November 18, 2025 • 23 mins
Join the absent-minded Earl of Emsworth as he inadvertently misplaces the pride of his scarab collection! American millionaire J. Preston Peters is offering a hefty $5000 reward for its safe return, but discretion is key—especially since Peters daughter is engaged to Emsworths son. Enter Joan Valentine and Ashe Marson, each determined to claim the reward; she as Aline Peters’ ladies maid and he as Mr. Peters’ valet. Their quest leads them to the grand Blandings Castle, where the ever-watchful Efficient Baxter poses a formidable challenge. This delightful caper is, in my humble opinion, one of Wodehouse’s most hilarious works. –Debra Lynn
Listen
Watch
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:05):
Chapter seven of Something New. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Something
New by P. G. Woodhouse, Chapter seven. It is worthy
(00:26):
of record, in the light of after events, that at
the beginning of their visit, it was the general opinion
of the guests gathered together at Blandings Castle that the
place was dull. The house party had that air of
torpor which one sees in the saloon passengers of an
Atlantic liner, that appearance of resignation, to an enforced idleness
(00:47):
and a monotony to be broken only by meals. Lord
Elmsworth's guests gave the impression collectively of being just about
to yawn and look at their watches. This was partly
the fault of the time of year, for most house
parties are dull if they happen to fall between the
hunting and the shooting seasons, but must be attributed chiefly
to Lord Elmsworth's extremely sketchy notions of the duties of
(01:10):
a host. A host has no right to, in turn
a regiment of his relations in his house unless he
also invites lively and agreeable outsiders to meet them. If
he does commit this solecism, the least he can do
is to work himself to the bone in the effort
to invent amusements and diversions for his victims. Lord Elmsworth
(01:31):
had failed badly in both these matters. With the exception
of mister Peters, his daughter Aileen, and George Emerson, there
was nobody in the house who did not belong to
the clan. And as for his exerting himself to entertain,
the company was lucky if it caught a glimpse of
its house that kneels. Lord Elmsworth belonged to the people
(01:51):
who liked to be left alone to amuse themselves when
they come to a place school of hosts. He potted
about the garden in an old coat, now so uprooting
a weed, now wrangling with the autocrat from Scotland, who
was theoretically in his service as head gardener, dreamily satisfied
when he thought of them at all, that his guests
were as perfectly happy as he was, apart from his
(02:14):
son Freddy, whom he had long since dismissed as a
youth of abnormal tastes. From whom nothing reasonable was to
be expected. He could not imagine anyone not being content
merely to be at blandings when the buds were bursting
on the trees. A resolute hostess might have saved the situation,
but Lady Anne Warblington's abilities in that direction stopped short
(02:36):
at leaving everything to missus Twemlow and writing letters in
her bedroom. When Lady Ann Warblington was not writing letters
in her bedroom, which was seldom for she had an
apparently inexhaustible correspondence, she was nursing sick headaches in it.
She was one of those hostesses whom a guest never
sees except when he goes into the library and despised
(02:57):
the tail of her skirt vanishing through the other door.
As for the ordinary recreations of the country house, the
guests could frequent the billiard room, where they were sure
to find Lord Stockheath playing a hundred up with his
cousin Algernon Worcester, a spectacle of the liveliest interest. Or
they could, if fond of golf, console themselves for the
(03:19):
absence of links in the neighborhood with the exhilarating pastime
of clock golf. Or they could stroll about the terraces
with such of their relations as they happened to be
on speaking terms with at the moment, and abuse their
host and the rest of their relations. This was the
favorite amusement, and after breakfast on a morning ten days
after Joan and Ash had formed their compact, the terraces
(03:43):
were full of perambulating couples. Here Colonel Horace Mant walking
with the Bishop of Godalming, was soothing that dignitary by
clothing in soldierly words thoughts that the latter had not
been able to crush down, but which his holy office
scarcely permitted him to utter. There, Lady Mildred Mant, linked
(04:03):
to missus jack Hale, of the collateral branch of the family,
was saying things about her father in his capacity of
host and entertainer, that were making her companion feel like
another woman. Farther on, stopping occasionally to gesticulate, could be
seen other emsworth relations and connections. It was a typical
scene of quiet, peaceful English family life. Leaning on the
(04:28):
broad stone balustrade of the upper terrace, Aileen Peters and
George Emerson surveyed the malcontents. Aileen gave a little sigh
almost inaudible, but George's hearing was good. I was wondering
when you are going to admit it, he said, shifting
his position so that he faced her. Admit what that
you can't stand the prospect that the idea of being
(04:51):
stuck for life with this crowd like a fly on
fly paper is too much for you. That you are
ready to break off your engagement to Freddye and come
away and marry me and live happily ever after. George, Well,
wasn't that what it meant? Be honest? What what meant that? Sigh?
