise. When we retrieved him he was a good deal charred, and, to be brief, of very little use to anybody. One of our noblest poets speaks of a cat which was useless except to roast. In the case of DUDLEY JONES, even that poor exception would not have held good. He was done to a turn.
DUDLEY JONES was a man who devoted his best energy to the extinction of bores. With a clear-sightedness which few modern philanthropists possess, he recognised that, though Society had many enemies, none was so deadly as the bore. Burglars, indeed, JONES regarded with disapproval, and I have known him to be positively rude to a man who confessed in the course of conversation to being a forger. But his real foes were the bores, and all that one man could do to eliminate that noxious tribe, that did DUDLEY JONES do with all his might.
Of all his cases none seems to me so fraught with importance as the adventure of the Unwelcome Guest. It was, as JONES remarked at intervals of ten minutes, a black business. This guest—but I will begin at the beginning.
We were standing at the window of our sitting-room in Grocer Square on the morning of June 8, 189-, when a new brougham swept clean up to our door. We heard the bell ring, and footsteps ascending the stairs.
There was a knock.
'Come in,' said JONES; and our visitor entered.
'My name is Miss PETTIGREW,' she observed, by way of breaking the ice.
'Please take a seat,' said JONES in his smooth professional accents. 'This is my friend WUDDUS. I generally allow him to remain during my consultations. You see, he makes himself useful in a lot of little ways, taking notes and so on. And then, if we turned him out, he would only listen at the keyhole. You follow me, I trust? WUDDUS, go and lie down on the mat. Now, Miss PETTIGREW, if you please.'
'Mine,' began Miss PETTIGREW, 'is a very painful case.'
'They all are,' said JONES.
'I was recommended to come to you by a Mrs. EDWARD NOODLE. She said that you had helped her husband in a great crisis.
'WUDDUS,' said JONES, who to all appearances was half asleep, 'fetch my scrapbook.'
The press-cutting relating to Mr. EDWARD NOODLE was sandwiched between a statement that Mr. BALFOUR never eats doughnuts, and a short essay on the treatment of thrush in infants.
'Ah,' said JONES, 'I remember the case now. It was out of my usual line, being simply a case of theft. Mr. NOODLE was wrongfully accused of purloining a needle.'
'I remember,' I said eagerly. 'The case for the prosecution was that NEDDY NOODLE nipped his neighbour's needle.'
'WUDDUS,' said JONES coldly, 'be quiet. Yes, Miss PETTIGREW?'
'I will state my case as briefly as possible, Mr. JONES. Until two months ago my father and I lived alone, and were as happy as could possibly be. Then my uncle, Mr. STANLEY PETTIGREW, came to stay. Since that day we have not known what happiness is. He is driving us to distraction. He
'Stories?'
'Yes. Chiefly tales of travel. Oh, Mr. JONES, it is terrible.'
JONES'S face grew cold and set.
'Then the man is a bore?' he said.
'A dreadful bore.'
'I will look into this matter, Miss PETTIGREW. One last question. In the case of your father's demise—this is purely hypothetical—a considerable quantity of his property would, I suppose, go to Mr. STANLEY PETTIGREW?'
'More than half.'
'Thank you. That, I think, is all this morning. Good-day, Miss PETTIGREW.'
And our visitor, with a bright smile—at me, I always maintain, though JONES declares it was at him—left the room.
