RIGHT
HO JEEVES
PART
10
V
-15-
I gave him
the eye. The evening had begun to draw in a bit by now and the visibility, in
consequence, was not so hot, but there still remained ample light to enable me
to see him clearly. And what I saw convinced me that I should be a lot easier
in my mind with a stout rustic bench between us. I rose, accordingly, modelling
my style on that of a rocketing pheasant, and proceeded to deposit myself on
the other side of the object named.
My prompt
agility was not without its effect. He seemed somewhat taken aback. He came to
a halt, and, for about the space of time required to allow a bead of persp. to
trickle from the top of the brow to the tip of the nose, stood gazing at me in
silence.
"So!"
he said at length, and it came as a complete surprise to me that fellows ever
really do say "So!" I had always thought it was just a thing you read
in books. Like "Quotha!" I mean to say, or "Odds bodikins!"
or even "Eh, ba goom!"
Still,
there it was. Quaint or not quaint, bizarre or not bizarre, he had said
"So!" and it was up to me to cope with the situation on those lines.
It would
have been a duller man than Bertram Wooster who had failed to note that the
dear old chap was a bit steamed up. Whether his eyes were actually shooting forth
flame, I couldn't tell you, but there appeared to me to be a distinct
incandescence. For the rest, his fists were clenched, his ears quivering, and
the muscles of his jaw rotating rhythmically, as if he were making an early
supper off something.
His hair
was full of twigs, and there was a beetle hanging to the side of his head which
would have interested Gussie Fink-Nottle. To this, however, I paid scant
attention. There is a time for studying beetles and a time for not studying
beetles.
"So!"
he said again.
Now, those
who know Bertram Wooster best will tell you that he is always at his shrewdest
and most level-headed in moments of peril. Who was it who, when gripped by the
arm of the law on boat-race night not so many years ago and hauled off to Vine
Street police station, assumed in a flash the identity of Eustace H. Plimsoll,
of The Laburnums, Alleyn Road, West Dulwich, thus saving the grand old name of
Wooster from being dragged in the mire and avoiding wide publicity of the wrong
sort? Who was it ...
But I need
not labour the point. My record speaks for itself. Three times pinched, but
never once sentenced under the correct label. Ask anyone at the Drones about
this.
So now, in
a situation threatening to become every moment more scaly, I did not lose my
head. I preserved the old sang-froid. Smiling a genial and affectionate smile,
and hoping that it wasn't too dark for it to register, I spoke with a jolly
cordiality:
"Why,
hallo, Tuppy. You here?"
He said,
yes, he was here.
"Been
here long?"
"I
have."
"Fine.
I wanted to see you."
"Well,
here I am. Come out from behind that bench."
"No,
thanks, old man. I like leaning on it. It seems to rest the spine."
"In
about two seconds," said Tuppy, "I'm going to kick your spine up
through the top of your head."
I raised
the eyebrows. Not much good, of course, in that light, but it seemed to help
the general composition.
"Is
this Hildebrand Glossop speaking?" I said.
He replied
that it was, adding that if I wanted to make sure I might move a few feet over
in his direction. He also called me an opprobrious name.
I raised
the eyebrows again.
"Come,
come, Tuppy, don't let us let this little chat become acrid. Is 'acrid' the
word I want?"
"I
couldn't say," he replied, beginning to sidle round the bench.
I saw that
anything I might wish to say must be said quickly. Already he had sidled some
six feet. And though, by dint of sidling, too, I had managed to keep the bench
between us, who could predict how long this happy state of affairs would last?
I came to
the point, therefore.
"I
think I know what's on your mind, Tuppy," I said. "If you were in
those bushes during my conversation with the recent Angela, I dare say you
heard what I was saying about you."
"I
did."
"I
see. Well, we won't go into the ethics of the thing. Eavesdropping, some people
might call it, and I can imagine stern critics drawing in the breath to some
extent. Considering it—I don't want to hurt your feelings, Tuppy—but
considering it un-English. A bit un-English, Tuppy, old man, you must
admit."
"I'm
Scotch."
"Really?"
I said. "I never knew that before. Rummy how you don't suspect a man of
being Scotch unless he's Mac-something and says 'Och, aye' and things like
that. I wonder," I went on, feeling that an academic discussion on some
neutral topic might ease the tension, "if you can tell me something that
has puzzled me a good deal. What exactly is it that they put into haggis? I've
often wondered about that."
From the
fact that his only response to the question was to leap over the bench and make
a grab at me, I gathered that his mind was not on haggis.
"However,"
I said, leaping over the bench in my turn, "that is a side issue. If, to
come back to it, you were in those bushes and heard what I was saying about
you——"
He began
to move round the bench in a nor'-nor'-easterly direction. I followed his
example, setting a course sou'-sou'-west.
"No
doubt you were surprised at the way I was talking."
"Not
a bit."
"What?
Did nothing strike you as odd in the tone of my remarks?"
