Uneasy Money by P. G. Wodehouse (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

she kept open house for members of parliament, would have drawn the line at monkeys.

“The hape is behaving very strangely, m’lady,” said Wrench frostily.

It has been well said that in this world there is always something. A moment before Lady Wetherby had been feeling completely contented, without a care on her horizon. It was foolish of her to have expected such a state of things to last, for what is life but a series of sharp corners round each of which fate lies in wait for us with a stuffed eelskin? Something in the butler’s manner, a sort of gloating gloom which he radiated, told her that she had arrived at one of these corners now.

“The hape is seated on the kitchen sink, m’lady, throwing new-laid eggs at the scullery maid, and cook desired me to step up and ask for instructions.”

“What!” Lady Wetherby rose in agitation. “What’s he doing that for?” she asked weakly.

A slight, dignified gesture was Wrench’s only reply. It was not his place to analyze the motives of monkeys.

“Throwing eggs!”

The sight of Lady Wetherby’s distress partially melted the butler’s stern reserve. He unbent so far as to supply a clue.

“As I understand from cook, m’lady, the animal appears to have taken umbrage at a lack of cordiality on the part of the cat. It seems that the hape attempted to fondle the cat, but the latter scratched him; being suspicious,” said Wrench, “of his bona fides.” He scrutinized the ceiling with a dull eye. “Whereupon,” he continued, “he seized her tail and threw her with considerable force. He then removed himself to the sink and began to hurl eggs at the scullery maid.”

Lady Wetherby’s mental eye attempted to produce a picture of the scene, but failed.

“I suppose I had better go down and see about it,” she said.

Wrench withdrew his gaze from the ceiling.

“I think it would be advisable, m’lady. The scullery maid is already in hysterics.”

Lady Wetherby led the way to the kitchen. She was wroth with Eustace. This was just the sort of thing out of which Algie would be able to make unlimited capital. It weakened her position with Algie. There was only one thing to do⁠—she must hush it up.

Her first glance, however, at the actual theater of war, gave her the impression that matters had advanced beyond the hushing-up stage. A yellow desolation brooded over the kitchen. It was not so much a kitchen as an omelette. There were eggs everywhere, from floor to ceiling. She crunched her way in on a carpet of oozing shells.

Her entry was a signal for a renewal on a more impressive scale of the uproar that she had heard while opening the door. The air was full of voices. The cook was expressing herself in Norwegian, the parlor maid in what appeared to be Erse. On a chair in a corner the scullery maid sobbed and whooped. The odd-job man, who was a baseball enthusiast, was speaking in terms of high praise of Eustace’s combined speed and control.

The only calm occupant of the room was Eustace himself who, either through a shortage of ammunition or through weariness of the pitching arm, had suspended active hostilities and was now looking down on the scene from a high shelf. There was a brooding expression in his deep-set eyes. He massaged his right ear with the sole of his left foot in a somewhat distrait manner.

“And the first thing that happens,” said the odd-job man fervently, “me brave monk starts in to warm up. He went to it, ma’am, like he was pitching the first game of the World’s Series. Gee, you’d orter of seen his fast one! Walter Johnson’s got nothing on him!”

The sincerity of his enthusiasm did not touch Lady Wetherby. She had but a moderate affection for the national game.

“Eustace!” she cried severely.

Eustace lowered his foot and gazed at her meditatively, then at the odd-job man, who was comparing him favorably with Grover Alexander, then at the scullery maid, whose voice rose high above the din.

“I rather fancy, m’lady,” said Wrench dispassionately, “that the animal is about to hurl a plate.”

It had escaped the notice of those present that the shelf on which the rioter had taken refuge was within comfortable reach of the dresser, but Eustace himself had not overlooked this important strategic point. As the butler spoke, Eustace picked up a plate and threw it at the scullery maid, whom he seemed definitely to have picked out as the most hostile of the allies. It was a fast inshoot, and hit the wall just above her head.

“ ’At-a-boy!” said the odd-job man reverently.

Lady Wetherby turned on him with some violence. His detached attitude was the most irritating of the many irritating aspects of the situation. She paid this man a weekly wage to do odd jobs. The capture of Eustace was essentially an odd job. Yet, instead of doing it, he hung about with the air of one who has paid his half-dollar and bought his bag of peanuts, and has now nothing to do but look on and enjoy himself.

“Why don’t you catch him?” she cried. “Why don’t you do something?”

The odd-job man came out of his trance. A sudden realization came upon him that life was stern and life was earnest, and that if he did not wish to jeopardize a good situation he must curb his devotion to the great American sport. Everybody was looking at him expectantly. It seemed to be definitely up to him. It was imperative that, whatever he did, he should do it quickly. There was an apron hanging over the back of a chair. He changed abruptly from fan to matador. More with the idea of doing something than because he thought he would achieve anything definite thereby, he picked up the apron and flung it at Eustace. Luck was with him. The apron enveloped Eustace just as he was winding up for another inshoot and was off his balance. He tripped and fell, clutched at