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Page 92
Not even the bullets had disordered Baxter's faculties so much as
this monstrous accusation. Explanations 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. Ashe 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 proceed from him, tripping and
stumbling over each other. Lord Emsworth'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. The lights were
switched off. The Efficient Baxter dragged himself away. From the
darkness 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 his
retreat without pausing.
"Stuffin' of 'isself at all hours!" said the voice.
There was a murmur of approval from the unseen throng of
domestics.
CHAPTER IX
As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of
human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding
pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people. One must
assume that the Efficient Baxter had not reached the age when
this comes home to a man, for the fact that he had given genuine
pleasure to some dozens of his fellow-men brought him no balm.
There was no doubt about the pleasure he had given. Once they had
got over their disappointment at finding that he was not a dead
burglar, the house party rejoiced whole-heartedly at the break in
the monotony of life at Blandings Castle. Relations who had not
been on speaking terms for years forgot their quarrels and
strolled about the grounds in perfect harmony, abusing Baxter.
The general verdict was that he was insane.
"Don't tell me that young fellow's all there," said Colonel
Horace Mant; "because I know better. Have you noticed his eye?
Furtive! Shifty! Nasty gleam in it. Besides--dash it!--did you
happen to take a look at the hall last night after he had been
there? It was in ruins, my dear sir--absolute dashed ruins. It
was positively littered with broken china and tables that had
been bowled over. Don't tell me that was just an accidental
collision in the dark.
"My dear sir, the man must have been thrashing about--absolutely
thrashing about, like a dashed salmon on a dashed hook. He must
have had a paroxysm of some kind--some kind of a dashed fit. A
doctor could give you the name for it. It's a well-known form of
insanity. Paranoia--isn't that what they call it? Rush of blood
to the head, followed by a general running amuck.
"I've heard fellows who have been in India talk of it. Natives
get it. Don't know what they're doing, and charge through the
streets taking cracks at people with dashed whacking great
knives. Same with this young man, probably in a modified form at
present. He ought to be in a home. One of these nights, if this
grows on him, he will be massacring Emsworth in his bed."
"My dear Horace!" The Bishop of Godalming's voice was properly
horror-stricken; but there was a certain unctuous relish in it.
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