My Man Jeeves, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [ebook reader for pc and android TXT] 📗

a cold eye.

 

The assemblage looked at him.

 

“As a matter of business,” said the chappie—“mind you, I’m not

questioning anybody’s good faith, but, as a matter of strict

business—I think this gentleman here ought to put himself on

record before witnesses as stating that he really is a duke.”

 

“What do you mean, sir?” cried the old boy, getting purple.

 

“No offence, simply business. I’m not saying anything, mind you, but

there’s one thing that seems kind of funny to me. This gentleman here

says his name’s Mr. Bickersteth, as I understand it. Well, if you’re

the Duke of Chiswick, why isn’t he Lord Percy Something? I’ve read

English novels, and I know all about it.”

 

“This is monstrous!”

 

“Now don’t get hot under the collar. I’m only asking. I’ve a right to

know. You’re going to take our money, so it’s only fair that we should

see that we get our money’s worth.”

 

The water-supply cove chipped in:

 

“You’re quite right, Simms. I overlooked that when making the

agreement. You see, gentlemen, as business men we’ve a right to

reasonable guarantees of good faith. We are paying Mr. Bickersteth here

a hundred and fifty dollars for this reception, and we naturally want

to know–-”

 

Old Chiswick gave Bicky a searching look; then he turned to the

water-supply chappie. He was frightfully calm.

 

“I can assure you that I know nothing of this,” he said, quite

politely. “I should be grateful if you would explain.”

 

“Well, we arranged with Mr. Bickersteth that eighty-seven citizens

of Birdsburg should have the privilege of meeting and shaking hands

with you for a financial consideration mutually arranged, and what my

friend Simms here means—and I’m with him—is that we have only Mr.

Bickersteth’s word for it—and he is a stranger to us—that you are

the Duke of Chiswick at all.”

 

Old Chiswick gulped.

 

“Allow me to assure you, sir,” he said, in a rummy kind of voice, “that

I am the Duke of Chiswick.”

 

“Then that’s all right,” said the chappie heartily. “That was all we

wanted to know. Let the thing go on.”

 

“I am sorry to say,” said old Chiswick, “that it cannot go on. I am

feeling a little tired. I fear I must ask to be excused.”

 

“But there are seventy-seven of the boys waiting round the corner at

this moment, Duke, to be introduced to you.”

 

“I fear I must disappoint them.”

 

“But in that case the deal would have to be off.”

 

“That is a matter for you and my nephew to discuss.”

 

The chappie seemed troubled.

 

“You really won’t meet the rest of them?”

 

“No!”

 

“Well, then, I guess we’ll be going.”

 

They went out, and there was a pretty solid silence. Then old Chiswick

turned to Bicky:

 

“Well?”

 

Bicky didn’t seem to have anything to say.

 

“Was it true what that man said?”

 

“Yes, uncle.”

 

“What do you mean by playing this trick?”

 

Bicky seemed pretty well knocked out, so I put in a word.

 

“I think you’d better explain the whole thing, Bicky, old top.”

 

Bicky’s Adam’s-apple jumped about a bit; then he started:

 

“You see, you had cut off my allowance, uncle, and I wanted a bit of

money to start a chicken farm. I mean to say it’s an absolute cert if

you once get a bit of capital. You buy a hen, and it lays an egg every

day of the week, and you sell the eggs, say, seven for twenty-five

cents.

 

“Keep of hens cost nothing. Profit practically–-”

 

“What is all this nonsense about hens? You led me to suppose you were a

substantial business man.”

 

“Old Bicky rather exaggerated, sir,” I said, helping the chappie out.

“The fact is, the poor old lad is absolutely dependent on that remittance

of yours, and when you cut it off, don’t you know, he was pretty solidly

in the soup, and had to think of some way of closing in on a bit of the

ready pretty quick. That’s why we thought of this handshaking scheme.”

 

Old Chiswick foamed at the mouth.

 

“So you have lied to me! You have deliberately deceived me as to your

financial status!”

 

“Poor old Bicky didn’t want to go to that ranch,” I explained. “He

doesn’t like cows and horses, but he rather thinks he would be hot

stuff among the hens. All he wants is a bit of capital. Don’t you think

it would be rather a wheeze if you were to–-”

 

“After what has happened? After this—this deceit and foolery? Not a

penny!”

 

“But–-”

 

“Not a penny!”

 

There was a respectful cough in the background.

 

“If I might make a suggestion, sir?”

 

Jeeves was standing on the horizon, looking devilish brainy.

 

“Go ahead, Jeeves!” I said.

 

“I would merely suggest, sir, that if Mr. Bickersteth is in need of a

little ready money, and is at a loss to obtain it elsewhere, he might

secure the sum he requires by describing the occurrences of this

afternoon for the Sunday issue of one of the more spirited and

enterprising newspapers.”

 

“By Jove!” I said.

 

“By George!” said Bicky.

 

“Great heavens!” said old Chiswick.

 

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves.

 

Bicky turned to old Chiswick with a gleaming eye.

 

“Jeeves is right. I’ll do it! The Chronicle would jump at it.

They eat that sort of stuff.”

