



Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team






THE MAN UPSTAIRS

AND OTHER STORIES

by P. G. Wodehouse





CONTENTS


THE MAN UPSTAIRS

SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT

DEEP WATERS

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL

ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL

THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS

RUTH IN EXILE

ARCHIBALD'S BENEFIT

THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA

THE GOOD ANGEL

POTS O' MONEY

OUT OF SCHOOL

THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE

THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE

AHEAD OF SCHEDULE

SIR AGRAVAINE

THE GOAL-KEEPER AND THE PLUTOCRAT

IN ALCALA




THE MAN UPSTAIRS


There were three distinct stages in the evolution of Annette Brougham's
attitude towards the knocking in the room above. In the beginning it
had been merely a vague discomfort. Absorbed in the composition of her
waltz, she had heard it almost subconsciously. The second stage set in
when it became a physical pain like red-hot pincers wrenching her mind
from her music. Finally, with a thrill in indignation, she knew it for
what it was--an insult. The unseen brute disliked her playing, and was
intimating his views with a boot-heel.

Defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal, she struck--almost
slapped--the keys once more.

'Bang!' from the room above. 'Bang! Bang!'

Annette rose. Her face was pink, her chin tilted. Her eyes sparkled
with the light of battle. She left the room and started to mount the
stairs. No spectator, however just, could have helped feeling a pang of
pity for the wretched man who stood unconscious of imminent doom,
possibly even triumphant, behind the door at which she was on the point
of tapping.

'Come in!' cried the voice, rather a pleasant voice; but what is a
pleasant voice if the soul be vile?

Annette went in. The room was a typical Chelsea studio, scantily
furnished and lacking a carpet. In the centre was an easel, behind
which were visible a pair of trousered legs. A cloud of grey smoke was
curling up over the top of the easel.

'I beg your pardon,' began Annette.

'I don't want any models at present,' said the Brute. 'Leave your card
on the table.'

'I am not a model,' said Annette, coldly. 'I merely came--'

At this the Brute emerged from his fortifications and, removing his
pipe from his mouth, jerked his chair out into the open.

'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'Won't you sit down?'

How reckless is Nature in the distribution of her gifts! Not only had
this black-hearted knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, in
addition, a pleasing exterior. He was slightly dishevelled at the
moment, and his hair stood up in a disordered mop; but in spite of
these drawbacks, he was quite passably good-looking. Annette admitted
this. Though wrathful, she was fair.

'I thought it was another model,' he explained. 'They've been coming in
at the rate of ten an hour ever since I settled here. I didn't object
at first, but after about the eightieth child of sunny Italy had shown
up it began to get on my nerves.'

Annette waited coldly till he had finished.

'I am sorry,' she said, in a this-is-where-you-get-yours voice, 'if my
playing disturbed you.'

One would have thought nobody but an Eskimo wearing his furs and winter
under-clothing could have withstood the iciness of her manner; but the
Brute did not freeze.

'I am sorry,' repeated Annette, well below zero, 'if my playing
disturbed you. I live in the room below, and I heard you knocking.'

'No, no,' protested the young man, affably; 'I like it. Really I do.'

'Then why knock on the floor?' said Annette, turning to go. 'It is so
bad for my ceiling,' she said over shoulder. 'I thought you would not
mind my mentioning it. Good afternoon.'

'No; but one moment. Don't go.'

She stopped. He was surveying her with a friendly smile. She noticed
most reluctantly that he had a nice smile. His composure began to
enrage her more and more. Long ere this he should have been writhing at
her feet in the