CHAPTER VIII
"'Put the butter or drippings in a kettle on the range, and whenhot add the onions and fry them; add the veal and cook untilbrown. Add the water, cover closely, and cook very slowly untilthe meat is tender; then add the seasoning and place the potatoeson top of the meat. Cover and cook until the potatoes are tender,but not falling to pieces.'"
"Sure," said Mr. Peters--"not falling to pieces. That's right.Go on."
"'Then add the cream and cook five minutes longer'" read Ashe.
"Is that all?"
"That's all of that one."
Mr. Peters settled himself more comfortably in bed.
"Read me the piece where it tells about curried lobster."
Ashe cleared his throat.
"'Curried Lobster,'" he read. "'Materials: Two one-poundlobsters, two teaspoonfuls lemon juice, half a spoonful currypowder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, onecupful scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonfulsalt, quarter teaspoonful pepper.'"
"Go on."
"'Way of Preparing: Cream the butter and flour and add thescalded milk; then add the lemon juice, curry powder, salt andpepper. Remove the lobster meat from the shells and cut intohalf-inch cubes.'"
"Half-inch cubes," sighed Mr. Peters wistfully. "Yes?"
"'Add the latter to the sauce.'"
"You didn't say anything about the latter. Oh, I see; it meansthe half-inch cubes. Yes?"
"'Refill the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bakeuntil the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons.'"
"And make them feel an hour afterward as though they hadswallowed a live wild cat," said Mr. Peters ruefully.
"Not necessarily," said Ashe. "I could eat two portions of thatat this very minute and go off to bed and sleep like a littlechild."
Mr. Peters raised himself on his elbow and stared at him. Theywere in the millionaire's bedroom, the time being one in themorning, and Mr. Peters had expressed a wish that Ashe shouldread him to sleep. He had voted against Ashe's novel and producedfrom the recesses of his suitcase a much-thumbed cookbook. Heexplained that since his digestive misfortunes had come on him hehad derived a certain solace from its perusal.
It may be that to some men sorrow's crown of sorrow isremembering happier things; but Mr. Peters had not found that tobe the case. In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read ofHungarian Goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he,too, the nut-and-grass eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia.
The passage of the days, which had so sapped the stamina of theefficient Baxter, had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters. Hiswas one of those natures that cannot deal in half measures.Whatever he did, he did with the same driving energy. After thefirst passionate burst of resistance he had settled down into amodel pupil in Ashe's one-man school of physical culture. It hadbeen the same, now that he came to look back on it, at Muldoon's.
Now that he remembered, he had come away from White Plainshoping, indeed, never to see the place again, but undeniably adifferent man physically. It was not the habit of ProfessorMuldoon to let his patients loaf; but Mr. Peters, after theinitial plunge, had needed no driving. He had worked hard at hiscure then, because it was the job in hand. He worked hard now,under the guidance of Ashe, because, once he had begun, the thinginterested and gripped him.
Ashe, who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonishedand delighted at the way in which the millionaire had behaved.Nature had really intended Ashe for a trainer; he identifiedhimself so thoroughly with his man and rejoiced at the leastsigns of improvement.
In Mr. Peters' case there had been distinct improvement already.Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it was too much to expectone who had maltreated his body so consistently for so many yearsto become whole in a day; but to an optimist like Ashe signs werenot wanting that in due season Mr. Peters would rise onstepping-stones of his dead self to higher things, and thoughnever soaring into the class that devours lobster a la Newburgand smiles after it, might yet prove himself a devil of a fellowamong the mutton chops.
"You're a wonder!" said Mr. Peters. "You're fresh, and you haveno respect for your elders and betters; but you deliver thegoods. That's the point. Why, I'm beginning to feel great! Say,do you know I felt a new muscle in the small of my back thismorning? They are coming out on me like a rash."
"That's the Larsen Exercises. They develop the whole body."
"Well, you're a pretty good advertisement for them if they needone. What were you before you came to me--a prize-fighter?"
