Something New - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (books to read for self improvement TXT) 📗

Said,  And Her Voice Was--For

Her--Quite Acid. "You--You Take Too Much For Granted."

 

George Was Contemplating The Landscape With A Conqueror's Eye.

 

"You Are Beginning To See That It Is Impossible--This Freddie

Foolishness."

 

"It Is Not Foolishness," Said Aline Pettishly,  Tears Of Annoyance

In Her Eyes. "And I Wish You Wouldn't Call Him Freddie."

 

"He Asked Me To. He Asked Me To!"

 

Aline Stamped Her Foot.

 

"Well,  Never Mind. Please Don't Do It."

 

"Very Well,  Little Girl," Said George Softly. "I Wouldn't Do

Anything To Hurt You."

 

The Fact That It Never Even Occurred To George Emerson He Was

Being Offensively Patronizing Shows The Stern Stuff Of Which

These Supermen Are Made.

 

                        *   *   *

 

The Efficient Baxter Bicycled Broodingly To Market Blandings For

Tobacco. He Brooded For Several Reasons. He Had Just Seen Aline

Peters And George Emerson In Confidential Talk On The Upper

Terrace,  And That Was One Thing Which Exercised His Mind,  For He

Suspected George Emerson. He Suspected Him Nebulously As A Snake

In The Grass; As An Influence Working Against The Orderly

Progress Of Events Concerning The Marriage That Had Been Arranged

And Would Shortly Take Place Between Miss Peters And The

Honorable Frederick Threepwood.

 

It Would Be Too Much To Say That He Had Any Idea That George Was

Putting In Such Hard And Consistent Work In His Serpentine Role;

Indeed If He Could Have Overheard The Conversation Just Recorded

It Is Probable That Rupert Baxter Would Have Had Heart Failure;

But He Had Observed The Intimacy Between The Two As He Observed

Most Things In His Immediate Neighborhood,  And He Disapproved Of

It. It Was All Very Well To Say That George Emerson Had Known

Aline Peters Since She Was A Child. If That Was So,  Then In The

Opinion Of The Efficient Baxter He Had Known Her Quite Long

Enough And Ought To Start Making The Acquaintance Of Somebody

Else.

 

He Blamed The Honorable Freddie. If The Honorable Freddie Had

Been A More Ardent Lover He Would Have Spent His Time With Aline,

Chapter 7 Pg 126

And George Emerson Would Have Taken His Proper Place As One Of

The Crowd At The Back Of The Stage. But Freddie's View Of The

Matter Seemed To Be That He Had Done All That Could Be Expected

Of A Chappie In Getting Engaged To The Girl,  And That Now He

Might Consider Himself At Liberty To Drop Her For A While.

 

So Baxter,  As He Bicycled To Market Blandings For Tobacco,

Brooded On Freddie,  Aline Peters And George Emerson. He Also

Brooded On Mr. Peters And Ashe Marson. Finally He Brooded In A

General Way,  Because He Had Had Very Little Sleep The Past Week.

 

The Spectacle Of A Young Man Doing His Duty And Enduring

Considerable Discomforts While Doing It Is Painful; But There Is

Such Uplift In It,  It Affords So Excellent A Moral Picture,  That

I Cannot Omit A Short Description Of The Manner In Which Rupert

Baxter Had Spent The Nights Which Had Elapsed Since His Meeting

With Ashe In The Small Hours In The Hall.

 

In The Gallery Which Ran Above The Hall There Was A Large Chair,

Situated A Few Paces From The Great Staircase. On This,  In An

Overcoat--For The Nights Were Chilly--And Rubber-Soled Shoes,  The

Efficient Baxter Had Sat,  Without Missing A Single Night,  From

One In The Morning Until Daybreak,  Waiting,  Waiting,  Waiting. It

Had Been An Ordeal To Try The Stoutest Determination. Nature Had

Never Intended Baxter For A Night Bird. He Loved His Bed. He Knew

That Doctors Held That Insufficient Sleep Made A Man Pale And

Sallow,  And He Had Always Aimed At The Peach-Bloom Complexion

Which Comes From A Sensible Eight Hours Between The Sheets.

 

One Of The King Georges Of England--I Forget Which--Once Said

That A Certain Number Of Hours' Sleep Each Night--I Cannot Recall

At The Moment How Many--Made A Man Something,  Which For The Time

Being Has Slipped My Memory. Baxter Agreed With Him. It Went

Against All His Instincts To Sit Up In This Fashion; But It Was

His Duty And He Did It.

 

It Troubled Him That,  As Night After Night Went By And Ashe,  The

Suspect,  Did Not Walk Into The Trap So Carefully Laid For Him,  He

Found An Increasing Difficulty In Keeping Awake. The First Two Or

Three Of His Series Of Vigils He Had Passed In An Unimpeachable

Wakefulness,  His Chin Resting On The Rail Of The Gallery And His

Ears Alert For The Slightest Sound; But He Had Not Been Able To

Maintain This Standard Of Excellence.

 

On Several Occasions He Had Caught Himself In The Act Of Dropping

Off,  And The Last Night He Had Actually Wakened With A Start To

Find It Quite Light. As His Last Recollection Before That Was Of

An Inky Darkness Impenetrable To The Eye,  Dismay Gripped Him With

A Sudden Clutch And He Ran Swiftly Down To The Museum. His

Relief On Finding That The Scarab Was Still There Had Been

Tempered By Thoughts Of What Might Have Been.

