November 18, 2025 • 35 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
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Speaker 1 (00:02):
Chapter eight 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 eight. Put the butter
or drippings in a cattle on the range, and when hot,
(00:24):
add the onions and fry them. Add the veal and
cook until brown. Add the water. Cover closely, and cook
very slowly until the meat is tender. Then add the
seasoning and place the potatoes on top of the meat.
Cover and cook until the potatoes are tender but not
falling to pieces. Sure, said mister Peters. Not falling to pieces,
(00:46):
That's right. Go on, then add the cream and cook
five minutes longer, Red Ash, Is that all? That's all
of that? One? Mister Peters settled himself more comfortably in
bedad me the piece where it tells about curried lobster.
Ash cleared his throat. Curried lobster. He read materials two
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one pound lobsters, two teaspoonfuls lemon juice, half a spoonful
curry powder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, one cupful
scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonful salt, quarter
teaspoonful pepper. Go on way of preparing cream the butter
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and flour and add the scalded milk. Then add the
lemon juice, curry, powder, salt, and pepper. Remove the lobster
meat from the shells and cut into half inch cubes.
Half inch cubes, sighed mister Peters wistfully. Yes, add the
latter to the sauce. You didn't say anything about the latter, Oh,
(01:54):
I see it means the half inch cubes. Yes, Refill
the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bake until
the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons and
make them feel an hour afterward as though they had
swallowed a live wild cat, said mister Peters ruefully, not
necessarily said Ash, I could eat two portions of that
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at this very minute and go off to bed and
sleep like a little child. Mister Peters raised himself on
his elbow and stared at him. They were in the
millionaire's bedroom, the time being won in the morning, and
mister Peters had expressed a wish that Ash should read
him to sleep. He had voted against Ash's novel and
produced from the recesses of his suit case a much
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thumbed cook book. He explained that since his digestive misfortunes
had come on him, he had derived a certain solace
from its perusal. It may be that to some men,
sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things, but mister
Peters had not found that to be the case. In
his hour of affliction, it soothed him to read of
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Hungarian goulash and escalloped brains, and to remember that he, too,
the nut and grass eater of to day, had once
dwelt in Arcadia. The passage of the days, which had
so sapped the stamina of the efficient Baxter, had had
the opposite effect on mister Peters. His was one of
those natures that cannot deal in half measures. Whatever he did,
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he did with the same driving energy. After the first
passionate burst of resistance, he had settled down into a
model pupil in Ashes one man's school of physical culture.
It had been the same now that he came to
look back on it at Muldoon's, Now that he remembered
he had come away from white plains, hoping indeed never
(03:41):
to see the place again, but undeniably a different man physically.
It was not the habit of Professor Muldoon to let
his patients loaf, but mister Peters, after the initial plunge,
had needed no driving. He had worked hard at his
cure then because it was the job in hand. He
worked hard now under the guidance of Ash, because once
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he had begun, the thing interested and gripped him. Ash,
who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished and delighted
at the way in which the millionaire had behaved. Nature
had really intended Ash for a trainer. He identified himself
so thoroughly with his man, and rejoiced at the least
signs of improvement. In mister Peters's case, there had been
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distinct improvement already. Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it
was too much to expect one who had maltreated his
body so consistently for so many years to become whole
in a day. But to an optimist like Ash, signs
were not wanting that in due season mister Peters would
rise on stepping stones of his dead self to higher things.
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And though never soaring into the class that devours lobster
a la Newburgh and smiles after it might yet prove
himself a devil of a fellow among the mutton chops.
You're a wonder, said mister Peters. You're fresh, and you
have no respect for your elders in bedter, but you
deliver the goods. That's the point why I'm beginning to
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feel great. Say, do you know I felt a new
muscle and the small of my back this morning. They
are coming out on me like a rash. That's the
Larson exercises they developed the whole body. Well, you're a
pretty good advertisement for them if they need one. What
were you before you came to me? A prize fighter?