"That's the question everybody I have met since I arrived herehas asked me. I believe it made the butler think I was some sortof 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 inEngland like Muldoon has back home. But you will be able to writeone more story out of this business here, if you want to. Whenare you going to have another try for my scarab?"
"To-night."
"To-night? How about Baxter?"
"I shall have to risk Baxter."
Mr. Peters hesitated. He had fallen out of the habit of beingmagnanimous during the past few years, for dyspepsia brooks nodivided allegiance and magnanimity has to take a back seat whenit has its grip on you.
"See here," he said awkwardly; "I've been thinking this overlately--and what's the use? It's a queer thing; and if anybodyhad told me a week ago that I should be saying it I wouldn't havebelieved him; but I am beginning to like you. I don't want to getyou into trouble. Let the old scarab go. What's a scarab anyway?Forget about it and stick on here as my private Muldoon. If it'sthe five thousand that's worrying you, forget that too. I'll giveit to you as your fee."
Ashe was astounded. That it could really be his peppery employerwho spoke was almost unbelievable. Ashe's was a friendly natureand he could never be long associated with anyone without tryingto establish pleasant relations; but he had resigned himself inthe present case to perpetual warfare.
He was touched; and if he had ever contemplated abandoning hisventure, this, he felt, would have spurred him on to see itthrough. This sudden revelation of the human in Mr. Peters waslike a trumpet call.
"I wouldn't think of it," he said. "It's great of you to suggestsuch a thing; but I know just how you feel about the thing, andI'm going to get it for you if I have to wring Baxter's neck.Probably Baxter will have given up waiting as a bad job by now ifhe has been watching all this while. We've given him ten nightsto cool off. I expect he is in bed, dreaming pleasant dreams.It's nearly two o'clock. I'll wait another ten minutes and thengo down." He picked up the cookbook. "Lie back and make yourselfcomfortable, and I'll read you to sleep first."
"You're a good boy," said Mr. Peters drowsily.
"Are you ready? 'Pork Tenderloin Larded. Half pound fat pork--'"A faint smile curved Mr. Peters' lips. His eyes were closed andhe breathed softly. Ashe went on in a low voice: "'four largepork tenderloins, one cupful cracker crumbs, one cupful boilingwater, two tablespoonfuls butter, one teaspoonful salt, halfteaspoonful pepper, one teaspoonful poultry seasoning.'"
A little sigh came from the bed.
"'Way of Preparing: Wipe the tenderloins with a damp cloth. Witha sharp knife make a deep pocket lengthwise in each tenderloin.Cut your pork into long thin strips and, with a needle, lard eachtenderloin. Melt the butter in the water, add the seasoning andthe cracker crumbs, combining all thoroughly. Now fill eachpocket in the tenderloin with this stuffing. Place thetenderloins--'"
A snore sounded from the pillows, punctuating the recital like amark of exclamation. Ashe laid down the book and peered into thedarkness beyond the rays of the bed lamp. His employer slept.
Ashe switched off the light and crept to the door. Out in thepassage he stopped and listened. All was still. He stoledownstairs.
* * *
George Emerson sat in his bedroom in the bachelors' wing of thecastle smoking a cigarette. A light of resolution was in
hiseyes. He glanced at the table beside his bed and at what was onthat table, and the light of resolution flamed into a glare offanatic determination. So might a medieval knight have looked onthe 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 the aspect of onewaiting for the appointed hour. Smoking his second cigarette, heresumed his meditations. They had to do with Aline Peters.
George Emerson was troubled about Aline Peters. Watching overher, as he did, with a lover's eye, he had perceived that abouther which distressed him. On the terrace that morning she hadbeen abrupt to him--what in a girl of less angelic dispositionone might have called snappy. Yes, to be just, she had snapped athim. That meant something. It meant that Aline was not well. Itmeant what her pallor and tired eyes meant--that the life she wasleading was doing her no good.
