'It is only necessary to induce Sergeant Voules to believe it, sir. What the constable may think is immaterial, owing to the fact that his lips are sealed.'
'But Voules wouldn't believe it for a minute.'
'Oh, yes, sir. I fancy that he is under the impression that it is a frequent practice of yours to sleep in sheds.'
Chuffy uttered a glad cry.
'Of course. He'll just take it for granted that you've been mopping it up again.'
I was frigid.
'Oh?' I said, and you couldn't have described my voice as anything but caustic. 'So I am to go down in the history of Chuffnell Regis as one of our leading dipsomaniacs?'
'He may just think him potty,' suggested Pauline.
'That's right,' said Chuffy. He turned to me pleadingly. 'Bertie,' he said, 'you aren't going to tell me at this time of day that you have any objection to being considered ...'
'... Mentally negligible,' said Pauline.
'Exactly,' said Chuffy. 'Of course you'll do it. What, Bertie Wooster? Sacrifice himself to a little temporary inconvenience to save his friends? Why, he jumps at that sort of job.'
'Springs at it,' said Pauline.
'Leaps at it,' said Chuffy.
'I've always thought he was a fine young fellow,' said old Stoker. 'I remember thinking so the first time I met him.'
'So did I,' said Lady Chuffnell. 'So different from so many of these modern young men.'
'I liked his face.'
'I have always liked his face.'
My head was swimming a bit. It isn't often I get as good a Press as this, and the old salve was beginning to unman me. I tried feebly to stem the tide.
'Yes, but listen ...'
'I was at school with Bertie Wooster,' said Chuffy. 'I like to think of it. At private school and also at Eton and after that at Oxford. He was loved by everybody.'
'Because of his wonderful, unselfish nature?' asked Pauline.
'You've absolutely hit it. Because of his wonderful, unselfish nature. Because when it was a question of helping a pal he would go through fire and water to do so. I wish I had a quid for every time I've seen him take the blame for somebody else's dirty work on his own broad shoulders.'
'How splendid!' said Pauline.
'Just what I'd have expected of him,' said old Stoker.
'Just,' said Lady Chuffnell. 'The child is the father of the man.'
'You would see him face a furious head master with a sort of dauntless look in those big blue eyes of his ...'
I held up a hand.
'Enough, Chuffy,' I said. 'Sufficient. I will go through this ghastly ordeal. But one word. When I come out, do I get breakfast?'
'You get the best breakfast Chuffnell Hall can provide.'
I eyed him searchingly.
'Kippers?'
'Schools of kippers.'
'Toast?'
'Mounds of toast.'
'And coffee?'
'Pots.'
I inclined the head.
'Well, mind I do,' I said. 'Come, Jeeves, I am ready to accompany you.'
'Very good, sir. If I might be permitted to make an observation—?'
'Yes, Jeeves?'
'It is a far, far better thing that you do than you have ever done, sir.'
'Thank you, Jeeves.'
As I said before, there is nobody who puts these things more neatly than he does.
22 JEEVES APPLIES FOR A SITUATION
The sunlight poured into the small morning-room of Chuffnell Hall. It played upon me, sitting at a convenient table; on Jeeves, hovering in the background; on the skeletons of four kippered herrings; on a coffee-pot; and on an empty toast rack. I poured myself out the final drops of coffee and sipped thoughtfully. Recent events had set their seal upon me, and it was a graver, more mature Bertram Wooster who now eyed the toast rack and, finding nothing there, transferred his gaze to the man in attendance.
'Who's the cook at the Hall now, Jeeves?'
'A woman of the name of Perkins, sir.'
'She dishes up a nifty breakfast. Convey my compliments to her.'
'Very good, sir.'
I touched the cup to my lips.
'All this is rather like the gentle sunshine after the storm, Jeeves.'
'Extremely like, sir.'
'And it was quite a storm, what?'
'Very trying at times, sir.'
'Trying is the mot juste, Jeeves. I was thinking of my own trial at that very moment. I flatter myself that I am a strong man, Jeeves. I am not easily moved by life's untoward happenings. But I'm bound to confess that it was an unpleasant experience coming up before Chuffy. I was nervous and embarrassed. A good deal of the awful majesty of the Law about old Chuffy. I didn't know he wore horn-rimmed spectacles.'
