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

It Suggested This Visit To The Museum? Did You?"

"It Was At The Young Man's Express Desire That I Conducted Him,

Sir."

The Efficient Baxter Returned To The Museum Without A Word.

Ashe,  Standing In The Middle Of The Room,  Was Impressing The

Topography Of The Place On His Memory. He Was Unaware Of The

Piercing Stare Of Suspicion That Was Being Directed At Him From

Behind.

He Did Not See Baxter. He Was Not Even Thinking Of Baxter; But

Baxter Was On The Alert. Baxter Was On The Warpath. Baxter Knew!

Among The Compensations Of Advancing Age Is A Wholesome

Pessimism,  Which,  Though It Takes The Fine Edge Off Of Whatever

Triumphs May Come To Us,  Has The Admirable Effect Of Preventing

Fate From Working Off On Us Any Of Those Gold Bricks,  Coins With

Strings Attached,  And Unhatched Chickens,  At Which Ardent Youth

Snatches With Such Enthusiasm,  To Its Subsequent Disappointment.

As We Emerge From The Twenties We Grow Into A Habit Of Mind That

Looks Askance At Fate Bearing Gifts. We Miss,  Perhaps,  The

Occasional Prize,  But We Also Avoid Leaping Light-Heartedly Into

Traps.

Ashe Marson Had Yet To Reach The Age Of Tranquil Mistrust; And

When Fate Seemed To Be Treating Him Kindly He Was Still Young

Enough To Accept Such Kindnesses On Their Face Value And Rejoice

At Them.

As He Sat On His Bed At The End Of His First Night In Castle

Blandings,  He Was Conscious To A Remarkable Degree That Fortune

Was Treating Him Well. He Had Survived--Not Merely Without

Discredit,  But With Positive Triumph--The Initiatory Plunge Into

The Etiquette Maelstrom Of Life Below Stairs. So Far From Doing

The Wrong Thing And Drawing Down On Himself The Just Scorn Of The

Steward's Room,  He Had Been The Life And Soul Of The Party. Even

If To-Morrow,  In An Absent-Minded Fit,  He Should Anticipate The

Groom Of The Chambers In The March To The Table,  He Would Be

Forgiven; For The Humorist Has His Privileges.

So Much For That. But That Was Only A Part Of Fortune's

Kindnesses. To Have Discovered On The First Day Of Their

Association The Correct Method Of Handling And Reducing To

Subjection His Irascible Employer Was An Even Greater Boon. A

Prolonged Association With Mr. Peters On The Lines In Which Their

Acquaintance Had Begun Would Have Been Extremely Trying. Now,  By

Virtue Of A Fortunate Stand At The Outset,  He Had Spiked The

Millionaire's Guns.

Thirdly,  And Most Important Of All,  He Had Not Only Made Himself

Familiar With The Locality And Surroundings Of The Scarab,  But He

Had Seen,  Beyond The Possibility Of Doubt,  That The Removal Of It

And The Earning Of The Five Thousand Dollars Would Be The

Simplest Possible Task. Already He Was Spending The Money In His

Mind. And To Such Lengths Had Optimism Led Him That,  As He Sat On

His Bed Reviewing The Events Of The Day,  His Only Doubt Was

Whether To Get The Scarab At Once Or To Let It Remain Where It

Was Until He Had The Opportunity Of Doing Mr. Peters' Interior

Good On The Lines He Had Mapped Out In Their Conversation; For,

Of Course,  Directly He Had Restored The Scarab To Its Rightful

Owner And Pocketed The Reward,  His Position As Healer And Trainer

To The Millionaire Would Cease Automatically.

He Was Sorry For That,  Because It Troubled Him To Think That A

Sick Man Would Not Be Made Well; But,  On The Whole,  Looking At It

From Every Aspect,  It Would Be Best To Get The Scarab As Soon As

Possible And Leave Mr. Peters' Digestion To Look After Itself.

Being Twenty-Six And An Optimist,  He Had No Suspicion That Fate

Might Be Playing With Him; That Fate Might Have Unpleasant

Surprises In Store; That Fate Even Now Was Preparing To Smite Him

In His Hour Of Joy With That Powerful Weapon,  The Efficient

Baxter.

He Looked At His Watch. It Was Five Minutes To One. He Had No

Idea Whether They Kept Early Hours At Blandings Castle Or Not,

But He Deemed It Prudent To Give The Household Another Hour In

Which To Settle Down. After Which He Would Just Trot Down And

Collect The Scarab.

The Novel He Had Brought Down With Him From London Fortunately

Proved Interesting. Two O'clock Came Before He Was Ready For It.

He Slipped The Book Into His Pocket And Opened The Door.

