Short Fiction - P. G. Wodehouse (top ten ebook reader txt) 📗

to soothe Sylvia and madden her father.

It was generally felt that the way to find favour in the eyes of Sylvia⁠—which were a charming blue, and well worth finding favour in⁠—was to show an intelligent and affectionate interest in her dog. This was so up to a certain point; but no farther, for the mournful recollection of Mr. Dallas prevented her from meeting their advances in quite the spirit they could have wished.

However, they persevered, and scarcely a week went by in which Thomas was not rescued from an artfully arranged horrible fate by somebody.

But all their energy was in reality wasted, for Sylvia remembered her faithful Reggie, who corresponded vigorously every day, and refused to be put off with worthless imitations. The lovesick swains, however, could not be expected to know of this, and the rescuing of Tommy proceeded briskly, now one, now another, playing the role of hero.

The very day after the conversation above recorded had taken place a terrible tragedy occurred.

The colonel, returning from a poor day’s shooting, observed through the mist that was beginning to rise a small form busily engaged in excavating in the precious carnation-bed. Slipping in a cartridge, he fired; and the skill which had deserted him during the day came back to him. There was a yelp; then silence. And Sylvia, rushing out from the house, found the luckless Thomas breathing his last on a heap of uprooted carnations.

The news was not long in spreading. The cook told the postman, and the postman thoughtfully handed it on to the servants at the rest of the houses on his round. By noon it was public property; and in the afternoon, at various times from two to five, nineteen young men were struck, quite independently of one another, with a brilliant idea.

The results of this idea were apparent on the following day.

“Is this all?” asked the colonel of the servant, as she brought in a couple of letters at breakfast-time.

“There’s a hamper for Miss Sylvia, sir.”

“A hamper, is there? Well, bring it in.”

“If you please, sir, there’s several of them.”

“What? Several? How many are there?”

“Nineteen, sir,” said Mary, restraining with some difficulty an inclination to giggle.

“Eh? What? Nineteen? Nonsense! Where are they?”

“We’ve put them in the coachhouse for the present, sir. And if you please, sir, cook says she thinks there’s something alive in them.”

“Something alive?”

“Yes, sir. And John says he thinks it’s dogs, sir!”

The colonel uttered a sound that was almost a bark, and, followed by Sylvia, rushed to the coachhouse. There, sure enough, as far as the eye could reach, were the hampers; and, as they looked, a sound proceeded from one of them that was unmistakably the plaintive note of a dog that has been shut up, and is getting tired of it.

Instantly the other eighteen hampers joined in, until the whole coachhouse rang with the noise.

The colonel subsided against a wall, and began to express himself softly in Hindustani.

“Poor dears!” said Sylvia. “How stuffy they must be feeling!”

She ran to the house, and returned with a basin of water.

“Poor dears!” she said again. “You’ll soon have something to drink.”

She knelt down by the nearest hamper, and cut the cord that fastened it. A pug jumped out like a jack-in-the-box, and rushed to the water. Sylvia continued her work of mercy, and by the time the colonel had recovered sufficiently to be able to express his views in English, eighteen more pugs had joined their companion.

“Get out, you brute!” shouted the colonel, as a dog insinuated itself between his legs. “Sylvia, put them back again this minute! You had no business to let them out. Put them back!”

“But I can’t, papa. I can’t catch them.”

She looked helplessly from him to the seething mass of dogs, and back again.

“Where’s my gun?” began the colonel.

“Papa, don’t! You couldn’t be so cruel! They aren’t doing any harm, poor things!”

“If I knew who sent them⁠—”

“Perhaps there’s something to show. Yes; here’s a visiting-card in this hamper.”

“Whose is it?” bellowed the colonel through the din.

“J. D’Arcy Henderson, The Firs,” read Sylvia, at the top of her voice.

“Young blackguard!” bawled the colonel.

“I expect there’s one in each of the hampers. Yes; here’s another. W. K. Ross, The Elms.”

The colonel came across, and began to examine the hampers with his own hand. Each hamper contained a visiting-card, and each card bore the name of a neighbour. The colonel returned to the breakfast-room, and laid the nineteen cards out in a row on the table.

“H’m!” he said, at last. “Mr. Reginald Dallas does not seem to be represented.”

Sylvia said nothing.

“No; he seems not to be represented. I did not give him credit for so much sense.” Then he dropped the subject, and breakfast proceeded in silence.

A young gentleman met the colonel on his walk that morning.

“Morning, colonel!” said he.

“Good morning!” said the colonel grimly.

“Er⁠—colonel, I⁠—er⁠—suppose Miss Reynolds got that dog all right?”

“To which dog do you refer?”

“It was a pug, you know. It ought to have arrived by this time.”

“Yes. I am inclined to think it has. Had it any special characteristics?”

“No, I don’t think so. Just an ordinary pug.”

“Well, young man, if you will go to my coachhouse, you will find nineteen ordinary pugs; and if you would kindly select your beast, and shoot it, I should be much obliged.”

“Nineteen?” said the other, in astonishment. “Why, are you setting up as a dog-fancier in your old age, colonel?”

This was too much for the colonel. He exploded.

“Old age! Confound your impudence! Dog-fancier! No, sir! I have not become a dog-fancier in what you are pleased to call my old age! But while there is no law to prevent a lot of dashed young puppies like yourself, sir⁠—like yourself⁠—sending your confounded pug-dogs to my daughter, who ought to have known better than to have let them out of their dashed hampers, I have no defence.

“Dog-fancier! Gad! Unless those dogs are removed by this time tomorrow, sir, they will go straight to the Battersea Home, where I devoutly trust they will