RIGHT
HO JEEVES
PART
3
It has
been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views his flesh and blood
with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye, he is nevertheless a man who
delights in giving credit where credit is due. And if you have followed these
memoirs of mine with the proper care, you will be aware that I have frequently
had occasion to emphasise the fact that Aunt Dahlia is all right.
She is the
one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers en secondes noces, as
I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire, and
once induced me to write an article on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing for
that paper she runs—Milady's Boudoir. She is a large, genial soul, with
whom it is a pleasure to hob-nob. In her spiritual make-up there is none of
that subtle gosh-awfulness which renders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt
Agatha the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all. I have the
highest esteem for Aunt Dahlia, and have never wavered in my cordial
appreciation of her humanity, sporting qualities and general good-eggishness.
This being
so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at my bedside at such an
hour. I mean to say, I've stayed at her place many a time and oft, and she
knows my habits. She is well aware that until I have had my cup of tea in the
morning, I do not receive. This crashing in at a moment when she knew that
solitude and repose were of the essence was scarcely, I could not but feel, the
good old form.
Besides,
what business had she being in London at all? That was what I asked myself.
When a conscientious housewife has returned to her home after an absence of
seven weeks, one does not expect her to start racing off again the day after
her arrival. One feels that she ought to be sticking round, ministering to her
husband, conferring with the cook, feeding the cat, combing and brushing the
Pomeranian—in a word, staying put. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I
endeavoured, as far as the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued
together would permit, to give her an austere and censorious look.
She didn't
seem to get it.
"Wake
up, Bertie, you old ass!" she cried, in a voice that hit me between the
eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.
If Aunt
Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a vis-à-vis as if
he were somebody half a mile away whom she had observed riding over hounds. A
throwback, no doubt, to the time when she counted the day lost that was not
spent in chivvying some unfortunate fox over the countryside.
I gave her
another of the austere and censorious, and this time it registered. All the
effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend to personalities.
"Don't
blink at me in that obscene way," she said. "I wonder, Bertie,"
she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed at some
newt that was not up to sample, "if you have the faintest conception how
perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy scene in the movies and
some low form of pond life. I suppose you were out on the tiles last
night?"
"I
attended a social function, yes," I said coldly. "Pongo Twistleton's
birthday party. I couldn't let Pongo down. Noblesse oblige."
"Well,
get up and dress."
I felt I
could not have heard her aright.
"Get
up and dress?"
"Yes."
I turned
on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the
vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat. A deep sip
or two, and I felt—I won't say restored, because a birthday party like Pongo
Twistleton's isn't a thing you get restored after with a mere mouthful of tea,
but sufficiently the old Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful
thing which had come upon me.
And the
more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the scenario.
"What
is this, Aunt Dahlia?" I inquired.
"It
looks to me like tea," was her response. "But you know best. You're
drinking it."
If I
hadn't been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little doubt that I
should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like it.
"Not
the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me to get up
and dress, and all that rot."
"I've
barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce no effect.
And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get up and dress. I've
come to take you back with me. I like your crust, wiring that you would come
next year or whenever it was. You're coming now. I've got a job for you."
"But
I don't want a job."
"What
you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.
There is man's work for you to do at Brinkley Court. Be ready to the last
button in twenty minutes."
"But
I can't possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I'm feeling
awful."
She seemed
to consider.
"Yes,"
she said. "I suppose it's only humane to give you a day or two to recover.
All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at the latest."
"But,
dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job? What sort of a job?"
"I'll
tell you if you'll only stop talking for a minute. It's quite an easy, pleasant
job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of Market Snodsbury Grammar
School?"
"Never."
"It's
a grammar school at Market Snodsbury."
I told her
a little frigidly that I had divined as much.
"Well,
how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp it so
quickly?" she protested. "All right, then. Market Snodsbury Grammar
School is, as you have guessed, the grammar school at Market Snodsbury. I'm one
of the governors."
"You
mean one of the governesses."
"I
don't mean one of the governesses. Listen, ass. There was a board of governors
at Eton, wasn't there? Very well. So there is at Market Snodsbury Grammar
School, and I'm a member of it. And they left the arrangements for the summer
prize-giving to me. This prize-giving takes place on the last—or
thirty-first—day of this month. Have you got that clear?"
