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

Pretty Nearly Everything Since We Last Met. She Worked In A Shop

And Went On The Stage,  And All Sorts Of Things. Isn't It Awful,

George!"

"Pretty Tough," Said Emerson. He Was But Faintly Interested In

Miss Valentine.

"She Is So Plucky And Full Of Life. She Would Stand Up To You."

"Thanks! My Idea Of Marriage Is Not A Perpetual Scrap. My Notion

Of A Wife Is Something Cozy And Sympathetic And Soothing. That

Is Why I Love You. We Shall Be The Happiest--"

Aline Laughed.

"Dear Old George! Now Pay The Check And Get Me A Taxi. I've

Endless Things To Do At Home. If Freddie Is In Town I Suppose He

Will Be Calling To See Me. Who Is Freddie,  Do You Ask? Freddie Is

My Fiance,  George. My Betrothed. My Steady. The Young Man I'm

Going To Marry."

Emerson Shook His Head Resignedly. "Curious How You Cling To That

Freddie Idea. Never Mind! I'll Come Down To Blandings On Friday

And We Shall See What Happens. Bear In Mind The Broad Fact That

You And I Are Going To Be Married,  And That Nothing On Earth Is

Going To Stop Us."

                        *   *   *

It Was Aline Peters Who Had To Bear The Brunt Of Her Father's

Mental Agony When He Discovered,  Shortly After Lord Emsworth Had

Left Him,  That The Gem Of His Collection Of Scarabs Had Done The

Same. It Is Always The Innocent Bystander Who Suffers.

"The Darned Old Sneak Thief!" Said Mr. Peters.

"Father!"

"Don't Sit There Saying 'Father!' What's The Use Of Saying

'Father!'? Do You Think It Is Going To Help--Your Saying

'Father!'? I'd Rather The Old Pirate Had Taken The House And Lot

Than That Scarab. He Knows What's What! Trust Him To Walk Off

With The Pick Of The Whole Bunch! I Did Think I Could Leave The

Father Of The Man Who's Going To Marry My Daughter For A Second

Alone With The Things. There's No Morality Among

Collectors--None! I'd Trust A Syndicate Of Jesse James,  Captain

Kidd And Dick Turpin Sooner Than I Would A Collector. My Cheops

Of The Fourth Dynasty! I Wouldn't Have Lost It For Five Thousand

Dollars!"

"But,  Father,  Couldn't You Write Him A Letter,  Asking For It

Back? He's Such A Nice Old Man! I'm Sure He Didn't Mean To Steal

The Scarab."

Mr. Peters' Overwrought Soul Blew Off Steam In The Shape Of A

Passionate Snort.

"Didn't Mean To Steal It! What Do You Think He Meant To Do--Take

It Away And Keep It Safe For Me For Fear I Should Lose It? Didn't

Mean To Steal It! Bet You He's Well-Known In Society As A

Kleptomaniac. Bet You That When His Name Is Announced His Friends

Pick Up Their Spoons And Send In A Hurry Call To Police

Headquarters For A Squad To Come And See That He Doesn't Sneak

The Front Door. Of Course He Meant To Steal It! He Has A Museum

Of His Own Down In The Country. My Cheops Is Going To Lend Tone

To That. I'd Give Five Thousand Dollars To Get It Back. If

There's A Man In This Country With The Spirit To Break Into That

Castle And Steal That Scarab And Hand It Back To Me,  There's Five

Thousand Waiting For Him Right Here; And If He Wants To He Can

Knock That Old Safe Blower On The Head With A Jimmy Into The

Bargain."

"But,  Father,  Why Can't You Simply Go To Him And Say It's Yours

And That You Must Have It Back?"

"And Have Him Come Back At Me By Calling Off This Engagement Of

Yours? Not If I Know It! You Can't Go About The Place Charging A

Man With Theft And Ask Him To Go On Being Willing To Have His Son

Marry Your Daughter,  Can You? The Slightest Suggestion That I

Thought He Had Stolen This Scarab And He Would Do The Proud Old

English Aristocrat And End Everything. He's In The Strongest

Position A Thief Has Ever Been In. You Can't Get At Him."

"I Didn't Think Of That."

"You Don't Think At All. That's The Trouble With You," Said Mr.

Peters.

Years Of Indigestion Had Made Mr. Peters' Temper,  Even When In A

Normal Mood,  Perfectly Impossible; In A Crisis Like This It Ran

Amuck. He Vented It On Aline Because He Had Always Vented His

Irritabilities On Aline; Because The Fact Of Her Sweet,  Gentle

Disposition,  Combined With The Fact Of Their Relationship,  Made

Her The Ideal Person To Receive The Overflow Of His Black Moods.

While His Wife Had Lived He Had Bullied Her. On Her Death Aline

Had Stepped Into The Vacant Position.

Aline Did Not Cry,  Because She Was Not A Girl Who Was Given To

Tears; But,  For All Her Placid Good Temper,  She Was Wounded. She

Was A Girl Who Liked Everything In The World To Run Smoothly And

Easily,  And These Scenes With Her Father Always Depressed Her.

She Took Advantage Of A Lull In Mr. Peters' Flow Of Words And

Slipped From The Room.

Her Cheerfulness Had Received A Shock. She Wanted Sympathy. She

Wanted Comforting. For A Moment She Considered George Emerson In

The Role Of Comforter; But There Were Objections To George In

This Character. Aline Was Accustomed To Tease And Chat With

George,  But At Heart She Was A Little Afraid Of Him; And Instinct

Told Her That,  As Comforter,  He Would Be Too Volcanic And

Supermanly For A Girl Who Was Engaged To Marry Another Man In

June. George,  As Comforter,  Would Be Far Too Prone To Trust To

Action Rather Than To The Soothing Power Of The Spoken Word.

