Part 1 - My Man Jeeves Audiobook by P. G. Wodehouse (Chs 1-4)

Uploaded by CCProse on 24.09.2011

Jeeves--my man, you know--is really a most extraordinary chap.
So capable. Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do
without him.
On broader lines he's like those chappies who sit peering sadly over the marble
battlements at the Pennsylvania Station in the place marked "Inquiries."
You know the Johnnies I mean.
You go up to them and say: "When's the next train for Melonsquashville, Tennessee?" and
they reply, without stopping to think, "Two-forty-three, track ten, change at San
And they're right every time. Well, Jeeves gives you just the same
impression of omniscience.
As an instance of what I mean, I remember meeting Monty Byng in Bond Street one
morning, looking the last word in a grey check suit, and I felt I should never be
happy till I had one like it.
I dug the address of the tailors out of him, and had them working on the thing
inside the hour. "Jeeves," I said that evening.
"I'm getting a check suit like that one of Mr. Byng's."
"Injudicious, sir," he said firmly. "It will not become you."
"What absolute rot!
It's the soundest thing I've struck for years."
"Unsuitable for you, sir."
Well, the long and the short of it was that the confounded thing came home, and I put
it on, and when I caught sight of myself in the glass I nearly swooned.
Jeeves was perfectly right.
I looked a cross between a music-hall comedian and a cheap bookie.
Yet Monty had looked fine in absolutely the same stuff.
These things are just Life's mysteries, and that's all there is to it.
But it isn't only that Jeeves's judgment about clothes is infallible, though, of
course, that's really the main thing.
The man knows everything. There was the matter of that tip on the
"Lincolnshire." I forget now how I got it, but it had the
aspect of being the real, red-hot tabasco.
"Jeeves," I said, for I'm fond of the man, and like to do him a good turn when I can,
"if you want to make a bit of money have something on Wonderchild for the
He shook his head. "I'd rather not, sir."
"But it's the straight goods. I'm going to put my shirt on him."
"I do not recommend it, sir.
The animal is not intended to win. Second place is what the stable is after."
Perfect piffle, I thought, of course. How the deuce could Jeeves know anything
about it?
Still, you know what happened. Wonderchild led till he was breathing on
the wire, and then Banana Fritter came along and nosed him out.
I went straight home and rang for Jeeves.
"After this," I said, "not another step for me without your advice.
From now on consider yourself the brains of the establishment."
"Very good, sir.
I shall endeavour to give satisfaction." And he has, by Jove!
I'm a bit short on brain myself; the old bean would appear to have been constructed
more for ornament than for use, don't you know; but give me five minutes to talk the
thing over with Jeeves, and I'm game to advise any one about anything.
And that's why, when Bruce Corcoran came to me with his troubles, my first act was to
ring the bell and put it up to the lad with the bulging forehead.
"Leave it to Jeeves," I said.
I first got to know Corky when I came to New York.
He was a pal of my cousin Gussie, who was in with a lot of people down Washington
Square way.
I don't know if I ever told you about it, but the reason why I left England was
because I was sent over by my Aunt Agatha to try to stop young Gussie marrying a girl
on the vaudeville stage, and I got the
whole thing so mixed up that I decided that it would be a sound scheme for me to stop
on in America for a bit instead of going back and having long cosy chats about the
thing with aunt.
So I sent Jeeves out to find a decent apartment, and settled down for a bit of
exile. I'm bound to say that New York's a topping
place to be exiled in.
Everybody was awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things going on, and
I'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine.
Chappies introduced me to other chappies, and so on and so forth, and it wasn't long
before I knew squads of the right sort, some who rolled in dollars in houses up by
the Park, and others who lived with the gas
turned down mostly around Washington Square--artists and writers and so forth.
Brainy coves. Corky was one of the artists.
A portrait-painter, he called himself, but he hadn't painted any portraits.
He was sitting on the side-lines with a blanket over his shoulders, waiting for a
chance to get into the game.
You see, the catch about portrait-painting- -I've looked into the thing a bit--is that
you can't start painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they
won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first.
This makes it kind of difficult for a chappie.
Corky managed to get along by drawing an occasional picture for the comic papers--he
had rather a gift for funny stuff when he got a good idea--and doing bedsteads and
chairs and things for the advertisements.
His principal source of income, however, was derived from biting the ear of a rich
uncle--one Alexander Worple, who was in the jute business.
I'm a bit foggy as to what jute is, but it's apparently something the populace is
pretty keen on, for Mr. Worple had made quite an indecently large stack out of it.
Now, a great many fellows think that having a rich uncle is a pretty soft snap: but,
according to Corky, such is not the case. Corky's uncle was a robust sort of cove,
who looked like living for ever.
He was fifty-one, and it seemed as if he might go to par.
It was not this, however, that distressed poor old Corky, for he was not bigoted and
had no objection to the man going on living.
What Corky kicked at was the way the above Worple used to harry him.
Corky's uncle, you see, didn't want him to be an artist.
He didn't think he had any talent in that direction.
He was always urging him to chuck Art and go into the jute business and start at the
bottom and work his way up.
Jute had apparently become a sort of obsession with him.
He seemed to attach almost a spiritual importance to it.
And what Corky said was that, while he didn't know what they did at the bottom of
the jute business, instinct told him that it was something too beastly for words.
Corky, moreover, believed in his future as an artist.
Some day, he said, he was going to make a hit.
Meanwhile, by using the utmost tact and persuasiveness, he was inducing his uncle
to cough up very grudgingly a small quarterly allowance.
He wouldn't have got this if his uncle hadn't had a hobby.
Mr. Worple was peculiar in this respect.
As a rule, from what I've observed, the American captain of industry doesn't do
anything out of business hours.
When he has put the cat out and locked up the office for the night, he just relapses
into a state of coma from which he emerges only to start being a captain of industry
But Mr. Worple in his spare time was what is known as an ornithologist.
He had written a book called American Birds, and was writing another, to be
called More American Birds.
When he had finished that, the presumption was that he would begin a third, and keep
on till the supply of American birds gave out.
Corky used to go to him about once every three months and let him talk about
American birds.
Apparently you could do what you liked with old Worple if you gave him his head first
on his pet subject, so these little chats used to make Corky's allowance all right
for the time being.
But it was pretty rotten for the poor chap. There was the frightful suspense, you see,
and, apart from that, birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold
bottle, bored him stiff.
To complete the character-study of Mr. Worple, he was a man of extremely uncertain
temper, and his general tendency was to think that Corky was a poor chump and that
whatever step he took in any direction on
his own account, was just another proof of his innate idiocy.
I should imagine Jeeves feels very much the same about me.
So when Corky trickled into my apartment one afternoon, shooing a girl in front of
him, and said, "Bertie, I want you to meet my fiancee, Miss Singer," the aspect of the
matter which hit me first was precisely the one which he had come to consult me about.
The very first words I spoke were, "Corky, how about your uncle?"
The poor chap gave one of those mirthless laughs.
He was looking anxious and worried, like a man who has done the murder all right but
can't think what the deuce to do with the body.
"We're so scared, Mr. Wooster," said the girl.
"We were hoping that you might suggest a way of breaking it to him."
Muriel Singer was one of those very quiet, appealing girls who have a way of looking
at you with their big eyes as if they thought you were the greatest thing on
earth and wondered that you hadn't got on to it yet yourself.
She sat there in a sort of shrinking way, looking at me as if she were saying to
herself, "Oh, I do hope this great strong man isn't going to hurt me."
She gave a fellow a protective kind of feeling, made him want to stroke her hand
and say, "There, there, little one!" or words to that effect.
She made me feel that there was nothing I wouldn't do for her.
She was rather like one of those innocent- tasting American drinks which creep
imperceptibly into your system so that, before you know what you're doing, you're
starting out to reform the world by force
if necessary and pausing on your way to tell the large man in the corner that, if
he looks at you like that, you will knock his head off.
What I mean is, she made me feel alert and dashing, like a jolly old knight-errant or
something of that kind. I felt that I was with her in this thing to
the limit.
"I don't see why your uncle shouldn't be most awfully bucked," I said to Corky.
"He will think Miss Singer the ideal wife for you."
Corky declined to cheer up.
"You don't know him. Even if he did like Muriel he wouldn't
admit it. That's the sort of pig-headed guy he is.
It would be a matter of principle with him to kick.
All he would consider would be that I had gone and taken an important step without
asking his advice, and he would raise Cain automatically.
He's always done it."
I strained the old bean to meet this emergency.
"You want to work it so that he makes Miss Singer's acquaintance without knowing that
you know her.
Then you come along----" "But how can I work it that way?"
I saw his point. That was the catch.
"There's only one thing to do," I said.
"What's that?" "Leave it to Jeeves."
And I rang the bell. "Sir?" said Jeeves, kind of manifesting
One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you
very seldom see him come into a room.
He's like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve themselves into thin air
and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts
again just where they want them.
I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly
worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to
having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.
The moment I saw the man standing there, registering respectful attention, a weight
seemed to roll off my mind.
I felt like a lost child who spots his father in the offing.
There was something about him that gave me confidence.
Jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces.
His eye gleams with the light of pure intelligence.
"Jeeves, we want your advice."
"Very good, sir." I boiled down Corky's painful case into a
few well-chosen words. "So you see what it amount to, Jeeves.
We want you to suggest some way by which Mr. Worple can make Miss Singer's
acquaintance without getting on to the fact that Mr. Corcoran already knows her.
"Perfectly, sir." "Well, try to think of something."
"I have thought of something already, sir." "You have!"
"The scheme I would suggest cannot fail of success, but it has what may seem to you a
drawback, sir, in that it requires a certain financial outlay."
"He means," I translated to Corky, "that he has got a pippin of an idea, but it's going
to cost a bit." Naturally the poor chap's face dropped, for
this seemed to dish the whole thing.
But I was still under the influence of the girl's melting gaze, and I saw that this
was where I started in as a knight-errant. "You can count on me for all that sort of
thing, Corky," I said.
"Only too glad. Carry on, Jeeves."
"I would suggest, sir, that Mr. Corcoran take advantage of Mr. Worple's attachment
to ornithology."
"How on earth did you know that he was fond of birds?"
"It is the way these New York apartments are constructed, sir.
Quite unlike our London houses.
The partitions between the rooms are of the flimsiest nature.
With no wish to overhear, I have sometimes heard Mr. Corcoran expressing himself with
a generous strength on the subject I have mentioned."
Well?" "Why should not the young lady write a
small volume, to be entitled--let us say-- The Children's Book of American Birds, and
dedicate it to Mr. Worple!
A limited edition could be published at your expense, sir, and a great deal of the
book would, of course, be given over to eulogistic remarks concerning Mr. Worple's
own larger treatise on the same subject.
I should recommend the dispatching of a presentation copy to Mr. Worple,
immediately on publication, accompanied by a letter in which the young lady asks to be
allowed to make the acquaintance of one to whom she owes so much.
This would, I fancy, produce the desired result, but as I say, the expense involved
would be considerable."
I felt like the proprietor of a performing dog on the vaudeville stage when the tyke
has just pulled off his trick without a hitch.
I had betted on Jeeves all along, and I had known that he wouldn't let me down.
It beats me sometimes why a man with his genius is satisfied to hang around pressing
my clothes and whatnot.
If I had half Jeeves's brain, I should have a stab, at being Prime Minister or
something. "Jeeves," I said, "that is absolutely
One of your very best efforts." "Thank you, sir."
The girl made an objection. "But I'm sure I couldn't write a book about
I can't even write good letters." "Muriel's talents," said Corky, with a
little cough "lie more in the direction of the drama, Bertie.
I didn't mention it before, but one of our reasons for being a trifle nervous as to
how Uncle Alexander will receive the news is that Muriel is in the chorus of that
show Choose your Exit at the Manhattan.
It's absurdly unreasonable, but we both feel that that fact might increase Uncle
Alexander's natural tendency to kick like a steer."
I saw what he meant.
Goodness knows there was fuss enough in our family when I tried to marry into musical
comedy a few years ago.
And the recollection of my Aunt Agatha's attitude in the matter of Gussie and the
vaudeville girl was still fresh in my mind.
I don't know why it is--one of these psychology sharps could explain it, I
suppose--but uncles and aunts, as a class, are always dead against the drama,
legitimate or otherwise.
They don't seem able to stick it at any price.
But Jeeves had a solution, of course.
"I fancy it would be a simple matter, sir, to find some impecunious author who would
be glad to do the actual composition of the volume for a small fee.
It is only necessary that the young lady's name should appear on the title page."
"That's true," said Corky. "Sam Patterson would do it for a hundred
He writes a novelette, three short stories, and ten thousand words of a serial for one
of the all-fiction magazines under different names every month.
A little thing like this would be nothing to him.
I'll get after him right away." "Fine!"
"Will that be all, sir?" said Jeeves.
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."
I always used to think that publishers had to be devilish intelligent fellows, loaded
down with the grey matter; but I've got their number now.
All a publisher has to do is to write cheques at intervals, while a lot of
deserving and industrious chappies rally round and do the real work.
I know, because I've been one myself.
I simply sat tight in the old apartment with a fountain-pen, and in due season a
topping, shiny book came along.
I happened to be down at Corky's place when the first copies of The Children's Book of
American Birds bobbed up.
Muriel Singer was there, and we were talking of things in general when there was
a bang at the door and the parcel was delivered.
It was certainly some book.
It had a red cover with a fowl of some species on it, and underneath the girl's
name in gold letters. I opened a copy at random.
"Often of a spring morning," it said at the top of page twenty-one, "as you wander
through the fields, you will hear the sweet-toned, carelessly flowing warble of
the purple finch linnet.
When you are older you must read all about him in Mr. Alexander Worple's wonderful
book--American Birds." You see.
A boost for the uncle right away.
And only a few pages later there he was in the limelight again in connection with the
yellow-billed cuckoo. It was great stuff.
The more I read, the more I admired the chap who had written it and Jeeves's genius
in putting us on to the wheeze. I didn't see how the uncle could fail to
You can't call a chap the world's greatest authority on the yellow-billed cuckoo
without rousing a certain disposition towards chumminess in him.
"It's a cert!"
I said. "An absolute cinch!" said Corky.
And a day or two later he meandered up the Avenue to my apartment to tell me that all
was well.
The uncle had written Muriel a letter so dripping with the milk of human kindness
that if he hadn't known Mr. Worple's handwriting Corky would have refused to
believe him the author of it.
Any time it suited Miss Singer to call, said the uncle, he would be delighted to
make her acquaintance. Shortly after this I had to go out of town.
