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Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville), 1881-1975

"Death at the Excelsior And Other Stories"

What was that stuff I've been drinking? Ring for
another of the same, there's a good fellow. In fact, I think you had
better keep your finger permanently on the bell. I shall want all
they've got."
* * * * *
The spectacle of a fellow human being up to his neck in the consomme is
painful, of course, but there's certainly what the advertisements at
the top of magazine stories call a "tense human interest" about it, and
I'm bound to say that I saw as much as possible of poor old Archie from
now on. His sad case fascinated me. It was rather thrilling to see him
wrestling with New Zealand mutton-hash and draught beer down at his
Chelsea flat, with all the suppressed anguish of a man who has let
himself get accustomed to delicate food and vintage wines, and think
that a word from him could send him whizzing back to the old life again
whenever he wished. But at what a cost, as they say in the novels. That
was the catch. He might hate this new order of things, but his lips
were sealed.
I personally came in for a good deal of quiet esteem for the way in
which I stuck to him in his adversity. I don't think Eunice had thought
much of me before, but now she seemed to feel that I had formed a
corner in golden hearts.


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