present
constituted few things have more far-reaching consequences
than the accident of birth. Lord Emsworth had probably suspected
this. He was now to receive direct proof. If he had been
born a horse instead of the heir to an earldom, that lotion would
have been just right for him. It was for horses, though the Rev.
Rupert Bingham had omitted to note the fact, that Blake had
planned his balsam; and anyone enjoying even a superficial
acquaintance with horses and earls knows that an important
difference between them is that the latter have the more sensitive
skins. Waking at a quarter to two from dreams of being
burned at the stake by Red Indians, Lord Emsworth found
himself suffering acute pain in the right leg.
He was a little surprised. He had not supposed that that fall
from the ladder had injured him so badly. However, being a
good amateur doctor, he bore up bravely and took immediate
steps to cope with the trouble. Having shaken the bottle till it
foamed at the mouth, he rubbed in some more lotion. It
occurred to him that the previous application might have been
too sketchy, so this time he did it thoroughly. He rubbed and
kneaded for some twenty minutes. Then he tried to go to sleep.
Nature has made some men quicker thinkers than others.
Lord Emsworth's was one of those leisurely brains. It was not till
nearly four o'clock that the truth came home to him. When it
did, he was just on the point of applying a fifth coating of the
balsam to his leg. He stopped abruptly, replaced the cork, and,
jumping out of bed, hobbled to the cold-water tap and put as
much of himself under it as he could manage.
The relief was perceptible, but transitory. At five he was out
again, and once more at half-past. At a quarter to six, succeeding
in falling asleep, he enjoyed a slumber, somewhat disturbed by
the intermittent biting of sharks, which lasted till a few minutes
past eight. Then he woke as if an alarm clock had rung, and
realized that further sleep was out of the question.
He rose from his bed and peered out of the window. It was a
beautiful morning. There had been rain in the night and a world
that looked as if it had just come back from the cleaner's sparkled
under a beaming sun. Cedars cast long shadows over the smooth
green lawns. Rooks cawed soothingly: thrushes bubbled in their
liquid and musical way: and the air was full of a summer humming.
Among those present of the insect world, Lord Emsworth
noticed several prominent gnats.
Beyond the terrace, glittering through the trees, gleamed the
waters of the lake. They seemed to call to him like a bugle. Although he had
neglected the practice of late, there was nothing Lord Emsworth enjoyed more
than a before-breakfast dip: and to-day anything in the nature of water had
a particularly powerful appeal for him. The pain in his ankle had subsided
by now to a dull throbbing, and it seemed to him that a swim might remove
it altogether. Putting on a dressing-gown and slippers, he took his bathing-suit
from its drawer and went downstairs.
The beauties of a really fine English summer day are so
numerous that it is excusable in a man if he fails immediately
to notice them all. Only when the sharp agony of the first plunge
had passed and he was floating out in mid-water did Lord
Emsworth realize that in some extraordinary way he had overlooked
what was beyond dispute the best thing that this perfect
morning had to offer him. Gazing from his bedroom window, he
had observed the sun, the shadows, the birds, the trees, and the
insects, but he had omitted to appreciate the fact that nowhere in
this magic world that stretched before him was there a trace of
his young guest, Popjoy. For the first time in two weeks he
appeared to be utterly alone and free from him.
Floating on his back and gazing up into the turquoise sky,
Lord Emsworth thrilled at the thought. He kicked sportively in
a spasm of pure happiness. But this, he felt, was not enough. It
failed to express his full
constituted few things have more far-reaching consequences
than the accident of birth. Lord Emsworth had probably suspected
this. He was now to receive direct proof. If he had been
born a horse instead of the heir to an earldom, that lotion would
have been just right for him. It was for horses, though the Rev.
Rupert Bingham had omitted to note the fact, that Blake had
planned his balsam; and anyone enjoying even a superficial
acquaintance with horses and earls knows that an important
difference between them is that the latter have the more sensitive
skins. Waking at a quarter to two from dreams of being
burned at the stake by Red Indians, Lord Emsworth found
himself suffering acute pain in the right leg.
He was a little surprised. He had not supposed that that fall
from the ladder had injured him so badly. However, being a
good amateur doctor, he bore up bravely and took immediate
steps to cope with the trouble. Having shaken the bottle till it
foamed at the mouth, he rubbed in some more lotion. It
occurred to him that the previous application might have been
too sketchy, so this time he did it thoroughly. He rubbed and
kneaded for some twenty minutes. Then he tried to go to sleep.
Nature has made some men quicker thinkers than others.
Lord Emsworth's was one of those leisurely brains. It was not till
nearly four o'clock that the truth came home to him. When it
did, he was just on the point of applying a fifth coating of the
balsam to his leg. He stopped abruptly, replaced the cork, and,
jumping out of bed, hobbled to the cold-water tap and put as
much of himself under it as he could manage.
The relief was perceptible, but transitory. At five he was out
again, and once more at half-past. At a quarter to six, succeeding
in falling asleep, he enjoyed a slumber, somewhat disturbed by
the intermittent biting of sharks, which lasted till a few minutes
past eight. Then he woke as if an alarm clock had rung, and
realized that further sleep was out of the question.
He rose from his bed and peered out of the window. It was a
beautiful morning. There had been rain in the night and a world
that looked as if it had just come back from the cleaner's sparkled
under a beaming sun. Cedars cast long shadows over the smooth
green lawns. Rooks cawed soothingly: thrushes bubbled in their
liquid and musical way: and the air was full of a summer humming.
Among those present of the insect world, Lord Emsworth
noticed several prominent gnats.
Beyond the terrace, glittering through the trees, gleamed the
waters of the lake. They seemed to call to him like a bugle. Although he had
neglected the practice of late, there was nothing Lord Emsworth enjoyed more
than a before-breakfast dip: and to-day anything in the nature of water had
a particularly powerful appeal for him. The pain in his ankle had subsided
by now to a dull throbbing, and it seemed to him that a swim might remove
it altogether. Putting on a dressing-gown and slippers, he took his bathing-suit
from its drawer and went downstairs.
The beauties of a really fine English summer day are so
numerous that it is excusable in a man if he fails immediately
to notice them all. Only when the sharp agony of the first plunge
had passed and he was floating out in mid-water did Lord
Emsworth realize that in some extraordinary way he had overlooked
what was beyond dispute the best thing that this perfect
morning had to offer him. Gazing from his bedroom window, he
had observed the sun, the shadows, the birds, the trees, and the
insects, but he had omitted to appreciate the fact that nowhere in
this magic world that stretched before him was there a trace of
his young guest, Popjoy. For the first time in two weeks he
appeared to be utterly alone and free from him.
Floating on his back and gazing up into the turquoise sky,
Lord Emsworth thrilled at the thought. He kicked sportively in
a spasm of pure happiness. But this, he felt, was not enough. It
failed to express his full
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