All Was Still--Still And Uncommonly Dark. Along The Corridor On

Which His Room Was Situated The Snores Of Sleeping Domestics

Exploded,  Growled And Twittered In The Air. Every Menial On The

List Seemed To Be Snoring,  Some In One Key,  Some In Another,  Some

Defiantly,  Some Plaintively; But The Main Fact Was That They Were

All Snoring Somehow,  Thus Intimating That,  So Far As This Side Of

The House Was Concerned,  The Coast Might Be Considered Clear And

Interruption Of His Plans A Negligible Risk.

Researches Made At An Earlier Hour Had Familiarized Him With The

Geography Of The Place. He Found His Way To The Green-Baize Door

Without Difficulty And,  Stepping Through,  Was In The Hall,  Where

The Remains Of The Log Fire Still Glowed A Fitful Red. This,

However,  Was The Only Illumination,  And It Was Fortunate That He

Did Not Require Light To Guide Him To The Museum.

He Knew The Direction And Had Measured The Distance. It Was

Precisely Seventeen Steps From Where He Stood. Cautiously,  And

With Avoidance Of Noise,  He Began To Make The Seventeen Steps.

He Was Beginning The Eleventh When He Bumped Into Somebody--

Somebody Soft--Somebody Whose Hand,  As It Touched His,  Felt Small

And Feminine.

The Fragment Of A Log Fell On The Ashes And The Fire Gave A Dying

Spurt. Darkness Succeeded The Sudden Glow. The Fire Was Out.

That Little Flame Had Been Its Last Effort Before Expiring,  But

It Had Been Enough To Enable Him To Recognize Joan Valentine.

"Good Lord!" He Gasped.

His Astonishment Was Short-Lived. Next Moment The Only Thing That

Surprised Him Was The Fact That He Was Not More Surprised. There

Was Something About This Girl That Made The Most Bizarre

Happenings Seem Right And Natural. Ever Since He Had Met Her His

Life Had Changed From An Orderly Succession Of Uninteresting Days

To A Strange Carnival Of The Unexpected,  And Use Was Accustoming

Him To It. Life Had Taken On The Quality Of A Dream,  In Which

Anything Might Happen And In Which Everything That Did Happen Was

To Be Accepted With The Calmness Natural In Dreams.

It Was Strange That She Should Be Here In The Pitch-Dark Hall In

The Middle Of The Night; But--After All--No Stranger Than That He

Should Be. In This Dream World In Which He Now Moved It Had To Be

Taken For Granted That People Did All Sorts Of Odd Things From

All Sorts Of Odd Motives.

"Hello!" He Said.

"Don't Be Alarmed."

"No,  No!"

"I Think We Are Both Here For The Same Reason."

"You Don't Mean To Say--"

"Yes; I Have Come Here To Earn The Five Thousand Dollars,  Too,

Mr. Marson. We Are Rivals."

In His Present Frame Of Mind It Seemed So Simple And Intelligible

To Ashe That He Wondered Whether He Was Really Hearing It The

First Time. He Had An Odd Feeling That He Had Known This All

Along.

"You Are Here To Get The Scarab?"

"Exactly."

Ashe Was Dimly Conscious Of Some Objection To This,  But At First

It Eluded Him. Then He Pinned It Down.

"But You Aren't A Young Man Of Good Appearance," He Said.

"I Don't Know What You Mean. But Aline Peters Is An Old Friend Of

Mine. She Told Me Her Father Would Give A Large Reward To Whoever

Recovered The Scarab; So I--"

"Look Out!" Whispered Ashe. "Run! There's Somebody Coming!"

There Was A Soft Footfall On The Stairs,  A Click,  And Above

Ashe's Head A Light Flashed Out. He Looked Round. He Was Alone,

And The Green-Baize Door Was Swaying Gently To And Fro.

"Who's That? Who's There?" Said A Voice.

The Efficient Baxter Was Coming Down The Broad Staircase.

A General Suspicion Of Mankind And A Definite And Particular

Suspicion Of One Individual Made A Bad Opiate. For Over An Hour

Sleep Had Avoided The Efficient Baxter With An Unconquerable

Coyness. He Had Tried All The Known Ways Of Wooing Slumber,  But

They Had Failed Him,  From The Counting Of Sheep Downward. The

Events Of The Night Had Whipped His Mind To A Restless Activity.

Try As He Might To Lose Consciousness,  The Recollection Of The

Plot He Had Discovered Surged Up And Kept Him Wakeful.

It Is The Penalty Of The Suspicious Type Of Mind That It Suffers

From Its Own Activity. From The Moment He Detected Mr. Peters In

The Act Of Rifling The Museum And Marked Down Ashe As An

Accomplice,  Baxter's Repose Was Doomed. Nor Poppy Nor Mandragora,

Nor All The Drowsy Sirups Of The World,  Could Ever Medicine Him

To That Sweet Sleep Which He Owed Yesterday.

But It Was The Recollection That On Previous Occasions Of

Wakefulness Hot Whisky And Water Had Done The Trick,  Which Had