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

When Lord Emsworth Said,  "Let Me Go First," Young Algernon

Wooster,  Who Was On The Very Point Of Leaping To The Fore,  Said,

"Yes,  By Jove! Sound Scheme,  By Gad!"--And Withdrew Into The

Background; And The Bishop Of Godalming Said: "By All Means,

Clarence Undoubtedly; Most Certainly Precede Us."

When His Sense Of Touch Told Him He Had Reached The Foot Of The

Stairs,  Lord Emsworth Paused. The Hall Was Very Dark And The

Burglars Seemed Temporarily To Have Suspended Activities. And

Then One Of Them,  A Man With A Ruffianly,  Grating Voice,  Spoke.

What It Was He Said Lord Emsworth Could Not Understand. It

Sounded Like "Heh! Mer!"--Probably Some Secret Signal To His

Confederates. Lord Emsworth Raised His Revolver And Emptied It In

The Direction Of The Sound.

Extremely Fortunately For Him,  The Efficient Baxter Had Not

Changed His All-Fours Attitude. This Undoubtedly Saved Lord

Emsworth The Worry Of Engaging A New Secretary. The Shots Sang

Above Baxter's Head One After The Other,  Six In All,  And Found

Other Billets Than His Person. They Disposed Themselves As

Follows: The First Shot Broke A Window And Whistled Out Into The

Night; The Second Shot Hit The Dinner Gong And Made A Perfectly

Extraordinary Noise,  Like The Last Trump; The Third,  Fourth And

Fifth Shots Embedded Themselves In The Wall; The Sixth And Final

Shot Hit A Life-Size Picture Of His Lordship's Grandmother In The

Face And Improved It Out Of All Knowledge.

One Thinks No Worse Of Lord Emsworth's Grandmother Because She

Looked Like Eddie Foy,  And Had Allowed Herself To Be Painted,

After The Heavy Classic Manner Of Some Of The Portraits Of A

Hundred Years Ago,  In The Character Of Venus--Suitably Draped,  Of

Course,  Rising From The Sea; But It Was Beyond The Possibility Of

Denial That Her Grandson's Bullet Permanently Removed One Of

Blandings Castle's Most Prominent Eyesores.

Having Emptied His Revolver,  Lord Emsworth Said,  "Who Is There?

Speak!" In Rather An Aggrieved Tone,  As Though He Felt He Had

Done His Part In Breaking The Ice,  And It Was Now For The

Intruder To Exert Himself And Bear His Share Of The Social

Amenities.

The Efficient Baxter Did Not Reply. Nothing In The World Could

Have Induced Him To Speak At That Moment,  Or To Make Any Sound

Whatsoever That Might Betray His Position To A Dangerous Maniac

Who Might At Any Instant Reload His Pistol And Resume The

Fusillade. Explanations,  In His Opinion,  Could Be Deferred Until

Somebody Had The Presence Of Mind To Switch On The Lights. He

Flattened Himself On The Carpet And Hoped For Better Things. His

Cheek Touched The Corpse Beside Him; But Though He Winced And

Shuddered He Made No Outcry. After Those Six Shots He Was Through

With Outcries.

A Voice From Above,  The Bishop's Voice,  Said: "I Think You Have

Killed Him,  Clarence."

Another Voice,  That Of Colonel Horace Mant,  Said: "Switch On

Those Dashed Lights! Why Doesn't Somebody? Dash It!"

The Whole Strength Of The Company Began To Demand Light.

When The Lights Came,  It Was From The Other Side Of The Hall.

Six Revolver Shots,  Fired At Quarter Past Two In The Morning,

Will Rouse Even Sleeping Domestics. The Servants' Quarters Were

Buzzing Like A Hive. Shrill Feminine Screams Were Puncturing The

Air. Mr. Beach,  The Butler,  In A Suit Of Pink Silk Pajamas,  Of

Which No One Would Have Suspected Him,  Was Leading A Party Of Men

Servants Down The Stairs--Not So Much Because He Wanted To Lead

Them As Because They Pushed Him.

The Passage Beyond The Green-Baize Door Became Congested,  And

There Were Cries For Mr. Beach To Open It And Look Through And

See What Was The Matter; But Mr. Beach Was Smarter Than That And

Wriggled Back So That He No Longer Headed The Procession. This

Done,  He Shouted:

"Open That Door There! Open That Door! Look And See What The

Matter Is."

Ashe Opened The Door. Since His Escape From The Hall He Had Been

Lurking In The Neighborhood Of The Green-Baize Door And Had Been

Engulfed By The Swirling Throng. Finding Himself With Elbowroom

For The First Time,  He Pushed Through,  Swung The Door Open And

Switched On The Lights.