"It
was just the sort of stuff I should have expected a treacherous, sneaking hound
like you to say."
"My
dear chap," I protested, "this is not your usual form. A bit slow in
the uptake, surely? I should have thought you would have spotted right away
that it was all part of a well-laid plan."
"I'll
get you in a jiffy," said Tuppy, recovering his balance after a swift
clutch at my neck. And so probable did this seem that I delayed no longer, but
hastened to place all the facts before him.
Speaking
rapidly and keeping moving, I related my emotions on receipt of Aunt Dahlia's
telegram, my instant rush to the scene of the disaster, my meditations in the
car, and the eventual framing of this well-laid plan of mine. I spoke clearly
and well, and it was with considerable concern, consequently, that I heard him
observe—between clenched teeth, which made it worse—that he didn't believe a
damned word of it.
"But,
Tuppy," I said, "why not? To me the thing rings true to the last
drop. What makes you sceptical? Confide in me, Tuppy."
He halted
and stood taking a breather. Tuppy, pungently though Angela might have argued
to the contrary, isn't really fat. During the winter months you will find him
constantly booting the football with merry shouts, and in the summer the tennis
racket is seldom out of his hand.
But at the
recently concluded evening meal, feeling, no doubt, that after that painful
scene in the larder there was nothing to be gained by further abstinence, he
had rather let himself go and, as it were, made up leeway; and after really
immersing himself in one of Anatole's dinners, a man of his sturdy build tends
to lose elasticity a bit. During the exposition of my plans for his happiness a
certain animation had crept into this round-and-round-the mulberry-bush
jamboree of ours—so much so, indeed, that for the last few minutes we might
have been a rather oversized greyhound and a somewhat slimmer electric hare
doing their stuff on a circular track for the entertainment of the many-headed.
This, it
appeared, had taken it out of him a bit, and I was not displeased. I was
feeling the strain myself, and welcomed a lull.
"It
absolutely beats me why you don't believe it," I said. "You know
we've been pals for years. You must be aware that, except at the moment when you
caused me to do a nose dive into the Drones' swimming bath, an incident which I
long since decided to put out of my mind and let the dead past bury its dead
about, if you follow what I mean—except on that one occasion, as I say, I have
always regarded you with the utmost esteem. Why, then, if not for the motives I
have outlined, should I knock you to Angela? Answer me that. Be very
careful."
"What
do you mean, be very careful?"
Well, as a
matter of fact, I didn't quite know myself. It was what the magistrate had said
to me on the occasion when I stood in the dock as Eustace Plimsoll, of The
Laburnums: and as it had impressed me a good deal at the time, I just bunged it
in now by way of giving the conversation a tone.
"All
right. Never mind about being careful, then. Just answer me that question. Why,
if I had not your interests sincerely at heart, should I have ticked you off,
as stated?"
A sharp
spasm shook him from base to apex. The beetle, which, during the recent
exchanges, had been clinging to his head, hoping for the best, gave it up at
this and resigned office. It shot off and was swallowed in the night.
"Ah!"
I said. "Your beetle," I explained. "No doubt you were unaware
of it, but all this while there has been a beetle of sorts parked on the side
of your head. You have now dislodged it."
He
snorted.
"Beetles!"
"Not
beetles. One beetle only."
"I
like your crust!" cried Tuppy, vibrating like one of Gussie's newts during
the courting season. "Talking of beetles, when all the time you know you're
a treacherous, sneaking hound."
It was a
debatable point, of course, why treacherous, sneaking hounds should be
considered ineligible to talk about beetles, and I dare say a good
cross-examining counsel would have made quite a lot of it.
But I let
it go.
"That's
the second time you've called me that. And," I said firmly, "I insist
on an explanation. I have told you that I acted throughout from the best and
kindliest motives in roasting you to Angela. It cut me to the quick to have to
speak like that, and only the recollection of our lifelong friendship would
have made me do it. And now you say you don't believe me and call me names for
which I am not sure I couldn't have you up before a beak and jury and mulct you
in very substantial damages. I should have to consult my solicitor, of course,
but it would surprise me very much if an action did not lie. Be reasonable,
Tuppy. Suggest another motive I could have had. Just one."
"I
will. Do you think I don't know? You're in love with Angela yourself."
"What?"
"And
you knocked me in order to poison her mind against me and finally remove me
from your path."
I had
never heard anything so absolutely loopy in my life. Why, dash it, I've known
Angela since she was so high. You don't fall in love with close relations
you've known since they were so high. Besides, isn't there something in the
book of rules about a man may not marry his cousin? Or am I thinking of
grandmothers?
"Tuppy,
my dear old ass," I cried, "this is pure banana oil! You've come
unscrewed."
"Oh,
yes?"
"Me
in love with Angela? Ha-ha!"
"You
can't get out of it with ha-ha's. She called you 'darling'."
