My Man Jeeves by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (reading cloud ebooks TXT) 📖

but he slopped back in his chair

at this juncture with a good deal of gloom. “But, of course, it’s no

good,” he said, “because I haven’t the cash.”

 

“You’ve only to say the word, you know, Bicky, old top.”

 

“Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I’m not going to sponge on you.”

 

That’s always the way in this world. The chappies you’d like to lend

money to won’t let you, whereas the chappies you don’t want to lend it

to will do everything except actually stand you on your head and lift

the specie out of your pockets. As a lad who has always rolled

tolerably free in the right stuff, I’ve had lots of experience of the

second class. Many’s the time, back in London, I’ve hurried along

Piccadilly and felt the hot breath of the toucher on the back of my

neck and heard his sharp, excited yapping as he closed in on me. I’ve

simply spent my life scattering largesse to blighters I didn’t care a

hang for; yet here was I now, dripping doubloons and pieces of eight

and longing to hand them over, and Bicky, poor fish, absolutely on his

uppers, not taking any at any price.

 

“Well, there’s only one hope, then.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Jeeves.”

 

“Sir?”

 

There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full of zeal. In this matter of

shimmering into rooms the chappie is rummy to a degree. You’re sitting

in the old armchair, thinking of this and that, and then suddenly you

look up, and there he is. He moves from point to point with as little

uproar as a jelly fish. The thing startled poor old Bicky considerably.

He rose from his seat like a rocketing pheasant. I’m used to Jeeves

now, but often in the days when he first came to me I’ve bitten my

tongue freely on finding him unexpectedly in my midst.

 

“Did you call, sir?”

 

“Oh, there you are, Jeeves!”

 

“Precisely, sir.”

 

“Jeeves, Mr. Bickersteth is still up the pole. Any ideas?”

 

“Why, yes, sir. Since we had our recent conversation I fancy I have

found what may prove a solution. I do not wish to appear to be taking a

liberty, sir, but I think that we have overlooked his grace’s

potentialities as a source of revenue.”

 

Bicky laughed, what I have sometimes seen described as a hollow,

mocking laugh, a sort of bitter cackle from the back of the throat,

rather like a gargle.

 

“I do not allude, sir,” explained Jeeves, “to the possibility of

inducing his grace to part with money. I am taking the liberty of

regarding his grace in the light of an at present—if I may say

so—useless property, which is capable of being developed.”

 

Bicky looked at me in a helpless kind of way. I’m bound to say I didn’t

get it myself.

 

“Couldn’t you make it a bit easier, Jeeves!”

 

“In a nutshell, sir, what I mean is this: His grace is, in a sense, a

prominent personage. The inhabitants of this country, as no doubt you

are aware, sir, are peculiarly addicted to shaking hands with prominent

personages. It occurred to me that Mr. Bickersteth or yourself might

know of persons who would be willing to pay a small fee—let us say two

dollars or three—for the privilege of an introduction, including

handshake, to his grace.”

 

Bicky didn’t seem to think much of it.

 

“Do you mean to say that anyone would be mug enough to part with solid

cash just to shake hands with my uncle?”

 

“I have an aunt, sir, who paid five shillings to a young fellow for

bringing a moving-picture actor to tea at her house one Sunday. It gave

her social standing among the neighbours.”

 

Bicky wavered.

 

“If you think it could be done–-”

 

“I feel convinced of it, sir.”

 

“What do you think, Bertie?”

 

“I’m for it, old boy, absolutely. A very brainy wheeze.”

 

“Thank you, sir. Will there be anything further? Good night, sir.”

 

And he floated out, leaving us to discuss details.

 

Until we started this business of floating old Chiswick as a money-making

proposition I had never realized what a perfectly foul time those Stock

Exchange chappies must have when the public isn’t biting freely. Nowadays

I read that bit they put in the financial reports about “The market

opened quietly” with a sympathetic eye, for, by Jove, it certainly opened

quietly for us! You’d hardly believe how difficult it was to interest

the public and make them take a flutter on the old boy. By the end of the

week the only name we had on our list was a delicatessen-store keeper

down in Bicky’s part of the town, and as he wanted us to take it out in

sliced ham instead of cash that didn’t help much. There was a gleam of

light when the brother of Bicky’s pawnbroker offered ten dollars, money

down, for an introduction to old Chiswick, but the deal fell through,

owing to its turning out that the chap was an anarchist and intended to

kick the old boy instead of shaking hands with him. At that, it took me

the deuce of a time to persuade Bicky not to grab the cash and let things

take their course. He seemed to regard the pawnbroker’s brother rather as

a sportsman and benefactor of his species than otherwise.

 

The whole thing, I’m inclined to think, would have been off if it

hadn’t been for Jeeves. There is no doubt that Jeeves is in a class of

his own. In the matter of brain and resource I don’t think I have ever

met a chappie so supremely like mother made. He trickled into my room

one morning with a good old cup of tea, and intimated that there was

something doing.

 

“Might I speak to you with regard to that matter of his grace, sir?”

 

“It’s all off. We’ve decided to chuck it.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“It won’t work. We can’t get anybody to come.”