They Shone On A Collection Of Semi-Dressed Figures,  Crowding The

Staircase; On A Hall Littered With China And Glass; On A Dented

Dinner Gong; On An Edited And Improved Portrait Of The Late

Countess Of Emsworth; And On The Efficient Baxter,  In An Overcoat

And Rubber-Soled Shoes,  Lying Beside A Cold Tongue. At No Great

Distance Lay A Number Of Other Objects--A Knife,  A Fork,  Some

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

Using The Word In The Sense Of Saying Something Coherent,  The

Earl Of Emsworth Was The First To Speak. He Peered Down At His

Recumbent Secretary And Said:

"Baxter! My Dear Fellow--What The Devil?"

The Feeling Of The Company Was One Of Profound Disappointment.

They Were Disgusted At The Anticlimax. For An Instant,  When The

Efficient One Did Not Move,  A Hope Began To Stir; But As Soon As

It Was Seen That He Was Not Even Injured,  Gloom Reigned. One Of

Two Things Would Have Satisfied Them--Either A Burglar Or A

Corpse. A Burglar Would Have Been Welcome,  Dead Or Alive; But,  If

Baxter Proposed To Fill The Part Adequately It Was Imperative

That He Be Dead. He Had Disappointed Them Deeply By Turning Out

To Be The Object Of Their Quest. That He Should Not Have Been

Even Grazed Was Too Much.

There Was A Cold Silence As He Slowly Raised Himself From The

Floor. As His Eyes Fell On The Tongue,  He Started And Remained

Gazing Fixedly At It. Surprise Paralyzed Him.

Lord Emsworth Was Also Looking At The Tongue And He Leaped To A

Not Unreasonable Conclusion. He Spoke Coldly And Haughtily; For

He Was Not Only Annoyed,  Like The Others,  At The Anticlimax,  But

Offended. He Knew That He Was Not One Of Your Energetic Hosts Who

Exert Themselves Unceasingly To Supply Their Guests With

Entertainment; But There Was One Thing On Which,  As A Host,  He

Did Pride Himself--In The Material Matters Of Life He Did His

Guests Well; He Kept An Admirable Table.

"My Dear Baxter," He Said In The Tones He Usually Reserved For

The Correction Of His Son Freddie,  "If Your Hunger Is So Great

That You Are Unable To Wait For Breakfast And Have To Raid My

Larder In The Middle Of The Night,  I Wish To Goodness You Would

Contrive To Make Less Noise About It. I Do Not Grudge You The

Food--Help Yourself When You Please--But Do Remember That People

Who Have Not Such Keen Appetites As Yourself Like To Sleep During

The Night. A Far Better Plan,  My Dear Fellow,  Would Be To Have

Sandwiches Or Buns--Or Whatever You Consider Most Sustaining--

Sent Up To Your Bedroom."

Not Even The Bullets Had Disordered Baxter's Faculties So Much As

This Monstrous Accusation. Explanations Pushed And Jostled One

Another In His Fermenting Brain,  But He Could Not Utter Them. On

Every Side He Met Gravely Reproachful Eyes. George Emerson Was

Looking At Him In Pained Disgust. Ashe Marson's Face Was The Face

Of One Who Could Never Have Believed This Had He Not Seen It With

His Own Eyes. The Scrutiny Of The Knife-And-Shoe Boy Was

Unendurable.

He Stammered. Words Began To Proceed From Him,  Tripping And

Stumbling Over Each Other. Lord Emsworth's Frigid Disapproval Did

Not Relax.

"Pray Do Not Apologize,  Baxter. The Desire For Food Is Human. It

Is Your Boisterous Mode Of Securing And Conveying It That I

Deprecate. Let Us All Go To Bed."

"But,  Lord Emsworth-----"

"To Bed!" Repeated His Lordship Firmly.

The Company Began To Stream Moodily Upstairs. The Lights Were

Switched Off. The Efficient Baxter Dragged Himself Away. From The

Darkness In The Direction Of The Servants' Door A Voice Spoke.

"Greedy Pig!" Said The Voice Scornfully.

It Sounded Like The Fresh Young Voice Of The Knife-And-Shoe Boy,

But Baxter Was Too Broken To Investigate. He Continued His

Retreat Without Pausing.

"Stuffin' Of 'Isself At All Hours!" Said The Voice.

There Was A Murmur Of Approval From The Unseen Throng Of

Domestics.

As We Grow Older And Realize More Clearly The Limitations Of

Human Happiness,  We Come To See That The Only Real And Abiding

Pleasure In Life Is To Give Pleasure To Other People. One Must

Assume That The Efficient Baxter Had Not Reached The Age When

This Comes Home To A Man,  For The Fact That He Had Given Genuine

Pleasure To Some Dozens Of His Fellow-Men Brought Him No Balm.

There Was No Doubt About The Pleasure He Had Given. Once They Had

Got Over Their Disappointment At Finding That He Was Not A Dead

Burglar,  The House Party Rejoiced Whole-Heartedly At The Break In

The Monotony Of Life At Blandings Castle. Relations Who Had Not

Been On Speaking Terms For Years Forgot Their Quarrels And

Strolled About The Grounds In Perfect Harmony,  Abusing Baxter.

The General Verdict Was