"I
know. And I disapproved. This habit of the younger g. of scattering 'darlings'
about like birdseed is one that I deprecate. Lax, is how I should describe
it."
"You
tickled her ankles."
"In a
purely cousinly spirit. It didn't mean a thing. Why, dash it, you must know
that in the deeper and truer sense I wouldn't touch Angela with a barge
pole."
"Oh?
And why not? Not good enough for you?"
"You
misunderstand me," I hastened to reply. "When I say I wouldn't touch
Angela with a barge pole, I intend merely to convey that my feelings towards
her are those of distant, though cordial, esteem. In other words, you may rest
assured that between this young prune and myself there never has been and never
could be any sentiment warmer and stronger than that of ordinary
friendship."
"I
believe it was you who tipped her off that I was in the larder last night, so
that she could find me there with that pie, thus damaging my prestige."
"My
dear Tuppy! A Wooster?" I was shocked. "You think a Wooster would do
that?"
He
breathed heavily.
"Listen,"
he said. "It's no good your standing there arguing. You can't get away
from the facts. Somebody stole her from me at Cannes. You told me yourself that
she was with you all the time at Cannes and hardly saw anybody else. You
gloated over the mixed bathing, and those moonlight walks you had
together——"
"Not
gloated. Just mentioned them."
"So
now you understand why, as soon as I can get you clear of this damned bench, I
am going to tear you limb from limb. Why they have these bally benches in
gardens," said Tuppy discontentedly, "is more than I can see. They
only get in the way."
He ceased,
and, grabbing out, missed me by a hair's breadth.
It was a
moment for swift thinking, and it is at such moments, as I have already
indicated, that Bertram Wooster is at his best. I suddenly remembered the
recent misunderstanding with the Bassett, and with a flash of clear vision saw
that this was where it was going to come in handy.
"You've
got it all wrong, Tuppy," I said, moving to the left. "True, I saw a
lot of Angela, but my dealings with her were on a basis from start to finish of
the purest and most wholesome camaraderie. I can prove it. During that sojourn
in Cannes my affections were engaged elsewhere."
"What?"
"Engaged
elsewhere. My affections. During that sojourn."
I had
struck the right note. He stopped sidling. His clutching hand fell to his side.
"Is
that true?"
"Quite
official."
"Who
was she?"
"My
dear Tuppy, does one bandy a woman's name?"
"One
does if one doesn't want one's ruddy head pulled off."
I saw that
it was a special case.
"Madeline
Bassett," I said.
"Who?"
"Madeline
Bassett."
He seemed
stunned.
"You
stand there and tell me you were in love with that Bassett disaster?"
"I
wouldn't call her 'that Bassett disaster', Tuppy. Not respectful."
"Dash
being respectful. I want the facts. You deliberately assert that you loved that
weird Gawd-help-us?"
"I
don't see why you should call her a weird Gawd-help-us, either. A very charming
and beautiful girl. Odd in some of her views perhaps—one does not quite see eye
to eye with her in the matter of stars and rabbits—but not a weird
Gawd-help-us."
"Anyway,
you stick to it that you were in love with her?"
"I
do."
"It
sounds thin to me, Wooster, very thin."
I saw that
it would be necessary to apply the finishing touch.
"I
must ask you to treat this as entirely confidential, Glossop, but I may as well
inform you that it is not twenty-four hours since she turned me down."
"Turned
you down?"
"Like
a bedspread. In this very garden."
"Twenty-four
hours?"
"Call
it twenty-five. So you will readily see that I can't be the chap, if any, who
stole Angela from you at Cannes."
And I was
on the brink of adding that I wouldn't touch Angela with a barge pole, when I
remembered I had said it already and it hadn't gone frightfully well. I
desisted, therefore.
My manly
frankness seemed to be producing good results. The homicidal glare was dying
out of Tuppy's eyes. He had the aspect of a hired assassin who had paused to
think things over.
"I
see," he said, at length. "All right, then. Sorry you were
troubled."
"Don't
mention it, old man," I responded courteously.
For the
first time since the bushes had begun to pour forth Glossops, Bertram Wooster
could be said to have breathed freely. I don't say I actually came out from
behind the bench, but I did let go of it, and with something of the relief
which those three chaps in the Old Testament must have experienced after
sliding out of the burning fiery furnace, I even groped tentatively for my
cigarette case.
The next
moment a sudden snort made me take my fingers off it as if it had bitten me. I
was distressed to note in the old friend a return of the recent frenzy.
"What
the hell did you mean by telling her that I used to be covered with ink when I
was a kid?"
"My
dear Tuppy——"
"I
was almost finickingly careful about my personal cleanliness as a boy. You
could have eaten your dinner off me."
"Quite.
But——"
"And
all that stuff about having no soul. I'm crawling with soul. And being looked
on as an outsider at the Drones——"
"But,
my dear old chap, I explained that. It was all part of my ruse or scheme."
