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

thought that he was

doing so little to help.”

 

“Absolutely, by Jove! Quite pipped about it!” I said.

 

“The idea of making a personal examination into the prison system of

the country—from within—occurred to his lordship very suddenly one

night. He embraced it eagerly. There was no restraining him.”

 

Lady Malvern looked at Jeeves, then at me, then at Jeeves again. I

could see her struggling with the thing.

 

“Surely, your ladyship,” said Jeeves, “it is more reasonable to suppose

that a gentleman of his lordship’s character went to prison of his own

volition than that he committed some breach of the law which

necessitated his arrest?”

 

Lady Malvern blinked. Then she got up.

 

“Mr. Wooster,” she said, “I apologize. I have done you an injustice. I

should have known Wilmot better. I should have had more faith in his

pure, fine spirit.”

 

“Absolutely!” I said.

 

“Your breakfast is ready, sir,” said Jeeves.

 

I sat down and dallied in a dazed sort of way with a poached egg.

 

“Jeeves,” I said, “you are certainly a life-saver!”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Nothing would have convinced my Aunt Agatha that I hadn’t lured that

blighter into riotous living.”

 

“I fancy you are right, sir.”

 

I champed my egg for a bit. I was most awfully moved, don’t you know,

by the way Jeeves had rallied round. Something seemed to tell me that

this was an occasion that called for rich rewards. For a moment I

hesitated. Then I made up my mind.

 

“Jeeves!”

 

“Sir?”

 

“That pink tie!”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Burn it!”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“And, Jeeves!”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Take a taxi and get me that Longacre hat, as worn by John Drew!”

 

“Thank you very much, sir.”

 

I felt most awfully braced. I felt as if the clouds had rolled away and

all was as it used to be. I felt like one of those chappies in the

novels who calls off the fight with his wife in the last chapter and

decides to forget and forgive. I felt I wanted to do all sorts of other

things to show Jeeves that I appreciated him.

 

“Jeeves,” I said, “it isn’t enough. Is there anything else you would

like?”

 

“Yes, sir. If I may make the suggestion—fifty dollars.”

 

“Fifty dollars?”

 

“It will enable me to pay a debt of honour, sir. I owe it to his

lordship.”

 

“You owe Lord Pershore fifty dollars?”

 

“Yes, sir. I happened to meet him in the street the night his lordship

was arrested. I had been thinking a good deal about the most suitable

method of inducing him to abandon his mode of living, sir. His lordship

was a little over-excited at the time and I fancy that he mistook me

for a friend of his. At any rate when I took the liberty of wagering

him fifty dollars that he would not punch a passing policeman in the

eye, he accepted the bet very cordially and won it.”

 

I produced my pocket-book and counted out a hundred.

 

“Take this, Jeeves,” I said; “fifty isn’t enough. Do you know, Jeeves,

you’re—well, you absolutely stand alone!”

 

“I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir,” said Jeeves.

 

JEEVES AND THE HARD-BOILED EGG

 

Sometimes of a morning, as I’ve sat in bed sucking down the early cup

of tea and watched my man Jeeves flitting about the room and putting

out the raiment for the day, I’ve wondered what the deuce I should do

if the fellow ever took it into his head to leave me. It’s not so bad

now I’m in New York, but in London the anxiety was frightful. There

used to be all sorts of attempts on the part of low blighters to sneak

him away from me. Young Reggie Foljambe to my certain knowledge offered

him double what I was giving him, and Alistair Bingham-Reeves, who’s

got a valet who had been known to press his trousers sideways, used to

look at him, when he came to see me, with a kind of glittering hungry

eye which disturbed me deucedly. Bally pirates!

 

The thing, you see, is that Jeeves is so dashed competent. You can spot

it even in the way he shoves studs into a shirt.

 

I rely on him absolutely in every crisis, and he never lets me down.

And, what’s more, he can always be counted on to extend himself

on behalf of any pal of mine who happens to be to all appearances

knee-deep in the bouillon. Take the rather rummy case, for instance,

of dear old Bicky and his uncle, the hard-boiled egg.

 

It happened after I had been in America for a few months. I got back to

the flat latish one night, and when Jeeves brought me the final drink

he said:

 

“Mr. Bickersteth called to see you this evening, sir, while you were

out.”

 

“Oh?” I said.

 

“Twice, sir. He appeared a trifle agitated.”

 

“What, pipped?”

 

“He gave that impression, sir.”

 

I sipped the whisky. I was sorry if Bicky was in trouble, but, as a

matter of fact, I was rather glad to have something I could discuss

freely with Jeeves just then, because things had been a bit strained

between us for some time, and it had been rather difficult to hit on

anything to talk about that wasn’t apt to take a personal turn. You

see, I had decided—rightly or wrongly—to grow a moustache and this

had cut Jeeves to the quick. He couldn’t stick the thing at any price,

and I had been living ever since in an atmosphere of bally disapproval

till I was getting jolly well fed up with it. What I mean is, while

there’s no doubt that in certain matters of dress Jeeves’s judgment is

absolutely sound and should be followed, it seemed to me that it was

getting a bit too thick if he was going to edit my face as well as my

costume. No one can call me an unreasonable chappie, and many’s the

time I’ve given in like a lamb when Jeeves has voted against one of my

pet suits or ties; but when it comes to a valet’s staking out a claim

on your upper lip you’ve simply got to have a bit of the good old

bulldog pluck and defy the blighter.

