The Jeeves Omnibus (171 page)

‘Oh, no, I say, Jeeves, not really?’

‘Yes, sir. They derived real enjoyment from the pastime.’

‘I’d no idea small girls were such demons.’

‘More deadly than the male, sir.’

Mr Wooster passed a handkerchief over his brow.

‘Well, we’re going to have tea in a few minutes, Jeeves. I expect I shall feel better after tea.’

‘We will hope so, sir.’

But I was by no means sanguine.

I had an agreeable tea in the kitchen. The buttered toast was good and
the
maids nice girls, though with little conversation. The parlourmaid, who joined us towards the end of the meal, after performing her duties in the school dining-room, reported that Mr Wooster was sticking it pluckily, but seemed feverish. I went back to the stable-yard, and I was just giving the car another look over when the young Mainwaring child appeared.

‘Oh, I say,’ she said, ‘will you give this to Mr Wooster when you see him?’ She held out Mr Wooster’s cigarette-case. ‘He must have dropped it somewhere. I say,’ she proceeded, ‘it’s an awful lark. He’s going to give a lecture to the school.’

‘Indeed, miss?’

‘We love it when there are lectures. We sit and stare at the poor dears, and try to make them dry up. There was a man last term who got hiccoughs. Do you think Mr Wooster will get hiccoughs?’

‘We can but hope for the best, miss.’

‘It would be such a lark, wouldn’t it?’

‘Highly enjoyable, miss.’

‘Well, I must be getting back. I want to get a front seat.’

And she scampered off. An engaging child. Full of spirits.

She had hardly gone when there was an agitated noise, and round the corner came Mr Wooster. Perturbed. Deeply so.

‘Jeeves!’

‘Sir?’

‘Start the car!’

‘Sir?’

‘I’m off!’

‘Sir?’

Mr Wooster danced a few steps.

‘Don’t stand there saying “sir?” I tell you I’m off. Bally off! There’s not a moment to waste. The situation’s desperate. Dash it, Jeeves, do you know what’s happened? The Tomlinson female has just sprung it on me that I’m expected to make a speech to the girls! Got to stand up there in front of the whole dashed collection and talk! I can just see myself! Get that car going, Jeeves, dash it all. A little speed, a little speed!’

‘Impossible, I fear, sir. The car is out of order.’

Mr Wooster gaped at me. Very glassily he gaped.

‘Out of order!’

‘Yes, sir. Something is wrong. Trivial, perhaps, but possibly a matter of some little time to repair.’ Mr Wooster being one of those easy going young gentlemen who will drive a car but never take the trouble to study its mechanism, I felt justified in becoming
technical.
‘I think it is the differential gear, sir. Either that or the exhaust.’

I am fond of Mr Wooster, and I admit I came very near to melting as I looked at his face. He was staring at me in a sort of dumb despair that would have touched anybody.

‘Then I’m sunk! Or’ – a slight gleam of hope flickered across his drawn features – ‘do you think I could sneak out and leg it across country, Jeeves?’

‘Too late, I fear, sir.’ I indicated with a slight gesture the approaching figure of Miss Tomlinson, who was advancing with a serene determination in his immediate rear.

‘Ah, there you are, Mr Wooster.’

He smiled a sickly smile.

‘Yes – er – here I am!’

‘We are all waiting for you in the large schoolroom.’

‘But I say, look here,’ said Mr Wooster, ‘I – I don’t know a bit what to talk about.’

‘Why, anything, Mr Wooster. Anything that comes into your head. Be bright,’ said Miss Tomlinson. ‘Bright and amusing.’

‘Oh, bright and amusing?’

‘Possibly tell them a few entertaining stories. But, at the same time, do not neglect the graver note. Remember that my girls are on the threshold of life, and will be eager to hear something brave and helpful and stimulating – something which they can remember in after years. But, of course, you know the sort of thing, Mr Wooster. Come. The young people are waiting.’

I have spoken earlier of resource and the part it plays in the life of a gentleman’s personal gentleman. It is a quality peculiarly necessary if one is to share in scenes not primarily designed for one’s co-operation. So much that is interesting in life goes on apart behind closed doors that your gentleman’s gentleman, if he is not to remain hopelessly behind the march of events, should exercise his wits in order to enable himself to be – if not a spectator – at least an auditor when there is anything of interest toward. I deprecate as vulgar and undignified the practice of listening at keyholes, but, without lowering myself to that, I have generally contrived to find a way.

