Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

He had not allowed himself time to recover from his first battle, and his blows were slow and weary. Albert, moreover, was made of sterner stuff than Ted. Though now a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a time in his hot youth when, travelling with a circus, he had fought, week in, week out, relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. He knew their methods⁠—their headlong rushes, their swinging blows. They were the merest commonplaces of life to him. He slipped Tom, he sidestepped Tom, he jabbed Tom; he did everything to Tom that a trained boxer can do to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, until presently, through the sheer labour of hitting, he, too, grew weary.

Now, in the days when Albert Parsons had fought whole families of Toms in an evening, he had fought in rounds, with the boss holding the watch, and half-minute rests, and water to refresh him, and all orderly and proper. Today there were no rounds, no rests, no water, and the peaceful tending of cows had caused flesh to grow where there had been only muscle. Tom’s headlong rushes became less easy to sidestep, his swinging blows more difficult than the scientific counter that shot out to check them. As he tired Tom seemed to regain strength. The tide of the battle began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw him off. He feinted, and while he was feinting Tom was on him. It was the climax of the battle⁠—the last rally. Down went Albert, and stayed down. Physically, he was not finished; but in his mind a question had framed itself⁠—the question. “Was it worth it?”⁠—and he was answering, “No.” There were other girls in the world. No girl was worth all this trouble.

He did not rise.

“Come along!” said Tom.

He spoke thickly. His breath was coming in gasps. He was a terrible spectacle, but Sally was past the weaker emotions. She was back in the Stone Age, and her only feeling was one of passionate pride. She tried to speak. She struggled to put all she felt into words, but something kept her dumb, and she followed him in silence.

In the lane outside his cottage, down by the creek, Joe Blossom was clipping a hedge. The sound of footsteps made him turn.

He did not recognize Tom till he spoke.

“Joe, there’s been a mistake,” said Tom.

“Been a gunpowder explosion, more like,” said Joe, a simple, practical man. “What you been doin’ to your face?”

“She’s going to marry me, Joe.”

Joe eyed Sally inquiringly.

“Eh? You promised to marry me.”

“She promised to marry all of us. You, me, Ted Pringle, and Albert Parsons.”

“Promised⁠—to⁠—marry⁠—all⁠—of⁠—us!”

“That’s where the mistake was. She’s only going to marry me. I⁠—I’ve arranged it with Ted and Albert, and now I’ve come to explain to you, Joe.”

“You promised to marry⁠—!”

The colossal nature of Sally’s deceit was plainly troubling Joe Blossom. He expelled his breath in a long note of amazement. Then he summed up.

“Why you’re nothing more nor less than a Joshua!”

The years that had passed since Joe had attended the village Sunday school had weakened his once easy familiarity with the characters of the Old Testament. It is possible that he had somebody else in his mind.

Tom stuck doggedly to his point.

“You can’t marry her, Joe.”

Joe Blossom raised his shears and clipped a protruding branch. The point under discussion seemed to have ceased to interest him.

“Who wants to?” he said. “Good riddance!”

They went down the lane. Silence still brooded over them. The words she wanted continued to evade her.

They came to a grassy bank. Tom sat down. He was feeling unutterably tired.

“Tom!”

He looked up. His mind was working dizzily.

“You’re going to marry me,” he muttered.

She sat down beside him.

“I know,” she said. “Tom, dear, lay your head on my lap and go to sleep.”

If this story proves anything (beyond the advantage of being in good training when you fight), it proves that you cannot get away from the moving pictures even in a place like Millbourne; for as Sally sat there, nursing Tom, it suddenly struck her that this was the very situation with which that “Romance of the Middle Ages” film ended. You know the one I mean. Sir Percival Ye Something (which has slipped my memory for the moment) goes out after the Holy Grail; meets damsel in distress; overcomes her persecutors; rescues her; gets wounded, and is nursed back to life in her arms. Sally had seen it a dozen times. And every time she had reflected that the days of romance are dead, and that that sort of thing can’t happen nowadays.

Crowned Heads

Katie had never been more surprised in her life than when the serious young man with the brown eyes and the Charles Dana Gibson profile spirited her away from his friend and Genevieve. Till that moment she had looked on herself as playing a sort of “villager and retainer” part to the brown-eyed young man’s hero and Genevieve’s heroine. She knew she was not pretty, though somebody (unidentified) had once said that she had nice eyes; whereas Genevieve was notoriously a beauty, incessantly pestered, so report had it, by musical comedy managers to go on the stage.

Genevieve was tall and blonde, a destroyer of masculine peace of mind. She said “harf” and “rahther,” and might easily have been taken for an English duchess instead of a cloak-model at Macey’s. You would have said, in short, that, in the matter of personable young men, Genevieve would have swept the board. Yet, here was this one deliberately selecting her, Katie, for his companion. It was almost a miracle.

He had managed it with the utmost dexterity at the merry-go-round. With winning politeness he had assisted Genevieve on her wooden steed, and then, as the machinery began to work, had grasped Katie’s arm and led her at a rapid walk out into the sunlight. Katie’s last glimpse of Genevieve had been the sight of her amazed and offended