 

“He said that he would call again later, sir.”

 

“Something must be up, Jeeves.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

I gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl. It seemed to hurt Jeeves a

good deal, so I chucked it.

 

“I see by the paper, sir, that Mr. Bickersteth’s uncle is arriving on

the Carmantic.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“His Grace the Duke of Chiswick, sir.”

 

This was news to me, that Bicky’s uncle was a duke. Rum, how little one

knows about one’s pals! I had met Bicky for the first time at a species

of beano or jamboree down in Washington Square, not long after my

arrival in New York. I suppose I was a bit homesick at the time, and I

rather took to Bicky when I found that he was an Englishman and had, in

fact, been up at Oxford with me. Besides, he was a frightful chump, so

we naturally drifted together; and while we were taking a quiet snort

in a corner that wasn’t all cluttered up with artists and sculptors and

whatnot, he furthermore endeared himself to me by a most extraordinarily

gifted imitation of a bull-terrier chasing a cat up a tree. But, though

we had subsequently become extremely pally, all I really knew about him

was that he was generally hard up, and had an uncle who relieved the

strain a bit from time to time by sending him monthly remittances.

 

“If the Duke of Chiswick is his uncle,” I said, “why hasn’t he a title?

Why isn’t he Lord WhatNot?”

 

“Mr. Bickersteth is the son of his grace’s late sister, sir, who

married Captain Rollo Bickersteth of the Coldstream Guards.”

 

Jeeves knows everything.

 

“Is Mr. Bickersteth’s father dead, too?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Leave any money?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

I began to understand why poor old Bicky was always more or less on the

rocks. To the casual and irreflective observer, if you know what I

mean, it may sound a pretty good wheeze having a duke for an uncle, but

the trouble about old Chiswick was that, though an extremely wealthy

old buster, owning half London and about five counties up north, he was

notoriously the most prudent spender in England. He was what American

chappies would call a hard-boiled egg. If Bicky’s people hadn’t left

him anything and he depended on what he could prise out of the old

duke, he was in a pretty bad way. Not that that explained why he was

hunting me like this, because he was a chap who never borrowed money.

He said he wanted to keep his pals, so never bit any one’s ear on

principle.

 

At this juncture the door bell rang. Jeeves floated out to answer it.

 

“Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster has just returned,” I heard him say. And Bicky

came trickling in, looking pretty sorry for himself.

 

“Halloa, Bicky!” I said. “Jeeves told me you had been trying to get me.

Jeeves, bring another glass, and let the revels commence. What’s the

trouble, Bicky?”

 

“I’m in a hole, Bertie. I want your advice.”

 

“Say on, old lad!”

 

“My uncle’s turning up to-morrow, Bertie.”

 

“So Jeeves told me.”

 

“The Duke of Chiswick, you know.”

 

“So Jeeves told me.”

 

Bicky seemed a bit surprised.

 

“Jeeves seems to know everything.”

 

“Rather rummily, that’s exactly what I was thinking

just now myself.”

 

“Well, I wish,” said Bicky gloomily, “that he knew a way to get me out

of the hole I’m in.”

 

Jeeves shimmered in with the glass, and stuck it competently on the

table.

 

“Mr. Bickersteth is in a bit of a hole, Jeeves,” I said, “and wants you

to rally round.”

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

Bicky looked a bit doubtful.

 

“Well, of course, you know, Bertie, this thing is by way of being a bit

private and all that.”

 

“I shouldn’t worry about that, old top. I bet Jeeves knows all about it

already. Don’t you, Jeeves?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Eh!” said Bicky, rattled.

 

“I am open to correction, sir, but is not your dilemma due to the fact

that you are at a loss to explain to his grace why you are in New York

instead of in Colorado?”

 

Bicky rocked like a jelly in a high wind.

 

“How the deuce do you know anything about it?”

 

“I chanced to meet his grace’s butler before we left England. He

informed me that he happened to overhear his grace speaking to you on

the matter, sir, as he passed the library door.”

 

Bicky gave a hollow sort of laugh.

 

“Well, as everybody seems to know all about it, there’s no need to try

to keep it dark. The old boy turfed me out, Bertie, because he said I

was a brainless nincompoop. The idea was that he would give me a

remittance on condition that I dashed out to some blighted locality of

the name of Colorado and learned farming or ranching, or whatever they

call it, at some bally ranch or farm or whatever it’s called. I didn’t

fancy the idea a bit. I should have had to ride horses and pursue cows,

and so forth. I hate horses. They bite at you. I was all against the

scheme. At the same time, don’t you know, I