I didn't sigh. I was just breathing. Then you can
(05:12):
breathe in this atmosphere. You surprise me. He raked the
terraces with hostile eyes. Look at them, Look at them
crawling round like doped beetles. My dear girl, it's no
use your pretending that this sort of thing wouldn't kill you.
You're pining away already. You're thinner and paler since you
came here. Gee, how we shall look back at this
(05:32):
and thank our stars that were out of it when
we're back in old New York with the elevated rattling
and the street cars squealing over the points and something
doing every step you take. I shall call you on
the phone from the office and have you meet me
downtown somewhere, and we'll have a bite to eat and
go to some show and a bit of supper afterward,
and a dance or two, and then go home to
(05:54):
our cozy George. You mustn't, really, Why mustn't I it's wrong.
You can't talk like that when we are both enjoying
the hospitality. A wild laugh, almost a howl, disturbed the
talk of the most adjacent of the perambulating relations. Colonel
Horace Mant checked in mid sentence, looked up resentfully at
the cause of the interruption. I wish somebody would tell
(06:17):
me whether it's that American fellow Emerson or young Freddie
who's supposed to be engaged to Miss Peters hanged if
you ever see her and Freddy together. But she and
Emerson are never to be found apart. If my respected
father in law had any sense, I should have thought
he would have had sense enough to stop that. You forget,
my dear Horace, said the bishop charitably. Miss Peters and
(06:39):
mister Emerson have known each other since they were children.
There were never nearly such children as Emsworth is now,
snorted the colonel. If that girl isn't in love with Emerson,
I'll be I'll eat my hat. No no, said the bishop. No, no,
surely not, Horace. What were you saying when you broke off?
I was saying that if a man wanted his relations
(07:00):
never to speak to each other again for the rest
of their lives, the best thing he could do would
be to herd them all together in a dashed barrack
of a house a hundred miles from anywhere, and then
go off and spend all his time prodding dashed flower
beds with a spud dash. It just so, just so, so,
you were go on, Horace, I find a curious comfort
in your words. On the terrace above them, Aileen was
(07:24):
looking at George with startled eyes. George, I'm sorry, but
you shouldn't spring these jokes on me. So suddenly you
said enjoying. Yes, we're reveling in it, aren't we. It's
a lovely old place, said Aileen defensively. And when you've
said that, you've said everything. You can't live on scenery
(07:44):
and architecture for the rest of your life. There's the
human element to be thought of, and you're beginning. There
goes Father interrupted Aileen. How fast he is walking? George,
have you noticed a sort of difference in father these
last few days? I have My specialty is keeping an
eye on the rest of the Peters family. He seems
(08:05):
better somehow. He seems to have almost stopped smoking, and
I'm very glad for those cigars were awfully bad for him.
The doctor expressly told him he must stop them, but
he wouldn't pay any attention to him, and he seems
to take so much more exercise. My bedroom is next
to his, you know, and every morning I can hear
things going on through the wall, Father dancing about and
(08:27):
puffing a good deal. And one morning I met his
valet going in with a pair of Indian clubs. I
believe Father is really taking himself in hand at last,
George Emerson exploded, and about time too. How much longer
are you going to go on starving yourself to death?
Just to give him the resolution to stick to his dieting.
It maddens me to see you at dinner and it's
(08:49):
killing you. You're getting pale and thin. You can't go
on like this. A wistful look came over Aileen's face.
I do get a little hungry sometimes late at night.
Generally you want somebody to take care of you and
look after you. I'm the man. You may think you
can fool me, but I can tell you're weakening on
this Freddy proposition. You're beginning to see that it won't do.
(09:12):
One of these days you're going to come to me
and say, George, you were right. I take the count,
me for the quiet sneak to the station without anybody knowing,
and the break for London, and the wedding of the registrars. Oh,
I know I couldn't have loved you all this time
and not know you're weakening. The trouble with these supermen
is that they lack reticence. They do not know how
(09:35):
to omit. They expand their chests and whoop. And a girl,
even the mildest and sweetest of girls, even a girl
like Alien Peters, cannot help resenting the note of triumph.
But supermen despised tact as far as one can gather.
That is the chief difference between them and the ordinary man.
A little frown appeared on Alien's forehead, and she set
(09:57):
her mouth mutinously. I'm not weakening at all, she said,
and her voice was for her quite acid. You you
take too much for granted, George was contemplating the landscape
with a conqueror's eye. You are beginning to see that
it is impossible. This Freddy foolishness. It is not foolishness,
(10:19):
said Aleen pettishly, tears of annoyance in her eyes. And
I wish you wouldn't call him freddy. He asked me too,
He asked me to Aileen stamped her foot. Well, never mind,
please don't do it very well, little girl, said George softly.
