 Chapter 8 of the Unimitable Jeeves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Unimitable Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse. Chapter 8, Sir Roderick Comes to Lunch. I had met Sir Roderick Glossop before, of course, but only when I was with Honoria. And there's something about Honoria, which makes almost anybody you meet in the same room seem sort of undersized and trivial by comparison. I never realized till this moment what an extraordinarily formidable old bird he was. He had a pair of shaggy eyebrows which gave his eyes a piercing look, which was not at all the sort of thing a fellow wanted to encounter on an empty stomach. He was fairly tall and fairly broad and he had the most enormous head with practically no hair on it, which made it seem bigger and much more like the dome of St. Paul's. I suppose he must have taken about a nine or something in hats, shows what a rotten thing it is to let your brain develop too much. What a what-ho, what-ho, I said trying to strike the genial note and then had a sudden feeling that that was just the sort of thing I'd been warned not to say. That difficult it is to start things going properly on an occasion like this. A fellow living in a London flat is so handicapped. I mean to say if I had been the young squire greeting the visitor in the country, I could have said welcome to Meadow Sweet Hall or something zippy like that. It sounds silly to say welcome to number 6A, Crichton Mansions, Barkley Street, W. I'm afraid I'm a little late. He said as we sat down, I was detained at my club by Lord Alastair Hungerford, the Duke of Ramfirland's son. His grace, he informed me, had exhibited a renewal of the symptoms which have been causing the family so much concern. I could not leave him immediately, hence my unpunctuality, which I trust has not discommoded you. Oh, not at all. So the Duke is off his rocker, what? The expression which you use is not precisely the one I should have employed myself with reference to the head of perhaps the noblest family in England, but there is no doubt that cerebral excitement does, as you suggest, exist in no small degree. He sighed as well as he could with his mouth full of cutlet. A profession like mine is a great strain, a great strain must be. Sometimes I'm appalled at what I see around me. He stopped suddenly and sort of stiffened. Do you keep a cat, Mr. Worcester? A what, cat? No, no cat. I was conscious of a distinct impression that I'd heard a cat mewing either in the room or very near to where we are sitting. Probably a taxi or something in the street. I fear I do not follow you. I mean to say taxis squawk, you know, rather like cats in that sort of way. I had not observed the resemblance. He said rather coldly, have some lemon squash. I said the conversation seemed to be getting rather difficult. Thank you, half a glassful, if I may. The hellbrew appeared to buck him up for he resumed in a slightly more poly manner. I have a particular dislike for cats, but I was saying, oh yes, sometimes I'm positively appalled at what I see around me. It is not only the cases which come under my professional notice, painful as many of those are. It is what I see as I go about London. Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world is mentally unbalanced. This very morning, for example, a most singular and distressing occurrence took place as I was driving from my house to the club. The day being Clement, I had instructed my chauffeur to open my land outlet and I was leaning back, deriving no little pleasure from the sunshine when our progress was arrested in the middle of the thoroughfare by one of those blocks in the traffic which are inevitable in so congestive a system as that of London. I suppose I had been letting my mind wander a bit for when he stopped and took a sip of lemon squash, I had a feeling that I was listening to a lecture and was expected to say something. Here, here, I said, I beg your pardon, nothing, nothing you were saying. The vehicles proceeding in the opposite direction had also been temporarily arrested, but after a moment they were permitted to proceed. I'd fallen into meditation when suddenly the most extraordinary thing took place, my hat was snatched abruptly from my head and as I looked back, I perceived it being waved in a kind of feverish triumph from the interior of a taxi cab which even as I looked disappeared through a gap in the traffic and was lost to sight. I didn't laugh, but I distinctly heard a couple of my floating ribs parked from their moorings under the strain. Must have been meant for a practical joke, I said, what? This suggestion didn't seem to please the old boy, I trust, he said, I'm not deficient in an appreciation of the humors, but I confess that I'm at a loss to detect anything akin to pleasantry in the outrage, the action was beyond all question, that of a mentally unbalanced subject. These mental lesions may express themselves in almost any form. The Duke of Ramfelin to whom I had occasion to allude just now is under the impression this is in the strictest confidence that he is a canary and his seizure today which so perturbed Lord Alastair was due to the fact that a careless footman had neglected to bring him his morning lump of sugar. Cases are common again of men way-laying women and cutting off portions of their hair. It is from a branch of this lighter form of mania that I should be disposed to imagine that my assailant was suffering. I can only trust that he will be placed under proper control before he. Mr. Worcester, there is a cat close of hand, it is not in the street. The mewing appears to come from the adjoining room. This time I had to admit there was no doubt about it. There