"It
was, was it? Well, in future do me a favour and leave me out of your foul
ruses."
"Just
as you say, old boy."
"All
right, then. That's understood."
He
relapsed into silence, standing with folded arms, staring before him rather
like a strong, silent man in a novel when he's just been given the bird by the
girl and is thinking of looking in at the Rocky Mountains and bumping off a few
bears. His manifest pippedness excited my compash, and I ventured a kindly
word.
"I
don't suppose you know what au pied de la lettre means, Tuppy, but
that's how I don't think you ought to take all that stuff Angela was saying
just now too much."
He seemed
interested.
"What
the devil," he asked, "are you talking about?"
I saw that
I should have to make myself clearer.
"Don't
take all that guff of hers too literally, old man. You know what girls are
like."
"I
do," he said, with another snort that came straight up from his insteps.
"And I wish I'd never met one."
"I
mean to say, it's obvious that she must have spotted you in those bushes and
was simply talking to score off you. There you were, I mean, if you follow the
psychology, and she saw you, and in that impulsive way girls have, she seized
the opportunity of ribbing you a bit—just told you a few home truths, I mean to
say."
"Home
truths?"
"That's
right."
He snorted
once more, causing me to feel rather like royalty receiving a twenty-one gun
salute from the fleet. I can't remember ever having met a better
right-and-left-hand snorter.
"What
do you mean, 'home truths'? I'm not fat."
"No,
no."
"And
what's wrong with the colour of my hair?"
"Quite
in order, Tuppy, old man. The hair, I mean."
"And
I'm not a bit thin on the top.... What the dickens are you grinning
about?"
"Not
grinning. Just smiling slightly. I was conjuring up a sort of vision, if you
know what I mean, of you as seen through Angela's eyes. Fat in the middle and
thin on the top. Rather funny."
"You
think it funny, do you?"
"Not
a bit."
"You'd
better not."
"Quite."
It seemed
to me that the conversation was becoming difficult again. I wished it could be
terminated. And so it was. For at this moment something came shimmering through
the laurels in the quiet evenfall, and I perceived that it was Angela.
She was
looking sweet and saintlike, and she had a plate of sandwiches in her hand.
Ham, I was to discover later.
"If
you see Mr. Glossop anywhere, Bertie," she said, her eyes resting dreamily
on Tuppy's facade, "I wish you would give him these. I'm so afraid he may
be hungry, poor fellow. It's nearly ten o'clock, and he hasn't eaten a morsel
since dinner. I'll just leave them on this bench."
She pushed
off, and it seemed to me that I might as well go with her. Nothing to keep me
here, I mean. We moved towards the house, and presently from behind us there
sounded in the night the splintering crash of a well-kicked plate of ham
sandwiches, accompanied by the muffled oaths of a strong man in his wrath.
"How
still and peaceful everything is," said Angela.
-16-
Sunshine
was gilding the grounds of Brinkley Court and the ear detected a marked
twittering of birds in the ivy outside the window when I woke next morning to a
new day. But there was no corresponding sunshine in Bertram Wooster's soul and
no answering twitter in his heart as he sat up in bed, sipping his cup of
strengthening tea. It could not be denied that to Bertram, reviewing the
happenings of the previous night, the Tuppy-Angela situation seemed more or
less to have slipped a cog. With every desire to look for the silver lining, I
could not but feel that the rift between these two haughty spirits had now
reached such impressive proportions that the task of bridging same would be
beyond even my powers.
I am a
shrewd observer, and there had been something in Tuppy's manner as he booted
that plate of ham sandwiches that seemed to tell me that he would not lightly
forgive.
In these
circs., I deemed it best to shelve their problem for the nonce and turn the
mind to the matter of Gussie, which presented a brighter picture.
With
regard to Gussie, everything was in train. Jeeves's morbid scruples about
lacing the chap's orange juice had put me to a good deal of trouble, but I had
surmounted every obstacle in the old Wooster way. I had secured an abundance of
the necessary spirit, and it was now lying in its flask in the drawer of the
dressing-table. I had also ascertained that the jug, duly filled, would be
standing on a shelf in the butler's pantry round about the hour of one. To
remove it from that shelf, sneak it up to my room, and return it, laced, in
good time for the midday meal would be a task calling, no doubt, for address,
but in no sense an exacting one.
It was
with something of the emotions of one preparing a treat for a deserving child
that I finished my tea and rolled over for that extra spot of sleep which just
makes all the difference when there is man's work to be done and the brain must
be kept clear for it.
And when I
came downstairs an hour or so later, I knew how right I had been to formulate
this scheme for Gussie's bucking up. I ran into him on the lawn, and I could
see at a glance that if ever there was a man who needed a snappy stimulant, it
was he. All nature, as I have indicated, was smiling, but not Augustus
Fink-Nottle. He was walking round in circles, muttering something about not
proposing to detain us long, but on this auspicious occasion feeling compelled
to say a few words.
