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

Suddenly There Was A Break. Baxter Sat Up,  Blinking. He Had A

Curious Impression That His Companion Had Said "Hello,  Freddie!"

And That The Door Had Just Opened And Closed.

"Eh?" He Said.

"Yes?" Said The Fat Man.

"What Did You Say?"

"I Was Speaking Of--"

"I Thought You Said,  'Hello,  Freddie!'"

His Companion Eyed Him Indulgently.

"I Thought You Were Dropping Off When I Looked At You. You've

Been Dreaming. What Should I Say,  'Hello,  Freddie!' For?"

The Conundrum Was Unanswerable. Baxter Did Not Attempt To Answer

It. But There Remained At The Back Of His Mind A Quaint Idea That

He Had Caught Sight,  As He Woke,  Of The Honorable Frederick

Threepwood,  His Face Warningly Contorted,  Vanishing Through The

Doorway. Yet What Could The Honorable Freddie Be Doing At The

Emsworth Arms?

A Solution Of The Difficulty Occurred To Him: He Had Dreamed He

Had Seen Freddie And That Had Suggested The Words Which,  Reason

Pointed Out,  His Companion Could Hardly Have Spoken. Even If The

Honorable Freddie Should Enter The Room,  This Fat Man,  Who Was

Apparently A Drummer Of Some Kind,  Would Certainly Not Know Who

He Was,  Nor Would He Address Him So Familiarly.

Yes,  That Must Be The Explanation. After All,  The Quaintest

Things Happened In Dreams. Last Night,  When He Had Fallen Asleep

In His Chair,  He Had Dreamed That He Was Sitting In A Glass Case

In The Museum,  Making Faces At Lord Emsworth,  Mr. Peters,  And

Beach,  The Butler,  Who Were Trying To Steal Him,  Under The

Impression That He Was A Scarab Of The Reign Of Cheops Of The

Fourth Dynasty--A Thing He Would Never Have Done When Awake. Yes;

He Must Certainly Have Been Dreaming.

In The Bedroom Into Which He Had Dashed To Hide Himself,  On

Discovering That The Dining-Room Was In Possession Of The

Efficient Baxter,  The Honorable Freddie Sat On A Rickety Chair,

Scowling. He Elaborated A Favorite Dictum Of His:

"You Can't Take A Step Anywhere Without Stumbling Over That Damn

Feller,  Baxter!"

He Wondered Whether Baxter Had Seen Him. He Wondered Whether

Baxter Had Recognized Him. He Wondered Whether Baxter Had Heard

R. Jones Say,  "Hello,  Freddie!"

He Wondered,  If Such Should Be The Case,  Whether R. Jones'

Presence Of Mind And Native Resource Had Been Equal To Explaining

Away The Remark.

"'Put The Butter Or Drippings In A Kettle On The Range,  And When

Hot Add The Onions And Fry Them; Add The Veal And Cook Until

Brown. Add The Water,  Cover Closely,  And Cook Very Slowly Until

The Meat Is Tender; Then Add The Seasoning And Place The Potatoes

On Top Of The Meat. Cover And Cook Until The Potatoes Are Tender,

But Not Falling To Pieces.'"

"Sure," Said Mr. Peters--"Not Falling To Pieces. That's Right.

Go On."

"'Then Add The Cream And Cook Five Minutes Longer'" Read Ashe.

"Is That All?"

"That's All Of That One."

Mr. Peters Settled Himself More Comfortably In Bed.

"Read Me The Piece Where It Tells About Curried Lobster."

Ashe Cleared His Throat.

"'Curried Lobster,'" He Read. "'Materials: Two One-Pound

Lobsters,  Two Teaspoonfuls Lemon Juice,  Half A Spoonful Curry

Powder,  Two Tablespoonfuls Butter,  A Tablespoonful Flour,  One

Cupful Scalded Milk,  One Cupful Cracker Crumbs,  Half Teaspoonful

Salt,  Quarter Teaspoonful Pepper.'"

"Go On."

"'Way Of Preparing: Cream The Butter And Flour And Add The

Scalded Milk; Then Add The Lemon Juice,  Curry Powder,  Salt And

Pepper. Remove The Lobster Meat From The Shells And Cut Into

Half-Inch Cubes.'"

"Half-Inch Cubes," Sighed Mr. Peters Wistfully. "Yes?"

"'Add The Latter To The Sauce.'"

"You Didn't Say Anything About The Latter. Oh,  I See; It Means

The Half-Inch Cubes. Yes?"

"'Refill The Lobster Shells,  Cover With Buttered Crumbs,  And Bake

Until The Crumbs Are Brown. This Will Serve Six Persons.'"

"And Make Them Feel An Hour Afterward As Though They Had

Swallowed A Live Wild Cat," Said Mr. Peters Ruefully.

"Not Necessarily," Said Ashe. "I Could Eat Two Portions Of That

At This Very Minute And Go Off To Bed And Sleep Like A Little

Child."