was a distinct sound of mewing coming from the next room. I punched the bell for jeeps who drifted in and stood waiting with an air of respectful devotion. Sir, oh jeeps, I said, cats, what about it? Are there any cats in the flat? Only the three in your bedroom, sir. What, cats in his bedroom? I heard Sir Roderick whisper in a kind of stricken way and his eyes hit me amidst ships like a couple of bullets. What do you mean, I said? Only the three in my bedroom. The black one, the tabby and the small lemon colored animal, sir. What on earth? I charged around the table in the direction of the door. Unfortunately, Sir Roderick had just decided to edge in that direction himself with the result that we collided in the doorway with a good deal of force and staggered out into the hall together. He came smartly out of the clinch and grabbed an umbrella from the rack. Stand back, he shouted, waving it overhead. Stand back, sir, I am armed. It seemed to me that the moment had come to be soothing. Awfully, sorry, I barged into you, I said. Wouldn't have had it happen for worlds. I was just dashing out to have a look into things. He appeared a trifle reassured and lowered the umbrella, but just then the most frightful shindy started in the bedroom. It sounded as though all the cats in London assisted by delegates from outlying suburbs had got together to settle their differences once for all, a sort of augmented orchestra of cats. This noise is unendurable, yells Sir Roderick. I cannot hear myself speak. I fancy, sir, said Jeeves respectfully, that the animals may have become somewhat exhilarated as the result of having discovered the fish under Mr. Worcester's bed. The old boy tottered, fish, did I hear you rightly? Sir, did you say that there was a fish under Mr. Worcester's bed? Yes, sir. Sir Roderick gave a long moan and reached for his hat and stick. You aren't going, I said. Mr. Worcester, I am going. I prefer to spend my leisure time in less eccentric society. But I say, here I must come with you. I'm sure the whole business can be explained. Jeeves, my hat. Jeeves rallied round. I took the hat from him and shoved it on my head. Good heavens. Jeeves, the shock it was, the belly thing, it absolutely engulfed me. If you know what I mean, even as I was putting it on, I got a sort of impression that it was a trifle rooming. And no sooner had I let go of it, then it settled down over my ears like a kind of extinguisher. I say, this isn't my hat. It is my hat, said Sir Roderick, in about the coldest, nastiest voice I've ever heard. The hat which was stolen from me this morning as I drove in my car. But I suppose Napoleon or somebody like that would have been equal to the situation. But I'm bound to say it was too much for me. I just stood there gargling in a sort of coma while the old boy lifted the hat off me and turned to Jeeves. I should be glad, my man. He said, if you would accompany me a few yards down the street, I wish to ask you some questions. Very good, sir. Here, but I say, I began, but he left me standing. He stalked out, followed by Jeeves. And at that moment, the rile in the bedroom started again, louder than ever. I was about fed up with the whole thing. I mean, cats in your bedroom, a bit thick, what? I didn't know how the dickens they had got in, but I was jolly well resolved that they weren't going to stay picnicking there any longer. I've long opened the door. I got a momentary flash of about 115 cats of all sizes and colors, scrapping in the middle of the room. And then they all shot past me with a rush out of the front door. And all that was left of the mob scene was the head of a whacking big fish lying on the carpet and staring up at me in a rather austere sort of way, as if it wanted a written explanation and apology. There was something about the thing's expression that absolutely chilled me. And I withdrew on tiptoe and shut the door. And as I did, so I bumped into someone. Oh, sorry, he said. I spun round. It was the pink face chappy, Lord, something or other the fellow I've met with quad and Eustace. I say he said apologetically, awfully sorry to bother you, but those weren't my cats. I met just now, legging it downstairs, where they look like my cats. They came out of my bedroom. Then they were my cats. He said sadly, oh, dash it. Did you put cats in my bedroom? Your man, what's his name did? He rather decently said I could keep them there till my train went. I'd just come to fetch them and now they've gone. Oh, well, we can't be helped, I suppose. I'll take the hat and the fish anyway. I was beginning to dislike this chappy. Did you put that ball of fish there too? No, that was Eustace's. The hat was quads. I sank simply into a chair. I say you couldn't explain this, could you? I said the chappy gazed at me in mild surprise. Why don't you know all about it? I say he blushed profusely. Why, if you don't know about it, I shouldn't wonder if the whole thing didn't seem rummy to you. Rummy is the word. It was for the seekers, you know, the seekers. Rather a blood club, you know, upper Oxford, which your cousins and I are rather keen on getting into. You have to pinch something you know to get elected. Some sort of a souvenir, you know, a policeman's helmet, you know, or a doorknocker or something, you know, the room's decorated with the things at the annual dinner and everybody makes speeches and all that sort of thing, rather jolly. Well, we wanted rather to make a sort of special effort and do the thing in style, if you understand. So we came up to London to see if we couldn't pick up something here that would be a bit out of the ordinary. And we had the most amazing luck right from the start. Your cousin, Claude, managed to collect