Something New, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [best historical biographies TXT] 📗

Ran Round The Hall,  Swathed In

An Overcoat And Wearing Rubber-Soled Shoes,  The Efficient Baxter

Sat And Gazed Into The Darkness. He Had Lost The First Fine

Careless Rapture,  As It Were,  Which Had Helped Him To Endure

These Vigils,  And A Great Weariness Was On Him. He Found

Difficulty In Keeping His Eyes Open,  And When They Were Open The

Darkness Seemed To Press On Them Painfully. Take Him For All In

All,  The Efficient Baxter Had Had About Enough Of It.

 

Time Stood Still. Baxter's Thoughts Began To Wander. He Knew That

This Was Fatal And Exerted Himself To Drag Them Back. He Tried To

Concentrate His Mind On Some One Definite Thing. He Selected The

Scarab As A Suitable Object,  But It Played Him False. He Had

Hardly Concentrated On The Scarab Before His Mind Was Straying

Off To Ancient Egypt,  To Mr. Peters' Dyspepsia,  And On A Dozen

Other Branch Lines Of Thought.

 

He Blamed The Fat Man At The Inn For This. If The Fat Man Had Not

Thrust His Presence And Conversation On Him He Would Have Been

Able To Enjoy A Sound Sleep In The Afternoon,  And Would Have Come

Fresh To His Nocturnal Task. He Began To Muse On The Fat Man.

And By A Curious Coincidence Whom Should He Meet A Few Moments

Later But This Same Man!

 

It Happened In A Somewhat Singular Manner,  Though It All Seemed

Perfectly Logical And Consecutive To Baxter. He Was Climbing Up

The Outer Wall Of Westminster Abbey In His Pyjamas And A Tall

Hat,  When The Fat Man,  Suddenly Thrusting His Head Out Of A

Window Which Baxter Had Not Noticed Until That Moment,  Said,

"Hello,  Freddie!"

 

Baxter Was About To Explain That His Name Was Not Freddie When He

Found Himself Walking Down Piccadilly With Ashe Marson. Ashe Said

To Him: "Nobody Loves Me. Everybody Steals My Grapefruit!" And

The Pathos Of It Cut The Efficient Baxter Like A Knife. He Was On

The Point Of Replying; When Ashe Vanished And Baxter Discovered

Chapter 8 Pg 138

That He Was Not In Piccadilly,  As He Had Supposed,  But In An

Aeroplane With Mr. Peters,  Hovering Over The Castle.

 

Mr. Peters Had A Bomb In His Hand,  Which He Was Fondling With

Loving Care. He Explained To Baxter That He Had Stolen It From

The Earl Of Emsworth's Museum. "I Did It With A Slice Of Cold

Beef And A Pickle," He Explained; And Baxter Found Himself

Realizing That That Was The Only Way. "Now Watch Me Drop It,"

Said Mr. Peters,  Closing One Eye And Taking Aim At The Castle.

"I Have To Do This By The Doctor's Orders."

 

He Loosed The Bomb And Immediately Baxter Was Lying In Bed

Watching It Drop. He Was Frightened,  But The Idea Of Moving Did

Not Occur To Him. The Bomb Fell Very Slowly,  Dipping And

Fluttering Like A Feather. It Came Closer And Closer. Then It

Struck With A Roar And A Sheet Of Flame.

 

Baxter Woke To A Sound Of Tumult And Crashing. For A Moment He

Hovered Between Dreaming And Waking,  And Then Sleep Passed From

Him,  And He Was Aware That Something Noisy And Exciting Was In

Progress In The Hall Below.

 

                        *   *   *

 

Coming Down To First Causes,  The Only Reason Why Collisions Of

Any Kind Occur Is Because Two Bodies Defy Nature's Law That A

Given Spot On A Given Plane Shall At A Given Moment Of Time Be

Occupied By Only One Body.

 

There Was A Certain Spot Near The Foot Of The Great Staircase

Which Ashe,  Coming Downstairs From Mr. Peters' Room,  And George

Emerson,  Coming Up To Aline's Room,  Had To Pass On Their

Respective Routes. George Reached It At One Minute And Three

Seconds After Two A.M.,  Moving Silently But Swiftly; And Ashe,

Also Maintaining A Good Rate Of Speed,  Arrived There At One

Minute And Four Seconds After The Hour,  When He Ceased To Walk

And Began To Fly,  Accompanied By George Emerson,  Now Going Down.

His Arms Were Round George's Neck And George Was Clinging To His

Waist.

 

In Due Season They Reached The Foot Of The Stairs And A Small

Table,  Covered With Occasional China And Photographs In Frames,

Which Lay Adjacent To The Foot Of The Stairs. That--Especially

The Occasional China--Was What Baxter Had Heard.

 

George Emerson Thought It Was A Burglar. Ashe Did Not Know What

It Was,  But He Knew He Wanted To Shake It Off; So He Insinuated A

Hand Beneath George's Chin And Pushed Upward. George,  By This

Time Parted Forever From The Tongue,  The Bread,  The Knife,  The

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

Having Both Hands Free For The Work Of The Moment,  Held Ashe With

The Left And Punched Him In The Ribs With The Right.

 

Ashe,  Removing His Left Arm From George's Neck,  Brought It Up As

Chapter 8 Pg 139

A Reinforcement To His Right,  And Used Both As A Means Of

Throttling George. This Led George,  Now Permanently Underneath,

To Grasp Ashe's Ears Firmly And Twist Them,  Relieving The

Pressure On His Throat And Causing Ashe To Utter The First Vocal

Sound Of The Evening,  Other Than The Explosive Ugh! That Both Had

Emitted At The Instant Of Impact.

