Berry Scene Read Online Free PDF Page A

Berry, between his teeth. “The tares were sown, while I slept. Waistcoat, coat and shirt utterly and completely destroyed. Soaked, steeped and saturated with the finest blue-black ink.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The thing was undoubtedly capacious – the stain on the coat must be quite six inches by four. And I never knew it, till I saw myself in a glass. Went to wash my hands, and, as I was turning away, I saw this – this devastation outlined upon my trunk. In shape, it was not unlike the Iberian Peninsular.
    “At first I thought it was a shadow – I couldn’t believe it was true. As in a dream, 1 touched it… And then, in one hideous flash, I saw the pit that had been digged, into which I had paid to jump. Those filthy, black-gutted lepers had sworn that it couldn’t leak. But they never swore it couldn’t break… Screaming with agony, I plucked first one half and then the other out of the sodden pouch which, half an hour before, had been an elegant pocket in a gentleman’s vest.
    “Well, there you are. Adding things up, the, er, souvenir has proved expensive. The pen was twelve shillings, and the suit–’
    “You must have lain on it,” said Daphne.
    “I never lay on it,” screamed Berry. “I never subjected it to any strain, stress, tax, pressure or other kind of violence. The swine had no shadow of excuse. I put it into my pocket, as I was incited to do. It had every comfort and convenience – and every opportunity to do its filthy work. I tell you, it was a snare – a treacherous snare, set by verminous blackguards for honest men. And now what about a restorative? Or would that be out of place?”
    “I’m dreadfully sorry, darling. Besides, I liked that suit. By the way, have you written to Jonah?”
    “I have. I’ve told him to cancel the car and leave the country.”
    “Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne. “We’ve got to have the thing now. Besides, I’m all excited.”
    As Berry passed the sofa, he laid his manuscript in my sister’s lap.
    “Let the blots,” he said, “speak to my emotion. Few could compose such periods: fewer still could cover two pages with a nib which resembled a miniature grappling-iron. Not that your brother is not to dredge his no-nails; but what’s his hoof-pick done?”
    I read the letter over my sister’s shoulder.
     
    Dear Brother,
    Your letter caused me much pain. Indeed, for some hours after its perusal I was afflicted with griping of the guts, a malady which, if we may believe the ancient registers, was prevalent in the seventeenth century. But, then, look at their habits.
    It was, of course, distinctly understood that you were to take no action beyond the spending of certain moneys upon the intoxication of some of your less reputable friends. You were then to worm out of them the secrets of the motor-car trade: I think you called it ‘spilling the beans’ – a coarse and vulgar metaphor, the origin of which I am glad to find obscure. Instead, if I read your letter aright, you have gone so far as to engage or hire a self-propelled vehicle, together with its conductor, for the space of one calendar month.
    As I read those last words again, a host of unanswerable questions, like bulls of Bashan, gape upon me with their mouths. Where is the swine to be put? Don’t say ‘In a coach-house’, for the greys might hear you. I mean, they’re not mad about cars. And what about liability? Supposing some poultry misjudge their distance, or an assertive heifer decides to sit on her horns to spite her base. Oh, and what do we do if one of the tires is punctured? Suck the wound?
    It is within your knowledge that inconsideration is my portion and disregard my cross. It might have been thought that, in these circumstances, a near relative would have hesitated further to offend one whose qualities are so clearly enumerated by the Beatitudes. But of such is my present incarnation. Oh, for the good old days when I was Artaxerxes’ favourite wife! The fun we