"Ah,
Gussie," I said, arresting him as he was about to start another lap.
"A lovely morning, is it not?"
Even if I
had not been aware of it already, I could have divined from the abruptness with
which he damned the lovely morning that he was not in merry mood. I addressed
myself to the task of bringing the roses back to his cheeks.
"I've
got good news for you, Gussie."
He looked
at me with a sudden sharp interest.
"Has
Market Snodsbury Grammar School burned down?"
"Not
that I know of."
"Have
mumps broken out? Is the place closed on account of measles?"
"No,
no."
"Then
what do you mean you've got good news?"
I
endeavoured to soothe.
"You
mustn't take it so hard, Gussie. Why worry about a laughably simple job like
distributing prizes at a school?"
"Laughably
simple, eh? Do you realize I've been sweating for days and haven't been able to
think of a thing to say yet, except that I won't detain them long. You bet I
won't detain them long. I've been timing my speech, and it lasts five seconds.
What the devil am I to say, Bertie? What do you say when you're distributing
prizes?"
I
considered. Once, at my private school, I had won a prize for Scripture
knowledge, so I suppose I ought to have been full of inside stuff. But memory
eluded me.
Then
something emerged from the mists.
"You
say the race is not always to the swift."
"Why?"
"Well,
it's a good gag. It generally gets a hand."
"I
mean, why isn't it? Why isn't the race to the swift?"
"Ah,
there you have me. But the nibs say it isn't."
"But
what does it mean?"
"I
take it it's supposed to console the chaps who haven't won prizes."
"What's
the good of that to me? I'm not worrying about them. It's the ones that have
won prizes that I'm worrying about, the little blighters who will come up on
the platform. Suppose they make faces at me."
"They
won't."
"How
do you know they won't? It's probably the first thing they'll think of. And
even if they don't—Bertie, shall I tell you something?"
"What?"
"I've
a good mind to take that tip of yours and have a drink."
I smiled.
He little knew, about summed up what I was thinking.
"Oh,
you'll be all right," I said.
He became
fevered again.
"How
do you know I'll be all right? I'm sure to blow up in my lines."
"Tush!"
"Or
drop a prize."
"Tut!"
"Or
something. I can feel it in my bones. As sure as I'm standing here, something
is going to happen this afternoon which will make everybody laugh themselves
sick at me. I can hear them now. Like hyenas.... Bertie!"
"Hullo?"
"Do
you remember that kids' school we went to before Eton?"
"Quite.
It was there I won my Scripture prize."
"Never
mind about your Scripture prize. I'm not talking about your Scripture prize. Do
you recollect the Bosher incident?"
I did,
indeed. It was one of the high spots of my youth.
"Major-General
Sir Wilfred Bosher came to distribute the prizes at that school,"
proceeded Gussie in a dull, toneless voice. "He dropped a book. He stooped
to pick it up. And, as he stooped, his trousers split up the back."
"How
we roared!"
Gussie's
face twisted.
"We
did, little swine that we were. Instead of remaining silent and exhibiting a
decent sympathy for a gallant officer at a peculiarly embarrassing moment, we
howled and yelled with mirth. I loudest of any. That is what will happen to me
this afternoon, Bertie. It will be a judgment on me for laughing like that at
Major-General Sir Wilfred Bosher."
"No,
no, Gussie, old man. Your trousers won't split."
"How
do you know they won't? Better men than I have split their trousers. General
Bosher was a D.S.O., with a fine record of service on the north-western
frontier of India, and his trousers split. I shall be a mockery and a scorn. I
know it. And you, fully cognizant of what I am in for, come babbling about good
news. What news could possibly be good to me at this moment except the
information that bubonic plague had broken out among the scholars of Market
Snodsbury Grammar School, and that they were all confined to their beds with
spots?"
The moment
had come for me to speak. I laid a hand gently on his shoulder. He brushed it
off. I laid it on again. He brushed it off once more. I was endeavouring to lay
it on for the third time, when he moved aside and desired, with a certain
petulance, to be informed if I thought I was a ruddy osteopath.
I found
his manner trying, but one has to make allowances. I was telling myself that I
should be seeing a very different Gussie after lunch.
"When
I said I had good news, old man, I meant about Madeline Bassett."
The
febrile gleam died out of his eyes, to be replaced by a look of infinite
sadness.
"You
can't have good news about her. I've dished myself there completely."
"Not
at all. I am convinced that if you take another whack at her, all will be
well."
And,
keeping it snappy, I related what had passed between the Bassett and myself on
the previous night.
"So
all you have to do is play a return date, and you cannot fail to swing the
voting. You are her dream man."
He shook
his head.
"No."
"What?"
"No
use."
"What
do you mean?"
"Not
a bit of good trying."
"But
I tell you she said in so many words——"
"It
doesn't make any difference. She may have loved me once. Last night will have
killed all that."