Eleven nights had George dined at Blandings Castle, and on eachof the eleven nights he had been distressed to see the manner inwhich Aline, declining the baked meats, had restricted herself tothe miserable vegetable messes which were all that doctor'sorders permitted to her suffering father. George's pity had itslimits. His heart did not bleed for Mr. Peters. Mr. Peters' dietwas his own affair. But that Aline should starve herself in thisfashion, purely by way of moral support for her parent, wasanother matter.
George was perhaps a shade material. Himself a robust young manand taking what might be called an outsize in meals, he attachedperhaps too much importance to food as an adjunct to the perfectlife. In his survey of Aline he took a line through his ownrequirements; and believing that eleven such dinners as he hadseen Aline partake of would have killed him he decided that hisloved one was on the point of starvation.
No human being, he held, could exist on such Barmecide feasts.That Mr. Peters continued to do so did not occur to him as a flawin his reasoning. He looked on Mr. Peters as a sort of machine.Successful business men often give that impression to the young.If George had been told that Mr. Peters went along on gasoline,like an automobile, he would not have been much surprised. Butthat Aline--his Aline--should have to deny herself the exerciseof that mastication of rich meats which, together with the giftof speech, raises man above the beasts of the field---- That waswhat tortured George.
He had devoted the day to thinking out a solution of the problem.Such was the overflowing goodness of Aline's heart that not evenhe could persuade her to withdraw her moral support from herfather and devote herself to keeping up her strength as sheshould do. It was necessary to think of some other plan.
And then a speech of hers had come back to him. She hadsaid--poor child:
"I do get a little hungry sometimes--late at night generally."
The problem was solved. Food should be brought to her late atnight.
On the table by his bed was a stout sheet of packing paper. Onthis lay, like one of those pictures in still life that one seeson 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 portrayGeorge's devotion only through the medium of his speeches, toproduce these comestibles as Exhibit A, to show that he lovedAline with no common love; for it had not been an easy task toget them there. In a house of smaller dimensions he would haveraided the larder without shame, but at Blandings Castle therewas no saying where the larder might be. All he knew was that itlay somewhere beyond that green-baize door opening on the hall,past which he was wont to go on his way to bed. To prowl throughthe maze of the servants' quarters in search of it wasimpossible. The only thing to be done was to go to MarketBlandings and buy the things.
Fortune had helped him at the start by arranging that theHonorable Freddie, also, should be going to Market Blandings inthe little runabout, which seated two. He had acquiesced inGeorge's suggestion that he, George, should occupy the otherseat, but with a certain lack of enthusiasm it seemed to George.He had not volunteered any reason as to why he was going toMarket Blandings in the little runabout, and on arrival there hadbetrayed an unmistakable desire to get rid of George at theearliest opportunity.
As this had suited George to perfection, he being desirous ofgetting rid of the Honorable Freddie at the earliest opportunity,he had not been inquisitive, and they had parted on the outskirtsof the town without mutual confidences.
George had then proceeded to the grocer's, and after that toanother of the Market Blandings inns, not the Emsworth Arms,where he had bought the white wine. He did not believe in thelocal white wine, for he was a young man with a palate andmistrusted country cellars, but he assumed that, whatever itsquality, it would cheer Aline in the small hours.
He had then tramped the whole five miles back to the castle withhis purchases. It was here that his real troubles began and thequality of his love was tested. The walk, to a heavily laden man,was bad enough; but it was as nothing compared with the ordeal ofsmuggling the cargo up to his bedroom. Superhuman though he was,George was alive to the delicacy of the situation. One cannotconvey 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. Itwas as one who carries dispatches through an enemy's lines thatGeorge took cover, emerged from cover, dodged, ducked and ran;and the moment when he sank down on his bed, the door lockedbehind him, was one of the happiest of his life.