'When acting as Justice of the Peace, invariably, I understand, sir. I gather that his lordship finds that they lend him confidence in his magisterial duties.'
'Well, I think someone ought to have warned me. I got a nasty shock. They change his whole expression. Make him look just like my Aunt Agatha. It was only by reminding myself that he and I had once stood in the same dock together at Bow Street, charged with raising Cain on Boat Race night, that I was enabled to maintain my sangfroid. However, the unpleasantness was short-lived. I must admit he rushed things through nice and quickly. He soon settled Dobson's hash, what?'
'Yes, sir.'
'A rather severe reprimand, I thought?'
'Well phrased, sir.'
'And Bertram dismissed without a stain on his character.'
'Yes, sir.'
'But with Police Sergeant Voules firmly convinced that he is either an inveterate souse or a congenital loony. Possibly both. However,' I proceeded, turning from the dark side, 'it is no use worrying about that.'
'Very true, sir.'
'The main point is that once again you have shown that there is no crisis which you are unable to handle. A very smooth effort, Jeeves. Exceedingly smooth.'
'I could have effected nothing without your co-operation, sir.'
'Tush, Jeeves! I was a mere pawn in the game.'
'Oh, no, sir.'
'Yes, Jeeves. I know my place. But there's just one thing. Don't think for a moment that I want to detract from the merit of your performance, but you did have a bit of luck, what?'
'Sir?'
'Well, that cable happening to come along in what you might call the very nick of time. A fortunate coincidence.'
'No, sir. I had anticipated its arrival.'
'What!'
'In the cable which I dispatched to my friend Benstead in New York the day before yesterday, I urged him to lose no time in re- transmitting the message which formed the body of my communication.'
'You don't mean to say—?'
'Immediately after the rift had occurred between Mr Stoker and Sir Roderick Glossop, involving, as it did, the former's decision not to purchase Chuffnell Hall and the consequent unpleasantness to his lordship and Miss Stoker, the dispatching of the cable to Benstead suggested itself to me as a possible solution. I surmised that the news that the late Mr Stoker's will was being contested would lead to a reconciliation between Mr Stoker and Sir Roderick.'
'And there's nobody contesting the will really?'
'No, sir.'
'But what about when old Stoker finds out?'
'I feel convinced that his natural relief will overcome any possible resentment at the artifice. And he has already signed the necessary documents relating to the sale of Chuffnell Hall.'
'So that even if he's as sick as mud he can't do a thing?'
'Exactly, sir.'
I fell into a moody silence. Apart from astounding me, this revelation had had the effect of engendering a poignant anguish. I mean to say, the thought that I had let this man get away from me, that he was now in Chuffy's employment, and that there was a fat chance of Chuffy ever being chump enough to put him into circulation again ... well, dash it, you can't say it wasn't enough to shove the iron into the soul.
r />
It was with something of the spirit of the old aristocrat mounting the tumbril that I forced myself to wear the mask.
'Cigarette, Jeeves?'
He produced the box, and I puffed in silence.
'Might I ask, sir, what you intend to do now?'
I came out of the reverie.
'Eh?'
'Now that your cottage is burned down, sir. Is it your purpose to take another in this neighbourhood?'
I shook the head.
'No, Jeeves, I shall return to the metrop.'
'To your former apartment, sir?'
'Yes.'
'But...'
I anticipated the question.
'I know what you are going to say, Jeeves. You are thinking of Mr Manglehoffer, of the Honourable Mrs Tinkler-Moulke and Lieutenant-Colonel J. J. Bustard. But circumstances have altered since I was compelled to take the firm stand I did in regard to their attitude towards the old banjolele. From now on, there will be no friction. My banjolele perished in the flames last night, Jeeves. I shall not buy another.'
'No, sir?'
'No, Jeeves. The zest has gone. I should not be able to twang a string without thinking of Brinkley. And the one thing I do not wish to do till further notice is think of that man of wrath.'
