Read A Wodehouse Miscellany: Articles & Stories Page 2

  AN UNFINISHED COLLECTION

  A silence had fallen upon the smoking room. The warrior just back fromthe front had enquired after George Vanderpoop, and we, who knew thatGeorge's gentle spirit had, to use a metaphor after his own heart,long since been withdrawn from circulation, were feeling uncomfortableand wondering how to break the news.

  Smithson is our specialist in tact, and we looked to him to bespokesman.

  "George," said Smithson at last, "the late George Vanderpoop----"

  "Late!" exclaimed the warrior; "is he dead?"

  "As a doornail," replied Smithson sadly. "Perhaps you would care tohear the story. It is sad, but interesting. You may recollect that,when you sailed, he was starting his journalistic career. For a youngwriter he had done remarkably well. The _Daily Telephone_ hadprinted two of his contributions to their correspondence column, and abright pen picture of his, describing how Lee's Lozenges for the Liverhad snatched him from almost certain death, had quite a vogue. Lee, Ibelieve, actually commissioned him to do a series on the subject."

  "Well?" said the warrior.

  "Well, he was, as I say, prospering very fairly, when in an unluckymoment he began to make a collection of editorial rejection forms. Hehad always been a somewhat easy prey to scourges of that description.But when he had passed safely through a sharp attack of Philatelismand a rather nasty bout of Autographomania, everyone hoped andbelieved that he had turned the corner. The progress of his lastillness was very rapid. Within a year he wanted but one specimen tomake the complete set. This was the one published from the offices ofthe _Scrutinizer_. All the rest he had obtained with the greatestease. I remember his telling me that a single short story of his,called 'The Vengeance of Vera Dalrymple,' had been instrumental insecuring no less than thirty perfect specimens. Poor George! I waswith him when he made his first attempt on the _Scrutinizer_. Hehad baited his hook with an essay on Evolution. He read me one or twopassages from it. I stopped him at the third paragraph, andcongratulated him in advance, little thinking that it was sympathyrather than congratulations that he needed. When I saw him a weekafterwards he was looking haggard. I questioned him, and by slowdegrees drew out the story. The article on Evolution had been printed.

  "'Never say die, George,' I said. 'Send them "Vera Dalrymple." Nopaper can take that.'

  "He sent it. The _Scrutinizer_, which had been running for nearlya century without publishing a line of fiction, took it and asked formore. It was as if there were an editorial conspiracy against him."

  "Well?" said the man of war.

  "Then," said Smithson, "George pulled himself together. He wrote aparody of 'The Minstrel Boy.' I have seen a good many parodies, butnever such a parody as that. By return of post came a long envelopebearing the crest of the _Scrutinizer_. 'At last,' he said, as hetore it open.

  "'George, old man,' I said, 'your hand.'

  "He looked at me a full minute. Then with a horrible, mirthless laughhe fell to the ground, and expired almost instantly. You will readilyguess what killed him. The poem had been returned, _but without arejection form!_"