The Jeeves Omnibus (68 page)

It sounded pretty unlikely to me.

‘What would Jeeves do that for?’

‘It struck me as rummy, too.’

‘Where would be the sense of it?’

‘That’s what I can’t see.’

‘I mean to say, it’s nothing to Jeeves what sort of face you have!’

‘No!’ said Cyril. He spoke a little coldly, I fancied. I don’t know why. ‘Well, I’ll be popping. Toodle-oo!’

‘Pip-pip!’

It must have been about a week after this rummy little episode that George Caffyn called me up and asked me if I would care to go and see a run-through of his show.
Ask Dad
, it seemed, was to open out of town in Schenectady on the following Monday, and this was to be a sort of preliminary dress-rehearsal. A preliminary dress-rehearsal, old George explained, was the same as a regular dress-rehearsal inasmuch as it was apt to look like nothing on earth and last into the small hours, but more exciting because they wouldn’t be timing the piece and consequently all the blighters who on these occasions let their angry passions rise would have plenty of scope for interruptions, with the result that a pleasant time would be had by all.

The thing was billed to start at eight o’clock, so I rolled up at ten-fifteen, so as not to have too long to wait before they began. The dress-parade was still going on. George was on the stage, talking to a cove in shirt-sleeves and an absolutely round chappie with big spectacles and a practically hairless dome. I had seen George with the latter merchant once or twice at the club, and I knew that he was Blumenfield, the manager. I waved to George, and slid into a seat at the back of the house, so as to be out of the way when the fighting started. Presently George hopped down off the stage and came and joined me, and fairly soon after that the
curtain
went down. The chappie at the piano whacked out a well-meant bar or two, and the curtain went up again.

I can’t quite recall what the plot of
Ask Dad
was about, but I do know that it seemed able to jog along all right without much help from Cyril. I was rather puzzled at first. What I mean is, through brooding on Cyril and hearing him in his part and listening to his views on what ought and what ought not to be done, I suppose I had got a sort of impression rooted in the old bean that he was pretty well the backbone of the show, and that the rest of the company didn’t do much except go on and fill in when he happened to be off the stage. I sat there for nearly half an hour, waiting for him to make his entrance, until I suddenly discovered he had been on from the start. He was, in fact, the rummy-looking plug-ugly who was now leaning against a potted palm a couple of feet from the O.P. side, trying to appear intelligent while the heroine sang a song about Love being like something which for the moment has slipped my memory. After the second refrain he began to dance in company with a dozen other equally weird birds. A painful spectacle for one who could see a vision of Aunt Agatha reaching for the hatchet and old Bassington-Bassington senior putting on his strongest pair of hob-nailed boots. Absolutely!

The dance had just finished, and Cyril and his pals had shuffled off into the wings when a voice spoke from the darkness on my right.

‘Pop!’

Old Blumenfield clapped his hands, and the hero, who had just been about to get the next line off his diaphragm, cheesed it. I peered into the shadows. Who should it be but Jeeves’s little playmate with the freckles! He was now strolling down the aisle with his hands in his pockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of respectful attention seemed to pervade the building.

‘Pop,’ said the stripling, ‘that number’s no good.’ Old Blumenfield beamed over his shoulder.

‘Don’t you like it, darling?’

‘It gives me a pain.’

‘You’re dead right.’

‘You want something zippy there. Something with a bit of jazz to it!’

‘Quite right my boy. I’ll make a note of it. All right. Go on!’

I turned to George, who was muttering to himself in rather an overwrought way.

‘I say, George, old man, who the dickens is that kid?’

Old George groaned a bit hollowly, as if things were a trifle thick.

‘I didn’t know he had crawled in! It’s Blumenfield’s son. Now we’re going to have a Hades of a time!’

‘Does he always run things like this?’

‘Always!’

‘But why does old Blumenfield listen to him?’

‘Nobody seems to know. It may be pure fatherly love, or he may regard him as a mascot. My own idea is that he thinks the kid has exactly the amount of intelligence of the average member of the audience, and that what makes a hit with him will please the general public. While, conversely, what he doesn’t like will be too rotten for anyone. The kid is a pest, a wart, and a pot of poison, and should be strangled!’