I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. The fact that
it never even occurred to George Emerson he was being
(10:41):
offensively patronizing shows the stern stuff of which these supermen
are made. The efficient Baxter bicycled broodingly to market landings
for tobacco. He brooded for several reasons. He had just
seen Aileen Peters and George Emerson in confidential talk on
the upper Terrace, and that was one thing which exercised
(11:04):
his mind. For he suspected George Emerson. He suspected him
nebulously as a snake in the grass, as an influence
working against the orderly progress of events concerning the marriage
that had been arranged and would shortly take place between
Miss Peters and the Honorable Frederick Threepwood. It would be
too much to say that he had any idea that
(11:26):
George was putting in such hard and consistent work in
his serpentine role. Indeed, if he could have overheard the
conversation just recorded, it is probable that Rupert Baxter would
have had heart failure. But he had observed the intimacy
between the two, as he observed most things in his
immediate neighborhood, and he disapproved of it. It was all
(11:47):
very well to say that George Emerson had known Alien
Peters since she was a child. If that was so,
then in the opinion of the efficient Baxter, he had
known her quite long enough and ought to start making
the acquaintance of somebody else. He blamed the honorable Freddy.
If the Honorable Freddy had been a more ardent lover,
he would have spent his time with Aileen, and George
(12:08):
Emerson would have taken his proper place as one of
the crowd at the back of the stage. But Freddy's
view of the matter seemed to be that he had
done all that could be expected of a chappie in
getting engaged to the girl, and that now he might
consider himself at liberty to drop her for a while.
So Baxter, as he bicycled to market blandings for tobacco,
(12:30):
brooded on Freddy, Aileen Peters, and George Emerson. He also
brooded on mister Peters and Ashmarson. Finally, he brooded in
a general way because he had had very little sleep
the past week. The spectacle of a young man doing
his duty and enduring considerable discomforts while doing it is painful,
(12:51):
but there is such uplift in it. It affords so
excellent a moral picture that I cannot admit a short
description of the manner in which Rupert Baxter had spent
the nights which had elapsed since his meeting with Ash
in the small hours in the hall. In the gallery
which ran above the hall, there was a large chair
situated a few paces from the great staircase. On this
(13:15):
in an overcoat for the nights were chilly, and rubber
soled shoes. The efficient Baxter had sat without missing a
single night, from one in the morning until daybreak, waiting, waiting, waiting.
It had been an ordeal to try the stoutest determination.
Nature had never intended Baxter for a night bird. He
(13:35):
loved his bed. He knew the doctors held that insufficient
sleep made a man pale and sallow, and he had
always aimed at the peach blossom complexion, which comes from
a sensible eight hours between the sheets. One of the
King George's of England, I forget which once said that
a certain number of hours sleep each night. I cannot
(13:56):
recall at the moment how many made a man something
which for the time being had slipped my memory. Baxter
agreed with him. It went against all his instincts to
sit up in this fashion, but it was his duty,
and he did it. It troubled him that, as night
after night went by and Ash the suspect did not
(14:17):
walk into the trap so carefully laid for him, he
found an increasing difficulty in keeping awake. The first two
or three of his series of vigils, he had passed
in an unimpeachable wakefulness, his chin resting on the rail
of the gallery, and his ears alert for the slightest sound.
But he had not been able to maintain this standard
(14:37):
of excellence on several occasions he had caught himself in
the act of dropping aloft, and the last night he
had actually wakened with a start to find it quite light,
as his last recollection before that was of an inky
darkness impenetrable to the eye. Dismay gripped him with a
sudden clutch, and he ran swiftly down to the museum.
(15:00):
His relief on finding that the scarab was still there
had been tempered by thoughts of what might have been Baxter. Then,
as he bicycled to market Landings for tobacco, had good
reason to brood, having bought his tobacco and observed the
life and thought of the town for half an hour.
It was market day, and the normal stagnation of the
(15:21):
place was temporarily relieved and brightened by pigs that eluded
their keepers, and a bull calf which caught a stout
farmer at the psychological moment when he was tying his
shoe lace and lifted him six feet. He made his
way to the Emsworth Arms, the most respectable of the
eleven inns. The citizens of market Landings contrived in some
(15:42):
miraculous way to support in English country towns if the
public houses do not actually outnumber the inhabitants. They all
do an excellent trade. It is only when they are
two to one that hard times hit them and set
the innkeepers to blaming the government. It was not the
busy bar full to overflowing with honest British yeomen, many
(16:04):
of them in a similar condition, that Baxter sought. His
goal was the genteel dining room on the first floor,
where a bald and shuffling waiter own cousin to a tortoise,
served luncheon to those desiring it. Lack of sleep had
reduced Baxter to a condition where the presents and chatter
of the house party were insupportable. It was his purpose
(16:27):
to lunch at the emsworth Arms and take a nap
in an armchair afterward. He had relied on having the
room to himself for market Landings, did not lunch to
a great extent, But to his annoyance and disappointment, the
room was already occupied by a man in brown tweeds.