 

Ashe Dislodged George's Hands From His Ears And Hit George In The

Ribs With His Elbow. George Kicked Ashe On The Left Ankle. Ashe

Rediscovered George's Throat And Began To Squeeze It Afresh; And

A Pleasant Time Was Being Had By All When The Efficient Baxter,

Whizzing Down The Stairs,  Tripped Over Ashe's Legs,  Shot Forward

And Cannoned Into Another Table,  Also Covered With Occasional

China And Photographs In Frames.

 

The Hall At Blandings Castle Was More An Extra Drawing-Room Than

A Hall; And,  When Not Nursing A Sick Headache In Her Bedroom,

Lady Ann Warblington Would Dispense Afternoon Tea There To Her

Guests. Consequently It Was Dotted Pretty Freely With Small

Tables. There Were,  Indeed,  No Fewer Than Five More In Various

Spots,  Waiting To Be Bumped Into And Smashed.

 

The Bumping Into And Smashing Of Small Tables,  However,  Is A Task

That Calls For Plenty Of Time,  A Leisured Pursuit; And Neither

George Nor Ashe,  A Third Party Having Been Added To Their Little

Affair,  Felt A Desire To Stay On And Do The Thing Properly. Ashe

Was Strongly Opposed To Being Discovered And Called On To Account

For His Presence There At That Hour; And George,  Conscious Of The

Tongue And Its Adjuncts Now Strewn About The Hall,  Had A Similar

Prejudice Against The Tedious Explanations That Detection Must

Involve.

 

As Though By Mutual Consent Each Relaxed His Grip. They Stood

Panting For An Instant; Then,  Ashe In The Direction Where He

Supposed The Green-Baize Door Of The Servants' Quarters To Be,

George To The Staircase That Led To His Bedroom,  They Went Away

From That Place.

 

They Had Hardly Done So When Baxter,  Having Disassociated Himself

From The Contents Of The Table He Had Upset,  Began To Grope His

Way Toward The Electric-Light Switch,  The Same Being Situated

Near The Foot Of The Main Staircase. He Went On All Fours,  As A

Safer Method Of Locomotion,  Though Slower,  Than The One He Had

Attempted Before.

 

Noises Began To Make Themselves Heard On The Floors Above. Roused

By The Merry Crackle Of Occasional China,  The House Party Was

Bestirring Itself To Investigate. Voices Sounded,  Muffled And

Inquiring.

 

Meantime Baxter Crawled Steadily On His Hands And Knees Toward

The Light Switch. He Was In Much The Same Condition As One White

Hope Of The Ring Is After He Has Put His Chin In The Way Of The

Fist Of A Rival Member Of The Truck Drivers' Union. He Knew That

Chapter 8 Pg 140

He Was Still Alive. More He Could Not Say. The Mists Of Sleep,

Which Still Shrouded His Brain,  And The Shake-Up He Had Had From

His Encounter With The Table,  A Corner Of Which He Had Rammed

With The Top Of His Head,  Combined To Produce A Dreamlike State.

 

And So The Efficient Baxter Crawled On; And As He Crawled His

Hand,  Advancing Cautiously,  Fell On Something--Something That Was

Not Alive; Something Clammy And Ice-Cold,  The Touch Of Which

Filled Him With A Nameless Horror.

 

To Say That Baxter's Heart Stood Still Would Be Physiologically

Inexact. The Heart Does Not Stand Still. Whatever The Emotions Of

Its Owner,  It Goes On Beating. It Would Be More Accurate To Say

That Baxter Felt Like A Man Taking His First Ride In An Express

Elevator,  Who Has Outstripped His Vital Organs By Several Floors

And Sees No Immediate Prospect Of Their Ever Catching Up With Him

Again. There Was A Great Cold Void Where The More Intimate Parts

Of His Body Should Have Been. His Throat Was Dry And Contracted.

The Flesh Of His Back Crawled,  For He Knew What It Was He Had

Touched.

 

Painful And Absorbing As Had Been His Encounter With The Table,

Baxter Had Never Lost Sight Of The Fact That Close Beside Him A

Furious Battle Between Unseen Forces Was In Progress. He Had

Heard The Bumping And The Thumping And The Tense Breathing Even

As He Picked Occasional China From His Person. Such A Combat,  He

Had Felt,  Could Hardly Fail To Result In Personal Injury To

Either The Party Of The First Part Or The Party Of The Second

Part,  Or Both. He Knew Now That Worse Than Mere Injury Had

Happened,  And That He Knelt In The Presence Of Death.

 

There Was No Doubt That The Man Was Dead. Insensibility Alone

Could Never Have Produced This Icy Chill. He Raised His Head In

The Darkness,  And Cried Aloud To Those Approaching. He Meant To

Cry: "Help! Murder!" But Fear Prevented Clear Articulation. What

He Shouted Was: "Heh! Mer!" On Which,  From The Neighborhood Of

The Staircase,  Somebody Began To Fire A Revolver.

 

The Earl Of Emsworth Had Been Sleeping A Sound And Peaceful Sleep

When The Imbroglio Began Downstairs. He Sat Up And Listened. Yes;

Undoubtedly Burglars! He Switched On His Light And Jumped Out Of

Bed. He Took A Pistol From A Drawer,  And Thus Armed Went To Look

Into The Matter. The Dreamy Peer Was No Poltroon.

 

It Was Quite Dark When He Arrived On The Scene Of Conflict,  In

The Van Of A Mixed Bevy Of Pyjamaed And Dressing-Gowned

Relations. He Was In The Van Because,  Meeting These Relations In

The Passage Above,  He Had Said To Them: "Let Me Go First. I Have

A Pistol." And They Had Let Him Go First. They Were,  Indeed,

Awfully Nice About It,  Not Thrusting Themselves Forward Or

Jostling Or Anything,  But Behaving In A Modest And Self-Effacing

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