 

Old Chiswick gave a kind of moaning howl.

 

“I absolutely forbid you, Francis, to do this thing!”

 

“That’s all very well,” said Bicky, wonderfully braced, “but if I can’t

get the money any other way–-”

 

“Wait! Er—wait, my boy! You are so impetuous! We might arrange

something.”

 

“I won’t go to that bally ranch.”

 

“No, no! No, no, my boy! I would not suggest it. I would not for a

moment suggest it. I—I think–-”

 

He seemed to have a bit of a struggle with himself. “I—I think that,

on the whole, it would be best if you returned with me to England. I—I

might—in fact, I think I see my way to doing—to—I might be able to

utilize your services in some secretarial position.”

 

“I shouldn’t mind that.”

 

“I should not be able to offer you a salary, but, as you know, in

English political life the unpaid secretary is a recognized figure–-”

 

“The only figure I’ll recognize,” said Bicky firmly, “is five hundred

quid a year, paid quarterly,”

 

“My dear boy!”

 

“Absolutely!”

 

“But your recompense, my dear Francis, would consist in the unrivalled

opportunities you would have, as my secretary, to gain experience, to

accustom yourself to the intricacies of political life, to—in fact,

you would be in an exceedingly advantageous position.”

 

“Five hundred a year!” said Bicky, rolling it round his tongue. “Why,

that would be nothing to what I could make if I started a chicken farm.

It stands to reason. Suppose you have a dozen hens. Each of the hens

has a dozen chickens. After a bit the chickens grow up and have a dozen

chickens each themselves, and then they all start laying eggs! There’s

a fortune in it. You can get anything you like for eggs in America.

Chappies keep them on ice for years and years, and don’t sell them till

they fetch about a dollar a whirl. You don’t think I’m going to chuck a

future like this for anything under five hundred o’ goblins a year—what?”

 

A look of anguish passed over old Chiswick’s face, then he seemed to be

resigned to it. “Very well, my boy,” he said.

 

“What-o!” said Bicky. “All right, then.”

 

“Jeeves,” I said. Bicky had taken the old boy off to dinner to

celebrate, and we were alone. “Jeeves, this has been one of your best

efforts.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“It beats me how you do it.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“The only trouble is you haven’t got much out of it—what!”

 

“I fancy Mr. Bickersteth intends—I judge from his remarks—to signify

his appreciation of anything I have been fortunate enough to do to

assist him, at some later date when he is in a more favourable position

to do so.”

 

“It isn’t enough, Jeeves!”

 

“Sir?”

 

It was a wrench, but I felt it was the only possible thing to be done.

 

“Bring my shaving things.”

 

A gleam of hope shone in the chappie’s eye, mixed with doubt.

 

“You mean, sir?”

 

“And shave off my moustache.”

 

There was a moment’s silence. I could see the fellow was deeply moved.

 

“Thank you very much indeed, sir,” he said, in a low voice, and popped

off.

ABSENT TREATMENT

I want to tell you all about dear old Bobbie Cardew. It’s a most

interesting story. I can’t put in any literary style and all that; but

I don’t have to, don’t you know, because it goes on its Moral Lesson.

If you’re a man you mustn’t miss it, because it’ll be a warning to you;

and if you’re a woman you won’t want to, because it’s all about how a

girl made a man feel pretty well fed up with things.

 

If you’re a recent acquaintance of Bobbie’s, you’ll probably be

surprised to hear that there was a time when he was more remarkable for

the weakness of his memory than anything else. Dozens of fellows, who

have only met Bobbie since the change took place, have been surprised

when I told them that. Yet it’s true. Believe me.

 

In the days when I first knew him Bobbie Cardew was about the most

pronounced young rotter inside the four-mile radius. People have called

me a silly ass, but I was never in the same class with Bobbie. When it

came to being a silly ass, he was a plus-four man, while my handicap

was about six. Why, if I wanted him to dine with me, I used to post him

a letter at the beginning of the week, and then the day before send him

a telegram and a phone-call on the day itself, and—half an hour before

the time we’d fixed—a messenger in a taxi, whose business it was to

see that he got in and that the chauffeur had the address all correct.

By doing this I generally managed to get him, unless he had left town

before my messenger arrived.

 

The funny thing was that he wasn’t altogether a fool in other ways.

Deep down in him there was a kind of stratum of sense. I had known him,

once or twice, show an almost human intelligence. But to reach that

stratum, mind you, you needed dynamite.

 

At least, that’s what I thought. But there was another way which hadn’t

occurred to me. Marriage, I mean. Marriage, the dynamite of the soul;

that was what hit Bobbie. He married. Have you ever seen a bull-pup

chasing a bee? The pup sees the bee. It looks good to him. But he still

doesn’t know what’s at the end of it till he gets there. It was like

that with Bobbie. He fell in love, got married—with a sort of whoop,

as if it were the greatest fun in the world—and then began to find out

things.

 

She wasn’t the sort of girl you would have expected Bobbie to rave

about. And yet, I don’t know. What I mean is, she worked for her

living; and to a fellow who has never done a hand’s turn in his life

there’s undoubtedly a sort of fascination, a kind of romance, about a

girl who works for her living.