Something New by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

The Sunshine Of A Fair Spring Morning Fell Graciously On London

Town. Out In Piccadilly Its Heartening Warmth Seemed To Infuse

Into Traffic And Pedestrians Alike A Novel Jauntiness,  So That

Bus Drivers Jested And Even The Lips Of Chauffeurs Uncurled Into

Not Unkindly Smiles. Policemen Whistled At Their Posts--Clerks,

On Their Way To Work; Beggars Approached The Task Of Trying To

Persuade Perfect Strangers To Bear The Burden Of Their

Maintenance With That Optimistic Vim Which Makes All The

Difference. It Was One Of Those Happy Mornings.

At Nine O'clock Precisely The Door Of Number Seven Arundell

Street,  Leicester Square,  Opened And A Young Man Stepped Out.

Of All The Spots In London Which May Fairly Be Described As

Backwaters There Is None That Answers So Completely To The

Description As Arundell Street,  Leicester Square. Passing Along

The North Sidewalk Of The Square,  Just Where It Joins Piccadilly,

You Hardly Notice The Bottleneck Opening Of The Tiny Cul-De-Sac.

Day And Night The Human Flood Roars Past,  Ignoring It. Arundell

Street Is Less Than Forty Yards In Length; And,  Though There Are

Two Hotels In It,  They Are Not Fashionable Hotels. It Is Just A

Backwater.

In Shape Arundell Street Is Exactly Like One Of Those Flat Stone

Jars In Which Italian Wine Of The Cheaper Sort Is Stored. The

Narrow Neck That Leads Off Leicester Square Opens Abruptly Into A

Small Court. Hotels Occupy Two Sides Of This; The Third Is At

Present Given Up To Rooming Houses For The Impecunious. These Are

Always Just Going To Be Pulled Down In The Name Of Progress To

Make Room For Another Hotel,  But They Never Do Meet With That

Fate; And As They Stand Now So Will They In All Probability Stand

For Generations To Come.

They Provide Single Rooms Of Moderate Size,  The Bed Modestly

Hidden During The Day Behind A Battered Screen. The Rooms Contain

A Table,  An Easy-Chair,  A Hard Chair,  A Bureau,  And A Round Tin

Bath,  Which,  Like The Bed,  Goes Into Hiding After Its Useful Work

Is Performed. And You May Rent One Of These Rooms,  With Breakfast

Thrown In,  For Five Dollars A Week.

Ashe Marson Had Done So. He Had Rented The Second-Floor Front Of

Number Seven.

Twenty-Six Years Before This Story Opens There Had Been Born To

Joseph Marson,  Minister,  And Sarah His Wife,  Of Hayling,

Massachusetts,  In The United States Of America,  A Son. This Son,

Christened Ashe After A Wealthy Uncle Who Subsequently

Double-Crossed Them By Leaving His Money To Charities,  In Due

Course Proceeded To Harvard To Study For The Ministry. So Far As

Can Be Ascertained From Contemporary Records,  He Did Not Study A

Great Deal For The Ministry; But He Did Succeed In Running The

Mile In Four Minutes And A Half And The Half Mile At A

Correspondingly Rapid Speed,  And His Researches In The Art Of

Long Jumping Won Him The Respect Of All.

That He Should Be Awarded,  At The Conclusion Of His Harvard

Career,  One Of Those Scholarships At Oxford University Instituted

By The Late Cecil Rhodes For The Encouragement Of The Liberal

Arts,  Was A Natural Sequence Of Events.

That Was How Ashe Came To Be In England.

The Rest Of Ashe's History Follows Almost Automatically. He Won

His Blue For Athletics At Oxford,  And Gladdened Thousands By

Winning The Mile And The Half Mile Two Years In Succession

Against Cambridge At Queen's Club. But Owing To The Pressure Of

Other Engagements He Unfortunately Omitted To Do Any Studying,

And When The Hour Of Parting Arrived He Was Peculiarly Unfitted

For Any Of The Learned Professions. Having,  However,  Managed To

Obtain A Sort Of Degree,  Enough To Enable Him To Call Himself A

Bachelor Of Arts,  And Realizing That You Can Fool Some Of The

People Some Of The Time,  He Applied For And Secured A Series Of

Private Tutorships.

A Private Tutor Is A Sort Of Blend Of Poor Relation And

Nursemaid,  And Few Of The Stately Homes Of England Are Without

One. He Is Supposed To Instill Learning And Deportment Into The

Small Son Of The House; But What He Is Really There For Is To

Prevent The Latter From Being A Nuisance To His Parents When He

Is Home From School On His Vacation.

Having Saved A Little Money At This Dreadful Trade,  Ashe Came To

London And Tried Newspaper Work. After Two Years Of Moderate

Success He Got In Touch With The Mammoth Publishing Company.

The Mammoth Publishing Company,  Which Controls Several Important

Newspapers,  A Few Weekly Journals,  And A Number Of Other Things,

Does Not Disdain The Pennies Of The Office Boy And The Junior

Clerk. One Of Its Many Profitable Ventures Is A Series Of

Paper-Covered Tales Of Crime And Adventure. It Was Here That Ashe

Found His Niche. Those Adventures Of Gridley Quayle,

Investigator,  Which Are So Popular With A Certain Section Of The

Reading Public,  Were His Work.

