was as if a great weight had rolled off me. For about five seconds, the relief was amazing. 'Well, well,' I felt, 'how very droll, to be sure. Positively bizarre.' And then suddenly it all went phut.
It was catching sight of the sleeve of my pyjama jacket that first made me think a bit. It so happens that in the matter of pyjamas I've always been a trifle on the choosy side. I'm not one of those fellows who just charge into a hosier's and grab anything. They have to be silk for me, and a nice lively pattern, too. And this sleeve, it would have been plain to the most vapid and irreflective observer, was constructed of some foul patent health-conserving wool. It was, moreover, a light, bilious green in colour, like my cousin Egremont at breakfast-time.
'Hullo!' I said to myself. 'What, what?'
And then I saw a beastly little hand protruding from the end of the sleeve, and the truth came home to me. I didn't have to hop out of bed and look in the glass. That half-portion of a hand told its own story. It informed me absolutely officially that what I had been kidding myself was a dream had been no dream at all. I really had become this blasted Cooley child, complete to the last button, and what I had once more to ask myself was: What would the harvest be?
The shock was so severe that I just lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling. It was as if I had walked into a right swing while boxing with the village blacksmith.
However, I was not allowed much time for chewing the bitter cud. The kid Cooley's day apparently started early. I don't suppose I had been groaning in spirit more than about ten minutes or so when some kind of a secretary hove alongside with a fountain-pen and about a gross of photographs for me to sign. She was followed by a masseur. Then a facial rubber blew in to tune up my features. And after him a hairdresser, who attended to my curls.
And I was lying there, a bit used up, wondering whether the next item on the programme would be a chiropodist or somebody to put me through a course of rhythmical breathing, when the door opened and the butler manifested himself.
'Good morning, sir’ he said.
'Good morning,' I replied. I was glad to see him. As on the previous day, I found him consoling. The sight of that smooth, round face and sp reading waistcoat had a restora tive effect. 'Come in and take a seat,' I said hospitably, for I had long since become reconciled to the fact of my bedroom being a sort of meeting-place of the nations. 'Or are you just passing through?'
'I have brought your breakfast, sir.'
This had the effect of bucking me up still more, for breakfast in bed is always breakfast in bed, until he went out and reappeared with the tray, and I perceived that all it contained was milk, some stuff that looked like sawdust, and a further consignment of those blighted prunes. A nice bit of news to have to break to a stomach which had been thinking in terms of scrambled eggs and kidneys.
'Hey!' I cried.
'Sir?'
'What's all this?'
'It is your customary breakfast, sir.' 'Hell 1' I said, with feeling. 'Well, all right. Better than nothing, I suppose.'
He regarded me with kindly sympathy as I dug into the sawdust.
'It's hard, sir, isn't it.' 'Pretty foul.'
'They tell me it's to keep your weight down.'
'Oh. I suppose they've got some sort of story.'
'It is what is called a balanced diet. But it is not pleasant to be compelled to abet this, if I may so describe it, Spartan regimen. I know what young gentlemen's appetites are.'
'Me, too.'
'I know just how you must feel, sir. You may be a highly important figure in the world of motion pictures, but you are only a small boy, after all, aren't you?'
'And not likely to get larger on this muck.'
'If I had my way, I'd let you eat what you wanted. You're only young once.'
'Twice?'
'Sir?'
'Nothing.'
'What you would enjoy, I dare say, would be a nice plate of sausages.' 'Please 1'
'They're having them downstairs. Sausages and buckwheat cakes.' 'Would
It was catching sight of the sleeve of my pyjama jacket that first made me think a bit. It so happens that in the matter of pyjamas I've always been a trifle on the choosy side. I'm not one of those fellows who just charge into a hosier's and grab anything. They have to be silk for me, and a nice lively pattern, too. And this sleeve, it would have been plain to the most vapid and irreflective observer, was constructed of some foul patent health-conserving wool. It was, moreover, a light, bilious green in colour, like my cousin Egremont at breakfast-time.
'Hullo!' I said to myself. 'What, what?'
And then I saw a beastly little hand protruding from the end of the sleeve, and the truth came home to me. I didn't have to hop out of bed and look in the glass. That half-portion of a hand told its own story. It informed me absolutely officially that what I had been kidding myself was a dream had been no dream at all. I really had become this blasted Cooley child, complete to the last button, and what I had once more to ask myself was: What would the harvest be?
The shock was so severe that I just lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling. It was as if I had walked into a right swing while boxing with the village blacksmith.
However, I was not allowed much time for chewing the bitter cud. The kid Cooley's day apparently started early. I don't suppose I had been groaning in spirit more than about ten minutes or so when some kind of a secretary hove alongside with a fountain-pen and about a gross of photographs for me to sign. She was followed by a masseur. Then a facial rubber blew in to tune up my features. And after him a hairdresser, who attended to my curls.
And I was lying there, a bit used up, wondering whether the next item on the programme would be a chiropodist or somebody to put me through a course of rhythmical breathing, when the door opened and the butler manifested himself.
'Good morning, sir’ he said.
'Good morning,' I replied. I was glad to see him. As on the previous day, I found him consoling. The sight of that smooth, round face and sp reading waistcoat had a restora tive effect. 'Come in and take a seat,' I said hospitably, for I had long since become reconciled to the fact of my bedroom being a sort of meeting-place of the nations. 'Or are you just passing through?'
'I have brought your breakfast, sir.'
This had the effect of bucking me up still more, for breakfast in bed is always breakfast in bed, until he went out and reappeared with the tray, and I perceived that all it contained was milk, some stuff that looked like sawdust, and a further consignment of those blighted prunes. A nice bit of news to have to break to a stomach which had been thinking in terms of scrambled eggs and kidneys.
'Hey!' I cried.
'Sir?'
'What's all this?'
'It is your customary breakfast, sir.' 'Hell 1' I said, with feeling. 'Well, all right. Better than nothing, I suppose.'
He regarded me with kindly sympathy as I dug into the sawdust.
'It's hard, sir, isn't it.' 'Pretty foul.'
'They tell me it's to keep your weight down.'
'Oh. I suppose they've got some sort of story.'
'It is what is called a balanced diet. But it is not pleasant to be compelled to abet this, if I may so describe it, Spartan regimen. I know what young gentlemen's appetites are.'
'Me, too.'
'I know just how you must feel, sir. You may be a highly important figure in the world of motion pictures, but you are only a small boy, after all, aren't you?'
'And not likely to get larger on this muck.'
'If I had my way, I'd let you eat what you wanted. You're only young once.'
'Twice?'
'Sir?'
'Nothing.'
'What you would enjoy, I dare say, would be a nice plate of sausages.' 'Please 1'
'They're having them downstairs. Sausages and buckwheat cakes.' 'Would
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