That's the question everybody I have met since I arrived
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here has asked me. I believe it made the butler
think I was some sort of crook When I couldn't
answer it. I used to write stories, detective stories. What
you ought to be doing is running a place over
here in England like Muldoon has back home. But you
will be able to write one more story out of
this business here if you want to. When are you
going to have another try for my scaub tonight, tonight,
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how about Baxter. I shall have to risk Baxter. Mister
Peters hesitated. He had fallen out of the habit of
being magnanimous to the past few years. For this Pepsia
Brooks no divided allegiance, and magnanimity has to take a
back seat when it has its grip on You see here,
he said, awkwardly. I've been thinking this over lately, and
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what's the use. It's a queer thing. And if anybody
had told me a week ago that I should be
saying and I wouldn't have believed him. But I am
beginning to like you. I don't want to get you
into trouble. Let the old scareb go. What's a scaub anyway?
Forget about it and stick on here as my private muldoon.
If it's the five thousand that's worrying you, forget that too.
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I'll give it to you as your fee. Ash was
astounded that it could really be his peppery employer who
spoke was almost unbelievable. Ash's was a friendly nature and
he could never be long associated with anyone without trying
to establish pleasant relations. But he had resigned himself in
the present case to perpetual warfare. He was touched, and
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if he had ever contemplated it abandoning his venture, this,
he felt, would have spurred him on to see it through.
The sudden revelation of the human and mister Peters was
like a trumpet call. 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
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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 cook book.
Lie back and make yourself comfortable, and i'll read you
to sleep first. You're a good boy, said mister Peters drowsily.
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Are you ready? Pork tenderloin larded half pound fat pork.
A faint smile curved mister Peters's lips. His eyes were closed,
and he breathed softly. Ash went on in a low voice.
Four large pork tenderloins, one cupful cracker crumbs, one cupful
boiling water, two tablespoonfuls butter, one tablespoonful salt, half teaspoonful pepper,
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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
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the water, Add the seasoning in 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. Ash laid
down the book and peered into the darkness beyond the
rays of the bed lamp. His employer slept. Ash switched
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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
bachelor's wing of the castle, smoking a cigarette. A light
of resolution was in his eyes. He glanced at the
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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
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the aspect of one waiting for the appointed hour. Smoking
his second cigarette, he resumed his meditations. They had to
do with Aileen Peters. George Emerson was troubled about Aileen 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
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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 Aileen 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 Blanding's Castle,
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and on each of the eleven nights. He had been
distressed to see the manner in which Aileen, declining the
baked meats, had restricted herself to the miserable vegetable messes,
which were all the doctor's orders permitted to her suffering father.
George's pity had its limits. His heart did not bleed
for mister Peters. Mister Peters, diet was his own affair,
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But that Aileen 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 outsizing in meals,
he attached perhaps too much importance to food as an
adjunct to the perfect life. In his survey of Aileen,
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he took a line through his own requirements, and, believing
that eleven such dinners as he had seen Aileen 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 mister Peters
continued to do so did not occur to him as
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a flaw in his reasoning. He looked on mister Peters
as a sort of machine. Successful business men often give
that impression to the young. If George had been told
that mister Peters went along on gasolene like an automobile,
he would not have been much surprised. But that Aileen,
his Aileen, should have to deny herself the exercise of
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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 Aileen'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
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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
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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,
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to produce these comestibles as exhibit A, to show that
he loved Aileen, and 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 baized door
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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 Freddy also
should be going to market Blandings, and the little runabout
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which seated too, 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 and 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
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to perfection, he being desirous of getting rid of the
honorable Freddy 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 grocers,
and after that to another of the market, Blanding's inns,
not the Emsworth Arms, where he had bought the white wine.
