RIGHT
HO JEEVES
PART
14
-22-
I Don't
know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that
always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and
come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country
house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut
up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the
tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale
has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me,
making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it
improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire
bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet,
darkened house, you err.
I knew all
about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom,
in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the
idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it
that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but
which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the
ivy.
When I was
a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after
closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless
like the Last Trump.
I confess
that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it
gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse
where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and
the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the
night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded.
Moreover,
now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist
about this scheme of Jeeves's.
Jeeves
seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate,
would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela.
I could
not bring myself to share his sunny confidence.
I mean to
say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I
remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones,
telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was
staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape
within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing—viz.,
the personal well-being of F. Widgeon.
As far as
any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he
was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more.
Why, then,
should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop?
Such were
my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned
the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my
mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a
wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline.
And so
agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope,
braced the feet and snapped into it.
Well, as I
say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent.
Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other
side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had
exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and
meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff.
I rather
enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright
bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my
chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like
someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt
Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day
fireworks to see what would happen.
But the
Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs,
and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to
ascertain what solid results had been achieved.
Brinkley
Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity.
The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown,
there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy,
Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were,
present and correct.
But—and
this was what caused me immediate concern—I could detect no sign whatever that
there had been any rescue work going on.
What I had
been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in
one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead
of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle
Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while
Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved
look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and
down the path, all by himself.
A
disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that
I summoned Jeeves to my side.
"Well,
Jeeves?"
"Sir?"
I eyed him
sternly. "Sir?" forsooth!
"It's
no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has
proved a bust."
"Certainly
it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we
anticipated, sir."
"We?"
"As I
had anticipated, sir."
"That's
more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?"
"I
remember that you did seem dubious, sir."
"Dubious
is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start.
When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not
blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain.
But after this—forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves——I shall know better
than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems.
It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and
straightforward?"
"Certainly,
sir."
"I
mean, the surgeon's knife, what?"
"Precisely,
sir."
"I
consider——"
"If
you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is
endeavouring to attract your attention."
And at
this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the
relative in question, assured me that his view was correct.
"Just
step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that
well-known—and under certain conditions, well-loved—voice, and I moved over.
I was not
feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon
me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable
behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia
to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation.
She
exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you
know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered.
"Well,
Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are."
"Quite,"
I replied guardedly.
"Nobody
missing, is there?"
"I
don't think so."
"Splendid.
So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had
just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet
child, who rang that bell, was it not?"
"I
did ring the bell, yes."
"Any
particular reason, or just a whim?"
"I thought
there was a fire."
"What
gave you that impression, dear?"
"I
thought I saw flames."
"Where,
darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia."
"In
one of the windows."
"I
see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have
been seeing things."
Here Uncle
Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose
moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if
I am not mistaken, a "rogommier"—whatever that is.
"I
admit I was mistaken. I am sorry."
"Don't
apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out
here, anyway?"
"Just
taking a stroll."
"I
see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?"
"No,
I think I'll go in now."
"That's
fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could
sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of
yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a
pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks
at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait.
The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?"
Gussie, as
he joined our little group, seemed upset about something.
"I
say!"
"Say
on, Augustus."
"I
say, what are we going to do?"
"Speaking
for myself, I intend to return to bed."
"But
the door's shut."
"What
door?"
"The
front door. Somebody must have shut it."
"Then
I shall open it."
"But
it won't open."
"Then
I shall try another door."
"But
all the other doors are shut."
"What?
Who shut them?"
"I
don't know."
I advanced
a theory!
"The
wind?"
Aunt
Dahlia's eyes met mine.
"Don't
try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed,
even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still.
Uncle Tom
said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit.
"How?
Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not
since you had those bars of yours put on."
"Well,
well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then."
"The
fire bell?"
"The
door bell."
"To
what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at
Kingham."
"But,
confound it all, we can't stop out here all night."
"Can't
we? You just watch us. There is nothing—literally nothing—which a country house
party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably
took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes
back."
