 CHAPTER 15 THE METROPOLITON TOUCH Nobody is more alive than I am to the fact that young bingo little is in many respects A sound old egg. In one way or another he has made life pretty interesting for me at intervals ever since we were at school. As a companion for a cheery hour I think I would choose him before anybody. On the other hand I am bound to say that there are things about him that could be improved. His habit of falling in love with every second girl he sees is one of them, and another is his way of letting the world in on the secrets of his heart. If you want shrinking reticence don't go to bingo because he's got about as much of it as a soap advertisement. I mean to say, well here's the telegram I got from him one evening in November, about a month after I got back to town from a visit to Twing Hall. I say Bertie old man, I'm in love at last. She is the most wonderful girl Bertie old man. This is the real thing at last Bertie. Come here at once and bring jeevs. Oh I say you know that tobacco shop in Bond Street on the left side as you go up. Will you get me a hundred of those special cigarettes and send them to me here? I have run out. I know when you see her you will think she is the most wonderful girl. Mind you bring jeevs. Don't forget the cigarettes bingo. It had been handed in at Twing Post Office. In other words he had submitted that frightful rock to the goggling eye of a village postmistress who was probably the mainspring of local gossip and would have the place ringing with the news before nightfall. He couldn't have given himself away more completely if he had hired the town crier. When I was a kid I used to read stories about knights and vikings and that species of chappy who would get up without a blush in the middle of a crowded banquet and loose off a song about how perfectly priceless they thought their best girl. I've often felt that those days would have suited young bingo to the ground. Jeevs had brought the thing in with the evening drink and I slung it over to him. It's about due, of course, I said. Young bingo hasn't been in love for at least a couple of months. I wonder who it is this time? Miss Mary Burgess, sir, said Jeevs. The niece of the reverend Mr. Hepinstall. She is staying at Twing Vicarage. Great Scott! I knew that Jeevs knew practically everything in the world, but this sounded like second sight. How do you know that? When we were visiting Twing Hall in the summer, sir, I formed a somewhat close friendship with Mr. Hepinstall's butler. He is good enough to keep me abreast of the local news from time to time. From his account, sir, the young lady appears to be a very estimable young lady. Of a somewhat serious nature, I understand. Mr. Little is very appre, sir. Brookfield, my correspondent, writes that last week he observed him in the moonlight at an advanced hour gazing up at his window. Whose window? Brookfield's? Yes, sir, presumably under the impression that it was the young ladies. But what the deuce is he doing at Twing at all? Mr. Little was compelled to resume his old position as tutor to Lord Wick Hammersley's son at Twing Hall, sir, owing to having been unsuccessful in some speculations at Hurst Park at the end of October. Good Lord, Jeevs! Is there anything you don't know? I could not say, sir. I picked up the telegram. I suppose he wants us to go down and help him out a bit. That would appear to be his motive in dispatching the message, sir. Well, what shall we do? Go! I would advocate it, sir. If I may say so, I think that Mr. Little should be encouraged in this particular matter. You think he's picked a winner this time? I hear nothing but excellent reports of the young lady, sir. I think it is beyond question that she would be an admirable influence for Mr. Little, should the affair come to a happy conclusion. Such a union would also, I fancy, go far to restore Mr. Little to the good graces of his uncle, the young lady being well connected and possessing private means. In short, sir, I think that if there is anything that we can do, we should do it. Well, with you behind him, I said, I don't see how he can fail to click. You are very good, sir," said Jeeves. The tribute is much appreciated. Bingo met us at Twing Station next day and insisted on my sending Jeeves on in the car with the bags while he and I walked. He started in about the female the moment that we had begun to hoof it. She's very wonderful, Bertie. She is not one of these flippant, shallow-minded, modern girls. She is sweetly grave and beautifully earnest. She reminds me of—what is the name I want? Marie Lloyd—Saint Cecilia—said young Bingo, eyeing me with a good deal of loathing. She reminds me of Saint Cecilia. She makes me yearn to be a better, nobler, deeper, broader man. What beats me, I said, following up a train of thought, is what principle you pick them on. The girls you fall in love with, I mean. I mean to say, what's your system? As far as I can see, no two of them are alike. First it was Mabel, the waitress, then Honoria Glossop, then that fearful blister Charlotte Corday Robotham. I own that Bingo had the decency to shudder. Thinking of Charlotte always made me shudder, too. You don't seriously mean, Bertie, that you are intending to compare the feelings I have for Mary Burgess, the holy devotion, the spiritual—oh, all right, let it go, I said. I say, old lad, aren't we going rather a long way round? Considering that we are supposed to be heading for Twing Hall, it seemed to me that we were making a longest job of it. The hall is about two miles from the station by the main road, and we had cut off down a lane, gone across country for a bit, climbed a style or two, and were now working our way across a field that ended in another lane. She sometimes takes her little brother for a walk round this way, explained Bingo. I thought we would meet her, and bow, you could see her, you know, and then we would walk on. Of course, I said. That's enough excitement for anyone, and undoubtedly a corking reward for tramping three miles out of one's way over plowed fields with tight boots. But don't we do anything else? Don't we tack on to the girl and buzz along with her? Good Lord! said Bingo, honestly amazed. You don't suppose I've got nerve enough for that, do you? I just look at her from afar off, and all that sort of thing. Quick, here she comes. No, I'm wrong. It was like that song of hairy ladders where he's waiting for the girl and says, this is her. No, it's a rabbit. Young Bingo made me stand there in the teeth of a Nor'e's half-gale for ten minutes, keeping me on my toes with a series of false alarms, and I was just thinking of suggesting that we should lay off and give the rest of the proceedings a miss, when round the corner there came a fox terrier, and Bingo quivered like an aspen. Then there hove in sight a small boy, and he shook like jelly. Finally a star whose entrance has been worked up by the personnel of the ensemble, a girl, appeared, and his emotion was painful to witness. His face got so red that, what with his white collar, and the fact that the wind had turned his nose blue, he looked more like a French flag than anything else. He sagged from the waist upwards as if he had been filleted. He was just raising his fingers limply to his cap, when he suddenly saw that the girl wasn't alone. A chap beat in a clerical costume was also among those present, and the sight of him didn't seem to do Bingo a bit of good. His face got redder and his nose bluer, and it wasn't till they had nearly passed that he managed to get a hold of his cap. The girl bowed, the curret said, ah, little rough weather. The dog barked, and then they toddled on, and the entertainment was over. The curret was a new factor in the situation to me. I reported his movements to Jeeves when I got to the hall. Of course Jeeves knew all about it already. That is the reverend Mr. Wingham. Mr. Hepinstall's new curret, sir. I gather from Brookfield that he is Mr. Little's rival, and at the moment the young lady appears to favour him. Mr. Wingham has the advantage of being on the premises, and he and the young lady play duets after dinner, which acts as a bond. Mr. Little, on these occasions, I understand, prowls about in the road, chafing visibly. That seems to be all the poor fish is able to do dash it. He can chave fall right, but there he stops. He's lost his pep. He's got no dash. Why, when we met her just now, he hadn't even the common manly courage to say good evening. I gather that Mr. Little's affection is not unmingled with awe, sir. Well, how are we to help a man when he's such a rabbit as that? Have you anything to suggest? I shall be seeing him after dinner, and he's sure to ask first thing what you advise. In my opinion, sir, the most judicious course for Mr. Little to pursue would be to concentrate on the young gentleman. The small brother? How do you mean? Make a friend of him, sir, take him for walks, and so forth. It doesn't sound like one of your red-hotest ideas. I must say I expected something fruitier than that. It would be a beginning, sir, and might lead to better things. Well, I'll tell him. I like the look of her, Jeeves. A thoroughly estimable young lady, sir. I slipped bingo the tip from the stable that night, and was glad to observe that it seemed to cheer him up. Jeeves is always right, he said. I ought to have thought of it myself. I'll start in to-morrow. It was amazing how the chappy bucked up. Long before I had left for town it had become a mere commonplace for him to speak to the girl. I mean he didn't simply look stuffed when they met. The brother was forming a bond that was a dash sight stronger than the curate's duets. She and bingo used to take him for walks together. I asked bingo what they talked about on these occasions, and he said Wilfred's future. The girl hoped that Wilfred would one day become a curate, but bingo said no. There was something about curates he didn't quite like. The day we left, bingo came to see us off, with Wilfred frisking about him like an old college chum. The last I saw of them, bingo was standing him chocolates out of the slot machine, a scene of peace and cheery goodwill. Dashed promising, I thought. Which made it all the more of a jar about a fortnight later, when his telegram arrived. Bertie, old man, I say Bertie, could you possibly come down here at once? Everything gone wrong hang it all. Dash it, Bertie, you simply must come. I am in a state of absolutely spare and heartbroken. Would you mind sending another hundred of those cigarettes? Bring Jeeves when you come, Bertie. You simply must come, Bertie. I rely on you. Don't forget to bring Jeeves. For a chap who's perpetually hard up, I must say that young bingo is the most wasteful telegraphist I ever struck. He's got no notion of condensing. The silly ass simply pours out his wounded soul at two pence a word, or