Divers sound sportsmen had invited me to pay visits to their country places, and it
wasn't for several months that I settled down in the city again.
I had been wondering a lot, of course, about Corky, whether it all turned out
right, and so forth, and my first evening in New York, happening to pop into a quiet
sort of little restaurant which I go to
when I don't feel inclined for the bright lights, I found Muriel Singer there,
sitting by herself at a table near the door.
Corky, I took it, was out telephoning.
I went up and passed the time of day. "Well, well, well, what?"
I said. "Why, Mr. Wooster!
How do you do?"
"Corky around?" "I beg your pardon?"
"You're waiting for Corky, aren't you?" "Oh, I didn't understand.
No, I'm not waiting for him."
It seemed to roe that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind of
thingummy, you know. "I say, you haven't had a row with Corky,
have you?"
"A row?" "A spat, don't you know--little
misunderstanding--faults on both sides--er- -and all that sort of thing."
"Why, whatever makes you think that?"
"Oh, well, as it were, what? What I mean is--I thought you usually dined
with him before you went to the theatre." "I've left the stage now."
Suddenly the whole thing dawned on me.
I had forgotten what a long time I had been away.
"Why, of course, I see now! You're married!"
"How perfectly topping! I wish you all kinds of happiness."
"Thank you, so much. Oh Alexander," she said, looking past me,
"this is a friend of mine--Mr. Wooster."
I spun round. A chappie with a lot of stiff grey hair and
a red sort of healthy face was standing there.
Rather a formidable Johnnie, he looked, though quite peaceful at the moment.
"I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Wooster.
Mr. Wooster is a friend of Bruce's, Alexander."
The old boy grasped my hand warmly, and that was all that kept me from hitting the
floor in a heap.
The place was rocking. Absolutely.
"So you know my nephew, Mr. Wooster," I heard him say.
"I wish you would try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit this
playing at painting. But I have an idea that he is steadying
I noticed it first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to be introduced
to you. He seemed altogether quieter and more
Something seemed to have sobered him. Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of
your company at dinner to-night, Mr. Wooster?
Or have you dined?"
I said I had. What I needed then was air, not dinner.
I felt that I wanted to get into the open and think this thing out.
When I reached my apartment I heard Jeeves moving about in his lair.
I called him. "Jeeves," I said, "now is the time for all
good men to come to the aid of the party.
A stiff b.-and-s. first of all, and then I've a bit of news for you."
He came back with a tray and a long glass. "Better have one yourself, Jeeves.
You'll need it."
"Later on, perhaps, thank you, sir." "All right.
Please yourself. But you're going to get a shock.
You remember my friend, Mr. Corcoran?"
"Yes, sir." "And the girl who was to slide gracefully
into his uncle's esteem by writing the book on birds?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Well, she's slid. She's married the uncle."
He took it without blinking. You can't rattle Jeeves.
"That was always a development to be feared, sir."
"You don't mean to tell me that you were expecting it?"
"It crossed my mind as a possibility."
"Did it, by Jove! Well, I think, you might have warned us!"
"I hardly liked to take the liberty, sir."
Of course, as I saw after I had had a bite to eat and was in a calmer frame of mind,
what had happened wasn't my fault, if you come down to it.
I couldn't be expected to foresee that the scheme, in itself a cracker-jack, would
skid into the ditch as it had done; but all the same I'm bound to admit that I didn't
relish the idea of meeting Corky again
until time, the great healer, had been able to get in a bit of soothing work.
I cut Washington Square out absolutely for the next few months.
I gave it the complete miss-in-baulk.
And then, just when I was beginning to think I might safely pop down in that
direction and gather up the dropped threads, so to speak, time, instead of
working the healing wheeze, went and pulled the most awful bone and put the lid on it.
Opening the paper one morning, I read that Mrs. Alexander Worple had presented her
husband with a son and heir.
I was so darned sorry for poor old Corky that I hadn't the heart to touch my
breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself.
I was bowled over.
Absolutely. It was the limit.
I hardly knew what to do.
I wanted, of course, to rush down to Washington Square and grip the poor
blighter silently by the hand; and then, thinking it over, I hadn't the nerve.
Absent treatment seemed the touch.
I gave it him in waves. But after a month or so I began to hesitate
It struck me that it was playing it a bit low-down on the poor chap, avoiding him
like this just when he probably wanted his pals to surge round him most.
I pictured him sitting in his lonely studio with no company but his bitter thoughts,
and the pathos of it got me to such an extent that I bounded straight into a taxi
and told the driver to go all out for the studio.
I rushed in, and there was Corky, hunched up at the easel, painting away, while on
the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middle age, holding a baby.
A fellow has to be ready for that sort of thing.
"Oh, ah!" I said, and started to back out.
Corky looked over his shoulder.
"Halloa, Bertie. Don't go.
We're just finishing for the day.
That will be all this afternoon," he said to the nurse, who got up with the baby and
decanted it into a perambulator which was standing in the fairway.
"At the same hour to-morrow, Mr. Corcoran?"
"Yes, please." "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon."
Corky stood there, looking at the door, and then he turned to me and began to get it
off his chest.
Fortunately, he seemed to take it for granted that I knew all about what had
happened, so it wasn't as awkward as it might have been.
"It's my uncle's idea," he said.
"Muriel doesn't know about it yet. The portrait's to be a surprise for her on
her birthday. The nurse takes the kid out ostensibly to
get a breather, and they beat it down here.
If you want an instance of the irony of fate, Bertie, get acquainted with this.
Here's the first commission I have ever had to paint a portrait, and the sitter is that
human poached egg that has butted in and bounced me out of my inheritance.
Can you beat it!
I call it rubbing the thing in to expect me to spend my afternoons gazing into the ugly
face of a little brat who to all intents and purposes has hit me behind the ear with
a blackjack and swiped all I possess.
I can't refuse to paint the portrait because if I did my uncle would stop my
allowance; yet every time I look up and catch that kid's vacant eye, I suffer
I tell you, Bertie, sometimes when he gives me a patronizing glance and then turns away
and is sick, as if it revolted him to look at me, I come within an ace of occupying
the entire front page of the evening papers as the latest murder sensation.
There are moments when I can almost see the headlines: 'Promising Young Artist Beans
Baby With Axe.'"
I patted his shoulder silently. My sympathy for the poor old scout was too
deep for words.
I kept away from the studio for some time after that, because it didn't seem right to
me to intrude on the poor chappie's sorrow. Besides, I'm bound to say that nurse
intimidated me.
She reminded me so infernally of Aunt Agatha.
She was the same gimlet-eyed type. But one afternoon Corky called me on the
"Bertie." "Halloa?"
"Are you doing anything this afternoon?" "Nothing special."
"You couldn't come down here, could you?"
"What's the trouble? Anything up?"
"I've finished the portrait." "Good boy!
Stout work!"
"Yes." His voice sounded rather doubtful.
"The fact is, Bertie, it doesn't look quite right to me.
There's something about it--My uncle's coming in half an hour to inspect it, and--
I don't know why it is, but I kind of feel I'd like your moral support!"
I began to see that I was letting myself in for something.
The sympathetic co-operation of Jeeves seemed to me to be indicated.
"You think he'll cut up rough?"
"He may." I threw my mind back to the red-faced
chappie I had met at the restaurant, and tried to picture him cutting up rough.
It was only too easy.
I spoke to Corky firmly on the telephone. "I'll come," I said.
"Good!" "But only if I may bring Jeeves!"
"Why Jeeves?
What's Jeeves got to do with it? Who wants Jeeves?
Jeeves is the fool who suggested the scheme that has led----"
"Listen, Corky, old top!
If you think I am going to face that uncle of yours without Jeeves's support, you're
mistaken. I'd sooner go into a den of wild beasts and
bite a lion on the back of the neck."
"Oh, all right," said Corky. Not cordially, but he said it; so I rang
for Jeeves, and explained the situation. "Very good, sir," said Jeeves.
That's the sort of chap he is.
You can't rattle him. We found Corky near the door, looking at
the picture, with one hand up in a defensive sort of way, as if he thought it
might swing on him.
"Stand right where you are, Bertie," he said, without moving.
"Now, tell me honestly, how does it strike you?"
The light from the big window fell right on the picture.
I took a good look at it. Then I shifted a bit nearer and took
another look.
Then I went back to where I had been at first, because it hadn't seemed quite so
bad from there. "Well?" said Corky, anxiously.
I hesitated a bit.
"Of course, old man, I only saw the kid once, and then only for a moment, but--but
it was an ugly sort of kid, wasn't it, if I remember rightly?"
"As ugly as that?"
I looked again, and honesty compelled me to be frank.
"I don't see how it could have been, old chap."
Poor old Corky ran his fingers through his hair in a temperamental sort of way.
He groaned. "You're right quite, Bertie.
Something's gone wrong with the darned thing.
My private impression is that, without knowing it, I've worked that stunt that
Sargent and those fellows pull--painting the soul of the sitter.
I've got through the mere outward appearance, and have put the child's soul
on canvas." "But could a child of that age have a soul
like that?
I don't see how he could have managed it in the time.
What do you think, Jeeves?" "I doubt it, sir."
"It--it sorts of leers at you, doesn't it?"
"You've noticed that, too?" said Corky. "I don't see how one could help noticing."
"All I tried to do was to give the little brute a cheerful expression.
But, as it worked out, he looks positively dissipated."
"Just what I was going to suggest, old man.
He looks as if he were in the middle of a colossal spree, and enjoying every minute
of it. Don't you think so, Jeeves?"
"He has a decidedly inebriated air, sir."
Corky was starting to say something when the door opened, and the uncle came in.
For about three seconds all was joy, jollity, and goodwill.
The old boy shook hands with me, slapped Corky on the back, said that he didn't
think he had ever seen such a fine day, and whacked his leg with his stick.
Jeeves had projected himself into the background, and he didn't notice him.
"Well, Bruce, my boy; so the portrait is really finished, is it--really finished?
Well, bring it out.
Let's have a look at it. This will be a wonderful surprise for your
aunt. Where is it?
And then he got it--suddenly, when he wasn't set for the punch; and he rocked
back on his heels. "Oosh!" he exclaimed.
And for perhaps a minute there was one of the scaliest silences I've ever run up
"Is this a practical joke?" he said at last, in a way that set about sixteen
draughts cutting through the room at once. I thought it was up to me to rally round
old Corky.
"You want to stand a bit farther away from it," I said.
"You're perfectly right!" he snorted. "I do!
I want to stand so far away from it that I can't see the thing with a telescope!"
He turned on Corky like an untamed tiger of the jungle who has just located a chunk of
"And this--this--is what you have been wasting your time and my money for all
these years! A painter!
I wouldn't let you paint a house of mine!
I gave you this commission, thinking that you were a competent worker, and this--
this--this extract from a comic coloured supplement is the result!"
He swung towards the door, lashing his tail and growling to himself.
"This ends it!
If you wish to continue this foolery of pretending to be an artist because you want
an excuse for idleness, please yourself. But let me tell you this.
Unless you report at my office on Monday morning, prepared to abandon all this
idiocy and start in at the bottom of the business to work your way up, as you should
have done half a dozen years ago, not
another cent--not another cent--not another--Boosh!"
Then the door closed, and he was no longer with us.
And I crawled out of the bombproof shelter.
"Corky, old top!" I whispered faintly.
Corky was standing staring at the picture. His face was set.
There was a hunted look in his eye.
"Well, that finishes it!" he muttered brokenly.
"What are you going to do?" "Do?
What can I do?
I can't stick on here if he cuts off supplies.
You heard what he said. I shall have to go to the office on
I couldn't think of a thing to say. I knew exactly how he felt about the
office. I don't know when I've been so infernally
It was like hanging round trying to make conversation to a pal who's just been
sentenced to twenty years in quod. And then a soothing voice broke the
"If I might make a suggestion, sir!" It was Jeeves.
He had slid from the shadows and was gazing gravely at the picture.
Upon my word, I can't give you a better idea of the shattering effect of Corky's
uncle Alexander when in action than by saying that he had absolutely made me
forget for the moment that Jeeves was there.
"I wonder if I have ever happened to mention to you, sir, a Mr. Digby
Thistleton, with whom I was once in service?
Perhaps you have met him?
He was a financier. He is now Lord Bridgnorth.
It was a favourite saying of his that there is always a way.
The first time I heard him use the expression was after the failure of a
patent depilatory which he promoted." "Jeeves," I said, "what on earth are you
talking about?"
"I mentioned Mr. Thistleton, sir, because his was in some respects a parallel case to
the present one. His depilatory failed, but he did not
He put it on the market again under the name of Hair-o, guaranteed to produce a
full crop of hair in a few months.
It was advertised, if you remember, sir, by a humorous picture of a billiard-ball,
before and after taking, and made such a substantial fortune that Mr. Thistleton was
soon afterwards elevated to the peerage for services to his Party.
It seems to me that, if Mr. Corcoran looks into the matter, he will find, like Mr.
Thistleton, that there is always a way.
Mr. Worple himself suggested the solution of the difficulty.
In the heat of the moment he compared the portrait to an extract from a coloured
comic supplement.
I consider the suggestion a very valuable one, sir.
Mr. Corcoran's portrait may not have pleased Mr. Worple as a likeness of his
only child, but I have no doubt that editors would gladly consider it as a
foundation for a series of humorous drawings.
If Mr. Corcoran will allow me to make the suggestion, his talent has always been for
the humorous.
There is something about this picture-- something bold and vigorous, which arrests
the attention. I feel sure it would be highly popular."
Corky was glaring at the picture, and making a sort of dry, sucking noise with
his mouth. He seemed completely overwrought.
And then suddenly he began to laugh in a wild way.
"Corky, old man!" I said, massaging him tenderly.
I feared the poor blighter was hysterical.
He began to stagger about all over the floor.
"He's right! The man's absolutely right!
Jeeves, you're a life-saver!
You've hit on the greatest idea of the age! Report at the office on Monday!
Start at the bottom of the business! I'll buy the business if I feel like it.
I know the man who runs the comic section of the Sunday Star.
He'll eat this thing. He was telling me only the other day how
hard it was to get a good new series.
He'll give me anything I ask for a real winner like this.
I've got a gold-mine. Where's my hat?
I've got an income for life!
Where's that confounded hat? Lend me a fiver, Bertie.
I want to take a taxi down to Park Row!" Jeeves smiled paternally.
Or, rather, he had a kind of paternal muscular spasm about the mouth, which is
the nearest he ever gets to smiling.
"If I might make the suggestion, Mr. Corcoran--for a title of the series which
you have in mind--'The Adventures of Baby Blobbs.'"
Corky and I looked at the picture, then at each other in an awed way.
