Oppenheim The Inevitable Millionaires

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-83-8148-470-1
Verlag: Ktoczyta.pl
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 299 Seiten

In this funny satire, Oppenheim offers us an argument that has been used in several movies: Two brothers come into a large inheritance with a pre-condition that they need to spend a big amount of money within a month. In the letter from their deceased father, they are enjoined to learn how to spend as well as that have learned how to save. The story deals with their noble efforts to spend their money without waste or ostentation. They back a musical comedy, finance a gold club, back an inventor who wants to extract rubber from sea weed - will they be able to get rid of their fortune? Join the likeable Mr. Steven and Mr. George Henry Underwood in this goodhearted comedy of 'The Inevitable Millionaires'.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Oppenheim, E. Phillips

Leseproben

CHAPTER II It is probable that George Henry had never admired his brother more than at the moment when he made this bold pronouncement. The ‘Milan’ was known by name to both of them and represented all the things which they had hitherto studiously avoided in life. Needless to say, neither of them had ever crossed its portals. “We shall need money,” he observed in an awed tone. “That we must at once arrange,” was the firm reply. “We must make it a habit now to carry money with us. One can never tell when the opportunity for expenditure may arise.” They left their place of business, George Henry collecting himself sufficiently to observe, with a sigh, that Harold’s stool, which had been temporarily occupied during the morning, was again vacant. A few minutes later the swing doors of a neighbouring bank were pushed open, and the brothers entered. They were neither of them of commanding presence, their attire was ordinary, their bearing unassuming. Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the bank for the next few minutes can only be described as resembling one velvety purr. A cashier hurried from the back regions to greet them with a welcoming smile. The commissionaire raised his hat a whole foot away from his head. The manager himself waved his hand from behind the curtains of his private office and embarked upon a desperate struggle to get rid of an importunate client, who desired to increase his overdraft. Meanwhile, Stephen produced a cheque book from his pocket, carefully filled in the counterfoil first, and, in a reasonable space of time, handed across the counter a cheque for a thousand pounds. “In tens and twenties, if you please,” he directed. The cashier received the cheque with an unctuous smile, drew a glass receptacle filled with water to his side, wetted his forefinger, and commenced the business of counting. “Five hundred pounds in tens, Mr. Underwood, and five hundred in twenties,” he remarked urbanely a few minutes later, as he pushed the two little piles of notes across the counter. “Wonderfully mild weather we are having.” “Extraordinary for the time of the year,” Stephen agreed. “Quite remarkable,” George Henry echoed. Then there was a brief silence. The brothers had produced very similar brown morocco pocketbooks and were absorbed in the task of dividing the money. Finally this was accomplished and they turned to leave the bank, after a further exchange of civilities. Before they reached the door, however, they were overtaken by the bank manager, who had got rid of his client. “Good morning, gentlemen!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “I’ll walk along with you to Prosser’s. You’ve left us a little money to be going on with, I hope.” Neither brother replied to the time-honoured joke. They exchanged glances, and George Henry nodded slightly. It was Stephen who accepted the onus of disclosure. “We are not going to Prosser’s this morning, Mr. Lawford,” he announced deliberately. “Not this morning,” George Henry echoed. Mr. Lawford stopped short upon the pavement. His appearance indicated shock. “Not going–to Prosser’s?” he faltered. “God bless my soul!” He glanced feverishly at the date upon the newspaper which he was carrying. It was Tuesday, beyond a doubt–a common, ordinary week-day. Reassured, he sought for enlightenment. “You are both all right, eh?” he asked anxiously. “Perfectly,” George Henry assured him. “The fact is,” Stephen announced, with an elaborate air of unconcern, “we are lunching in the West End.” “Having just a snack at the ‘Milan’,” George Henry put in airily. “God bless my soul!” Mr. Lawford murmured again, thereby displaying a pitiful lack of originality in his emotional outlets. “Ah!