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

Had Not Thought.

"I Don't Know," He Confessed.

"You Don't Know! Tell Me,  Young Man,  Are You Considered Pretty

Bright,  As Englishmen Go?"

"I Am Not English. I Was Born Near Boston."

"Oh,  You Were,  Were You? You Blanked Bone-Headed,  Bean-Eating

Boob!" Cried Mr. Peters,  Frothing Over Quite Unexpectedly And

Waving His Arms In A Sudden Burst Of Fury. "Then If You Are An

American Why Don't You Show A Little More Enterprise? Why Don't

You Put Something Over? Why Do You Loaf About The Place As Though

You Were Supposed To Be An Ornament? I Want Results--And I Want

Them Quick!

"I'll Tell You How You Can Recognize My Scarab When You Get Into

The Museum. That Shameless Old Green-Goods Man Who Sneaked It

From Me Has Had The Gall,  The Nerve,  To Put It All By Itself,

With A Notice As Big As A Circus Poster Alongside Of It Saying

That It Is A Cheops Of The Fourth Dynasty,  Presented"--Mr. Peters

Choked--"Presented By J. Preston Peters,  Esquire! That's How

You're Going To Recognize It."

Ashe Did Not Laugh,  But He Nearly Dislocated A Rib In His Effort

To Abstain From Doing So. It Seemed To Him That This Act On Lord

Emsworth's Part Effectually Disposed Of The Theory That Britons

Have No Sense Of Humor. To Rob A Man Of His Choicest Possession

And Then Thank Him Publicly For Letting You Have It Appealed To

Ashe As Excellent Comedy.

"The Thing Isn't Even In A Glass Case," Continued Mr. Peters.

"It's Lying On An Open Tray On Top Of A Cabinet Of Roman Coins.

Anybody Who Was Left Alone For Two Minutes In The Place Could

Take It! It's Criminal Carelessness To Leave A Valuable Scarab

About Like That. If Lord Jesse James Was Going To Steal My Cheops

He Might At Least Have Had The Decency To Treat It As Though It

Was Worth Something."

"But It Makes It Easier For Me To Get It," Said Ashe Consolingly.

"It's Got To Be Made Easy If You Are To Get It!" Snapped Mr.

Peters. "Here's Another Thing: You Say You Are Going To Try For

It Late At Night. Well,  What Are You Going To Do If Anyone

Catches You Prowling Round At That Time? Have You Considered

That?"

"No."

"You Would Have To Say Something,  Wouldn't You? You Wouldn't Chat

About The Weather,  Would You? You Wouldn't Discuss The Latest

Play? You Would Have To Think Up Some Mighty Good Reason For

Being Out Of Bed At That Time,  Wouldn't You?"

"I Suppose So."

"Oh,  You Do Admit That,  Do You? Well,  What You Would Say Is This:

You Would Explain That I Had Rung For You To Come And Read Me To

Sleep. Do You Understand?"

"You Think That Would Be A Satisfactory Explanation Of My Being

In The Museum?"

"Idiot! I Don't Mean That You're To Say It If You're Caught

Actually In The Museum. If You're Caught In The Museum The Best

Thing You Can Do Is To Say Nothing,  And Hope That The Judge Will

Let You Off Light Because It's Your First Offense. You're To Say

It If You're Found Wandering About On Your Way There."

"It Sounds Thin To Me."

"Does It? Well,  Let Me Tell You That It Isn't So Thin As You

Suppose,  For It's What You Will Actually Have To Do Most Nights.

Two Nights Out Of Three I Have To Be Read To Sleep. My

Indigestion Gives Me Insomnia." As Though To Push This Fact Home,

Mr. Peters Suddenly Bent Double. "Oof!" He Said. "Wow!" He

Removed The Cigar From His Mouth And Inserted A Digestive

Tabloid. "The Lining Of My Stomach Is All Wrong," He Added.

It Is Curious How Trivial Are The Immediate Causes That Produce

Revolutions. If Mr. Peters Had Worded His Complaint Differently

Ashe Would In All Probability Have Borne It Without Active

Protest. He Had Been Growing More And More Annoyed With This

Little Person Who Buzzed And Barked And Bit At Him,  Yet The Idea

Of Definite Revolt Had Not Occurred To Him. But His Sufferings At

The Hands Of Beach,  The Butler,  Had Reduced Him To A State Where

He Could Endure No Further Mention Of Stomachic Linings. There

Comes A Time When Our Capacity For Listening To Detailed Data

About The Linings Of Other People's Stomachs Is Exhausted.

He Looked At Mr. Peters Sternly. He Had Ceased To Be Intimidated

By The Fiery Little Man And Regarded Him Simply As A

Hypochondriac,  Who Needed To Be Told A Few Useful Facts.

"How Do You Expect Not To Have Indigestion? You Take No Exercise

And You Smoke All Day Long."

The Novel Sensation Of Being Criticized--And By A Beardless Youth

At That--Held Mr. Peters Silent. He Started Convulsively,  But He

Did Not Speak. Ashe,  On His Pet Subject,  Became Eloquent. In His

Opinion Dyspeptics Cumbered The Earth. To His Mind They Had The

Choice Between Health And Sickness,  And They Deliberately Chose

The Latter.

"Your Sort Of Man Makes Me Angry. I Know Your Type Inside Out.