Jeeves was right. There could be no other title.
"Jeeves," I said.
It was a few weeks later, and I had just finished looking at the comic section of
the Sunday Star. "I'm an optimist.
I always have been.
The older I get, the more I agree with Shakespeare and those poet Johnnies about
it always being darkest before the dawn and there's a silver lining and what you lose
on the swings you make up on the roundabouts.
Look at Mr. Corcoran, for instance. There was a fellow, one would have said,
clear up to the eyebrows in the soup.
To all appearances he had got it right in the neck.
Yet look at him now. Have you seen these pictures?"
"I took the liberty of glancing at them before bringing them to you, sir.
Extremely diverting." "They have made a big hit, you know."
"I anticipated it, sir."
I leaned back against the pillows. "You know, Jeeves, you're a genius.
You ought to be drawing a commission on these things."
"I have nothing to complain of in that respect, sir.
Mr. Corcoran has been most generous. I am putting out the brown suit, sir."
"No, I think I'll wear the blue with the faint red stripe."
"Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."
"But I rather fancy myself in it."
"Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."
"Oh, all right, have it your own way." "Very good, sir.
Thank you, sir."
Of course, I know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then Jeeves is always right.
You've got to consider that, you know. What?
I'm not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare--or, if
not, it's some equally brainy lad--who says that it's always just when a chappie is
feeling particularly top-hole, and more
than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit
of lead piping. There's no doubt the man's right.
It's absolutely that way with me.
Take, for instance, the fairly rummy matter of Lady Malvern and her son Wilmot.
A moment before they turned up, I was just thinking how thoroughly all right
everything was.
It was one of those topping mornings, and I had just climbed out from under the cold
shower, feeling like a two-year-old.
As a matter of fact, I was especially bucked just then because the day before I
had asserted myself with Jeeves--absolutely asserted myself, don't you know.
You see, the way things had been going on I was rapidly becoming a dashed serf.
The man had jolly well oppressed me.
I didn't so much mind when he made me give up one of my new suits, because, Jeeves's
judgment about suits is sound.
But I as near as a toucher rebelled when he wouldn't let me wear a pair of cloth-topped
boots which I loved like a couple of brothers.
And when he tried to tread on me like a worm in the matter of a hat, I jolly well
put my foot down and showed him who was who.
It's a long story, and I haven't time to tell you now, but the point is that he
wanted me to wear the Longacre--as worn by John Drew--when I had set my heart on the
Country Gentleman--as worn by another
famous actor chappie--and the end of the matter was that, after a rather painful
scene, I bought the Country Gentleman.
So that's how things stood on this particular morning, and I was feeling kind
of manly and independent.
Well, I was in the bathroom, wondering what there was going to be for breakfast while I
massaged the good old spine with a rough towel and sang slightly, when there was a
tap at the door.
I stopped singing and opened the door an inch.
"What ho without there!" "Lady Malvern wishes to see you, sir," said
"Eh?" "Lady Malvern, sir.
She is waiting in the sitting-room."
"Pull yourself together, Jeeves, my man," I said, rather severely, for I bar practical
jokes before breakfast. "You know perfectly well there's no one
waiting for me in the sitting-room.
How could there be when it's barely ten o'clock yet?"
"I gathered from her ladyship, sir, that she had landed from an ocean liner at an
early hour this morning."
This made the thing a bit more plausible.
I remembered that when I had arrived in America about a year before, the
proceedings had begun at some ghastly hour like six, and that I had been shot out on
to a foreign shore considerably before eight.
"Who the deuce is Lady Malvern, Jeeves?" "Her ladyship did not confide in me, sir."
"Is she alone?"
"Her ladyship is accompanied by a Lord Pershore, sir.
I fancy that his lordship would be her ladyship's son."
"Oh, well, put out rich raiment of sorts, and I'll be dressing."
"Our heather-mixture lounge is in readiness, sir."
"Then lead me to it."
While I was dressing I kept trying to think who on earth Lady Malvern could be.
It wasn't till I had climbed through the top of my shirt and was reaching out for
the studs that I remembered.
"I've placed her, Jeeves. She's a pal of my Aunt Agatha."
"Indeed, sir?" "Yes.
I met her at lunch one Sunday before I left London.
A very vicious specimen. Writes books.
She wrote a book on social conditions in India when she came back from the Durbar."
"Yes, sir? Pardon me, sir, but not that tie!"
"Not that tie with the heather-mixture lounge, sir!"
It was a shock to me. I thought I had quelled the fellow.
It was rather a solemn moment.
What I mean is, if I weakened now, all my good work the night before would be thrown
away. I braced myself.
"What's wrong with this tie?
I've seen you give it a nasty look before. Speak out like a man!
What's the matter with it?" "Too ornate, sir."
A cheerful pink. Nothing more."
"Unsuitable, sir." "Jeeves, this is the tie I wear!"
"Very good, sir."
Dashed unpleasant. I could see that the man was wounded.
But I was firm. I tied the tie, got into the coat and
waistcoat, and went into the sitting-room.
"Halloa! Halloa!
Halloa!" I said.
"Ah! How do you do, Mr. Wooster?
You have never met my son, Wilmot, I think? Motty, darling, this is Mr. Wooster."
Lady Malvern was a hearty, happy, healthy, overpowering sort of dashed female, not so
very tall but making up for it by measuring about six feet from the O.P. to the Prompt
She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who
knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season.
She had bright, bulging eyes and a lot of yellow hair, and when she spoke she showed
about fifty-seven front teeth. She was one of those women who kind of numb
a fellow's faculties.
She made me feel as if I were ten years old and had been brought into the drawing-room
in my Sunday clothes to say how-d'you-do.
Altogether by no means the sort of thing a chappie would wish to find in his sitting-
room before breakfast. Motty, the son, was about twenty-three,
tall and thin and meek-looking.
He had the same yellow hair as his mother, but he wore it plastered down and parted in
the middle. His eyes bulged, too, but they weren't
They were a dull grey with pink rims. His chin gave up the struggle about half-
way down, and he didn't appear to have any eyelashes.
A mild, furtive, sheepish sort of blighter, in short.
"Awfully glad to see you," I said. "So you've popped over, eh?
Making a long stay in America?"
"About a month. Your aunt gave me your address and told me
to be sure and call on you."
I was glad to hear this, as it showed that Aunt Agatha was beginning to come round a
There had been some unpleasantness a year before, when she had sent me over to New
York to disentangle my Cousin Gussie from the clutches of a girl on the music-hall
When I tell you that by the time I had finished my operations, Gussie had not only
married the girl but had gone on the stage himself, and was doing well, you'll
understand that Aunt Agatha was upset to no small extent.
I simply hadn't dared go back and face her, and it was a relief to find that time had
healed the wound and all that sort of thing enough to make her tell her pals to look me
What I mean is, much as I liked America, I didn't want to have England barred to me
for the rest of my natural; and, believe me, England is a jolly sight too small for
anyone to live in with Aunt Agatha, if she's really on the warpath.
So I braced on hearing these kind words and smiled genially on the assemblage.
"Your aunt said that you would do anything that was in your power to be of assistance
to us." "Rather?
Oh, rather!
Absolutely!" "Thank you so much.
I want you to put dear Motty up for a little while."
I didn't get this for a moment.
"Put him up? For my clubs?"
"No, no! Darling Motty is essentially a home bird.
Aren't you, Motty darling?"
Motty, who was sucking the knob of his stick, uncorked himself.
"Yes, mother," he said, and corked himself up again.
"I should not like him to belong to clubs.
I mean put him up here. Have him to live with you while I am away."
These frightful words trickled out of her like honey.
The woman simply didn't seem to understand the ghastly nature of her proposal.
I gave Motty the swift east-to-west. He was sitting with his mouth nuzzling the
stick, blinking at the wall.
The thought of having this planted on me for an indefinite period appalled me.
Absolutely appalled me, don't you know.
I was just starting to say that the shot wasn't on the board at any price, and that
the first sign Motty gave of trying to nestle into my little home I would yell for
the police, when she went on, rolling placidly over me, as it were.
There was something about this woman that sapped a chappie's will-power.
"I am leaving New York by the midday train, as I have to pay a visit to Sing-Sing
prison. I am extremely interested in prison
conditions in America.
After that I work my way gradually across to the coast, visiting the points of
interest on the journey. You see, Mr. Wooster, I am in America
principally on business.
No doubt you read my book, India and the Indians?
My publishers are anxious for me to write a companion volume on the United States.
I shall not be able to spend more than a month in the country, as I have to get back
for the season, but a month should be ample.
I was less than a month in India, and my dear friend Sir Roger Cremorne wrote his
America from Within after a stay of only two weeks.
I should love to take dear Motty with me, but the poor boy gets so sick when he
travels by train. I shall have to pick him up on my return."
From where I sat I could see Jeeves in the dining-room, laying the breakfast-table.
I wished I could have had a minute with him alone.
I felt certain that he would have been able to think of some way of putting a stop to
this woman. "It will be such a relief to know that
Motty is safe with you, Mr. Wooster.
I know what the temptations of a great city are.
Hitherto dear Motty has been sheltered from them.
He has lived quietly with me in the country.
I know that you will look after him carefully, Mr. Wooster.
He will give very little trouble."
She talked about the poor blighter as if he wasn't there.
Not that Motty seemed to mind. He had stopped chewing his walking-stick
and was sitting there with his mouth open.
"He is a vegetarian and a teetotaller and is devoted to reading.
Give him a nice book and he will be quite contented."
She got up.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Wooster! I don't know what I should have done
without your help. Come, Motty!
We have just time to see a few of the sights before my train goes.
But I shall have to rely on you for most of my information about New York, darling.
Be sure to keep your eyes open and take notes of your impressions!
It will be such a help. Good-bye, Mr. Wooster.
I will send Motty back early in the afternoon."
They went out, and I howled for Jeeves. "Jeeves!
What about it?"
"Sir?" "What's to be done?
You heard it all, didn't you? You were in the dining-room most of the
That pill is coming to stay here." "Pill, sir?"
"The excrescence." "I beg your pardon, sir?"
I looked at Jeeves sharply.
This sort of thing wasn't like him. It was as if he were deliberately trying to
give me the pip. Then I understood.
The man was really upset about that tie.
He was trying to get his own back. "Lord Pershore will be staying here from
to-night, Jeeves," I said coldly. "Very good, sir.
Breakfast is ready, sir."
I could have sobbed into the bacon and eggs.
That there wasn't any sympathy to be got out of Jeeves was what put the lid on it.
For a moment I almost weakened and told him to destroy the hat and tie if he didn't
like them, but I pulled myself together again.
I was dashed if I was going to let Jeeves treat me like a bally one-man chain-gang!
But, what with brooding on Jeeves and brooding on Motty, I was in a pretty
reduced sort of state.
The more I examined the situation, the more blighted it became.
There was nothing I could do.
If I slung Motty out, he would report to his mother, and she would pass it on to
Aunt Agatha, and I didn't like to think what would happen then.
Sooner or later, I should be wanting to go back to England, and I didn't want to get
there and find Aunt Agatha waiting on the quay for me with a stuffed eelskin.
There was absolutely nothing for it but to put the fellow up and make the best of it.
About midday Motty's luggage arrived, and soon afterward a large parcel of what I
took to be nice books.
I brightened up a little when I saw it. It was one of those massive parcels and
looked as if it had enough in it to keep the chappie busy for a year.
I felt a trifle more cheerful, and I got my Country Gentleman hat and stuck it on my
head, and gave the pink tie a twist, and reeled out to take a bite of lunch with one
or two of the lads at a neighbouring
hostelry; and what with excellent browsing and sluicing and cheery conversation and
what-not, the afternoon passed quite happily.
By dinner-time I had almost forgotten blighted Motty's existence.
I dined at the club and looked in at a show afterward, and it wasn't till fairly late
that I got back to the flat.
There were no signs of Motty, and I took it that he had gone to bed.
It seemed rummy to me, though, that the parcel of nice books was still there with
the string and paper on it.
It looked as if Motty, after seeing mother off at the station, had decided to call it
a day. Jeeves came in with the nightly whisky-and-
I could tell by the chappie's manner that he was still upset.
"Lord Pershore gone to bed, Jeeves?" I asked, with reserved hauteur and what-
"No, sir. His lordship has not yet returned."
"Not returned? What do you mean?"
"His lordship came in shortly after six- thirty, and, having dressed, went out
At this moment there was a noise outside the front door, a sort of scrabbling noise,
as if somebody were trying to paw his way through the woodwork.
Then a sort of thud.
"Better go and see what that is, Jeeves." "Very good, sir."
He went out and came back again.
"If you would not mind stepping this way, sir, I think we might be able to carry him
in." "Carry him in?"
"His lordship is lying on the mat, sir."
I went to the front door. The man was right.
There was Motty huddled up outside on the floor.
He was moaning a bit.
"He's had some sort of dashed fit," I said. I took another look.
"Jeeves! Someone's been feeding him meat!"
"He's a vegetarian, you know. He must have been digging into a steak or
something. Call up a doctor!"
"I hardly think it will be necessary, sir.
If you would take his lordship's legs, while I----"
"Great Scot, Jeeves! You don't think--he can't be----"
"I am inclined to think so, sir."
And, by Jove, he was right! Once on the right track, you couldn't
mistake it. Motty was under the surface.
It was the deuce of a shock.
"You never can tell, Jeeves!" "Very seldom, sir."
"Remove the eye of authority and where are you?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Where is my wandering boy to-night and all that sort of thing, what?"
"It would seem so, sir." "Well, we had better bring him in, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
So we lugged him in, and Jeeves put him to bed, and I lit a cigarette and sat down to
think the thing over. I had a kind of foreboding.
It seemed to me that I had let myself in for something pretty rocky.
Next morning, after I had sucked down a thoughtful cup of tea, I went into Motty's
room to investigate.
I expected to find the fellow a wreck, but there he was, sitting up in bed, quite
chirpy, reading Gingery stories. "What ho!"
I said.
"What ho!" said Motty. "What ho!
What ho!" "What ho!
What ho!
What ho!" After that it seemed rather difficult to go
on with the conversation. "How are you feeling this morning?"
I asked.
"Topping!" replied Motty, blithely and with abandon.
"I say, you know, that fellow of yours-- Jeeves, you know--is a corker.
I had a most frightful headache when I woke up, and he brought me a sort of rummy dark
drink, and it put me right again at once. Said it was his own invention.
I must see more of that lad.
He seems to me distinctly one of the ones!" I couldn't believe that this was the same
blighter who had sat and sucked his stick the day before.
"You ate something that disagreed with you last night, didn't you?"