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He did not believe in the local white wine, for
he was a young man with a palate and mistrusted
country sellers, but he assumed that whatever its quality, it
would cheer Aileen 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
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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
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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
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had to do was to go to Aileen's room on
the other side of the house, knocked 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 sew back to bed. He gave Aileen credit
for the intelligence that would enable her on finding a tongue,
some bread, a knife, a fork, salt, a corkscrew, and
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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.
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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
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on his chair in the gallery that 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
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eyes open, and when they were open, the darkness seemed
to press on them. Painfully take him for all and
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.
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He selected a scareb as a suitable object, but it
played him false. He had hardly concentrated on the scab
before his mind was straying off to ancient Egypt, to
mister Peter's 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
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presence in 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
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it all seemed perfectly logical and consecutive to Baxter. He
was climbing up the outer wall of Westminster Abbey in
his pajamas 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, Freddy. Baxter was
about to explain that his name was not Freddy when
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he found himself walking down Piccadilly with Ashmarson. 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 Ash vanished,
and Baxter discovered that he was not in Piccadilly as
he had supposed, but in an aeroplane with mister Peters
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hovering over the castle. Mister 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 mister Peters, closing one eye
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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
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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
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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 stairs case which Ash, coming downstairs from mister Peter's room,
and George Emerson coming up to Aileen's room, had to
pass on their respective routes. George reached it at one
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minute and three seconds after two a m moving silently
but swiftly, and Ash, 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
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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. Ash did not know
what it was, but he knew he wanted to shake
it off, so he insinuated a hand beneath George's chin
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and pushed upward. George, by this time hearted 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
Ash with the left and punched him in the ribs
with the right. Ash, removing his left arm from George's neck,
brought it up as a reinforcement to his right, and
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used both as a means of throttling George. This led George,
now permanently underneath, to grasp Ash's ears firmly and twist them,
relieving the pressure on his throat and causing Ash to
utter the first vocal sound of the evening other than
the explosive ugh that both had emitted. At the instant
of impact, Ash dislodged George's hands from his ears and
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hit George in the ribs with his elbow. George kicked
Ash on the left ankle. Ash 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 Ash's legs, shot forward and cannoned
into another table, also covered with occasional china and photographs
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in frames. The hall at Blanding's castle was more an
extra drawing room than a hall, and when not nursing
a sick headache in her bedroom, Lady Anne 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
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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 Ash,
a third party having been added to their little affair,
felt a desire to stay on and do the thing properly.
Ash was strongly opposed to being discovered and called on
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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 detect and must involve. As though by mutual consent,
each relaxed his grip, they stood panting for an instant,
then Ash in the direction where he supposed the green
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bay's 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
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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
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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 he was still alive. More,
he could not say. The mists of sleep, which still
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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 dream like 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
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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
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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 flash of his
back crawled for he knew what it was he had touched.
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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
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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.
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He meant to cry help murder, but fear prevented clear articulation.
What he shouted was ha 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 ambroglio began downstairs. He sat up
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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 pajamaed and dressing gowned relations.
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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 manner that was pretty
to watch. When Lord Elmsworth said, let me go first.
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Young Algernon Worcester, who was on the very point of
leaping to the fore, said yes, by Jove's 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 Elmsworth paused,
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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 Elmsworth could not understand. It sounded like
he mu probably some secret signal to his confederates. Lord
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Elmsworth raised his revolver and emptied it in the direction
of the sound. Dreamly. Fortunately for him, the efficient Baxter
had not changed his all four's attitude. This undoubtedly saved
Lord Emsworth the worry of engaging a new secretary. The
shots sang above Baxter's head, one after the other, sixth
in all, and found other billets than his person. They
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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 sized picture of his Lordship's grandmother in the
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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
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the possibility of denial that her her grandson's bullet permanently
removed one of Blanding's Castle's most prominent eye sores. 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
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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
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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, A I think you have killed him, Clarence.
(30:02):
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
(30:25):
buzzing like a hive shrill. Feminine screams were puncturing the air.
