The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 2: (Jeeves & Wooster): No. 2 (46 page)

‘The Bertie Wooster I was at school with?’

‘That’s right.’

He drew in his breath with a sort of whistle.

‘Well, if anybody had told me this would happen, I wouldn’t have believed it. I would have laughed mockingly. Bertie Wooster let me down? No, no, I would have said – not Bertie, who was not only at school with me but is at this very moment bursting with my meat.’

This was a nasty one. I wasn’t actually bursting with his meat, of course, because there hadn’t been such a frightful lot of it, but I saw what it meant. For an instant, when he put it like that, I nearly weakened. Then I thought of Uncle Percy ‘cowering in his chair’ – cowering in his chair, my foot! – and was strong again.

‘I’m sorry, Boko.’

‘So am I, Bertie. Sorry and disappointed. Sick at heart is the expression that leaps to the lips. Well, I suppose I shall have to go and break the news to Nobby. Golly, how she’ll cry!’

I could not repress a pang.

‘I don’t want to make Nobby cry.’

‘You will, though. Gallons.’

He faded away into the darkness, sighing reproachfully, leaving me alone with the stars.

And I was just examining them and wondering what had given Jeeves the idea that they were quiring to the young-eyed cherubims – I couldn’t see the slightest indication of such a thing myself – when they suddenly merged, as if they had been Uncle Percy and J. Chichester Clam, and became a jagged sheet of flame.

This was because a hidden hand, creeping up behind me unperceived, had given me the dickens of a slosh with what I assumed to be some blunt instrument. It caught me squarely on the back hair, bringing me to earth with a sharp ‘Ouch!’

I SAT UP
rubbing the occiput, and a squeaky voice spoke in my earhole. Eyeing me solicitously, or else gloating over his handiwork, I couldn’t tell which, was young blighted Edwin.

‘Coo!’ he said. ‘Is that you, Bertie?’

‘Yes, it jolly well is,’ I replied with a touch of not unnatural asperity. I mean, life’s difficult enough without having Boy Scouts beaning one every other minute, and I was incensed. ‘What’s the idea? What do you mean, you repellent young boll weevil, by socking me with a dashed great club?’

‘It wasn’t a club. It was my Scout’s stick. Sort of like a hockey stick. Very useful.’

‘Comes in handy, does it?’

‘Rather! Did it hurt?’

‘You may take it as definitely official that it hurt like blazes.’

‘Coo! I’m sorry. I mistook you for the burglar. There’s one lurking in the grounds. I heard him underneath my window. I said “Who’s there?” and he slunk off with horrid imprecations. I say, I’m not having much luck tonight. The last chap I mistook for the burglar turned out to be Father.’

‘Father?’

‘Yes. How was I to know it was him? I never thought he would be wandering about the garden in the middle of the night. I saw a shadowy form crouching down, as if about to spring, and I crept up behind it and –’

‘You didn’t biff him?’

‘Yes. Rather a juicy one.’

I must say my heart leaped up, as Jeeves tells me his does when he beholds a rainbow in the sky. The thought of Uncle Percy stopping a hot one with the trouser seat was pretty stimulating. It had been coming to him for years. I had that sort of awed feeling one gets sometimes, when one has a close-up of the workings of Providence and realizes that nothing is put into this world without a purpose, not even Edwin, and that the meanest creatures have their uses.

‘He was a bit shirty about it.’

‘It annoyed him, eh?’

‘He wanted to give me beans, but Florence wouldn’t let him. She said, “Father, you are not to touch him. It was a pure misunderstanding.” Florence is very fond of me.’

I raised my eyebrows. A girl, I felt, of strange, even morbid tastes.

‘So all he did was to tell me to go to bed.’

‘Then why aren’t you in bed?’

‘Bed? Coo! Not likely. How’s your head?’

‘Rotten.’

‘Does it ache?’

‘Of course it aches.’

‘Have you got a contusion?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘This is where I could give you first aid.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ ‘Don’t you want first aid?’ ‘No, I don’t. We have threshed all this out before, young Edwin. You know my views.’

‘I don’t ever seem able to get anyone to let me give them first aid,’ he said wistfully. ‘And what one needs is lots of practice. What are you doing here, Bertie?’