I said, by way of giving him a chance to slide out of it if he wanted to.
But he wouldn't have it, at any price.
"No!" he replied firmly. "I didn't do anything of the kind.
I drank too much! Much too much.
Lots and lots too much!
And, what's more, I'm going to do it again! I'm going to do it every night.
If ever you see me sober, old top," he said, with a kind of holy exaltation, "tap
me on the shoulder and say, 'Tut!
Tut!' and I'll apologize and remedy the defect."
"But I say, you know, what about me?" "What about you?"
"Well, I'm so to speak, as it were, kind of responsible for you.
What I mean to say is, if you go doing this sort of thing I'm apt to get in the soup
"I can't help your troubles," said Motty firmly.
"Listen to me, old thing: this is the first time in my life that I've had a real chance
to yield to the temptations of a great city.
What's the use of a great city having temptations if fellows don't yield to them?
Makes it so bally discouraging for a great city.
Besides, mother told me to keep my eyes open and collect impressions."
I sat on the edge of the bed. I felt dizzy.
"I know just how you feel, old dear," said Motty consolingly.
"And, if my principles would permit it, I would simmer down for your sake.
But duty first!
This is the first time I've been let out alone, and I mean to make the most of it.
We're only young once. Why interfere with life's morning?
Young man, rejoice in thy youth!
Tra-la! What ho!"
Put like that, it did seem reasonable.
"All my bally life, dear boy," Motty went on, "I've been cooped up in the ancestral
home at Much Middlefold, in Shropshire, and till you've been cooped up in Much
Middlefold you don't know what cooping is!
The only time we get any excitement is when one of the choir-boys is caught sucking
chocolate during the sermon. When that happens, we talk about it for
I've got about a month of New York, and I mean to store up a few happy memories for
the long winter evenings. This is my only chance to collect a past,
and I'm going to do it.
Now tell me, old sport, as man to man, how does one get in touch with that very decent
chappie Jeeves? Does one ring a bell or shout a bit?
I should like to discuss the subject of a good stiff b.-and-s. with him!"
I had had a sort of vague idea, don't you know, that if I stuck close to Motty and
went about the place with him, I might act as a bit of a damper on the gaiety.
What I mean is, I thought that if, when he was being the life and soul of the party,
he were to catch my reproving eye he might ease up a trifle on the revelry.
So the next night I took him along to supper with me.
It was the last time.
I'm a quiet, peaceful sort of chappie who has lived all his life in London, and I
can't stand the pace these swift sportsmen from the rural districts set.
What I mean to say is this, I'm all for rational enjoyment and so forth, but I
think a chappie makes himself conspicuous when he throws soft-boiled eggs at the
electric fan.
And decent mirth and all that sort of thing are all right, but I do bar dancing on
tables and having to dash all over the place dodging waiters, managers, and
chuckers-out, just when you want to sit still and digest.
Directly I managed to tear myself away that night and get home, I made up my mind that
this was jolly well the last time that I went about with Motty.
The only time I met him late at night after that was once when I passed the door of a
fairly low-down sort of restaurant and had to step aside to dodge him as he sailed
through the air en route for the opposite
pavement, with a muscular sort of looking chappie peering out after him with a kind
of gloomy satisfaction. In a way, I couldn't help sympathizing with
the fellow.
He had about four weeks to have the good time that ought to have been spread over
about ten years, and I didn't wonder at his wanting to be pretty busy.
I should have been just the same in his place.
Still, there was no denying that it was a bit thick.
If it hadn't been for the thought of Lady Malvern and Aunt Agatha in the background,
I should have regarded Motty's rapid work with an indulgent smile.
But I couldn't get rid of the feeling that, sooner or later, I was the lad who was
scheduled to get it behind the ear.
And what with brooding on this prospect, and sitting up in the old flat waiting for
the familiar footstep, and putting it to bed when it got there, and stealing into
the sick-chamber next morning to
contemplate the wreckage, I was beginning to lose weight.
Absolutely becoming the good old shadow, I give you my honest word.
Starting at sudden noises and what-not.
And no sympathy from Jeeves. That was what cut me to the quick.
The man was still thoroughly pipped about the hat and tie, and simply wouldn't rally
One morning I wanted comforting so much that I sank the pride of the Woosters and
appealed to the fellow direct. "Jeeves," I said, "this is getting a bit
"Sir?" Business and cold respectfulness.
"You know what I mean. This lad seems to have chucked all the
principles of a well-spent boyhood.
He has got it up his nose!" "Yes, sir."
"Well, I shall get blamed, don't you know. You know what my Aunt Agatha is!"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, then." I waited a moment, but he wouldn't unbend.
"Jeeves," I said, "haven't you any scheme up your sleeve for coping with this
"No, sir." And he shimmered off to his lair.
Obstinate devil! So dashed absurd, don't you know.
It wasn't as if there was anything wrong with that Country Gentleman hat.
It was a remarkably priceless effort, and much admired by the lads.
But, just because he preferred the Longacre, he left me flat.
It was shortly after this that young Motty got the idea of bringing pals back in the
small hours to continue the gay revels in the home.
This was where I began to crack under the strain.
You see, the part of town where I was living wasn't the right place for that sort
of thing.
I knew lots of chappies down Washington Square way who started the evening at about
2 a.m.--artists and writers and what-not, who frolicked considerably till checked by
the arrival of the morning milk.
That was all right. They like that sort of thing down there.
The neighbours can't get to sleep unless there's someone dancing Hawaiian dances
over their heads.
But on Fifty-seventh Street the atmosphere wasn't right, and when Motty turned up at
three in the morning with a collection of hearty lads, who only stopped singing their
college song when they started singing "The
Old Oaken Bucket," there was a marked peevishness among the old settlers in the
The management was extremely terse over the telephone at breakfast-time, and took a lot
of soothing.
The next night I came home early, after a lonely dinner at a place which I'd chosen
because there didn't seem any chance of meeting Motty there.
The sitting-room was quite dark, and I was just moving to switch on the light, when
there was a sort of explosion and something collared hold of my trouser-leg.
Living with Motty had reduced me to such an extent that I was simply unable to cope
with this thing.
I jumped backward with a loud yell of anguish, and tumbled out into the hall just
as Jeeves came out of his den to see what the matter was.
"Did you call, sir?"
"Jeeves! There's something in there that grabs you
by the leg!" "That would be Rollo, sir."
"I would have warned you of his presence, but I did not hear you come in.
His temper is a little uncertain at present, as he has not yet settled down."
"Who the deuce is Rollo?"
"His lordship's bull-terrier, sir. His lordship won him in a raffle, and tied
him to the leg of the table. If you will allow me, sir, I will go in and
switch on the light."
There really is nobody like Jeeves. He walked straight into the sitting-room,
the biggest feat since Daniel and the lions' den, without a quiver.
What's more, his magnetism or whatever they call it was such that the dashed animal,
instead of pinning him by the leg, calmed down as if he had had a bromide, and rolled
over on his back with all his paws in the air.
If Jeeves had been his rich uncle he couldn't have been more chummy.
Yet directly he caught sight of me again, he got all worked up and seemed to have
only one idea in life--to start chewing me where he had left off.
"Rollo is not used to you yet, sir," said Jeeves, regarding the bally quadruped in an
admiring sort of way. "He is an excellent watchdog."
"I don't want a watchdog to keep me out of my rooms."
"No, sir." "Well, what am I to do?"
"No doubt in time the animal will learn to discriminate, sir.
He will learn to distinguish your peculiar scent."
"What do you mean--my peculiar scent?
Correct the impression that I intend to hang about in the hall while life slips by,
in the hope that one of these days that dashed animal will decide that I smell all
I thought for a bit. "Jeeves!"
"Sir?" "I'm going away--to-morrow morning by the
first train.
I shall go and stop with Mr. Todd in the country."
"Do you wish me to accompany you, sir?" "No."
"Very good, sir."
"I don't know when I shall be back. Forward my letters."
"Yes, sir." As a matter of fact, I was back within the
Rocky Todd, the pal I went to stay with, is a rummy sort of a chap who lives all alone
in the wilds of Long Island, and likes it; but a little of that sort of thing goes a
long way with me.
Dear old Rocky is one of the best, but after a few days in his cottage in the
woods, miles away from anywhere, New York, even with Motty on the premises, began to
look pretty good to me.
The days down on Long Island have forty- eight hours in them; you can't get to sleep
at night because of the bellowing of the crickets; and you have to walk two miles
for a drink and six for an evening paper.
I thanked Rocky for his kind hospitality, and caught the only train they have down in
those parts. It landed me in New York about dinner-time.
I went straight to the old flat.
Jeeves came out of his lair. I looked round cautiously for Rollo.
"Where's that dog, Jeeves? Have you got him tied up?"
"The animal is no longer here, sir.
His lordship gave him to the porter, who sold him.
His lordship took a prejudice against the animal on account of being bitten by him in
the calf of the leg."
I don't think I've ever been so bucked by a bit of news.
I felt I had misjudged Rollo. Evidently, when you got to know him better,
he had a lot of intelligence in him.
"Ripping!" I said.
"Is Lord Pershore in, Jeeves?" "No, sir."
"Do you expect him back to dinner?"
"No, sir." "Where is he?"
"In prison, sir." Have you ever trodden on a rake and had the
handle jump up and hit you?
That's how I felt then. "In prison!"
"Yes, sir." "You don't mean--in prison?"
"Yes, sir."
I lowered myself into a chair. "Why?"
I said. "He assaulted a constable, sir."
"Lord Pershore assaulted a constable!"
"Yes, sir." I digested this.
"But, Jeeves, I say! This is frightful!"
"What will Lady Malvern say when she finds out?"
"I do not fancy that her ladyship will find out, sir."
"But she'll come back and want to know where he is."
"I rather fancy, sir, that his lordship's bit of time will have run out by then."
"But supposing it hasn't?"
"In that event, sir, it may be judicious to prevaricate a little."
"If I might make the suggestion, sir, I should inform her ladyship that his
lordship has left for a short visit to Boston."
"Why Boston?"
"Very interesting and respectable centre, sir."
"Jeeves, I believe you've hit it." "I fancy so, sir."
"Why, this is really the best thing that could have happened.
If this hadn't turned up to prevent him, young Motty would have been in a sanatorium
by the time Lady Malvern got back."
"Exactly, sir." The more I looked at it in that way, the
sounder this prison wheeze seemed to me. There was no doubt in the world that prison
was just what the doctor ordered for Motty.
It was the only thing that could have pulled him up.
I was sorry for the poor blighter, but, after all, I reflected, a chappie who had
lived all his life with Lady Malvern, in a small village in the interior of
Shropshire, wouldn't have much to kick at in a prison.
Altogether, I began to feel absolutely braced again.
Life became like what the poet Johnnie says--one grand, sweet song.
Things went on so comfortably and peacefully for a couple of weeks that I
give you my word that I'd almost forgotten such a person as Motty existed.
The only flaw in the scheme of things was that Jeeves was still pained and distant.
It wasn't anything he said or did, mind you, but there was a rummy something about
him all the time.
Once when I was tying the pink tie I caught sight of him in the looking-glass.
There was a kind of grieved look in his eye.
And then Lady Malvern came back, a good bit ahead of schedule.
I hadn't been expecting her for days. I'd forgotten how time had been slipping
She turned up one morning while I was still in bed sipping tea and thinking of this and
Jeeves flowed in with the announcement that he had just loosed her into the sitting-
room. I draped a few garments round me and went
There she was, sitting in the same arm- chair, looking as massive as ever.
The only difference was that she didn't uncover the teeth, as she had done the
first time.
"Good morning," I said. "So you've got back, what?"
"I have got back."
There was something sort of bleak about her tone, rather as if she had swallowed an
east wind. This I took to be due to the fact that she
probably hadn't breakfasted.
It's only after a bit of breakfast that I'm able to regard the world with that sunny
cheeriness which makes a fellow the universal favourite.
I'm never much of a lad till I've engulfed an egg or two and a beaker of coffee.
"I suppose you haven't breakfasted?" "I have not yet breakfasted."
"Won't you have an egg or something?
Or a sausage or something? Or something?"
"No, thank you."
She spoke as if she belonged to an anti- sausage society or a league for the
suppression of eggs. There was a bit of a silence.
"I called on you last night," she said, "but you were out."
"Awfully sorry! Had a pleasant trip?"
"Extremely, thank you."
"See everything? Niag'ra Falls, Yellowstone Park, and the
jolly old Grand Canyon, and what-not?" "I saw a great deal."
There was another slightly frappe silence.
Jeeves floated silently into the dining- room and began to lay the breakfast-table.
"I hope Wilmot was not in your way, Mr. Wooster?"
I had been wondering when she was going to mention Motty.
"Rather not! Great pals!
Hit it off splendidly."
"You were his constant companion, then?" "Absolutely!
We were always together. Saw all the sights, don't you know.
We'd take in the Museum of Art in the morning, and have a bit of lunch at some
good vegetarian place, and then toddle along to a sacred concert in the afternoon,
and home to an early dinner.
We usually played dominoes after dinner. And then the early bed and the refreshing
sleep. We had a great time.
I was awfully sorry when he went away to Boston."
"Oh! Wilmot is in Boston?"
I ought to have let you know, but of course we didn't know where you were.
You were dodging all over the place like a snipe--I mean, don't you know, dodging all
over the place, and we couldn't get at you.
Yes, Motty went off to Boston." "You're sure he went to Boston?"
"Oh, absolutely."
I called out to Jeeves, who was now messing about in the next room with forks and so
forth: "Jeeves, Lord Pershore didn't change his mind about going to Boston, did he?"
"No, sir."
"I thought I was right. Yes, Motty went to Boston."
"Then how do you account, Mr. Wooster, for the fact that when I went yesterday
afternoon to Blackwell's Island prison, to secure material for my book, I saw poor,
dear Wilmot there, dressed in a striped
suit, seated beside a pile of stones with a hammer in his hands?"
I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came.
A chappie has to be a lot broader about the forehead than I am to handle a jolt like
I strained the old bean till it creaked, but between the collar and the hair parting
nothing stirred. I was dumb.
Which was lucky, because I wouldn't have had a chance to get any persiflage out of
my system. Lady Malvern collared the conversation.
She had been bottling it up, and now it came out with a rush:
"So this is how you have looked after my poor, dear boy, Mr. Wooster!
So this is how you have abused my trust!
I left him in your charge, thinking that I could rely on you to shield him from evil.
He came to you innocent, unversed in the ways of the world, confiding, unused to the
temptations of a large city, and you led him astray!"
I hadn't any remarks to make.
All I could think of was the picture of Aunt Agatha drinking all this in and
reaching out to sharpen the hatchet against my return.