whatever it is, without a thought. How about it, Jeeves? I said. I'm getting a bit fed up. I can't go chucking all my engagements every second week in order to biff down to twing and rally round young bingo. Send him a wire telling him to end it all in the village pond. If you could spare me for the night, sir, I should be glad to run down and investigate. Oh, dash it. Well, I suppose there's nothing else to be done. After all, you're the fellow he wants. All right, carry on. Jeeves got back late the next day. Well, I said, Jeeves appeared perturbed. He allowed his left eyebrow to flicker upwards in a concerned sort of manner. I have done what I could, sir, he said. But I fear Mr. Little's chances do not appear bright. Since our last visit, sir, there has been a decidedly sinister and disquieting development. Oh, what's that? You may remember Mr. Stegels, sir, the young gentleman who was studying for an examination with Mr. Hepinstall at the vicarage. What Stegels got to do with it, I asked. I gather from Brookfield, sir, who chanced to overhear a conversation that Mr. Stegels is interesting himself in the affair. Good Lord! What, making a book on it? I understand that he is accepting wagers from those in his immediate circle, sir, against Mr. Little, whose chances he does not seem to fancy. I don't like that, Jeeves. No, sir, it is sinister. From what I know of Stegels there will be dirty work. It has already occurred, sir. Already? Yes, sir, it seems that in pursuance of the policy which he had been good enough to allow me to suggest to him Mr. Little escorted Master Burgess to the church bizarre, and there met Mr. Stegels, who was in the company of a young master Hepinstall, the reverend Mr. Hepinstall's second son, who is home from Rugby just now, having recently recovered from an attack of mumps. The encounter took place in the refreshment room, where Mr. Stegels was at that moment entertaining Master Hepinstall. A too-cut, long story short, sir. The two gentlemen became extremely interested in the hearty manner in which the lads were fortifying themselves, and Mr. Stegels offered to back his nominee in a wait-for-age eating contest against Master Burgess for a pound aside. Mr. Little admitted to me that he was conscious of a certain hesitation as to what the upshot might be should Miss Burgess get to hear of the matter, but his sporting blood was too much for him and he agreed to the contest. This was duly carried out both lads exhibiting the utmost willingness and enthusiasm, and eventually Master Burgess justified Mr. Little's confidence by winning, but only after a bitter struggle. Next day both contestants were in considerable pain, inquiries were made, and confessions extorted, and Mr. Little, I learned from Brookfield, who happened to be near the door of the drawing-room at the moment, had an extremely unpleasant interview with the young lady, which ended in her desiring him never to speak to her again. There's no getting away from the fact that if every man required watching it's Stegels, Machiavelli could have taken his correspondence course. It was a put-up job, Jeeves, I said. I mean, Stegels worked the whole thing on purpose. It's his old, knobbling game. There would seem to be no doubt about that, sir. Well, he seems to have dished poor old Bingo all right. That is the prevalent opinion, sir. Brookfield tells me that down in the village at the cow and horses seven to one is being freely offered on Mr. Wingham and finding no takers. Good Lord! are they betting about it down in the village, too? Yes, sir, and in adjoining Hamlets also, the affair has caused widespread interest. I am told there is a certain sporting reaction in even so distant a spot as lower Bingley. Well, I don't see what there is to do. If Bingo is such a chump, one is fighting a losing battle, I fear, sir, but I did venture to indicate to Mr. Little a course of action which might prove of advantage. I recommended him to busy himself with good works. About the village, sir, reading to the bedridden, chatting with the sick, that sort of thing, sir, we can but trust that good results will ensue. Yes, I suppose so, I said doubtfully. But, by gosh, if I was a sick man I'd hate to have a loony-like young Bingo coming and gibbering at my bedside. There is that aspect of the matter, sir," said Jeeves. I didn't hear a word from Bingo for a couple of weeks, and I took it after a while that he had found the going too hard, and it chucked in the towel. And then, one night, not long before Christmas, I came back to the flat, pretty late-ish, having been out dancing at the embassy. I was fairly tired, having swung a practically non-stop shoe from shortly after dinner till two a.m., and beds seemed to be indicated. Judge of my chagrin, and all that sort of thing, therefore, when tottering to my room and switching on the light, I observed the foul features of young Bingo all over the pillow. The blighter had appeared from nowhere and was in my bed, sleeping like an infant with a sort of happy, dreamy smile on his map. A bit thick, I mean to say. We woosters are all for the good old medieval hosp and all that, but when it comes to finding chappies colouring your bed, the thing becomes a trifle too mouldy. I hove a shoe, and Bingo sat up gurgling. Some matter, some matter, said young Bingo. What the deuce are you doing in my bed? I said. Oh, hello, Bertie. So there you are. Yes, here I am. What are you doing in my bed? I came up to town for the night on business. Yes, but what are you doing in my bed? Dashed in all Bertie, said young Bingo querilously. Don't keep harping on your beastly bed. There's another made up in the spare room. I saw Jeeves make it with my own eyes. I believe he meant it for me. But I knew what a perfect toast you were. So I just turned in here. I say, Bertie, old man, said Bingo, apparently fed up with the discussion about sleeping quarters. I see daylight. Well, it's getting on for three in the morning. I was speaking figuratively, you ask. I meant that hope has begun to dawn about Mary Burgess. You know, sit down and I'll tell you about it. I won't. I'm going to sleep. To begin with, said young Bingo, settling himself comfortably against the pillows and helping himself to a cigarette from my special private box. I must once again pay a marked tribute to good old Jeeves, a modern Solomon. I was badly up against it when I came to him for advice, but he rolled up with a tip which has put me, I use the term advisedly and in a conservative spirit on velvet. He may have told you that he recommended me to win back the lost ground by busying myself with good works. Bertie, old man, said young Bingo earnestly, for the last two weeks I've been comforting the sick to such an extent that if I had a brother and you brought him to me on a sick bed at this moment by Jove, old man, I'd heave a brick at him. However, though it took it out of me like the deuce, the scheme worked splendidly. She softened visibly before I'd been at it a week, started to bow again when we met in the street and so forth. About a couple of days ago she distinctly smiled in a sort of faint, saint-like way, you know, when I ran into her outside the vicarage and yesterday I say you remember that curate chap Wingham, fellow with a long nose? Of course I remember him, your rival. Rival? Bingo raised his eyebrows. Oh, well, I suppose you could have called him that at one time, though it sounds a little far-fetched. Does it? I said, stung by the sickening complacency of the chumps' manner. Well, let me tell you that the last I heard was that it the cow and horses in Twing Village and all over the place as far as Lower Bingley they were offering seven to one on the curate and finding no takers. Bingo started violently and sprayed cigarette ash all over my bed. Batting, he gargled. Batting? You don't mean that they're batting on this holy, sacred—oh, I say dash it all. Haven't people any sense of decency and irreverence? Is nothing safe from their beastly, sordid, grasping-ness? I wonder, said young Bingo thoughtfully, if there's a chance of my getting at any of that seven to one money. Seven to one? What a price! Who's offering it, do you know? Oh, well, I suppose it wouldn't do. No, I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing. You seem dash confident, I said. I'd always thought that Wingham—oh, I'm not worried about him, said Bingo. I was just going to tell you, Wingham's got the mumps and won't be out in about for weeks, and jolly as that is in itself, it's not all. You see, he was producing the village school Christmas entertainment, and now I've taken over the job. I went to Old Happenstall last night and clinched the contract. Well, you see what that means. It means that I shall be absolutely the centre of the village life and thought for three solid weeks, with a terrific triumph to wind up with. Everybody looking up to me and fawning on me, don't you see and all that? It's bound to have a powerful effect on Mary's mind. It will show her that I am capable of serious effort, that there is a solid foundation of worth in me, that mere butterfly, as she may once have thought me, I am in reality—oh, all right, let it go. It's a big thing, you know, this Christmas entertainment. Old Happenstall is very much wrapped up in it, nips from all over the countryside rolling up, the squire present with family—a big chance for me, Bertie, my boy, and I mean to make the most of it. Of course, I'm handicapped a bit by not having been in on the thing from the start. Will you credit it that that unspired doughnut of a curate wanted to give the public some rotten little fairy play out of a book of children published about fifty years ago, without one good laugh or the semblance of a gag in it? It's too late to alter the thing entirely, but at least I can jazz it up a bit. I'm going to write them in something zippy to brighten the thing up a bit. You can't write? Well, when I say write, I mean pinch. That's why I've popped up to town. I've been to see that review cuddle up at the Palladium tonight, full of good stuff. Of course, it's rather hard to get anything in the nature of a big spectacular effect in the Twing Village Hall, with no scenery to speak of and a chorus of practically imbecile kids of ages ranging from nine to fourteen. But I think I see my way. Have you seen cuddle up? Yes, twice. Well, there's some good stuff in the first act, and I can lift practically all the numbers. Then there's that show at the Palace. I can see the matinee of that tomorrow before I leave. There are sure to be some decent bits in that. Don't you worry about my not being able to write a hit. Leave it to me, laddie. Leave it to me. And now, my dear old chap, said young bingo, snuggling down coasely. You mustn't keep me up talking all night. It's all right for you fellows who have nothing to do, but I'm a busy