Short Fiction P. G. Wodehouse (good books to read in english .txt) 📖

misread the storm-signals. Her employer’s mood was still as it had been earlier in the day. Dinner passed in almost complete silence. Mrs. Rastall-Retford sat brooding dumbly. Her eye was cold and menacing, and Peter, working his way through his vegetables, shuddered for Eve. He had understood her allusion to bridge, having been privileged several times during his stay to see his hostess play that game, and he hoped that there would be no bridge tonight.

And this was unselfish of him, for bridge meant sandwiches. Punctually at nine o’clock on bridge nights the butler would deposit on a side-table a plate of chicken sandwiches and (in deference to Peter’s vegetarian views) a smaller plate of cheese sandwiches. At the close of play Mrs. Rastall-Retford would take one sandwich from each plate, drink a thimbleful of weak whisky and water, and retire.

Peter could always do with a sandwich or two these days. But he was prepared to abandon them joyfully if his hostess would waive bridge for this particular evening.

It was not to be. In the drawing-room Mrs. Rastall-Retford came out of her trance and called imperiously for the cards. Peter, when he saw his hand after the first deal, had a presentiment that if all his hands were to be as good as this, the evening was going to be a trying one. On the other occasions when they had played he had found it an extremely difficult task, even with moderate cards, to bring it about that his hostess should always win the odd rubber, for he was an excellent player, and, like most good players, had an artistic conscience which made it painful to him to play a deliberately bad game, even from the best motives. If all his hands were going to be as strong as this first one he saw that there was disaster ahead. He could not help winning.

Mrs. Rastall-Retford, who had dealt the first hand, made a most improper diamond declaration. Her son unfilially doubled, and, Eve having chicane⁠—a tragedy which her partner evidently seemed to consider could have been avoided by the exercise of ordinary common sense⁠—Peter and his partner, despite Peter’s best efforts, won the game handsomely.

The son of the house dealt the next hand. Eve sorted her cards listlessly. She was feeling curiously tired. Her brain seemed dulled.

This hand, as the first had done, went all in favour of the two men. Mr. Rastall-Retford won five tricks in succession, and, judging from the glitter in his mild eye, was evidently going to win as many more as he possibly could. Mrs. Rastall-Retford glowered silently. There was electricity in the air.

The son of the house led a club. Eve played a card mechanically.

“Have you no clubs, Miss Hendrie?”

Eve started, and looked at her hand.

“No,” she said.

Mrs. Rastall-Retford grunted suspiciously.

Not long ago, in Westport, Connecticut, U.S.A., a young man named Harold Sperry, a telephone worker, was boring a hole in the wall of a house with a view to passing a wire through it. He whistled joyously as he worked. He did not know that he had selected for purposes of perforation the exact spot where there lay, nestling in the brickwork, a large leaden water-pipe. The first intimation he had of that fact was when a jet of water suddenly knocked him fifteen feet into a rosebush.

As Harold felt then, so did Eve now, when, examining her hand once more to make certain that she had no clubs, she discovered the ace of that ilk peeping coyly out from behind the seven of spades.

Her face turned quite white. It is never pleasant to revoke at bridge, but to Eve just then it seemed a disaster beyond words. She looked across at her partner. Her imagination pictured the scene there would be ere long, unless⁠—

It happens every now and then that the human brain shows in a crisis an unwonted flash of speed. Eve’s did at this juncture. To her in her trouble there came a sudden idea.

She looked round the table. Mr. Rastall-Retford, having taken the last trick, had gathered it up in the introspective manner of one planning big coups, and was brooding tensely, with knit brows. His mother was frowning over her cards. She was unobserved.

She seized the opportunity. She rose from her seat, moved quickly to the side-table, and, turning her back, slipped the fatal card dexterously into the interior of a cheese sandwich.

Mrs. Rastall-Retford, absorbed, did not notice for an instant. Then she gave tongue.

“What are you doing, Miss Hendrie?”

Eve was breathing quickly.

“I⁠—I thought that Mr. Rayner might like a sandwich.”

She was at his elbow with the plate. It trembled in her hand.

“A sandwich! Kindly do not be so officious, Miss Hendrie. The idea⁠—in the middle of a hand⁠—” Her voice died away in a resentful mumble.

Peter started. He had been allowing his thoughts to wander. He looked from the sandwich to Eve and then at the sandwich again. He was puzzled. This had the aspect of being an olive-branch⁠—could it be? Could she be meaning⁠—? Or was it a subtle insult? Who could say? At any rate it was a sandwich, and he seized it, without prejudice.

“I hope at least you have had the sense to remember that Mr. Rayner is a vegetarian, Miss Hendrie,” said Mrs. Rastall-Retford. “That is not a chicken sandwich?”

“No,” said Eve; “it is not a chicken sandwich.”

Peter beamed gratefully. He raised the olive-branch, and bit into it with the energy of a starving man. And as he did so he caught Eve’s eye.

“Miss Hendrie!” cried Mrs. Rastall-Retford.

Eve started violently.

“Miss Hendrie, will you be good enough to play? The king of clubs to beat. I can’t think what’s the matter with you tonight.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Eve, and put down the nine of spades.

Mrs. Rastall-Retford glared.

“This is absurd,” she cried. “You must have the ace of clubs. If you have not got it, who has? Look through your hand again. Is it there?”

“No.”

“Then where can it be?”

“Where can it be?” echoed Peter, taking another bite.

“Why⁠—why,” said Eve, crimson, “I⁠—I⁠—have only five cards. I ought to have