Mister Beach, the butler, in a suit of pink silk
pajamas of which no one would have suspected him was
leading a party of men's servants down the stairs, not
so much because he wanted to lead them as because
they pushed him. The passage beyond the green Bay's door
(30:45):
became congested, and there were cries for mister Beach to
open it and look through and see what was the matter.
But mister 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 them, look and
see what the matter is. Ash opened the door. Since
(31:06):
his escape from the hall, he had been lurking in
the neighborhood of the green baized door and had been
engulfed by the swirling throng. Finding himself with elbow room
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
(31:27):
littered with china and glass, on a dented dinner gong,
on an edited and improved portrait of the Lake Countess
of Elmsworth, 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
(31:49):
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 anti climax. For an instant when the efficient one
(32:12):
did not move, a hope began to stir, But as
soon as it was seen that he was not even injured,
gloom rained. One of two things would have satisfied them,
either a burglar or a corpse. A burglar would have
been welcomed 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
(32:34):
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
(32:55):
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
(33:16):
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 Freddy.
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
(33:37):
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 bonds, 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 acts. Accusation, explanations
(34:02):
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. Ash 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
(34:26):
proceed from him, tripping and stumbling over each other. Lord
Elmsworth'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.
(34:52):
The lights were switched off. The efficient Baxter dragged himself
away from the darkness in the direction of the servant's door.
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 hisself at all hours, said
(35:17):
the voice. There was a murmur of approval from the
unseen throng of domestics. End of Chapter eight
Chapter eight 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 eight. Put the butter
or drippings in a cattle on the range, and when hot,
(00:24):
add the onions and fry them. Add the veal and
cook until brown. Add the water. Cover closely, and cook
very slowly until the meat is tender. Then add the
seasoning and place the potatoes on top of the meat.
Cover and cook until the potatoes are tender but not
falling to pieces. Sure, said mister Peters. Not falling to pieces,
(00:46):
That's right. Go on, then add the cream and cook
five minutes longer, Red Ash, Is that all? That's all
of that? One? Mister Peters settled himself more comfortably in
bedad me the piece where it tells about curried lobster.
Ash cleared his throat. Curried lobster. He read materials two
(01:09):
one pound lobsters, two teaspoonfuls lemon juice, half a spoonful
curry powder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, one cupful
scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonful salt, quarter
teaspoonful pepper. Go on way of preparing cream the butter
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and flour and add the scalded milk. Then add the
lemon juice, curry, powder, salt, and pepper. Remove the lobster
meat from the shells and cut into half inch cubes.
Half inch cubes, sighed mister Peters wistfully. Yes, add the
latter to the sauce. You didn't say anything about the latter, Oh,
(01:54):
I see it means the half inch cubes. Yes, Refill
the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bake until
the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons and
make them feel an hour afterward as though they had
swallowed a live wild cat, said mister Peters ruefully, not
necessarily said Ash, I could eat two portions of that
(02:17):
at this very minute and go off to bed and
sleep like a little child. Mister Peters raised himself on
his elbow and stared at him. They were in the
millionaire's bedroom, the time being won in the morning, and
mister Peters had expressed a wish that Ash should read
him to sleep. He had voted against Ash's novel and
produced from the recesses of his suit case a much
(02:38):
thumbed cook book. He explained that since his digestive misfortunes
had come on him, he had derived a certain solace
from its perusal. It may be that to some men,
sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things, but mister
Peters had not found that to be the case. In
his hour of affliction, it soothed him to read of
(02:58):
Hungarian goulash and escalloped brains, and to remember that he, too,
the nut and grass eater of to day, had once
dwelt in Arcadia. The passage of the days, which had
so sapped the stamina of the efficient Baxter, had had
the opposite effect on mister Peters. His was one of
those natures that cannot deal in half measures. Whatever he did,
(03:21):
he did with the same driving energy. After the first
passionate burst of resistance, he had settled down into a
model pupil in Ashes one man's school of physical culture.
