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

I try comes off. I’ve never drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn’t win a thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing a novel. Nothing came of that, either.”

“What novel?”

“A thing called White Roses, by a woman named Edith Butler.”

Audrey looked up quickly.

“I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?”

“I didn’t know her at all. I’d never met her. I just happened to buy the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to send it back or even to acknowledge receipt.”

“Perhaps she never got it?”

“I registered it.”

“She was a cat,” said Audrey, decidedly. “I’m glad of it, though. If another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of jealousy.”

Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting with Mr. Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing schemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it, sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink and its customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting out rainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glow faded and hopelessness grew.

If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more than fulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang him up at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which was noted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head of his department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing his subordinates’ work for them.

As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing, was discursive and lacked central motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart.

“Owen”⁠—her voice was excited⁠—“have you seen the paper today? Then listen. I’ll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: ‘The Piccadilly Theatre will reopen shortly with a dramatized version of Miss Edith Butler’s popular novel, White Roses, prepared by the authoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including⁠—’ And then a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?”

“What am I going to do?”

“Don’t you see what’s happened? That awful woman has stolen your play. She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are you laughing at?”

“I wasn’t laughing.”

“Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I’ll ring off if you do it again. You don’t believe me. Well, you wait and see if I’m not⁠—”

“Edith Butler’s incapable of such a thing.”

There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.

“I thought you said you didn’t know her,” said Audrey, jealously.

“I don’t⁠—I don’t,” said Owen, hastily. “But I’ve read her books. They’re simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She’s a sort of literary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn’t steal a play if she tried.”

“You can’t judge authors from their books. You must go and see the play when it comes on. Then you’ll see I’m right. I’m absolutely certain that woman is trying to swindle you. Don’t laugh in that horrid way. Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I’m going to.”

At the beginning of the next month Owen’s annual holiday arrived. The authorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. They recognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employees ten days in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelve months’ work.

Owen spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his father had been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, to the farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire. There is something about the country there, with its green fields and miniature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasant background for sentimental musings.

It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr. Dorman, an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr. Dorman’s mother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wise woman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and it was known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even the botts by means of spells.

Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. It seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room, and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and sing “Asthore,” the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr. Dorman appeared, somewhat agitated.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Owen,” he said. “I forgot to tell you. There’s a lit’ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can’t bear to be disturbed.”

A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.

“Writing a book he is,” continued Mr. Dorman. “He caught young George a clip over the ear-’ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs. Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he’d skin him if he ever did it again. So, if you don’t mind⁠—”

“Oh, all right,” said Owen. “Who is he?”

“Gentleman of the name of Prosser.”

Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of that name; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was a celebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.

“I never heard of him,” he said, “but that’s no reason why I should disturb him. Let him rip. I’ll cut out the musical effects in future.”

The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible, though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy of composition. Nor,