11 - Sally Runs Away. The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Wodehouse.

11 - Sally Runs Away. The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Wodehouse.  
This romantic comedy stars a young American girl named Sally, who inherits a considerable fortune and finds her life turned upside down. The typically Wodehouseian cast includes Sally's ambitious brother, an assortment of theater people, a pair of English cousins, and, of course, an Uncle. It's jolly good fun! 

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter eleven of the Adventures of Sallie. This is a
LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
The Adventures of Sallie by P. G. Woodhouse, Chapter eleven,
Sallie Runs Away. If Ginger Kemp had been asked to

(00:23):
enumerate his good qualities, it is not probable that he
would have drawn up a very lengthy list. He might
have started by claiming for himself the virtue of meaning well,
but after that he would have had to chew the
pencil in prolonged meditation. And even if he could eventually
have added one or two further items to the catalog,

(00:43):
tact and delicacy of feeling would not have been among them. Yet,
by staying away from Sallie during the next few days,
he showed considerable delicacy. It was not easy to stay
away from her, but he forced himself to do so.
He argued from his own tastes, and was strongly of
opinion that in times of travail, solitude was what the

(01:04):
sufferer most desired. In his time, he too had had
what he would have described as nasty jars, and on
these occasions all he had asked was to be allowed
to sit and think things over and fight his battle
out by himself. By Saturday, however, he had come to
the conclusion that some form of action might now be taken.

(01:26):
Saturday was rather a good day for picking up the threads. Again,
he had not to go to the office, and what
was still more to the point, he had just drawn
his week's salary. Missus Meecher had deftly taken a certain
amount of this off him, but enough remained to enable
him to attempt consolation on a fairly princely scale. There

(01:46):
presented itself to him as a judicious move, the idea
of hiring a car and taking Sally out to dinner
at one of the road houses he had heard about
up the Boston Post Road. He examined the scheme, the
more he looked at it, the better it seemed. He
was helped to this decision by the extraordinary perfection of
the weather. The weather of late had been a revelation

(02:08):
to Ginger. It was his first experience of America's Indian summer,
and it had quite overcome him. As he stood on
the roof of Missus Meecher's establishment on the Saturday morning.
Thrilled by the velvet wonder of the sunshine, it seemed
to him that the only possible way of passing such
a day was to take Sally for a ride in
an open car. The Maison Meecher was a lofty building

(02:33):
on one of the side streets at the lower end
of the avenue. From its roof, after you had worked
your way through the groves of washing which hung limply
from the clothes line, you could see many things of interest.
To the left lay Washington Square, full of somnolent Italians
and roller skating children. To the right was a spectacle
which never failed to intrigue Ginger, the high smoke stacks

(02:56):
of a Kinard liner moving slowly down the river, sticking
up over the housetops as if the boat was traveling
down Ninth Avenue. To day, there were four of these funnels,
causing Ginger to deduce the Mauritania as the boat on
which he had come over from England. The Mauritania had
a sentimental interest for him. He stood watching her stately

(03:18):
progress till the higher buildings farther down the town shut
her from his sight, then picked his way through the
washing and went down to his room to get his hat.
A quarter of an hour later, he was in the
hallway of Sally's apartment house, gazing with ill concealed disgust
at the surge clad back of his cousin, mister Carlyle,
who was engaged in conversation with a gentleman in overalls.

(03:43):
No care free prospector singing his way through the Mojave
desert and suddenly finding himself confronted by a rattlesnake could
have experienced so abrupt a change of mood as did
Ginger at this revolting spectacle. Even in their native Piccadilly
it had been unpleasant to run into mister Carlyle. To

(04:03):
find him here now was nothing short of nauseating. Only
one thing could have brought him to this place. Obviously,
he must have come to see Sallie, And with a
sudden sinking of the heart, Ginger remembered the shiny, expensive
automobile which he had seen waiting at the door. He,
it was clear, was not the only person to whom
the idea had occurred of taking the Salie for a

(04:26):
drive on this golden day. He was still standing there
when mister Carlyle swung round with a frown on his
dark face, which seemed to say that he had not
found the Janitor's conversation entertaining the sight of Ginger plainly
did nothing to lighten his gloom. Hullo, he said, HULLO,

(04:46):
said Ginger. Uncomfortable silence followed these civilities. Have you come
to see miss Nicholas. Why, yes, she isn't here, said
mister Carlyle, and the fact that he had found some
one to share the bad news seemed to cheer him
a little. Not here, no, Apparently, Bruce Carmle's scowl betrayed

(05:13):
that resentment which a well balanced man cannot but feel
at the unreasonableness of others. Apparently, for some extraordinary reason,
she has taken it into her head to dash over
to England. Ginger tottered. The unexpectedness of the blow was crushing.
He followed his cousin out into the sunshine. In a