a quite decent top hat out of a passing car. And your cousin, Eustace, got away with a really goodish salmon or something from Herod's. And I snatched with three excellent cats all in the first hour. We were fearfully braced, I can tell you, and then the difficulty was to know where to park the things till our train went. You look so beastly conspicuous, you know, doing about London with the fish and a lot of cats. And then Eustace remembered you and we all came on here in a cat. You were out, but your man said it would be all right. When we met you, you were in such a hurry that we didn't have time to explain. But I think I'll be taking a hat if you don't mind. It's gone, gone. The fellow you pinched it from happened to be the man who was lunching here. He took it away with him. Oh, I say, poor old Claude, we'll be upset. Well, how about the goodish salmon or something? Would you care to view the remains? He seemed all broken up when he saw the wreckage. I doubt if the committee would accept that, he said sadly, there isn't a frightful lot of it left. What? The cats ate the rest, he sighed deeply. No cats, no fish, no hat. We've had all our troubles for nothing. I do call that hard. And on top of that, I say, I hate to ask you, but you couldn't lend me a tenor, could you? A tenor, what for? Well, the fact is, I've got to pop round and bail Claude and use this out. They've been arrested. Arrested, yes, you see, what with the excitement of coloring the hat and the salmon or something, added to the fact that we had rather a festive lunch. They got a bit above themselves for chaps and tried to pinch a motor lorry. Silly, of course, because I don't see they could have got the thing to Oxford and shown it to the committee. Still, there wasn't any reasoning with them. And when the driver started making a fuss, there was a bit of a mix-up and Claude and Eustace are more or less languishing in Vine Street police station till I pop round and bail them out. So if you could manage a tenor, oh thanks, that's fearfully good of you. It would have been too bad to leave them there. What? I mean, they're both such frightfully good chaps. You know, everybody likes them up at the varsity. They're fearfully popular. I bet they are, I said. When Jeeves came back, I was waiting for him on the mat. I wanted speech with the blighter. Well, I said, Sir Roderick asked me a number of questions, sir, respecting your habits, a mode of life to which I replied guardedly. I don't care about that. What I want to know is why you didn't explain the whole thing to him right at the start. A word from you would have put everything clear. Yes, sir. Now he's gone off thinking me a loony. I should not be surprised from his conversation with me, sir, if some such idea had not entered his head. I was just starting into speak and the telephone bell rang, Jeeves answered it. No, madam, Mr. Worcester's not him. No, madam, I do not know when he will return. No, madam, he left no message. Yes, madam, I will inform him. He put back the receiver, Mrs. Gregson, sir. On Agatha, I'd been expecting it ever since the luncheon party had blown out a fuse. Sir Shadow had been hanging over me so to speak. Does she know already? I gather that Sir Roderick has been speaking to her on the telephone, sir, and no wedding bells for me, what Jeeves called. Mrs. Gregson did not actually confide in me, sir, but I fancy that some such thing may have occurred. She seemed decidedly agitated, sir. It's a rummy thing, but I've been so snooted by the old boy and the cats and the fish and the hat and the pink-faced chappy and all the rest of it that the bright side simply hadn't occurred to me till now. By jove, it was like a bally weight rolling off my chest. I gave a yelp of pure relief. Jeeves, I said, I believe you worked the whole thing. Sir, I believe you had the jolly old situation in hand right from the start. Well, sir Spencer, Mrs. Gregson Butler, who inadvertently chanced over here something of your conversation when you were launching at the house, did mention certain of the details to me, and I confess that though it may be a liberty to say so, I entertained hopes that something might occur to prevent the match. I doubt if the young lady was entirely suitable to you, sir, and she would have shot you out on your ear five minutes after the ceremony. Yes, sir, Spencer informed me that she'd expressed some such intention. Mrs. Gregson wishes you to call upon her immediately, sir. She does say, what do you advise Jeeves? I think a trip abroad might prove enjoyable, sir. I shook my head. She'd come after me. Not if you went far enough the field, sir. There are excellent boats leaving every Wednesday and Saturday for New York. Jeeves, I said, you were right as always. Book the tickets. End of Chapter 8, Chapter 9 of the Unimitable Jeeves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Unimitable Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse, a letter of introduction. You know, the longer I live, the more clearly I see that half the trouble in this ball-y world is caused by the light-hearted and thoughtless way in which chapies dash off letters of introduction and hand them to other chapies to deliver to chapies of the third part. It's one of those things that make you wish you were living in the Stone Age. What I mean to say is if a fellow in those days wanted to give anyone a letter of introduction, he had to spend a month or so carving it on a large-sized boulder. And the chances were that the other chapie got so sick of lugging the thing around in the hot sun that he dropped it after the first mile. But nowadays it's so easy to write letters of introduction that everybody does it without a second