I took
another oz. of the life-saving and inclined my head. Even after a Pongo
Twistleton birthday party, I was capable of grasping simple facts like these.
"I
follow you, yes. I see the point you are trying to make, certainly. Market ...
Snodsbury ... Grammar School ... Board of governors ... Prize-giving.... Quite.
But what's it got to do with me?"
"You're
going to give away the prizes."
I goggled.
Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the mere aimless vapouring
of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun without a hat.
"Me?"
"You."
I goggled
again.
"You
don't mean me?"
"I mean
you in person."
I goggled
a third time.
"You're
pulling my leg."
"I am
not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your beastly leg. The
vicar was to have officiated, but when I got home I found a letter from him
saying that he had strained a fetlock and must scratch his nomination. You can
imagine the state I was in. I telephoned all over the place. Nobody would take
it on. And then suddenly I thought of you."
I decided
to check all this rot at the outset. Nobody is more eager to oblige deserving
aunts than Bertram Wooster, but there are limits, and sharply defined limits,
at that.
"So
you think I'm going to strew prizes at this bally Dotheboys Hall of
yours?"
"I
do."
"And
make a speech?"
"Exactly."
I laughed
derisively.
"For
goodness' sake, don't start gargling now. This is serious."
"I
was laughing."
"Oh,
were you? Well, I'm glad to see you taking it in this merry spirit."
"Derisively,"
I explained. "I won't do it. That's final. I simply will not do it."
"You
will do it, young Bertie, or never darken my doors again. And you know what
that means. No more of Anatole's dinners for you."
A strong
shudder shook me. She was alluding to her chef, that superb artist. A
monarch of his profession, unsurpassed—nay, unequalled—at dishing up the raw
material so that it melted in the mouth of the ultimate consumer, Anatole had
always been a magnet that drew me to Brinkley Court with my tongue hanging out.
Many of my happiest moments had been those which I had spent champing this
great man's roasts and ragouts, and the prospect of being barred from digging
into them in the future was a numbing one.
"No,
I say, dash it!"
"I
thought that would rattle you. Greedy young pig."
"Greedy
young pigs have nothing to do with it," I said with a touch of hauteur.
"One is not a greedy young pig because one appreciates the cooking of a
genius."
"Well,
I will say I like it myself," conceded the relative. "But not another
bite of it do you get, if you refuse to do this simple, easy, pleasant job. No,
not so much as another sniff. So put that in your twelve-inch cigarette-holder
and smoke it."
I began to
feel like some wild thing caught in a snare.
"But
why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that."
"I
often have."
"I
mean to say, I'm not the type. You have to have some terrific nib to give away
prizes. I seem to remember, when I was at school, it was generally a prime
minister or somebody."
"Ah,
but that was at Eton. At Market Snodsbury we aren't nearly so choosy. Anybody
in spats impresses us."
"Why
don't you get Uncle Tom?"
"Uncle
Tom!"
"Well,
why not? He's got spats."
"Bertie,"
she said, "I will tell you why not Uncle Tom. You remember me losing all
that money at baccarat at Cannes? Well, very shortly I shall have to sidle up
to Tom and break the news to him. If, right after that, I ask him to put on
lavender gloves and a topper and distribute the prizes at Market Snodsbury
Grammar School, there will be a divorce in the family. He would pin a note to
the pincushion and be off like a rabbit. No, my lad, you're for it, so you may
as well make the best of it."
"But,
Aunt Dahlia, listen to reason. I assure you, you've got hold of the wrong man.
I'm hopeless at a game like that. Ask Jeeves about the time I got lugged in to
address a girls' school. I made the most colossal ass of myself."
"And
I confidently anticipate that you will make an equally colossal ass of yourself
on the thirty-first of this month. That's why I want you. The way I look at it
is that, as the thing is bound to be a frost, anyway, one may as well get a
hearty laugh out of it. I shall enjoy seeing you distribute those prizes,
Bertie. Well, I won't keep you, as, no doubt, you want to do your Swedish
exercises. I shall expect you in a day or two."
And with
these heartless words she beetled off, leaving me a prey to the gloomiest
emotions. What with the natural reaction after Pongo's party and this stunning
blow, it is not too much to say that the soul was seared.
