The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3: The Mating Season / Ring for Jeeves / Very Good, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse
‘If you have no objection, sir, I would like to witness the remainder of the entertainment.’
‘Suit yourself, Jeeves,’ I said moodily. ‘Personally, my heart is dead and I am going to look in at the Goat and Grapes for another of their cyanide specials and then home.’
It must have been about half-past ten, and I was in the old sitting room sombrely sucking down a more or less final restorative, when the front-door bell rang, and there on the mat was young Tuppy. He looked like a man who has passed through some great experience and stood face to face with his soul. He had the beginnings of a black eye.
‘Oh, hullo, Bertie,’ said young Tuppy.
He came in and hovered about the mantelpiece as if he were looking for things to fiddle with and break.
‘I’ve just been singing at Beefy Bingham’s entertainment,’ he said after a pause.
‘Oh?’ I said. ‘How did you go?’
‘Like a breeze,’ said young Tuppy. ‘Held them spellbound.’
‘Knocked ’em, eh?’
‘Cold,’ said young Tuppy. ‘Not a dry eye.’
And this, mark you, a man who had had a good upbringing and had, no doubt, spent years at his mother’s knee being taught to tell the truth.
‘I suppose Miss Bellinger is pleased?’
‘Oh, yes. Delighted.’
‘So now everything’s all right?’
‘Oh, quite.’
Tuppy paused.
‘On the other hand, Bertie –’
‘Yes?’.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking things over. Somehow I don’t believe Miss Bellinger is the mate for me after all.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. These things sort of flash on you. I respect Miss Bellinger, Bertie. I admire her. But – er – well, I can’t help feeling now that a sweet, gentle girl – er – like your cousin Angela, for instance, Bertie, – would – er – in fact – well, what I came round for was to ask if you would ’phone Angela and find out how she reacts to the idea of coming out with me tonight to the Berkeley for a segment of supper and a spot of dancing.’
‘Go ahead. There’s the phone.’
‘No, I’d rather you asked her, Bertie. What with one thing and another, if you paved the way – You see, there’s just a chance that she may be – I mean, you know how misunderstandings occur – and – well, what I’m driving at, Bertie, old man, is that I’d rather you surged round and did a bit of paving, if you don’t mind.’
I went to the ’phone and called up Aunt Dahlia’s.
‘She says come right along,’ I said.
‘Tell her,’ said Tuppy in a devout sort of voice, ‘that I will be with her in something under a couple of ticks.’
He had barely biffed, when I heard a click in the keyhole and a soft padding in the passage without.
‘Jeeves,’ I called.
‘Sir?’ said Jeeves, manifesting himself.
‘Jeeves, a remarkably rummy thing has happened. Mr Glossop has just been here. He tells me that it is all off between him and Miss Bellinger.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘No, sir. I confess I had anticipated some such eventuality.’
‘Eh? What gave you that idea?’
‘It came to me, sir, when I observed Miss Bellinger strike Mr Glossop in the eye.’
‘Strike him!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In the eye?’
‘The right eye, sir.’
I clutched the brow.
‘What on earth made her do that?’
‘I fancy she was a little upset, sir, at the reception accorded to her singing.’
‘Great Scott! Don’t tell me she got the bird, too?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But why? She’s got a red-hot voice.’
‘Yes, sir. But I think the audience resented her choice of a song.’
‘Jeeves!’ Reason was beginning to do a bit of tottering on its throne. ‘You aren’t going to stand there and tell me that Miss Bellinger sang “Sonny Boy” too!’
‘Yes, sir. And – rashly, in my opinion – brought a large doll on to the platform to sing it to. The audience affected to mistake it for a ventriloquist’s dummy, and there was some little disturbance.’
‘But, Jeeves, what a coincidence!’
‘Not altogether, sir. I ventured to take the liberty of accosting Miss Bellinger on her arrival at the hall and recalling myself to her recollection. I then said that Mr Glossop had asked me to request her that as a particular favour to him – the song being a favourite of his – she would sing “Sonny Boy”. And when she found that you and Mr Glossop had also sung the song immediately before her, I rather fancy that she supposed that she had been made the victim of a practical pleasantry by Mr Glossop. Will there be anything further, sir?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Good night, sir.’
‘Good night, Jeeves,’ I said reverently.
5
* * *
EPISODE OF THE DOG MCINTOSH
I WAS JERKED from the dreamless by a sound like the rolling of distant thunder; and, in the mists of sleep clearing away, was enabled to diagnose this and trace it to its source. It was my Aunt Agatha’s dog, McIntosh, scratching at the door. The above, an Aberdeen terrier of weak intellect, had been left in my charge by the old relative while she went off to Aix-les-Bains to take the cure, and I had never been able to make it see eye to eye with me on the subject of early rising. Although a glance at my watch informed me that it was barely ten, here was the animal absolutely up and about.
I pressed the bell, and presently in shimmered Jeeves, complete with tea-tray and preceded by dog, which leaped upon the bed, licked me smartly in the right eye, and immediately curled up and fell into a deep slumber. And where the sense is in getting up at some ungodly hour of the morning and coming scratching at people’s doors, when you intend at the first opportunity to go to sleep again, beats me. Nevertheless, every day for the last five weeks this loony hound had pursued the same policy, and I confess I was getting a bit fed.