"You deliberately----"
Far away in the misty distance a soft voice spoke:
"If I might explain, your ladyship." Jeeves had projected himself in from the
dining-room and materialized on the rug.
Lady Malvern tried to freeze him with a look, but you can't do that sort of thing
to Jeeves. He is look-proof.
"I fancy, your ladyship, that you have misunderstood Mr. Wooster, and that he may
have given you the impression that he was in New York when his lordship--was removed.
When Mr. Wooster informed your ladyship that his lordship had gone to Boston, he
was relying on the version I had given him of his lordship's movements.
Mr. Wooster was away, visiting a friend in the country, at the time, and knew nothing
of the matter till your ladyship informed him."
Lady Malvern gave a kind of grunt.
It didn't rattle Jeeves.
"I feared Mr. Wooster might be disturbed if he knew the truth, as he is so attached to
his lordship and has taken such pains to look after him, so I took the liberty of
telling him that his lordship had gone away for a visit.
It might have been hard for Mr. Wooster to believe that his lordship had gone to
prison voluntarily and from the best motives, but your ladyship, knowing him
better, will readily understand."
"What!" Lady Malvern goggled at him.
"Did you say that Lord Pershore went to prison voluntarily?"
"If I might explain, your ladyship.
I think that your ladyship's parting words made a deep impression on his lordship.
I have frequently heard him speak to Mr. Wooster of his desire to do something to
follow your ladyship's instructions and collect material for your ladyship's book
on America.
Mr. Wooster will bear me out when I say that his lordship was frequently extremely
depressed at the thought that he was doing so little to help."
"Absolutely, by Jove!
Quite pipped about it!" I said.
"The idea of making a personal examination into the prison system of the country--from
within--occurred to his lordship very suddenly one night.
He embraced it eagerly.
There was no restraining him." Lady Malvern looked at Jeeves, then at me,
then at Jeeves again. I could see her struggling with the thing.
"Surely, your ladyship," said Jeeves, "it is more reasonable to suppose that a
gentleman of his lordship's character went to prison of his own volition than that he
committed some breach of the law which necessitated his arrest?"
Lady Malvern blinked. Then she got up.
"Mr. Wooster," she said, "I apologize.
I have done you an injustice. I should have known Wilmot better.
I should have had more faith in his pure, fine spirit."
I said. "Your breakfast is ready, sir," said
Jeeves. I sat down and dallied in a dazed sort of
way with a poached egg.
"Jeeves," I said, "you are certainly a life-saver!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Nothing would have convinced my Aunt Agatha that I hadn't lured that blighter
into riotous living." "I fancy you are right, sir."
I champed my egg for a bit.
I was most awfully moved, don't you know, by the way Jeeves had rallied round.
Something seemed to tell me that this was an occasion that called for rich rewards.
For a moment I hesitated.
Then I made up my mind. "Jeeves!"
"Sir?" "That pink tie!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Burn it!" "Thank you, sir."
"And, Jeeves!" "Yes, sir?"
"Take a taxi and get me that Longacre hat, as worn by John Drew!"
"Thank you very much, sir." I felt most awfully braced.
I felt as if the clouds had rolled away and all was as it used to be.
I felt like one of those chappies in the novels who calls off the fight with his
wife in the last chapter and decides to forget and forgive.
I felt I wanted to do all sorts of other things to show Jeeves that I appreciated
him. "Jeeves," I said, "it isn't enough.
Is there anything else you would like?"
"Yes, sir. If I may make the suggestion--fifty
dollars." "Fifty dollars?"
"It will enable me to pay a debt of honour, sir.
I owe it to his lordship." "You owe Lord Pershore fifty dollars?"
"Yes, sir.
I happened to meet him in the street the night his lordship was arrested.
I had been thinking a good deal about the most suitable method of inducing him to
abandon his mode of living, sir.
His lordship was a little over-excited at the time and I fancy that he mistook me for
a friend of his.
At any rate when I took the liberty of wagering him fifty dollars that he would
not punch a passing policeman in the eye, he accepted the bet very cordially and won
I produced my pocket-book and counted out a hundred.
"Take this, Jeeves," I said; "fifty isn't enough.
Do you know, Jeeves, you're--well, you absolutely stand alone!"
"I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir," said Jeeves.
Sometimes of a morning, as I've sat in bed sucking down the early cup of tea and
watched my man Jeeves flitting about the room and putting out the raiment for the
day, I've wondered what the deuce I should
do if the fellow ever took it into his head to leave me.
It's not so bad now I'm in New York, but in London the anxiety was frightful.
There used to be all sorts of attempts on the part of low blighters to sneak him away
from me.
Young Reggie Foljambe to my certain knowledge offered him double what I was
giving him, and Alistair Bingham-Reeves, who's got a valet who had been known to
press his trousers sideways, used to look
at him, when he came to see me, with a kind of glittering hungry eye which disturbed me
deucedly. Bally pirates!
The thing, you see, is that Jeeves is so dashed competent.
You can spot it even in the way he shoves studs into a shirt.
I rely on him absolutely in every crisis, and he never lets me down.
And, what's more, he can always be counted on to extend himself on behalf of any pal
of mine who happens to be to all appearances knee-deep in the bouillon.
Take the rather rummy case, for instance, of dear old Bicky and his uncle, the hard-
boiled egg. It happened after I had been in America for
a few months.
I got back to the flat latish one night, and when Jeeves brought me the final drink
he said: "Mr. Bickersteth called to see you this
evening, sir, while you were out."
"Oh?" I said.
"Twice, sir. He appeared a trifle agitated."
"What, pipped?"
"He gave that impression, sir." I sipped the whisky.
I was sorry if Bicky was in trouble, but, as a matter of fact, I was rather glad to
have something I could discuss freely with Jeeves just then, because things had been a
bit strained between us for some time, and
it had been rather difficult to hit on anything to talk about that wasn't apt to
take a personal turn.
You see, I had decided--rightly or wrongly- -to grow a moustache and this had cut
Jeeves to the quick.
He couldn't stick the thing at any price, and I had been living ever since in an
atmosphere of bally disapproval till I was getting jolly well fed up with it.
What I mean is, while there's no doubt that in certain matters of dress Jeeves's
judgment is absolutely sound and should be followed, it seemed to me that it was
getting a bit too thick if he was going to edit my face as well as my costume.
No one can call me an unreasonable chappie, and many's the time I've given in like a
lamb when Jeeves has voted against one of my pet suits or ties; but when it comes to
a valet's staking out a claim on your upper
lip you've simply got to have a bit of the good old bulldog pluck and defy the
blighter. "He said that he would call again later,
"Something must be up, Jeeves." "Yes, sir."
I gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl. It seemed to hurt Jeeves a good deal, so I
chucked it.
"I see by the paper, sir, that Mr. Bickersteth's uncle is arriving on the
Carmantic." "Yes?"
"His Grace the Duke of Chiswick, sir."
This was news to me, that Bicky's uncle was a duke.
Rum, how little one knows about one's pals!
I had met Bicky for the first time at a species of beano or jamboree down in
Washington Square, not long after my arrival in New York.
I suppose I was a bit homesick at the time, and I rather took to Bicky when I found
that he was an Englishman and had, in fact, been up at Oxford with me.
Besides, he was a frightful chump, so we naturally drifted together; and while we
were taking a quiet snort in a corner that wasn't all cluttered up with artists and
sculptors and what-not, he furthermore
endeared himself to me by a most extraordinarily gifted imitation of a bull-
terrier chasing a cat up a tree.
But, though we had subsequently become extremely pally, all I really knew about
him was that he was generally hard up, and had an uncle who relieved the strain a bit
from time to time by sending him monthly remittances.
"If the Duke of Chiswick is his uncle," I said, "why hasn't he a title?
Why isn't he Lord What-Not?"
"Mr. Bickersteth is the son of his grace's late sister, sir, who married Captain Rollo
Bickersteth of the Coldstream Guards." Jeeves knows everything.
"Is Mr. Bickersteth's father dead, too?"
"Yes, sir." "Leave any money?"
"No, sir." I began to understand why poor old Bicky
was always more or less on the rocks.
To the casual and irreflective observer, if you know what I mean, it may sound a pretty
good wheeze having a duke for an uncle, but the trouble about old Chiswick was that,
though an extremely wealthy old buster,
owning half London and about five counties up north, he was notoriously the most
prudent spender in England. He was what American chappies would call a
hard-boiled egg.
If Bicky's people hadn't left him anything and he depended on what he could prise out
of the old duke, he was in a pretty bad way.
Not that that explained why he was hunting me like this, because he was a chap who
never borrowed money. He said he wanted to keep his pals, so
never bit any one's ear on principle.
At this juncture the door bell rang. Jeeves floated out to answer it.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster has just returned," I heard him
And Bicky came trickling in, looking pretty sorry for himself.
"Halloa, Bicky!" I said.
"Jeeves told me you had been trying to get me.
Jeeves, bring another glass, and let the revels commence.
What's the trouble, Bicky?"
"I'm in a hole, Bertie. I want your advice."
"Say on, old lad!" "My uncle's turning up to-morrow, Bertie."
"So Jeeves told me."
"The Duke of Chiswick, you know." "So Jeeves told me."
Bicky seemed a bit surprised. "Jeeves seems to know everything."
"Rather rummily, that's exactly what I was thinking just now myself."
"Well, I wish," said Bicky gloomily, "that he knew a way to get me out of the hole I'm
Jeeves shimmered in with the glass, and stuck it competently on the table.
"Mr. Bickersteth is in a bit of a hole, Jeeves," I said, "and wants you to rally
"Very good, sir." Bicky looked a bit doubtful.
"Well, of course, you know, Bertie, this thing is by way of being a bit private and
all that."
"I shouldn't worry about that, old top. I bet Jeeves knows all about it already.
Don't you, Jeeves?" "Yes, sir."
"Eh!" said Bicky, rattled.
"I am open to correction, sir, but is not your dilemma due to the fact that you are
at a loss to explain to his grace why you are in New York instead of in Colorado?"
Bicky rocked like a jelly in a high wind.
"How the deuce do you know anything about it?"
"I chanced to meet his grace's butler before we left England.
He informed me that he happened to overhear his grace speaking to you on the matter,
sir, as he passed the library door." Bicky gave a hollow sort of laugh.
"Well, as everybody seems to know all about it, there's no need to try to keep it dark.
The old boy turfed me out, Bertie, because he said I was a brainless nincompoop.
The idea was that he would give me a remittance on condition that I dashed out
to some blighted locality of the name of Colorado and learned farming or ranching,
or whatever they call it, at some bally ranch or farm or whatever it's called.
I didn't fancy the idea a bit. I should have had to ride horses and pursue
cows, and so forth.
I hate horses. They bite at you.
I was all against the scheme. At the same time, don't you know, I had to
have that remittance."
"I get you absolutely, dear boy." "Well, when I got to New York it looked a
decent sort of place to me, so I thought it would be a pretty sound notion to stop
So I cabled to my uncle telling him that I had dropped into a good business wheeze in
the city and wanted to chuck the ranch idea.
He wrote back that it was all right, and here I've been ever since.
He thinks I'm doing well at something or other over here.
I never dreamed, don't you know, that he would ever come out here.
What on earth am I to do?" "Jeeves," I said, "what on earth is Mr.
Bickersteth to do?"
"You see," said Bicky, "I had a wireless from him to say that he was coming to stay
with me--to save hotel bills, I suppose. I've always given him the impression that I
was living in pretty good style.
I can't have him to stay at my boarding- house."
"Thought of anything, Jeeves?" I said.
"To what extent, sir, if the question is not a delicate one, are you prepared to
assist Mr. Bickersteth?" "I'll do anything I can for you, of course,
Bicky, old man."
"Then, if I might make the suggestion, sir, you might lend Mr. Bickersteth----"
"No, by Jove!" said Bicky firmly. "I never have touched you, Bertie, and I'm
not going to start now.
I may be a chump, but it's my boast that I don't owe a penny to a single soul--not
counting tradesmen, of course." "I was about to suggest, sir, that you
might lend Mr. Bickersteth this flat.
Mr. Bickersteth could give his grace the impression that he was the owner of it.
With your permission I could convey the notion that I was in Mr. Bickersteth's
employment, and not in yours.
You would be residing here temporarily as Mr. Bickersteth's guest.
His grace would occupy the second spare bedroom.
I fancy that you would find this answer satisfactorily, sir."
Bicky had stopped rocking himself and was staring at Jeeves in an awed sort of way.
"I would advocate the dispatching of a wireless message to his grace on board the
vessel, notifying him of the change of address.
Mr. Bickersteth could meet his grace at the dock and proceed directly here.
Will that meet the situation, sir?" "Absolutely."
"Thank you, sir."
Bicky followed him with his eye till the door closed.
"How does he do it, Bertie?" he said. "I'll tell you what I think it is.
I believe it's something to do with the shape of his head.
Have you ever noticed his head, Bertie, old man?
It sort of sticks out at the back!"
I hopped out of bed early next morning, so as to be among those present when the old
boy should arrive.
I knew from experience that these ocean liners fetch up at the dock at a deucedly
ungodly hour.
It wasn't much after nine by the time I'd dressed and had my morning tea and was
leaning out of the window, watching the street for Bicky and his uncle.
It was one of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make a chappie wish he'd got
a soul or something, and I was just brooding on life in general when I became
aware of the dickens of a spate in progress down below.
A taxi had driven up, and an old boy in a top hat had got out and was kicking up a
frightful row about the fare.
As far as I could make out, he was trying to get the cab chappie to switch from New
York to London prices, and the cab chappie had apparently never heard of London
before, and didn't seem to think a lot of it now.
The old boy said that in London the trip would have set him back eightpence; and the
cabby said he should worry.
I called to Jeeves. "The duke has arrived, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir?" "That'll be him at the door now."
Jeeves made a long arm and opened the front door, and the old boy crawled in, looking
licked to a splinter. "How do you do, sir?"
I said, bustling up and being the ray of sunshine.
"Your nephew went down to the dock to meet you, but you must have missed him.
My name's Wooster, don't you know.
Great pal of Bicky's, and all that sort of thing.
I'm staying with him, you know. Would you like a cup of tea?
Jeeves, bring a cup of tea."
Old Chiswick had sunk into an arm-chair and was looking about the room.
"Does this luxurious flat belong to my nephew Francis?"
"It must be terribly expensive." "Pretty well, of course.
Everything costs a lot over here, you know."
He moaned.
Jeeves filtered in with the tea. Old Chiswick took a stab at it to restore
his tissues, and nodded. "A terrible country, Mr. Wooster!
