By P. G. Wodehouse
Mr Meggs’s mind was made up. He was going to commitsuicide.
There had been moments， in the interval which had elapsedbetween the first inception of the idea and his present state offixed determination， when he had wavered. In these momentshe had debated， with Hamlet， the question whether it wasnobler in the mind to suffer， or to take arms against a sea oftroubles and by opposing end them. But all that was over now.
He was resolved.
Mr Meggs’s point， the main plank， as it were， in his suicidalplatform， was that with him it was beside the question whetheror not it was nobler to suffer in the mind. The mind hardlyentered into it at all. What he had to decide was whether itwas worth while putting up any longer with the perfectlyinfernal pain in his stomach. For Mr Meggs was a martyrto indigestion. As he was also devoted to the pleasures ofthe table， life had become for him one long battle， in which，whatever happened， he always got the worst of it.
He was sick of it. He looked back down the vista of theyears， and found therein no hope for the future. One afterthe other all the patent medicines in creation had failed him.
Smith’s Supreme Digestive Pellets—he had given them a morethan fair trial. Blenkinsop’s Liquid Life-Giver—he had drunkenough of it to float a ship. Perkins’s Premier Pain-Preventer，strongly recommended by the sword-swallowing lady atBarnum and Bailey’s—he had wallowed in it. And so on downthe list. His interior organism had simply sneered at the lot ofthem.
“Death， where is thy sting？” thought Mr Meggs， andforthwith began to make his preparations.
Those who have studied the matter say that the tendencyto commit suicide is greatest among those who have passedtheir fifty-fifth year， and that the rate is twice as great forunoccupied males as for occupied males. Unhappy Mr Meggs，accordingly， got it， so to speak， with both barrels. He was fiftysix，and he was perhaps the most unoccupied adult to be foundin the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. He toilednot， neither did he spin. Twenty years before， an unexpectedlegacy had placed him in a position to indulge a natural tastefor idleness to the utmost. He was at that time， as regards hisprofessional life， a clerk in a rather obscure shipping firm. Outof office hours he had a mild fondness for letters， which tookthe form of meaning to read right through the hundred bestbooks one day， but actually contenting himself with the dailypaper and an occasional magazine.
Such was Mr Meggs at thirty-six. The necessity for workingfor a living and a salary too small to permit of self-indulgenceamong the more expensive and deleterious dishes on the billof fare had up to that time kept his digestion within reasonablebounds. Sometimes he had twinges； more often he had none.
Then came the legacy， and with it Mr Meggs let himselfgo. He left London and retired to his native village， where，with a French cook and a series of secretaries to whom hedictated at long intervals occasional paragraphs of a bookon British Butterflies on which he imagined himself to be atwork， he passed the next twenty years. He could afford todo himself well， and he did himself extremely well. Nobodyurged him to take exercise， so he took no exercise. Nobodywarned him of the perils of lobster and welsh rabbits to a manof sedentary habits， for it was nobody’s business to warn him.
On the contrary， people rather encouraged the lobster side ofhis character， for he was a hospitable soul and liked to havehis friends dine with him. The result was that Nature， as isher wont， laid for him， and got him. It seemed to Mr Meggsthat he woke one morning to find himself a chronic dyspeptic.
That was one of the hardships of his position， to his mind.
The thing seemed to hit him suddenly out of a blue sky. Onemoment， all appeared to be peace and joy； the next， a livelyand irritable wild-cat with red-hot claws seemed somehow tohave introduced itself into his interior.
So Mr Meggs decided to end it.
In this crisis of his life the old methodical habits of his youthreturned to him. A man cannot be a clerk in even an obscurefirm of shippers for a great length of time without acquiringsystem， and Mr Meggs made his preparations calmly and witha forethought worthy of a better cause.
And so we find him， one glorious June morning， seated athis desk， ready for the end.
Outside， the sun beat down upon the orderly streets of thevillage. Dogs dozed in the warm dust. Men who had to workwent about their toil moistly， their minds far away in shadypublic-houses.
But Mr Meggs， in his study， was cool both in mind and body.
Before him， on the desk， lay six little slips of paper. Theywere bank-notes， and they represented， with the exception ofa few pounds， his entire worldly wealth. Beside them weresix letters， six envelopes， and six postage stamps. Mr Meggssurveyed them calmly.
He would not have admitted it， but he had had a lot of funwriting those letters. The deliberation as to who should behis heirs had occupied him pleasantly for several days， and，indeed， had taken his mind off his internal pains at times sothoroughly that he had frequently surprised himself in analmost cheerful mood. Yes， he would have denied it， but ithad been great sport sitting in his arm-chair， thinking whomhe should pick out from England’s teeming millions to makehappy with his money. All sorts of schemes had passed throughhis mind. He had a sense of power which the mere possessionof the money had never given him. He began to understandwhy millionaires make freak wills. At one time he had toyedwith the idea of selecting someone at random from the LondonDirectory and bestowing on him all he had to bequeath. Hehad only abandoned the scheme when it occurred to him thathe himself would not be in a position to witness the recipient’sstunned delight. And what was the good of starting a thing likethat， if you were not to be in at the finish？