Tuppy made
a suggestion:
"Why
not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from
Seppings?"
It went
well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's
drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Provençal
that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a
slight softening.
"A
very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round
to the garage at once."
After
Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his
intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious
comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal
didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he
was with us again.
Tuppy
seemed perturbed.
"I
say, it's all off."
"Why?"
"The
garage is locked."
"Unlock
it."
"I
haven't the key."
"Shout,
then, and wake Waterbury."
"Who's
Waterbury?"
"The
chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage."
"But
he's gone to the dance at Kingham."
It was the
final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her
frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was
once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days—the emotional,
free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory
personalities at people who were heading hounds.
"Curse
all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I
mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well,
this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants
come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get
Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go
to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands
blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable
English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living
in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here,
we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"—here she directed at me not
one of her friendliest glances——"except dear old Attila, who is, I
observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of
freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish
that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he
will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect—And what might you
want, my good man?"
She broke
off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he
had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the
speaker's eye.
"If I
might make a suggestion, madam."
I am not
saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself
able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which
have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those
fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work
is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally
negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task
to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf
or peon.
These are
grave defects.
But one
thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him
something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he
has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur,
I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in
mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air.
At any
rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in
under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't
time the thing—not having a stop-watch on me—I should say it wasn't more than
three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change
for the better. She melted before one's eyes.
"Jeeves!
You haven't got an idea?"
"Yes,
madam."
"That
great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?"
"Yes,
madam."
"Jeeves,"
said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I
was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to
make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of
thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves,
and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?"
"Yes,
madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle."
"A
bicycle?"
"There
is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one
of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure
the back-door key from Mr. Seppings."
"Splendid,
Jeeves!"
"Thank
you, madam."
"Wonderful!"
"Thank
you, madam."
"Attila!"
said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner.
I had been
expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the
fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made
to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct.
And as I
was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my
eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't
possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't
go and nip me in the bud.
"Yes,
madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist.
He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel."
I hadn't.
I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get
twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him—casually, just as an
interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the
six-day bicycle race—that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays
with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the
Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat.
A
different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel.
I mean, he
was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is
never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him
that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that
Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a
gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's
machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along
just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking
it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet,
from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in
sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time
in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park
Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is.
And as if
this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in.
"That's
right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I
remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights
and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go
too."
"Then
he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't
go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you
wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether
clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs,
get a move on."
I found
speech:
"But
I haven't ridden for years."
"Then
it's high time you began again."
"I've
probably forgotten how to ride."
"You'll
soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only
way."
"But
it's miles to Kingham."
"So
the sooner you're off, the better."
"But——"
"Bertie,
dear."
"But,
dash it——"
"Bertie,
darling."
"Yes,
but dash it——"
"Bertie,
my sweet."
And so it
was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves
at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself
the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of
the chap.
"So,
Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter,
"this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie
and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile
ride——"
"Nine,
I believe, sir."
"—a
nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back."
"I am
sorry, sir."
"No
good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?"
"I
will bring it out, sir."
He did so.
I eyed it sourly.
"Where's
the lamp?"
"I
fear there is no lamp, sir."
"No
lamp?"
"No,
sir."
"But
I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into
something."
I broke
off and eyed him frigidly.
"You
smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?"
"I
beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me
as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always
found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson
set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to
come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on
the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together
with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The
keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and
which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I
remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir."
I had to
pause a moment to master my feelings.
"You
did, eh?"
"Yes,
sir."
"You
thought it funny?"
"Yes,
sir."
"And
your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Golly,
what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him
from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant."
"He
is dead, sir."
"Thank
heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine."
"Very
good, sir."
"Are
the tyres inflated?"
"Yes,
sir."
"The
nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the
differential gear?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Right
ho, Jeeves."
In Tuppy's
statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a
bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been,
I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his
facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to
mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that
condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason
would rebel.
Stimulated
by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators.
As I
started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old
skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly,
and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me
with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about
Nicholls and Jackson.
To be continued