There were one or two letters on the tray; and, having slipped a refreshing half-cupful into the abyss, I felt equal to dealing with them. The one on top was from my Aunt Agatha.
‘Ha!’ I said.
‘Sir?’
‘I said “Ha!” Jeeves. And I meant “Ha!” I was registering relief. My Aunt Agatha returns this evening. She will be at her town residence between the hours of six and seven, and she expects to find McIntosh waiting for her on the mat.’
‘Indeed, sir? I shall miss the little fellow.’
‘I, too, Jeeves. Despite his habit of rising with the milk and being hearty before breakfast, there is sterling stuff in McIntosh. Nevertheless, I cannot but feel relieved at the prospect of shooting him back to the old home. It has been a guardianship fraught with anxiety. You know what my Aunt Agatha is. She lavishes on that dog a love which might better be bestowed on a nephew: and if the slightest thing had gone wrong with him while I was in loco parentis; if, while in my charge, he had developed rabies or staggers or the botts, I should have been blamed.’
‘Very true, sir.’
‘And, as you are aware, London is not big enough to hold Aunt Agatha and anybody she happens to be blaming.’
I had opened the second letter, and was giving it the eye.
‘Ha!’ I said.
‘Sir?’
‘Once again “Ha!” Jeeves, but this time signifying mild surprise. This letter is from Miss Wickham.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
I sensed – if that is the word I want – the note of concern in the man’s voice, and I knew he was saying to himself ‘Is the young master about to slip?’ You see, there was a time when the Wooster heart was to some extent what you might call ensnared by this Roberta Wickham, and Jeeves had never approved of her. He considered he
‘She wants me to give her lunch today.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘And two friends of hers.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Here. At one-thirty.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
I was piqued.
‘Correct this parrot-complex, Jeeves,’ I said, waving a slice of bread-and-butter rather sternly at the man. ‘There is no need for you to stand there saying “Indeed, sir?” I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. As far as Miss Wickham is concerned, Bertram Wooster is chilled steel. I see no earthly reason why I should not comply with this request. A Wooster may have ceased to love, but he can still be civil.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Employ the rest of the morning, then, in buzzing to and fro and collecting provender. The old King Wenceslas touch, Jeeves. You remember? Bring me fish and bring me fowl –’
‘Bring me flesh and bring me wine, sir.’
‘Just as you say. You know best. Oh, and roly-poly pudding, Jeeves.’
‘Sir?’
‘Roly-poly pudding with lots of jam in it. Miss Wickham specifically mentions this. Mysterious, what?’
‘Extremely, sir.’
‘Also oysters, ice-cream, and plenty of chocolates with that goo-ey, slithery stuff in the middle. Makes you sick to think of it, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Me, too. But that’s what she says. I think she must be on some kind of diet. Well, be that as it may, see to it, Jeeves, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At one-thirty of the clock.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Very good, Jeeves.’
At half past twelve I took the dog McIntosh for his morning saunter in the Park; and, returning at about one-ten, found young Bobbie Wickham in the sitting room, smoking a cigarette and chatting to Jeeves, who seemed a bit distant, I thought.
I have an idea I’ve told you about this Bobbie Wickham. She was the red-haired girl who let me down so disgracefully in the sinister affair of Tuppy Glossop and the hot-water bottle, that Christmas when I went to stay at Skeldings Hall, her mother’s place in Hertfordshire. Her mother is Lady Wickham, who writes novels which, I believe, command a ready sale among those who like their literature pretty sloppy. A formidable old bird, rather like my Aunt Agatha in appearance. Bobbie does not resemble her, being constructed more on the lines of Clara Bow. She greeted me cordially as I entered – in fact, so cordially that I saw Jeeves pause at the door before biffing off to mix the cocktails and shoot me the sort of grave, warning look a wise old father might pass out to the effervescent son on seeing him going fairly strong with the local vamp. I nodded back, as much as to say ‘Chilled steel!’ and he oozed out, leaving me to play the sparkling host.
‘It was awfully sporting of you to give us this lunch, Bertie,’ said Bobbie.
‘Don’t mention it, my dear old thing,’ I said. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘You got all the stuff I told you about?’
‘The garbage, as specified, is in the kitchen. But since when have you become a roly-poly pudding addict?’
‘That isn’t for me. There’s a small boy coming.’
‘What!’
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said, noting my agitation. ‘I know just how you feel, and I’m not going to pretend that this child isn’t pretty near the edge. In fact, he has to be seen to be believed. But it’s simply vital that he be cosseted and sucked up to and generally treated as the guest of honour, because everything depends on him.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you. You know mother?’
‘Whose mother?’
‘My mother.’
‘Oh, yes. I thought you meant the kid’s mother.’
‘He hasn’t got a mother. Only a father, who is a big theatrical manager in America. I met him at a party the other night.’
‘The father?’
‘Yes, the father.’