Mr. Peters Raised Himself On His Elbow And Stared At Him. They

Were In The Millionaire's Bedroom,  The Time Being One In The

Morning,  And Mr. Peters Had Expressed A Wish That Ashe Should

Read Him To Sleep. He Had Voted Against Ashe's Novel And Produced

From The Recesses Of His Suitcase A Much-Thumbed Cookbook. He

Explained That Since His Digestive Misfortunes Had Come On Him He

Had Derived A Certain Solace From Its Perusal.

It May Be That To Some Men Sorrow's Crown Of Sorrow Is

Remembering Happier Things; But Mr. Peters Had Not Found That To

Be The Case. In His Hour Of Affliction It Soothed Him To Read Of

Hungarian Goulash And Escaloped Brains,  And To Remember That He,

Too,  The Nut-And-Grass Eater Of Today,  Had Once Dwelt In Arcadia.

The Passage Of The Days,  Which Had So Sapped The Stamina Of The

Efficient Baxter,  Had Had The Opposite Effect On Mr. Peters. His

Was One Of Those Natures That Cannot Deal In Half Measures.

Whatever He Did,  He Did With The Same Driving Energy. After The

First Passionate Burst Of Resistance He Had Settled Down Into A

Model Pupil In Ashe's One-Man School Of Physical Culture. It Had

Been The Same,  Now That He Came To Look Back On It,  At Muldoon's.

Now That He Remembered,  He Had Come Away From White Plains

Hoping,  Indeed,  Never To See The Place Again,  But Undeniably A

Different Man Physically. It Was Not The Habit Of Professor

Muldoon To Let His Patients Loaf; But Mr. Peters,  After The

Initial Plunge,  Had Needed No Driving. He Had Worked Hard At His

Cure Then,  Because It Was The Job In Hand. He Worked Hard Now,

Under The Guidance Of Ashe,  Because,  Once He Had Begun,  The Thing

Interested And Gripped Him.

Ashe,  Who Had Expected Continued Reluctance,  Had Been Astonished

And Delighted At The Way In Which The Millionaire Had Behaved.

Nature Had Really Intended Ashe For A Trainer; He Identified

Himself So Thoroughly With His Man And Rejoiced At The Least

Signs Of Improvement.

In Mr. Peters' Case There Had Been Distinct Improvement Already.

Miracles Do Not Happen Nowadays,  And It Was Too Much To Expect

One Who Had Maltreated His Body So Consistently For So Many Years

To Become Whole In A Day; But To An Optimist Like Ashe Signs Were

Not Wanting That In Due Season Mr. Peters Would Rise On

Stepping-Stones Of His Dead Self To Higher Things,  And Though

Never Soaring Into The Class That Devours Lobster A La Newburg

And Smiles After It,  Might Yet Prove Himself A Devil Of A Fellow

Among The Mutton Chops.

"You're A Wonder!" Said Mr. Peters. "You're Fresh,  And You Have

No Respect For Your Elders And Betters; But You Deliver The

Goods. That's The Point. Why,  I'm Beginning To Feel Great! Say,

Do You Know I Felt A New Muscle In The Small Of My Back This

Morning? They Are Coming Out On Me Like A Rash."

"That's The Larsen Exercises. They Develop The Whole Body."

"Well,  You're A Pretty Good Advertisement For Them If They Need

One. What Were You Before You Came To Me--A Prize-Fighter?"

"That's The Question Everybody I Have Met Since I Arrived Here

Has Asked Me. I Believe It Made The Butler Think I Was Some Sort

Of Crook When I Couldn't Answer It. I Used To Write Stories--

Detective Stories."

"What You Ought To Be Doing Is Running A Place Over Here In

England Like Muldoon Has Back Home. But You Will Be Able To Write

One More Story Out Of This Business Here,  If You Want To. When

Are You Going To Have Another Try For My Scarab?"

"To-Night."

"To-Night? How About Baxter?"

"I Shall Have To Risk Baxter."

Mr. Peters Hesitated. He Had Fallen Out Of The Habit Of Being

Magnanimous During The Past Few Years,  For Dyspepsia Brooks No

Divided Allegiance And Magnanimity Has To Take A Back Seat When

It Has Its Grip On You.

"See Here," He Said Awkwardly; "I've Been Thinking This Over

Lately--And What's The Use? It's A Queer Thing; And If Anybody

Had Told Me A Week Ago That I Should Be Saying It I Wouldn't Have

Believed Him; But I Am Beginning To Like You. I Don't Want To Get

You Into Trouble. Let The Old Scarab Go. What's A Scarab Anyway?

Forget About It And Stick On Here As My Private Muldoon. If It's

The Five Thousand That's Worrying You,  Forget That Too. I'll Give

It To You As Your Fee."

Ashe Was Astounded. That It Could Really Be His Peppery Employer

Who Spoke Was Almost Unbelievable. Ashe's Was A Friendly Nature

And He Could Never Be Long Associated With Anyone Without Trying

To Establish Pleasant Relations; But He Had Resigned Himself In

The Present Case To Perpetual Warfare.

He Was Touched; And If He Had Ever Contemplated Abandoning His

Venture,  This,  He Felt,  Would Have Spurred Him On To See It

Through. This Sudden Revelation Of The Human In Mr. Peters Was

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