Jeeves Stories, P. G. Wodehouse [best ereader for epub .TXT] 📗

Tomlinson directed a brightly authoritative gaze upon Mr. Wooster, and he blinked, gulped once or twice, and tottered forward.

“Well, you know⁠—” said Mr. Wooster.

Then it seemed to strike him that this opening lacked the proper formal dignity.

“Ladies⁠—”

A silvery peal of laughter from the front row stopped him again.

“Girls!” said Miss Tomlinson. She spoke in a low, soft voice, but the effect was immediate. Perfect stillness instantly descended upon all present. I am bound to say that, brief as my acquaintance with Miss Tomlinson had been, I could recall few women I had admired more. She had grip.

I fancy that Miss Tomlinson had gauged Mr. Wooster’s oratorical capabilities pretty correctly by this time, and had come to the conclusion that nothing much in the way of a stirring address was to be expected from him.

“Perhaps,” she said, “as it is getting late, and he has not very much time to spare, Mr. Wooster will just give you some little word of advice which may be helpful to you in after-life, and then we will sing the school song and disperse to our evening lessons.”

She looked at Mr. Wooster. Mr. Wooster passed a finger round the inside of his collar.

“Advice? After-life? What? Well, I don’t know⁠—”

“Just some brief word of counsel, Mr. Wooster,” said Miss Tomlinson, firmly.

“Oh, well⁠—Well, yes⁠—Well⁠—” It was painful to see Mr. Wooster’s brain endeavouring to work. “Well, I’ll tell you something that’s often done me a bit of good, and it’s a thing not many people know. My old Uncle Henry gave me the tip when I first came to London. ‘Never forget, my boy,’ he said, ‘that, if you stand outside Romano’s in the Strand, you can see the clock on the wall of the Law Courts down in Fleet Street. Most people who don’t know don’t believe it’s possible, because there are a couple of churches in the middle of the road, and you would think they would be in the way. But you can, and it’s worth knowing. You can win a lot of money betting on it with fellows who haven’t found it out.’ And, by Jove, he was perfectly right, and it’s a thing to remember. Many a quid have I⁠—”

Miss Tomlinson gave a hard, dry cough, and Mr. Wooster stopped in the middle of a sentence.

“Perhaps it will be better, Mr. Wooster,” she said, in a cold, even voice, “if you were to tell my girls some little story. What you say is, no doubt, extremely interesting, but perhaps a little⁠—”

“Oh, ah, yes,” said Mr. Wooster. “Story? Story?” He appeared completely distraught, poor young gentleman. “I wonder if you’ve heard the one about the stockbroker and the chorus-girl?”

“We will now sing the school song,” said Miss Tomlinson, rising like an iceberg.

I decided not to remain for the singing of the school song. It seemed probable to me that Mr. Wooster would shortly be requiring the car, so I made my way back to the stable-yard, to be in readiness.

I had not long to wait. In a very few moments Mr. Wooster came tottering up. Mr. Wooster’s is not one of those inscrutable faces which it is impossible to read. On the contrary, it is a limpid pool in which is mirrored each passing emotion. I could read it now like a book, and his first words were very much on the lines I had anticipated.

“Jeeves,” he said, hoarsely, “is that damned car mended yet?”

“Just this moment, sir. I have been working on it assiduously.”

“Then, for heaven’s sake, let’s go!”

“But I understood that you were to address the young ladies, sir.”

“Oh, I’ve done that!” responded Mr. Wooster, blinking twice with extraordinary rapidity. “Yes, I’ve done that.”

“It was a success, I hope, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Most extraordinarily successful. Went like a breeze. But⁠—er⁠—I think I may as well be going. No use outstaying one’s welcome, what?”

“Assuredly not, sir.”

I had climbed into my seat and was about to start the engine, when voices made themselves heard; and at the first sound of them Mr. Wooster sprang with almost incredible nimbleness into the tonneau, and when I glanced round he was on the floor covering himself with a rug. The last I saw of him was a pleading eye.

“Have you seen Mr. Wooster, my man?” Miss Tomlinson had entered the stable-yard, accompanied by a lady of, I should say, judging from her accent, French origin.

“No, madam.”

The French lady uttered some exclamation in her native tongue.

“Is anything wrong, madam?” I inquired.

Miss Tomlinson in normal mood was, I should be disposed to imagine, a lady who would not readily confide her troubles to the ear of a gentleman’s gentleman, however sympathetic his aspect. That she did so now was sufficient indication of the depth to which she was stirred.

“Yes, there is! Mademoiselle has just found several of the girls smoking cigarettes in the shrubbery. When questioned, they stated that Mr. Wooster had given them the horrid things.” She turned. “He must be in the garden somewhere, or in the house. I think the man is out of his senses. Come, mademoiselle!”

It must have been about a minute later that Mr. Wooster poked his head out of the rug like a tortoise.

“Jeeves!”

“Sir?”

“Get a move on! Start her up! Get going and keep going!”

I trod on the self-starter.

“It would perhaps be safest to drive carefully until we are out of the school grounds, sir,” I said. “I might run over one of the young ladies, sir.”

“Well, what’s the objection to that?” demanded Mr. Wooster, with extraordinary bitterness.

“Or even Miss Tomlinson, sir.”

“Don’t!” said Mr. Wooster, wistfully. “You make my mouth water!”

“Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster, when I brought him his whisky and siphon one night about a week later, “this is dashed jolly.”

“Sir?”

“Jolly. Cosy and pleasant, you know. I mean, looking at the clock and wondering if you’re going to be late with the good old drinks, and then you coming in with the tray always exactly on time, never a minute late, and shoving it down on the table and biffing off, and the next night coming in and shoving it down and biffing off, and the next night⁠—I mean, gives you