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

"I Wouldn't Think Of It," He Said. "It's Great Of You To Suggest

Such A Thing; But I Know Just How You Feel About The Thing,  And

I'm Going To Get It For You If I Have To Wring Baxter's Neck.

Probably Baxter Will Have Given Up Waiting As A Bad Job By Now If

He Has Been Watching All This While. We've Given Him Ten Nights

To Cool Off. I Expect He Is In Bed,  Dreaming Pleasant Dreams.

It's Nearly Two O'clock. I'll Wait Another Ten Minutes And Then

Go Down." He Picked Up The Cookbook. "Lie Back And Make Yourself

Comfortable,  And I'll Read You To Sleep First."

"You're A Good Boy," Said Mr. Peters Drowsily.

"Are You Ready? 'Pork Tenderloin Larded. Half Pound Fat Pork--'"

A Faint Smile Curved Mr. Peters' Lips. His Eyes Were Closed And

He Breathed Softly. Ashe Went On In A Low Voice: "'Four Large

Pork Tenderloins,  One Cupful Cracker Crumbs,  One Cupful Boiling

Water,  Two Tablespoonfuls Butter,  One Teaspoonful Salt,  Half

Teaspoonful Pepper,  One Teaspoonful Poultry Seasoning.'"

A Little Sigh Came From The Bed.

"'Way Of Preparing: Wipe The Tenderloins With A Damp Cloth. With

A Sharp Knife Make A Deep Pocket Lengthwise In Each Tenderloin.

Cut Your Pork Into Long Thin Strips And,  With A Needle,  Lard Each

Tenderloin. Melt The Butter In The Water,  Add The Seasoning And

The Cracker Crumbs,  Combining All Thoroughly. Now Fill Each

Pocket In The Tenderloin With This Stuffing. Place The

Tenderloins--'"

A Snore Sounded From The Pillows,  Punctuating The Recital Like A

Mark Of Exclamation. Ashe Laid Down The Book And Peered Into The

Darkness Beyond The Rays Of The Bed Lamp. His Employer Slept.

Ashe Switched Off The Light And Crept To The Door. Out In The

Passage He Stopped And Listened. All Was Still. He Stole

Downstairs.

George Emerson Sat In His Bedroom In The Bachelors' Wing Of The

Castle Smoking A Cigarette. A Light Of Resolution Was In His

Eyes. He Glanced At The Table Beside His Bed And At What Was On

That Table,  And The Light Of Resolution Flamed Into A Glare Of

Fanatic Determination. So Might A Medieval Knight Have Looked On

The Eve Of Setting Forth To Rescue A Maiden From A Dragon.

His Cigarette Burned Down. He Looked At His Watch,  Put It Back,

And Lit Another Cigarette. His Aspect Was The Aspect Of One

Waiting For The Appointed Hour. Smoking His Second Cigarette,  He

Resumed His Meditations. They Had To Do With Aline Peters.

George Emerson Was Troubled About Aline Peters. Watching Over

Her,  As He Did,  With A Lover's Eye,  He Had Perceived That About

Her Which Distressed Him. On The Terrace That Morning She Had

Been Abrupt To Him--What In A Girl Of Less Angelic Disposition

One Might Have Called Snappy. Yes,  To Be Just,  She Had Snapped At

Him. That Meant Something. It Meant That Aline Was Not Well. It

Meant What Her Pallor And Tired Eyes Meant--That The Life She Was

Leading Was Doing Her No Good.

Eleven Nights Had George Dined At Blandings Castle,  And On Each

Of The Eleven Nights He Had Been Distressed To See The Manner In

Which Aline,  Declining The Baked Meats,  Had Restricted Herself To

The Miserable Vegetable Messes Which Were All That Doctor's

Orders Permitted To Her Suffering Father. George's Pity Had Its

Limits. His Heart Did Not Bleed For Mr. Peters. Mr. Peters' Diet

Was His Own Affair. But That Aline Should Starve Herself In This

Fashion,  Purely By Way Of Moral Support For Her Parent,  Was

Another Matter.

George Was Perhaps A Shade Material. Himself A Robust Young Man

And Taking What Might Be Called An Outsize In Meals,  He Attached

Perhaps Too Much Importance To Food As An Adjunct To The Perfect

Life. In His Survey Of Aline He Took A Line Through His Own

Requirements; And Believing That Eleven Such Dinners As He Had

Seen Aline Partake Of Would Have Killed Him He Decided That His

Loved One Was On The Point Of Starvation.

No Human Being,  He Held,  Could Exist On Such Barmecide Feasts.

That Mr. Peters Continued To Do So Did Not Occur To Him As A Flaw

In His Reasoning. He Looked On Mr. Peters As A Sort Of Machine.

Successful Business Men Often Give That Impression To The Young.

If George Had Been Told That Mr. Peters Went Along On Gasoline,

Like An Automobile,  He Would Not Have Been Much Surprised. But

That Aline--His Aline--Should Have To Deny Herself The Exercise

Of That Mastication Of Rich Meats Which,  Together With The Gift

Of Speech,  Raises Man Above The Beasts Of The Field---- That Was

What Tortured George.