man. Good night, old thing. Close the door quietly after you and switch out the light. Breakfast about ten tomorrow, I suppose. What? Righto. Good night. For the next three weeks I didn't see bingo. He became a sort of voice heard off, developing a habit of ringing me up on long distance and consulting me on various points arising at rehearsal until the day when he got me out of bed at eight in the morning to ask whether I thought Merry Christmas was a good title. I told him then that this nuisance must now cease, and after that he cheesed it and practically passed out of my life, till one afternoon when I got back to the flat to dress for dinner and found Jeeves inspecting a whacking big poster sort of thing which he had draped over the back of an armchair. Good Lord Jeeves! I said. I was feeling rather weak that day and the thing shook me. What on earth's that? Mr. Little sent it to me, sir, and desired me to bring it to your notice. Well, you've certainly done it. I took another look at the object. There was no doubt about it. He caught the eye. It was about seven feet long, and most of the lettering in about as bright red ink as ever I struck. This was how it ran. Twing Village Hall, Friday, December 23rd, Richard Little presents a new and original review entitled What Hoe Twing? Book by Richard Little, Lyrics by Richard Little, Music by Richard Little, With the Full Twing Juvenile Company and Chorus, Scenic Effects by Richard Little, Produced by Richard Little. What do you make of it, Jeeves? I said. I confess I am a little doubtful, sir. I think Mr. Little would have done better to follow my advice and confine himself to good works about the village. You think the things will be a frost? I could not hazard a conjecture, sir, but my experience has been that what pleases the London public is not always so acceptable to the rural mind. The metropolitan touch sometimes proves a trifle too exotic for the provinces. I suppose I ought to go down and see the dashed thing. I think Mr. Little would be wounded were you not present, sir. The village hall at Twing is a smallish building, smelling of apples. It was full when I turned up on the evening of the twenty-third, for I had purposely timed myself to arrive not long before the kick-off. I had had experience of one or two of these binges, and didn't want to run any risk of coming early, and finding myself shoved into a seat in one of the front rows where I wouldn't be able to execute a quiet sneak into the open air halfway through the proceedings if the occasion seemed to demand it. I secured a nice strategic position near the door at the back of the hall. From where I stood I had a good view of the audience. As always on these occasions the first few rows were occupied by the nibs, consisting of the squire, a fairly more of old sportsmen with white whiskers, his family, a platoon of local Parsons, and perhaps a couple of dozen of prominent pew holders. Then came a dense squash of what you might call the lower middle classes, and at the back where I was we came down with a jerk in the social scale. This end of the hall had been given up almost entirely to a collection of, frankly, tough eggs, who had rolled up not so much for any love of the drama, as because there was some free tea after the show. Take it all for all, a representative gathering of twing life and thought. The nibs were whispering in a pleased manner to each other, the lower middles were sitting up very straight as if they'd been bleached, and the tough eggs wild way the time by cracking nuts and exchanging low rustic wheezes. The girl, Mary Burgess, was at the piano playing a waltz. Beside her stood the curate wing him, apparently recovered. The temperature, I shall think, was about a hundred and twenty-seven. Somebody jabbed me heartily in the lower ribs, and I perceived the man's stiggles. Hello! he said. I didn't know you were coming down. I didn't like the chap, but we woosters can wear the mask. I beamed a bit. Oh, yes, I said. Bingo wanted me to roll up and see his show. I hear he's giving us something pretty ambitious, said the man's stiggles, big effects and all that sort of thing. I believe so. Of course it means a lot to him, doesn't it? He's told you about the girl, of course. Yes, and I hear you're laying seven to one against him. I said, eyeing the blighter a trifle austerely. He didn't even quiver. Just a little flutter to relieve the monotony of country life, he said. But you've got the facts a bit wrong. It's down in the village that they're laying seven to one. I can do you better than that if you feel in a speculative mood, about a tenner at a hundred to eight. Good Lord, are you giving that? Yes, somehow, said Stiggles meditatively. I have a sort of feeling, a kind of premonition, that something's going to go wrong tonight. You know what little is, a bungler, if ever there was one. Something tells me that this show of his is going to be a frost. And if it is, of course, I should think it would prejudice the girl against him pretty badly. His standing always was rather shaky. Are you going to try and smash up the show? I said sternly. Me, said Stiggles. Why, what could I do? Half a minute, I want to go and speak to a man. He buzzed off, leaving me distinctly disturbed. I could see from the fellow's eye that he was meditating some of his customary rough stuff, and I thought bingo, what to be warned. But there wasn't time, and I couldn't get at him. Almost immediately after Stiggles had left me, the curtain went up. Except as a prompter, bingo wasn't in much evidence in the early part of the performance. The thing at the outset was merely one of those weird dramas, which you dig out of books published around Christmas time, and entitled 12 Little Plays for the Tots or something like that. The kids drooled on in the usual manner, the booming voice of bingo ringing out from time to time behind the scenes when the fat heads forgot their lines, and the audience was settling down into the sort of torpor usual on these occasions, when the first of bingo's interpolated bits occurred. It was that number which what's her name sings in that review at the palace. You would recognise the tune if I hummed it, but I can never get a hold of the dashed thing. It always got three encores at the palace, and it went well now, even with a squeaky voice child jumping on and off the key like a chamois of the Alps, leaping from crag to crag. Even the tough eggs liked it. At the end of the second refrain the entire house was shouting for an encore, and the kid with the voice like a slate pencil took a deep breath and started to let it go once more. At this point all the lights went out. I don't know when I've had anything so sudden and devastating happen to me before. They didn't flicker, they just went out. The hall was in complete darkness. Well of course that sort of broke the spell as you might put it. People started to shout directions, and the tough eggs stamped their feet and settled down for a pleasant time, and of course young bingo had to make an ass of himself. His voice suddenly shouted us out of the darkness. Ladies and gentlemen, something has gone wrong with the lights. The tough eggs were tickled by this bit of information straight from the stable. They took it up as a sort of battle cry. Then after about five minutes the lights went up again and the show resumed. It took ten minutes after that to get the audience back into its state of coma, but eventually they began to settle down and everything was going nicely when a small boy with a face like a turbot edged out in front of the curtain, which had been lowered after a pretty painful scene about a wishing ring or a fairy's curse or something of that sort, and started to sing that song of George Thingamese out of Cuttle Up, you know the one I mean. Always listen to mother girls, it's called, and he gets the audience to join in and sing the refrain. Quite a ripe-ish ballad, and one which I myself have frequently sung in my bath, with not a little vim. But by no means, as any one but a perfect sap-headed prune like young bingo would have known, by no means the sort of thing for a children's Christmas entertainment in the old village hall. Right from the start the first refrain the bulk of the audience had begun to stiffen in their seats and fan themselves, and the burges girl at the piano was accompanying in a stunned mechanical sort of way, while the curator to her side averted his gaze in a pained manner. The tough eggs, however, were all for it. At the end of the second refrain the kid stopped and began to sidle toward the wings, upon which the following brief duologue took place. Young bingo, voice heard off, ringing against the rafters. Go on! The kid coily. I don't like to. Young bingo, still louder. Go on, you little blighter, or I'll slay you. I suppose the kid thought it over swiftly and realized that bingo, being in a position to get at him, had better be conciliated, whatever the harvest might be, for he shuffled down to the front and, having shut his eyes and giggled hysterically, said, Ladies and gentlemen, I will now call upon Squire Treseder to oblige by singing the refrain. You know, with the most charitable feelings toward him, there are moments when you can't help thinking that young bingo ought to be in some sort of a home. I suppose, poor fish, he had pictured this as the big punch of the evening. He had imagined, I take it, that the Squire would spring jovially to his feet, rip the song off his chest, and all would be gaiety and mirth. Well, what happened was simply that old Treseder, and mark you, I'm not blaming him, just sat where he was, swelling and turning a brighter purple every second. The lower middle classes remained in frozen silence waiting for the roof to fall. The only section of the audience that really seemed to enjoy the idea was the tough eggs who yelled with enthusiasm. It was jam for the tough eggs. And then the lights went out again. When they went up some minutes later they disclosed the Squire marching stiffly out at the head of his family, fed up to the eyebrows. The burges' girl at the piano with a pale, set look, and the curate gazing at her with something in his expression which seemed to suggest that, although all this was no doubt deplorable, he had spotted the silver lining. The show went on once more. There were great chunks of plays for the tots dialogue, and then the girl at the piano struck up the prelude to that orange girl number that's the big hit of the palace review. I took it that this was to be Bingo's smashing act one finale. The entire company was on the stage, and a clutching hand had appeared round the edge of the curtain ready to pull it at the right moment. It looked like the finale all right. It wasn't long before I realized that it was something more. It was the finish. I take it you know that orange