'You are not intending to retain him in your employment, then, sir?'
'Retain him in my employment? After what has occurred? After finishing first by the shortest of heads in the race with him and his carving knife? I do not so intend, Jeeves. Stalin, yes. Al Capone, certainly. But not Brinkley'
He coughed.
'Then, as there is a vacancy in your establishment, sir, I wonder if you would consider it a liberty if I were to offer my services?'
I upset the coffee-pot.
'You said – what, Jeeves?'
'I ventured to express the hope, sir, that you might be agreeable to considering my application for the post. I should endeavour to give satisfaction, as I trust I have done in the past.'
'But ...'
'I would not wish, in any case, to continue in the employment of his lordship, sir, now that he is about to be married. I yield to no one in my admiration for the many qualities of Miss Stoker, but it has never been my policy to serve in the household of a married gentleman.'
'Why not?'
'It is merely a personal feeling, sir.'
'I see what you mean. The psychology of the individual?'
'Precisely, sir.'
'And you really want to come back with me?'
'I should esteem it a great privilege, sir, if you would allow me to do so, sir, unless you are thinking of making other plans.'
It is not easy to find words in these supreme moments, if you know what I mean. What I mean is, you get a moment like this – supreme, as you might say – with the clouds all cleared away and the good old sun buzzing along on all six cylinders – and you feel ... well, I mean, dash it!
'Thank you, Jeeves,' I said.
'Not at all, sir.'
THE END
P.G. Wodehouse
IN ARROW BOOKS
If you have enjoyed Thank You, Jeeves, you'll love
Ukridge
'Laddie,' said Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, that much-enduring man, helping himself to my tobacco and slipping the pouch absently into his pocket, 'listen to me, you son of Belial.'
'What?' I said, retrieving the pouch.
'Do you want to make an enormous fortune?'
'I do.'
'Then write my biography. Bung it down on paper, and we'll split the proceeds. I've been making a pretty close study of your stuff lately, old horse, and it's all wrong. The trouble with you is that you don't plumb the well-springs of human nature and all that. You just think up some rotten yarn about some-dam'-thing-or-other and shove it down. Now, if you tackled my life, you'd have something worth writing about. Pots of money in it, my boy – English serial rights and American serial rights and book rights, and dramatic rights and movie rights – well, you can take it from me that, at a conservative estimate, we should clean up at least fifty thousand pounds apiece.'
'As much as that?'
'Fully that. And listen, laddie, I'll tell you what. You're a good chap and we've been pals for years, so I'll let you have my share of the English serial rights for a hundred pounds down.'
'What makes you think I've got a hundred pounds?'
'Well, then, I'll make it my share of the English and American serial rights for fifty.'
'Your collar's come off its stud.'
'How about my complete share of the whole dashed outfit for twenty-five?'
'Not for me, thanks.'
'Then I'll tell you what, old horse,' said Ukridge, inspired. 'Just lend me half a crown to be going on with.'
If the leading incidents of S. F. Ukridge's disreputable career are to be given to the public – and not, as some might suggest, decently hushed up – I suppose I am the man to write them. Ukridge and I have been intimate since the days of school. Together we sported on the green, and when he was expelled no one missed him more than I. An unfortunate business, this expulsion. Ukridge's generous spirit, ever ill-attuned to school rules, caused him eventually to break the solemnest of them all by sneaking out at night to try his skill at the coconut-shies of the local village fair; and his foresight in putting on scarlet whiskers and a false nose for the expedition was completely neutralized by the fact that he absent-mindedly wore his school cap throughout the entire proceedings. He left the next morning, regretted by all.
After this there was a hiatus of some years in our friendship. I was at Cambridge, absorbing culture, and Ukridge, as far as I could gather from his rare letters and the reports of mutual acquaintances, flitting about the world like a snipe. Somebody met him in New York, just off a cattle-ship. Somebody else saw him in Buenos Ayres. Somebody, again, spoke sadly of having been pounced on by him at Monte Carlo and touched for a fiver. It was not until I settled down in London that he came back into my life. We met in Piccadilly one day, and resumed our relations where they had been broken off. Old associations are strong, and the fact that he was about my build and so could wear my socks and shirts drew us very close together.
