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

That He Was Insane.

 

"Don't Tell Me That Young Fellow's All There," Said Colonel

Horace Mant; "Because I Know Better. Have You Noticed His Eye?

Furtive! Shifty! Nasty Gleam In It. Besides--Dash It!--Did You

Happen To Take A Look At The Hall Last Night After He Had Been

There? It Was In Ruins,  My Dear Sir--Absolute Dashed Ruins. It

Was Positively Littered With Broken China And Tables That Had

Been Bowled Over. Don't Tell Me That Was Just An Accidental

Collision In The Dark.

 

"My Dear Sir,  The Man Must Have Been Thrashing About--Absolutely

Thrashing About,  Like A Dashed Salmon On A Dashed Hook. He Must

Have Had A Paroxysm Of Some Kind--Some Kind Of A Dashed Fit. A

Doctor Could Give You The Name For It. It's A Well-Known Form Of

Insanity. Paranoia--Isn't That What They Call It? Rush Of Blood

To The Head,  Followed By A General Running Amuck.

 

"I've Heard Fellows Who Have Been In India Talk Of It. Natives

Get It. Don't Know What They're Doing,  And Charge Through The

Streets Taking Cracks At People With Dashed Whacking Great

Knives. Same With This Young Man,  Probably In A Modified Form At

Present. He Ought To Be In A Home. One Of These Nights,  If This

Grows On Him,  He Will Be Massacring Emsworth In His Bed."

 

"My Dear Horace!" The Bishop Of Godalming's Voice Was Properly

Horror-Stricken; But There Was A Certain Unctuous Relish In It.

 

Chapter 9 Pg 146

"Take My Word For It! Though,  Mind You,  I Don't Say They Aren't

Well Suited. Everyone Knows That Emsworth Has Been,  To All

Practical Intents And Purposes,  A Dashed Lunatic For Years. What

Was It That Young Fellow Emerson,  Freddie's American Friend,  Was

Saying,  The Other Day About Some Acquaintance Of His Who Is Not

Quite Right In The Head? Nobody In The House--Is That It?

Something To That Effect,  At Any Rate. I Felt At The Time It Was

A Perfect Description Of Emsworth."

 

"My Dear Horace! Your Father-In-Law! The Head Of The Family!"

 

"A Dashed Lunatic,  My Dear Sir--Head Of The Family Or No Head Of

The Family. A Man As Absent-Minded As He Is Has No Right To Call

Himself Sane. Nobody In The House--I Recollect It Now--Nobody In

The House Except Gas,  And That Has Not Been Turned On. That's

Emsworth!"

 

The Efficient Baxter,  Who Had Just Left His Presence,  Was Feeling

Much The Same About His Noble Employer. After A Sleepless Night

He Had Begun At An Early Hour To Try And Corner Lord Emsworth In

Order To Explain To Him The True Inwardness Of Last Night's

Happenings. Eventually He Had Tracked Him To The Museum,  Where He

Found Him Happily Engaged In Painting A Cabinet Of Birds' Eggs.

He Was Seated On A Small Stool,  A Large Pot Of Red Paint On The

Floor Beside Him,  Dabbing At The Cabinet With A Dripping Brush.

He Was Absorbed And Made No Attempt Whatever To Follow His

Secretary's Remarks.

 

For Ten Minutes Baxter Gave A Vivid Picture Of His Vigil And The

Manner In Which It Had Been Interrupted.

 

"Just So; Just So,  My Dear Fellow," Said The Earl When He Had

Finished. "I Quite Understand. All I Say Is,  If You Do Require

Additional Food In The Night Let One Of The Servants Bring It To

Your Room Before Bedtime; Then There Will Be No Danger Of These

Disturbances. There Is No Possible Objection To Your Eating A

Hundred Meals A Day,  My Good Baxter,  Provided You Do Not Rouse

The Whole House Over Them. Some Of Us Like To Sleep During The

Night."

 

"But,  Lord Emsworth! I Have Just Explained--It Was Not--I Was

Not--"

 

"Never Mind,  My Dear Fellow; Never Mind. Why Make Such An

Important Thing Of It? Many People Like A Light Snack Before

Actually Retiring. Doctors,  I Believe,  Sometimes Recommend It.

Tell Me,  Baxter,  How Do You Think The Museum Looks Now? A Little

Brighter? Better For The Dash Of Color? I Think So. Museums Are

Generally Such Gloomy Places."

 

"Lord Emsworth,  May I Explain Once Again?"

 

The Earl Looked Annoyed.

 

Chapter 9 Pg 147

"My Dear Baxter,  I Have Told You That There Is Nothing To

Explain. You Are Getting A Little Tedious. What A Deep,  Rich Red

This Is,  And How Clean New Paint Smells! Do You Know,  Baxter,  I

Have Been Longing To Mess About With Paint Ever Since I Was A

Boy! I Recollect My Old Father Beating Me With A Walking Stick.

. . . That Would Be Before Your Time,  Of Course. By The Way,  If

You See Freddie,  Will You Tell Him I Want To Speak To Him? He

Probably Is In The Smoking-Room. Send Him To Me Here."

 

It Was An Overwrought Baxter Who Delivered The Message To The

Honorable Freddie,  Who,  As Predicted,  Was In The Smoking-Room,

Lounging In A Deep Armchair.