A terrible country!
Nearly eight shillings for a short cab- drive!
Iniquitous!" He took another look round the room.
It seemed to fascinate him.
"Have you any idea how much my nephew pays for this flat, Mr. Wooster?"
"About two hundred dollars a month, I believe."
Forty pounds a month!" I began to see that, unless I made the
thing a bit more plausible, the scheme might turn out a frost.
I could guess what the old boy was thinking.
He was trying to square all this prosperity with what he knew of poor old Bicky.
And one had to admit that it took a lot of squaring, for dear old Bicky, though a
stout fellow and absolutely unrivalled as an imitator of bull-terriers and cats, was
in many ways one of the most pronounced
fatheads that ever pulled on a suit of gent's underwear.
"I suppose it seems rummy to you," I said, "but the fact is New York often bucks
chappies up and makes them show a flash of speed that you wouldn't have imagined them
capable of.
It sort of develops them. Something in the air, don't you know.
I imagine that Bicky in the past, when you knew him, may have been something of a
chump, but it's quite different now.
Devilish efficient sort of chappie, and looked on in commercial circles as quite
the nib!" "I am amazed!
What is the nature of my nephew's business, Mr. Wooster?"
"Oh, just business, don't you know.
The same sort of thing Carnegie and Rockefeller and all these coves do, you
know." I slid for the door.
"Awfully sorry to leave you, but I've got to meet some of the lads elsewhere."
Coming out of the lift I met Bicky bustling in from the street.
"Halloa, Bertie!
I missed him. Has he turned up?"
"He's upstairs now, having some tea." "What does he think of it all?"
"He's absolutely rattled."
"Ripping! I'll be toddling up, then.
Toodle-oo, Bertie, old man. See you later."
"Pip-pip, Bicky, dear boy."
He trotted off, full of merriment and good cheer, and I went off to the club to sit in
the window and watch the traffic coming up one way and going down the other.
It was latish in the evening when I looked in at the flat to dress for dinner.
"Where's everybody, Jeeves?" I said, finding no little feet pattering
about the place.
"Gone out?" "His grace desired to see some of the
sights of the city, sir. Mr. Bickersteth is acting as his escort.
I fancy their immediate objective was Grant's Tomb."
"I suppose Mr. Bickersteth is a bit braced at the way things are going--what?"
"I say, I take it that Mr. Bickersteth is tolerably full of beans."
"Not altogether, sir." "What's his trouble now?"
"The scheme which I took the liberty of suggesting to Mr. Bickersteth and yourself
has, unfortunately, not answered entirely satisfactorily, sir."
"Surely the duke believes that Mr. Bickersteth is doing well in business, and
all that sort of thing?" "Exactly, sir.
With the result that he has decided to cancel Mr. Bickersteth's monthly allowance,
on the ground that, as Mr. Bickersteth is doing so well on his own account, he no
longer requires pecuniary assistance."
"Great Scot, Jeeves! This is awful."
"Somewhat disturbing, sir." "I never expected anything like this!"
"I confess I scarcely anticipated the contingency myself, sir."
"I suppose it bowled the poor blighter over absolutely?"
"Mr. Bickersteth appeared somewhat taken aback, sir."
My heart bled for Bicky. "We must do something, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir."
"Can you think of anything?" "Not at the moment, sir."
"There must be something we can do."
"It was a maxim of one of my former employers, sir--as I believe I mentioned to
you once before--the present Lord Bridgnorth, that there is always a way.
I remember his lordship using the expression on the occasion--he was then a
business gentleman and had not yet received his title--when a patent hair-restorer
which he chanced to be promoting failed to attract the public.
He put it on the market under another name as a depilatory, and amassed a substantial
I have generally found his lordship's aphorism based on sound foundations.
No doubt we shall be able to discover some solution of Mr. Bickersteth's difficulty,
"Well, have a stab at it, Jeeves!" "I will spare no pains, sir."
I went and dressed sadly.
It will show you pretty well how pipped I was when I tell you that I near as a
toucher put on a white tie with a dinner- jacket.
I sallied out for a bit of food more to pass the time than because I wanted it.
It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill of fare with poor old Bicky headed for the
When I got back old Chiswick had gone to bed, but Bicky was there, hunched up in an
arm-chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his
mouth and a more or less glassy stare in his eyes.
He had the aspect of one who had been soaked with what the newspaper chappies
call "some blunt instrument."
"This is a bit thick, old thing--what!" I said.
He picked up his glass and drained it feverishly, overlooking the fact that it
hadn't anything in it.
"I'm done, Bertie!" he said. He had another go at the glass.
It didn't seem to do him any good. "If only this had happened a week later,
My next month's money was due to roll in on Saturday.
I could have worked a wheeze I've been reading about in the magazine
It seems that you can make a dashed amount of money if you can only collect a few
dollars and start a chicken-farm. Jolly sound scheme, Bertie!
Say you buy a hen--call it one hen for the sake of argument.
It lays an egg every day of the week. You sell the eggs seven for twenty-five
Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit practically twenty-five cents on
every seven eggs. Or look at it another way: Suppose you have
a dozen eggs.
Each of the hens has a dozen chickens. The chickens grow up and have more
Why, in no time you'd have the place covered knee-deep in hens, all laying eggs,
at twenty-five cents for every seven. You'd make a fortune.
Jolly life, too, keeping hens!"
He had begun to get quite worked up at the thought of it, but he slopped back in his
chair at this juncture with a good deal of gloom.
"But, of course, it's no good," he said, "because I haven't the cash."
"You've only to say the word, you know, Bicky, old top."
"Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I'm not going to sponge on you."
That's always the way in this world.
The chappies you'd like to lend money to won't let you, whereas the chappies you
don't want to lend it to will do everything except actually stand you on your head and
lift the specie out of your pockets.
As a lad who has always rolled tolerably free in the right stuff, I've had lots of
experience of the second class.
Many's the time, back in London, I've hurried along Piccadilly and felt the hot
breath of the toucher on the back of my neck and heard his sharp, excited yapping
as he closed in on me.
I've simply spent my life scattering largesse to blighters I didn't care a hang
for; yet here was I now, dripping doubloons and pieces of eight and longing to hand
them over, and Bicky, poor fish, absolutely on his uppers, not taking any at any price.
"Well, there's only one hope, then." "What's that?"
"Sir?" There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full
of zeal. In this matter of shimmering into rooms the
chappie is rummy to a degree.
You're sitting in the old armchair, thinking of this and that, and then
suddenly you look up, and there he is. He moves from point to point with as little
uproar as a jelly fish.
The thing startled poor old Bicky considerably.
He rose from his seat like a rocketing pheasant.
I'm used to Jeeves now, but often in the days when he first came to me I've bitten
my tongue freely on finding him unexpectedly in my midst.
"Did you call, sir?"
"Oh, there you are, Jeeves!" "Precisely, sir."
"Jeeves, Mr. Bickersteth is still up the pole.
Any ideas?"
"Why, yes, sir. Since we had our recent conversation I
fancy I have found what may prove a solution.
I do not wish to appear to be taking a liberty, sir, but I think that we have
overlooked his grace's potentialities as a source of revenue."
Bicky laughed, what I have sometimes seen described as a hollow, mocking laugh, a
sort of bitter cackle from the back of the throat, rather like a gargle.
"I do not allude, sir," explained Jeeves, "to the possibility of inducing his grace
to part with money.
I am taking the liberty of regarding his grace in the light of an at present--if I
may say so--useless property, which is capable of being developed."
Bicky looked at me in a helpless kind of way.
I'm bound to say I didn't get it myself. "Couldn't you make it a bit easier,
"In a nutshell, sir, what I mean is this: His grace is, in a sense, a prominent
The inhabitants of this country, as no doubt you are aware, sir, are peculiarly
addicted to shaking hands with prominent personages.
It occurred to me that Mr. Bickersteth or yourself might know of persons who would be
willing to pay a small fee--let us say two dollars or three--for the privilege of an
introduction, including handshake, to his grace."
Bicky didn't seem to think much of it.
"Do you mean to say that anyone would be mug enough to part with solid cash just to
shake hands with my uncle?"
"I have an aunt, sir, who paid five shillings to a young fellow for bringing a
moving-picture actor to tea at her house one Sunday.
It gave her social standing among the neighbours."
Bicky wavered. "If you think it could be done----"
"I feel convinced of it, sir."
"What do you think, Bertie?" "I'm for it, old boy, absolutely.
A very brainy wheeze." "Thank you, sir.
Will there be anything further?
Good night, sir." And he floated out, leaving us to discuss
Until we started this business of floating old Chiswick as a money-making proposition
I had never realized what a perfectly foul time those Stock Exchange chappies must
have when the public isn't biting freely.
Nowadays I read that bit they put in the financial reports about "The market opened
quietly" with a sympathetic eye, for, by Jove, it certainly opened quietly for us!
You'd hardly believe how difficult it was to interest the public and make them take a
flutter on the old boy.
By the end of the week the only name we had on our list was a delicatessen-store keeper
down in Bicky's part of the town, and as he wanted us to take it out in sliced ham
instead of cash that didn't help much.
There was a gleam of light when the brother of Bicky's pawnbroker offered ten dollars,
money down, for an introduction to old Chiswick, but the deal fell through, owing
to its turning out that the chap was an
anarchist and intended to kick the old boy instead of shaking hands with him.
At that, it took me the deuce of a time to persuade Bicky not to grab the cash and let
things take their course.
He seemed to regard the pawnbroker's brother rather as a sportsman and
benefactor of his species than otherwise.
The whole thing, I'm inclined to think, would have been off if it hadn't been for
Jeeves. There is no doubt that Jeeves is in a class
of his own.
In the matter of brain and resource I don't think I have ever met a chappie so
supremely like mother made.
He trickled into my room one morning with a good old cup of tea, and intimated that
there was something doing. "Might I speak to you with regard to that
matter of his grace, sir?"
"It's all off. We've decided to chuck it."
"Sir?" "It won't work.
We can't get anybody to come."
"I fancy I can arrange that aspect of the matter, sir."
"Do you mean to say you've managed to get anybody?"
"Yes, sir.
Eighty-seven gentlemen from Birdsburg, sir."
I sat up in bed and spilt the tea. "Birdsburg?"
"Birdsburg, Missouri, sir."
"How did you get them?"
"I happened last night, sir, as you had intimated that you would be absent from
home, to attend a theatrical performance, and entered into conversation between the
acts with the occupant of the adjoining seat.
I had observed that he was wearing a somewhat ornate decoration in his
buttonhole, sir--a large blue button with the words 'Boost for Birdsburg' upon it in
red letters, scarcely a judicious addition to a gentleman's evening costume.
To my surprise I noticed that the auditorium was full of persons similarly
I ventured to inquire the explanation, and was informed that these gentlemen, forming
a party of eighty-seven, are a convention from a town of the name if Birdsburg,
in the State of Missouri.
Their visit, I gathered, was purely of a social and pleasurable nature, and my
informant spoke at some length of the entertainments arranged for their stay in
the city.
It was when he related with a considerable amount of satisfaction and pride, that a
deputation of their number had been introduced to and had shaken hands with a
well-known prizefighter, that it occurred to me to broach the subject of his grace.
To make a long story short, sir, I have arranged, subject to your approval, that
the entire convention shall be presented to his grace to-morrow afternoon."
I was amazed.
This chappie was a Napoleon. "Eighty-seven, Jeeves.
At how much a head?" "I was obliged to agree to a reduction for
quantity, sir.
The terms finally arrived at were one hundred and fifty dollars for the party."
I thought a bit. "Payable in advance?"
"No, sir.
I endeavoured to obtain payment in advance, but was not successful."
"Well, any way, when we get it I'll make it up to five hundred.
Bicky'll never know.
Do you suspect Mr. Bickersteth would suspect anything, Jeeves, if I made it up
to five hundred?" "I fancy not, sir.
Mr. Bickersteth is an agreeable gentleman, but not bright."
"All right, then. After breakfast run down to the bank and
get me some money."
"Yes, sir." "You know, you're a bit of a marvel,
Jeeves." "Thank you, sir."
"Very good, sir." When I took dear old Bicky aside in the
course of the morning and told him what had happened he nearly broke down.
He tottered into the sitting-room and buttonholed old Chiswick, who was reading
the comic section of the morning paper with a kind of grim resolution.
"Uncle," he said, "are you doing anything special to-morrow afternoon?
I mean to say, I've asked a few of my pals in to meet you, don't you know."
The old boy cocked a speculative eye at him.
"There will be no reporters among them?" "Reporters?
Rather not!
Why?" "I refuse to be badgered by reporters.
There were a number of adhesive young men who endeavoured to elicit from me my views
on America while the boat was approaching the dock.
I will not be subjected to this persecution again."
"That'll be absolutely all right, uncle. There won't be a newspaper-man in the
"In that case I shall be glad to make the acquaintance of your friends."
"You'll shake hands with them and so forth?"
"I shall naturally order my behaviour according to the accepted rules of
civilized intercourse."
Bicky thanked him heartily and came off to lunch with me at the club, where he babbled
freely of hens, incubators, and other rotten things.
After mature consideration we had decided to unleash the Birdsburg contingent on the
old boy ten at a time.
Jeeves brought his theatre pal round to see us, and we arranged the whole thing with
A very decent chappie, but rather inclined to collar the conversation and turn it in
the direction of his home-town's new water- supply system.
We settled that, as an hour was about all he would be likely to stand, each gang
should consider itself entitled to seven minutes of the duke's society by Jeeves's
stop-watch, and that when their time was up
Jeeves should slide into the room and cough meaningly.
Then we parted with what I believe are called mutual expressions of goodwill, the
Birdsburg chappie extending a cordial invitation to us all to pop out some day
and take a look at the new water-supply system, for which we thanked him.
Next day the deputation rolled in.
The first shift consisted of the cove we had met and nine others almost exactly like
him in every respect.
They all looked deuced keen and businesslike, as if from youth up they had
been working in the office and catching the boss's eye and what-not.
They shook hands with the old boy with a good deal of apparent satisfaction--all
except one chappie, who seemed to be brooding about something--and then they
stood off and became chatty.
"What message have you for Birdsburg, Duke?" asked our pal.
The old boy seemed a bit rattled. "I have never been to Birdsburg."
The chappie seemed pained.
"You should pay it a visit," he said. "The most rapidly-growing city in the
country. Boost for Birdsburg!"
"Boost for Birdsburg!" said the other chappies reverently.
The chappie who had been brooding suddenly gave tongue.
He was a stout sort of well-fed cove with one of those determined chins and a cold
eye. The assemblage looked at him.