–a customer, perhaps?” he added, seizing eagerly upon a possible explanation. “I thought you always left that sort of thing to Mr. Hanworth?” “We do,” Stephen acquiesced. “If you are going to Prosser’s, perhaps you will be good enough to tell William not to reserve our places to-day.” Mr. Lawford had found himself. He understood that any further expression of astonishment would be out of place. “Certainly! Certainly!” he agreed. “You haven’t forgotten that this is boiled beef and dumplings day?” he added jocularly. “Well, well, good morning! Prosser’s won’t seem itself, without you.” The brothers hailed a taxicab, and Stephen gave the address. There was a brief silence after they had started on their pilgrimage westwards. “Mr. Lawford seemed quite surprised,” George Henry observed presently. “Unreasonably so, I thought,” Stephen assented severely. “Mr. Lawford is a man of the world. He should realize that one’s movements are subject to–er–derangement.” George Henry coughed. “Except on holidays,” he ventured, “and the week when you had a bilious attack, we have lunched at Prosser’s, at the same table, every day for eleven years.” Stephen frowned. “It is too long,” he declared. “I am very glad that Mr. Duncan thought the time had arrived to send on our dear father’s letter. If we are not careful, we shall get groovey. We must make changes–in other directions as well, perhaps. We must not get into a rut.” George Henry shivered a little with excitement as he listened to his brother’s bold words. The taxicab driver leaned backwards and addressed them through the window. “Café Parisien or restaurant?” he inquired. George Henry was, by accident of places, the recipient of this inquiry. Vaguely excited by his brother’s words, he was all for adventure. The Café Parisien sounded foreign and mysterious. His voice almost shook as he replied: “The Café, driver.” He leaned back in his seat with the air of one who has performed a great deed. Stephen smiled approvingly. “The Café Parisien sounds most attractive,” he admitted. “This, I suppose, is it.” The taxicab had turned into the ‘Milan’ courtyard, and pulled up outside the glass-covered portico on the left-hand side. A liveried servant opened the door. Gorgeous persons in silk coats and knee breeches relieved them of their hats and umbrellas in a little lobby crowded with a most distinctly cosmopolitan throng. It was, perhaps, not altogether to be wondered at that, when the brothers pushed open the swing doors and stood upon the threshold of the restaurant, they were conscious of a certain sense of confusion. The room was full, and there was no one to recognize in them new and important patrons. They missed the obsequious approach of the head waiter at Prosser’s, the respectful greetings of City men to whom their name was holy, the urbane smile of the frock-coated manager himself. At Prosser’s, too, the feminine element was entirely absent–here it was insistent and amazing. A dark-eyed Frenchwoman, wearing a military widow’s veil, carrying a small dog under her arm, and displaying more ankle and leg than either Stephen or George Henry had seen for a great many years, enveloped them in a little cloud of perfume and pushed past with a muttered–“Pardon, messieurs!” And at every table. The brothers exchanged doubtful glances. George Henry coughed. “These young ladies seem rather young to be lunching in a public restaurant,” he murmured. “They are, perhaps, older than they seem,” Stephen replied, with an air of wisdom. It was at this precise moment that Providence intervened on behalf of the newcomers. The High Priest of the Café, gazing around him for a means of escape from an undesirable but persistent client, saw them blocking the way. His necessity invested their presence with a new significance. He bore down upon them like a whirlwind. His bow and smile were such as were usually reserved for patrons of the highest distinction. “We should like some luncheon,” Stephen confided. “We have been recommended here by a friend.” Monsieur Louis, recovering from the shock of this somewhat quaint introduction, looked around the place long and searchingly. He would have been glad to have found a retired table for these unusual but opportune patrons. The place, however, was packed. “If you could wait for a quarter of an hour, gentlemen,” he ventured. The faces of the two brothers fell simultaneously. It was obvious that the suggestion was unwelcome. “We are used to lunching punctually at a quarter-past one,” George Henry explained. “My brother’s digestion––” “There is a table here,” Stephen interrupted, pointing to one just inside the door. The maître d’hôtel hesitated. It was true that he had the table in question at his disposal, for it had only that morning been given up by a regular patron who had returned to America. It was one of the most desirable in the room, and he had been reserving it as a bon bouchefor some especial client. Like all great men, however, confronted with a crisis, he made up his mind quickly. With a shrug of the shoulders he withdrew the “Reserved” card from its place, and invited his new patrons to be seated. “It was...