It had been the same now that he came to
look back on it at Muldoon's, Now that he remembered
he had come away from white plains, hoping indeed never
(03:41):
to see the place again, but undeniably a different man physically.
It was not the habit of Professor Muldoon to let
his patients loaf, but mister Peters, after the initial plunge,
had needed no driving. He had worked hard at his
cure then because it was the job in hand. He
worked hard now under the guidance of Ash, because once
(04:01):
he had begun, the thing interested and gripped him. Ash,
who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished and delighted
at the way in which the millionaire had behaved. Nature
had really intended Ash for a trainer. He identified himself
so thoroughly with his man, and rejoiced at the least
signs of improvement. In mister Peters's case, there had been
(04:22):
distinct improvement already. Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it
was too much to expect one who had maltreated his
body so consistently for so many years to become whole
in a day. But to an optimist like Ash, signs
were not wanting that in due season mister Peters would
rise on stepping stones of his dead self to higher things.
(04:43):
And though never soaring into the class that devours lobster
a la Newburgh and smiles after it might yet prove
himself a devil of a fellow among the mutton chops.
You're a wonder, said mister Peters. You're fresh, and you
have no respect for your elders in bedter, but you
deliver the goods. That's the point why I'm beginning to
(05:04):
feel great. Say, do you know I felt a new
muscle and the small of my back this morning. They
are coming out on me like a rash. That's the
Larson exercises they developed the whole body. Well, you're a
pretty good advertisement for them if they need one. What
were you before you came to me? A prize fighter?
That's the question everybody I have met since I arrived
(05:26):
here has asked me. I believe it made the butler
think I was some sort of crook When I couldn't
answer it. I used to write stories, detective stories. What
you ought to be doing is running a place over
here in England like Muldoon has back home. But you
will be able to write one more story out of
this business here if you want to. When are you
going to have another try for my scaub tonight, tonight,
(05:50):
how about Baxter. I shall have to risk Baxter. Mister
Peters hesitated. He had fallen out of the habit of
being magnanimous to the past few years. For this Pepsia
Brooks no divided allegiance, and magnanimity has to take a
back seat when it has its grip on You see here,
he said, awkwardly. I've been thinking this over lately, and
(06:13):
what's the use. It's a queer thing. And if anybody
had told me a week ago that I should be
saying and I wouldn't have believed him. But I am
beginning to like you. I don't want to get you
into trouble. Let the old scareb go. What's a scaub anyway?
Forget about it and stick on here as my private muldoon.
If it's the five thousand that's worrying you, forget that too.
(06:34):
I'll give it to you as your fee. Ash was
astounded that it could really be his peppery employer who
spoke was almost unbelievable. Ash's was a friendly nature and
he could never be long associated with anyone without trying
to establish pleasant relations. But he had resigned himself in
the present case to perpetual warfare. He was touched, and
(06:58):
if he had ever contemplated it abandoning his venture, this,
he felt, would have spurred him on to see it through.
The sudden revelation of the human and mister Peters was
like a trumpet call. 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
(07:21):
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 cook book.
Lie back and make yourself comfortable, and i'll read you
to sleep first. You're a good boy, said mister Peters drowsily.
(07:45):
Are you ready? Pork tenderloin larded half pound fat pork.
A faint smile curved mister Peters's lips. His eyes were closed,
and he breathed softly. Ash went on in a low voice.
