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

"Eh? Oh! Oh,  No Only Since Last Wednesday."

"Indeed! Might I Inquire Whom You Assisted Before That?"

For A Moment Ashe Did What He Would Not Have Believed Himself

Capable Of Doing--Regretted That The Topic Of Feet Was No Longer

Under Discussion. The Question Placed Him In An Awkward Position.

If He Lied And Credited Himself With A Lengthy Experience As A

Valet,  He Risked Exposing Himself. If He Told The Truth And

Confessed That This Was His Maiden Effort In The Capacity Of

Gentleman's Gentleman,  What Would The Butler Think? There Were

Objections To Each Course,  But To Tell The Truth Was The Easier

Of The Two; So He Told It.

"Your First Situation?" Said Mr. Beach. "Indeed!"

"I Was--Er--Doing Something Else Before I Met Mr. Peters," Said

Ashe.

Mr. Beach Was Too Well-Bred To Be Inquisitive,  But His Eyebrows

Were Not.

"Ah!" He Said. "?" Cried His Eyebrows. "?--?--?"

Ashe Ignored The Eyebrows.

"Something Different," He Said.

There Was An Awkward Silence. Ashe Appreciated Its Awkwardness.

He Was Conscious Of A Grievance Against Mr. Peters. Why Could Not

Mr. Peters Have Brought Him Down Here As His Secretary? To Be

Sure,  He Had Advanced Some Objection To That Course In Their

Conversation At The Offices Of Mainprice,  Mainprice & Boole; But

Merely A Silly,  Far-Fetched Objection. He Wished He Had Had The

Sense To Fight The Point While There Was Time; But At The Moment

When They Were Arranging Plans He Had Been Rather Tickled By The

Thought Of Becoming A Valet. The Notion Had A Pleasing

Musical-Comedy Touch About It. Why Had He Not Foreseen The

Complications That Must Ensue? He Could Tell By The Look On His

Face That This Confounded Butler Was Waiting For Him To Give A

Full Explanation. What Would He Think If He Withheld It? He Would

Probably Suppose That Ashe Had Been In Prison.

Well,  There Was Nothing To Be Done About It. If Beach Was

Suspicious,  He Must Remain Suspicious. Fortunately The Suspicions

Of A Butler Do Not Matter Much.

Mr. Beach's Eyebrows Were Still Mutely Urging Him To Reveal All,

But Ashe Directed His Gaze At That Portion Of The Room Which Mr.

Beach Did Not Fill. He Would Be Hanged If He Was Going To Let

Himself Be Hypnotized By A Pair Of Eyebrows Into Incriminating

Himself! He Glared Stolidly At The Pattern Of The Wallpaper,

Which Represented A Number Of Birds Of An Unknown Species Seated

On A Corresponding Number Of Exotic Shrubs.

The Silence Was Growing Oppressive. Somebody Had To Break It

Soon. And As Mr. Beach Was Still Confining Himself To The

Language Of The Eyebrow And Apparently Intended To Fight It Out

On That Line If It Took All Summer,  Ashe Himself Broke It.

It Seemed To Him As He Reconstructed The Scene In Bed That Night

That Providence Must Have Suggested The Subject To Mr. Peters'

Indigestion; For The Mere Mention Of His Employer's Sufferings

Acted Like Magic On The Butler.

"I Might Have Had Better Luck While I Was Looking For A Place,"

Said Ashe. "I Dare Say You Know How Bad-Tempered Mr. Peters Is.

He Is Dyspeptic."

"So," Responded Mr. Beach,  "I Have Been Informed." He Brooded For

A Space. "I,  Too," He Proceeded,  "Suffer From My Stomach. I Have

A Weak Stomach. The Lining Of My Stomach Is Not What I Could Wish

The Lining Of My Stomach To Be."

"Tell Me," Said Ashe Gratefully,  Leaning Forward In An Attitude

Of Attention,  "All About The Lining Of Your Stomach."

It Was A Quarter Of An Hour Later When Mr. Beach Was Checked In

His Discourse By The Chiming Of The Little Clock On The

Mantelpiece. He Turned Round And Gazed At It With Surprise Not

Unmixed With Displeasure.

"So Late?" He Said. "I Shall Have To Be Going About My Duties.

And You,  Also,  Mr. Marson,  If I May Make The Suggestion. No Doubt

Mr. Peters Will Be Wishing To Have Your Assistance In Preparing

For Dinner. If You Go Along The Passage Outside You Will Come To

The Door That Separates Our Portion Of The House From The Other.

I Must Beg You To Excuse Me. I Have To Go To The Cellar."

Following His Directions Ashe Came After A Walk Of A Few Yards To

A Green-Baize Door,  Which,  Swinging At His Push,  Gave Him A View

Of What He Correctly Took To Be The Main Hall Of The Castle--A

Wide,  Comfortable Space,  Ringed With Settees And Warmed By A Log

Fire Burning In A Mammoth Fireplace. On The Right A Broad

Staircase Led To The Upper Regions.

It Was At This Point That Ashe Realized The Incompleteness Of Mr.

Beach's Directions. Doubtless,  The Broad Staircase Would Take Him

To The Floor On Which Were The Bedrooms; But How Was He To

Ascertain,  Without The Tedious Process Of Knocking And Inquiring

At Each Door,  Which Was The One Assigned To Mr. Peters? It Was

Too Late To Go Back And Ask The Butler For Further Guidance;

Already He Was On His Way To The Cellar In Quest Of The Evening's

Wine.

