The Little Nugget

by P. G. Wodehouse

'Who was the man who just left, Miss Benjafield?' I asked.

She marked the place with a shapely thumb and looked up.

'The man? Oh, him! He's—why, weren't you in here, Mr Burns, one evening in January when—'

'That American?'

'That's him. What he's doing here I don't know. He disappeared quite a while back, and I haven't seen him since. Nor want. Tonight up he turns again like a bad ha'penny. I'd like to know what he's after. No good, if you ask me.'

Miss Benjafield's prejudices did not easily dissolve. She prided herself, as she frequently observed, on knowing her own mind.

'Is he staying here?'

'Not at the "Feathers". We're particular who we have here.'

I thanked her for the implied compliment, ordered beer for the good of the house, and, lighting a pipe, sat down to meditate on this new development.

The vultures were gathered together with a vengeance. Sam within, Buck without, it was quite like old times, with the difference that now, I, too, was on the wrong side of the school door.