He Had Devoted The Day To Thinking Out A Solution Of The Problem.

Such Was The Overflowing Goodness Of Aline's Heart That Not Even

He Could Persuade Her To Withdraw Her Moral Support From Her

Father And Devote Herself To Keeping Up Her Strength As She

Should Do. It Was Necessary To Think Of Some Other Plan.

And Then A Speech Of Hers Had Come Back To Him. She Had

Said--Poor Child:

"I Do Get A Little Hungry Sometimes--Late At Night Generally."

The Problem Was Solved. Food Should Be Brought To Her Late At

Night.

On The Table By His Bed Was A Stout Sheet Of Packing Paper. On

This Lay,  Like One Of Those Pictures In Still Life That One Sees

On Suburban Parlor Walls,  A Tongue,  Some Bread,  A Knife,  A Fork,

Salt,  A Corkscrew And A Small Bottle Of White Wine.

It Is A Pleasure,  When One Has Been Able Hitherto To Portray

George's Devotion Only Through The Medium Of His Speeches,  To

Produce These Comestibles As Exhibit A,  To Show That He Loved

Aline With No Common Love; For It Had Not Been An Easy Task To

Get Them There. In A House Of Smaller Dimensions He Would Have

Raided The Larder Without Shame,  But At Blandings Castle There

Was No Saying Where The Larder Might Be. All He Knew Was That It

Lay Somewhere Beyond That Green-Baize Door Opening On The Hall,

Past Which He Was Wont To Go On His Way To Bed. To Prowl Through

The Maze Of The Servants' Quarters In Search Of It Was

Impossible. The Only Thing To Be Done Was To Go To Market

Blandings And Buy The Things.

Fortune Had Helped Him At The Start By Arranging That The

Honorable Freddie,  Also,  Should Be Going To Market Blandings In

The Little Runabout,  Which Seated Two. He Had Acquiesced In

George's Suggestion That He,  George,  Should Occupy The Other

Seat,  But With A Certain Lack Of Enthusiasm It Seemed To George.

He Had Not Volunteered Any Reason As To Why He Was Going To

Market Blandings In The Little Runabout,  And On Arrival There Had

Betrayed An Unmistakable Desire To Get Rid Of George At The

Earliest Opportunity.

As This Had Suited George To Perfection,  He Being Desirous Of

Getting Rid Of The Honorable Freddie At The Earliest Opportunity,

He Had Not Been Inquisitive,  And They Had Parted On The Outskirts

Of The Town Without Mutual Confidences.

George Had Then Proceeded To The Grocer's,  And After That To

Another Of The Market Blandings Inns,  Not The Emsworth Arms,

Where He Had Bought The White Wine. He Did Not Believe In The

Local White Wine,  For He Was A Young Man With A Palate And

Mistrusted Country Cellars,  But He Assumed That,  Whatever Its

Quality,  It Would Cheer Aline In The Small Hours.

He Had Then Tramped The Whole Five Miles Back To The Castle With

His Purchases. It Was Here That His Real Troubles Began And The

Quality Of His Love Was Tested. The Walk,  To A Heavily Laden Man,

Was Bad Enough; But It Was As Nothing Compared With The Ordeal Of

Smuggling The Cargo Up To His Bedroom. Superhuman Though He Was,

George Was Alive To The Delicacy Of The Situation. One Cannot

Convey Food And Drink To One's Room In A Strange House Without,

If Detected,  Seeming To Cast A Slur On The Table Of The Host. It

Was As One Who Carries Dispatches Through An Enemy's Lines That

George Took Cover,  Emerged From Cover,  Dodged,  Ducked And Ran;

And The Moment When He Sank Down On His Bed,  The Door Locked

Behind Him,  Was One Of The Happiest Of His Life.

The Recollection Of That Ordeal Made The One He Proposed To

Embark On Now Seem Slight In Comparison. All He Had To Do Was To

Go To Aline's Room On The Other Side Of The House,  Knock Softly

On The Door Until Signs Of Wakefulness Made Themselves Heard From

Within,  And Then Dart Away Into The Shadows Whence He Had Come,

And So Back To Bed. He Gave Aline Credit For The Intelligence

That Would Enable Her,  On Finding A Tongue,  Some Bread,  A Knife,

A Fork,  Salt,  A Corkscrew And A Bottle Of White Wine On The Mat,

To Know What To Do With Them--And Perhaps To Guess Whose Was The

Loving Hand That Had Laid Them There.

The Second Clause,  However,  Was Not Important,  For He Proposed To

Tell Her Whose Was The Hand Next Morning. Other People Might Hide

Their Light Under A Bushel--Not George Emerson.

It Only Remained Now To Allow Time To Pass Until The Hour Should

Be Sufficiently Advanced To Insure Safety For The Expedition. He

Looked At His Watch Again. It Was Nearly Two. By This Time The

House Must Be Asleep.

He Gathered Up The Tongue,  The Bread,  The Knife,  The Fork,  The

Salt,  The Corkscrew And The Bottle Of White Wine,  And Left The

Room. All Was Still. He Stole Downstairs.

                        *   *   *

On His Chair In The Gallery That