George's Idea Of Healing The Wound,  She Felt,  Would Be To Push

Her Into A Cab And Drive To The Nearest Registrar's.

No; She Would Not Go To George. To Whom,  Then? The Vision Of Joan

Valentine Came To Her--Of Joan As She Had Seen Her Yesterday,

Strong,  Cheerful,  Self-Reliant,  Bearing Herself,  In Spite Of

Adversity,  With A Valiant Jauntiness. Yes; She Would Go And See

Joan. She Put On Her Hat And Stole From The House.

Curiously Enough,  Only A Quarter Of An Hour Before,  R. Jones Had

Set Out With Exactly The Same Object In View.

                        *   *   *

At Almost Exactly The Hour When Aline Peters Set Off To Visit Her

Friend,  Miss Valentine,  Three Men Sat In The Cozy Smoking-Room Of

Blandings Castle.

They Were Variously Occupied. In The Big Chair Nearest The Door

The Honorable Frederick Threepwood--Freddie To Pals--Was Reading.

Next To Him Sat A Young Man Whose Eyes,  Glittering Through

Rimless Spectacles,  Were Concentrated On The Upturned Faces Of

Several Neat Rows Of Playing Cards--Rupert Baxter,  Lord

Emsworth's Invaluable Secretary,  Had No Vices,  But He Sometimes

Relaxed His Busy Brain With A Game Of Solitaire. Beyond Baxter,  A

Cigar In His Mouth And A Weak Highball At His Side,  The Earl Of

Emsworth Took His Ease.

The Book The Honorable Freddie Was Reading Was A Small

Paper-Covered Book. Its Cover Was Decorated With A Color Scheme

In Red,  Black And Yellow,  Depicting A Tense Moment In The Lives

Of A Man With A Black Beard,  A Man With A Yellow Beard,  A Man

Without Any Beard At All,  And A Young Woman Who,  At First Sight,

Appeared To Be All Eyes And Hair. The Man With The Black Beard,

To Gain Some Private End,  Had Tied This Young Woman With Ropes To

A Complicated System Of Machinery,  Mostly Wheels And Pulleys. The

Man With The Yellow Beard Was In The Act Of Pushing Or Pulling A

Lever. The Beardless Man,  Protruding Through A Trapdoor In The

Floor,  Was Pointing A Large Revolver At The Parties Of The Second

Part.

Beneath This Picture Were The Words: "Hands Up,  You Scoundrels!"

Above It,  In A Meandering Scroll Across The Page,  Was: "Gridley

Quayle,  Investigator. The Adventure Of The Secret Six. By Felix

Clovelly."

The Honorable Freddie Did Not So Much Read As Gulp The Adventure

Of The Secret Six. His Face Was Crimson With Excitement; His Hair

Was Rumpled; His Eyes Bulged. He Was Absorbed.

This Is Peculiarly An Age In Which Each Of Us May,  If We Do But

Search Diligently,  Find The Literature Suited To His Mental

Powers. Grave And Earnest Men,  At Eton And Elsewhere,  Had Tried

Freddie Threepwood With Greek,  With Latin And With English; And

The Sheeplike Stolidity With Which He Declined To Be Interested

In The Masterpieces Of All Three Tongues Had Left Them With The

Conviction That He Would Never Read Anything.

And Then,  Years Afterward,  He Had Suddenly Blossomed Out As A

Student--Only,  It Is True,  A Student Of The Adventures Of Gridley

Quayle; But Still A Student. His Was A Dull Life And Gridley

Quayle Was The Only Person Who Brought Romance Into It. Existence

For The Honorable Freddie Was Simply A Sort Of Desert,  Punctuated

With Monthly Oases In The Shape Of New Quayle Adventures. It Was

His Ambition To Meet The Man Who Wrote Them.

Lord Emsworth Sat And Smoked,  And Sipped And Smoked Again,  At

Peace With All The World. His Mind Was As Nearly A Blank As It Is

Possible For The Human Mind To Be. The Hand That Had Not The Task

Of Holding The Cigar Was At Rest In His Trousers Pocket. The

Fingers Of It Fumbled Idly With A Small,  Hard Object.

Gradually It Filtered Into His Lordship's Mind That This Small,

Hard Object Was Not Familiar. It Was Something New--Something

That Was Neither His Keys Nor His Pencil; Nor Was It His Small

Change. He Yielded To A Growing Curiosity And Drew It Out. He

Examined It. It Was A Little Something,  Rather Like A Fossilized

Beetle. It Touched No Chord In Him. He Looked At It With Amiable

Distaste.

"Now How In The World Did That Get There?" He Said.

The Honorable Freddie Paid No Attention To The Remark. He Was Now

At The Very Crest Of His Story,  When Every Line Intensified The

Thrill. Incident Was Succeeding Incident. The Secret Six Were

Here,  There And Everywhere,  Like So Many Malignant June Bugs.

Annabel,  The Heroine,  Was Having A Perfectly Rotten

Time--Kidnapped,  And Imprisoned Every Few Minutes. Gridley

Quayle,  Hot On The Scent,  Was Covering Somebody Or Other With His

Revolver Almost Continuously. Freddie Threepwood Had No Time For

Chatting With His Father. Not So Rupert Baxter. Chatting With

Lord Emsworth Was One Of The Things For Which He Received His

Salary. He Looked Up From His Cards.

"Lord Emsworth?"

"I Have Found A Curious Object In My Pocket,  Baxter. I Was

Wondering How It Got There."