And I was
still writhing in the depths, when the door opened and Jeeves appeared.
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle to see you, sir," he announced.
-5-
I gave him
one of my looks.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "I had scarcely expected this of you. You are aware that I was up
to an advanced hour last night. You know that I have barely had my tea. You
cannot be ignorant of the effect of that hearty voice of Aunt Dahlia's on a man
with a headache. And yet you come bringing me Fink-Nottles. Is this a time for
Fink or any other kind of Nottle?"
"But
did you not give me to understand, sir, that you wished to see Mr. Fink-Nottle
to advise him on his affairs?"
This, I
admit, opened up a new line of thought. In the stress of my emotions, I had
clean forgotten about having taken Gussie's interests in hand. It altered
things. One can't give the raspberry to a client. I mean, you didn't find
Sherlock Holmes refusing to see clients just because he had been out late the
night before at Doctor Watson's birthday party. I could have wished that the
man had selected some more suitable hour for approaching me, but as he appeared
to be a sort of human lark, leaving his watery nest at daybreak, I supposed I
had better give him an audience.
"True,"
I said. "All right. Bung him in."
"Very
good, sir."
"But
before doing so, bring me one of those pick-me-ups of yours."
"Very
good, sir."
And
presently he returned with the vital essence.
I have had
occasion, I fancy, to speak before now of these pick-me-ups of Jeeves's and
their effect on a fellow who is hanging to life by a thread on the morning
after. What they consist of, I couldn't tell you. He says some kind of sauce,
the yolk of a raw egg and a dash of red pepper, but nothing will convince me
that the thing doesn't go much deeper than that. Be that as it may, however,
the results of swallowing one are amazing.
For
perhaps the split part of a second nothing happens. It is as though all Nature
waited breathless. Then, suddenly, it is as if the Last Trump had sounded and
Judgment Day set in with unusual severity.
Bonfires
burst out in all in parts of the frame. The abdomen becomes heavily charged
with molten lava. A great wind seems to blow through the world, and the subject
is aware of something resembling a steam hammer striking the back of the head.
During this phase, the ears ring loudly, the eyeballs rotate and there is a
tingling about the brow.
And then,
just as you are feeling that you ought to ring up your lawyer and see that your
affairs are in order before it is too late, the whole situation seems to
clarify. The wind drops. The ears cease to ring. Birds twitter. Brass bands
start playing. The sun comes up over the horizon with a jerk.
And a
moment later all you are conscious of is a great peace.
As I
drained the glass now, new life seemed to burgeon within me. I remember Jeeves,
who, however much he may go off the rails at times in the matter of dress
clothes and in his advice to those in love, has always had a neat turn of
phrase, once speaking of someone rising on stepping-stones of his dead self to
higher things. It was that way with me now. I felt that the Bertram Wooster who
lay propped up against the pillows had become a better, stronger, finer
Bertram.
"Thank
you, Jeeves," I said.
"Not
at all, sir."
"That
touched the exact spot. I am now able to cope with life's problems."
"I am
gratified to hear it, sir."
"What
madness not to have had one of those before tackling Aunt Dahlia! However, too
late to worry about that now. Tell me of Gussie. How did he make out at the
fancy-dress ball?"
"He
did not arrive at the fancy-dress ball, sir."
I looked
at him a bit austerely.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "I admit that after that pick-me-up of yours I feel better, but
don't try me too high. Don't stand by my sick bed talking absolute rot. We shot
Gussie into a cab and he started forth, headed for wherever this fancy-dress ball
was. He must have arrived."
"No,
sir. As I gather from Mr. Fink-Nottle, he entered the cab convinced in his mind
that the entertainment to which he had been invited was to be held at No. 17,
Suffolk Square, whereas the actual rendezvous was No. 71, Norfolk Terrace.
These aberrations of memory are not uncommon with those who, like Mr.
Fink-Nottle, belong essentially to what one might call the dreamer-type."
"One
might also call it the fatheaded type."
"Yes,
sir."
"Well?"
"On
reaching No. 17, Suffolk Square, Mr. Fink-Nottle endeavoured to produce money
to pay the fare."
"What
stopped him?"