 

There Are Times When Life Presses Hard On A Man,  And It Pressed

Hard On Baxter Now. Fate Had Played Him A Sorry Trick. It Had Put

Him In A Position Where He Had To Choose Between Two Courses,

Each As Disagreeable As The Other. He Must Either Face A Possible

Second Fiasco Like That Of Last Night,  Or Else He Must Abandon

His Post And Cease To Mount Guard Over His Threatened Treasure.

 

His Imagination Quailed At The Thought Of A Repetition Of Last

Night's Horrors. He Had Been Badly Shaken By His Collision With

The Table And Even More So By The Events That Had Followed It.

Those Revolver Shots Still Rang In His Ears.

 

It Was Probably The Memory Of Those Shots That Turned The Scale.

It Was Unlikely He Would Again Become Entangled With A Man

Bearing A Tongue And The Other Things--He Had Given Up In Despair

The Attempt To Unravel The Mystery Of The Tongue; It Completely

Baffled Him--But It Was By No Means Unlikely That If He Spent

Another Night In The Gallery Looking On The Hall He Might Not

Again Become A Target For Lord Emsworth's Irresponsible Firearm.

Nothing,  In Fact,  Was More Likely; For In The Disturbed State Of

The Public Mind The Slightest Sound After Nightfall Would Be

Sufficient Cause For A Fusillade.

 

He Had Actually Overheard Young Algernon Wooster Telling Lord

Stockheath He Had A Jolly Good Mind To Sit On The Stairs That

Night With A Shotgun,  Because It Was His Opinion That There Was A

Jolly Sight More In This Business Than There Seemed To Be; And

What He Thought Of The Bally Affair Was That There Was A Gang Of

Some Kind At Work,  And That That Feller--What's-His-Name?--That

Feller Baxter Was Some Sort Of An Accomplice.

 

With These Things In His Mind Baxter Decided To Remain That Night

In The Security Of His Bedroom. He Had Lost His Nerve. He Formed

This Decision With The Utmost Reluctance,  For The Thought Of

Leaving The Road To The Museum Clear For Marauders Was Bitter In

The Extreme. If He Could Have Overheard A Conversation Between

Joan Valentine And Ashe Marson It Is Probable He Would Have

Risked Lord Emsworth's Revolver And The Shotgun Of The Honorable

Algernon Wooster.

 

Ashe,  When He Met Joan And Recounted The Events Of The Night,  At

Chapter 9 Pg 148

Which Joan,  Who Was A Sound Sleeper,  Had Not Been Present,  Was

Inclined To Blame Himself As A Failure. True,  Fate Had Been

Against Him,  But The Fact Remained That He Had Achieved Nothing.

Joan,  However,  Was Not Of This Opinion.

 

"You Have Done Wonders," She Said. "You Have Cleared The Way For

Me. That Is My Idea Of Real Teamwork. I'm So Glad Now That We

Formed Our Partnership. It Would Have Been Too Bad If I Had Got

All The Advantage Of Your Work And Had Jumped In And Deprived You

Of The Reward. As It Is,  I Shall Go Down And Finish The Thing Off

To-Night With A Clear Conscience."

 

"You Can't Mean That You Dream Of Going Down To The Museum

To-Night!"

 

"Of Course I Do."

 

"But It's Madness!"

 

"On The Contrary,  To-Night Is The One Night When There Ought To

Be No Risk At All."

 

"After What Happened Last Night?"

 

"Because Of What Happened Last Night. Do You Imagine Mr. Baxter

Will Dare To Stir From His Bed After That? If Ever There Was A

Chance Of Getting This Thing Finished,  It Will Be To-Night."

 

"You're Quite Right. I Never Looked At It In That Way. Baxter

Wouldn't Risk A Second Disaster. I'll Certainly Make A Success Of

It This Time."

 

Joan Raised Her Eyebrows.

 

"I Don't Quite Understand You,  Mr. Marson. Do You Propose To Try

To Get The Scarab To-Night?"

 

"Yes. It Will Be As Easy As--"

 

"Are You Forgetting That,  By The Terms Of Our Agreement,  It Is My

Turn?"

 

"You Surely Don't Intend To Hold Me To That?"

 

"Certainly I Do."

 

"But,  Good Heavens,  Consider My Position! Do You Seriously Expect

Me To Lie In Bed While You Do All The Work,  And Then To Take A

Half Share In The Reward?"

 

"I Do."

 

"It's Ridiculous!"

 

Chapter 9 Pg 149

"It's No More Ridiculous Than That I Should Do The Same. Mr.

Marson,  There's No Use In Our Going Over All This Again. We

Settled It Long Ago."

 

Joan Refused To Discuss The Matter Further,  Leaving Ashe In A

Condition Of Anxious Misery Comparable Only To That Which,  As

Night Began To Draw Near,  Gnawed The Vitals Of The Efficient

Baxter.

 

                        *   *   *

 

Breakfast At Blandings Castle Was An Informal Meal. There Was

Food And Drink In The Long Dining-Hall For Such As Were Energetic

Enough To Come Down And Get It; But The Majority Of The House

Party Breakfasted In Their Rooms,  Lord Emsworth,  Whom Nothing In

The World Would Have Induced To Begin The Day In The Company Of A

Crowd Of His Relations,  Most Of Whom He Disliked,  Setting Them

The Example.

 

When,  Therefore,  Baxter,  Yielding To Nature After Having Remained

Awake Until The Early