Then he disappeared again, and it was a month or more before I got news of him.
It was George Tupper who brought the news. George was head of the school in my last year, and he has fulfilled exactly the impeccable promise of those early days. He is in the Foreign Office, doing well and much respected. He has an earnest, pulpy heart and takes other people's troubles very seriously. Often he had mourned to me like a father over Ukridge's erratic progress through life, and now, as he spoke, he seemed to be filled with a solemn joy, as over a reformed prodigal.
'Have you heard about Ukridge?' said George Tupper. 'He has settled down at last. Gone to live with an aunt of his who owns one of those big houses on Wimbledon Common. A very rich woman. I am delighted. It will be the making of the old chap.'
I suppose he was right in a way, but to me this tame subsidence into companionship with a rich aunt in Wimbledon seemed somehow an indecent, almost a tragic, end to a colourful career like that of S. F. Ukridge. And when I met the man a week later my heart grew heavier still.
It was in Oxford Street at the hour when women come up from the suburbs to shop; and he was standing among the dogs and commissionaires outside Selfridge's. His arms were full of parcels, his face was set in a mask of wan discomfort, and he was so beautifully dressed that for an instant I did not recognize him. Everything which the Correct Man wears was assembled on his person, from the silk hat to the patent-leather boots; and, as he confided to me in the first minute, he was suffering the tortures of the damned. The boots pinched him, the hat hurt his forehead, and the collar was worse than the hat and boots combined.
'She makes me wear them,' he said, moodily, jerking his head towards the interior of the store and uttering a sharp howl as the movement caused the collar to gouge his neck.
'Still,' I
said, trying to turn his mind to happier things, 'you must be having a great time. George Tupper tells me that your aunt is rich. I suppose you're living off the fat of the land.'
'The browsing and sluicing are good,' admitted Ukridge. 'But it's a wearing life, laddie. A wearing life, old horse.'
'Why don't you come and see me sometimes?'
'I'm not allowed out at night.'
'Well, shall I come and see you?'
A look of poignant alarm shot out from under the silk hat.
'Don't dream of it, laddie,' said Ukridge, earnestly. 'Don't dream of it. You're a good chap – my best pal and all that sort of thing – but the fact is, my standing in the home's none too solid even now, and one sight of you would knock my prestige into hash. Aunt Julia would think you worldly.'
'I'm not worldly.'
'Well, you look worldly. You wear a squash hat and a soft collar. If you don't mind my suggesting it, old horse, I think, if I were you, I'd pop off now before she comes out. Good-bye, laddie.'
'Ichabod!' I murmured sadly to myself as I passed on down Oxford Street. 'Ichabod!'
I should have had more faith. I should have known my Ukridge better. I should have realized that a London suburb could no more imprison that great man permanently than Elba did Napoleon.
One afternoon, as I let myself into the house in Ebury Street of which I rented at that time the bedroom and sitting-room on the first floor, I came upon Bowles, my landlord, standing in listening attitude at the foot of the stairs.
'Good afternoon, sir,' said Bowles. 'A gentleman is waiting to see you. I fancy I heard him calling me a moment ago.'
'Who is he?'
'A Mr Ukridge, sir. He –'
A vast voice boomed out from above.
'Bowles, old horse!'
Bowles, like all other proprietors of furnished apartments in the south-western district of London, was an ex-butler, and about him, as about all ex-butlers, there clung like a garment an aura of dignified superiority which had never failed to crush my spirit. He was a man of portly aspect, with a bald head and prominent eyes of a lightish green – eyes that seemed to weigh me dispassionately and find me wanting. 'H'm!' they seemed to say. 'Young – very young. And not at all what I have been accustomed to in the best places.' To hear this dignitary addressed – and in a shout at that – as 'old horse' affected me with much the same sense of imminent chaos as would afflict a devout young curate if he saw his bishop slapped on the back. The shock, therefore, when he responded not merely mildly but with what almost amounted to camaraderie was numbing.