thought with the result that some perfectly harmless cove like myself gets in the soup. Mark you, all the above is what you might call the result of my riper experience. I don't mind admitting that in the first flush of the thing, so to speak, when Jeeves told me this would be about three weeks after I'd landed in America that a blighter called Cyril Basington Basington had arrived. And I found that he had brought a letter of introduction to me from Aunt Agatha. Where was I? Oh yes, I don't mind admitting I was saying that just at first I was rather bucked. You see, after the painful events which had resulted in my leaving England, I hadn't expected to get any sort of letter from Aunt Agatha, which would pass the censor, so to speak. And it was a pleasant surprise to open this one and find it almost civil. Chile perhaps in parts, but on the whole, quite tolerably polite. I looked on the thing as a hopeful sign, sort of olive branch, you know, or do I mean orange blossom? What I'm getting at is that the fact that Aunt Agatha was writing to me without calling me names seemed more or less like a step in the direction of peace. And that was all for peace and that right speedily. I'm not saying a word against New York, mind you. I liked the place and was having quite a right time there. But the fact remains that a fellow who's been used to London all his life does get a trifle homesick on a foreign strand and I wanted to pop back to the cozy old flat in Barkley Street, which could only be done when Aunt Agatha had simmered down and got over the glass episode. I know that London is a biggish city, but believe me, it isn't half big enough for any fellow to live in with Aunt Agatha when she's after him with the old hatchet. And so I'm bound to say I looked on this chump, Bassington, Bassington, when he arrived more or less as a dove of peace and was all for him. He would seem from contemporary accounts to have blown in one morning at 7.45, that being the ghastly sort of hour, they shoot you off the liner in New York. He was given the respectful raspberry by Jeeves and told to try again about three hours later when there would be a sporting chance of my having sprung from my bed with a glad cry to welcome another day and all that sort of thing, which was rather decent of Jeeves, by the way, for it so happened that there was a slight estrangement, a touch of coldness, a bit of a row, in other words, between us at the moment because of some rather priceless purple socks, which I was wearing against his wishes. And the lesser man might easily have snatched at the chance of getting back at me a bit by loosing Cyril into my bed chamber at a moment when I couldn't have stood a two minutes conversation with my dearest pal. For until I have had my early cup of tea and have rooted on life for a bit absolutely undisturbed, I'm not much of a lad for the merry chit chat. So Jeeves very sportingly shot Cyril out into the crisp morning air and didn't let me know of his existence till he brought his card in with the ohia. And what might all this be, Jeeves? I said, giving the thing the glass he gave. The gentleman has arrived from England. I understand, sir. He called to see you earlier in the day. Good Lord Jeeves, you don't mean to say the day starts earlier than this. He desired me to say he would return later, sir. I've never heard of him. Have you ever heard of him, Jeeves? I am familiar with the name Bassington-Bassington, sir. There are three branches of the Bassington-Bassington family, the Shropshire-Bassington-Bassington's, the Hampshire-Bassington-Bassington's, and the Kent-Bassington-Bassington's. England seems pretty well stocked up with Bassington-Bassington's. Tolerably so, sir. No chance of a sudden shortage. I mean, what? Presumably not, sir. And what sort of a specimen is this one? I could not say, sir, on such short acquaintance. Will you give me a sporting two to one Jeeves, judging from what you've seen of him, that this chap is not a blighter or an excrescence? No, sir. I should not care to venture such liberal odds. I knew it. Well, the only thing that remains to be discovered is what kind of a blighter he is. Time will tell, sir. The gentleman brought a letter for you, sir. Well, he did, did he? I said, and grasped the communication, and then I recognized the handwriting. I say, Jeeves, this is from my aunt Agatha. Indeed, sir. Don't dismiss it in that light way. Don't you see what this means? She says she wants me to look after this excrescence while he's in New York by Joe Jeeves, if I only fawn on him a bit, so that he sends back a favorable report to headquarters I may yet be able to get back to England in time for a good wood. Now is certainly the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party, Jeeves. We must rally round and coset this code in no uncertain manner. Yes, sir. He isn't going to stay in New York long, I said, taking another look at the letter. He's headed for Washington, going to give the nibs there the once over, apparently before taking a whirl at the diplomatic service. I should say that we can win this lad's esteem and defection with a lunch and a couple of dinners, what? I fancy that should be entirely adequate, sir. This is the jolliest thing that's happened since we left England. It looks to me as if the sun were breaking through the clouds. Very possibly, sir. He started to put up my things and there was an awkward sort of silence. Not those socks, Jeeves, I said, coughing a bit but having a dash at the careless offhand tongue. Give me the purple ones. I beg your pardon, sir. Those jolly purple ones, very good, sir. He lugged them out of the drawer as if he were a vegetarian fishing a caterpillar out of the