‘Everybody asks me what I’m doing here,’ I replied, with a touch of pique. ‘Why shouldn’t I be here? This place is related to me by ties of blood. If you really want to know, I came here for an after dinner saunter with Boko Fittleworth.’

‘I haven’t seen Boko.’

‘A bit of luck for him.’

‘D’Arcy Cheesewright’s here.’

‘I know.’

‘I phoned him after I saw the burglar.’

‘I know.’

‘Did you know he was engaged to Florence?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure it’s not off. They were having an awful row just now.’

He spoke lightly, throwing the statement out as if it had been some news item of merely negligible interest, and was probably surprised at the concern which I exhibited.

‘What!’

‘Yes.’

‘An awful row?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When you say an awful row, how awful a row do you mean?’

‘Well, fairly awful.’

‘High words?’

‘Pretty high.’

My heart, which had leaped up as described at the bulletin about Uncle Percy’s trouser seat, was now down in the basement again. The whole trend of my foreign policy, as I have made abundantly clear, being to promote cordial relations between these two, the information that they had been having even fairly high words was calculated to freeze the blood.

You see, what I was saying apropos to Nobby hauling up her slacks and coming the Pekingese on Boko – all that stuff, if you remember, about girls giving their loved one the devil just for the fun of the thing and to keep the pores open – didn’t apply to serious minded females like Florence and the sort of chap Stilton was. It’s all a question of what Jeeves calls the psychology of the individual. If Florence and Stilton had gone to the mat and started chewing pieces out of each other, the outlook was unsettled.

‘How much of it did you hear?’

‘Not much. Because that was when I saw something moving in the darkness and went and biffed it with my Scout’s stick, and it turned out to be you.’

This, of course, put a slightly better complexion on things. My first impression had been that he had had a ringside seat all through the conflict. If he had only heard the opening exchanges, it might be that matters had not proceeded too far. Cooler thoughts might have prevailed after his departure, causing the contestants to cheese it before the breach became irreparable. It often happens like that with girls and men of high spirit. They start off with a whoop and a holler, and then, their better selves prevailing, pipe down.

I mentioned this to Edwin, and he seemed to think that there might be something in it. But I noticed that he appeared distrait and not really interested, and after a pause of a few moments, during which I hoped for the best and he twiddled his Scout’s stick, he revealed why this was so. He was worrying about a point of procedure.

‘I say, Bertie,’ he said, ‘you know that slosh I gave you.’

I assured him that I had not forgotten it.

‘I meant well, you know.’

‘That’s a comfort.’

‘Still, of course, I did sock you, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’

‘You can’t get away from that.’

‘No.’

‘Then here’s what I’m wondering. Have I wiped out the act of kindness I did you this afternoon?’

‘When you tidied up Wee Nooke?’

‘No, I’m afraid that doesn’t count, because it didn’t work out right. I meant finding that brooch.’

I had to watch my step rather sedulously here. I mean to say, the brooch he had found and the brooch Jeeves had delivered to Florence were supposed to be one and the same brooch, and he must never learn from my lips that I had lost the dashed thing again after he had found it that time in the hall.

‘Oh, that?’ I said. ‘Yes, that was a Grade A act of kindness.’

‘I know. But do you think it still counts?’

‘Oh, rather.’

‘In spite of my socking you?’

‘Unquestionably.’

‘Coo! Then I’m all square up to last Thursday.’

‘You mean last Friday.’

‘Thursday.’

‘Friday.’

‘Thursday.’

‘Friday, you fatheaded young faulty reasoner,’ I said, with some heat, for his inability to keep the score correctly was annoying me as much as that ‘We are seven’ stuff must have annoyed the poet – I forget his name – who got talking figures with another child. ‘Listen. Your last Friday’s act of kindness would have been the tidying up of Wee Nooke. Right. But owing to the unfortunate sequel that has to be scratched off the list. You admit that, don’t you? Well, that makes the finding of the brooch your last Friday’s act of kindness. Perfectly simple, if you’ll only use the little grey cells a bit.’

‘Yes, but you haven’t got it right.’

‘I have got it right. Listen –’

‘I mean, you’re talking about the first time I found the brooch. What I’m talking about is the second time. That counts as well.’

I couldn’t follow him.

