The Little NuggetWodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville)
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The Little Nugget
Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville)
Humorous stories; Kidnapping -- Fiction
I blew out the candle, well content with what I had seen. The only
two windows were small, high up, and excellently barred. Even if
the enemy fired through them there were half a dozen spots where
we should be perfectly safe. Best of all, in the event of the door
being carried by assault, we had a second line of defence in a
loft. A ladder against the back wall led to it, by way of a trap-door.
Circumstances had certainly been kind to us in driving us to this
apparently impregnable shelter.
On concluding my inspection, I became aware that the Nugget was
still occupied with his grievances. I think the shots must have
stimulated his nerve centres, for he had abandoned the languid
drawl with which, in happier moments, he was wont to comment on
life's happenings, and was dealing with the situation with a
staccato briskness.
'Of all the darned fool lay-outs I ever struck, this is the limit.
What do those idiots think they're doing, shooting us up that way?
It went within an inch of my head. It might have killed me. Gee,
and I'm all wet. I'm catching cold. It's all through your blamed
foolishness, bringing us out here. Why couldn't we stay in the
house?'
'We could not have kept them out of the house for five minutes,' I
explained. 'We can hold this place.'
'Who wants to hold it? I don't. What does it matter if they do get
me? _I_ don't care. I've a good mind to walk straight out through
that door and let them rope me in. It would serve Dad right. It
would teach him not to send me away from home to any darned school
again. What did he want to do it for? I was all right where I was.
I--'
A loud hammering on the door cut off his eloquence. The
intermission was over, and the second round had begun.
It was pitch dark in the stable now that I had blown out the
candle, and there is something about a combination of noise and
darkness which tries the nerves. If mine had remained steady, I
should have ignored the hammering. From the sound, it appeared to
be made by some wooden instrument--a mallet from the carpenter's
shop I discovered later--and the door could be relied on to hold
its own without my intervention. For a novice to violence,
however, to maintain a state of calm inaction is the most
difficult feat of all. I was irritated and worried by the noise,
and exaggerated its importance. It seemed to me that it must be
stopped at once.
A moment before, I had bruised my shins against an empty packing-case,
which had found its way with other lumber into the stable. I groped
for this, swung it noiselessly into position beneath the window,
and, standing on it, looked out. I found the catch of the window,
and opened it. There was nothing to be seen, but the sound of the
hammering became more distinct; and pushing an arm through the bars,
I emptied my pistol at a venture.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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