In the present case it was simple. The large schoolroom was situated on the ground floor, with commodious french windows, which, as the weather was clement, remained open throughout the proceedings. By stationing myself behind a pillar on the porch or veranda which adjoined the room, I was enabled to see and hear
all.
It was an experience which I should be sorry to have missed. Mr Wooster, I may say at once, indubitably excelled himself.

Mr Wooster is a young gentleman with practically every desirable quality except one. I do not mean brains, for in an employer brains are not desirable. The quality to which I allude is hard to define, but perhaps I might call it the gift of dealing with the Unusual Situation. In the presence of the Unusual, Mr Wooster is too prone to smile weakly and allow his eyes to protrude. He lacks Presence. I have often wished that I had the power to bestow upon him some of the
savoir-faire
of a former employer of mine, Mr Montague-Todd, the well-known financier, now in the second year of his sentence. I have known men call upon Mr Todd with the express intention of horsewhipping him and go away half an hour later laughing heartily and smoking one of his cigars. To Mr Todd it would have been a child’s play to speak a few impromptu words to a schoolroom full of young ladies; in fact, before he had finished he would probably have induced them to invest all their pocket-money in one of his numerous companies; but to Mr Wooster it was plainly an ordeal of the worst description. He gave one look at the young ladies, who were all staring at him in an extremely unwinking manner, then blinked and started to pick feebly at his coat-sleeve. His aspect reminded me of that of a bashful young man who, persuaded against his better judgement to go on the platform and assist a conjurer in his entertainment, suddenly discovers that rabbits and hard-boiled eggs are being taken out of the top of his head.

The proceedings opened with a short but graceful speech of introduction from Miss Tomlinson.

‘Girls,’ said Miss Tomlinson, ‘some of you have already met Mr Wooster – Mr
Bertram
Wooster, and you all, I hope, know him by reputation.’ Here, I regret to say, Mr Wooster gave a hideous, gurgling laugh, and, catching Miss Tomlinson’s eye, turned a bright scarlet. Miss Tomlinson resumed: ‘He has very kindly consented to say a few words to you before he leaves, and I am sure that you will all give him your very earnest attention. Now, please.’

She gave a spacious gesture with her right hand as she said the last two words, and Mr Wooster, apparently under the impression that they were addressed to him, cleared his throat and began to speak. But it appeared that her remark was directed to the young ladies, and was in the nature of a cue or signal, for she had no sooner spoken to them than the whole school rose to its feet in a body and burst into a species of chant, of which I am glad to say I remember the words, though the tune eludes me. The words ran as follows:

Many greetings to you!

Many greetings to you!

Many greetings, dear stranger,

Many greetings,

Many greetings,

Many greetings to you!

Many greetings to you!

To you!

Considerable latitude of choice was given to the singers in the matter of key, and there was little of what I might call co-operative effort. Each child went on till she had reached the end, then stopped and waited for the stragglers to come up. It was an unusual performance, and I, personally, found it extremely exhilarating. It seemed to smite Mr Wooster, however, like a blow. He recoiled a couple of steps and flung up an arm defensively. Then the uproar died away, and an air of expectancy fell upon the room. Miss Tomlinson directed a brightly authoritative gaze upon Mr Wooster, and he blinked, gulped once or twice, and tottered forward.

‘Well, you know –’ he said.

Then it seemed to strike him that this opening lacked the proper formal dignity.

‘Ladies –’

A silvery peal of laughter from the front row stopped him again.

‘Girls!’ said Miss Tomlinson. She spoke in a low, soft voice, but the effect was immediate. Perfect stillness instantly descended upon all present. I am bound to say that, brief as my acquaintance with Miss Tomlinson had been, I could recall few women I had admired more. She had grip.

I fancy that Miss Tomlinson had gauged Mr Wooster’s oratorical capabilities pretty correctly by this time, and had come to the conclusion that little in the way of a stirring address was to be expected from him.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘as it is getting late, and he has not very much time to spare, Mr Wooster will just give you some little word of advice which may be helpful to you in after-life, and then we will sing the school song and disperse to our evening lessons.’

She looked at Mr Wooster. He passed a finger round the inside of his collar.