‘How do you mean, the second time? You didn’t find it twice.’

‘Yes, I did. The first time was when you dropped it in the hall, you remember. Then I went off to clean the kitchen chimney. Then there
was
that explosion, and I came out, and you were standing on the lawn in your shirt sleeves. You had taken off your coat and chucked it away.’

‘Oh my gosh!’

What with the stress of this and that, I had completely forgotten that coat sequence. It all came back to me now, and a cold hand seemed to clutch my heart. I could see where he was heading.

‘I suppose the brooch must have fallen out of your pocket, because when you had gone into the house I saw it lying there. And I thought it would be an act of kindness if I saved you the trouble by taking it to Florence.’

I gazed at him dully. With a lack-lustre eye is, I believe, the expression.

‘So you took it to Florence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Saying it was a present from me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she seem pleased?’

‘Frightfully. Coo!’

He vanished abruptly, like an eel going into mud, and I was aware of the approach of someone breathing heavily.

It did not need the child’s impulsive dash into the shadows to tell me that this stertorous newcomer was Florence.

FLORENCE WAS OBVIOUSLY
in the grip of some powerful emotion. She quivered gently, as if in the early stages of palsy, and her face, as far as I could gather from the sketchy view I was able to obtain of it, was pale and set, like the white of a hard-boiled egg.

‘D’Arcy Cheesewright,’ she said, getting right off the mark without so much as a preliminary “What ho, there”, ‘is an obstinate, mulish, pigheaded, overbearing, unimaginative, tyrannical jack in office!’

Her words froze me to the core. I was conscious of a sense of frightful peril. Owing to young Edwin’s infernal officiousness, this pancake had been in receipt only a few hours earlier of a handsome diamond brooch, ostensibly a present from Bertram W., and now, right on top of it, she had had a falling out with Stilton, so substantial that it took her six distinct adjectives to describe him. When a girl uses six derogatory adjectives in her attempt to paint the portrait of the loved one, it means something. One may indicate a merely temporary tiff. Six is big stuff.

I didn’t like the way things were shaping. I didn’t like it at all. It seemed to me that what she must be saying to herself was ‘Look here upon this picture and on this’, as it were. I mean to say, on the one hand, a suave, knightly donor of expensive brooches; on the other, an obstinate, mulish, pigheaded, overbearing, unimaginative, tyrannical jack in office. If you were a girl, which would you prefer to link your lot with? Exactly.

I felt that I must spare no effort to plead Stilton’s cause, to induce her to overlook whatever it was he had done to make her go about breathing like an asthma patient and scattering adjectives all over the place. The time had come for me to be eloquent and persuasive as never before, pouring oil on the troubled waters with a liberal hand, emptying the jug if necessary.

‘Oh, dash it!’ I cried.

‘What do you mean by “Oh, dash it”?’

‘Just. “Oh, dash it!” Sort of protest, if you follow me.’

‘You do not agree with me?’

‘I think you’ve misjudged him.’

‘I have not.’

‘Splendid fellow, Stilton.’

‘He is nothing of the kind.’

‘Wouldn’t you say he was the sort of chap who has made England what it is?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I said no.’

‘Yes, that’s right. So you did.’

‘He is a mere uncouth Cossack.’

A cossack, I knew, was one of those things clergymen wear, and I wondered why she thought Stilton was like one. An inquiry into this would have been fraught with interest, but before I could institute it she had continued.

‘He has been abominably rude, not only to me but to Father. Just because Father would not allow him to arrest the man in the potting shed.’

A bright light shone upon me. Her words had made clear the root of the trouble. I had, if you remember, edged away from the Stilton-Florence-Uncle Percy group just after the last named had put the presidential veto on the able young officer’s scheme of pinching J. Chichester Clam, and had, accordingly, not been there to hear Stilton’s comments. These, it was now evident, must have been on the fruity side. Stilton, as I have indicated, is a man of strong passions – one who, when annoyed, does not mince his words.

My mind went back to that time at Oxford, when I had gone in for rowing and had drawn him as a coach. If what he had said to Uncle Percy had been even remotely in the same class as his remarks on that occasion with reference to my stomach, I could see that relations must inevitably have got pretty strained, and my heart sank as I visualized the scene.