The recollection of that ordeal made the one he proposed toembark on now seem slight in comparison. All he had to do was togo to Aline's room on the other side of the house, knock softlyon the door until signs of wakefulness made themselves heard fromwithin, and then dart away into the shadows whence he had come,and so back to bed. He gave Aline credit for the intelligencethat would enable her, on finding a tongue, some bread, a knife,a fork, salt, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine on the mat,to know what to do with them--and perhaps to guess whose was theloving hand that had laid them there.
The second clause, however, was not important, for he proposed totell her whose was the hand next morning. Other people might hidetheir light under a bushel--not George Emerson.
It only remained now to allow time to pass until the hour shouldbe sufficiently advanced to insure safety for the expedition. Helooked at his watch again. It was nearly two. By this time thehouse must be asleep.
He gathered up the tongue, the bread, the knife, the fork, thesalt, the corkscrew and the bottle of white wine, and left theroom. All was still. He stole downstairs.
* * *
On his chair in the gallery that ran round the hall, swathed inan overcoat and wearing rubber-soled shoes, the Efficient Baxtersat and gazed into the darkness. He had lost the first finecareless rapture, as it were, which had helped him to endurethese vigils, and a great weariness was on him. He founddifficulty in keeping his eyes open, and when they were open thedarkness seemed to press on them painfully. Take him for all inall, the Efficient Baxter had had about enough of it.
Time stood still. Baxter's thoughts began to wander. He knew thatthis was fatal and exerted himself to drag them back. He tried toconcentrate his mind on some one definite thing. He selected thescarab as a suitable object, but it played him false. He hadhardly concentrated on the scarab before his mind was strayingoff to ancient Egypt, to Mr. Peters' dyspepsia, and on a dozenother branch lines of thought.
He blamed the fat man at the inn for this. If the fat man had notthrust his presence and conversation on him he would have beenable to enjoy a sound sleep in the afternoon, and would have comefresh to his nocturnal task. He began to muse on the fat man.And by a curious coincidence whom should he meet a few momentslater but this same man!
It happened in a somewhat singular manner, though it all seemedperfectly logical and consecutive to Baxter. He was climbing upthe outer wall of Westminster Abbey in his pyjamas and a tallhat, when the fat man, suddenly thrusting his head out of awindow which Baxter had not noticed until that moment, said,"Hello, Freddie!"
 
; Baxter was about to explain that his name was not Freddie when hefound himself walking down Piccadilly with Ashe Marson. Ashe saidto him: "Nobody loves me. Everybody steals my grapefruit!" Andthe pathos of it cut the Efficient Baxter like a knife. He was onthe point of replying; when Ashe vanished and Baxter discoveredthat he was not in Piccadilly, as he had supposed, but in anaeroplane with Mr. Peters, hovering over the castle.
Mr. Peters had a bomb in his hand, which he was fondling withloving care. He explained to Baxter that he had stolen it fromthe Earl of Emsworth's museum. "I did it with a slice of coldbeef and a pickle," he explained; and Baxter found himselfrealizing that that was the only way. "Now watch me drop it,"said Mr. Peters, closing one eye and taking aim at the castle."I have to do this by the doctor's orders."
He loosed the bomb and immediately Baxter was lying in bedwatching it drop. He was frightened, but the idea of moving didnot occur to him. The bomb fell very slowly, dipping andfluttering like a feather. It came closer and closer. Then itstruck with a roar and a sheet of flame.
Baxter woke to a sound of tumult and crashing. For a moment hehovered between dreaming and waking, and then sleep passed fromhim, and he was aware that something noisy and exciting was inprogress in the hall below.
* * *
Coming down to first causes, the only reason why collisions ofany kind occur is because two bodies defy Nature's law that agiven spot on a given plane shall at a given moment of time beoccupied by only one body.
