Not George Washington

Not George Washington An
Autobiographical Novel [with
accents]

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Title: Not George Washington An Autobiographical Novel
Author: P. G. Wodehouse

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GEORGE WASHINGTON ***

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NOT GEORGE WASHINGTON An Autobiographical Novel

by P. G. Wodehouse and Herbert Westbrook
1907

CONTENTS
PART ONE
_Miss Margaret Goodwin's Narrative_
1. James Arrives 2. James Sets Out 3. A Harmless Deception
PART TWO
_James Orlebar Cloyster's Narrative_
1. The Invasion of Bohemia 2. I Evacuate Bohemia 3. The Orb 4.
Julian Eversleigh 5. The Column 6. New Year's Eve 7. I Meet Mr.
Thomas Blake 8. I Meet the Rev. John Hatton 9. Julian Learns My
Secret 10. Tom Blake Again 11. Julian's Idea 12. The First Ghost 13.
The Second Ghost 14. The Third Ghost 15. Eva Eversleigh 16. I Tell
Julian
_Sidney Price's Narrative_
17. A Ghostly Gathering 18. One in the Eye 19. In the Soup 20. Norah
Wins Home

_Julian Eversleigh's Narrative_
21. The Transposition of Sentiment 22. A Chat with James 23. In a
Hansom
Narrative Resumed by James Orlebar Cloyster 24. A Rift in the Clouds
25. Briggs to the Rescue 26. My Triumph

PART ONE
_Miss Margaret Goodwin's Narrative_


CHAPTER 1
JAMES ARRIVES
I am Margaret Goodwin. A week from today I shall be Mrs. James
Orlebar Cloyster.
It is just three years since I first met James. We made each other's
acquaintance at half-past seven on the morning of the 28th of July in
the middle of Fermain Bay, about fifty yards from the shore.
Fermain Bay is in Guernsey. My home had been with my mother for
many years at St. Martin's in that island. There we two lived our
uneventful lives until fate brought one whom, when first I set my eyes
on him, I knew I loved.
Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to write that down. But what does it
matter? It is for no one's reading but my own. James, my _fiancé_, is
not peeping slyly over my shoulder as I write. On the contrary, my door
is locked, and James is, I believe, in the smoking-room of his hotel at
St. Peter's Port.
At that time it had become my habit to begin my day by rising before
breakfast and taking a swim in Fermain Bay, which lies across the road
in front of our cottage. The practice--I have since abandoned it--was

good for the complexion, and generally healthy. I had kept it up,
moreover, because I had somehow cherished an unreasonable but
persistent presentiment that some day Somebody (James, as it turned
out) would cross the pathway of my maiden existence. I told myself
that I must be ready for him. It would never do for him to arrive, and
find no one to meet him.
On the 28th of July I started off as usual. I wore a short tweed skirt,
brown stockings--my ankles were, and are, good--a calico blouse, and a
red tam-o'-shanter. Ponto barked at my heels. In one hand I carried my
blue twill bathing-gown. In the other a miniature alpenstock. The sun
had risen sufficiently to scatter the slight mist of the summer morning,
and a few flecked clouds were edged with a slender frame of red gold.
Leisurely, and with my presentiment strong upon me, I descended the
steep cliffside to the cave on the left of the bay, where, guarded by the
faithful Ponto, I was accustomed to disrobe; and soon afterwards I
came out, my dark hair over my shoulders and blue