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

it will do him good to have a chat with you.”

“What are you whining about?” Fred began, and then he broke off suddenly and listened. We could both hear the man’s footsteps as he moved about.

Fred jumped back into the room. He came out, carrying something. He didn’t say any more but started to go downstairs, very quiet, and I went after him.

There was the man, still putting things in his bag. I was just going to introduce Fred, when Fred, the silly ass, gave a great yell.

I could have bitten him.

“What did you want to do that for, you chump?” I said. “I told you he was shy. Now you’ve scared him.”

He certainly had. The man was out of the window quicker than you would have believed possible. He just flew out. I called after him that it was only Fred and me, but at that moment a gun went off with a tremendous bang, so he couldn’t have heard me.

I was pretty sick about it. The whole thing had gone wrong. Fred seemed to have lost his head entirely. He was behaving like a perfect ass. Naturally the man had been frightened with him carrying on in that way. I jumped out of the window to see if I could find the man and explain, but he was gone. Fred jumped out after me, and nearly squashed me.

It was pitch dark out there. I couldn’t see a thing. But I knew the man could not have gone far, or I should have heard him. I started to sniff round on the chance of picking up his trail. It wasn’t long before I struck it.

Fred’s father had come down now, and they were running about. The old man had a light. I followed the trail, and it ended at a large cedar-tree, not far from the house. I stood underneath it and looked up, but of course I could not see anything.

“Are you up there?” I shouted. “There’s nothing to be scared at. It was only Fred. He’s an old pal of mine. He works at the place where you bought me. His gun went off by accident. He won’t hurt you.”

There wasn’t a sound. I began to think I must have made a mistake.

“He’s got away,” I heard Fred say to his father, and just as he said it I caught a faint sound of someone moving in the branches above me.

“No he hasn’t!” I shouted. “He’s up this tree.”

“I believe the dog’s found him, dad!”

“Yes, he’s up here. Come along and meet him.”

Fred came to the foot of the tree.

“You up there,” he said, “come along down.”

Not a sound from the tree.

“It’s all right,” I explained, “he is up there, but he’s very shy. Ask him again.”

“All right,” said Fred. “Stay there if you want to. But I’m going to shoot off this gun into the branches just for fun.”

And then the man started to come down. As soon as he touched the ground I jumped up at him.

“This is fine!” I said. “Here’s my friend Fred. You’ll like him.”

But it wasn’t any good. They didn’t get along together at all. They hardly spoke. The man went into the house, and Fred went after him, carrying his gun. And when they got into the house it was just the same. The man sat in one chair, and Fred sat in another, and after a long time some men came in a motorcar, and the man went away with them. He didn’t say goodbye to me.

When he had gone, Fred and his father made a great fuss of me. I couldn’t understand it. Men are so odd. The man wasn’t a bit pleased that I had brought him and Fred together, but Fred seemed as if he couldn’t do enough for me for having introduced him to the man. However, Fred’s father produced some cold ham⁠—my favourite dish⁠—and gave me quite a lot of it, so I stopped worrying over the thing. As mother used to say, “Don’t bother your head about what doesn’t concern you. The only thing a dog need concern himself with is the bill-of-fare. Eat your bun, and don’t make yourself busy about other people’s affairs.” Mother’s was in some ways a narrow outlook, but she had a great fund of sterling common sense.

II He Moves in Society

It was one of those things which are really nobody’s fault. It was not the chauffeur’s fault, and it was not mine. I was having a friendly turn-up with a pal of mine on the sidewalk; he ran across the road; I ran after him; and the car came round the corner and hit me. It must have been going pretty slow, or I should have been killed. As it was, I just had the breath knocked out of me. You know how you feel when the butcher catches you just as you are edging out of the shop with a bit of meat. It was like that.

I wasn’t taking much interest in things for awhile, but when I did I found that I was the centre of a group of three⁠—the chauffeur, a small boy, and the small boy’s nurse.

The small boy was very well-dressed, and looked delicate. He was crying.

“Poor doggie,” he said, “poor doggie.”

“It wasn’t my fault, Master Peter,” said the chauffeur respectfully. “He run out into the road before I seen him.”

“That’s right,” I put in, for I didn’t want to get the man into trouble.

“Oh, he’s not dead,” said the small boy. “He barked.”

“He growled,” said the nurse. “Come away, Master Peter. He might bite you.”

Women are trying sometimes. It is almost as if they deliberately misunderstood.

“I won’t come away. I’m going to take him home with me and send for the doctor to come and see him. He’s going to be my dog.”

This sounded all right. Goodness knows I am no snob, and can rough it when required, but I do like comfort when it comes my