Something New - P. G. Wodehouse (books to read to get smarter txt) 📗

“ ‘Add the latter to the sauce.’ ”

“You didn’t say anything about the latter. Oh, I see; it means the half-inch cubes. Yes?”

“ ‘Refill the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bake until the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons.’ ”

“And make them feel an hour afterward as though they had swallowed a live wild cat,” said Mr. Peters ruefully.

“Not necessarily,” said Ashe. “I could eat two portions of that at this very minute and go off to bed and sleep like a little child.”

Mr. Peters raised himself on his elbow and stared at him. They were in the millionaire’s bedroom, the time being one in the morning, and Mr. Peters had expressed a wish that Ashe should read him to sleep. He had voted against Ashe’s novel and produced from the recesses of his suitcase a much-thumbed cookbook. He explained that since his digestive misfortunes had come on him he had derived a certain solace from its perusal.

It may be that to some men sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things; but Mr. Peters had not found that to be the case. In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read of Hungarian Goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he, too, the nut-and-grass eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia.

The passage of the days, which had so sapped the stamina of the Efficient Baxter, had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters. His was one of those natures that cannot deal in half measures. Whatever he did, he did with the same driving energy. After the first passionate burst of resistance he had settled down into a model pupil in Ashe’s one-man school of physical culture. It had been the same, now that he came to look back on it, at Muldoon’s.

Now that he remembered, he had come away from White Plains hoping, indeed, never to see the place again, but undeniably a different man physically. It was not the habit of Professor Muldoon to let his patients loaf; but Mr. Peters, after the initial plunge, had needed no driving. He had worked hard at his cure then, because it was the job in hand. He worked hard now, under the guidance of Ashe, because, once he had begun, the thing interested and gripped him.

Ashe, who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished and delighted at the way in which the millionaire had behaved. Nature had really intended Ashe for a trainer; he identified himself so thoroughly with his man and rejoiced at the least signs of improvement.

In Mr. Peters’ case there had been distinct improvement already. Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it was too much to expect one who had maltreated his body so consistently for so many years to become whole in a day; but to an optimist like Ashe signs were not wanting that in due season Mr. Peters would rise on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher things, and though never soaring into the class that devours lobster à la Newburg and smiles after it, might yet prove himself a devil of a fellow among the mutton chops.

“You’re a wonder!” said Mr. Peters. “You’re fresh, and you have no respect for your elders and betters; but you deliver the goods. That’s the point. Why, I’m beginning to feel great! Say, do you know I felt a new muscle in the small of my back this morning? They are coming out on me like a rash.”

“That’s the Larsen Exercises. They develop the whole body.”

“Well, you’re a pretty good advertisement for them if they need one. What were you before you came to me⁠—a prizefighter?”

“That’s the question everybody I have met since I arrived here has asked me. I believe it made the butler think I was some sort of crook when I couldn’t answer it. I used to write stories⁠—detective stories.”

“What you ought to be doing is running a place over here in England like Muldoon has back home. But you will be able to write one more story out of this business here, if you want to. When are you going to have another try for my scarab?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight? How about Baxter?”

“I shall have to risk Baxter.”

Mr. Peters hesitated. He had fallen out of the habit of being magnanimous during the past few years, for dyspepsia brooks no divided allegiance and magnanimity has to take a back seat when it has its grip on you.

“See here,” he said awkwardly; “I’ve been thinking this over lately⁠—and what’s the use? It’s a queer thing; and if anybody had told me a week ago that I should be saying it I wouldn’t have believed him; but I am beginning to like you. I don’t want to get you into trouble. Let the old scarab go. What’s a scarab anyway? Forget about it and stick on here as my private Muldoon. If it’s the five thousand that’s worrying you, forget that too. I’ll give it to you as your fee.”

Ashe was astounded. That it could really be his peppery employer who spoke was almost unbelievable. Ashe’s was a friendly nature and he could never be long associated with anyone without trying to establish pleasant relations; but he had resigned himself in the present case to perpetual warfare.

He was touched; and if he had ever contemplated abandoning his venture, this, he felt, would have spurred him on to see it through. This sudden revelation of the human in Mr. Peters was like a trumpet call.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “It’s great of you to suggest such a thing; but I know just how you feel about the thing, and I’m going to get it for you if I have to wring Baxter’s neck. Probably Baxter will have given up waiting as a bad job by now if he has been watching all this while. We’ve given him ten nights to cool off. I expect he is in bed, dreaming pleasant dreams. It’s nearly two o’clock. I’ll wait another ten minutes and then go down.” He picked up the cookbook. “Lie back and