salad. You could see he was feeding deeply, deuce, painful and all that, this sort of thing, but a chap he has got to assert himself every now and then. Absolutely. I was looking for Cyril to show up again anytime after breakfast, but he didn't appear. So towards one o'clock, I trickled out to the lambs club where I had an appointment to feed the Worcester, faced with a cove of the name of Catherine. I'd got Polly with since my arrival, George Kaepern, a fellow who wrote plays and whatnot. I'd made a lot of friends during my stay in New York, the city being crammed with monomous slads, who won and all extended a welcoming hand to the stranger in their midst. Kaepern was a bit late, but bobbed up finally, saying that he had been kept at a rehearsal of his new musical comedy. I asked dad, and we started in. We had just reached the coffee when the waiter came up and said that Jeeves wanted to see me. Jeeves was in the waiting room. He gave the socks. One pained look as I came in, then averted his eyes. Mr. Basington, Basington has just telephoned, sir. Oh, yes, sir, where is he? In prison, sir. I reeled against the wallpaper. A nice thing to happen to Aunt Agratha's nominee on his first morning under my wing. I did not think. In prison, yes, sir. He said on the telephone that he had been arrested and would be glad if you could step round and bail him out. Arrested, what for? He did not favor me with his confidence in that respect, sir. This is a bit thick, Jeeves. Precisely, sir. I collected old George, who very decently volunteered to stagger along with me. And we hopped into a taxi. We sat around at the police station for a bit on a wooden bench in a sort of anti-room. And presently, a policeman appeared leading in Cyril. Hello, hello, hello. I said, what? My experience is that a fellow never really looks his best just after he's come out of a cell. When I was up at Oxford, I used to have a regular job bailing out a pile of mine. We never failed to get pinched every boat race night. And he always looked like something that had been dug up by the roots. Cyril was in pretty much the same sort of shape. He had a black eye and a torn collar. And altogether, there was nothing to write home about, especially if one was writing to Aunt Agratha. He was a thin, tall, chappy with a lot of light hair and pale blue, gogly eyes, which made him look like one of the rare kinds of fish. I got your message. I said, oh, are you Bertie Worcester? Absolutely. And this is my pal, George Kappen, writes plays and whatnot, don't you know? We all shook hands and the policeman, having retrieved a piece of chewing gum from the underside of a chair, where he had parked it against a rainy day, went off into a corner and began to contemplate the infinite. This is a rotten country, said Cyril. Oh, I don't know, you know, don't you know? I said, we do our best, said George. Oh, George is an American, I explained, writes plays, don't you know and whatnot? Of course, I didn't invent the country, said George. That was calmness, but I shall be delighted to consider any improvements you may suggest and lay them before the proper authorities. But why don't the policeman in New York dress properly? George took a look at the chewing officer across the room. I don't see anything missing, he said. I mean, to say, why don't they wear helmets like they do in London? Why do they look like postmen? It isn't fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed, confusing. I was simply standing on the pavement looking at things when a fellow who looked like a postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn't see why I should have postman prodded me, why the dickens should have fellow come 3,000 miles to be prodded by postmen. The point is well taken, said George. What did you do? I gave him a shove, you know? I've got a frightfully hasty temper, you know? All the bass intents, I've got frightfully hasty tempers, don't you know? And then he biffed me in the eye and let me off to this beastly place. I'll fix it all, son, I said, and I hauled out the bankroll and went off to open negotiations, leaving zero to talk to George. I don't mind admitting that I was a bit perturbed. There were furrows in the overall, and I had a kind of foreboding feeling. As long as this chump stayed in New York, I was responsible for him. And he didn't give me the impression of being the species of cove, a reasonable chap he would care to be responsible for, for more than about three minutes. I'm used with a considerable amount of density over zero that night when I had got home and Jeeves had brought me the final whiskey. I couldn't help feeling that this visit of his to America was going to be one of those times that I'm in soles and whatnot. I hauled out Aunt Agatha's letter of introduction and re-read it, and there was no getting away from the fact that she undoubtedly appeared to be somewhat wrapped up in this blighter and to consider it my mission in life to shield him from harm while on the premises. I was do thankful that he had taken such a liking for George Catherine, old George being a steady sort of cove. After I had got him out of his dungeon cell, he and old George had gone off together as Chummy's brothers to watch the afternoon rehearsal of Ask Dad. There was some talk I gathered of their dining together. I felt pretty easy in my mind while George had his eye on him. I got about as far as this in my meditations when Jeeves came in with a telegram. At least it wasn't a telegram, it was a cable from Aunt Agatha and this is what it said. Has Cyril Basington Basington called yet on no account introduce him into theatrical circles, vitally important, letter follows. I read it a couple of times, this