number at the palace. It goes, oh won't you something, something oranges? My something oranges, my something oranges, oh won't you something, something, something I forgot. Something, something, something, tumpty, tumpty yet, oh. Or words to that effect. It's a dashed clever lyric and the tune's good too, but the thing that made the number was the business where the girls take oranges out of their baskets you know and toss them lightly to the audience. I don't know if you've ever noticed it, but it always seems to tickle an audience to bits when they get things thrown at them from the stage. Every time I've been to the palace the customers have simply gone wild over this number. But at the palace of course the oranges are made of yellow wool, and the girls don't so much chuck them as drop them limply into the first and second rows. I began to gather that the business was going to be treated rather differently tonight when a dashed great chunk of pips and mildew sailed past my ear and burst on the wall behind me. Another landed with a squelch on the neck of one of the nibs in the third row, and then a third took me right on the tip of the nose, and I kind of lost interest in the proceedings for a while. When I had scrubbed my face and got my eye to stop watering for a moment, I saw that the evening's entertainment had begun to resemble one of Belfast's livelier nights. The air was thick with shrieks and fruit. The kids on the stage with bingo buzzing distractedly to and fro in their midst were having the time of their lives. I suppose they realized that this couldn't go on forever and were making the most of their chances. The tough eggs had begun to pick up all the oranges that hadn't burst and were shooting them back so that the audience got it both coming and going. In fact, take it all round, there was a certain amount of confusion, and just as things had begun really to hot up, out went the lights again. It seemed to me about my time for leaving, so I slid for the door. I was hardly outside when the audience began to stream out. They surged about me in twos and threes, and I've never seen a public body so dashed unanimous on any point. To a man and to a woman they were cursing poor old bingo, and there was a large and rapidly growing school of thought which held that the best thing to do would be to waylay him as he emerged and splash him about in the village pond a bit. There were such a dickens of a lot of these enthusiasts, and they looked so jolly determined that it seemed to me the only matey thing to do was to go behind and warn young bingo to turn his coat collar up and breeze off snakily by some side exit. I went behind and I found him sitting on a box in the wings, perspiring pretty freely, and looking more or less like the spot marked with a cross where the accident happened. His hair was standing up and his ears were hanging down, and one harsh word would undoubtedly have made him burst into tears. Bertie! he said hollowly as he saw me. It was that blighter Stegels! I caught one of the kids before he could get away and got it all out of him. Stegels substituted real oranges for the balls of wool, which with infinite sweat and at the cost of nearly a quid I had specially prepared. Well, now I will proceed to tear him limb from limb. It'll be something to do. I hated to spoil his daydreams, but it had to be. Good heavens, man, I said. You haven't time for frivolous amusements now. You've got to get out and quick. Bertie! said bingo in a dull voice. She was here just now. She said it was all my fault and that she would never speak to me again. She said she had always suspected me of being a heartless, practical joker, and now she knew. She said, oh well, she ticked me off properly. That's the least of your troubles, I said. It seemed impossible to rouse the poor Zib to a sense of his position. Do you realize that about two hundred of Twing's heftiest are waiting for you outside to chuck you into the pond? No. Absolutely. For a moment the poor chap seemed crushed, but only for a moment. There has always been something of the good old English bulldog breed about bingo, a strange sweet smile flickered for an instant over his face. It's all right, he said. I can sneak out through the cellar and climb over the wall at the back. They can't intimidate me. It couldn't have been more than a week later when Jeeves, after he had brought me my tea, gently steered me away from the sporting page of the morning post and directed my attention to an announcement in the engagements and marriages column. It was a brief statement that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between the honourable and reverend Hubert Wingham, third son of the right honourable, the Earl of Sturridge, and Mary, the only daughter of the late Matthew Burgess of Weatherly Court Hats. Of course, I said, after I'd given it the east to west. I expected this, Jeeves. Yes, sir. She would never forgive him what happened that night. No, sir. Well, I said, as I took a sip of the fragrant and steaming. I don't suppose it will take old bingo long to get over it. It's about the hundred and eleventh time this sort of thing has happened to him. You're the man I'm sorry for. Me, sir. Well, dash it all. You can't have forgotten what a deuce of a lot of trouble you took to bring the thing off for bingo. It's too bad that all your work should have been wasted. Not entirely wasted, sir. Eh? It's true that my efforts to bring about the match between Mr. Little and the young lady were not successful, but I still look back upon the matter with a certain satisfaction. Because you did your best, you mean? Not entirely, sir, though, of course, that thought always gives me pleasure. I was alluding more particularly to the fact that I found the affair financially remunerative. Financially remunerative? What do you mean? When I learned that Mr. Stegels had interested himself in the contest, sir, I went shares with my friend Brookfield and bought the book which had been made on the issue by the Cowan Horses. It has proved a highly profitable investment. Your breakfast will be ready almost immediately, sir. Kidney on toast and mushrooms. I will bring it when you ring. End of Chapter 15 Chapter number 16 of The Inimitable Gives This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Aaron White. The Inimitable Gives by P. J. Woadhouse Chapter 16 The Delayed Exit of Claudine Eustace The feeling I had when Aunt Agatha trapped me in my lair that morning and spilled the bad news was that my luck had broken at last. As a rule, you see, I'm not lugged into family rouse, on the occasions when Aunt is calling to Aunt like mastodons bellowing across primeval swamps, and Uncle James' letter about cousin Mable's peculiar behaviour as being shot round the family circle, please read this carefully and send it on to Jane. The clan has a tendency to ignore me. It's one of the advantages I get from being a bachelor, and according to my nearest and dearest practically a half-witted bachelor at that. It's no good trying to get Bertie to take the slightest interest is more or less the slogan, and I'm bound to say I'm all for it. A quiet life is what I like, and that's why I felt that the curse had come upon me, so to speak, when Aunt Agatha sailed into my sitting-room while I was having a placid cigarette and started to tell me about Claudine Eustace. Thank goodness! said Aunt Agatha. Arrangements have at last been made about Eustace and Claudine. Arrangements, I said, not having the foggiest. They sail on Friday for South Africa. Mr. Van Alstine, a friend of Paul Emily's, has given them births in his firm at Johannesburg, and we are hoping that they will settle down there and do well. I didn't get the thing at all. Friday, the day after tomorrow, you mean? Yes. For South Africa? Yes, they leave on the Edinburgh Castle. But what's the idea? I mean, aren't they in the middle of their term at Oxford? Aunt Agatha looked at me coldly. Do you positively mean to tell me, Bertie, that you take so little interest in the affairs of your nearest relatives, that you are not aware that Claudine Eustace were expelled from Oxford over a fortnight ago? No, really? You are hopeless, Bertie. I should have thought that even you, why were they sent down? They poured lemonade on the junior dean of their college. I see nothing amusing in the outrage, Bertie. No, no. Rather not, I said hurriedly. I wasn't laughing, choking, got something stuck in my throat, you know. Poor Emily, went on Aunt Agatha. Being one of those doting mothers who are the ruin of their children, wished to keep the boys in London, she suggested that they might cram for the army. But I was firm. The colonies are the only place for wild youths like Eustace and Claud. So they sail on Friday. They have been staying for the last two weeks with your Uncle Claud in Worcestershire. They will spend tomorrow night in London and catch the boat train on Friday morning. Bit risky, isn't it? I mean, aren't they apt to cut loose a bit tomorrow night if they're left all alone in London? They will not be alone. They will be in your charge. Mine? Yes, I wish you to put them up in your flat for the night and see that they do not miss the train in the morning. Oh, I say no. Bertie? I mean, well, I mean, quite jolly coves both of them, but I don't know. They're rather nuts, you know. Always glad to see them, of course, but when it comes to putting them up for the night, Bertie, if you are so sunken, callous, so findulgence, that you cannot even put yourself to this trifling inconvenience for the sake of— Oh, all right, I said, all right. It was no good arguing, of course, and Agatha always makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine ought to be. She's one of those. I should think Queen Elizabeth must have been something like her. When she holds me with her glittering eye and says, Jump to it, my lad, or words to that effect, I make it so without further discussion. When she had gone, I rang for Jeeves to break the news to him. Oh, Jeeves, I said, Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustis will be staying here to-morrow night. Very good, sir. I'm glad you think so. To me the outlook seems black and scaly. You know what those two lads are. Very high-spirited young gentleman, sir. Blisters, Jeeves, undeniable blisters. It's a bit thick. Would there be anything further, sir? At that I'm bound to say I drew myself up a trifle hotly. We woosters freeze like the dickens when we seek sympathy and meet with cold reserve. I knew what was up, of course. For the last day or so there had been a certain amount of cruelness in the home over a pair of jazz spats which I had dug up while exploring in the Burlington arcade. Some dashed brainy cove, probably the chap who invented those coloured cigarette cases, had recently had the rather topping idea to put out