Until The Advent Of Ashe And Mr. Quayle,  The British Pluck

Library Had Been Written By Many Hands And Had Included The

Adventures Of Many Heroes: But In Gridley Quayle The Proprietors

Held That The Ideal Had Been Reached,  And Ashe Received A

Commission To Conduct The Entire British Pluck

Library--Monthly--Himself. On The Meager Salary Paid Him For

These Labors He Had Been Supporting Himself Ever Since.

That Was How Ashe Came To Be In Arundell Street,  Leicester Square,

On This May Morning.

He Was A Tall,  Well-Built,  Fit-Looking Young Man,  With A Clear

Eye And A Strong Chin; And He Was Dressed,  As He Closed The Front

Door Behind Him,  In A Sweater,  Flannel Trousers,  And Rubber-Soled

Gymnasium Shoes. In One Hand He Bore A Pair Of Indian Clubs,  In

The Other A Skipping Rope.

Having Drawn In And Expelled The Morning Air In A Measured And

Solemn Fashion,  Which The Initiated Observer Would Have

Recognized As That Scientific Deep Breathing So Popular Nowadays,

He Laid Down His Clubs,  Adjusted His Rope And Began To Skip.

When He Had Taken The Second-Floor Front Of Number Seven,  Three

Months Before,  Ashe Marson Had Realized That He Must Forego Those

Morning Exercises Which Had Become A Second Nature To Him,  Or

Else Defy London's Unwritten Law And Brave London's Mockery. He

Had Not Hesitated Long. Physical Fitness Was His Gospel. On The

Subject Of Exercise He Was Confessedly A Crank. He Decided To

Defy London.

The First Time He Appeared In Arundell Street In His Sweater And

Flannels He Had Barely Whirled His Indian Clubs Once Around His

Head Before He Had Attracted The Following Audience:

  A) Two Cabmen--One Intoxicated;

  B) Four Waiters From The Hotel Mathis;

  C) Six Waiters From The Hotel Previtali;

  D) Six Chambermaids From The Hotel Mathis;

  E) Five Chambermaids From The Hotel Previtali;

  F) The Proprietor Of The Hotel Mathis;

  G) The Proprietor Of The Hotel Previtali;

  H) A Street Cleaner;

  I) Eleven Nondescript Loafers;

  J) Twenty-Seven Children;

  K) A Cat.

They All Laughed--Even The Cat--And Kept On Laughing. The

Intoxicated Cabman Called Ashe "Sunny Jim." And Ashe Kept On

Swinging His Clubs.

A Month Later,  Such Is The Magic Of Perseverance,  His Audience

Had Narrowed Down To The Twenty-Seven Children. They Still

Laughed,  But Without That Ringing Conviction Which The

Sympathetic Support Of Their Elders Had Lent Them.

And Now,  After Three Months,  The Neighborhood,  Having Accepted

Ashe And His Morning Exercises As A Natural Phenomenon,  Paid Him

No Further Attention.

On This Particular Morning Ashe Marson Skipped With Even More

Than His Usual Vigor. This Was Because He Wished To Expel By

Means Of Physical Fatigue A Small Devil Of Discontent,  Of Whose

Presence Within Him He Had Been Aware Ever Since Getting Out Of

Bed. It Is In The Spring That The Ache For The Larger Life Comes

On Us,  And This Was A Particularly Mellow Spring Morning. It Was

The Sort Of Morning When The Air Gives Us A Feeling Of

Anticipation--A Feeling That,  On A Day Like This,  Things Surely

Cannot Go Jogging Along In The Same Dull Old Groove; A

Premonition That Something Romantic And Exciting Is About To

Happen To Us.

But The Southwest Wind Of Spring Brings Also Remorse. We Catch

The Vague Spirit Of Unrest In The Air And We Regret Our Misspent

Youth.

Ashe Was Doing This. Even As He Skipped,  He Was Conscious Of A

Wish That He Had Studied Harder At College And Was Now In A

Position To Be Doing Something Better Than Hack Work For A

Soulless Publishing Company. Never Before Had He Been So

Completely Certain That He Was Sick To Death Of The Rut Into

Which He Had Fallen.

Skipping Brought No Balm. He Threw Down His Rope And Took Up The

Indian Clubs. Indian Clubs Left Him Still Unsatisfied. The

Thought Came To Him That It Was A Long Time Since He Had Done His

Larsen Exercises. Perhaps They Would Heal Him.

The Larsen Exercises,  Invented By A Certain Lieutenant Larsen,  Of

The Swedish Army,  Have Almost Every Sort Of Merit. They Make A

Man Strong,  Supple,  And Slender. But They Are Not Dignified.

Indeed,  To One Seeing Them Suddenly And Without Warning For The

First Time,  They Are Markedly Humorous. The Only Reason Why King

Henry,  Of England,  Whose Son Sank With The White Ship,  Never

Smiled Again,  Was Because Lieutenant Larsen Had Not Then Invented

His Admirable Exercises.

So Complacent,  So Insolently Unselfconscious Had Ashe Become In

The Course Of Three Months,  Owing To His Success In Inducing The

Populace To Look On Anything He Did With The Indulgent Eye Of

Understanding,  That It Simply Did Not Occur To Him,  When He

Abruptly Twisted His Body Into The Shape Of A Corkscrew,  In

Accordance With The Directions In The Lieutenant's Book For The