Occupied is the correct word, for at first sight this
(16:49):
man seemed to fill the room. Never since almost forgotten
days when he used to frequent circuses and side shows,
had Baxter seen a fellow human being so extraordinary narily obese.
He was a man about fifty years old, gray haired,
of a mau of complexion, and his general appearance suggested joviality.
(17:12):
To Baxter's chagrin, this person engaged him in conversation directly.
He took his seat at the table. There was only
one table in the room, as his customary in English inns,
and it had the disadvantage that it collected those seated
at it into one party. It was impossible for Baxter
to withdraw into himself and ignore this person's advances. It
(17:35):
is doubtful whether he could have done it, however, had
they been separated by yards of floor. For the fat
man was not only naturally talkative, but, as appeared from
his opening remarks, speech had been dammed up within him
for some time by lack of a suitable victim. Morning,
he began, nice day, good for the farmers. I'll move
(17:56):
up to your end of the table, if I may, sir,
wait to bring my beef to this gentleman on the
end of the table. He creaked into a chair at
Baxter's side and resumed infernally quiet place. This, sir, I
haven't found a soul to speak to since I arrived
yesterday afternoon, except deaf and dumb rustics. Are you making
a long stay here? I live outside the town. I'd
(18:20):
pity you wouldn't care to do it. Myself. Had to
come here on business and shan't be sorry when it's finished.
I give you my word. I couldn't sleep a wink
last night because of the quiet. I was just dropping
off when a beast of a bird outside the window
gave a chirrup, and it brought me up with a jerk,
as though somebody had fired a gun. There's a damned
cat somewhere near my room that mews. I lie in
(18:43):
bed waiting for the next mew all worked up. Heaven
saved me from the country. It may be all right
for you if you've got a comfortable home and a
pall or to the chat with after dinner. But you've
no conception what it's like in this infernal town. I
suppose it calls itself a town. What a hole. There's
a church down the street. I'm told it's Norman or something. Anyway,
(19:05):
it's old. I'm not much of a man for churches
as a rule, but I went and took a look
at it. Then somebody told me there was a fine
view from the end of High Street, so I went
out and took a look at that. And now, so
far as I can make out, I've done the sites
and exhausted every possibility of entertainment the town has to provide.
Unless there's another church, I'm so reduced that I'll go
(19:28):
and see the Methodist chapel if there is one fresh air.
Want of sleep in the closeness of the dining room
combined to make Baxter drowsy. He ate his lunch in
a torpor, hardly replying to his companion's remarks, who, for
his part, did not seem to wish or to expect replies.
It was enough for him to be talking. What do
(19:51):
people do with themselves in a place like this when
they want amusement? I mean, I suppose it's different if
you've been brought up to it, like being born color blinders,
you don't notice. It's the visitor who suffers. They've no
enterprise in this sort of place. There's a bit of
land just outside here that would make a sweet steeplechase course,
natural barriers everything. It hasn't occurred to him to do
(20:14):
anything with it. It makes you despair of your species.
That sort of thing, now, if I Baxter dozed with
his fork still impaling a piece of cold beef, He
dropped into that half awake, half asleep state, which is
nature's daytime substitute for the true slumber of the night.
The fat Man, either not noticing or not caring, talked on.
(20:36):
His voice was a steady drone, lulling Baxter to rest.
Suddenly there was a break. Baxter sat up, blinking. He
had a curious impression that his companion had said Hello Freddy,
and that the door had just opened and closed. Eh,
he said, yes, said the fat man, What did you
(20:57):
say I was speaking of? I thought you said hello Freddy.
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, Freddy? For the conundrum was unanswerable,
Baxter did not attempt to answer it. But there remained
(21:19):
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 Freddy be doing at the Emsworth Arms.
A solution of the difficulty occurred to him. He had
dreamed he had seen Freddy, and that had suggested the
(21:42):
words which reason pointed out his companion could hardly have spoken.
Even if the Honorable Freddy 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,
(22:04):
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, mister Peters, and Beach,
the butler, who were trying to steal him under the
impression that he was a scab 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.
(22:29):
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
damned feller Baxter. He wondered whether Baxter had seen him.