is Rummy Jeeves. Yes, sir, very Rummy and dash disturbing. Will there be anything further tonight, sir? Of course, if he was going to be as bally unsympathetic as that, there was nothing to be done. My idea had been to show him the cable and ask his advice, but if he was letting those purple socks wrinkle to that extent, the good old noblesse oblige of the woosters couldn't lower itself to the extent of pleading with the man, absolutely not, so I gave it a miss. Nothing more, thanks, good night, sir, good night. He floated away and I sat down to think the thing over. I'd been directing the best efforts of the old beam to the problem for a matter of half an hour. When there was a ringing at the bell, I went to the door and there was Cyril, looking pretty fested. I'll come in for a bit if I may, he said, got something rather priceless to tell you. He curvited past me into the sitting room and when I got there after shutting the front door, I found him reading Aunt Agatha's cable and giggling in a rummy sort of manner, odd to have looked at this, I suppose, caught sight of my name and read it without thinking. I say, Worcester, old friend of my youth, this is rather funny. Do you mind if I have a drink, thanks awfully, and all that sort of rot? Yes, it's rather funny considering what I came to tell you. Jolly old Calvin has given me a small part in that musical comedy of his, Ask Dad. Only a bit, you know, but quite tolerably ripe. I'm feeling frightfully braced, don't you know? He drank his drink and went on. He didn't seem to notice that I wasn't jumping about the room yapping with joy. You know, I've always wanted to go on the stage, you know, he said, but my jolly old governor wouldn't stick it up any price, put the old walk key seat down with a bang and turn bright purple whenever the subject was mentioned. That's the real reason why I came over here if you want to know. I knew there wasn't a chance of my being able to work this stage wheeze in London without somebody getting on to it and tipping off the governor, so I'd rather brainily sprain the scheme of popping over to Washington to broaden my mind. There's nobody to interfere on this side, you see, so I can go right ahead. I tried to reason with the poor chump, but your governor will have to know sometime. That'll be all right, I shall be the jolly old star by then, and he won't have a leg to stand on. It seems to me he'll have one leg to stand on while he kicks me with the other. But where do you come in? What have you got to do with it? I introduced you to George Catherine, so you did old top, so you did. I'd quite forgotten. I ought to have thanked you before. Well, so long. There's an early rehearsal of Ask Dad tomorrow morning, and I must be toddling. Remi the thing should be called Ask Dad when that's just what I'm not going to do. See what I mean? What, what? Well, pit, pit. Toodaloo, I said sadly, and the blighters got it off, I dived for the phone and called up George Catherine. I say, George, what's all this about? Zero, Bassington, Bassington. What about him? He tells me you've given him a part in your show. Oh yes, just a few lines, but I've just had 57 cables from home telling me on no account to let him go on the stage. I'm sorry, but Zero is just the type I need for that part. He's simply got to be himself. It's pretty tough on me, George. Oh man, my Aunt Agatha sent this blighter over with a letter of introduction to me, and she will hold me responsible. She'll cut you out of her will. It isn't a question of money, but of course you've never met my Aunt Agatha, so it's rather hard to explain, but she's a sort of human vampire bat, and she'll make things most fearfully unpleasant for me. When I go back to England, she's the kind of woman who comes and rags you before breakfast, don't you know? Well, don't go back to England then, stick here and become president. But George, old top, good night. But I say, George, old man, you didn't get my last remark, it was good night. You idle rich may not need any sleep, but I've got to be bright and fresh in the morning. God bless you. I felt as if I hadn't a friend in the world. I was so jolly well worked up that I went and banged on Jeeves's door. It wasn't a odd thing. I'd have cared to do as a rule, but it seemed to me that now was the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party, so to speak, and that it was up to Jeeves to rally around the young master, even if it broke up his beauty sleep. Jeeves emerged in a brown dressing gown, sir. Do sorry to wake you up, Jeeves and whatnot, but all sorts of dash disturbing things have been happening. I was not asleep. It is my practice on retiring to read a few pages of some instructive book. That's good. What I mean to say is if you've just finished exercising the OB, it's probably in mid-season form for tackling problems. Jeeves, Mr. Basington-Basington is going on the stage. Indeed, sir, other thing doesn't hit you. You don't get it properly. Here's the point. All his family are most fearfully dead against his going on the stage. There's going to be no end of trouble if he isn't headed off. And what's worse, my aunt Agatha will blame me, you see. I see, sir. Well, can't you think of some way of stopping him? Not, I confess, at the moment, sir. Well, have a stab at it. I will give the matter my best consideration, sir, whether that be anything further tonight. I hope not. I've had all I can stand already. Very good, sir. He popped off. End of chapter nine. Chapter 10 of the Inevitable Jeeves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Inevitable Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse. Startling dressiness of a lift attendant. The part which old George had