"Of
course it won't."
"It
will. She despises me now."
"Not
a bit of it. She knows you simply got cold feet."
"And
I should get cold feet if I tried again. It's no good, Bertie. I'm hopeless,
and there's an end of it. Fate made me the sort of chap who can't say 'bo' to a
goose."
"It
isn't a question of saying 'bo' to a goose. The point doesn't arise at all. It
is simply a matter of——"
"I
know, I know. But it's no good. I can't do it. The whole thing is off. I am not
going to risk a repetition of last night's fiasco. You talk in a light way of
taking another whack at her, but you don't know what it means. You have not
been through the experience of starting to ask the girl you love to marry you
and then suddenly finding yourself talking about the plumlike external gills of
the newly-born newt. It's not a thing you can do twice. No, I accept my
destiny. It's all over. And now, Bertie, like a good chap, shove off. I want to
compose my speech. I can't compose my speech with you mucking around. If you
are going to continue to muck around, at least give me a couple of stories. The
little hell hounds are sure to expect a story or two."
"Do
you know the one about——"
"No
good. I don't want any of your off-colour stuff from the Drones' smoking-room.
I need something clean. Something that will be a help to them in their after
lives. Not that I care a damn about their after lives, except that I hope
they'll all choke."
"I
heard a story the other day. I can't quite remember it, but it was about a chap
who snored and disturbed the neighbours, and it ended, 'It was his adenoids
that adenoid them.'"
He made a
weary gesture.
"You
expect me to work that in, do you, into a speech to be delivered to an audience
of boys, every one of whom is probably riddled with adenoids? Damn it, they'd
rush the platform. Leave me, Bertie. Push off. That's all I ask you to do. Push
off.... Ladies and gentlemen," said Gussie, in a low, soliloquizing sort
of way, "I do not propose to detain this auspicious occasion long——"
It was a
thoughtful Wooster who walked away and left him at it. More than ever I was
congratulating myself on having had the sterling good sense to make all my
arrangements so that I could press a button and set things moving at an
instant's notice.
Until now,
you see, I had rather entertained a sort of hope that when I had revealed to
him the Bassett's mental attitude, Nature would have done the rest, bracing him
up to such an extent that artificial stimulants would not be required. Because,
naturally, a chap doesn't want to have to sprint about country houses lugging
jugs of orange juice, unless it is absolutely essential.
But now I
saw that I must carry on as planned. The total absence of pep, ginger, and the
right spirit which the man had displayed during these conversational exchanges
convinced me that the strongest measures would be necessary. Immediately upon
leaving him, therefore, I proceeded to the pantry, waited till the butler had
removed himself elsewhere, and nipped in and secured the vital jug. A few
moments later, after a wary passage of the stairs, I was in my room. And the
first thing I saw there was Jeeves, fooling about with trousers.
He gave
the jug a look which—wrongly, as it was to turn out—I diagnosed as censorious.
I drew myself up a bit. I intended to have no rot from the fellow.
"Yes,
Jeeves?"
"Sir?"
"You
have the air of one about to make a remark, Jeeves."
"Oh,
no, sir. I note that you are in possession of Mr. Fink-Nottle's orange juice. I
was merely about to observe that in my opinion it would be injudicious to add
spirit to it."
"That
is a remark, Jeeves, and it is precisely——"
"Because
I have already attended to the matter, sir."
"What?"
"Yes,
sir. I decided, after all, to acquiesce in your wishes."
I stared
at the man, astounded. I was deeply moved. Well, I mean, wouldn't any chap who
had been going about thinking that the old feudal spirit was dead and then suddenly
found it wasn't have been deeply moved?
"Jeeves,"
I said, "I am touched."
"Thank
you, sir."
"Touched
and gratified."
"Thank
you very much, sir."
"But
what caused this change of heart?"
"I
chanced to encounter Mr. Fink-Nottle in the garden, sir, while you were still
in bed, and we had a brief conversation."
"And
you came away feeling that he needed a bracer?"
"Very
much so, sir. His attitude struck me as defeatist."
I nodded.
"I
felt the same. 'Defeatist' sums it up to a nicety. Did you tell him his
attitude struck you as defeatist?"
"Yes,
sir."
"But
it didn't do any good?"
"No,
sir."
"Very
well, then, Jeeves. We must act. How much gin did you put in the jug?"
"A
liberal tumblerful, sir."
"Would
that be a normal dose for an adult defeatist, do you think?"
"I
fancy it should prove adequate, sir."
"I
wonder. We must not spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. I think I'll add just
another fluid ounce or so."
"I
would not advocate it, sir. In the case of Lord Brancaster's parrot——"
"You
are falling into your old error, Jeeves, of thinking that Gussie is a parrot.
Fight against this. I shall add the oz."
"Very
good, sir."
"And,
by the way, Jeeves, Mr. Fink-Nottle is in the market for bright, clean stories
to use in his speech. Do you know any?"