(22:50):
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's presence
of mind and native resource had been equal to explaining
away the remark end of chapter seven
Chapter seven of Something New. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Something
New by P. G. Woodhouse, Chapter seven. It is worthy
(00:26):
of record, in the light of after events, that at
the beginning of their visit, it was the general opinion
of the guests gathered together at Blandings Castle that the
place was dull. The house party had that air of
torpor which one sees in the saloon passengers of an
Atlantic liner, that appearance of resignation, to an enforced idleness
(00:47):
and a monotony to be broken only by meals. Lord
Elmsworth's guests gave the impression collectively of being just about
to yawn and look at their watches. This was partly
the fault of the time of year, for most house
parties are dull if they happen to fall between the
hunting and the shooting seasons, but must be attributed chiefly
to Lord Elmsworth's extremely sketchy notions of the duties of
(01:10):
a host. A host has no right to, in turn
a regiment of his relations in his house unless he
also invites lively and agreeable outsiders to meet them. If
he does commit this solecism, the least he can do
is to work himself to the bone in the effort
to invent amusements and diversions for his victims. Lord Elmsworth
(01:31):
had failed badly in both these matters. With the exception
of mister Peters, his daughter Aileen, and George Emerson, there
was nobody in the house who did not belong to
the clan. And as for his exerting himself to entertain,
the company was lucky if it caught a glimpse of
its house that kneels. Lord Elmsworth belonged to the people
(01:51):
who liked to be left alone to amuse themselves when
they come to a place school of hosts. He potted
about the garden in an old coat, now so uprooting
a weed, now wrangling with the autocrat from Scotland, who
was theoretically in his service as head gardener, dreamily satisfied
when he thought of them at all, that his guests
were as perfectly happy as he was, apart from his
(02:14):
son Freddy, whom he had long since dismissed as a
youth of abnormal tastes. From whom nothing reasonable was to
be expected. He could not imagine anyone not being content
merely to be at blandings when the buds were bursting
on the trees. A resolute hostess might have saved the situation,
but Lady Anne Warblington's abilities in that direction stopped short
(02:36):
at leaving everything to missus Twemlow and writing letters in
her bedroom. When Lady Ann Warblington was not writing letters
in her bedroom, which was seldom for she had an
apparently inexhaustible correspondence, she was nursing sick headaches in it.
She was one of those hostesses whom a guest never
sees except when he goes into the library and despised
(02:57):
the tail of her skirt vanishing through the other door.
As for the ordinary recreations of the country house, the
guests could frequent the billiard room, where they were sure
to find Lord Stockheath playing a hundred up with his
cousin Algernon Worcester, a spectacle of the liveliest interest. Or
they could, if fond of golf, console themselves for the
(03:19):
absence of links in the neighborhood with the exhilarating pastime
of clock golf. Or they could stroll about the terraces
with such of their relations as they happened to be
on speaking terms with at the moment, and abuse their
host and the rest of their relations. This was the
favorite amusement, and after breakfast on a morning ten days
after Joan and Ash had formed their compact, the terraces
(03:43):
were full of perambulating couples. Here Colonel Horace Mant walking
with the Bishop of Godalming, was soothing that dignitary by
clothing in soldierly words thoughts that the latter had not
been able to crush down, but which his holy office
scarcely permitted him to utter. There, Lady Mildred Mant, linked
(04:03):
to missus jack Hale, of the collateral branch of the family,
was saying things about her father in his capacity of
host and entertainer, that were making her companion feel like
another woman. Farther on, stopping occasionally to gesticulate, could be
seen other emsworth relations and connections. It was a typical
scene of quiet, peaceful English family life. Leaning on the
(04:28):
broad stone balustrade of the upper terrace, Aileen Peters and
George Emerson surveyed the malcontents. Aileen gave a little sigh
almost inaudible, but George's hearing was good. I was wondering
when you are going to admit it, he said, shifting
his position so that he faced her. Admit what that
you can't stand the prospect that the idea of being
(04:51):
stuck for life with this crowd like a fly on
fly paper is too much for you. That you are
ready to break off your engagement to Freddye and come
away and marry me and live happily ever after. George, Well,
wasn't that what it meant? Be honest? What what meant that? Sigh?
I didn't sigh. I was just breathing. Then you can
(05:12):
breathe in this atmosphere. You surprise me. He raked the
terraces with hostile eyes. Look at them, Look at them
crawling round like doped beetles. My dear girl, it's no
use your pretending that this sort of thing wouldn't kill you.
You're pining away already. You're thinner and paler since you
came here. Gee, how we shall look back at this
(05:32):
and thank our stars that were out of it when
we're back in old New York with the elevated rattling
and the street cars squealing over the points and something
doing every step you take. I shall call you on
the phone from the office and have you meet me
downtown somewhere, and we'll have a bite to eat and
go to some show and a bit of supper afterward,
and a dance or two, and then go home to
(05:54):
our cozy George. You mustn't, really, Why mustn't I it's wrong.
You can't talk like that when we are both enjoying
the hospitality. A wild laugh, almost a howl, disturbed the
talk of the most adjacent of the perambulating relations. Colonel
Horace Mant checked in mid sentence, looked up resentfully at
the cause of the interruption. I wish somebody would tell
(06:17):
me whether it's that American fellow Emerson or young Freddie
who's supposed to be engaged to Miss Peters hanged if
you ever see her and Freddy together. But she and
Emerson are never to be found apart. If my respected
father in law had any sense, I should have thought
he would have had sense enough to stop that. You forget,
my dear Horace, said the bishop charitably. Miss Peters and
(06:39):
mister Emerson have known each other since they were children.