written for the Chump Zero took up about two pages of type script, but it might have been Hamlet, the way that poor misguided pinhead worked himself to the bone over it. I suppose if I heard him his lines once, I did it a dozen times in the first couple of days. He seemed to think that my only feeling about the whole affair was one of enthusiastic admiration and that he could rely on my support and sympathy. What we're trying to imagine, how Aunt Agatha was going to take this thing and being woken up out of the dreamless in the small hours every other night to give my opinion of some new bit of business which Zero had invented, I became more or less the good old shadow. And all the time Jeeves remained still pretty cold and distant about the purple socks. It's this sort of thing that ages a chappy, don't you know, and makes his youthful joie de vivre go a bit groggy at the knees. In the middle of it Aunt Agatha's letter arrived. It took her about six pages to do justice to Zero's father's feelings in regard to his going on the stage and about six more to give me a kind of sketch of what she would say, think and do if I didn't keep him clear of injurious influences while he was in America. The letter came by the afternoon mail and left me with a pretty firm conviction that it wasn't a thing I ought to keep to myself. I didn't even wait to ring the bell. I whizzed forward the kitchen, bleeding for Jeeves and butted into the middle of a regular tea party of sorts. Seated at the table were a depressed looking cove who might have been a valet or something and a boy in a Norfolk suit, the valet chappy was drinking a whiskey and soda and the boy was being tolerably rough with some jam and cake. But I say Jeeves, I said sorry to interrupt the feast of reason and flow of soul and so forth but at this juncture, the small boy's eye hit me like a bullet and stopped me in my tracks. It was one of those cold, clammy, accusing sort of eyes, the kind that makes you reach up to see if your tie is straight and he looked at me as if I were some sort of unnecessary product which Cuthbert Decat had brought in after a ramble among the local ash cans. He was a stoutish infant with a lot of freckles and a good deal of jam on his face. Hello, hello, hello, I said what? There didn't seem much else to say. The stripling stared at me in a nasty sort of way through the jam. He may have loved me at first sight but the impression he gave me was that he didn't think a lot of me and wasn't betting much that I would improve a great deal on acquaintance. I had a kind of feeling that I was about as popular with him as a cold Welsh rabbit. What's your name? He asked, my name? Oh, Worcester, don't you know and whatnot? My pop's richer than you are. That seemed to be all about me. The child having said his say started in on the jam again. I turned to Jeeves. I say, Jeeves, can you spare a moment? I want to show you something. Very good, sir. We toddled into the sitting room. Who is your little friend? Sidney the Sunbeam, Jeeves. The young gentleman, sir. It's a loose way of describing him but I know what you mean. I trust I was not taking a liberty in entertaining him, sir. Not a bit, if that's your idea of a large afternoon, go ahead. I happened to meet the young gentleman taking a walk with his father's valet, sir, whom I used to know somewhat intimately in London and I ventured to invite them both to join me here. Well, never mind about him, Jeeves. Read this letter. He gave it the up and down. Very disturbing, sir, was all he could find to say. What are we going to do about it? Time may provide a solution, sir. On the other hand, it meant what? Extremely true, sir. We'd got as far as this one. There was a ring at the door. Jeeves shimmered off and Cyril blew in full of good cheer and litteringness. I say, whistarole thing. He said, I want your advice. You know there's jolly old part of mine. How ought I to dress it? What I mean is the first act seen is laid in an hotel of sorts at about three in the afternoon. What ought I to wear, do you think? I wasn't feeling fit for a discussion of gents' suitings. You'd better consult Jeeves, I said. A hot and by no means unripe idea. Where is he? Gone back to the kitchen, I suppose. I'll smite the good old bell, shall I? Yes, no. Righto, Jeeves poured silently in. Oh, I say, Jeeves, began Cyril. I just wanted to have a syllable or two with you. It's this way. Hello, who's this? I then perceived that the stout stripling had trickled into the room after Jeeves. He was standing near the door looking at Cyril as if his worst fears had been realized. It was a bit of a silence. The child remained there drinking Cyril in for about half a minute, then he gave his verdict. Fish, face. Hey, what? Said Cyril. The child had evidently been taught at his mother's knee to speak the truth, made his meaning a trifle clearer. You've a face like a fish. He spoke as if Cyril was more to be pity than centered, which I am bound to say I thought rather decent and broad-minded of him. I don't mind admitting that. Whenever I looked at Cyril's face, I always had a feeling that he couldn't have got that way without it being mostly his own fault. I found myself warming to this child. Absolutely don't know. I liked his conversation. It seemed to take Cyril a moment or two really to grasp the thing. And then you could hear the blood of the bassington, bassingtons begin to sizzle. Well, I'm dashed, he said. I'm dashed if I'm not. I wouldn't have a face like that. First he did the job with a good deal of earnestness, not if he gave me a million dollars. He thought for a moment, then corrected himself, two million dollars, he added. Just what occurred then, I couldn't exactly