‘Advice? After-life? What? Well, I don’t know –’

‘Just some brief word of counsel, Mr Wooster,’ said Miss Tomlinson firmly.

‘Oh, well – Well, yes – Well –’ It was painful to see Mr Wooster’s
brain
endeavouring to work. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something that’s often done
me
a bit of good, and it’s a thing not many people know. My old Uncle Henry gave me the tip when I first came to London. “Never forget, my boy,” he said, “that, if you stand outside Romano’s in the Strand, you can see the clock on the wall of the Law Courts down in Fleet Street. Most people who don’t know don’t believe it’s possible, because there are a couple of churches in the middle of the road, and you would think they would be in the way. But you can, and it’s worth knowing. You can win a lot of money betting on it with fellows who haven’t found it out.” And, by Jove, he was perfectly right, and it’s a thing to remember. Many a quid I –’

Miss Tomlinson gave a hard, dry cough, and he stopped in the middle of a sentence.

‘Perhaps it will be better, Mr Wooster,’ she said, in a cold, even voice, ‘if you were to tell my girls some little story. What you say is, no doubt, extremely interesting, but perhaps a little –’

‘Oh, ah, yes,’ said Mr Wooster. ‘Story? Story?’ He appeared completely distraught, poor young gentleman. ‘I wonder if you’ve heard the one about the stockbroker and the chorus-girl?’

‘We will now sing the school song,’ said Miss Tomlinson, rising like an iceberg.

I decided not to remain for the singing of the school song. It seemed probable to me that Mr Wooster would shortly be requiring the car, so I made my way back to the stable-yard, to be in readiness.

I had not long to wait. In a very few moments he appeared, tottering. Mr Wooster’s is not one of those inscrutable faces which it is impossible to read. On the contrary, it is a limpid pool in which is mirrored each passing emotion. I could read it now like a book, and his first words were very much on the lines I had anticipated.

‘Jeeves,’ he said hoarsely, ‘is that damned car mended yet?’

‘Just this moment, sir. I have been working on it assiduously.’

‘Then for heaven’s sake, let’s go!’

‘But I understood that you were to address the young ladies, sir.’

‘Oh, I’ve done that!’ responded Mr Wooster, blinking twice with extraordinary rapidity. ‘Yes, I’ve done that.’

‘It was a success, I hope, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Most extraordinarily successful. Went like a breeze. But – er – I think I may as well be going. No use outstaying one’s welcome, what?’

‘Assuredly not, sir.’

I had climbed into my seat and was about to start the engine, when voices made themselves heard; and at the first sound of
them
Mr Wooster sprang with almost incredible nimbleness into the tonneau, and when I glanced round he was on the floor covering himself with a rug. The last I saw of him was a pleading eye.

‘Have you seen Mr Wooster, my man?’

Miss Tomlinson had entered the stable-yard, accompanied by a lady of, I should say, judging from her accent, French origin.

‘No, madam.’

The French lady uttered some exclamation in her native tongue.

‘Is anything wrong, madam?’ I inquired.

Miss Tomlinson in normal mood was, I should be disposed to imagine, a lady who would not readily confide her troubles to the ear of a gentleman’s gentleman, however sympathetic his aspect. That she did so now was sufficient indication of the depth to which she was stirred.

‘Yes, there is! Mademoiselle has just found several of the girls smoking cigarettes in the shrubbery. When questioned, they stated that Mr Wooster had given them the horrid things.’ She turned. ‘He must be in the garden somewhere, or in the house. I think the man is out of his senses. Come, mademoiselle!’

It must have been about a minute later that Mr Wooster poked his head out of the rug like a tortoise.

‘Jeeves!’

‘Sir?’

‘Get a move on! Start her up! Get going and
keep
going!’

I applied my foot to the self-starter.

‘It would perhaps be safest to drive carefully until we are out of the school grounds, sir,’ I said. ‘I might run over one of the young ladies, sir.’

‘Well, what’s the objection to that?’ demanded Mr Wooster with extraordinary bitterness.

‘Or even Miss Tomlinson, sir.’

‘Don’t!’ said Mr Wooster wistfully. ‘You make my mouth water!’

‘Jeeves,’ said Mr Wooster, when I brought him his whisky and siphon one night about a week later, ‘this is dashed jolly.’

‘Sir?’