"The
fact that he had no money, sir. He discovered that he had left it, together
with his ticket of invitation, on the mantelpiece of his bedchamber in the
house of his uncle, where he was residing. Bidding the cabman to wait,
accordingly, he rang the door-bell, and when the butler appeared, requested him
to pay the cab, adding that it was all right, as he was one of the guests
invited to the dance. The butler then disclaimed all knowledge of a dance on
the premises."
"And
declined to unbelt?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Upon
which——"
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle directed the cabman to drive him back to his uncle's
residence."
"Well,
why wasn't that the happy ending? All he had to do was go in, collect cash and
ticket, and there he would have been, on velvet."
"I
should have mentioned, sir, that Mr. Fink-Nottle had also left his latchkey on
the mantelpiece of his bedchamber."
"He
could have rung the bell."
"He
did ring the bell, sir, for some fifteen minutes. At the expiration of that
period he recalled that he had given permission to the caretaker—the house was
officially closed and all the staff on holiday—to visit his sailor son at
Portsmouth."
"Golly,
Jeeves!"
"Yes,
sir."
"These
dreamer types do live, don't they?"
"Yes,
sir."
"What
happened then?"
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle appears to have realized at this point that his position as regards
the cabman had become equivocal. The figures on the clock had already reached a
substantial sum, and he was not in a position to meet his obligations."
"He
could have explained."
"You
cannot explain to cabmen, sir. On endeavouring to do so, he found the fellow
sceptical of his bona fides."
"I
should have legged it."
"That
is the policy which appears to have commended itself to Mr. Fink-Nottle. He
darted rapidly away, and the cabman, endeavouring to detain him, snatched at
his overcoat. Mr. Fink-Nottle contrived to extricate himself from the coat, and
it would seem that his appearance in the masquerade costume beneath it came as
something of a shock to the cabman. Mr. Fink-Nottle informs me that he heard a
species of whistling gasp, and, looking round, observed the man crouching
against the railings with his hands over his face. Mr. Fink-Nottle thinks he was
praying. No doubt an uneducated, superstitious fellow, sir. Possibly a
drinker."
"Well,
if he hadn't been one before, I'll bet he started being one shortly afterwards.
I expect he could scarcely wait for the pubs to open."
"Very
possibly, in the circumstances he might have found a restorative agreeable,
sir."
"And
so, in the circumstances, might Gussie too, I should think. What on earth did
he do after that? London late at night—or even in the daytime, for that
matter—is no place for a man in scarlet tights."
"No,
sir."
"He
invites comment."
"Yes,
sir."
"I
can see the poor old bird ducking down side-streets, skulking in alley-ways,
diving into dust-bins."
"I
gathered from Mr. Fink-Nottle's remarks, sir, that something very much on those
lines was what occurred. Eventually, after a trying night, he found his way to
Mr. Sipperley's residence, where he was able to secure lodging and a change of
costume in the morning."
I nestled
against the pillows, the brow a bit drawn. It is all very well to try to do old
school friends a spot of good, but I could not but feel that in espousing the
cause of a lunkhead capable of mucking things up as Gussie had done, I had
taken on a contract almost too big for human consumption. It seemed to me that
what Gussie needed was not so much the advice of a seasoned man of the world as
a padded cell in Colney Hatch and a couple of good keepers to see that he did
not set the place on fire.
Indeed,
for an instant I had half a mind to withdraw from the case and hand it back to
Jeeves. But the pride of the Woosters restrained me. When we Woosters put our
hands to the plough, we do not readily sheathe the sword. Besides, after that
business of the mess-jacket, anything resembling weakness would have been
fatal.
"I
suppose you realize, Jeeves," I said, for though one dislikes to rub it
in, these things have to be pointed out, "that all this was your
fault?"
"Sir?"
"It's
no good saying 'Sir?' You know it was. If you had not insisted on his going to
that dance—a mad project, as I spotted from the first—this would not have
happened."
"Yes,
sir, but I confess I did not anticipate——"
"Always
anticipate everything, Jeeves," I said, a little sternly. "It is the
only way. Even if you had allowed him to wear a Pierrot costume, things would
not have panned out as they did. A Pierrot costume has pockets. However,"
I went on more kindly, "we need not go into that now. If all this has
shown you what comes of going about the place in scarlet tights, that is
something gained. Gussie waits without, you say?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Then
shoot him in, and I will see what I can do for him."