‘Not the kid?’
‘No, not the kid.’
‘Right. All clear so far. Proceed.’
‘Well, mother – my mother – has dramatized one of her novels and when I met this father, this theatrical manager father, and, between ourselves, made rather a hit with him, I said to myself, “Why not?”’
‘Why not what?’
‘Why not plant mother’s play on him.’
‘Your mother’s play?’
‘Yes, not his mother’s play. He is like his son, he hasn’t got a mother, either.’
‘These things run in families, don’t they?’
‘You see, Bertie, what with one thing and another, my stock isn’t very high with mother just now. There was that matter of my smashing up the car – oh, and several things. So I thought, here is where I get a chance to put myself right. I cooed to old Blumenfeld –’
‘Name sounds familiar.’
‘Oh, yes, he’s a big man over in America. He has come to London to see if there’s anything in the play line worth buying. So I cooed to him a goodish bit and then asked him if he would listen to mother’s play. He said he would, so I asked him to come to lunch and I’d read it to him.’
‘You’re going to read your mother’s play – here?’ I said, paling.
‘Yes.’
‘My God!’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I admit it’s pretty sticky stuff. But I have an idea that I shall put it over. It all depends on how the kid likes it. You see, old Blumenfeld, for some reason, always banks on his verdict. I suppose he thinks the child’s intelligence is exactly the same as an average audience’s and –’
I uttered a slight yelp, causing Jeeves, who had entered with cocktails, to look at me in a pained sort of way. I had remembered.
‘Jeeves!’
‘Sir?’
‘Do you recollect, when we were in New York, a dish-faced kid of the name of Blumenfeld who on a memorable occasion snootered Cyril Bassington-Bassington when the latter tried to go on the stage?’
‘Very vividly, sir.’
‘Well, prepare yourself for a shock. He’s coming to lunch.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘I’m glad you can speak in that light, careless way. I only met the young stoup of arsenic for a few brief minutes, but I don’t mind telling you the prospect of hob-nobbing with him again makes me tremble like a leaf.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Don’t keep saying “Indeed, sir?” You have seen this kid in action and you know what he’s like. He told Cyril Bassington-Bassington, a fellow to whom he had never been formally introduced, that he had a face like a fish. And this not thirty seconds after their meeting. I give you fair warning that, if he tells me I have a face like a fish, I shall clump his head.’
‘Bertie!’ cried the Wickham, contorted with anguish and apprehension and what not.
‘Yes, I shall.’
‘Then you’ll simply ruin the whole thing.’
‘I don’t care. We Woosters have our pride.’
‘Perhaps the young gentleman will not notice that you have a face like a fish, sir,’ suggested Jeeves.
‘Ah! There’s that, of course.’
‘But we can’t just trust to luck,’ said Bobbie. ‘It’s probably the first thing he will notice.’
‘In that case, miss,’ said Jeeves, ‘it might be the best plan if Mr Wooster did not attend the luncheon.’
I beamed on the man. As always, he had found the way.
‘But Mr Blumenfeld will think it so odd.’
‘Well, tell him I’m eccentric. Tell him I have these moods, which come upon me quite suddenly, when I can’t stand the sight of people. Tell him what you like.’
‘He’ll be offended.’
‘Not half so offended as if I socked his son on the upper maxillary bone.’
‘I really think it woul
‘Oh, all right,’ said Bobbie. ‘Push off, then. But I wanted you to be here to listen to the play and laugh in the proper places.’
‘I don’t suppose there are any proper places,’ I said. And with these words I reached the hall in two bounds, grabbed a hat, and made for the street. A cab was just pulling up at the door as I reached it, and inside it were Pop Blumenfeld and his foul son. With a slight sinking of the old heart, I saw that the kid had recognized me.
‘Hullo!’ he said.
‘Hullo!’ I said.
‘Where are you off to?’ said the kid.
‘Ha, ha!’ I said, and legged it for the great open spaces.
I lunched at the Drones, doing myself fairly well and lingering pretty considerably over coffee and cigarettes. At four o’clock I thought it would be safe to think about getting back; but, not wishing to take any chances, I went to the ’phone and rang up the flat.
‘All clear, Jeeves?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Blumenfeld junior nowhere about?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not hiding in any nook or cranny, what?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How did everything go off?’
‘Quite satisfactorily, I fancy, sir.’
‘Was I missed?’
‘I think Mr Blumenfeld and young Master Blumenfeld were somewhat surprised at your absence, sir. Apparently they encountered you as you were leaving the building.’
‘They did. An awkward moment, Jeeves. The kid appeared to desire speech with me, but I laughed hollowly and passed on. Did they comment on this at all?’
‘Yes, sir. Indeed, young Master Blumenfeld was somewhat outspoken.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I cannot recall his exact words, sir, but he drew a comparison between your mentality and that of a cuckoo.’
‘A cuckoo, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. To the bird’s advantage.’
‘He did, did he? Now you see how right I was to come away. Just one crack like that out of him face to face, and I should infallibly have done his upper maxillary a bit of no good. It was wise of you to suggest that I should lunch out.’