 

“I fancy I can arrange that aspect of the matter, sir.”

 

“Do you mean to say you’ve managed to get anybody?”

 

“Yes, sir. Eighty-seven gentlemen from Birdsburg, sir.”

 

I sat up in bed and spilt the tea.

 

“Birdsburg?”

 

“Birdsburg, Missouri, sir.”

 

“How did you get them?”

 

“I happened last night, sir, as you had intimated that you would be

absent from home, to attend a theatrical performance, and entered into

conversation between the acts with the occupant of the adjoining seat.

I had observed that he was wearing a somewhat ornate decoration in his

buttonhole, sir—a large blue button with the words ‘Boost for

Birdsburg’ upon it in red letters, scarcely a judicious addition to a

gentleman’s evening costume. To my surprise I noticed that the

auditorium was full of persons similarly decorated. I ventured to

inquire the explanation, and was informed that these gentlemen, forming

a party of eighty-seven, are a convention from a town of the name if

Birdsburg, in the State of Missouri. Their visit, I gathered, was

purely of a social and pleasurable nature, and my informant spoke at

some length of the entertainments arranged for their stay in the city.

It was when he related with a considerable amount of satisfaction and

pride, that a deputation of their number had been introduced to and had

shaken hands with a well-known prizefighter, that it occurred to me to

broach the subject of his grace. To make a long story short, sir, I

have arranged, subject to your approval, that the entire convention

shall be presented to his grace to-morrow afternoon.”

 

I was amazed. This chappie was a Napoleon.

 

“Eighty-seven, Jeeves. At how much a head?”

 

“I was obliged to agree to a reduction for quantity, sir. The terms

finally arrived at were one hundred and fifty dollars for the party.”

 

I thought a bit.

 

“Payable in advance?”

 

“No, sir. I endeavoured to obtain payment in advance, but was not

successful.”

 

“Well, any way, when we get it I’ll make it up to five hundred.

Bicky’ll never know. Do you suspect Mr. Bickersteth would suspect

anything, Jeeves, if I made it up to five hundred?”

 

“I fancy not, sir. Mr. Bickersteth is an agreeable gentleman, but not

bright.”

 

“All right, then. After breakfast run down to the bank and get me some

money.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“You know, you’re a bit of a marvel, Jeeves.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Right-o!”

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

When I took dear old Bicky aside in the course of the morning and told

him what had happened he nearly broke down. He tottered into the

sitting-room and buttonholed old Chiswick, who was reading the comic

section of the morning paper with a kind of grim resolution.

 

“Uncle,” he said, “are you doing anything special to-morrow afternoon?

I mean to say, I’ve asked a few of my pals in to meet you, don’t you

know.”

 

The old boy cocked a speculative eye at him.

 

“There will be no reporters among them?”

 

“Reporters? Rather not! Why?”

 

“I refuse to be badgered by reporters. There were a number of adhesive

young men who endeavoured to elicit from me my views on America while

the boat was approaching the dock. I will not be subjected to this

persecution again.”

 

“That’ll be absolutely all right, uncle. There won’t be a newspaper-man

in the place.”

 

“In that case I shall be glad to make the acquaintance of your

friends.”

 

“You’ll shake hands with them and so forth?”

 

“I shall naturally order my behaviour according to the accepted rules

of civilized intercourse.”

 

Bicky thanked him heartily and came off to lunch with me at the club,

where he babbled freely of hens, incubators, and other rotten things.

 

After mature consideration we had decided to unleash the Birdsburg

contingent on the old boy ten at a time. Jeeves brought his theatre pal

round to see us, and we arranged the whole thing with him. A very

decent chappie, but rather inclined to collar the conversation and turn

it in the direction of his home-town’s new water-supply system. We

settled that, as an hour was about all he would be likely to stand,

each gang should consider itself entitled to seven minutes of the

duke’s society by Jeeves’s stop-watch, and that when their time was up

Jeeves should slide into the room and cough meaningly. Then we parted

with what I believe are called mutual expressions of goodwill, the

Birdsburg chappie extending a cordial invitation to us all to pop out

some day and take a look at the new water-supply system, for which we

thanked him.

 

Next day the deputation rolled in. The first shift consisted of the

cove we had met and nine others almost exactly like him in every

respect. They all looked deuced keen and businesslike, as if from youth

up they had been working in the office and catching the boss’s eye and

whatnot. They shook hands with the old boy with a good deal of

apparent satisfaction—all except one chappie, who seemed to be

brooding about something—and then they stood off and became chatty.

 

“What message have you for Birdsburg, Duke?” asked our pal.

 

The old boy seemed a bit rattled.

 

“I have never been to Birdsburg.”

 

The chappie seemed pained.

 

“You should pay it a visit,” he said. “The most rapidly-growing city in

the country. Boost for Birdsburg!”

 

“Boost for Birdsburg!” said the other chappies reverently.

 

The chappie who had been brooding suddenly gave tongue.

 

“Say!”

 

He was a stout sort of well-fed cove with one of those determined chins

and