It has
been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views his flesh and blood
with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye, he is nevertheless a man who
delights in giving credit where credit is due. And if you have followed these
memoirs of mine with the proper care, you will be aware that I have frequently
had occasion to emphasise the fact that Aunt Dahlia is all right.
She is the
one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers en secondes noces, as
I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire, and
once induced me to write an article on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing for
that paper she runs—Milady's Boudoir. She is a large, genial soul, with
whom it is a pleasure to hob-nob. In her spiritual make-up there is none of
that subtle gosh-awfulness which renders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt
Agatha the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all. I have the
highest esteem for Aunt Dahlia, and have never wavered in my cordial
appreciation of her humanity, sporting qualities and general good-eggishness.
This being
so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at my bedside at such an
hour. I mean to say, I've stayed at her place many a time and oft, and she
knows my habits. She is well aware that until I have had my cup of tea in the
morning, I do not receive. This crashing in at a moment when she knew that
solitude and repose were of the essence was scarcely, I could not but feel, the
good old form.
Besides,
what business had she being in London at all? That was what I asked myself.
When a conscientious housewife has returned to her home after an absence of
seven weeks, one does not expect her to start racing off again the day after
her arrival. One feels that she ought to be sticking round, ministering to her
husband, conferring with the cook, feeding the cat, combing and brushing the
Pomeranian—in a word, staying put. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I
endeavoured, as far as the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued
together would permit, to give her an austere and censorious look.
She didn't
seem to get it.
"Wake
up, Bertie, you old ass!" she cried, in a voice that hit me between the eyebrows
and went out at the back of my head.
If Aunt
Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a vis-à-vis as if
he were somebody half a mile away whom she had observed riding over hounds. A
throwback, no doubt, to the time when she counted the day lost that was not
spent in chivvying some unfortunate fox over the countryside.
I gave her
another of the austere and censorious, and this time it registered. All the
effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend to personalities.
"Don't
blink at me in that obscene way," she said. "I wonder, Bertie,"
she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed at some
newt that was not up to sample, "if you have the faintest conception how
perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy scene in the movies and
some low form of pond life. I suppose you were out on the tiles last
night?"
"I
attended a social function, yes," I said coldly. "Pongo Twistleton's
birthday party. I couldn't let Pongo down. Noblesse oblige."
"Well,
get up and dress."
I felt I
could not have heard her aright.
"Get
up and dress?"
"Yes."
I turned
on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the
vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat. A deep sip
or two, and I felt—I won't say restored, because a birthday party like Pongo
Twistleton's isn't a thing you get restored after with a mere mouthful of tea,
but sufficiently the old Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful
thing which had come upon me.
And the
more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the scenario.
"What
is this, Aunt Dahlia?" I inquired.
"It
looks to me like tea," was her response. "But you know best. You're
drinking it."
If I
hadn't been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little doubt that I
should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like it.
"Not
the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me to get up
and dress, and all that rot."
"I've
barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce no effect.
And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get up and dress. I've
come to take you back with me. I like your crust, wiring that you would come
next year or whenever it was. You're coming now. I've got a job for you."
"But
I don't want a job."
"What
you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.
There is man's work for you to do at Brinkley Court. Be ready to the last
button in twenty minutes."
"But
I can't possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I'm feeling
awful."
She seemed
to consider.
"Yes,"
she said. "I suppose it's only humane to give you a day or two to recover.
All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at the latest."
"But,
dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job? What sort of a
job?"
"I'll
tell you if you'll only stop talking for a minute. It's quite an easy, pleasant
job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of Market Snodsbury Grammar
School?"
"Never."
"It's
a grammar school at Market Snodsbury."
I told her
a little frigidly that I had divined as much.
"Well,
how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp it so
quickly?" she protested. "All right, then. Market Snodsbury Grammar School
is, as you have guessed, the grammar school at Market Snodsbury. I'm one of the
governors."
"You
mean one of the governesses."
"I
don't mean one of the governesses. Listen, ass. There was a board of governors
at Eton, wasn't there? Very well. So there is at Market Snodsbury Grammar
School, and I'm a member of it. And they left the arrangements for the summer
prize-giving to me. This prize-giving takes place on the last—or
thirty-first—day of this month. Have you got that clear?"
