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

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 Bill’s “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 comeback, 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. “Do 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 criticise the facial peculiarities of your friends.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and whatnot?”

“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