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The Little Nugget

The Little Nugget

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The Little Nugget
The Little Nugget

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Published by: kinleyd on Aug 18, 2009
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Nugget, by P.G. Wodehouse#8 in our series by P.G. WodehouseCopyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributingthis or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this ProjectGutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit theheader without written permission.Please read the "legal small print," and other information about theeBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included isimportant information about your specific rights and restrictions inhow the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make adonation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts****eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971*******These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****Title: The Little NuggetAuthor: P.G. WodehouseRelease Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6683][Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule][This file was first posted on January 12, 2003][Date last updated: February 27, 2005]Edition: 10Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ASCII*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE NUGGET ***Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Tom Allen, Charles Franksand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE LITTLE NUGGETBy P. G. WodehousePart OneIn which the Little Nugget is introduced to the reader, and plansare made for his future by several interested parties. In which,also, the future Mr Peter Burns is touched upon. The whole concludingwith a momentous telephone-call.THE LITTLE NUGGETIIf the management of the Hotel Guelph, that London landmark, couldhave been present at three o'clock one afternoon in early Januaryin the sitting-room of the suite which they had assigned to MrsElmer Ford, late of New York, they might well have felt a littleaggrieved. Philosophers among them would possibly have meditatedon the limitations of human effort; for they had done their bestfor Mrs Ford. They had housed her well. They had fed her well.They had caused inspired servants to anticipate her every need.Yet here she was, in the midst of all these aids to a contentedmind, exhibiting a restlessness and impatience of her surroundingsthat would have been noticeable in a caged tigress or a prisonerof the Bastille. She paced the room. She sat down, picked up anovel, dropped it, and, rising, resumed her patrol. The clockstriking, she compared it with her watch, which she had consultedtwo minutes before. She opened the locket that hung by a goldchain from her neck, looked at its contents, and sighed. Finally,going quickly into the bedroom, she took from a suit-case a framedoil-painting, and returning with it to the sitting-room, placed iton a chair, and stepped back, gazing at it hungrily. Her largebrown eyes, normally hard and imperious, were strangely softened.Her mouth quivered.'Ogden!' she whispered.The picture which had inspired this exhibition of feeling wouldprobably not have affected the casual spectator to quite the samedegree. He would have seen merely a very faulty and amateurishportrait of a singularly repellent little boy of about eleven, who
stared out from the canvas with an expression half stolid, halfquerulous; a bulgy, overfed little boy; a little boy who lookedexactly what he was, the spoiled child of parents who had far moremoney than was good for them.As Mrs Ford gazed at the picture, and the picture stared back ather, the telephone bell rang. She ran to it eagerly. It was theoffice of the hotel, announcing a caller.'Yes? Yes? Who?' Her voice fell, as if the name was not the oneshe had expected. 'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes, ask Lord Mountry tocome to me here, please.'She returned to the portrait. The look of impatience, which hadleft her face as the bell sounded, was back now. She suppressed itwith an effort as her visitor entered.Lord Mountry was a blond, pink-faced, fair-moustached young man ofabout twenty-eight--a thick-set, solemn young man. He winced as hecaught sight of the picture, which fixed him with a stony eyeimmediately on his entry, and quickly looked away.'I say, it's all right, Mrs Ford.' He was of the type which wastesno time on preliminary greetings. 'I've got him.''Got him!'Mrs Ford's voice was startled.'Stanborough, you know.''Oh! I--I was thinking of something else. Won't you sit down?'Lord Mountry sat down.'The artist, you know. You remember you said at lunch the otherday you wanted your little boy's portrait painted, as you only hadone of him, aged eleven--''This is Ogden, Lord Mountry. I painted this myself.'His lordship, who had selected a chair that enabled him to presenta shoulder to the painting, and was wearing a slightly dogged looksuggestive of one who 'turns no more his head, because he knows afrightful fiend doth close behind him tread', forced himselfround, and met his gaze with as much nonchalance as he couldsummon up.'Er, yes,' he said.He paused.'Fine manly little fellow--what?' he continued.'Yes, isn't he?'His lordship stealthily resumed his former position.

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