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The Girl on the Boat - Penn State University

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and claimed that England had seen finer Julys. Mr.<br />

Bennett, who had lived his life in a country of warmth<br />

and sunshine, <strong>the</strong> thing affected in much <strong>the</strong> same way<br />

as <strong>the</strong> early days of <strong>the</strong> Flood must have affected Noah.<br />

A first startled resentment had given place to a despair<br />

too militant to be called resignati<strong>on</strong>. And with <strong>the</strong> despair<br />

had come a str<strong>on</strong>g distaste for his fellow human<br />

beings, notably and in particular his old friend Mr.<br />

Mortimer, who at this moment broke impatiently in<br />

<strong>on</strong> his meditati<strong>on</strong>s.<br />

“Come al<strong>on</strong>g, Bennett. It’s your deal. It’s no good<br />

looking at <strong>the</strong> rain. Looking at it w<strong>on</strong>’t stop it.”<br />

Mr. Mortimer’s nerves also had become a little frayed<br />

by <strong>the</strong> wea<strong>the</strong>r.<br />

Mr. Bennett returned heavily to <strong>the</strong> table, where, with<br />

Mr. Mortimer as partner he was playing <strong>on</strong>e more interminable<br />

rubber of bridge against Bream and Billie.<br />

He was sick of bridge, but <strong>the</strong>re was nothing else to do.<br />

Mr. Bennett sat down with a grunt, and started to<br />

deal. Half-way through <strong>the</strong> operati<strong>on</strong> <strong>the</strong> sound of<br />

ra<strong>the</strong>r stertorous breathing began to proceed from be-<br />

P. G. Wodehouse<br />

105<br />

neath <strong>the</strong> table. Mr. Bennett glanced agitatedly down,<br />

and curled his legs round his chair.<br />

“I have fourteen cards,” said Mr. Mortimer. “That’s<br />

<strong>the</strong> third time you’ve mis-dealt.”<br />

“I d<strong>on</strong>’t care how many cards you’ve got!” said Mr.<br />

Bennett with heat. “That dog of yours is sniffing at my<br />

ankles!”<br />

He looked malignantly at a fine bulldog which now<br />

emerged from its cover and, sitting down, beamed at<br />

<strong>the</strong> company. He was a sweet-tempered dog, handicapped<br />

by <strong>the</strong> outward appearance of a canine plugugly.<br />

Murder seemed <strong>the</strong> mildest of <strong>the</strong> desires that<br />

lay behind that rugged countenance. As a matter of<br />

fact, what he wanted was cake. His name was Smith,<br />

and Mr. Mortimer had bought him just before leaving<br />

L<strong>on</strong>d<strong>on</strong> to serve <strong>the</strong> establishment as a watch-dog.<br />

“He w<strong>on</strong>’t hurt you,” said Mr. Mortimer carelessly.<br />

“You keep saying that!” replied Mr. Bennett pettishly.<br />

“How do you know? He’s a dangerous beast, and if I<br />

had had any noti<strong>on</strong> that you were buying him, I would<br />

have had something to say about it!”

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