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

The Author Of Gridley Quayle,  Is Felix Clovelly,  Isn't It?"

"Good Heavens,  No! Surely You Don't Think Anyone's Name Could

Really Be Felix Clovelly? That Is Only The Cloak Under Which I

Hide My Shame. My Real Name Is Marson--Ashe Marson. And Yours?"

"Valentine--Joan Valentine."

"Will You Tell Me The Story Of Your Life,  Or Shall I Tell Mine

First?"

"I Don't Know That I Have Any Particular Story. I Am An

American."

"Not American!"

"Why Not?"

"Because It Is Too Extraordinary,  Too Much Like A Gridley Quayle

Coincidence. I Am An American!"

"Well,  So Are A Good Many Other People."

"You Miss The Point. We Are Not Only Fellow Serfs--We Are Fellow

Exiles. You Can't Round The Thing Off By Telling Me You Were Born

In Hayling,  Massachusetts,  I Suppose?"

"I Was Born In New York."

"Surely Not! I Didn't Know Anybody Was."

"Why Hayling,  Massachusetts?"

"That Was Where I Was Born."

"I'm Afraid I Never Heard Of It."

"Strange. I Know Your Home Town Quite Well. But I Have Not Yet

Made My Birthplace Famous; In Fact,  I Doubt Whether I Ever Shall.

I Am Beginning To Realize That I Am One Of The Failures."

"How Old Are You?"

"Twenty-Six."

"You Are Only Twenty-Six And You Call Yourself A Failure? I Think

That Is A Shameful Thing To Say."

"What Would You Call A Man Of Twenty-Six Whose Only Means Of

Making A Living Was The Writing Of Gridley Quayle Stories--An

Empire Builder?"

"How Do You Know It's Your Only Means Of Making A Living? Why

Don't You Try Something New?"

"Such As?"

"How Should I Know? Anything That Comes Along. Good Gracious,  Mr.

Marson; Here You Are In The Biggest City In The World,  With

Chances For Adventure Simply Shrieking To You On Every Side."

"I Must Be Deaf. The Only Thing I Have Heard Shrieking To Me On

Every Side Has Been Mrs. Bell--For The Week's Rent."

"Read The Papers. Read The Advertisement Columns. I'm Sure You

Will Find Something Sooner Or Later. Don't Get Into A Groove. Be

An Adventurer. Snatch At The Next Chance,  Whatever It Is."

Ashe Nodded.

"Continue," He Said. "Proceed. You Are Stimulating Me."

"But Why Should You Want A Girl Like Me To Stimulate You? Surely

London Is Enough To Do It Without My Help? You Can Always Find

Something New,  Surely? Listen,  Mr. Marson. I Was Thrown On My Own

Resources About Five Years Ago--Never Mind How. Since Then I Have

Worked In A Shop,  Done Typewriting,  Been On The Stage,  Had A

Position As Governess,  Been A Lady's Maid--"

"A What! A Lady's Maid?"

"Why Not? It Was All Experience; And I Can Assure You I Would

Much Rather Be A Lady's Maid Than A Governess."

"I Think I Know What You Mean. I Was A Private Tutor Once. I

Suppose A Governess Is The Female Equivalent. I Have Often

Wondered What General Sherman Would Have Said About Private

Tutoring If He Expressed Himself So Breezily About Mere War. Was

It Fun Being A Lady's Maid?"

"It Was Pretty Good Fun; And It Gave Me An Opportunity Of

Studying The Aristocracy In Its Native Haunts,  Which Has Made Me

The Gossip's Established Authority On Dukes And Earls."

Ashe Drew A Deep Breath--Not A Scientific Deep Breath,  But One Of

Admiration.

"You Are Perfectly Splendid!"

"Splendid?"

"I Mean,  You Have Such Pluck."

"Oh,  Well; I Keep On Trying. I'm Twenty-Three And I Haven't

Achieved Anything Much Yet; But I Certainly Don't Feel Like

Sitting Back And Calling Myself A Failure."

Ashe Made A Grimace.

"All Right," He Said. "I've Got It."

"I Meant You To," Said Joan Placidly. "I Hope I Haven't Bored You

With My Autobiography,  Mr. Marson. I'm Not Setting Myself Up As A

Shining Example; But I Do Like Action And Hate Stagnation."

"You Are Absolutely Wonderful!" Said Ashe. "You Are A Human

Correspondence Course In Efficiency,  One Of The Ones You See

Advertised In The Back Pages Of The Magazines,  Beginning,  'Young

Man,  Are You Earning Enough?' With A Picture Showing The Dead

Beat Gazing Wistfully At The Boss' Chair. You Would Galvanize A

Jellyfish."

"If I Have Really Stimulated You-----"

"I Think That Was Another Slam," Said Ashe Pensively. "Well,  I

Deserve It. Yes,  You Have Stimulated Me. I Feel Like A New Man.

It's Queer That You Should Have Come To Me Right On Top Of

Everything Else. I Don't Remember When I Have Felt So Restless

And Discontented As This Morning."

"It's The Spring."

"I Suppose It Is. I Feel Like Doing Something Big And

Adventurous."

