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

presently round the corner came the bloke Waterbury. He went in at the front door, and I started off for a short stroll. It was no part of my policy to be in the offing when things began to happen.

It seemed to me that, allowing for wind and weather, the scales should have fallen from old Sippy’s eyes by about three-fifteen, Greenwich mean time; so, having prowled around Covent Garden among the spuds and cabbages for twenty minutes or so, I retraced my steps and pushed up the stairs. I went in at the door marked Private, fully expecting to see old Sippy, and conceive of my astonishment and chagrin when I found on entering only the bloke Waterbury. He was seated at Sippy’s desk, reading a paper, as if the place belonged to him.

And, moreover, there was of flour on his person not a trace.

“Great Scott!” I said.

It was a case of the sunken road, after all. But, dash it, how could I have been expected to take into consideration the possibility that this cove, head master though he was, would have had the cold nerve to walk into Sippy’s private office instead of pushing in a normal and orderly manner through the public door?

He raised the nose, and focused me over it.

“Yes?”

“I was looking for old Sippy.”

“Mr. Sipperley has not yet arrived.”

He spoke with a good deal of pique, seeming to be a man who was not used to being kept waiting.

“Well, how is everything?” I said, to ease things along.

He had started reading again. He looked up as if he found me pretty superfluous.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“You spoke.”

“I only said ‘How is everything?’ don’t you know.”

“How is what?”

“Everything.”

“I fail to understand you.”

“Let it go,” I said.

I found a certain difficulty in boosting along the chitchat. He was not a responsive cove.

“Nice day,” I said.

“Quite.”

“But they say the crops need rain.”

He had buried himself in his paper once more, and seemed peeved this time on being lugged to the surface.

“What?”

“The crops.”

“The crops?”

“Crops.”

“What crops?”

“Oh, just crops.”

He laid down his paper.

“You appear to be desirous of giving me some information about crops. What is it?”

“I hear they need rain.”

“Indeed?”

That concluded the small-talk. He went on reading, and I found a chair and sat down and sucked the handle of my stick. And so the long day wore on.

It may have been some two hours later, or it may have been about five minutes, when there became audible in the passage outside a strange wailing sound, as of some creature in pain. The bloke Waterbury looked up. I looked up.

The wailing came closer. It came into the room. It was Sippy, singing.

“⁠—I love you. That’s all that I can say. I love you, I lo-o-ve you. The same old⁠—”

He suspended the chant, not too soon for me.

“Oh, hullo!” he said.

I was amazed. The last time I had seen old Sippy, you must remember, he had had all the appearance of a man who didn’t know it was loaded. Haggard. Drawn face. Circles under the eyes. All that sort of thing. And now, not much more than twenty-four hours later, he was simply radiant. His eyes sparkled. His mobile lips were curved in a happy smile. He looked as if he had been taking as much as will cover a sixpence every morning before breakfast for years.

“Hullo, Bertie!” he said. “Hullo, Waterbury! Sorry I’m late.”

The bloke Waterbury seemed by no means pleased at this cordial form of address. He froze visibly.

“You are exceedingly late. I may mention that I have been waiting for upwards of half an hour, and my time is not without its value.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Sippy, jovially. “You wanted to see me about that article on the Elizabethan dramatists you left here yesterday, didn’t you? Well, I’ve read it, and I’m sorry to say, Waterbury, that it’s N.G.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No earthly use to us. Quite the wrong sort of stuff. This paper is supposed to be all light Society interest. What the débutante will wear for Goodwood, you know, and I saw Lady Betty Bootle in the Park yesterday⁠—she is, of course, the sister-in-law of the Duchess of Peebles, ‘Cuckoo’ to her intimates⁠—all that kind of rot. My readers don’t want stuff about Elizabethan dramatists.”

“Sipperley⁠—!”

Old Sippy reached out and patted him in a paternal manner on the back.

“Now listen, Waterbury,” he said, kindly. “You know as well as I do that I hate to turn down an old pal. But I have my duty to the paper. Still, don’t be discouraged. Keep trying, and you’ll do fine. There is a lot of promise in your stuff, but you want to study your market. Keep your eyes open and see what editors need. Now, just as a suggestion, why not have a dash at a light, breezy article on pet dogs. You’ve probably noticed that the pug, once so fashionable, has been superseded by the Peke, the griffon, and the Sealyham. Work on that line and⁠—”

The bloke Waterbury navigated towards the door.

“I have no desire to work on that line, as you put it,” he said, stiffly. “If you do not require my paper on the Elizabethan dramatists I shall no doubt be able to find another editor whose tastes are more in accord with my work.”

“The right spirit absolutely, Waterbury,” said Sippy, cordially. “Never give in. Perseverance brings home the gravy. If you get an article accepted, send another article to that editor. If you get an article refused, send that article to another editor. Carry on, Waterbury. I shall watch your future progress with considerable interest.”

“Thank you,” said the bloke Waterbury, bitterly. “This expert advice should prove most useful.”

He biffed off, banging the door behind him, and I turned to Sippy, who was swerving about the room like an exuberant snipe.

“Sippy⁠—”

“Eh? What? Can’t stop, Bertie, can’t stop. Only looked in to tell you the news. I’m taking Gwendolen to tea at the Carlton. I’m the happiest man in the world, Bertie. Engaged,