Misunderstood by P. G. Wodehouse
The profession of Mr. James ("Spider") Buffin was pocket-picking. His
hobby was revenge. James had no objection to letting the sun go down on
his wrath. Indeed, it was after dark that he corrected his numerous
enemies most satisfactorily. It was on a dark night, while he was
settling a small score against one Kelly, a mere acquaintance, that he
first fell foul of Constable Keating, whose beat took him through the
regions which James most frequented.
James, having "laid for" Mr. Kelly, met him in a murky side-street down
Clerkenwell way, and attended to his needs with a sand-bag.
It was here that Constable Keating first came prominently into his
life. Just as James, with the satisfying feeling that his duty had been
done, was preparing to depart, Officer Keating, who had been a distant
spectator of the affair, charged up and seized him.
It was intolerable that he should interfere in a purely private
falling-out between one gentleman and another, but there was nothing to
be done. The policeman weighed close upon fourteen stone, and could
have eaten Mr. Buffin. The latter, inwardly seething, went quietly, and
in due season was stowed away at the Government's expense for the space
of sixty days.
Physically, there is no doubt that his detention did him good. The
regular hours and the substitution of bread and water for his wonted
diet improved his health thirty per cent. It was mentally that he
suffered. His was one of those just-as-good cheap-substitute minds,
incapable of harbouring more than one idea at a time, and during those
sixty days of quiet seclusion it was filled with an ever-growing
resentment against Officer Keating. Every day, as he moved about his
appointed tasks, he brooded on his wrongs. Every night was to him but
the end of another day that kept him from settling down to the serious
business of Revenge. To be haled to prison for correcting a private
enemy with a sand-bag—that was what stung. In the privacy of his cell
he dwelt unceasingly on the necessity for revenge. The thing began to
take on to him the aspect almost of a Holy Mission, a sort of Crusade.
* * * * *
The days slipped by, bringing winter to Clerkenwell, and with it Mr.
Buffin. He returned to his old haunts one Friday night, thin but in
excellent condition. One of the first acquaintances he met was Officer
Keating. The policeman, who had a good memory for faces, recognised
him, and stopped.
"So you're out, young feller?" he said genially. When not in the active
discharge of his professional duties the policeman was a kindly man. He
bore Mr. Buffin no grudge.
"Um," said Mr. Buffin.
"Feeling fine, eh?"
"Goin' round to see some of the chaps and pass them the time of day, I
"Well, you keep clear of that lot down in Frith Street, young feller.
They're no good. And if you get mixed up with them, first thing you
know, you'll be in trouble again. And you want to keep out of that
"If you never get into trouble," said the policeman sententiously,
"you'll never have to get out of it."
"Um," said Mr. Buffin. If he had a fault as a conversationalist, it was
a certain tendency to monotony, a certain lack of sparkle and variety
in his small-talk.
Constable Keating, with a dignified but friendly wave of the hand, as
one should say, "You have our leave to depart," went on his way; while
Mr. Buffin, raging, shuffled off in the opposite direction, thinking as
hard as his limited mental equipment would allow him.
His thoughts, which were many and confused, finally composed themselves
into some order. He arrived at a definite conclusion, which was that if
the great settlement was to be carried through successfully it must be
done when the policeman was off duty. Till then he had pictured himself
catching Officer Keating in an unguarded moment on his beat. This, he
now saw, was out of the question. On his beat the policeman had no
unguarded moments. There was a quiet alertness in his poise, a
danger-signal in itself.
There was only one thing for Mr. Buffin to do. Greatly as it would go
against the grain, he must foregather with the man, win his confidence,
put himself in a position where he would be able to find out what he
did with himself when off duty.
The policeman offered no obstacle to the move. A supreme
self-confidence was his leading characteristic. Few London policemen
are diffident, and Mr. Keating was no exception. It never occurred to
him that there could be an ulterior motive behind Mr. Buffin's
advances. He regarded Mr. Buffin much as one regards a dog which one
has had to chastise. One does not expect the dog to lie in wait and
bite. Officer Keating did not expect Mr. Buffin to lie in wait and
So every day, as he strolled on his beat, there sidled up to him
the meagre form of Spider Buffin. Every day there greeted him the
Spider's "Good-morning, Mr. Keating," till the sight of Officer Keating
walking solidly along the pavement with Spider Buffin shuffling along
at his side, listening with rapt interest to his views on Life and his
hints on Deportment, became a familiar spectacle in Clerkenwell.
