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Page 83
"What do people do with themselves in a place like this? When
they want amusement, I mean. I suppose it's different if you've
been brought up to it. Like being born color-blind or something.
You don't notice. It's the visitor who suffers. They've no
enterprise in this sort of place. There's a bit of land just
outside here that would make a sweet steeplechase course; natural
barriers; everything. It hasn't occurred to 'em to do anything
with it. It makes you despair of your species--that sort of
thing. Now if I--"
Baxter dozed. With his fork still impaling a piece of cold beef,
he dropped into that half-awake, half-asleep state which is
Nature's daytime substitute for the true slumber of the night.
The fat man, either not noticing or not caring, talked on. His
voice was a steady drone, lulling Baxter to rest.
Suddenly there was a break. Baxter sat up, blinking. He had a
curious impression that his companion had said "Hello, Freddie!"
and that the door had just opened and closed.
"Eh?" he said.
"Yes?" said the fat man.
"What did you say?"
"I was speaking of--"
"I thought you said, 'Hello, Freddie!'"
His companion eyed him indulgently.
"I thought you were dropping off when I looked at you. You've
been dreaming. What should I say, 'Hello, Freddie!' for?"
The conundrum was unanswerable. Baxter did not attempt to answer
it. But there remained at the back of his mind a quaint idea that
he had caught sight, as he woke, of the Honorable Frederick
Threepwood, his face warningly contorted, vanishing through the
doorway. Yet what could the Honorable Freddie be doing at the
Emsworth Arms?
A solution of the difficulty occurred to him: he had dreamed he
had seen Freddie and that had suggested the words which, reason
pointed out, his companion could hardly have spoken. Even if the
Honorable Freddie should enter the room, this fat man, who was
apparently a drummer of some kind, would certainly not know who
he was, nor would he address him so familiarly.
Yes, that must be the explanation. After all, the quaintest
things happened in dreams. Last night, when he had fallen asleep
in his chair, he had dreamed that he was sitting in a glass case
in the museum, making faces at Lord Emsworth, Mr. Peters, and
Beach, the butler, who were trying to steal him, under the
impression that he was a scarab of the reign of Cheops of the
Fourth Dynasty--a thing he would never have done when awake. Yes;
he must certainly have been dreaming.
In the bedroom into which he had dashed to hide himself, on
discovering that the dining-room was in possession of the
Efficient Baxter, the Honorable Freddie sat on a rickety chair,
scowling. He elaborated a favorite dictum of his:
"You can't take a step anywhere without stumbling over that damn
feller, Baxter!"
He wondered whether Baxter had seen him. He wondered whether
Baxter had recognized him. He wondered whether Baxter had heard
R. Jones say, "Hello, Freddie!"
He wondered, if such should be the case, whether R. Jones'
presence of mind and native resource had been equal to explaining
away the remark.
CHAPTER VIII
"'Put the butter or drippings in a kettle on the range, and when
hot 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.'"
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