Something New | Page 8

named Emerson."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the first time. But it's
all right. He's a good chap, don't you know! --and all that sort of rot."
Lord Emsworth was feeling too benevolent to raise the objections he

certainly would have raised had his mood been less sunny.
"Certainly; let him come if he wishes."
"Thanks, gov'nor."
Freddie completed his toilet.
"Doing anything special this morning, gov'nor? I rather thought of
getting a bit of breakfast and then strolling round a bit. Have you had
breakfast?"
"Two hours ago. I trust that in the course of your strolling you will find
time to call at Mr. Peters' and see Aline. I shall be going there directly
after lunch. Mr. Peters wishes to show me his collection of--I think
scarabs was the word he used."
"Oh, I'll look in all right! Don't you worry! Or if I don't I'll call the old
boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well, I rather think I'll be
popping off and getting that bit of breakfast--what?"
Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to Lord
Emsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie's allusion to
one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy." Second, his son's
attitude did not strike him as the ideal attitude of a young man toward
his betrothed. There seemed to be a lack of warmth. But, he reflected,
possibly this was simply another manifestation of the modern spirit;
and in any case it was not worth bothering about; so he offered no
criticism.
Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silk
handkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, they passed
out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where they
parted--Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potter about the
streets and kill time until luncheon. London was always a trial to the
Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country and the city held no
fascinations for him.

* * *
On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of the streets that
slope precipitously from the Strand to the Thames Embankment, there
is a door that would be all the better for a lick of paint, which bears
what is perhaps the most modest and unostentatious announcement of
its kind in London. The grimy ground-glass displays the words:
R. JONES
Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity. You
wonder, as you look at it--if you have time to look at and wonder about
these things--who this Jones may be; and what is the business he
conducts with such coy reticence.
As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed through suspicious
minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time taken not a little
interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining that he bought and sold
curios, did a certain amount of bookmaking during the flat-racing
season, and had been known to lend money, Scotland Yard did not find
out much about Mr. Jones and presently dismissed him from its
thoughts.
On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that it is the
lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and that the "fat,
sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights," are harmless, R. Jones
should have been above suspicion. He was infinitely the fattest man in
the west-central postal district of London. He was a round ball of a man,
who wheezed when he walked upstairs, which was seldom, and shook
like jelly if some tactless friend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped
him unexpectedly on the shoulder. But this occurred still less
frequently than his walking upstairs; for in R. Jones' circle it was
recognized that nothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form
than to tap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt,
should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it.
R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve complexion,
jovial among his friends, and perhaps even more jovial with chance

acquaintances. It was estimated by envious intimates that his joviality
with chance acquaintances, specially with young men of the upper
classes, with large purses and small foreheads--was worth hundreds of
pounds a year to him. There was something about his comfortable
appearance and his jolly manner that irresistibly attracted a certain type
of young man. It was his good fortune that this type of young man
should be the type financially most worth attracting.
Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his short but
crowded life in London. They had met for the first time at the Derby;
and ever since then R. Jones had held