P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

He opened the second letter. It was short, but full of the finest, noblest sentiments; to wit, that the writer, Charles J. Pickersgill, having heard the school so highly spoken of by his friend, Mr. Herbert Baxter, would be glad if Mr. Blatherwick could take in his three sons, aged seven, nine, and eleven respectively, at the earliest convenient date.

Mr. Blatherwick’s first feeling was one of remorse that even in thought he should have been harsh to the golden-hearted Bertie. His next was one of elation.

Violet, meanwhile, stood patiently before him with the coffee. Mr. Blatherwick helped himself. His eye fell on Violet.

Violet was a friendly, warm-hearted little thing. She saw that Mr. Blatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters which had contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up at Mr. Blatherwick.

Mr. Blatherwick’s dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The major portion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions of a school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires. The section of it which still worked in the present was just large enough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almost grateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see how wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffee tray just as James Datchet walked into the room.

James paused. Mr. Blatherwick coughed Violet, absolutely unmoved, supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room.

She left behind her a somewhat massive silence.

Mr. Blatherwick coughed again.

“It looks like rain,” said James, carelessly.

“Ah?” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“Very like rain,” said James.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Blatherwick.

A pause.

“Pity if it rains,” said James.

“True,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

Another pause.

“Er-Datchett,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“Yes,” said James.

“I-er-feel that perhaps-”

James waited attentively.

“Have you sugar?”

“Plenty, thanks,” said James.

“I shall be sorry if it rains,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

Conversation languished.

James laid his cup down.

“I have some writing to do,” he said. “I think I’ll be going upstairs now.”

“Er-just so,” said Mr. Blatherwick, with relief. “Just so. An excellent idea.”

“Er-Datchett,” said Mr. Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.

“Yes?” said James.

A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received on the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain passages indicated in the margin.

“I have-ah-unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“Yes?” said James. He had missed Adolf’s shining morning face.

“Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a malicious-er-fabrication respecting yourself which I need not-ah-particularize.”

James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one’s bosom.

“Why, I’ve been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately. No sense of gratitude, these foreigners,” he said, sadly.

“So I was compelled,” proceeded Mr. Blatherwick, “to-in fact, just so.”

James nodded sympathetically.

“Do you know anything about West Australia?” he asked, changing the subject. “It’s a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there at one time.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“But I’ve given up the idea now,” said James.

Three from Dunsterville

Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a large white statue, labelled “Our City,” the figure of a woman in Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjurer in evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York’s speciality. It changes.

Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she received Eddy Moore’s letter containing the information that he had found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had changed Mary Hill quite remarkably.

Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, young men born there follow in their father’s footsteps, working on the paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring spirit will break away. but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make their fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of the village sages, had prospered.