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

Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realizing his limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human actions.

“I thought it right, sir, to let you know,” he said.

“Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on that island by that long-haired⁠—Here, come along, Martin.”

He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment gazing fixedly at the butler.

“I ’ope, sir,” said Keggs, cordially, “that my hinformation will prove of genuine hassistance.”

“Do you know what I should like to do to you?” said Martin slowly.

“I think I ’ear Mr. Keith calling you, sir.”

“I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and⁠—”

“There, sir! Didn’t you ’ear ’im then? Quite distinct it was.”

Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster Abbey.

“I should ’urry, sir,” suggested Keggs, respectfully. “I think Mr. Keith must have met with some haccident.”

His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his host seated on the ground in evident pain.

“Twisted my ankle in a hole,” he explained, briefly. “Give me an arm back to the house, there’s a good fellow, and then run on down to the lake and see if what Keggs said is true.”

Martin did as he was requested⁠—so far, that is to say, as the first half of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he took it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr. Keith to his room, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands of a group of his fellow guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa’s feelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but it might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He had been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa’s frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog’s.

The rescue party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the porch.

It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he was lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:

“It’s all right. We’ve found them.”

Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.

Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a day had passed since she had taken to her bed.

“How are you feeling today, dear?”

“Has he gone, mother?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Barstowe?”

“Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his publisher in London.”

“Then I can get up,” said Elsa, thankfully.

“I think you’re a little hard on poor Mr. Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an accident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away.”

“It was, it was, it was!” cried Elsa, thumping the pillow malignantly. “I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read me his horrid poetry without my having a chance to escape. I believe that’s the only way he can get people to listen to it.”

“But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musical voice.”

“Musical voice!” The pillow became a shapeless heap. “Mother, it was like a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics. It was awful! If he had been even the least bit upset himself I think I could have borne up. But he enjoyed it! He revelled in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley’s Epipsychidion, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on and read and read till my head began to split. Mother”⁠—her voice sank to a whisper⁠—“I hit him!”

“Elsa!”

“I did!” she went on, defiantly. “I hit him as hard as I could, and he⁠—he”⁠—she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter⁠—“he tripped over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn’t a bit ashamed. I didn’t think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And it stopped him talking.”

“But, Elsa, dear! Why?”

“The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn’t see the resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn’t starving. And he said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that was when I hit him.”

“Elsa!”

“Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I’ll get up. It looks lovely out.”

Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs. Keith had assured him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired, but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near the terrace.

“Why, Martin, why aren’t you out with the guns?” she said.

“I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were.”

“How nice of you! Why don’t you sit down?”

“May I?”

Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.

“You know, you’re a very restful person, Martin. You’re so big and outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so lazy.”

Martin took the magazine.

“What shall I read? Here’s a poem by⁠—”

Elsa shuddered.

“Oh, please, no,” she cried. “I couldn’t bear it. I’ll tell you what I should love⁠—the advertisements. There’s one about sardines. I started it, and it seemed splendid. It’s at the back somewhere.”

“Is this it⁠—Langley and Fielding’s