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'sattitude towards the knocking in the room above. In the beginning ithad been merely a vague discomfort. Absorbed in the composition of herwaltz, she had heard it almost subconsciously. The second stage set inwhen it became a physical pain like red-hot pincers wrenching her mindfrom her music. Finally, with a thrill in indignation, she knew it forwhat it was—an insult. The unseen brute disliked her playing, and wasintimating his views with a boot-heel.

Defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal, she struck—almostslapped—the keys once more.

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

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

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

Annette went in. The room was a typical Chelsea studio, scantilyfurnished and lacking a carpet. In the centre was an easel, behindwhich were visible a pair of trousered legs. A cloud of grey smoke wascurling 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 cardon the table.'

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

At this the Brute emerged from his fortifications and, removing hispipe 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 hadthis black-hearted knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, inaddition, a pleasing exterior. He was slightly dishevelled at themoment, and hi

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