a line of spats on the same system. I mean to say, instead of ordinary grey and white you can now get them in your regimental or school colours. And believe me it would have taken a chap you're stronger fibre than I am to resist the old Etonian spats which had smiled up at me from inside the window. I was inside the shop opening negotiations before it had even occurred to me that Jeeves might not approve. And I must say he had taken the thing a bit hardly. The fact of the matter is, Jeeves, though in many ways the best valet in London, is too conservative, hidebound if you know what I mean, and an enemy to progress. Nothing further, Jeeves, I said, with quiet dignity. Very good, sir. He gave one frosty look at the spats and biffed off. Dash him! Anything merrier and brighter than the twins when they coveted into the old flat while I was dressing for dinner the next night I've never struck in my whole puff. I'm only about half a dozen years older than Claude in Eustis, but in some rummy manner they always make me feel as if I were well on in the grandfather class and just waiting for the end. Almost before I realised they were in the place they had collared the best chairs, pinched a couple of my special cigarettes, poured themselves out a whiskey and soda piece, and started to prattle with the gaiety and abandon of two birds who had achieved their life's ambition, instead of having come a most frightful perler in being under sentence of exile. Hello, Bertie old thing, said Claude. Jolly decent of you to put us up. Oh, no, I said. Only wish you were staying a good long time. Hear that, Eustis. He wishes we were staying a good long time. I expect it will seem a good long time, said Eustis philosophically. You heard about the binge, Bertie. Our little bit of trouble, I mean. Oh, yes, Aunt Agatha was telling me. We leave our country for our country's good, said Eustis. And let there be no moaning at the bar, said Claude, when I put out to see. What did Aunt Agatha tell you? She said you poured lemonade on the junior dean. I wish there do, said Claude annoyed, that people would get these things right. It wasn't the junior dean, it was the senior tutor. And it wasn't lemonade, said Eustis. It was soda water. The dear old thing happened to be standing just under our window while I was leaning out with a siphon in my hand. He looked up, and, well, it would have been chucking away the opportunity of a lifetime if I hadn't let him have it in the eyeball. Simply chucking it away, agreed Claude. Might never have occurred again, said Eustis. Hundred to one against it, said Claude. Now what, said Eustis? Do you propose to do, Bertie, in the way of entertaining the handsome guests tonight? My idea was to have a bite of dinner in the flat, I said. Jeeves is getting it ready now. And afterwards? Well, I thought we might chat of this and that, and then it struck me that you probably would like to turn in early as your train goes about ten or something, doesn't it? The twins looked at each other in a pitying sort of way. Bertie, said Eustis. You've got the programme nearly right, but not quite. I envisage the evening's events thus. We will tuddle along to see Rose after dinner. It's an extension night, isn't it? Well, that will see us through till about two thirty or three. After which, no doubt, said Claude, the Lord will provide. But I thought you would want to get a good night's rest. Good night's rest, said Eustis. My dear old chap, you don't for a moment imagine that we are dreaming of going to bed tonight, do you? I suppose the fact of the matter is, I'm not the man I was. I mean, these all-night vigils don't seem to fascinate me as they used to a few years ago. I can still remember the time when I was up at Oxford when a Covent Garden balled till six in the morning with breakfast at the Hammons and probably a free fight with a few selected costamongers to follow seemed to me what the doctor ordered. But nowadays two o'clock is about my limit, and by two o'clock the twins were just settling down and beginning to go nicely. As far as I can remember, we went on from Searose to play Chemi with some fellows I don't recall having met before, and it must have been about nine in the morning when we fetched up again at the flat, by which time I'm bound to admit as far as I was concerned the first careless freshness was beginning to wear off a bit. In fact, I just got enough strength to say goodbye to the twins, wish them a pleasant voyage and a happy and successful career in South Africa and stagger into bed. The last I remember was hearing the blighters chanting like lax under the cold shower, breaking off from time to time to shout to Jeeves to rush along the eggs and bacon. It must have been about one in the afternoon when I woke. I was feeling more or less like something the pure food committee had rejected, but there was one bright thought which cheered me up, and that was that about now the twins would be leaning on the rail of the liner, taking their last glimpse of the dear old homeland, which made it all the more of a shock when the door opened and Claude walked in. Hello Bertie, said Claude, had a nice refreshing sleep. Now what about a good old bite of lunch? I had been having so many distorted nightmares since I had dropped off to sleep, that for half a minute I thought this was simply one more of them and the worst of the lot. It was only when Claude sat down on my feet that I got on to the fact that this was stern reality. Great Scott, what on earth are you doing here? I gurgled. Claude looked at me reproachfully. Hardly the tone I'd like to hear in a host, Bertie, he said reprovingly, why it was only last night that you were saying you wished I was stopping a good long time. Your dream has come true, I am. But why aren't you on your way to South Africa? Now that, said Claude, is a point I rather thought you would want to have explained. It's like this old man, you remember that girl you introduced me to at Sero's last night? Which girl? There was only one, said Claude coldly, only one that counted, that is to say, her name was Marion Wardauer. I danced with her a good deal, if you remember. I began to recollect in a hazy sort of way. Marion Wardauer had been a pal of mine for some time, a very good sort. She's playing at the show at the Apollo at the moment. I remembered now that she had been at Sero's with a party the night before, and the twins had insisted on being introduced. We are so, mates, Bertie, said Claude. I found it out quite early in the PM, and the more thought I've given to the matter, the more convinced I've become. It happens like that now and then, you know, two hearts that beat as one, I mean, and all that sort of thing. So the long and short of it is that I gave old use just to slip at Waterloo and slid back here. The idea of going to South Africa and leaving a girl like that in England doesn't appeal to me a bit. I'm all for thinking imperially, and giving the colonies a leg-up and all that sort of thing, but it can't be done. After all, said Claude reasonably, South Africa has got along all right without me till now. Why shouldn't it stick it? But what about Van Alstien, or whatever his name is? He'll be expecting you to turn up. Oh, he'll have Eustis, that'll satisfy him. Very sound fellow Eustis, probably end up by being a magnet of some kind. I shall watch his future progress with considerable interest. And now you must excuse me for a moment, Bertie. I want to go and hunt up Jeeves and get him to mix me one of those pick-me-ups of his. For some reason, which I can't explain, I've got a slight headache this morning. And believe me, or believe me not, the door had hardly closed behind him, when in blue Eustis, with a shining morning face that made me ill to look at. Oh, my aunt! I said. Eustis started to giggle pretty freely. Smooth work, Bertie, smooth work, he said. I'm sorry for poor old Claude, but there was no alternative. I eluded his vigilance at Waterloo and snaked off in a taxi. I suppose the poor old ass is wondering where the deuce I've got to. But it couldn't be helped. If you really seriously expected me to go slogging off to South Africa, you shouldn't have introduced me to Mrs. Ward hour last night. I want to tell you all about that, Bertie. I'm not a man, said Eustis, sitting down on the bed, who falls in love with every girl he sees. I suppose strong, silent, would be the best description you could find for me. But when I do meet my affinity, I don't waste time. I—oh, heaven! Are you in love with Mary in Ward hour, too? Two. What do you mean, two? I was going to tell him about Claude when the blighter came in, in person, looking like a giant refreshed. There's no doubt that jeevs picked me up will produce immediate results in anything short of an Egyptian mummy. It's something he puts in them, the worst sauce of something. Claude had revived like a watered flower, but he nearly had a relapse when he saw his ballet brother goggling at him over the bed rail. What on earth are you doing here? he said. What on earth are you doing here? said Eustis. Have you come back to inflict your beastly society upon Miss Ward hour? Is that why you've come back? They thrashed the subject out a bit further. Well, said Claude at last, I suppose it can't be helped if you're here, you're here. May the best man win. Yes, but dash it all, I managed to put in at this point. What's the idea? Where do you think you're going to stay if you stick on in London? Why here? said Eustis surprised. Where else? said Claude, raising his eyebrows. You won't object to putting us up, Bertie, said Eustis. Not a sportsman like you, said Claude. But you silly asses, suppose Aunt Agatha finds out that I'm hiding you when you ought to be in South Africa. Where do I get off? Where does he get off? Claude asked Eustis. Oh, I expect he'll manage somehow, said Eustis to Claude. Of course, said Claude, quite cheered up. He'll manage. Rather, said Eustis, a resource for chap like Bertie, of course he will. And now, said Claude, shelving the subject, what about that bite of lunch we were discussing a moment ago, Bertie? That stuff good ol' jeev slipped into me just now has given me what you might call an appetite, something in the nature of six chops and a badder pudding would about meet the case, I think. I suppose every chappy in the world has black periods in his life to which he can't look back without the smoldering eye and the silent shutter. Some coves, if you can judge by the novels you read nowadays, have them practically all the time. But what with enjoying a sizeable private income and a topping digestion I'm bound to say that it isn't very often that I find my own existence getting a flat tire. That's why this particular epic is one that I don't think about more often than I can help. For the days that followed the unexpected resurrection of the