Starson and Wordson

…get to the bottom of it all.
  October 25, 2003

“Wordson,” said Starson.  Wordson stared wordlessly at Starson's shiny red bald pate and said nothing.  Starson frowned.  “We've got to get to the bottom of this.”

“The bottom of what?” Wordson asked morosely.  It was well past the time for five o'clock tea but the maid was nowhere in sight.  He riffled the pages of the Sunday paper with no visible or otherwise perceptible purpose and surrendered unconditionally to the throes of foul mood.

“Why, this, of course,” Starson replied and pointed at the book he was holding.  A heavy red clothbound volume, it was open exactly in the middle.  Pages shockingly denuded of any content were exposed to view.  Wordson blanched.

“I picked it up at the Strand this morning,” Starson said, rheumy-eyed and podagric, “but I haven't the slightest idea what happened to it.  It must be spoilt.  I checked for expiration dates on the bottom but it has none, so I thought it was good for good.”

“Perhaps it's good for bad,” Wordson groused liverishly, returning his baleful gaze to the clock.

“Come now, this is a serious matter.  They sold me a defective book!  It was full of delightful little stories, Wordson; I remember looking through them quickly at the shop and laughing like a little child.  And now, this.  To the bottom of it we must intrepidly get, my dear fellow, and do so this very moment.  I shall brook no objections.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Mopson was run over by a horse of her way here,” Wordson mused.  “That would account for her failure to serve my bloody tea.”

“Forget your tea, old chap,” cried Starson, losing his patience and finding his hat.  “Onward, to the bottom we go!”

“But how do you know we ought not rather to go to the top?” inquired Wordson belatedly as his friend plunged them both right down to the bottom of it all.

There was a brief spell of silence.  There was also darkness so absolute that even if there was any light, it was impossible to see.

“Well, Wordson?” a question finally came.

“Well bloody what, Starson?” a reply followed.  The question and the reply played hide-and-seek for a while, as they often do, and then found each other.

“Do you see anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?  Try looking at little to the right.”

“You can't see anything in this bloody darkness,” said Wordson.  “You ought to be able to tell.”

“I'm afraid I forgot my glasses.”

“Starson, you bloody fool.  We've gone too deep.  Even if we saw anything here we couldn't understand it anyway.  Next time, stick to the surface.”

“Can't,” Starson said, dispirited.  “They slickened it.”

“Can we just return to our quarters now?  I'm getting a bloody headache.”

“Right, right,” said Starson and returned them to their room.  Fire merrily crackled on in the fireplace and the clock struck six thirty.  On the coffee table before Wordson's plush leather chair a note lay that previously wasn't there, pinned under an empty silver tray: “Stopped by to serve tea while you were out.  Shall return tomorrow.  Mrs. Mopson.”

“Bloody hell,” Wordson gasped, clutching his chest, and sank into his chair in dispair.

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