"I
know a story about two Irishmen, sir."
"Pat
and Mike?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Who
were walking along Broadway?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Just
what he wants. Any more?"
"No,
sir."
"Well,
every little helps. You had better go and tell it to him."
"Very
good, sir."
He passed
from the room, and I unscrewed the flask and tilted into the jug a generous
modicum of its contents. And scarcely had I done so, when there came to my ears
the sound of footsteps without. I had only just time to shove the jug behind
the photograph of Uncle Tom on the mantelpiece before the door opened and in
came Gussie, curveting like a circus horse.
"What-ho,
Bertie," he said. "What-ho, what-ho, what-ho, and again what-ho. What
a beautiful world this is, Bertie. One of the nicest I ever met."
I stared
at him, speechless. We Woosters are as quick as lightning, and I saw at once
that something had happened.
I mean to
say, I told you about him walking round in circles. I recorded what passed
between us on the lawn. And if I portrayed the scene with anything like
adequate skill, the picture you will have retained of this Fink-Nottle will
have been that of a nervous wreck, sagging at the knees, green about the gills,
and picking feverishly at the lapels of his coat in an ecstasy of craven fear.
In a word, defeatist. Gussie, during that interview, had, in fine, exhibited
all the earmarks of one licked to a custard.
Vastly
different was the Gussie who stood before me now. Self-confidence seemed to
ooze from the fellow's every pore. His face was flushed, there was a jovial
light in his eyes, the lips were parted in a swashbuckling smile. And when with
a genial hand he sloshed me on the back before I could sidestep, it was as if I
had been kicked by a mule.
"Well,
Bertie," he proceeded, as blithely as a linnet without a thing on his
mind, "you will be glad to hear that you were right. Your theory has been
tested and proved correct. I feel like a fighting cock."
My brain
ceased to reel. I saw all.
"Have
you been having a drink?"
"I
have. As you advised. Unpleasant stuff. Like medicine. Burns your throat, too,
and makes one as thirsty as the dickens. How anyone can mop it up, as you do,
for pleasure, beats me. Still, I would be the last to deny that it tunes up the
system. I could bite a tiger."
"What
did you have?"
"Whisky.
At least, that was the label on the decanter, and I have no reason to suppose
that a woman like your aunt—staunch, true-blue, British—would deliberately
deceive the public. If she labels her decanters Whisky, then I consider that we
know where we are."
"A
whisky and soda, eh? You couldn't have done better."
"Soda?"
said Gussie thoughtfully. "I knew there was something I had
forgotten."
"Didn't
you put any soda in it?"
"It
never occurred to me. I just nipped into the dining-room and drank out of the
decanter."
"How
much?"
"Oh,
about ten swallows. Twelve, maybe. Or fourteen. Say sixteen medium-sized gulps.
Gosh, I'm thirsty."
He moved
over to the wash-stand and drank deeply out of the water bottle. I cast a
covert glance at Uncle Tom's photograph behind his back. For the first time
since it had come into my life, I was glad that it was so large. It hid its
secret well. If Gussie had caught sight of that jug of orange juice, he would
unquestionably have been on to it like a knife.
"Well,
I'm glad you're feeling braced," I said.
He moved
buoyantly from the wash-hand stand, and endeavoured to slosh me on the back
again. Foiled by my nimble footwork, he staggered to the bed and sat down upon
it.
"Braced?
Did I say I could bite a tiger?"
"You
did."
"Make
it two tigers. I could chew holes in a steel door. What an ass you must have
thought me out there in the garden. I see now you were laughing in your
sleeve."
"No,
no."
"Yes,"
insisted Gussie. "That very sleeve," he said, pointing. "And I
don't blame you. I can't imagine why I made all that fuss about a potty job
like distributing prizes at a rotten little country grammar school. Can you
imagine, Bertie?"
"Exactly.
Nor can I imagine. There's simply nothing to it. I just shin up on the
platform, drop a few gracious words, hand the little blighters their prizes,
and hop down again, admired by all. Not a suggestion of split trousers from
start to finish. I mean, why should anybody split his trousers? I can't
imagine. Can you imagine?"
"No."
"Nor
can I imagine. I shall be a riot. I know just the sort of stuff that's
needed—simple, manly, optimistic stuff straight from the shoulder. This
shoulder," said Gussie, tapping. "Why I was so nervous this morning I
can't imagine. For anything simpler than distributing a few footling books to a
bunch of grimy-faced kids I can't imagine. Still, for some reason I can't
imagine, I was feeling a little nervous, but now I feel fine, Bertie—fine,
fine, fine—and I say this to you as an old friend. Because that's what you are,
old man, when all the smoke has cleared away—an old friend. I don't think I've
ever met an older friend. How long have you been an old friend of mine,
Bertie?"
"Oh,
years and years."
"Imagine!
Though, of course, there must have been a time when you were a new friend....