There was a certain spot near the foot of the great staircasewhich Ashe, coming downstairs from Mr. Peters' room, and GeorgeEmerson, coming up to Aline's room, had to pass on theirrespective routes. George reached it at one minute and threeseconds after two a.m., moving silently but swiftly; and Ashe,also maintaining a good rate of speed, arrived there at oneminute and four seconds after the hour, when he ceased to walkand began to fly, accompanied by George Emerson, now going down.His arms were round George's neck and George was clinging to hiswaist.
In due season they reached the foot of the stairs and a smalltable, covered with occasional china and photographs in frames,which lay adjacent to the foot of the stairs. That--especiallythe occasional china--was what Baxter had heard.
George Emerson thought it was a burglar. Ashe did not know whatit was, but he knew he wanted to shake it off; so he insinuated ahand beneath George's chin and pushed upward. George, by thistime parted forever from the tongue, the bread, the knife, thefork, the salt, the corkscrew and the bottle of white wine, andhaving both hands free for the work of the moment, held Ashe withthe left and punched him in the ribs with the right.
Ashe, removing his left arm from George's neck, brought it up asa reinforcement to his right, and used both as a means ofthrottling George. This led George, now permanently underneath,to grasp Ashe's ears firmly and twist them, relieving thepressure on his throat and causing Ashe to utter the first vocalsound of the evening, other than the explosive Ugh! that both hademitted at the instant of impact.
Ashe dislodged George's hands from his ears and hit George in theribs with his elbow. George kicked Ashe on the left ankle. Asherediscovered George's throat and began to squeeze it afresh; anda pleasant time was being had by all when the Efficient Baxter,whizzing down the stairs, tripped over Ashe's legs, shot forwardand cannoned into another table, also covered with occasionalchina and photographs in frames.
The hall at Blandings Castle was more an extra drawing-room thana hall; and, when not nursing a sick headache in her bedroom,Lady Ann Warblington would dispense afternoon tea there to herguests. Consequently it was dotted pretty freely with smalltables. There were, indeed, no fewer than five more in variousspots, waiting to be bumped into and smashed.
The bumping into and smashing of small tables, however, is a taskthat calls for plenty of time, a leisured pursuit; and neitherGeorge nor Ashe, a third party having been added to their littleaffair, felt a desire to stay on and do the thing properly. Ashewas strongly opposed to being discovered and called on to accountfor his presence there at that hour; and George, conscious of thetongue and its adjuncts now strewn about the hall, had a similarprejudice against the tedious explanations that detection mustinvolve.
As though by mutual consent each relaxed his grip. They stoodpanting for an instant; then, Ashe in the direction where hesupposed the green-baize door of the servants' quarters to be,George to the staircase that led to his bedroom, they went awayfrom that place.
They had hardly done so when Baxter, having disassociated himselffrom the contents of the table he had upset, began to grope hisway toward the electric-light switch, the same being situatednear the foot of the main staircase. He went on all fours, as asafer method of locomotion, though slower, than the one he hadattempted before.
Noises began to make themselves heard on the floors above. Rousedby the merry crackle of occasional china, the house party wasbestirring itself to investigate. Voices sounded, muffled andinquiring.
Meantime Baxter crawled steadily on his hands and knees towardthe light switch. He was in much the same condition as one WhiteHope of the ring is after he has put his chin in the way of thefist of a rival member of the Truck Drivers' Union. He knew thathe was still alive. More he could not say. The mists of sleep,which still shrouded his brain, and the shake-up he had had fromhis encounter with the table, a corner of which he had rammedwith the top of his head, combined to produce a dreamlike state.
And so the Efficient Baxter crawled on; and as he crawled hishand, advancing cautiously, fell on something--something that wasnot alive; something clammy and ice-cold, the touch of whichfilled him with a nameless horror.
To say that Baxter's heart stood still would be physiologicallyinexact. The heart does not stand still. Whatever the emotions ofits owner, it goes on beating. It would be more accurate to saythat Baxter felt like a man taking his first ride in an expresselevator, who has outstripped his vital organs by several floorsand sees no immediate prospect of their ever catching up with himagain. There was a great cold void where the more intimate partsof his body should have been. His throat was dry and contracted.The flesh of his back crawled, for he knew what it was he hadtouched.