* * * * *
Mr. Buffin played his part well. In fact, too well. It was on the
seventh day that, sidling along in the direction of his favourite place
of refreshment, he found himself tapped on the shoulder. At the same
moment an arm, linking itself in his, brought him gently to a halt.
Beside him were standing two of the most eminent of the great Frith
Street Gang, Otto the Sausage and Rabbit Butler. It was the finger of
the Rabbit that had tapped his shoulder. The arm tucked in his was the
arm of Otto the Sausage.
"Hi, Spider," said Mr. Butler, "Sid wants to see you a minute."
The Spider's legs felt boneless. There was nothing in the words to
alarm a man, but his practised ear had seemed to detect a certain
unpleasant dryness in the speaker's tone. Sid Marks, the all-powerful
leader of the Frith Street Gang, was a youth whose company the Spider
had always avoided with some care.
The great Sid, seated in state at a neighbouring hostelry, fixed his
visitor with a cold and questioning eye. Mr. Buffin looked nervous and
interrogative. Mr. Marks spoke.
"Your pal Keating pinched Porky Binns this mornin'," said Sid.
The Spider's heart turned to water.
"You and that slop," observed Sid dreamily, "have been bloomin' thick
Mr. Buffin did not affect to misunderstand. Sid Marks was looking at
him in that nasty way. Otto the Sausage was looking at him in that
nasty way. Rabbit Butler was looking at him in that nasty way. This was
an occasion where manly frankness was the quality most to be aimed at.
To be misunderstood in the circles in which Mr. Buffin moved meant
something more than the mere risk of being treated with cold
He began to explain with feverish eagerness.
"Strike me, Sid," he stammered, "it ain't like that. It's all right.
Blimey, you don't fink I'm a nark?"
Mr. Marks chewed a straw in silence.
"I'm layin' for him, Sid," babbled Mr. Buffin. "That's true. Strike me
if it ain't. I'm just tryin' to find out where he goes when he's off
duty. He pinched me, so I'm layin' for him."
Mr. Marks perpended. Rabbit Butler respectfully gave it as his opinion
that it would be well to put Mr. Buffin through it. There was nothing
like being on the safe side. By putting Mr. Buffin through it, argued
Rabbit Butler, they would stand to win either way. If he had
"smitched" to Officer Keating about Porky Binns he would deserve it. If
he had not—well, it would prevent him doing so on some future
occasion. Play for safety, was Mr. Butler's advice, seconded by Otto
the Sausage. Mr. Buffin, pale to the lips, thought he had never met two
more unpleasant persons.
The Great Sid, having chewed his straw for a while in silence,
delivered judgment. The prisoner should have the benefit of the doubt
this time. His story, however unplausible, might possibly be true.
Officer Keating undoubtedly had pinched him. That was in his favour.
"You can hop it this time," he said, "but if you ever do start
smitchin', Spider, yer knows what'll happen."
Mr. Buffin withdrew, quaking.
Matters had now come to a head. Unless he very speedily gave proof
of his pure and noble intentions, life would become extremely unsafe
for him. He must act at once. The thought of what would happen should
another of the Frith Streeters be pinched before he, Mr. Buffin, could
prove himself innocent of the crime of friendliness with Officer Keating,
turned him cold.
Fate played into his hands. On the very next morning Mr. Keating, all
unsuspecting, asked him to go to his home with a message for his wife.
"Tell her," said Mr. Keating, "a newspaper gent has given me seats for
the play to-night, and I'll be home at a quarter to seven."
Mr. Buffin felt as Cromwell must have felt at Dunbar when the Scots
left their stronghold on the hills and came down to the open plain.
The winter had set in with some severity that year, and Mr. Buffin's
toes, as he stood in the shadows close to the entrance of the villa
where Officer Keating lived when off duty, were soon thoroughly frozen.
He did not dare to stamp his feet, for at any moment now the victim
might arrive. And when the victim weighs fourteen stone, against the
high priest's eight and a half, it behooves the latter to be
circumspect, if the sacrifice is to be anything like a success. So Mr.
Buffin waited and froze in silence. It was a painful process, and he
added it to the black score which already stood against Officer
Keating. Never had his thirst for revenge been more tormenting. It is
doubtful if a strictly logical and impartial judge would have held Mr.
Keating to blame for the fact that Sid Marks' suspicions (and all that
those suspicions entailed) had fallen upon Mr. Buffin; but the Spider
did so. He felt fiercely resentful against the policeman for placing
him in such an unpleasant and dangerous position. As his thoughts ran
on the matter, he twisted his fingers tighter round his stick.