(05:33):
sort of dream. Bruce Carmle was addressing the driver of
the expensive automobile. I shall not want the car. You
can take it back to the garage. The chauffeur, a
moody man, opened one half closed eye and spat cautiously.
It was the way Rockefeller would have spat when approaching

(05:54):
the crisis of some delicate financial negotiation. You'll have to pay,
just the he observed, opening his other eye to lend
emphasis to the words, of course I shall pay, snapped
mister Carlyle irritably. How much is it money? Passed? The
car rolled off? Gone to England, said Ginger dizzily. Yes,

(06:19):
gone to England. But why, how the devil do I
know why Bruce Carmle would have found his best friend
trying at this moment, gaping Ginger gave him almost a
physical pain. All I know is what the janitor told
me that she sailed on the Mauritania this morning. The

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tragic irony of this overcame Ginger that he should have
stood on the roof, calmly watching the boat down the river.
He nodded absently to mister Carlyle and walked off. He
had no further remarks to make. The warmth had gone
out of the sunshine, and all interest had departed from
his He felt dull, listless, at a loose end. Not

(07:05):
even the thought that his cousin a careful man with
his money had had to pay it days higher for
a car which he could not use, brought him any ball.
He loafed aimlessly about the streets. He wandered in the
park and out again. The park bored him, the streets
bored him. The whole city bored him. A city without

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Sally in it was a drab, futile city, and nothing
that the sun could do to brighten it could make
it otherwise. Night came at last, and with it a letter.
It was the first even passably pleasant thing that had
happened to Ginger in the whole of this dreary and
unprofitable day. For the envelope bore the crest of the

(07:46):
good ship Mauritania. He snatched it covetously from the letter
rack and carried it upstairs to his room. Very few
of the rooms at missus Meacher's boarding house struck any
note of luxury. Missus Meecher was not one of your
fashionable interior decorators. She considered that when she had added

(08:06):
a Morris chair to the essentials which make up a bedroom,
she had gone as far in the direction of pomp
as any guest at seven and a half per could
expect her to go. As a rule. The severity of
his surroundings afflicted Ginger with a touch of gloom when
he went to bed. But to night, such is the
magic of a letter from the right person, he was

(08:27):
uplifted and almost gay. There are moments when even illuminated
texts over the washstand cannot wholly quell us. There was
nothing of haste, and much of ceremony in Ginger's method
of approaching the perusal of his correspondence. He bore himself
after the manner of a small boy in the presence

(08:47):
of unexpected ice cream, gloating for a while before embarking
on the treat, anxious to make it last out. His
first move was to feel in the breast pocket of
his coat and produce the photograph of Sallie, which he
had feloniously removed from her apartment. At this he looked
long and earnestly before propping it up within easy reach

(09:09):
of his basin, to be handy if required for purposes
of reference. He then took off his coat, collar and shoes,
filled and lit a pipe, placed pouch and matches on
the arm of the Morris chair, and drew that chair
up so that he could sit with his feet on
the bed. Having maneuvered himself into a position of ease,

(09:31):
he lit his pipe again and took up the letter.
He looked at the crest, the handwriting of the address,
and the postmark. He waited in his hand. It was
a bulky letter. He took Sallie's photograph from the washstand
and scrutinized it once more. Then he lit his pipe
again and finally, wriggling himself into the depths of the chair,

(09:53):
opened the envelope Ginger Dear. Having read so far, Ginger
found it necessary to take up the photograph and study
it with an even greater intentness than before. He gazed
at it for many minutes, then laid it down and
lit his pipe again. Then he went on with a letter,

(10:15):
Ginger Dear, I'm afraid this address is going to give
you rather a shock, and I'm feeling very guilty. I'm
running away and I haven't even stopped to say good bye.
I can't help it. I know it's weak and cowardly,
but I simply can't help it. I stood it for
a day or two, and then I saw that it
was no good. Thank you for leaving me alone and

(10:35):
not coming round to see me. Nobody else but you
would have done that. But then nobody has ever been,
or ever could be, so understanding as you. Ginger found
himself compelled at this point to look at the photograph again.
There was too much in New York to remind me.
That's the worst of being happy in a place. When

(10:56):
things go wrong, you find there are too many ghosts about.
I just couldn't stand it. I tried, but I couldn't.
I'm going away to get cured if I can. Mister
Fawcett is over in England, and when I went down
to missus Meecher for my letters, I found one from him.
His brother is dead, you know, and he has inherited,
of all things, a fashionable dressmaking place in Regent Street.

(11:19):
His brother was laurette A c. I suppose he will
sell the business later on, but just at present, the
poor old dear is apparently quite bewildered, and that doesn't
seem to have occurred to him. He kept saying in
his letter how much he wished I was with him
to help him, and I was tempted and ran anything
to get away from the ghosts and have something to do.