blighted twins were so absolutely foul that the old nerves began to stick out of my body a foot long and curling at the ends. All of a Twitter, believe me, I imagine the fact of the matter is that we Worsters are so frightfully honest and open and all that that it gives us the pip to have to deceive. All was quiet along the Potomac for about twenty-four hours and then Aunt Agatha trickled in to have a chat. Twenty minutes earlier and she would have found the twins gaily shoving themselves outside a couple of rashes and an egg. She sank to a chair and I could see that she was not in her usual sunny spirits. Bertie, she said, I am uneasy. So was I. I didn't know how long she intended to stop or when the twins were coming back. I wonder, she said, if I took too harsh a view towards Claude and Eustace, you couldn't. What do you mean? I mean, it would be so unlike you to be harsh to anybody, Aunt Agatha. And not bad, either. I mean quick, like that, without thinking. It pleased the old relative and she looked at me with slightly less loathing than she usually does. It is nice of you to say that, Bertie, but what I was thinking was are they safe? Are they what? It seemed such a rummy adjective to apply to the twins they being about as innocuous as a couple of sprightly young tarantulas. Do you think all is well with them? How do you mean? Aunt Agatha eyed me almost wistfully. Has it ever occurred to you, Bertie? She said, that your uncle George may be psychic. She seemed to me to be changing the subject. Psychic? Do you think it is possible that he could see things not visible to the normal eye? I thought it dashed possible, if not probable. I don't know if you've ever met my uncle George. He's a festive old egg who wanders from club to club, continually having a couple with other festive old eggs. When he heaves in sight, waiters brace themselves up and the wine-steward toys with his corkscrew. It was my uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought. Your uncle George was dining with me last night, and he was quite shaken. He declares that while on his way from the Devonshire Club to bootles, he suddenly saw the phantasm of Eustis. The what of Eustis? The phantasm. The wraith. It was so clear that he thought for an instant that it was Eustis himself. And when uncle George got there, nothing was to be seen. It is all very queer and disturbing. It had a marked effect on poor George. All through dinner he touched nothing but barley water, and his manner was quite disturbed. You do think those poor dear boys are safe, Bertie. They've not met with some horrible accident. It made my mouth water to think of it, but I said no. I didn't think they had met with any horrible accident. I thought Eustis was a horrible accident and Claude about the same, but I didn't say so. And presently she biffed off, still worried. When the twins came in, I put it squarely to the blighters. Jolly as it was to give uncle George shocks, they must not wander at large about the metrop. But my dear old soul, said Claude, be reasonable. We can't have our movements hampered. Out of the question, said Eustis. The whole essence of the thing, if you understand me, said Claude, is that we should be at liberty to flit hither and thither. Exactly, said Eustis. Now hither, now thither. But damn it, Bertie, said Eustis reprovingly, not before the boy. Of course, in a way, I see his point, said Claude. I suppose the solution of the problem would be to buy a couple of disguises. My dear old chap, said Eustis, looking at him with admiration. The brightest idea on record, not your own, surely. Well, as a matter of fact, it was Bertie who put it into my head. Me? You were telling me the other day about old bingo little in the beard he bought when he didn't want his uncle to recognize him. If you think that I'm going to have you two exactrances popping in and out of my flat in beards, something like that, agreed Eustis. We'll make it whiskers, then. And false noses, said Claude. And as you say, false noses, right, oh, then, Bertie, old chap, there's a load off your mind. We don't want to be any trouble to you while we're paying you this little visit. And when I went buzzing round to G's for consolation, all he would say was something about young blood, no sympathy. Very good G's, I said. I shall go for a walk in the park. Kindly put me out the old Atonian spats. Very good, sir. It must have been a couple of days after that that Mary and Wardauer rolled in at about the hour of tea. She looked warily round the room before sitting down. Your cousin's not at home, Bertie, she said. No, thank goodness. Then I'll tell you where they are. They're in my sitting room, glaring at each other from opposite corners, waiting for me to come in. Bertie, this has got to stop. You're seeing a good deal of them, are you? G's came in with the tea, but the poor girl was so worked up that she didn't wait for him to pop off before going on with her complaint. She had an absolutely hunted-air poor thing. I can't move a step without tripping over one or both of them, she said. Generally both. They've taken to calling together, and they just settle down grimly and try to sit each other out. It's wearing me to a shadow. I know, I said sympathetically. I know. Well, what's to be done? It beats me. Couldn't you tell your maid to say you're not at home? She shuttered slightly. I tried that once. They camped on the stairs, and I couldn't get out all the afternoon, and I had a lot of particularly important engagements. I wish you would persuade them to go to South Africa where they seem to be wanted. You must have made the dickens of an impression on them. I should say I have. They've started giving me presents now, at least Claude has. He insisted on my accepting this cigarette case last night, came round to the theatre, and wouldn't go away till I took it. It's not a bad one, I must say. It wasn't. It was a distinctly fruity concern in gold with a diamond stuck in the middle, and the rummy thing was that I had a notion I'd seen something very like it before, somewhere. How the deuce Claude had been able to dig up the cash to buy a thing like that was more than I could imagine. Next day was a Wednesday, and as the object of their devotion had a matinee, the twins were, so to speak, off duty. Claude had gone with his whiskers on to Hearst Park, and Eustace and I were in the flat talking, at least he was talking, and I was wishing he would go. The love of a good woman, Bertie, he was saying, must be a wonderful thing. Sometimes, good lord, what's that? The front door had opened, and from out in the hall there came the sound of Aunt Agatha's voice asking if I was in. Aunt Agatha has one of those high, penetrating voices, but this was the first time I'd ever been thankful for it. There was just about two seconds to clear the way for her, but it was long enough for Eustace to dive under the sofa. His last shoe had just disappeared when she came in. She had a worried look. It seemed to me about this time that everybody had. Bertie, she said, what are your immediate plans? How do you mean? I'm dining tonight with no no. I don't mean tonight. Are you busy for the next few days? But of course you are not, she went on, not waiting for me to answer. You never have anything to do. Your whole life is spent in idle, but we can go into that later. What I came for this afternoon was to tell you that I wish you to go with your poor Uncle George to Herogate for a few weeks. The sooner you can start, the better. This appeared to me to approximate so closely to the frozen limit that I uttered a yelp of protest. Uncle George is all right, but he won't do. I was trying to say as much when she waived me down. If you're not entirely heartless, Bertie, you will do as I ask you. Your poor Uncle George has had a severe shock. What another? He feels that only complete rest and careful medical attention can restore his nervous system to its normal poise. It seems that in the past he has derived benefit from taking the waters at Herogate, and he wishes to go there now. We do not think he ought to be alone, so I wish you to accompany him. But I say, Bertie, there was a lull in the conversation. What shock has he had? I asked. Between ourselves, said Aunt Agatha, lowering her voice in an impressive manner, I inclined to think that the whole affair was the outcome of an over-excited imagination. You are one of the family, Bertie, and I can speak freely to you. You know as well as I do that your poor Uncle George has for many years not been a... He has developed a habit of... How shall I put it? Shifting a bit. I beg your pardon? Mopping up the stuff to some extent? I dislike your way of putting it exceedingly, but I must confess that he has not been, perhaps as temperate as he should. He is highly strung, and where the fact is that he has had a shock. Yes, but what? That is what it is so hard to induce him to explain with any precision. With all his good points your poor Uncle George has apt to become incoherent when strongly moved. As far as I could gather, he appears to have been the victim of a burglary. Burglary? He says that a strange man with whiskers and a peculiar nose entered his rooms in German Street during his absence and stole some of his property. He says that he came back and found the man in his sitting room. He immediately rushed out of the room and disappeared. Uncle George? No, the man. And according to your Uncle George, he had stolen a valuable cigarette case. But as I say, I am inclined to think that the whole thing was imagination. He has not been himself since the day when he fancied that he saw Eustace in the street. So I should like you, Bertie, to be prepared to start for Herrogate with him not later than Saturday. She popped off, and Eustace crawled out from under the sofa. The blighter was strongly moved, so was I for the matter of that. The idea of several weeks with Uncle George at Herrogate seemed to make everything go black. So that's where he got that cigarette case dash him, said Eustace Bidderley, of all the dirty tricks robbing his own flesh and blood the fellow ought to be in Chokey. He ought to be in South Africa, I said, and so ought you. And with an eloquence which rather surprised me, I hauled up my slacks for perhaps ten minutes on the subject of his duty to his family and whatnot. I appealed to his sense of decency. I boosted South Africa with vim. I said everything I could think of much of it twice over. But all the blighter did was to babble about his Dash Brother's baseness in putting one over on him in the matter of the cigarette case. He seemed to think that Claude, by slinging in the handsome gift, had got right ahead of him. And there was a painful scene when the latter came back from Hearst Park. I could hear them talking half the night, long after I had tottered off to bed. I don't know