The rehearsal went on. The hero got off his line. There was a slight outburst of frightfulness between the stage-manager and a Voice named Bill that came from somewhere near the roof, the subject under discussion being where the devil Bill’s ‘ambers’ were at that particular juncture. Then things went on again until the moment arrived for Cyril’s big scene.

I was still a trifle hazy about the plot, but I had got on to the fact that Cyril was some sort of an English peer who had come over to America doubtless for the best reasons. So far he had only had two lines to say. One was ‘Oh, I say!’ and the other was ‘Yes, by Jove!’; but I seemed to recollect, from hearing him read his part, that pretty soon he was due rather to spread himself. I sat back in my chair and waited for him to bob up.

He bobbed up about five minutes later. Things had got a bit stormy by that time. The Voice and the stage-director had had another of their love-feasts – this time something to do with why Bills’ ‘blues’ weren’t on the job or something. And, almost as soon as that was over, there was a bit of unpleasantness because a flowerpot fell off a window-ledge and nearly brained the hero. The atmosphere was consequently more or less hotted up when Cyril, who had been hanging about at the back of the stage, breezed down centre and toed the mark for his most substantial chunk of entertainment. The heroine had been saying something – I forget what – and all the chorus, with Cyril at their head, had begun to surge round her in the restless sort of way those chappies always do when there’s a number coming along.

Cyril’s first line was, ‘Oh, I say, you know, you mustn’t say that,
really
!’ and it seemed to me he passed it over the larynx with a goodish deal of vim and
je-ne-sais-quoi
. But, by Jove, before the heroine had time for the come-back, our little friend with the freckles had risen to lodge a protest.

‘Pop!’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘That one’s no good.’

‘Which one, darling?’

‘The one with a face like a fish.’

‘But they all have faces like fish, darling.’

The child seemed to see the justice of this objection. He became more definite.

‘The ugly one.’

‘Which ugly one? That one?’ said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril.

‘Yep! He’s rotten!’

‘I thought so myself.’

‘He’s a pill!’

‘You’re dead right, my boy. I’ve noticed it for some time.’

Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the footlights. Even from where I was sitting, I could see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassington family pride a frightful wallop. He started to get pink in the ears, and then in the nose, and then in the cheeks, till in about a quarter of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery on a sunset evening.

‘What the deuce do you mean?’

‘What the deuce do
you
mean?’ shouted old Blumenfield. ‘Don’t yell at me across the footlights!’

‘I’ve a dashed good mind to come down and spank that little brute!’

‘What!’

‘A dashed good mind!’

Old Blumenfield swelled like a pumped-up tyre. He got rounder than ever.

‘See here, mister – I don’t know your darn name –!’

‘My name’s Bassington-Bassington, and the jolly old Bassington-Bassingtons – I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons aren’t accustomed –’

Old Blumenfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Bassington-Bassingtons and what they weren’t
accustomed
to. The whole strength of the company rallied round to enjoy his remarks. You could see them jutting out from the wings and protruding from behind trees.

‘You got to work good for my pop!’ said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly at Cyril.

‘I don’t want any bally cheek from you!’ said Cyril, gurgling a bit.

‘What’s that?’ barked old Blumenfield. ‘Don’t you understand that this boy is my son?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Cyril. ‘And you both have my sympathy!’

‘You’re fired!’ bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more. ‘Get out of my theatre!’

About half past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the sitting-room.

‘How does he look, Jeeves?’

‘Sir?’

‘What does Mr Bassington-Bassington look like?’

‘It is hardly my place, sir, to criticize the facial peculiarities of your friends.’

‘I don’t mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and what not?’

‘Not noticeably, sir. His manner is tranquil.’

‘That’s rum!’

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. Show him in, will you?’

I’m bound to say I had expected to see Cyril showing a few more traces of last night’s battle. I was looking for a bit of the overwrought soul and the quivering ganglions, if you know what I mean. He seemed pretty ordinary and quite fairly cheerful.