I took
another oz. of the life-saving and inclined my head. Even after a Pongo
Twistleton birthday party, I was capable of grasping simple facts like these.
"I
follow you, yes. I see the point you are trying to make, certainly. Market ...
Snodsbury ... Grammar School ... Board of governors ... Prize-giving.... Quite.
But what's it got to do with me?"
"You're
going to give away the prizes."
I goggled.
Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the mere aimless vapouring
of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun without a hat.
"Me?"
"You."
I goggled
again.
"You
don't mean me?"
"I
mean you in person."
I goggled
a third time.
"You're
pulling my leg."
"I am
not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your beastly leg. The
vicar was to have officiated, but when I got home I found a letter from him
saying that he had strained a fetlock and must scratch his nomination. You can
imagine the state I was in. I telephoned all over the place. Nobody would take it
on. And then suddenly I thought of you."
I decided
to check all this rot at the outset. Nobody is more eager to oblige deserving
aunts than Bertram Wooster, but there are limits, and sharply defined limits,
at that.
"So
you think I'm going to strew prizes at this bally Dotheboys Hall of
yours?"
"I
do."
"And
make a speech?"
"Exactly."
I laughed
derisively.
"For
goodness' sake, don't start gargling now. This is serious."
"I
was laughing."
"Oh,
were you? Well, I'm glad to see you taking it in this merry spirit."
"Derisively,"
I explained. "I won't do it. That's final. I simply will not do it."
"You
will do it, young Bertie, or never darken my doors again. And you know what
that means. No more of Anatole's dinners for you."
A strong
shudder shook me. She was alluding to her chef, that superb artist. A
monarch of his profession, unsurpassed—nay, unequalled—at dishing up the raw
material so that it melted in the mouth of the ultimate consumer, Anatole had
always been a magnet that drew me to Brinkley Court with my tongue hanging out.
Many of my happiest moments had been those which I had spent champing this
great man's roasts and ragouts, and the prospect of being barred from digging
into them in the future was a numbing one.
"No,
I say, dash it!"
"I
thought that would rattle you. Greedy young pig."
"Greedy
young pigs have nothing to do with it," I said with a touch of hauteur.
"One is not a greedy young pig because one appreciates the cooking of a
genius."
"Well,
I will say I like it myself," conceded the relative. "But not another
bite of it do you get, if you refuse to do this simple, easy, pleasant job. No,
not so much as another sniff. So put that in your twelve-inch cigarette-holder
and smoke it."
I began to
feel like some wild thing caught in a snare.
"But
why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that."
"I
often have."
"I
mean to say, I'm not the type. You have to have some terrific nib to give away
prizes. I seem to remember, when I was at school, it was generally a prime minister
or somebody."
"Ah,
but that was at Eton. At Market Snodsbury we aren't nearly so choosy. Anybody
in spats impresses us."
"Why
don't you get Uncle Tom?"
"Uncle
Tom!"
"Well,
why not? He's got spats."
"Bertie,"
she said, "I will tell you why not Uncle Tom. You remember me losing all
that money at baccarat at Cannes? Well, very shortly I shall have to sidle up
to Tom and break the news to him. If, right after that, I ask him to put on
lavender gloves and a topper and distribute the prizes at Market Snodsbury
Grammar School, there will be a divorce in the family. He would pin a note to
the pincushion and be off like a rabbit. No, my lad, you're for it, so you may
as well make the best of it."
"But,
Aunt Dahlia, listen to reason. I assure you, you've got hold of the wrong man.
I'm hopeless at a game like that. Ask Jeeves about the time I got lugged in to
address a girls' school. I made the most colossal ass of myself."
"And
I confidently anticipate that you will make an equally colossal ass of yourself
on the thirty-first of this month. That's why I want you. The way I look at it
is that, as the thing is bound to be a frost, anyway, one may as well get a
hearty laugh out of it. I shall enjoy seeing you distribute those prizes,
Bertie. Well, I won't keep you, as, no doubt, you want to do your Swedish
exercises. I shall expect you in a day or two."
And with
these heartless words she beetled off, leaving me a prey to the gloomiest
emotions. What with the natural reaction after Pongo's party and this stunning
blow, it is not too much to say that the soul was seared.