You Overwork And Shirk Exercise,  And Let Your Temper Run Away

With You,  And Smoke Strong Cigars On An Empty Stomach; And When

You Get Indigestion As A Natural Result You Look On Yourself As A

Martyr,  Nourish A Perpetual Grouch,  And Make The Lives Of

Everybody You Meet Miserable. If You Would Put Yourself Into My

Hands For A Month I Would Have You Eating Bricks And Thriving On

Them. Up In The Morning,  Larsen Exercises,  Cold Bath,  A Brisk

Rubdown,  Sharp Walk--"

"Who The Devil Asked Your Opinion,  You Impertinent Young Hound?"

Inquired Mr. Peters.

"Don't Interrupt--Confound You!" Shouted Ashe. "Now You Have Made

Me Forget What I Was Going To Say."

There Was A Tense Silence. Then Mr. Peters Began To Speak:

"You--Infernal--Impudent--"

"Don't Talk To Me Like That!"

"I'll Talk To You Just--"

Ashe Took A Step Toward The Door. "Very Well,  Then," He Said.

"I'll Quit! I'm Through! You Can Get Somebody Else To Do This Job

Of Yours For You."

The Sudden Sagging Of Mr. Peters' Jaw,  The Look Of Consternation

That Flashed On His Face,  Told Ashe He Had Found The Right

Weapon--That The Game Was In His Hands. He Continued With A

Feeling Of Confidence:

"If I Had Known What Being Your Valet Involved I Wouldn't Have

Undertaken The Thing For A Hundred Thousand Dollars. Just Because

You Had Some Idiotic Prejudice Against Letting Me Come Down Here

As Your Secretary,  Which Would Have Been The Simple And Obvious

Thing,  I Find Myself In A Position Where At Any Moment I May Be

Publicly Rebuked By The Butler And Have The Head Stillroom Maid

Looking At Me As Though I Were Something The Cat Had Brought In."

His Voice Trembled With Self-Pity.

"Do You Realize A Fraction Of The Awful Things You Have Let Me In

For? How On Earth Am I To Remember Whether I Go In Before The

Chef Or After The Third Footman? I Shan't Have A Peaceful Minute

While I'm In This Place. I've Got To Sit And Listen By The Hour

To A Bore Of A Butler Who Seems To Be A Sort Of Walking Hospital.

I've Got To Steer My Way Through A Complicated System Of

Etiquette.

"And On Top Of All That You Have The Nerve,  The Insolence,  To

Imagine That You Can Use Me As A Punching Bag To Work Your Bad

Temper Off! You Have The Immortal Rind To Suppose That I Will

Stand For Being Nagged And Bullied By You Whenever Your Suicidal

Way Of Living Brings On An Attack Of Indigestion! You Have The

Supreme Gall To Fancy That You Can Talk As You Please To Me!

"Very Well! I've Had Enough Of It. I Resign! If You Want This

Scarab Of Yours Recovered Let Somebody Else Do It. I've Retired

From Business."

He Took Another Step Toward The Door. A Shaking Hand Clutched At

His Sleeve.

"My Boy--My Dear Boy--Be Reasonable!"

Ashe Was Intoxicated With His Own Oratory. The Sensation Of

Bullyragging A Genuine Millionaire Was New And Exhilarating. He

Expanded His Chest And Spread His Feet Like A Colossus.

"That's All Very Well," He Said,  Coldly Disentangling Himself

From The Hand. "You Can't Get Out Of It Like That. We Have Got To

Come To An Understanding. The Point Is That If I Am To Be

Subjected To Your--Your Senile Malevolence Every Time You Have A

Twinge Of Indigestion,  No Amount Of Money Could Pay Me To Stop

On."

"My Dear Boy,  It Shall Not Occur Again. I Was Hasty."

Mr. Peters,  With Agitated Fingers,  Relit The Stump Of His Cigar.

"Throw Away That Cigar!"

"My Boy!"

"Throw It Away! You Say You Were Hasty. Of Course You Were Hasty;

And As Long As You Abuse Your Digestion You Will Go On Being

Hasty. I Want Something Better Than Apologies. If I Am To Stop

Here We Must Get To The Root Of Things. You Must Put Yourself In

My Hands As Though I Were Your Doctor. No More Cigars. Every

Morning Regular Exercises."

"No,  No!"

"Very Well!"

"No; Stop! Stop! What Sort Of Exercises?"

"I'll Show You To-Morrow Morning. Brisk Walks."

"I Hate Walking."

"Cold Baths."

"No,  No!"

"Very Well!"

"No; Stop! A Cold Bath Would Kill Me At My Age."

"It Would Put New Life Into You. Do You Consent To The Cold

Baths? No? Very Well!"

"Yes,  Yes,  Yes!"

"You Promise?"

"Yes,  Yes!"

"All Right,  Then."

The Distant Sound Of The Dinner Gong Floated In.

"We Settled That Just In Time," Said Ashe.

Mr. Peters Regarded Him Fixedly.

"Young Man," He Said Slowly,  "If,  After All This,  You Fail To

Recover My Cheops For Me I'll--I'll--By George,  I'll Skin You!"

"Don't Talk Like That," Said Ashe. "That's Another Thing You Have

Got To Remember. If My Treatment Is To Be Successful You