"Well,  Do It Then. You Have A Morning Post On The Table. Have You

Read It Yet?"

"I Glanced At It."

"But You Haven't Read The Advertisement Pages? Read Them. They

May Contain Just The Opening You Want."

"Well,  I'll Do It; But My Experience Of Advertisement Pages Is

That They Are Monopolized By Philanthropists Who Want To Lend You

Any Sum From Ten To A Hundred Thousand Pounds On Your Note Of

Hand Only. However,  I Will Scan Them."

Joan Rose And Held Out Her Hand.

"Good-By,  Mr. Marson. You've Got Your Detective Story To Write,

And I Have To Think Out Something With A Duke In It By To-Night;

So I Must Be Going." She Smiled. "We Have Traveled A Good Way

From The Point Where We Started,  But I May As Well Go Back To It

Before I Leave You. I'm Sorry I Laughed At You This Morning."

Ashe Clasped Her Hand In A Fervent Grip.

"I'm Not. Come And Laugh At Me Whenever You Feel Like It. I Like

Being Laughed At. Why,  When I Started My Morning Exercises,  Half

Of London Used To Come And Roll About The Sidewalks In

Convulsions. I'm Not An Attraction Any Longer And It Makes Me

Feel Lonesome. There Are Twenty-Nine Of Those Larsen Exercises

And You Saw Only Part Of The First. You Have Done So Much For Me

That If I Can Be Of Any Use To You,  In Helping You To Greet The

Day With A Smile,  I Shall Be Only Too Proud. Exercise Six Is A

Sure-Fire Mirth-Provoker; I'll Start With It To-Morrow Morning. I

Can Also Recommend Exercise Eleven--A Scream! Don't Miss It."

"Very Well. Well,  Good-By For The Present."

"Good-By."

She Was Gone; And Ashe,  Thrilling With New Emotions,  Stared At

The Door Which Had Closed Behind Her. He Felt As Though He Had

Been Wakened From Sleep By A Powerful Electric Shock.

Close Beside The Sheet Of Paper On Which He Had Inscribed The Now

Luminous And Suggestive Title Of His New Gridley Quayle Story Lay

The Morning Post,  The Advertisement Columns Of Which He Had

Promised Her To Explore. The Least He Could Do Was To Begin At

Once.

His Spirits Sank As He Did So. It Was The Same Old Game. A Mr.

Brian Macneill,  Though Doing No Business With Minors,  Was

Willing--Even Anxious--To Part With His Vast Fortune To Anyone

Over The Age Of Twenty-One Whose Means Happened To Be A Trifle

Straitened. This Good Man Required No Security Whatever; Nor Did

His Rivals In Generosity,  The Messrs. Angus Bruce,  Duncan

Macfarlane,  Wallace Mackintosh And Donald Macnab. They,  Too,

Showed A Curious Distaste For Dealing With Minors; But Anyone Of

Maturer Years Could Simply Come Round To The Office And Help

Himself.

Ashe Threw The Paper Down Wearily. He Had Known All Along That It

Was No Good. Romance Was Dead And The Unexpected No Longer

Happened. He Picked Up His Pen And Began To Write "The Adventure

Of The Wand Of Death."

In A Bedroom On The Fourth Floor Of The Hotel Guelph In

Piccadilly,  The Honorable Frederick Threepwood Sat In Bed,  With

His Knees Drawn Up To His Chin,  And Glared At The Day With The

Glare Of Mental Anguish. He Had Very Little Mind,  But What He Had

Was Suffering.

He Had Just Remembered. It Is Like That In This Life. You Wake

Up,  Feeling As Fit As A Fiddle; You Look At The Window And See

The Sun,  And Thank Heaven For A Fine Day; You Begin To Plan A

Perfectly Corking Luncheon Party With Some Of The Chappies You

Met Last Night At The National Sporting Club; And Then--You

Remember.

"Oh,  Dash It!" Said The Honorable Freddie. And After A Moment's

Pause: "And I Was Feeling So Dashed Happy!"

For The Space Of Some Minutes He Remained Plunged In Sad

Meditation; Then,  Picking Up The Telephone From The Table At His

Side,  He Asked For A Number.

"Hello!"

"Hello!" Responded A Rich Voice At The Other End Of The Wire.

"Oh,  I Say! Is That You,  Dickie?"

"Who Is That?"

"This Is Freddie Threepwood. I Say,  Dickie,  Old Top,  I Want To

See You About Something Devilish Important. Will You Be In At

Twelve?"

"Certainly. What's The Trouble?"

"I Can't Explain Over The Wire; But It's Deuced Serious."

"Very Well. By The Way,  Freddie,  Congratulations On The

Engagement."

"Thanks,  Old Man. Thanks Very Much,  And So On--But You Won't

Forget To Be In At Twelve,  Will You? Good-By."

He Replaced The Receiver Quickly And Sprang Out Of Bed,  For He

Had Heard The Door Handle Turn. When The Door Opened He Was

Giving A Correct Representation Of A Young Man Wasting No Time In

Beginning His Toilet For The Day.