Hullo, the luncheon gong. Come on, old friend."
And,
rising from the bed like a performing flea, he made for the door.
I followed
rather pensively. What had occurred was, of course, so much velvet, as you
might say. I mean, I had wanted a braced Fink-Nottle— indeed, all my plans had
had a braced Fink-Nottle as their end and aim —but I found myself wondering a
little whether the Fink-Nottle now sliding down the banister wasn't, perhaps, a
shade too braced. His demeanour seemed to me that of a man who might quite
easily throw bread about at lunch.
Fortunately,
however, the settled gloom of those round him exercised a restraining effect
upon him at the table. It would have needed a far more plastered man to have
been rollicking at such a gathering. I had told the Bassett that there were
aching hearts in Brinkley Court, and it now looked probable that there would
shortly be aching tummies. Anatole, I learned, had retired to his bed with a
fit of the vapours, and the meal now before us had been cooked by the kitchen
maid—as C3 a performer as ever wielded a skillet.
This,
coming on top of their other troubles, induced in the company a pretty
unanimous silence—a solemn stillness, as you might say—which even Gussie did
not seem prepared to break. Except, therefore, for one short snatch of song on
his part, nothing untoward marked the occasion, and presently we rose, with
instructions from Aunt Dahlia to put on festal raiment and be at Market
Snodsbury not later than 3.30. This leaving me ample time to smoke a gasper or
two in a shady bower beside the lake, I did so, repairing to my room round
about the hour of three.
Jeeves was
on the job, adding the final polish to the old topper, and I was about to
apprise him of the latest developments in the matter of Gussie, when he
forestalled me by observing that the latter had only just concluded an
agreeable visit to the Wooster bedchamber.
"I
found Mr. Fink-Nottle seated here when I arrived to lay out your clothes,
sir."
"Indeed,
Jeeves? Gussie was in here, was he?"
"Yes,
sir. He left only a few moments ago. He is driving to the school with Mr. and
Mrs. Travers in the large car."
"Did
you give him your story of the two Irishmen?"
"Yes,
sir. He laughed heartily."
"Good.
Had you any other contributions for him?"
"I
ventured to suggest that he might mention to the young gentlemen that education
is a drawing out, not a putting in. The late Lord Brancaster was much addicted
to presenting prizes at schools, and he invariably employed this dictum."
"And
how did he react to that?"
"He
laughed heartily, sir."
"This
surprised you, no doubt? This practically incessant merriment, I mean."
"Yes,
sir."
"You
thought it odd in one who, when you last saw him, was well up in Group A of the
defeatists."
"Yes,
sir."
"There
is a ready explanation, Jeeves. Since you last saw him, Gussie has been on a bender.
He's as tight as an owl."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Absolutely.
His nerve cracked under the strain, and he sneaked into the dining-room and
started mopping the stuff up like a vacuum cleaner. Whisky would seem to be
what he filled the radiator with. I gather that he used up most of the
decanter. Golly, Jeeves, it's lucky he didn't get at that laced orange juice on
top of that, what?"
"Extremely,
sir."
I eyed the
jug. Uncle Tom's photograph had fallen into the fender, and it was standing
there right out in the open, where Gussie couldn't have helped seeing it.
Mercifully, it was empty now.
"It
was a most prudent act on your part, if I may say so, sir, to dispose of the
orange juice."
I stared
at the man.
"What?
Didn't you?"
"No,
sir."
"Jeeves,
let us get this clear. Was it not you who threw away that o.j.?"
"No,
sir. I assumed, when I entered the room and found the pitcher empty, that you
had done so."
We looked
at each other, awed. Two minds with but a single thought.
"I
very much fear, sir——"
"So
do I, Jeeves."
"It
would seem almost certain——"
"Quite
certain. Weigh the facts. Sift the evidence. The jug was standing on the
mantelpiece, for all eyes to behold. Gussie had been complaining of thirst. You
found him in here, laughing heartily. I think that there can be little doubt,
Jeeves, that the entire contents of that jug are at this moment reposing on top
of the existing cargo in that already brilliantly lit man's interior.
Disturbing, Jeeves."
"Most
disturbing, sir."
"Let
us face the position, forcing ourselves to be calm. You inserted in that
jug—shall we say a tumblerful of the right stuff?"
"Fully
a tumblerful, sir."
"And
I added of my plenty about the same amount."
"Yes,
sir."
"And
in two shakes of a duck's tail Gussie, with all that lapping about inside him,
will be distributing the prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School before an
audience of all that is fairest and most refined in the county."
"Yes,
sir."
"It
seems to me, Jeeves, that the ceremony may be one fraught with considerable
interest."
"Yes,
sir."
"What,
in your opinion, will the harvest be?"
"One
finds it difficult to hazard a conjecture, sir."
"You
mean imagination boggles?"
"Yes,
sir."
I
inspected my imagination. He was right. It boggled.
To be continued