Four large pork tenderloins, one cupful cracker crumbs, one cupful
boiling water, two tablespoonfuls butter, one tablespoonful salt, half teaspoonful pepper,
(08:12):
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
(08:33):
the water, Add the seasoning in 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. Ash laid
down the book and peered into the darkness beyond the
rays of the bed lamp. His employer slept. Ash switched
(08:59):
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
bachelor's wing of the castle, smoking a cigarette. A light
of resolution was in his eyes. He glanced at the
(09:19):
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
(09:41):
the aspect of one waiting for the appointed hour. Smoking
his second cigarette, he resumed his meditations. They had to
do with Aileen Peters. George Emerson was troubled about Aileen 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
(10:03):
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 Aileen 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 Blanding's Castle,
(10:24):
and on each of the eleven nights. He had been
distressed to see the manner in which Aileen, declining the
baked meats, had restricted herself to the miserable vegetable messes,
which were all the doctor's orders permitted to her suffering father.
George's pity had its limits. His heart did not bleed
for mister Peters. Mister Peters, diet was his own affair,
(10:46):
But that Aileen 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 outsizing in meals,
he attached perhaps too much importance to food as an
adjunct to the perfect life. In his survey of Aileen,
(11:07):
he took a line through his own requirements, and, believing
that eleven such dinners as he had seen Aileen 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 mister Peters
continued to do so did not occur to him as
(11:28):
a flaw in his reasoning. He looked on mister Peters
as a sort of machine. Successful business men often give
that impression to the young. If George had been told
that mister Peters went along on gasolene like an automobile,
he would not have been much surprised. But that Aileen,
his Aileen, should have to deny herself the exercise of
(11:48):
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 Aileen'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
(12:10):
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
(12:31):
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,
(12:55):
to produce these comestibles as exhibit A, to show that
he loved Aileen, and 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 baized door
(13:18):
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 Freddy also
should be going to market Blandings, and the little runabout
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which seated too, 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 and 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
(14:02):
to perfection, he being desirous of getting rid of the
honorable Freddy 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 grocers,
and after that to another of the market, Blanding's inns,
not the Emsworth Arms, where he had bought the white wine.
(14:24):
He did not believe in the local white wine, for
he was a young man with a palate and mistrusted
country sellers, but he assumed that whatever its quality, it
would cheer Aileen 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
(14:46):
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
(15:08):
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
(15:30):
had to do was to go to Aileen's room on
the other side of the house, knocked 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 sew back to bed. He gave Aileen credit
for the intelligence that would enable her on finding a tongue,
some bread, a knife, a fork, salt, a corkscrew, and
(15:52):
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.
(16:13):
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
(16:39):
on his chair in the gallery that 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
(17:00):
eyes open, and when they were open, the darkness seemed
to press on them. Painfully take him for all and
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.
(17:22):
He selected a scareb as a suitable object, but it
played him false. He had hardly concentrated on the scab
before his mind was straying off to ancient Egypt, to
mister Peter's 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
(17:42):
presence in 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
(18:03):
it all seemed perfectly logical and consecutive to Baxter. He
was climbing up the outer wall of Westminster Abbey in
his pajamas 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, Freddy. Baxter was
about to explain that his name was not Freddy when
(18:23):
he found himself walking down Piccadilly with Ashmarson. 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 Ash vanished,
and Baxter discovered that he was not in Piccadilly as
he had supposed, but in an aeroplane with mister Peters
(18:43):
hovering over the castle. Mister 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 mister Peters, closing one eye
(19:05):
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
(19:28):
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
(19:49):
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 stairs case which Ash, coming downstairs from mister Peter's room,
and George Emerson coming up to Aileen's room, had to
pass on their respective routes. George reached it at one
(20:11):
minute and three seconds after two a m moving silently
but swiftly, and Ash, 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
(20:33):
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. Ash did not know
what it was, but he knew he wanted to shake
it off, so he insinuated a hand beneath George's chin
(20:57):
and pushed upward. George, by this time hearted 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
Ash with the left and punched him in the ribs
with the right. Ash, removing his left arm from George's neck,
brought it up as a reinforcement to his right, and
(21:20):
used both as a means of throttling George. This led George,
now permanently underneath, to grasp Ash's ears firmly and twist them,
relieving the pressure on his throat and causing Ash to
utter the first vocal sound of the evening other than
the explosive ugh that both had emitted. At the instant
of impact, Ash dislodged George's hands from his ears and
(21:43):
hit George in the ribs with his elbow. George kicked
Ash on the left ankle. Ash 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 Ash's legs, shot forward and cannoned
into another table, also covered with occasional china and photographs
(22:05):
in frames. The hall at Blanding's castle was more an
extra drawing room than a hall, and when not nursing
a sick headache in her bedroom, Lady Anne 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
(22:27):
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 Ash,
a third party having been added to their little affair,
felt a desire to stay on and do the thing properly.
