The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man With Two Left Feet, by P. G. Wodehouse #26 in our series by P. G. Wodehouse
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Title: The Man With Two Left Feet And Other Stories
Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7471] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on May 6, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET ***
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THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET
by P. G. WODEHOUSE
1917
CONTENTS
BILL THE BLOODHOUND
EXTRICATING YOUNG GUSSIE
WILTON’S HOLIDAY
THE MIXER—I
THE MIXER—II
CROWNED HEADS
AT GEISENHEIMER’S
THE MAKING OF MAC’S
ONE TOUCH OF NATURE
BLACK FOR LUCK
THE ROMANCE OF AN UGLY POLICEMAN
A SEA OF TROUBLES
THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET
BILL THE BLOODHOUND
There’s a divinity that shapes out ends. Consider the case of Henry Pifield Rice, detective.
I must explain Henry early, to avoid disappointment. If I simply said he was a detective, and let it go at that, I should be obtaining the reader’s interest under false pretences. He was really only a sort of detective, a species of sleuth. At Stafford’s International Investigation Bureau, in the Strand, where he was employed, they did not require him to solve mysteries which had baffled the police. He had never measured a footprint in his life, and what he did not know about bloodstains would have filled a library. The sort of job they gave Henry was to stand outside a restaurant in the rain, and note what time someone inside left it. In short, it is not ‘Pifield Rice, Investigator. No. 1.—The Adventure of the Maharajah’s Ruby’ that I submit to your notice, but the unsensational doings of a quite commonplace young man, variously known to his comrades at the Bureau as ‘Fathead’, ‘That blighter what’s-his- name’, and ‘Here, you!’
Henry lived in a boarding-house in Guildford Street. One day a new girl came to the boarding-house, and sat next to Henry at meals. Her name was Alice Weston. She was small and quiet, and rather pretty. They got on splendidly. Their conversation, at first confined to the weather and the moving-pictures, rapidly became more intimate. Henry was surprised to find that she was on the stage, in the chorus. Previous chorus-girls at the boarding-house had been of a more pronounced type—good girls, but noisy, and apt to wear beauty-spots. Alice Weston was different.
‘I’m rehearsing at present,’ she said. ‘I’m going out on tour next month in “The Girl From Brighton”. What do you do, Mr Rice?’
Henry paused for a moment before replying. He knew how sensational he was going to be.
‘I’m a detective.’
Usually, when he told girls his profession, squeaks of amazed admiration greeted him. Now he was chagrined to perceive in the brown eyes that met his distinct disapproval.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, a little anxiously, for even at this early stage in their acquaintance he was conscious of a strong desire to win her approval. ‘Don’t you like detectives?’