And I was
still writhing in the depths, when the door opened and Jeeves appeared.
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle to see you, sir," he announced.
-5-
I gave him
one of my looks.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "I had scarcely expected this of you. You are aware that I was up
to an advanced hour last night. You know that I have barely had my tea. You
cannot be ignorant of the effect of that hearty voice of Aunt Dahlia's on a man
with a headache. And yet you come bringing me Fink-Nottles. Is this a time for
Fink or any other kind of Nottle?"
"But
did you not give me to understand, sir, that you wished to see Mr. Fink-Nottle
to advise him on his affairs?"
This, I
admit, opened up a new line of thought. In the stress of my emotions, I had
clean forgotten about having taken Gussie's interests in hand. It altered
things. One can't give the raspberry to a client. I mean, you didn't find
Sherlock Holmes refusing to see clients just because he had been out late the
night before at Doctor Watson's birthday party. I could have wished that the
man had selected some more suitable hour for approaching me, but as he appeared
to be a sort of human lark, leaving his watery nest at daybreak, I supposed I
had better give him an audience.
"True,"
I said. "All right. Bung him in."
"Very
good, sir."
"But
before doing so, bring me one of those pick-me-ups of yours."
"Very
good, sir."
And
presently he returned with the vital essence.
I have had
occasion, I fancy, to speak before now of these pick-me-ups of Jeeves's and
their effect on a fellow who is hanging to life by a thread on the morning
after. What they consist of, I couldn't tell you. He says some kind of sauce,
the yolk of a raw egg and a dash of red pepper, but nothing will convince me
that the thing doesn't go much deeper than that. Be that as it may, however,
the results of swallowing one are amazing.
For
perhaps the split part of a second nothing happens. It is as though all Nature
waited breathless. Then, suddenly, it is as if the Last Trump had sounded and
Judgment Day set in with unusual severity.
Bonfires
burst out in all in parts of the frame. The abdomen becomes heavily charged
with molten lava. A great wind seems to blow through the world, and the subject
is aware of something resembling a steam hammer striking the back of the head.
During this phase, the ears ring loudly, the eyeballs rotate and there is a
tingling about the brow.
And then,
just as you are feeling that you ought to ring up your lawyer and see that your
affairs are in order before it is too late, the whole situation seems to
clarify. The wind drops. The ears cease to ring. Birds twitter. Brass bands
start playing. The sun comes up over the horizon with a jerk.
And a
moment later all you are conscious of is a great peace.
As I
drained the glass now, new life seemed to burgeon within me. I remember Jeeves,
who, however much he may go off the rails at times in the matter of dress
clothes and in his advice to those in love, has always had a neat turn of phrase,
once speaking of someone rising on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher
things. It was that way with me now. I felt that the Bertram Wooster who lay
propped up against the pillows had become a better, stronger, finer Bertram.
"Thank
you, Jeeves," I said.
"Not
at all, sir."
"That
touched the exact spot. I am now able to cope with life's problems."
"I am
gratified to hear it, sir."
"What
madness not to have had one of those before tackling Aunt Dahlia! However, too
late to worry about that now. Tell me of Gussie. How did he make out at the
fancy-dress ball?"
"He
did not arrive at the fancy-dress ball, sir."
I looked
at him a bit austerely.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "I admit that after that pick-me-up of yours I feel better, but
don't try me too high. Don't stand by my sick bed talking absolute rot. We shot
Gussie into a cab and he started forth, headed for wherever this fancy-dress
ball was. He must have arrived."
"No,
sir. As I gather from Mr. Fink-Nottle, he entered the cab convinced in his mind
that the entertainment to which he had been invited was to be held at No. 17,
Suffolk Square, whereas the actual rendezvous was No. 71, Norfolk Terrace.
These aberrations of memory are not uncommon with those who, like Mr.
Fink-Nottle, belong essentially to what one might call the dreamer-type."
"One
might also call it the fatheaded type."
"Yes,
sir."
"Well?"
"On
reaching No. 17, Suffolk Square, Mr. Fink-Nottle endeavoured to produce money
to pay the fare."
"What
stopped him?"