‘Hallo, Wooster, old thing!’

‘Cheero!’

‘I just looked in to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye?’

‘Yes. I’m off to Washington in an hour.’ He sat down on the bed. ‘You know, Wooster, old top,’ he went on, ‘I’ve been thinking it all over, and really it doesn’t seem quite fair to the jolly old guv’nor, my going on the stage and so forth. What do you think?’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘I mean to say, he sent me over here to broaden my jolly old mind and words to that effect, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking
it
would be a bit of a jar for the old boy if I gave him the bird and went on the stage instead. I don’t know if you understand me, but what I mean to say is, it’s a sort of question of conscience.’

‘Can you leave the show without upsetting everything?’

‘Oh, that’s all right. I’ve explained everything to old Blumenfield, and he quite sees my position. Of course, he’s sorry to lose me – said he didn’t see how he could fill my place and all that sort of thing – but, after all, even if it does land him in a bit of a hole, I think I’m right in resigning my part, don’t you?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’

‘I thought you’d agree with me. Well, I ought to be shifting. Awfully glad to have seen something of you, and all that sort of rot. Pip-pip!’

‘Toodle-oo!’

He sallied forth, having told all those bally lies with the clear, blue, pop-eyed gaze of a young child. I rang for Jeeves. You know, ever since last night I had been exercising the old bean to some extent, and a good deal of light had dawned upon me.

‘Jeeves!’

‘Sir?’

‘Did you put that pie-faced infant up to bally-ragging Mr Bassington-Bassington?’

‘Sir?’

‘Oh, you know what I mean. Did you tell him to get Mr Bassington-Bassington sacked from the
Ask Dad
company?’

‘I would not take such a liberty, sir.’ He started to put out my clothes. ‘It is possible that young Master Blumenfield may have gathered from casual remarks of mine that I did not consider the stage altogether a suitable sphere for Mr Bassington-Bassington.’

‘I say, Jeeves, you know, you’re a bit of a marvel.’

‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.’

‘And I’m frightfully obliged, if you know what I mean. Aunt Agatha would have had sixteen or seventeen fits if you hadn’t headed him off.’

‘I fancy there might have been some little friction and unpleasantness, sir. I am laying out the blue suit with the thin red stripe, sir. I fancy the effect will be pleasing.’

It’s a rummy thing, but I had finished breakfast and gone out and got as far as the lift before I remembered what it was that I had meant to do to reward Jeeves for his really sporting behaviour in
this
matter of the chump Cyril. It cut me to the heart to do it, but I had decided to give him his way and let those purple socks pass out of my life. After all, there are times when a cove must make sacrifices. I was just going to nip back and break the glad news to him, when the lift came up, so I thought I would leave it till I got home.

The coloured chappie in charge of the lift looked at me, as I hopped in, with a good deal of quiet devotion and what not.

‘I wish to thank yo’, suh,’ he said, ‘for yo’ kindness.’

‘Eh? What?’

‘Misto’ Jeeves done give them purple socks, as you told him. Thank yo’ very much, suh!’

I looked down. The blighter was a blaze of mauve from the ankle-bone southward. I don’t know when I’ve seen anything so dressy.

‘Oh, ah! Not at all! Right-o! Glad you like them!’ I said.

Well, I mean to say, what? Absolutely!

THE THING REALLY
started in the park – at the Marble Arch end – where weird birds of every description collect on Sunday afternoons and stand on soap-boxes and make speeches. It isn’t often you’ll find me there, but it so happened that on the Sabbath after my return to the good old metrop. I had a call to pay in Manchester Square, and, taking a stroll round in that direction so as not to arrive too early, I found myself right in the middle of it.

Now that the Empire isn’t the place it was, I always think the park on a Sunday is the centre of London, if you know what I mean. I mean to say, that’s the spot that makes the returned exile really sure he’s back again. After what you might call my enforced sojourn in New York I’m bound to say that I stood there fairly lapping it all up. It did me good to listen to the lads giving tongue and realize that all had ended happily and Bertram was home again.