 

Baxter,  Then,  As He Bicycled To Market Blandings For Tobacco,  Had

Good Reason To Brood. Having Bought His Tobacco And Observed The

Chapter 7 Pg 127

Life And Thought Of The Town For Half An Hour--It Was Market Day

And The Normal Stagnation Of The Place Was Temporarily Relieved

And Brightened By Pigs That Eluded Their Keepers,  And A Bull Calf

Which Caught A Stout Farmer At The Psychological Moment When He

Was Tying His Shoe Lace And Lifted Him Six Feet--He Made His Way

To The Emsworth Arms,  The Most Respectable Of The Eleven Inns The

Citizens Of Market Blandings Contrived In Some Miraculous Way To

Support.

 

In English Country Towns,  If The Public Houses Do Not Actually

Outnumber The Inhabitants,  They All Do An Excellent Trade. It Is

Only When They Are Two To One That Hard Times Hit Them And Set

The Innkeepers To Blaming The Government.

 

It Was Not The Busy Bar,  Full To Overflowing With Honest British

Yeomen--Many Of Them In A Similar Condition--That Baxter Sought.

His Goal Was The Genteel Dining-Room On The First Floor,  Where A

Bald And Shuffling Waiter,  Own Cousin To A Tortoise,  Served

Luncheon To Those Desiring It. Lack Of Sleep Had Reduced Baxter

To A Condition Where The Presence And Chatter Of The House Party

Were Insupportable. It Was His Purpose To Lunch At The Emsworth

Arms And Take A Nap In An Armchair Afterward.

 

He Had Relied On Having The Room To Himself,  For Market Blandings

Did Not Lunch To A Great Extent; But To His Annoyance And

Disappointment The Room Was Already Occupied By A Man In Brown

Tweeds.

 

Occupied Is The Correct Word,  For At First Sight This Man Seemed

To Fill The Room. Never Since Almost Forgotten Days When He Used

To Frequent Circuses And Side Shows,  Had Baxter Seen A Fellow

Human Being So Extraordinarily Obese. He Was A Man About Fifty

Years Old,  Gray-Haired,  Of A Mauve Complexion,  And His General

Appearance Suggested Joviality.

 

To Baxter's Chagrin,  This Person Engaged Him In Conversation

Directly He Took His Seat At The Table. There Was Only One Table

In The Room,  As Is Customary In English Inns,  And It Had The

Disadvantage That It Collected Those Seated At It Into One Party.

It Was Impossible For Baxter To Withdraw Into Himself And Ignore

This Person's Advances.

 

It Is Doubtful Whether He Could Have Done It,  However,  Had They

Been Separated By Yards Of Floor,  For The Fat Man Was Not Only

Naturally Talkative But,  As Appeared From His Opening Remarks,

Speech Had Been Dammed Up Within Him For Some Time By Lack Of A

Suitable Victim.

 

"Morning!" He Began; "Nice Day. Good For The Farmers. I'll Move

Up To Your End Of The Table If I May,  Sir. Waiter,  Bring My Beef

To This Gentleman's End Of The Table."

 

He Creaked Into A Chair At Baxter's Side And Resumed:

 

Chapter 7 Pg 128

"Infernally Quiet Place,  This,  Sir. I Haven't Found A Soul To

Speak To Since I Arrived Yesterday Afternoon Except Deaf-And-Dumb

Rustics. Are You Making A Long Stay Here?"

 

"I Live Outside The Town."

 

"I Pity You. Wouldn't Care To Do It Myself. Had To Come Here On

Business And Shan't Be Sorry When It's Finished. I Give You My

Word I Couldn't Sleep A Wink Last Night Because Of The Quiet. I

Was Just Dropping Off When A Beast Of A Bird Outside The Window

Gave A Chirrup,  And It Brought Me Up With A Jerk As Though

Somebody Had Fired A Gun. There's A Damned Cat Somewhere Near My

Room That Mews. I Lie In Bed Waiting For The Next Mew,  All Worked

Up.

 

"Heaven Save Me From The Country! It May Be All Right For You,  If

You've Got A Comfortable Home And A Pal Or Two To Chat With After

Dinner; But You've No Conception What It's Like In This Infernal

Town--I Suppose It Calls Itself A Town. What A Hole! There's A

Church Down The Street. I'm Told It's Norman Or Something.

Anyway,  It's Old. I'm Not Much Of A Man For Churches As A Rule,

But I Went And Took A Look At It.

 

"Then Somebody Told Me There Was A Fine View From The End Of High

Street; So I Went And Took A Look At That. And Now,  So Far As I

Can Make Out,  I've Done The Sights And Exhausted Every

Possibility Of Entertainment The Town Has To Provide--Unless

There's Another Church. I'm So Reduced That I'll Go And See The

Methodist Chapel,  If There Is One."

 

Fresh Air,  Want Of Sleep And The Closeness Of The Dining-Room

Combined To Make Baxter Drowsy. He Ate His Lunch In A Torpor,

Hardly Replying To His Companion's Remarks,  Who,  For His Part,

Did Not Seem To Wish Or To Expect Replies. It Was Enough For Him

To Be Talking.

 

"What Do People Do With Themselves In A Place Like This? When

They Want Amusement,  I Mean. I Suppose It's Different If You've

Been Brought Up To It. Like Being Born Color-Blind Or Something.

You Don't Notice. It's The Visitor Who Suffers. They've No

Enterprise In This Sort Of Place. There's A Bit Of Land Just

Outside Here That Would Make A Sweet Steeplechase Course; Natural

Barriers; Everything. It Hasn't Occurred To 'Em To Do Anything

With It. It Makes You Despair Of Your Species--That Sort Of

Thing. Now If I--"

 

Baxter Dozed. With His Fork Still Impaling A Piece Of Cold Beef,

He Dropped Into That Half-Awake,  Half-Asleep State Which Is

Nature's Daytime Substitute For The True Slumber Of The Night.

The Fat Man,  Either Not Noticing Or Not Caring,  Talked On. His

Voice Was A Steady Drone,  Lulling Baxter To