Jeeves Stories P. G. Wodehouse (websites to read books for free txt) 📖

wrote plays and whatnot. I’d made a lot of friends during my stay in New York, the city being crammed with bonhomous lads who one and all extended a welcoming hand to the stranger in their midst.

Caffyn was a bit late, but bobbed up finally, saying that he had been kept at a rehearsal of his new musical comedy, Ask Dad; and we started in. We had just reached the coffee, when the waiter came up and said that Jeeves wanted to see me.

Jeeves was in the waiting-room. He gave the socks one pained look as I came in, then averted his eyes.

“Mr. Bassington-Bassington has just telephoned, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“In prison, sir.”

I reeled against the wallpaper. A nice thing to happen to Aunt Agatha’s nominee on his first morning under my wing, I did not think!

“In prison!”

“Yes, sir. He said on the telephone that he had been arrested and would be glad if you could step round and bail him out.”

“Arrested! What for?”

“He did not favour me with his confidence in that respect, sir.”

“This is a bit thick, Jeeves.”

“Precisely, sir.”

I collected old George, who very decently volunteered to stagger along with me, and we hopped into a taxi. We sat around at the police station for a bit on a wooden bench in a sort of anteroom, and presently a policeman appeared, leading in Cyril.

“Halloa! Halloa! Halloa!” I said. “What?”

My experience is that a fellow never really looks his best just after he’s come out of a cell. When I was up at Oxford, I used to have a regular job bailing out a pal of mine who never failed to get pinched every Boat-Race night, and he always looked like something that had been dug up by the roots. Cyril was in pretty much the same sort of shape. He had a black eye and a torn collar, and altogether was nothing to write home about⁠—especially if one was writing to Aunt Agatha. He was a thin, tall chappie with a lot of light hair and pale-blue goggly eyes which made him look like one of the rarer kinds of fish.

“I got your message,” I said.

“Oh, are you Bertie Wooster?”

“Absolutely. And this is my pal George Caffyn. Writes plays and whatnot, don’t you know.”

We all shook hands, and the policeman, having retrieved a piece of chewing-gum from the underside of a chair, where he had parked it against a rainy day, went off into a corner and began to contemplate the infinite.

“This is a rotten country,” said Cyril.

“Oh, I don’t know, you know, don’t you know!” I said.

“We do our best,” said George.

“Old George is an American,” I explained. “Writes plays, don’t you know, and whatnot.”

“Of course, I didn’t invent the country,” said George. “That was Columbus. But I shall be delighted to consider any improvements you may suggest and lay them before the proper authorities.”

“Well, why don’t the policemen in New York dress properly?”

George took a look at the chewing officer across the room.

“I don’t see anything missing,” he said.

“I mean to say, why don’t they wear helmets like they do in London? Why do they look like postmen? It isn’t fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed confusing. I was simply standing on the pavement, looking at things, when a fellow who looked like a postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn’t see why I should have postmen prodding me. Why the dickens should a fellow come three thousand miles to be prodded by postmen?”

“The point is well taken,” said George. “What did you do?”

“I gave him a shove, you know. I’ve got a frightfully hasty temper, you know. All the Bassington-Bassingtons have got frightfully hasty tempers, don’t you know! And then he biffed me in the eye and lugged me off to this beastly place.”

“I’ll fix it, old son,” I said. And I hauled out the bankroll and went off to open negotiations, leaving Cyril to talk to George. I don’t mind admitting that I was a bit perturbed. There were furrows in the old brow, and I had a kind of foreboding feeling. As long as this chump stayed in New York, I was responsible for him: and he didn’t give me the impression of being the species of cove a reasonable chappie would care to be responsible for for more than about three minutes.

I mused with a considerable amount of tensity over Cyril that night, when I had got home and Jeeves had brought me the final whisky. I couldn’t help feeling that this visit of his to America was going to be one of those times that try men’s souls and whatnot. I hauled out Aunt Agatha’s letter of introduction and reread it, and there was no getting away from the fact that she undoubtedly appeared to be somewhat wrapped up in this blighter and to consider it my mission in life to shield him from harm while on the premises. I was deuced thankful that he had taken such a liking for George Caffyn, old George being a steady sort of cove. After I had got him out of his dungeon-cell, he and old George had gone off together, as chummy as brothers, to watch the afternoon rehearsal of Ask Dad. There was some talk, I gathered, of their dining together. I felt pretty easy in my mind while George had his eye on him.

I had got about as far as this in my meditations, when Jeeves came in with a telegram. At least, it wasn’t a telegram: it was a cable⁠—from Aunt Agatha, and this is what it said:⁠—

Has Cyril Bassington-Bassington called yet? On no account introduce him into theatrical circles. Vitally important. Letter follows.

I read it a couple of times.

“This is rummy, Jeeves!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Very rummy and dashed disturbing!”

“Will there be anything further tonight, sir?”

Of course, if he was going to be as bally unsympathetic as that there was nothing to be done. My idea had been to show him the cable and ask