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Page 93
"Take my word for it! Though, mind you, I don't say they aren't
well suited. Everyone knows that Emsworth has been, to all
practical intents and purposes, a dashed lunatic for years. What
was it that young fellow Emerson, Freddie's American friend, was
saying, the other day about some acquaintance of his who is not
quite right in the head? Nobody in the house--is that it?
Something to that effect, at any rate. I felt at the time it was
a perfect description of Emsworth."
"My dear Horace! Your father-in-law! The head of the family!"
"A dashed lunatic, my dear sir--head of the family or no head of
the family. A man as absent-minded as he is has no right to call
himself sane. Nobody in the house--I recollect it now--nobody in
the house except gas, and that has not been turned on. That's
Emsworth!"
The Efficient Baxter, who had just left his presence, was feeling
much the same about his noble employer. After a sleepless night
he had begun at an early hour to try and corner Lord Emsworth in
order to explain to him the true inwardness of last night's
happenings. Eventually he had tracked him to the museum, where he
found him happily engaged in painting a cabinet of birds' eggs.
He was seated on a small stool, a large pot of red paint on the
floor beside him, dabbing at the cabinet with a dripping brush.
He was absorbed and made no attempt whatever to follow his
secretary's remarks.
For ten minutes Baxter gave a vivid picture of his vigil and the
manner in which it had been interrupted.
"Just so; just so, my dear fellow," said the earl when he had
finished. "I quite understand. All I say is, if you do require
additional food in the night let one of the servants bring it to
your room before bedtime; then there will be no danger of these
disturbances. There is no possible objection to your eating a
hundred meals a day, my good Baxter, provided you do not rouse
the whole house over them. Some of us like to sleep during the
night."
"But, Lord Emsworth! I have just explained--It was not--I was
not--"
"Never mind, my dear fellow; never mind. Why make such an
important thing of it? Many people like a light snack before
actually retiring. Doctors, I believe, sometimes recommend it.
Tell me, Baxter, how do you think the museum looks now? A little
brighter? Better for the dash of color? I think so. Museums are
generally such gloomy places."
"Lord Emsworth, may I explain once again?"
The earl looked annoyed.
"My dear Baxter, I have told you that there is nothing to
explain. You are getting a little tedious. What a deep, rich red
this is, and how clean new paint smells! Do you know, Baxter, I
have been longing to mess about with paint ever since I was a
boy! I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick.
. . . That would be before your time, of course. By the way, if
you see Freddie, will you tell him I want to speak to him? He
probably is in the smoking-room. Send him to me here."
It was an overwrought Baxter who delivered the message to the
Honorable Freddie, who, as predicted, was in the smoking-room,
lounging in a deep armchair.
There are times when life presses hard on a man, and it pressed
hard on Baxter now. Fate had played him a sorry trick. It had put
him in a position where he had to choose between two courses,
each as disagreeable as the other. He must either face a possible
second fiasco like that of last night, or else he must abandon
his post and cease to mount guard over his threatened treasure.
His imagination quailed at the thought of a repetition of last
night's horrors. He had been badly shaken by his collision with
the table and even more so by the events that had followed it.
Those revolver shots still rang in his ears.
It was probably the memory of those shots that turned the scale.
It was unlikely he would again become entangled with a man
bearing a tongue and the other things--he had given up in despair
the attempt to unravel the mystery of the tongue; it completely
baffled him--but it was by no means unlikely that if he spent
another night in the gallery looking on the hall he might not
again become a target for Lord Emsworth's irresponsible firearm.
Nothing, in fact, was more likely; for in the disturbed state of
the public mind the slightest sound after nightfall would be
sufficient cause for a fusillade.
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