"The
fact that he had no money, sir. He discovered that he had left it, together
with his ticket of invitation, on the mantelpiece of his bedchamber in the
house of his uncle, where he was residing. Bidding the cabman to wait,
accordingly, he rang the door-bell, and when the butler appeared, requested him
to pay the cab, adding that it was all right, as he was one of the guests
invited to the dance. The butler then disclaimed all knowledge of a dance on
the premises."
"And
declined to unbelt?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Upon
which——"
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle directed the cabman to drive him back to his uncle's
residence."
"Well,
why wasn't that the happy ending? All he had to do was go in, collect cash and
ticket, and there he would have been, on velvet."
"I
should have mentioned, sir, that Mr. Fink-Nottle had also left his latchkey on
the mantelpiece of his bedchamber."
"He
could have rung the bell."
"He
did ring the bell, sir, for some fifteen minutes. At the expiration of that
period he recalled that he had given permission to the caretaker—the house was
officially closed and all the staff on holiday—to visit his sailor son at
Portsmouth."
"Golly,
Jeeves!"
"Yes,
sir."
"These
dreamer types do live, don't they?"
"Yes,
sir."
"What
happened then?"
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle appears to have realized at this point that his position as regards
the cabman had become equivocal. The figures on the clock had already reached a
substantial sum, and he was not in a position to meet his obligations."
"He
could have explained."
"You
cannot explain to cabmen, sir. On endeavouring to do so, he found the fellow
sceptical of his bona fides."
"I
should have legged it."
"That
is the policy which appears to have commended itself to Mr. Fink-Nottle. He
darted rapidly away, and the cabman, endeavouring to detain him, snatched at
his overcoat. Mr. Fink-Nottle contrived to extricate himself from the coat, and
it would seem that his appearance in the masquerade costume beneath it came as
something of a shock to the cabman. Mr. Fink-Nottle informs me that he heard a
species of whistling gasp, and, looking round, observed the man crouching
against the railings with his hands over his face. Mr. Fink-Nottle thinks he
was praying. No doubt an uneducated, superstitious fellow, sir. Possibly a
drinker."
"Well,
if he hadn't been one before, I'll bet he started being one shortly afterwards.
I expect he could scarcely wait for the pubs to open."
"Very
possibly, in the circumstances he might have found a restorative agreeable,
sir."
"And
so, in the circumstances, might Gussie too, I should think. What on earth did
he do after that? London late at night—or even in the daytime, for that
matter—is no place for a man in scarlet tights."
"No,
sir."
"He
invites comment."
"Yes,
sir."
"I
can see the poor old bird ducking down side-streets, skulking in alley-ways,
diving into dust-bins."
"I
gathered from Mr. Fink-Nottle's remarks, sir, that something very much on those
lines was what occurred. Eventually, after a trying night, he found his way to
Mr. Sipperley's residence, where he was able to secure lodging and a change of
costume in the morning."
I nestled
against the pillows, the brow a bit drawn. It is all very well to try to do old
school friends a spot of good, but I could not but feel that in espousing the
cause of a lunkhead capable of mucking things up as Gussie had done, I had
taken on a contract almost too big for human consumption. It seemed to me that
what Gussie needed was not so much the advice of a seasoned man of the world as
a padded cell in Colney Hatch and a couple of good keepers to see that he did
not set the place on fire.
Indeed,
for an instant I had half a mind to withdraw from the case and hand it back to
Jeeves. But the pride of the Woosters restrained me. When we Woosters put our
hands to the plough, we do not readily sheathe the sword. Besides, after that
business of the mess-jacket, anything resembling weakness would have been
fatal.
"I
suppose you realize, Jeeves," I said, for though one dislikes to rub it
in, these things have to be pointed out, "that all this was your
fault?"
"Sir?"
"It's
no good saying 'Sir?' You know it was. If you had not insisted on his going to
that dance—a mad project, as I spotted from the first—this would not have
happened."
"Yes,
sir, but I confess I did not anticipate——"
"Always
anticipate everything, Jeeves," I said, a little sternly. "It is the
only way. Even if you had allowed him to wear a Pierrot costume, things would
not have panned out as they did. A Pierrot costume has pockets. However,"
I went on more kindly, "we need not go into that now. If all this has
shown you what comes of going about the place in scarlet tights, that is
something gained. Gussie waits without, you say?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Then
shoot him in, and I will see what I can do for him."
To be continued