"As a matter of business," said the chappie--"mind you, I'm not questioning
anybody's good faith, but, as a matter of strict business--I think this gentleman
here ought to put himself on record before
witnesses as stating that he really is a duke."
"What do you mean, sir?" cried the old boy, getting purple.
"No offence, simply business.
I'm not saying anything, mind you, but there's one thing that seems kind of funny
to me. This gentleman here says his name's Mr.
Bickersteth, as I understand it.
Well, if you're the Duke of Chiswick, why isn't he Lord Percy Something?
I've read English novels, and I know all about it."
"This is monstrous!"
"Now don't get hot under the collar. I'm only asking.
I've a right to know.
You're going to take our money, so it's only fair that we should see that we get
our money's worth." The water-supply cove chipped in:
"You're quite right, Simms.
I overlooked that when making the agreement.
You see, gentlemen, as business men we've a right to reasonable guarantees of good
We are paying Mr. Bickersteth here a hundred and fifty dollars for this
reception, and we naturally want to know--- -"
Old Chiswick gave Bicky a searching look; then he turned to the water-supply chappie.
He was frightfully calm. "I can assure you that I know nothing of
this," he said, quite politely.
"I should be grateful if you would explain."
"Well, we arranged with Mr. Bickersteth that eighty-seven citizens of Birdsburg
should have the privilege of meeting and shaking hands with you for a financial
consideration mutually arranged, and what
my friend Simms here means--and I'm with him--is that we have only Mr. Bickersteth's
word for it--and he is a stranger to us-- that you are the Duke of Chiswick at all."
Old Chiswick gulped.
"Allow me to assure you, sir," he said, in a rummy kind of voice, "that I am the Duke
of Chiswick." "Then that's all right," said the chappie
"That was all we wanted to know. Let the thing go on."
"I am sorry to say," said old Chiswick, "that it cannot go on.
I am feeling a little tired.
I fear I must ask to be excused." "But there are seventy-seven of the boys
waiting round the corner at this moment, Duke, to be introduced to you."
"I fear I must disappoint them."
"But in that case the deal would have to be off."
"That is a matter for you and my nephew to discuss."
The chappie seemed troubled.
"You really won't meet the rest of them?" "No!"
"Well, then, I guess we'll be going." They went out, and there was a pretty solid
Then old Chiswick turned to Bicky: "Well?"
Bicky didn't seem to have anything to say. "Was it true what that man said?"
"Yes, uncle."
"What do you mean by playing this trick?" Bicky seemed pretty well knocked out, so I
put in a word. "I think you'd better explain the whole
thing, Bicky, old top."
Bicky's Adam's-apple jumped about a bit; then he started:
"You see, you had cut off my allowance, uncle, and I wanted a bit of money to start
a chicken farm.
I mean to say it's an absolute cert if you once get a bit of capital.
You buy a hen, and it lays an egg every day of the week, and you sell the eggs, say,
seven for twenty-five cents.
"Keep of hens cost nothing. Profit practically----"
"What is all this nonsense about hens? You led me to suppose you were a
substantial business man."
"Old Bicky rather exaggerated, sir," I said, helping the chappie out.
"The fact is, the poor old lad is absolutely dependent on that remittance of
yours, and when you cut it off, don't you know, he was pretty solidly in the soup,
and had to think of some way of closing in on a bit of the ready pretty quick.
That's why we thought of this handshaking scheme."
Old Chiswick foamed at the mouth.
"So you have lied to me! You have deliberately deceived me as to
your financial status!" "Poor old Bicky didn't want to go to that
ranch," I explained.
"He doesn't like cows and horses, but he rather thinks he would be hot stuff among
the hens. All he wants is a bit of capital.
Don't you think it would be rather a wheeze if you were to----"
"After what has happened? After this--this deceit and foolery?
Not a penny!"
"But----" "Not a penny!"
There was a respectful cough in the background.
"If I might make a suggestion, sir?"
Jeeves was standing on the horizon, looking devilish brainy.
"Go ahead, Jeeves!" I said.
"I would merely suggest, sir, that if Mr. Bickersteth is in need of a little ready
money, and is at a loss to obtain it elsewhere, he might secure the sum he
requires by describing the occurrences of
this afternoon for the Sunday issue of one of the more spirited and enterprising
newspapers." "By Jove!"
I said.
"By George!" said Bicky. "Great heavens!" said old Chiswick.
"Very good, sir," said Jeeves. Bicky turned to old Chiswick with a
gleaming eye.
"Jeeves is right. I'll do it!
The Chronicle would jump at it. They eat that sort of stuff."
Old Chiswick gave a kind of moaning howl.
"I absolutely forbid you, Francis, to do this thing!"
"That's all very well," said Bicky, wonderfully braced, "but if I can't get the
money any other way----"
"Wait! Er--wait, my boy!
You are so impetuous! We might arrange something."
"I won't go to that bally ranch."
"No, no! No, no, my boy!
I would not suggest it. I would not for a moment suggest it.
I--I think----"
He seemed to have a bit of a struggle with himself.
"I--I think that, on the whole, it would be best if you returned with me to England.
I--I might--in fact, I think I see my way to doing--to--I might be able to utilize
your services in some secretarial position."
"I shouldn't mind that."
"I should not be able to offer you a salary, but, as you know, in English
political life the unpaid secretary is a recognized figure----"
"The only figure I'll recognize," said Bicky firmly, "is five hundred quid a year,
paid quarterly." "My dear boy!"
"But your recompense, my dear Francis, would consist in the unrivalled
opportunities you would have, as my secretary, to gain experience, to accustom
yourself to the intricacies of political
life, to--in fact, you would be in an exceedingly advantageous position."
"Five hundred a year!" said Bicky, rolling it round his tongue.
"Why, that would be nothing to what I could make if I started a chicken farm.
It stands to reason. Suppose you have a dozen hens.
Each of the hens has a dozen chickens.
After a bit the chickens grow up and have a dozen chickens each themselves, and then
they all start laying eggs! There's a fortune in it.
You can get anything you like for eggs in America.
Chappies keep them on ice for years and years, and don't sell them till they fetch
about a dollar a whirl.
You don't think I'm going to chuck a future like this for anything under five hundred
o' goblins a year--what?"
A look of anguish passed over old Chiswick's face, then he seemed to be
resigned to it. "Very well, my boy," he said.
"What-o!" said Bicky.
"All right, then." "Jeeves," I said.
Bicky had taken the old boy off to dinner to celebrate, and we were alone.
"Jeeves, this has been one of your best efforts."
"Thank you, sir." "It beats me how you do it."
"Yes, sir."
"The only trouble is you haven't got much out of it--what!"
"I fancy Mr. Bickersteth intends--I judge from his remarks--to signify his
appreciation of anything I have been fortunate enough to do to assist him, at
some later date when he is in a more favourable position to do so."
"It isn't enough, Jeeves!" "Sir?"
It was a wrench, but I felt it was the only possible thing to be done.
"Bring my shaving things." A gleam of hope shone in the chappie's eye,
mixed with doubt.
"You mean, sir?" "And shave off my moustache."
There was a moment's silence. I could see the fellow was deeply moved.
"Thank you very much indeed, sir," he said, in a low voice, and popped off.
I want to tell you all about dear old Bobbie Cardew.
It's a most interesting story.
I can't put in any literary style and all that; but I don't have to, don't you know,
because it goes on its Moral Lesson.
If you're a man you mustn't miss it, because it'll be a warning to you; and if
you're a woman you won't want to, because it's all about how a girl made a man feel
pretty well fed up with things.
If you're a recent acquaintance of Bobbie's, you'll probably be surprised to
hear that there was a time when he was more remarkable for the weakness of his memory
than anything else.
Dozens of fellows, who have only met Bobbie since the change took place, have been
surprised when I told them that. Yet it's true.
Believe me.
In the days when I first knew him Bobbie Cardew was about the most pronounced young
rotter inside the four-mile radius. People have called me a silly ass, but I
was never in the same class with Bobbie.
When it came to being a silly ass, he was a plus-four man, while my handicap was about
Why, if I wanted him to dine with me, I used to post him a letter at the beginning
of the week, and then the day before send him a telegram and a phone-call on the day
itself, and--half an hour before the time
we'd fixed--a messenger in a taxi, whose business it was to see that he got in and
that the chauffeur had the address all correct.
By doing this I generally managed to get him, unless he had left town before my
messenger arrived. The funny thing was that he wasn't
altogether a fool in other ways.
Deep down in him there was a kind of stratum of sense.
I had known him, once or twice, show an almost human intelligence.
But to reach that stratum, mind you, you needed dynamite.
At least, that's what I thought. But there was another way which hadn't
occurred to me.
Marriage, I mean. Marriage, the dynamite of the soul; that
was what hit Bobbie. He married.
Have you ever seen a bull-pup chasing a bee?
The pup sees the bee. It looks good to him.
But he still doesn't know what's at the end of it till he gets there.
It was like that with Bobbie.
He fell in love, got married--with a sort of whoop, as if it were the greatest fun in
the world--and then began to find out things.
She wasn't the sort of girl you would have expected Bobbie to rave about.
And yet, I don't know.
What I mean is, she worked for her living; and to a fellow who has never done a hand's
turn in his life there's undoubtedly a sort of fascination, a kind of romance, about a
girl who works for her living.
Her name was Anthony. Mary Anthony.
She was about five feet six; she had a ton and a half of red-gold hair, grey eyes, and
one of those determined chins.
She was a hospital nurse.
When Bobbie smashed himself up at polo, she was told off by the authorities to smooth
his brow and rally round with cooling unguents and all that; and the old boy
hadn't been up and about again for more
than a week before they popped off to the registrar's and fixed it up.
Quite the romance.
Bobbie broke the news to me at the club one evening, and next day he introduced me to
her. I admired her.
I've never worked myself--my name's Pepper, by the way.
Almost forgot to mention it. Reggie Pepper.
My uncle Edward was Pepper, Wells, and Co., the Colliery people.
He left me a sizable chunk of bullion--I say I've never worked myself, but I admire
any one who earns a living under difficulties, especially a girl.
And this girl had had a rather unusually tough time of it, being an orphan and all
that, and having had to do everything off her own bat for years.
Mary and I got along together splendidly.
We don't now, but we'll come to that later. I'm speaking of the past.
She seemed to think Bobbie the greatest thing on earth, judging by the way she
looked at him when she thought I wasn't noticing.
And Bobbie seemed to think the same about her.
So that I came to the conclusion that, if only dear old Bobbie didn't forget to go to
the wedding, they had a sporting chance of being quite happy.
Well, let's brisk up a bit here, and jump a year.
The story doesn't really start till then. They took a flat and settled down.
I was in and out of the place quite a good deal.
I kept my eyes open, and everything seemed to me to be running along as smoothly as
you could want.
If this was marriage, I thought, I couldn't see why fellows were so frightened of it.
There were a lot of worse things that could happen to a man.
But we now come to the incident of the quiet Dinner, and it's just here that
love's young dream hits a snag, and things begin to occur.
I happened to meet Bobbie in Piccadilly, and he asked me to come back to dinner at
the flat.
And, like a fool, instead of bolting and putting myself under police protection, I
When we got to the flat, there was Mrs. Bobbie looking--well, I tell you, it
staggered me.
Her gold hair was all piled up in waves and crinkles and things, with a what-d'-you-
call-it of diamonds in it. And she was wearing the most perfectly
ripping dress.
I couldn't begin to describe it. I can only say it was the limit.
It struck me that if this was how she was in the habit of looking every night when
they were dining quietly at home together, it was no wonder that Bobbie liked
"Here's old Reggie, dear," said Bobbie. "I've brought him home to have a bit of
dinner. I'll phone down to the kitchen and ask them
to send it up now--what?"
She stared at him as if she had never seen him before.
Then she turned scarlet. Then she turned as white as a sheet.
Then she gave a little laugh.
It was most interesting to watch. Made me wish I was up a tree about eight
hundred miles away. Then she recovered herself.
"I am so glad you were able to come, Mr. Pepper," she said, smiling at me.
And after that she was all right. At least, you would have said so.
She talked a lot at dinner, and chaffed Bobbie, and played us ragtime on the piano
afterwards, as if she hadn't a care in the world.
Quite a jolly little party it was--not.
I'm no lynx-eyed sleuth, and all that sort of thing, but I had seen her face at the
beginning, and I knew that she was working the whole time and working hard, to keep
herself in hand, and that she would have
given that diamond what's-its-name in her hair and everything else she possessed to
have one good scream--just one.
I've sat through some pretty thick evenings in my time, but that one had the rest
beaten in a canter. At the very earliest moment I grabbed my
hat and got away.
Having seen what I did, I wasn't particularly surprised to meet Bobbie at
the club next day looking about as merry and bright as a lonely gum-drop at an
Eskimo tea-party.
He started in straightway. He seemed glad to have someone to talk to
about it. "Do you know how long I've been married?"
he said.
I didn't exactly. "About a year, isn't it?"
"Not about a year," he said sadly. "Exactly a year--yesterday!"
Then I understood.
I saw light--a regular flash of light. "Yesterday was----?"
"The anniversary of the wedding. I'd arranged to take Mary to the Savoy, and
on to Covent Garden.
She particularly wanted to hear Caruso. I had the ticket for the box in my pocket.
Do you know, all through dinner I had a kind of rummy idea that there was something
I'd forgotten, but I couldn't think what?"
"Till your wife mentioned it?" He nodded----
"She--mentioned it," he said thoughtfully. I didn't ask for details.
Women with hair and chins like Mary's may be angels most of the time, but, when they
take off their wings for a bit, they aren't half-hearted about it.
"To be absolutely frank, old top," said poor old Bobbie, in a broken sort of way,
"my stock's pretty low at home." There didn't seem much to be done.
I just lit a cigarette and sat there.
He didn't want to talk. Presently he went out.
I stood at the window of our upper smoking- room, which looks out on to Piccadilly, and
watched him.
He walked slowly along for a few yards, stopped, then walked on again, and finally
turned into a jeweller's.
Which was an instance of what I meant when I said that deep down in him there was a
certain stratum of sense.
It was from now on that I began to be really interested in this problem of
Bobbie's married life.
Of course, one's always mildly interested in one's friends' marriages, hoping they'll
turn out well and all that; but this was different.
The average man isn't like Bobbie, and the average girl isn't like Mary.
It was that old business of the immovable mass and the irresistible force.
There was Bobbie, ambling gently through life, a dear old chap in a hundred ways,
but undoubtedly a chump of the first water. And there was Mary, determined that he
shouldn't be a chump.