(11:40):
I don't suppose I shall feel much better in England,
but at least every street corner won't have associations. Don't
ever be happy anywhere, Ginger, It's too big a risk,
much too big a risk. There was a letter from
else Doland, too, bubbling over with affection. We had always
been tremendous friends. Of course, she never knew anything about

(12:01):
my being engaged to Gerald. I lent Fillmore the money
to buy that piece, which gave Elsa her first big chance,
and so she's very grateful, she says, if ever she
gets the opportunity of doing me a good turn. Aren't
things muddled? And there was a letter from Gerald. I
was expecting one, of course, But what would you have done, Ginger?

(12:22):
Would you have read it? I sat with it in
front of me for an hour. I should think, just
looking at the envelope, and then you see what was
the use? I could guess exactly the sort of thing
that would be in it, and reading it would only
have heard a lot more. The thing was done. So
why bother about explanations? What good are explanations anyway? They
don't help, they don't do anything. I burned it, Ginger,

(12:44):
the last letter I shall ever get from him? I
made a bonfire on the bathroom floor, and it smoldered
and went brown, and then flared a little, and every
now and then I lit another match and kept it burning,
and at last it was just black ashes and a
stain on the tiles, just a mess. Ginger. Burn this
letter too. I am pouring out all the poison to you,

(13:05):
hoping it will make me feel better. You don't mind,
do you? But I know you don't. If ever anybody
had a real pal, it's a dreadful thing, fascination Ginger.
It grips you, and you are helpless. One can be
so sensible and reasonable about other people's love affairs. When
I was working at the dance place I told you about,
there was a girl who fell in love with a

(13:25):
most awful little beast. He had a mean mouth and
shiny black hair brushed straight back, and anybody would have
seen what he was. But this girl wouldn't listen to
a word I talked to her by the hour. It
makes me smile now when I think how sensible and
level headed I was, But she wouldn't listen. In some
mysterious way, this was the man she wanted, And of

(13:47):
course everything happened that one knew would happen if one
could manage one's own life as well as one can
manage other people's. If all this wretched thing of mine
had happened to some other girl, how beautifully, I could
have proved that it was the best thing that could
have happened, and that a man who could behave as
Gerald has done wasn't worth worrying about. I can just

(14:09):
hear myself, but you see, whatever he has done, Gerald
is still Gerald, and Sallie is still Sally And however
much I argue, I can't get away from that. All
I can do is to come howling to my red
headed pal when I know just as well as he
does that a girl of any spirit would be dignified
and keep her troubles to herself, and be much too
proud to let any one know that she was hurt. Proud.

(14:32):
That's the real trouble, Ginger. My pride has been battered
and chopped up and broken into as many pieces as
you broke mister Scrimger's stick. What pitiful creatures we are, girls.
I mean, at least I suppose a good many girls
are like me. If Gerald had died and I had
lost him, that way. I know quite well, I shouldn't
be feeling as I do now. I should have been

(14:54):
broken hearted, but it wouldn't have been the same. It's
my pride that is hurt. I have always been a
bossy cock, sure little creature, swaggering about the world like
an English sparrow. And now I'm paying for it. Oh, Ginger,
I'm paying for it. I wonder if running away is
going to do me any good at all, Perhaps if
mister Fawcett has some real hard work for me to do.

(15:16):
Of course, I know exactly how all this has come about.
Else's pretty and attractive, but the point is that she
is a success, and as a success she appeals to
Gerald's weakest side. He worships success. She is going to
have a marvelous career, and she can help Gerald on
in his He can write plays for her to star in.

(15:37):
What have I to offer against that? Yes? I know
it's groveling and contemptible of me to say that, Ginger,
I ought to be above it, oughtn't I talking as
if I were competing for some prize. But I haven't
any pride left. Oh well, there, I've poured it all out,
and I really do feel a little better, just for
the moment. It won't last, of course, but even a

(15:58):
minute is something, Ginger, Dear, I shan't see you for
ever so long, even if we ever do meet again.
But you'll try to remember that I'm thinking of you
a whole lot, won't you. I feel responsible for you.
You're my baby. You've got started now, and you've only
to stick to it. Please, please, please, don't make a
hash of it. Goodbye. I never did find that photograph

(16:20):
of me that we were looking for that afternoon in
the apartment, or I would send it to you. Then
you could have kept it on your mantelpiece, and whenever
you felt inclined to make a hash of anything, I
would have caught your eyes sternly and you would have
pulled up good Bye, Ginger. I shall have to stop now.
The mail is just closing. Always your pal, wherever I am.

(16:40):
Sally Ginger laid the letter down, and a little sound
escaped him. That was half a sigh, half an oath.
He was wondering whether, even now, some desirable end might
not be achieved by going to Chicago and breaking Gerald
Foster's neck. Abandoning this scheme as impract and not being

(17:01):
able to think of anything else to do, he ReLit
his pipe and started to read the letter again. End
of Chapter eleven. Read on October nineteenth, two thousand eight,
in San Diego, California,