Painful and absorbing as had been his encounter with the table,Baxter had never lost sight of the fact that close beside him afurious battle between unseen forces was in progress. He hadheard the bumping and the thumping and the tense breathing evenas he picked occasional china from his person. Such a combat, hehad felt, could hardly fail to result in personal injury toeither the party of the first part or the party of the secondpart, or both. He knew now that worse than mere injury hadhappened, and that he knelt in the presence of death.
There was no doubt that the man was dead. Insensibility alonecould never have produced this icy chill. He raised his head inthe darkness, and cried aloud to those approaching. He meant tocry: "Help! Murder!" But fear prevented clear articulation. Whathe shouted was: "Heh! Mer!" On which, from the neighborhood ofthe staircase, somebody began to fire a revolver.
The Earl of Emsworth had been sleeping a sound and peaceful sleepwhen the imbroglio began downstairs. He sat up and listened. Yes;undoubtedly burglars! He switched on his light and jumped out ofbed. He took a pistol from a drawer, and thus armed went to lookinto the matter. The dreamy peer was no poltroon.
It was quite dark when he arrived on the scene of conflict, inthe van of a mixed bevy of pyjamaed and dressing-gownedrelations. He was in the van because, meeting these relations inthe passage above, he had said to them: "Let me go first. I havea pistol." And they had let him go first. They were, indeed,awfully nice about it, not thrusting themselves forward orjostling or anything, but behaving in a modest and self-effacingmanner that was pretty to watch.
When Lord Emsworth said, "Let me go first," young AlgernonWooster, who was on the very point of leaping to the fore, said,"Yes, by Jove! Sound scheme, by Gad!"--and withdrew into thebackground; 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 thestairs, Lord Emsworth paused. The hall was very dark and theburglars seemed temporarily to have suspended activities. Andthen one of them, a man with a ruffianly, grating voice, spoke.What it was he said Lord Emsworth could not understand. Itsounded like "Heh! Mer!"--probably some secret signal to hisconfederates. Lord Emsworth raised his revolver and emptied it inthe direction of the sound.
Extremely fortunately for him, the Efficient Baxter had notchanged his all-fours attitude. This undoubtedly saved LordEmsworth the worry of engaging a new secretary. The shots sangabove Baxter's head one after the other, six in all, and foundother billets than his person. They disposed themselves asfollows: The first shot broke a window and whistled out into thenight; the second shot hit the dinner gong and made a perfectlyextraordinary noise, like the Last Trump; the third, fourth andfifth shots embedded themselves in the wall; the sixth and finalshot hit a life-size picture of his lordship's grandmother in theface and improved it out of all knowledge.
One thinks no worse of Lord Emsworth's grandmother because shelooked like Eddie Foy, and had allowed herself to be painted,after the heavy classic manner of some of the portraits of ahundred years ago, in the character of Venus--suitably draped, ofcourse, rising from the sea; but it was beyond the possibility ofdenial that her grandson's bullet permanently removed one ofBlandings Castle's most prominent eyesores.
Having emptied his revolver, Lord Emsworth said, "Who is there?Speak!" in rather an aggrieved tone, as though he felt he haddone his part in breaking the ice, and it was now for theintruder to exert himself and bear his share of the socialamenities.
The Efficient Baxter did not reply. Nothing in the world couldhave induced him to speak at that moment, or to make any soundwhatsoever that might betray his position to a dangerous maniacwho might at any instant reload his pistol and resume thefusillade. Explanations, in his opinion, could be deferred untilsomebody had the presence of mind to switch on the lights. Heflattened himself on the carpet and hoped for better things. Hischeek touched the corpse beside him; but though he winced andshuddered he made no outcry. After those six shots he was throughwith outcries.
A voice from above, the bishop's voice, said: "I think you havekilled him, Clarence."