when I met fellows who could do with less sleep than those two. After this things became a bit strained at the flat, owing to Claude and Eustace not being on speaking terms. I'm all for a certain chumminess in the home, and it was wearing to have to live with two fellows who wouldn't admit that the other one was on the map at all. One felt the thing couldn't go on like that for long, and by Jove it didn't. But if anyone had come to me the day before and told me what was going to happen, I should simply have smiled wandily. I mean, I got so accustomed to thinking that nothing short of a dynamite explosion could ever dislodge these two nestlers for my midst, that when Claude sidled up to me on the Friday morning, and told me his bit of news, I could hardly believe I was hearing right. Bertie, he said, I've been thinking it over. What over? I said. The whole thing, this business of staying in London when I ought to be in South Africa, it isn't fair, said Claude warmly. It isn't right, and the long and short of it is, Bertie old man, I'm leaving to-morrow. I've reeled in my tracks. You are, I gasped. Yes, if, said Claude, you won't mind sending old jeeves out to buy a ticket for me? I'm afraid I'll have to stick you for the passage, money, old man. You don't mind. Mind, I said, clutching his hand fervently. That's all right, then. Oh, I say, you won't say a word to Eustace about this, will you? But isn't he going, too? Claude shuddered. No, thank heaven. The idea of being cooped up on board a ship with that blighter gives me the pip just to think of it. No, not a word to Eustace, I say. I say, I suppose you can get me a berth all right, it's a short notice. Rather, I said, sooner than let this opportunity slip, I would have bought the ballet boat. Jeeves, I said, breezing into the kitchen, go out on the first speed to the Union Castle offices and book a berth on tomorrow's boat for Mr Claude. He is leaving us, Jeeves. Yes, sir. Mr Claude does not wish any mention of this to be made to Mr Eustace. No, sir. Mr Eustace made the same proviso when he desired me to obtain a berth on tomorrow's boat for himself. I gaped at the man. Is he going, too? Yes, sir. This is Rummy. Yes, sir. Had circumstances been other than they were, I would at this juncture of unbent considerably toward Jeeves, frisked him round a bit and whooped to a certain extent and whatnot, but those spats still formed a barrier, and I regret to say that I took the opportunity of rather rubbing it in a bit on the man. He'd been so dashed aloof and unsympathetic, though perfectly aware that the young master was in the soup, and that it was up to him to rally round, that I couldn't help pointing out how the happy ending had been snaffled without any help from him. So that's it, Jeeves, I said. The episode is concluded. I knew things would sort themselves out if one gave them time and didn't get rattled. Many chaps in my place would have got rattled, Jeeves. Yes, sir. Gone rushing about, I mean, asking people for help and advice and so forth. Very possible, sir. But not me, Jeeves. No, sir. I left him to brood on it. Even the thought that I'd got to go to Herrogate with Uncle George couldn't depress me that Saturday when I gazed about the old flat and realized that Claud and Eustace weren't in it. They had slunk off stealthily and separately immediately after breakfast. Eustace, to catch the boat train at Waterloo, clawed to go round to the garage where I kept my car. I didn't want any chance of the two meeting at Waterloo in changing their minds, so I suggested to Claud that he might find it pleasanter to drive down to Southampton. I was lying back on the old settee, gazing peacefully up at the flies on the ceiling and feeling what a wonderful world this was when Jeeves came in with a letter. A messenger boy has brought this, sir. I opened the envelope and the first thing that fell out was a five-pound note. Great scot, I said. What's all this? The letter was scribbled in pencil and was quite brief. Dear Bertie, will you give in clothes to your man and tell him I wish I could make it more? He has saved my life. This is the first happy day I've had for a week. Yours, M.W. Jeeves was standing, holding out the fiver which had fluttered to the floor. You'd better stick to it, I said. It seems to be for you. Sir, I say that fiver is for you. Apparently Mrs. Wardauer sent it. That was extremely kind of her, sir. What the dickens is she sending you fivers for? She says you saved her life. Jeeves smiled gently. She overestimates my services, sir. But what were your services, Dashit? It was in the matter of Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustice, sir. I was hoping that she would not refer to the matter, as I did not wish you to think that I had been taking a liberty. What do you mean? I chanced to be in the room, while Mrs. Wardauer was complaining with some warmth of the manner in which Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustice were thrusting their society upon her. I felt that in the circumstances it might be excusable if I suggested a slight ruse to enable her to dispense with their attentions. Good Lord! You don't mean to say you were at the bottom of their popping off after all? Silly ass it made me feel. I mean, after rubbing it into him like that about having clicked without his assistance, it occurred to me that where Mrs. Wardauer to inform Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustice independently that she proposed sailing for South Africa to take up a theatrical engagement, the desired effect might be produced. It appears that my anticipations were correct, sir. The young gentleman ate it, if I may use the expression. Jeeves, I said, we Woosters may make bloomers, but we are never too proud to admit it. You stand alone. Thank you very much, sir. Oh, but I say! a ghastly thought had struck me. When they get on the boat and find she isn't there, won't they come buzzing back? I anticipated that possibility, sir. At my suggestion, Miss Wardauer informed the young gentleman that she proposed to travel overland to Madeira and join the vessel there. And where do they touch after Madeira? Nowhere, sir. For a moment I just lay back, letting the idea of the thing soak in. There seemed to me to be only one flaw. The only pity is, I said, that on a large boat like that they will be able to avoid each other. I mean, I should have liked to feel that Claude was having a good deal of Eustace's society, and vice versa. I fancy that will be so, sir. I secured a two-birth stateroom. Mr. Claude will occupy one birth, Mr. Eustace the other. I sighed with pure ecstasy. It seemed a dash shame that on this joyful occasion I should have to go off to Harrogate with my uncle George. Have you started packing yet, Jeeves? I asked. Packing, sir? For Harrogate, I've got to go there today with Sir George. Of course, yes, sir. I forgot to mention it. Sir George rang up on the telephone this morning while you were still asleep, and said that he had changed his plans. He does not intend to go to Harrogate. Oh, why say? How absolutely topping! I thought you might be pleased, sir. What made him change his plans, did he say? No, sir, but I gather from his man Stevens that he is feeling much better and does not now require a rest cure. I took the liberty of giving Stevens the recipe for that. Pick me up of mine, of which you have always approved so much. Stevens tells me that Sir George informed him this morning that he is feeling a new man. Well, there was only one thing to do, and I did it. I'm not saying it didn't hurt, but there was no alternative. Jeeves, I said, those spats. Yes, sir? You really dislike them? Intensely, sir. You don't think time might induce you to change your views? No, sir. All right, then. Very well. Say no more. You may burn them. Thank you very much, sir. I've already done so before breakfast this morning. A quite grey is far more suitable, sir. Thank you, sir. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of The Inimitable Jeeves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Aaron White. The Inimitable Jeeves by P. J. Wodehouse. Chapter 17. Bingo and the Little Woman It must have been a week or so after the departure of Claude in Eustis, that I ran into young Bingo Little in the smoking-room of the Senior Liberal Club. He was lying back in an armchair with his mouth open in a sort of goofy expression in his eyes, while a grey-bearded cove in the middle distance watched him with so much dislike that I concluded Bingo had pinched his favourite seat. That's the worst of being in a strange club. Absolutely without intending it, you find yourself constantly trampling upon the vested interests of the oldest inhabitants. Hello, face, I said. Jirio ugly, said young Bingo, and we settled down to have a small one before lunch. Once a year the committee of the drones decides that the old club could do with a wash and brush up, so they shoe us out and dump us down for a few weeks at some other institution. This time we were roosting at the Senior Liberal, and personally I had found the strain pretty fearful. I mean, when you've got used to a club where everything's nice and cheery, and where if you want to attract a chap's attention you have a bit of bread at him, it kind of damps you to come to a place where the youngest member is about eighty-seven, and it isn't considered good form to talk to anyone, unless you and he were through the peninsular war together. It was a relief to come across Bingo. We started to talk in hushed voices. This club, I said, is the limit. It is the eels' eyebrows, agreed young Bingo. I believe that old boy over by the window has been dead three days, but I don't like to mention it to anyone. Have you lunched here yet? No, why? They have waitresses instead of waiters. Good Lord! I thought that went out with the armistice. Bingo mused a moment, straightening his tie absently. Uh, pretty girls, he said. No. He seemed disappointed, but pulled round. Well, I've heard that the cooking's the best in London. So they say, shall we be going in? All right. I expect, said young Bingo, that at the end of the meal, or possibly at the beginning, the waitress will say, Boat together, sir. Reply in the affirmative, I haven't been. Hasn't your uncle forgiven you yet? Not yet confound him. I was sorry to hear the row was still on. I resolved to do the poor old thing well at the festive board, and I scanned the menu with some intentness when the girl rolled up with it. How would this do, you Bingo? I said at length. A few plover's eggs to weigh in with, a cup of soup, a touch of cold salmon, some cold curry, and a splash of gooseberry tart and cream with a bite of cheese to finish. I don't know that I had expected the man to actually scream with delight, though I had picked the items from my knowledge of his pet dishes, but I had expected