And Nature, mind you, on Bobbie's side. When Nature makes a chump like dear old
Bobbie, she's proud of him, and doesn't want her handiwork disturbed.
She gives him a sort of natural armour to protect him against outside interference.
And that armour is shortness of memory. Shortness of memory keeps a man a chump,
when, but for it, he might cease to be one.
Take my case, for instance. I'm a chump.
Well, if I had remembered half the things people have tried to teach me during my
life, my size in hats would be about number nine.
But I didn't.
I forgot them. And it was just the same with Bobbie.
For about a week, perhaps a bit more, the recollection of that quiet little domestic
evening bucked him up like a tonic.
Elephants, I read somewhere, are champions at the memory business, but they were fools
to Bobbie during that week. But, bless you, the shock wasn't nearly big
It had dinted the armour, but it hadn't made a hole in it.
Pretty soon he was back at the old game. It was pathetic, don't you know.
The poor girl loved him, and she was frightened.
It was the thin edge of the wedge, you see, and she knew it.
A man who forgets what day he was married, when he's been married one year, will
forget, at about the end of the fourth, that he's married at all.
If she meant to get him in hand at all, she had got to do it now, before he began to
drift away.
I saw that clearly enough, and I tried to make Bobbie see it, when he was by way of
pouring out his troubles to me one afternoon.
I can't remember what it was that he had forgotten the day before, but it was
something she had asked him to bring home for her--it may have been a book.
"It's such a little thing to make a fuss about," said Bobbie.
"And she knows that it's simply because I've got such an infernal memory about
I can't remember anything. Never could."
He talked on for a while, and, just as he was going, he pulled out a couple of
"Oh, by the way," he said. "What's this for?"
I asked, though I knew. "I owe it you."
"How's that?"
I said. "Why, that bet on Tuesday.
In the billiard-room.
Murray and Brown were playing a hundred up, and I gave you two to one that Brown would
win, and Murray beat him by twenty odd." "So you do remember some things?"
I said.
He got quite excited.
Said that if I thought he was the sort of rotter who forgot to pay when he lost a
bet, it was pretty rotten of me after knowing him all these years, and a lot more
like that.
"Subside, laddie," I said. Then I spoke to him like a father.
"What you've got to do, my old college chum," I said, "is to pull yourself
together, and jolly quick, too.
As things are shaping, you're due for a nasty knock before you know what's hit you.
You've got to make an effort. Don't say you can't.
This two quid business shows that, even if your memory is rocky, you can remember some
What you've got to do is to see that wedding anniversaries and so on are
included in the list. It may be a brainstrain, but you can't get
out of it."
"I suppose you're right," said Bobbie. "But it beats me why she thinks such a lot
of these rotten little dates.
What's it matter if I forgot what day we were married on or what day she was born on
or what day the cat had the measles? She knows I love her just as much as if I
were a memorizing freak at the halls."
"That's not enough for a woman," I said. "They want to be shown.
Bear that in mind, and you're all right. Forget it, and there'll be trouble."
He chewed the knob of his stick.
"Women are frightfully rummy," he said gloomily.
"You should have thought of that before you married one," I said.
I don't see that I could have done any more.
I had put the whole thing in a nutshell for him.
You would have thought he'd have seen the point, and that it would have made him
brace up and get a hold on himself. But no.
Off he went again in the same old way.
I gave up arguing with him. I had a good deal of time on my hands, but
not enough to amount to anything when it was a question of reforming dear old Bobbie
by argument.
If you see a man asking for trouble, and insisting on getting it, the only thing to
do is to stand by and wait till it comes to him.
After that you may get a chance.
But till then there's nothing to be done. But I thought a lot about him.
Bobbie didn't get into the soup all at once.
Weeks went by, and months, and still nothing happened.
Now and then he'd come into the club with a kind of cloud on his shining morning face,
and I'd know that there had been doings in the home; but it wasn't till well on in the
spring that he got the thunderbolt just
where he had been asking for it--in the thorax.
I was smoking a quiet cigarette one morning in the window looking out over Piccadilly,
and watching the buses and motors going up one way and down the other--most
interesting it is; I often do it--when in
rushed Bobbie, with his eyes bulging and his face the colour of an oyster, waving a
piece of paper in his hand. "Reggie," he said.
"Reggie, old top, she's gone!"
"Gone!" I said.
"Who?" "Mary, of course!
Left me! Gone!"
"Where?" I said.
Silly question?
Perhaps you're right. Anyhow, dear old Bobbie nearly foamed at
the mouth. "Where?
How should I know where?
Here, read this." He pushed the paper into my hand.
It was a letter. "Go on," said Bobbie.
"Read it."
So I did. It certainly was quite a letter.
There was not much of it, but it was all to the point.
This is what it said:
"MY DEAR BOBBIE,--I am going away. When you care enough about me to remember
to wish me many happy returns on my birthday, I will come back.
My address will be Box 341, London Morning News."
I read it twice, then I said, "Well, why don't you?"
"Why don't I what?"
"Why don't you wish her many happy returns? It doesn't seem much to ask."
"But she says on her birthday." "Well, when is her birthday?"
"Can't you understand?" said Bobbie.
"I've forgotten." "Forgotten!"
I said. "Yes," said Bobbie.
"How do you mean, forgotten?" I said.
"Forgotten whether it's the twentieth or the twenty-first, or what?
How near do you get to it?"
"I know it came somewhere between the first of January and the thirty-first of
December. That's how near I get to it."
"Think? What's the use of saying 'Think'?
Think I haven't thought? I've been knocking sparks out of my brain
ever since I opened that letter."
"And you can't remember?" "No."
I rang the bell and ordered restoratives.
"Well, Bobbie," I said, "it's a pretty hard case to spring on an untrained amateur like
Suppose someone had come to Sherlock Holmes and said, 'Mr. Holmes, here's a case for
you. When is my wife's birthday?'
Wouldn't that have given Sherlock a jolt?
However, I know enough about the game to understand that a fellow can't shoot off
his deductive theories unless you start him with a clue, so rouse yourself out of that
pop-eyed trance and come across with two or three.
For instance, can't you remember the last time she had a birthday?
What sort of weather was it?
That might fix the month." Bobbie shook his head.
"It was just ordinary weather, as near as I can recollect."
"Warmish." "Or cold?"
"Well, fairly cold, perhaps. I can't remember."
I ordered two more of the same.
They seemed indicated in the Young Detective's Manual.
"You're a great help, Bobbie," I said. "An invaluable assistant.
One of those indispensable adjuncts without which no home is complete."
Bobbie seemed to be thinking. "I've got it," he said suddenly.
"Look here.
I gave her a present on her last birthday. All we have to do is to go to the shop,
hunt up the date when it was bought, and the thing's done."
What did you give her?" He sagged.
"I can't remember," he said. Getting ideas is like golf.
Some days you're right off, others it's as easy as falling off a log.
I don't suppose dear old Bobbie had ever had two ideas in the same morning before in
his life; but now he did it without an effort.
He just loosed another dry Martini into the undergrowth, and before you could turn
round it had flushed quite a brain-wave. Do you know those little books called When
were you Born?
There's one for each month. They tell you your character, your talents,
your strong points, and your weak points at fourpence halfpenny a go.
Bobbie's idea was to buy the whole twelve, and go through them till we found out which
month hit off Mary's character. That would give us the month, and narrow it
down a whole lot.
A pretty hot idea for a non-thinker like dear old Bobbie.
We sallied out at once. He took half and I took half, and we
settled down to work.
As I say, it sounded good. But when we came to go into the thing, we
saw that there was a flaw.
There was plenty of information all right, but there wasn't a single month that didn't
have something that exactly hit off Mary.
For instance, in the December book it said, "December people are apt to keep their own
secrets. They are extensive travellers."
Well, Mary had certainly kept her secret, and she had travelled quite extensively
enough for Bobbie's needs. Then, October people were "born with
original ideas" and "loved moving."
You couldn't have summed up Mary's little jaunt more neatly.
February people had "wonderful memories"-- Mary's speciality.
We took a bit of a rest, then had another go at the thing.
Bobbie was all for May, because the book said that women born in that month were
"inclined to be capricious, which is always a barrier to a happy married life"; but I
plumped for February, because February
women "are unusually determined to have their own way, are very earnest, and expect
a full return in their companion or mates." Which he owned was about as like Mary as
anything could be.
In the end he tore the books up, stamped on them, burnt them, and went home.
It was wonderful what a change the next few days made in dear old Bobbie.
Have you ever seen that picture, "The Soul's Awakening"?
It represents a flapper of sorts gazing in a startled sort of way into the middle
distance with a look in her eyes that seems to say, "Surely that is George's step I
hear on the mat!
Can this be love?" Well, Bobbie had a soul's awakening too.
I don't suppose he had ever troubled to think in his life before--not really think.
But now he was wearing his brain to the bone.
It was painful in a way, of course, to see a fellow human being so thoroughly in the
soup, but I felt strongly that it was all for the best.
I could see as plainly as possible that all these brainstorms were improving Bobbie out
of knowledge.
When it was all over he might possibly become a rotter again of a sort, but it
would only be a pale reflection of the rotter he had been.
It bore out the idea I had always had that what he needed was a real good jolt.
I saw a great deal of him these days. I was his best friend, and he came to me
for sympathy.
I gave it him, too, with both hands, but I never failed to hand him the Moral Lesson
when I had him weak.
One day he came to me as I was sitting in the club, and I could see that he had had
an idea. He looked happier than he had done in
"Reggie," he said, "I'm on the trail. This time I'm convinced that I shall pull
it off. I've remembered something of vital
"Yes?" I said.
"I remember distinctly," he said, "that on Mary's last birthday we went together to
the Coliseum.
How does that hit you?" "It's a fine bit of memorizing," I said;
"but how does it help?" "Why, they change the programme every week
"Ah!" I said.
"Now you are talking." "And the week we went one of the turns was
Professor Some One's Terpsichorean Cats.
I recollect them distinctly. Now, are we narrowing it down, or aren't
Reggie, I'm going round to the Coliseum this minute, and I'm going to dig the date
of those Terpsichorean Cats out of them, if I have to use a crowbar."
So that got him within six days; for the management treated us like brothers;
brought out the archives, and ran agile fingers over the pages till they treed the
cats in the middle of May.
"I told you it was May," said Bobbie. "Maybe you'll listen to me another time."
"If you've any sense," I said, "there won't be another time."
And Bobbie said that there wouldn't.
Once you get your money on the run, it parts as if it enjoyed doing it.
I had just got off to sleep that night when my telephone-bell rang.
It was Bobbie, of course.
He didn't apologize. "Reggie," he said, "I've got it now for
certain. It's just come to me.
We saw those Terpsichorean Cats at a matinee, old man."
"Yes?" I said.
"Well, don't you see that that brings it down to two days?
It must have been either Wednesday the seventh or Saturday the tenth."
"Yes," I said, "if they didn't have daily matinees at the Coliseum."
I heard him give a sort of howl. "Bobbie," I said.
My feet were freezing, but I was fond of him.
"Well?" "I've remembered something too.
It's this.
The day you went to the Coliseum I lunched with you both at the Ritz.
You had forgotten to bring any money with you, so you wrote a cheque."
"But I'm always writing cheques."
"You are. But this was for a tenner, and made out to
the hotel.
Hunt up your cheque-book and see how many cheques for ten pounds payable to the Ritz
Hotel you wrote out between May the fifth and May the tenth."
He gave a kind of gulp.
"Reggie," he said, "you're a genius. I've always said so.
I believe you've got it. Hold the line."
Presently he came back again.
"Halloa!" he said. "I'm here," I said.
"It was the eighth. Reggie, old man, I----"
"Topping," I said.
"Good night." It was working along into the small hours
now, but I thought I might as well make a night of it and finish the thing up, so I
rang up an hotel near the Strand.
"Put me through to Mrs. Cardew," I said. "It's late," said the man at the other end.
"And getting later every minute," I said. "Buck along, laddie."
I waited patiently.
I had missed my beauty-sleep, and my feet had frozen hard, but I was past regrets.
"What is the matter?" said Mary's voice. "My feet are cold," I said.
"But I didn't call you up to tell you that particularly.
I've just been chatting with Bobbie, Mrs. Cardew."
"Oh! is that Mr. Pepper?"
"Yes. He's remembered it, Mrs. Cardew."
She gave a sort of scream. I've often thought how interesting it must
be to be one of those Exchange girls.
The things they must hear, don't you know. Bobbie's howl and gulp and Mrs. Bobbie's
scream and all about my feet and all that. Most interesting it must be.
"He's remembered it!" she gasped.
"Did you tell him?" "No."
Well, I hadn't. "Mr. Pepper."
"Was he--has he been--was he very worried?" I chuckled.
This was where I was billed to be the life and soul of the party.
He was about the most worried man between here and Edinburgh.
He has been worrying as if he was paid to do it by the nation.
He has started out to worry after breakfast, and----"
Oh, well, you can never tell with women.
My idea was that we should pass the rest of the night slapping each other on the back
across the wire, and telling each other what bally brainy conspirators we were,
don't you know, and all that.
But I'd got just as far as this, when she bit at me.
Absolutely! I heard the snap.
And then she said "Oh!" in that choked kind of way.
And when a woman says "Oh!" like that, it means all the bad words she'd love to say
if she only knew them.
And then she began. "What brutes men are!
What horrid brutes!
How you could stand by and see poor dear Bobbie worrying himself into a fever, when
a word from you would have put everything right, I can't----"
"And you call yourself his friend! His friend!"
(Metallic laugh, most unpleasant.) "It shows how one can be deceived.
I used to think you a kind-hearted man."
"But, I say, when I suggested the thing, you thought it perfectly----"
"I thought it hateful, abominable." "But you said it was absolutely top----"
"I said nothing of the kind.
And if I did, I didn't mean it.
I don't wish to be unjust, Mr. Pepper, but I must say that to me there seems to be
something positively fiendish in a man who can go out of his way to separate a husband
from his wife, simply in order to amuse himself by gloating over his agony----"
"But----!" "When one single word would have----"
"But you made me promise not to----" I bleated.
"And if I did, do you suppose I didn't expect you to have the sense to break your
I had finished. I had no further observations to make.
I hung up the receiver, and crawled into bed.
I still see Bobbie when he comes to the club, but I do not visit the old homestead.
He is friendly, but he stops short of issuing invitations.
I ran across Mary at the Academy last week, and her eyes went through me like a couple
of bullets through a pat of butter.
And as they came out the other side, and I limped off to piece myself together again,
there occurred to me the simple epitaph which, when I am no more, I intend to have
inscribed on my tombstone.
It was this: "He was a man who acted from the best motives.
There is one born every minute."