Another voice, that of Colonel Horace Mant, said: "Switch onthose 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 werebuzzing like a hive. Shrill feminine screams were puncturing theair. Mr. Beach, the butler, in a suit of pink silk pajamas, ofwhich no one would have suspected him, was leading a party of menservants down the stairs--not so much because he wanted to leadthem as because they pushed him.
The passage beyond the green-baize door became congested, andthere were cries for Mr. Beach to open it and look through andsee what was the matter; but Mr. Beach was smarter than that andwriggled back so that he no longer headed the procession. Thisdone, he shouted:
"Open that door there! Open that door! Look and see what thematter is."
Ashe opened the door. Since his escape from the hall he had beenlurking in the neighborhood of the green-baize door and had beenengulfed by the swirling throng. Finding himself with elbowroomfor the first time, he pushed through, swung the door open andswitched on the lights.
They shone on a collection of semi-dressed figures, crowding thestaircase; on a hall littered with china and glass; on a denteddinner gong; on an edited and improved portrait of the lateCountess of Emsworth; and on the Efficient Baxter, in an overcoatand rubber-soled shoes, lying beside a cold tongue. At no greatdistance lay a number of other objects--a knife, a fork, somebread, salt, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine.
Using the word in the sense of saying something coherent, theEarl of Emsworth was the first to speak. He peered down at hisrecumbent 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 anticlimax. For an instant, when theEfficient one did not move, a hope began to stir; but as soon asit was seen that he was not even injured, gloom reigned. One oftwo things would have satisfied them--either a burglar or acorpse. A burglar would have been welcome, dead or alive; but, ifBaxter proposed to fill the part adequately it was imperativethat he be dead. He had disappointed them deeply by turning outto be the object of their quest. That he should not have beeneven grazed was too much.
There was a cold silence as he slowly raised himself from thefloor. As his eyes fell on the tongue, he started and remainedgazing fixedly at it. Surprise paralyzed him.
Lord Emsworth was also looking at the tongue and he leaped to anot unreasonable conclusion. He spoke coldly and haughtily; forhe was not only annoyed, like the others, at the anticlimax, butoffended. He knew that he was not one of your energetic hosts whoexert themselves unceasingly to supply their guests withentertainment; but there was one thing on which, as a host, hedid pride himself--in the material matters of life he did hisguests well; he kept an admirable table.
"My dear Baxter," he said in the tones he usually reserved forthe correction of his son Freddie, "if your hunger is so greatthat you are unable to wait for breakfast and have to raid mylarder in the middle of the night, I wish to goodness you wouldcontrive to make less noise about it. I do not grudge you thefood--help yourself when you please--but do remember that peoplewho have not such keen appetites as yourself like to sleep duringthe night. A far better plan, my dear fellow, would be to havesandwiches or buns--or whatever you consider most sustaining--sent up to your bedroom."
Not even the bullets had disordered Baxter's faculties so much asthis monstrous accusation. Explanations pushed and jostled oneanother in his fermenting brain, but he could not utter them. Onevery side he met gravely reproachful eyes. George Emerson waslooking at him in pained disgust. Ashe Marson's face was the faceof one who could never have believed this had he not seen it withhis own eyes. The scrutiny of the knife-and-shoe boy wasunendurable.
He stammered. Words began to proceed from him, tripping andstumbling over each other. Lord Emsworth's frigid disapproval didnot relax.
"Pray do not apologize, Baxter. The desire for food is human. Itis your boisterous mode of securing and conveying it that Ideprecate. Let us all go to bed."
"But, Lord Emsworth-----"
"To bed!" repeated his lordship firmly.
The company began to stream moodily upstairs. The lights wereswitched off. The Efficient Baxter dragged himself away. From thedarkness in the direction of the servants' door a 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 hisretreat without pausing.
"Stuffin' of 'isself at all hours!" said the voice.
There was a murmur of approval from the unseen throng ofdomestics.