There were never nearly such children as Emsworth is now,
snorted the colonel. If that girl isn't in love with Emerson,
I'll be I'll eat my hat. No no, said the bishop. No, no,
surely not, Horace. What were you saying when you broke off?
I was saying that if a man wanted his relations
(07:00):
never to speak to each other again for the rest
of their lives, the best thing he could do would
be to herd them all together in a dashed barrack
of a house a hundred miles from anywhere, and then
go off and spend all his time prodding dashed flower
beds with a spud dash. It just so, just so, so,
you were go on, Horace, I find a curious comfort
in your words. On the terrace above them, Aileen was
(07:24):
looking at George with startled eyes. George, I'm sorry, but
you shouldn't spring these jokes on me. So suddenly you
said enjoying. Yes, we're reveling in it, aren't we. It's
a lovely old place, said Aileen defensively. And when you've
said that, you've said everything. You can't live on scenery
(07:44):
and architecture for the rest of your life. There's the
human element to be thought of, and you're beginning. There
goes Father interrupted Aileen. How fast he is walking? George,
have you noticed a sort of difference in father these
last few days? I have My specialty is keeping an
eye on the rest of the Peters family. He seems
(08:05):
better somehow. He seems to have almost stopped smoking, and
I'm very glad for those cigars were awfully bad for him.
The doctor expressly told him he must stop them, but
he wouldn't pay any attention to him, and he seems
to take so much more exercise. My bedroom is next
to his, you know, and every morning I can hear
things going on through the wall, Father dancing about and
(08:27):
puffing a good deal. And one morning I met his
valet going in with a pair of Indian clubs. I
believe Father is really taking himself in hand at last,
George Emerson exploded, and about time too. How much longer
are you going to go on starving yourself to death?
Just to give him the resolution to stick to his dieting.
It maddens me to see you at dinner and it's
(08:49):
killing you. You're getting pale and thin. You can't go
on like this. A wistful look came over Aileen's face.
I do get a little hungry sometimes late at night.
Generally you want somebody to take care of you and
look after you. I'm the man. You may think you
can fool me, but I can tell you're weakening on
this Freddy proposition. You're beginning to see that it won't do.
(09:12):
One of these days you're going to come to me
and say, George, you were right. I take the count,
me for the quiet sneak to the station without anybody knowing,
and the break for London, and the wedding of the registrars. Oh,
I know I couldn't have loved you all this time
and not know you're weakening. The trouble with these supermen
is that they lack reticence. They do not know how
(09:35):
to omit. They expand their chests and whoop. And a girl,
even the mildest and sweetest of girls, even a girl
like Alien Peters, cannot help resenting the note of triumph.
But supermen despised tact as far as one can gather.
That is the chief difference between them and the ordinary man.
A little frown appeared on Alien's forehead, and she set
(09:57):
her mouth mutinously. I'm not weakening at all, she said,
and her voice was for her quite acid. You you
take too much for granted, George was contemplating the landscape
with a conqueror's eye. You are beginning to see that
it is impossible. This Freddy foolishness. It is not foolishness,
(10:19):
said Aleen pettishly, tears of annoyance in her eyes. And
I wish you wouldn't call him freddy. He asked me too,
He asked me to Aileen stamped her foot. Well, never mind,
please don't do it very well, little girl, said George softly.
I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. The fact that
it never even occurred to George Emerson he was being
(10:41):
offensively patronizing shows the stern stuff of which these supermen
are made. The efficient Baxter bicycled broodingly to market landings
for tobacco. He brooded for several reasons. He had just
seen Aileen Peters and George Emerson in confidential talk on
the upper Terrace, and that was one thing which exercised
(11:04):
his mind. For he suspected George Emerson. He suspected him
nebulously as a snake in the grass, as an influence
working against the orderly progress of events concerning the marriage
that had been arranged and would shortly take place between
Miss Peters and the Honorable Frederick Threepwood. It would be
too much to say that he had any idea that
(11:26):
George was putting in such hard and consistent work in
his serpentine role. Indeed, if he could have overheard the
conversation just recorded, it is probable that Rupert Baxter would
have had heart failure. But he had observed the intimacy
between the two, as he observed most things in his
immediate neighborhood, and he disapproved of it. It was all
(11:47):
very well to say that George Emerson had known Alien
Peters since she was a child. If that was so,
then in the opinion of the efficient Baxter, he had
known her quite long enough and ought to start making
the acquaintance of somebody else. He blamed the honorable Freddy.
If the Honorable Freddy had been a more ardent lover,
he would have spent his time with Aileen, and George
(12:08):
Emerson would have taken his proper place as one of
the crowd at the back of the stage. But Freddy's
view of the matter seemed to be that he had
done all that could be expected of a chappie in
getting engaged to the girl, and that now he might
consider himself at liberty to drop her for a while.