Ash was strongly opposed to being discovered and called on
(22:49):
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 detect and must involve. As though by mutual consent,
each relaxed his grip, they stood panting for an instant,
then Ash in the direction where he supposed the green
(23:11):
bay's 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
(23:32):
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
(23:53):
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 he was still alive. More,
he could not say. The mists of sleep, which still
(24:15):
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 dream like 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
(24:38):
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
(24:59):
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 flash of his
back crawled for he knew what it was he had touched.
(25:20):
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
(25:41):
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.
(26:04):
He meant to cry help murder, but fear prevented clear articulation.
What he shouted was ha 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 ambroglio began downstairs. He sat up
(26:26):
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 pajamaed and dressing gowned relations.
(26:48):
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 manner that was pretty
to watch. When Lord Elmsworth said, let me go first.
(27:12):
Young Algernon Worcester, who was on the very point of
leaping to the fore, said yes, by Jove's 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 Elmsworth paused,
(27:34):
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 Elmsworth could not understand. It sounded like
he mu probably some secret signal to his confederates. Lord
(27:54):
Elmsworth raised his revolver and emptied it in the direction
of the sound. Dreamly. Fortunately for him, the efficient Baxter
had not changed his all four's attitude. This undoubtedly saved
Lord Emsworth the worry of engaging a new secretary. The
shots sang above Baxter's head, one after the other, sixth
in all, and found other billets than his person. They
(28:17):
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 sized picture of his Lordship's grandmother in the
(28:38):
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
(28:58):
the possibility of denial that her her grandson's bullet permanently
removed one of Blanding's Castle's most prominent eye sores. 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
(29:19):
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
(29:40):
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, A I think you have killed him, Clarence.
(30:02):
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
(30:25):
buzzing like a hive shrill. Feminine screams were puncturing the air.
Mister Beach, the butler, in a suit of pink silk
pajamas of which no one would have suspected him was
leading a party of men's servants down the stairs, not
so much because he wanted to lead them as because
they pushed him. The passage beyond the green Bay's door
(30:45):
became congested, and there were cries for mister Beach to
open it and look through and see what was the matter.
But mister 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 them, look and
see what the matter is. Ash opened the door. Since
(31:06):
his escape from the hall, he had been lurking in
the neighborhood of the green baized door and had been
engulfed by the swirling throng. Finding himself with elbow room
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
(31:27):
littered with china and glass, on a dented dinner gong,
on an edited and improved portrait of the Lake Countess
of Elmsworth, 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
(31:49):
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 anti climax. For an instant when the efficient one
(32:12):
did not move, a hope began to stir, But as
soon as it was seen that he was not even injured,
gloom rained. One of two things would have satisfied them,
either a burglar or a corpse. A burglar would have
been welcomed 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
(32:34):
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
(32:55):
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
(33:16):
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 Freddy.
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
(33:37):
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 bonds, 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 acts. Accusation, explanations
(34:02):
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. Ash 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
(34:26):
proceed from him, tripping and stumbling over each other. Lord
Elmsworth'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.
(34:52):
The lights were switched off. The efficient Baxter dragged himself
away from the darkness in the direction of the servant's door.
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 hisself at all hours, said
(35:17):
the voice. There was a murmur of approval from the
unseen throng of domestics. End of Chapter eight
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