As he did so there came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet and
a cheerful whistling of "The Wearing of the Green." It is a lugubrious
song as a rule, but, as rendered by Officer Keating returning home with
theatre tickets, it had all the joyousness of a march-tune.
Every muscle in Mr. Buffin's body stiffened. He gripped his stick and
waited. The road was deserted. In another moment….
And then, from nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. The
whistling stopped in the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out,
and then a confused medley of sound, the rasping of feet, a growling
almost canine, a sharp yelp, gasps, and over all the vast voice of
Officer Keating threatening slaughter.
For a moment Mr. Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had been
so sudden, so unexpected. And then, as he realised what was happening,
there swept over him in a wave a sense of intolerable injustice. It is
not easy to describe his emotions, but they resembled most nearly those
of an inventor whose patent has been infringed, or an author whose idea
has been stolen. For weeks—and weeks that had seemed like years—he
had marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For weeks he had tortured
a mind all unused to thinking into providing him with schemes for
accomplishing his end. He had outraged his nature by being civil to a
policeman. He had risked his life by incurring the suspicions of Sid
Marks. He had bought a stick. And he had waited in the cold till his
face was blue and his feet blocks of ice. And now … now …
after all this … a crowd of irresponsible strangers, with no rights
in the man whatsoever probably, if the truth were known, filled with
mere ignoble desire for his small change, had dared to rush in and jump
his claim before his very eyes.
With one passionate cry, Mr. Buffin, forgetting his frozen feet, lifted
his stick, and galloped down the road to protect his property….
"That's the stuff," said a voice. "Pour some more into him, Jerry."
Mr. Buffin opened his eyes. A familiar taste was in his mouth. Somebody
of liberal ideas seemed to be pouring whisky down his throat. Could
this be Heaven? He raised his head, and a sharp pain shot through it.
And with the pain came recollection. He remembered now, dimly, as if it
had all happened in another life, the mad rush down the road, the
momentary pause in the conflict, and then its noisy renewal on a more
impressive scale. He remembered striking out left and right with his
stick. He remembered the cries of the wounded, the pain of his frozen
feet, and finally the crash of something hard and heavy on his head.
He sat up, and found himself the centre of a little crowd. There was
Officer Keating, dishevelled but intact; three other policemen, one of
whom was kneeling by his side with a small bottle in his hand; and, in
the grip of the two were standing two youths.
One was Otto the Sausage; the other was Rabbit Butler.
The kneeling policeman was proffering the bottle once more. Mr. Buffin
snatched at it. He felt that it was just what at that moment he needed
* * * * *
He did what he could. The magistrate asked for his evidence. He said he
had none. He said he thought there must be some mistake. With a twisted
smile in the direction of the prisoners, he said that he did not
remember having seen either of them at the combat. He didn't believe
they were there at all. He didn't believe they were capable of such a
thing. If there was one man who was less likely to assault a policeman
than Otto the Sausage, it was Rabbit Butler. The Bench reminded him
that both these innocents had actually been discovered in Officer
Keating's grasp. Mr. Buffin smiled a harassed smile, and wiped a drop
of perspiration from his brow.
Officer Keating was enthusiastic. He described the affair from start to
finish. But for Mr. Buffin he would have been killed. But for Mr.
Buffin there would have been no prisoners in court that day. The world
was full of men with more or less golden hearts, but there was only one
Mr. Buffin. Might he shake hands with Mr. Buffin?
The magistrate ruled that he might. More, he would shake hands with him
himself. Summoning Mr. Buffin behind his desk, he proceeded to do so.
If there were more men like Mr. Buffin, London would be a better place.
It was the occasional discovery in our midst of ethereal natures like
that of Mr. Buffin which made one so confident for the future of the
The paragon shuffled out. It was bright and sunny in the street, but in
Mr. Buffin's heart there was no sunlight. He was not a quick thinker,
but he had come quite swiftly to the conclusion that London was no
longer the place for him. Sid Marks had been in court chewing a straw
and listening with grave attention to the evidence, and for one moment
Mr. Buffin had happened to catch his eye. No medical testimony as to
the unhealthiness of London could have moved him more.
Once round the corner, he ran. It hurt his head to run, but there were
things behind him that could hurt his head more than running.
* * * * *
At the entrance to the Tube he stopped. To leave the locality he must
have money. He felt in his pockets. Slowly, one by one, he pulled forth
his little valuables. His knife … his revolver … the magistrate's
gold watch … He inspected them sadly. They must all go.
He went into a pawnbroker's shop at the corner of the street. A few
moments later, with money in his pockets, he dived into the Tube.