As He Stood Irresolute A Door Across The Hall Opened And A Man Of

His Own Age Came Out. Through The Doorway,  Which The Young Man

Held Open For An Instant While He Answered A Question From

Somebody Within,  Ashe Had A Glimpse Of Glass-Topped Cases.

Could This Be The Museum--His Goal? The Next Moment The Door,

Opening A Few Inches More,  Revealed The Outlying Portions Of An

Egyptian Mummy And Brought Certainty. It Flashed Across Ashe's

Mind That The Sooner He Explored The Museum And Located Mr.

Peters' Scarab,  The Better. He Decided To Ask Beach To Take Him

There As Soon As He Had Leisure.

Meantime The Young Man Had Closed The Museum Door And Was

Crossing The Hall. He Was A Wiry-Haired,  Severe-Looking Young

Man,  With A Sharp Nose And Eyes That Gleamed Through Rimless

Spectacles--None Other,  In Fact Than Lord Emsworth's Private

Secretary,  The Efficient Baxter. Ashe Hailed Him:

"I Say,  Old Man,  Would You Mind Telling Me How I Get To Mr.

Peters' Room? I've Lost My Bearings."

He Did Not Reflect That This Was Hardly The Way In Which Valets

In The Best Society Addressed Their Superiors. That Is The Worst

Of Adopting What Might Be Called A Character Part. One Can Manage

The Business Well Enough; It Is The Dialogue That Provides The

Pitfalls.

Mr. Baxter Would Have Accorded A Hearty Agreement To The

Statement That This Was Not The Way In Which A Valet Should Have

Spoken To Him; But At The Moment He Was Not Aware That Ashe Was A

Valet. From His Easy Mode Of Address He Assumed That He Was One

Of The Numerous Guests Who Had Been Arriving At The Castle All

Day. As He Had Asked For Mr. Peters,  He Fancied That Ashe Must Be

The Honorable Freddie's American Friend,  George Emerson,  Whom He

Had Not Yet Met. Consequently He Replied With Much Cordiality

That Mr. Peters' Room Was The Second At The Left On The Second

Floor.

He Said Ashe Could Not Miss It. Ashe Said He Was Much Obliged.

"Awfully Good Of You," Said Ashe.

"Not At All," Said Mr. Baxter.

"You Lose Your Way In A Place Like This," Said Ashe.

"You Certainly Do," Said Mr. Baxter.

Ashe Went On His Upward Path And In A Few Moments Was Knocking At

The Door Indicated. And Sure Enough It Was Mr. Peters' Voice That

Invited Him To Enter.

Mr. Peters,  Partially Arrayed In The Correct Garb For Gentlemen

About To Dine,  Was Standing In Front Of The Mirror,  Wrestling

With His Evening Tie. As Ashe Entered He Removed His Fingers And

Anxiously Examined His Handiwork. It Proved Unsatisfactory. With

A Yelp And An Oath,  He Tore The Offending Linen From His Neck.

"Damn The Thing!"

It Was Plain To Ashe That His Employer Was In No Sunny Mood.

There Are Few Things Less Calculated To Engender Sunniness In A

Naturally Bad-Tempered Man Than A Dress Tie That Will Not Let

Itself Be Pulled And Twisted Into The Right Shape. Even When

Things Went Well,  Mr. Peters Hated Dressing For Dinner. Words

Cannot Describe His Feelings When They Went Wrong.

There Is Something To Be Said In Excuse For This Impatience: It

Is A Hollow Mockery To Be Obliged To Deck One's Person As For A

Feast When That Feast Is To Consist Of A Little Asparagus And A

Few Nuts.

Mr. Peters' Eye Met Ashe's In The Mirror.

"Oh,  It's You,  Is It? Come In,  Then. Don't Stand Staring. Close

That Door Quick! Hustle! Don't Scrape Your Feet On The Floor.

Try To Look Intelligent. Don't Gape. Where Have You Been All This

While? Why Didn't You Come Before? Can You Tie A Tie? All Right,

Then--Do It!"

Somewhat Calmed By The Snow-White Butterfly-Shaped Creation That

Grew Under Ashe's Fingers,  He Permitted Himself To Be Helped Into

His Coat. He Picked Up The Remnant Of A Black Cigar From The

Dressing-Table And Relit It.

"I've Been Thinking About You," He Said.

"Yes?" Said Ashe.

"Have You Located The Scarab Yet?"

"No."

"What The Devil Have You Been Doing With Yourself Then? You've

Had Time To Collar It A Dozen Times."

"I Have Been Talking To The Butler."

"What The Devil Do You Waste Time Talking To Butlers For? I

Suppose You Haven't Even Located The Museum Yet?"

"Yes; I've Done That."

"Oh,  You Have,  Have You? Well,  That's Something. And How Do You

Propose Setting About The Job?"

"The Best Plan Would Be To Go There Very Late At Night."

"Well,  You Didn't Propose To Stroll In In The Afternoon,  Did You?

How Are You Going To Find The Scarab When You Do Get In?"

Ashe Had Not Thought Of That. The Deeper He Went Into This

Business The More Things