So Baxter, as he bicycled to market blandings for tobacco,
(12:30):
brooded on Freddy, Aileen Peters, and George Emerson. He also
brooded on mister Peters and Ashmarson. Finally, he brooded in
a general way because he had had very little sleep
the past week. The spectacle of a young man doing
his duty and enduring considerable discomforts while doing it is painful,
(12:51):
but there is such uplift in it. It affords so
excellent a moral picture that I cannot admit a short
description of the manner in which Rupert Baxter had spent
the nights which had elapsed since his meeting with Ash
in the small hours in the hall. In the gallery
which ran above the hall, there was a large chair
situated a few paces from the great staircase. On this
(13:15):
in an overcoat for the nights were chilly, and rubber
soled shoes. The efficient Baxter had sat without missing a
single night, from one in the morning until daybreak, waiting, waiting, waiting.
It had been an ordeal to try the stoutest determination.
Nature had never intended Baxter for a night bird. He
(13:35):
loved his bed. He knew the doctors held that insufficient
sleep made a man pale and sallow, and he had
always aimed at the peach blossom complexion, which comes from
a sensible eight hours between the sheets. One of the
King George's of England, I forget which once said that
a certain number of hours sleep each night. I cannot
(13:56):
recall at the moment how many made a man something
which for the time being had slipped my memory. Baxter
agreed with him. It went against all his instincts to
sit up in this fashion, but it was his duty,
and he did it. It troubled him that, as night
after night went by and Ash the suspect did not
(14:17):
walk into the trap so carefully laid for him, he
found an increasing difficulty in keeping awake. The first two
or three of his series of vigils, he had passed
in an unimpeachable wakefulness, his chin resting on the rail
of the gallery, and his ears alert for the slightest sound.
But he had not been able to maintain this standard
(14:37):
of excellence on several occasions he had caught himself in
the act of dropping aloft, and the last night he
had actually wakened with a start to find it quite light,
as his last recollection before that was of an inky
darkness impenetrable to the eye. Dismay gripped him with a
sudden clutch, and he ran swiftly down to the museum.
(15:00):
His relief on finding that the scarab was still there
had been tempered by thoughts of what might have been Baxter. Then,
as he bicycled to market Landings for tobacco, had good
reason to brood, having bought his tobacco and observed the
life and thought of the town for half an hour.
It was market day, and the normal stagnation of the
(15:21):
place was temporarily relieved and brightened by pigs that eluded
their keepers, and a bull calf which caught a stout
farmer at the psychological moment when he was tying his
shoe lace and lifted him six feet. He made his
way to the Emsworth Arms, the most respectable of the
eleven inns. The citizens of market Landings contrived in some
(15:42):
miraculous way to support in English country towns if the
public houses do not actually outnumber the inhabitants. They all
do an excellent trade. It is only when they are
two to one that hard times hit them and set
the innkeepers to blaming the government. It was not the
busy bar full to overflowing with honest British yeomen, many
(16:04):
of them in a similar condition, that Baxter sought. His
goal was the genteel dining room on the first floor,
where a bald and shuffling waiter own cousin to a tortoise,
served luncheon to those desiring it. Lack of sleep had
reduced Baxter to a condition where the presents and chatter
of the house party were insupportable. It was his purpose
(16:27):
to lunch at the emsworth Arms and take a nap
in an armchair afterward. He had relied on having the
room to himself for market Landings, did not lunch to
a great extent, But to his annoyance and disappointment, the
room was already occupied by a man in brown tweeds.
Occupied is the correct word, for at first sight this
(16:49):
man seemed to fill the room. Never since almost forgotten
days when he used to frequent circuses and side shows,
had Baxter seen a fellow human being so extraordinary narily obese.
He was a man about fifty years old, gray haired,
of a mau of complexion, and his general appearance suggested joviality.
(17:12):
To Baxter's chagrin, this person engaged him in conversation directly.
He took his seat at the table. There was only
one table in the room, as his customary in English inns,
and it had the disadvantage that it collected those seated
at it into one party. It was impossible for Baxter
to withdraw into himself and ignore this person's advances. It
(17:35):
is doubtful whether he could have done it, however, had
they been separated by yards of floor. For the fat
man was not only naturally talkative, but, as appeared from
his opening remarks, speech had been dammed up within him
for some time by lack of a suitable victim. Morning,
he began, nice day, good for the farmers. I'll move
(17:56):
up to your end of the table, if I may, sir,
wait to bring my beef to this gentleman on the
end of the table. He creaked into a chair at
Baxter's side and resumed infernally quiet place. This, sir, I
haven't found a soul to speak to since I arrived
yesterday afternoon, except deaf and dumb rustics. Are you making
a long stay here? I live outside the town. I'd
(18:20):
pity you wouldn't care to do it. Myself. Had to
come here on business and shan't be sorry when it's finished.