him to say something. I looked up, and found that his attention was elsewhere. He was gazing at the waitress with the look of a dog that's just remembered where its bone was buried. She was a tallish girl with sort of soft, soulful brown eyes. Nice figure and all that. Rather decent hands, too. I didn't remember having seen her about before, and I must say she raised the standard of the place quite a bit. How about it, Lattie? I said, being all for the order booked and going on with a serious knife and fork work. Eh? said young Bingo absently. I recited the programme once more. Oh yes, fine, said Bingo. Anything, anything. The girl pushed off, and he turned to me with protruding eyes. I thought you said they weren't pretty, Bertie. He said reproachfully. Oh my heavens, I said. You surely haven't fallen in love again, and with a girl you've only just seen. There are times, Bertie, said young Bingo, when a look is enough. When passing through a crowd we meet somebody's eye, and something seems to whisper. At this point the plover's eggs arrived, and he suspended his remarks in order to swoop on them with some vigor. Jeeves, I said that night when I got home, stand by. Sir. Burnish the old brain and be alert and vigilant. I suspect that Mr. Little will be calling round shortly for sympathy and assistance. Is Mr. Little in trouble, sir? Well, you might call it that. He's in love. For about the fifty-third time I ask you, Jeeves, as man to man, did you ever see such a chap? Mr. Little is certainly warm-hearted, sir. Warm-hearted? I should think he has to wear asbestos vests. Well, stand by, Jeeves. Very good, sir. And sure enough it wasn't ten days before enrol the old ass, pleating for volunteers to step one pace forward and come to the aid of the party. Bertie, he said, if you are a pal of mine, now is the time to show it. Proceed, old gargoyle, I replied. You have our ear. You remember giving me lunch at the senior liberal some days ago. We were waited on by a, I remember, tall, lissum female. He shuttered somewhat. I wish you wouldn't talk of her like that. Dash it all, she's an angel. All right, carry on. I love her. Right, oh, push along. For goodness' sake, don't bustle me. Let me tell you the story in my own way. I love her, as I was saying, and I want you, Bertie, old boy, to pop round to my uncle and do a bit of diplomatic work. That allowance of mine must be restored and dashed quick, too. What's more, it must be increased. But look here, I said, being far from keen on the ballet business. Why not wait a while? Wait. What's the good of waiting? Well, you know what generally happens when you fall in love. Something goes wrong with the works and you get left. Much better tackle your uncle after the whole thing's fixed and settled. It is fixed and settled. She accepted me this morning. Good Lord, that's quick work. You haven't known her two weeks. Not in this life, no, said young Bingo. But she has a sort of idea that we must have met in some previous existence. She thinks I must have been a king in Babylon when she was a Christian slave. I can't say I remember it myself, but there may be something in it. Great scot, I said. Do waitresses really talk like that? How should I know how waitresses talk? Well, you ought to know by now. The first time I ever met your uncle was when you hounded me on to ask him if he would rally round to help you marry that girl Mabel in the Piccadilly Bun Shop. Bingo started violently. A wild gleam came into his eyes, and before I knew what he was up to, he had brought down his hand with a most frightful whack on my summer trousers, causing me to leap like a young ram. Here, I said. Sorry, said Bingo. Excited, carried away. You've given me an idea, Bertie. He waited till I had finished massaging the limb and resumed his remarks. Can you throw your mind back to that occasion, Bertie? Do you remember the frightfully subtle scheme I worked, telling him you were what's her name, the woman who wrote those books, I mean? It wasn't likely, I'd forget. The ghastly thing was absolutely seared into my memory. That is the line of attack, said Bingo. That is the scheme. Rosium banks forward once more. It can't be done, old thing. Sorry, but it's out of the question. I couldn't go through all that again. Not for me. Not for a dozen more like you. I never thought, said Bingo sorrowfully, to hear those words from Bertie Wooster. Well, you've heard them now, I said. Paste them in your hat. Bertie, we were at school together. It wasn't my fault. We've been pals for fifteen years. I know it's going to take me the rest of my life to live it down. Bertie, old man, said Bingo, drawing up his chair closer and starting to knead my shoulder blade. Listen. Be reasonable. And of course, dash it. At the end of ten minutes I'd allowed the blighter to talk me round. It's always the way. Anyone can talk me round if I were in a trappist monastery. The first thing that would happen would be that some smooth performer would lure me into some frightful idiocy against my better judgment by the means of the deaf and dumb language. Well, what do you want me to do? I said, realizing that it was hopeless to struggle. Start off by sending the old boy an autographed copy of your latest effort with a flattering inscription that will tickle him to death. Then you pop round and put it across. What is my latest? The woman who braved all, said young Bingo. I've seen it all over the place. The shop windows and bookstalls are full of nothing but it. It looks to me from the picture on the jacket the sort of book any chap he would be proud to have written. Of course he will want to discuss it with you. Ah, I said, cheering up. That dishes the scheme, doesn't it? I don't know what the ballet thing is about. Well, you will have to read it naturally. Read it? No, I say. Bertie, we were at school together. Oh, right-o, right-o, I said. I knew I could rely on you. You have a heart of gold. Jeeves, said young Bingo as the faithful servitor rolled in. Mr. Wooster has a heart of gold. Very good, sir, said Jeeves. Bar a weakly wrestle with the pinken and an occasional dip into the form-book. I'm not much of a lad for reading, and my sufferings as I tackled the woman curse her, who braved all, were pretty fearful. But I'd managed to get through it, and only just in time as it happened, for I'd hardly reached the bit where their lips met in one long slow kiss, and everything was still but for the gentle sighing of the breeze in the labyrinum, when a messenger-boy brought a note from Old Bittlesham asking me to trickle round to lunch. I found the old boy in a mood you could only describe as melting. He had a copy of the book on the table beside him and kept turning the pages in intervals of dealing with things in aspic and whatnot. Mr. Wooster, he said, swallowing a chunk of trout. I wish to congratulate you. I wish to thank you. You go from strength to strength. I have read all for love. I have read only a factory girl. I know madcap Myrtle by heart. But this. This is your bravest and best. It tears the heart strings. Yes. Indeed, yes. I have read it three times since you most kindly sent me the volume. I wish to thank you once more for the charming inscription, and I think I may say that I am a better, sweeter, deeper man. I am full of human charity and kindness toward my species. No, really. Indeed, indeed I am. Towards the whole species. Towards the whole species. Even young bingo, I said, trying him pretty high. My nephew, Richard, he looked a bit thoughtful, but stuck it like a man and refused a hedge. Yes, even towards Richard. Well, that is to say, perhaps, yes, even towards Richard. Well, that's good, because I wanted to talk about him. He's pretty hard up, you know, in straightened circumstances. Stony, and he could use a bit of the right stuff, paid every quarter if you felt like unbalting. He mused a while, and got through a slab of cold guinea-hen before replying. He toyed with the book, and it fell open at page 215. I couldn't remember what was on page 215, but it must have been something tolerably zippy, for his expression changed, and he gazed up at me with misty eyes, as if he'd taken a shade too much mustard with his last bite of ham. Very well, Mr. Wooster, he said. Fresh from a perusal of this noble work of yours, I cannot harden my heart. Richard shall have his allowance. Stout fellow, I said. Then it occurred to me that the expression might strike a chappy who weighed 17 stone as a bit personal. Good egg, I mean. That'll take a weight off his mind. He wants to get married, you know. I did not know. And I am not sure that I altogether approve. Who is the lady? Well, as a matter of fact, she's a waitress. He leaped in his seat. You don't say so, Mr. Wooster. This is remarkable. This is most cheering. I had not given the boy credit for such tenacity of purpose. An excellent trait in him which I had not hitherto suspected. I recollect clearly that on the occasion when I first had the pleasure of making your acquaintance nearly 18 months ago, Richard was desirous of marrying this same waitress. I had to break it to him. Well, not absolutely this same waitress. In fact, quite a different waitress. Still, a waitress, you know. The light of a vuncular affection died out of the old boy's eyes. Hmm, he said a bit dubiously. I had supposed that Richard was displaying the quality of constancy, which is so rare in the modern young man. I must think it over. So we left it at that. And I came away and told Bingo the position of affairs. Allowance? OK, I said. Uncle Blessing trifle wobbly. Doesn't he seem to want the wedding bells to ring out? I left him thinking it over. If I were a bookie, I should feel justified in offering a hundred to eight against. You can't have approached him properly. I might have known you would muck it up, said young Bingo, which, considering what I had been through for his sake, struck me as a good bit sharper than a serpent's tooth. It's awkward, said young Bingo. It's infernally awkward. I can't tell you all the details at the moment, but yes, it's awkward. He helped himself absently to a handful of my cigars and pushed off. I didn't see him again for three days. Early in the afternoon of the third day he blew in with a flower in his buttonhole and a look on his face as if someone had hit him behind the ear with a stuffed eel-skin. Hello, Bertie. Hello, old turnip. Where have you been all this while? Oh, here and there. Ripping weather we're having, Bertie. Not bad. I see the bank rate is down again. No, really. Disturbing news from Lower Salacia, what? Oh, dashed. He pottered about the room for a bit, babbling at intervals. The boy seemed cuckoo. Oh, I say, Bertie, he said suddenly, dropping a vase which he had picked off the mantelpiece and was fiddling with. I know what it was I wanted to tell you. I'm married. End of Chapter 17