I give you my word. I couldn't sleep a wink
last night because of the quiet. I was just dropping
off when a beast of a bird outside the window
gave a chirrup, and it brought me up with a jerk,
as though somebody had fired a gun. There's a damned
cat somewhere near my room that mews. I lie in
(18:43):
bed waiting for the next mew all worked up. Heaven
saved me from the country. It may be all right
for you if you've got a comfortable home and a
pall or to the chat with after dinner. But you've
no conception what it's like in this infernal town. I
suppose it calls itself a town. What a hole. There's
a church down the street. I'm told it's Norman or something. Anyway,
(19:05):
it's old. I'm not much of a man for churches
as a rule, but I went and took a look
at it. Then somebody told me there was a fine
view from the end of High Street, so I went
out and took a look at that. And now, so
far as I can make out, I've done the sites
and exhausted every possibility of entertainment the town has to provide.
Unless there's another church, I'm so reduced that I'll go
(19:28):
and see the Methodist chapel if there is one fresh air.
Want of sleep in the closeness of the dining room
combined to make Baxter drowsy. He ate his lunch in
a torpor, hardly replying to his companion's remarks, who, for
his part, did not seem to wish or to expect replies.
It was enough for him to be talking. What do
(19:51):
people do with themselves in a place like this when
they want amusement? I mean, I suppose it's different if
you've been brought up to it, like being born color blinders,
you don't notice. It's the visitor who suffers. They've no
enterprise in this sort of place. There's a bit of
land just outside here that would make a sweet steeplechase course,
natural barriers everything. It hasn't occurred to him to do
(20:14):
anything with it. It makes you despair of your species.
That sort of thing, now, if I Baxter dozed with
his fork still impaling a piece of cold beef, He
dropped into that half awake, half asleep state, which is
nature's daytime substitute for the true slumber of the night.
The fat Man, either not noticing or not caring, talked on.
(20:36):
His voice was a steady drone, lulling Baxter to rest.
Suddenly there was a break. Baxter sat up, blinking. He
had a curious impression that his companion had said Hello Freddy,
and that the door had just opened and closed. Eh,
he said, yes, said the fat man, What did you
(20:57):
say I was speaking of? I thought you said hello Freddy.
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, Freddy? For the conundrum was unanswerable,
Baxter did not attempt to answer it. But there remained
(21:19):
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 Freddy be doing at the Emsworth Arms.
A solution of the difficulty occurred to him. He had
dreamed he had seen Freddy, and that had suggested the
(21:42):
words which reason pointed out his companion could hardly have spoken.
Even if the Honorable Freddy 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,
(22:04):
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, mister Peters, and Beach,
the butler, who were trying to steal him under the
impression that he was a scab 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.
(22:29):
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
damned feller Baxter. He wondered whether Baxter had seen him.
(22:50):
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's presence
of mind and native resource had been equal to explaining
away the remark end of chapter seven
Popular Podcasts
Hey Jonas!
Hey Jonas! The official Jonas Brothers podcast. Hosted by Kevin, Joe, and Nick Jonas. It’s the Jonas Brothers you know... musicians, actors, and well, yes, brothers. Now, they’re sharing another side of themselves in the playful, intimate, and irreverent way only they can. Spend time with the Jonas Brothers here and stay a little bit longer for deep conversations like never before.
Crime Junkie
Does hearing about a true crime case always leave you scouring the internet for the truth behind the story? Dive into your next mystery with Crime Junkie. Every Monday, join your host Ashley Flowers as she unravels all the details of infamous and underreported true crime cases with her best friend Brit Prawat. From cold cases to missing persons and heroes in our community who seek justice, Crime Junkie is your destination for theories and stories you won’t hear anywhere else. Whether you're a seasoned true crime enthusiast or new to the genre, you'll find yourself on the edge of your seat awaiting a new episode every Monday. If you can never get enough true crime... Congratulations, you’ve found your people. Follow to join a community of Crime Junkies! Crime Junkie is presented by Audiochuck Media Company.
Betrayal Weekly
Betrayal Weekly is back for a new season. Every Thursday, Betrayal Weekly shares first-hand accounts of broken trust, shocking deceptions, and the trail of destruction they leave behind. Hosted by Andrea Gunning, this weekly ongoing series digs into real-life stories of betrayal and the aftermath. From stories of double lives to dark discoveries, these are cautionary tales and accounts of resilience against all odds. From the producers of the critically acclaimed Betrayal series, Betrayal Weekly drops new episodes every Thursday. If you would like to share your story, you can reach out to the Betrayal Team by emailing them at betrayalpod@gmail.com and follow us on Instagram at @betrayalpod and @glasspodcasts. Please join our Substack for additional exclusive content, curated book recommendations, and community discussions. Sign up FREE by clicking this link Beyond Betrayal Substack. Join our community dedicated to truth, resilience, and healing. Your voice matters! Be a part of our Betrayal journey on Substack.