say, but the next few minutes were a bit exciting. I take it that Cyril must have made a dive for the infant. Anyway, the air seemed pretty well congested with arms and legs and things. Something bumped into the Worcester race coat just around the third button. And I collapsed onto the sati and rather lost interest in things for the moment. When I had unscrambled myself, I found that Jeeves and the child had retired and Cyril was standing in the middle of the room snorting a bit. Who is that frightful little brute Worcester? I don't know, I never saw him before today. I gave him a couple of tolerably juicy buffets before he legged it. I say Worcester, that kid said a dashed odd thing. He yelled out something about Jeeves promising him a dollar if he called me or what he said. It sounded pretty unlikely to me. What would Jeeves do that for? It struck me as Rummy too. Where would be the sense of it? That's what I can't see. I mean to say it's nothing to Jeeves, what sort of a face you have. No, said Cyril. He spoke a little coldly. I fancy. I don't know why. Well, I'll be popping to the loo. Pip, pip. It must have been about a week after this Rummy little episode that George Kaepern called me up and asked me if I would care to go and see a run through of his show. Ask dad, it seemed was to open out of town and it's connected on the following Monday. And this was to be a sort of preliminary dress rehearsal. A preliminary dress rehearsal. Oh, George explained was the same as a regular dress rehearsal in as much as it was apt to look like nothing on earth and last into the small hours, but more exciting because they wouldn't be timing the piece and consequently all the blighters who on these occasions let their angry passions rise would have plenty of scope for interruptions with the result that a pleasant time would be had by all. The thing was built to start at eight o'clock so I rolled up at 10.15 so as not to have too long to wait before they began. The dress parade was still going on. George was on the stage talking to a Cove in shirt sleeves and an absolutely round chappy with big spectacles and a practically hairless dome. I had seen George with a ladder merchant once or twice at the club and I knew that he was gloom and field. The manager I waved to George and slid into his seat at the back of the house so as to be out of the way when the fighting started. Presently George hopped down off the stage and came and joined me and fairly soon after that the curtain went down. The chappy at the piano whacked out at well meant bar or two and the curtain went up again. I can't quite recall what the plight of ask dad was about but I do know that it seemed able to jog along all right without much help from Cyril. I was rather puzzled at first what I mean is through brooding on Cyril and hearing him in his part and listening to his views on what ought and what ought not to be done. I suppose I got a sort of impression rooted in the old bean that he was pretty well the backbone of the show and that the rest of the company didn't do much except go on until then when he happened to be off the stage. I sat there for nearly half an hour waiting for him to make his entrance until I suddenly discovered he'd been on from the start. He was in fact the rummy looking plug agree who was now leaning against a potted palm a couple of feet from the OP side trying to appear intelligent while the heroin sang a song about love being like something which for the moment has slipped my memory. After the second refrain he began to dance in company with a dozen other equally weird birds a painful spectacle for one who could see a vision of aunt Agatha reaching for the hatchet and old bassington bassington senior putting on his strongest pair of hot nail boots. Absolutely. The dance had just finished in Sewell and his pals had shuffled off into the rings when a voice spoke from the darkness on my right. Pop. Old Blumenfield clapped his hands and the hero who had just been about to get the next line off his diaphragm cheesed it. I peered into the shadows who should it be but Jeeves's little playmate with the freckles. He was now strolling down the aisle with his hands in his pockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of respectful attention seemed to pervade the building. Pop said the stripping that number's no good. Old Blumenfield beamed over his shoulder. Don't you like it darling? It gives me a pain. You're dead right. You want something zippy there something with a bit of jazz to it. Quite right my boy. I'll make a note of it. All right, go on. I turned to George who was muttering to himself and rather an overwrought way. I say George old man who the dickens is that kid. Old George groaned a bit hollily as if things were a trifle thick. I didn't know he had crawled in. It's Blumenfield's son. Now we're going to have a Hades of a time. Does he always run things like this? Always. But why does Old Blumenfield listen to him? Nobody seems to know. It may be pure fatherly love or he may regard him as a mascot. My own idea is that he thinks the kid is exactly the amount of intelligence of the average member of the audience. And that what makes a hit with him will please the general public. While conversely what he doesn't like will be too rotten for anyone. The kid is a past award and a pot of poison and should be strangled. The rehearsal went on. The hero got off his line. There was a slight outburst of frightfulness between the stage manager and a voice named Bill that came from somewhere near the root. The subject under discussion being where the devil Bill's ambers were at that particular juncture. Then things went on again until the moment arrived for Cyril's big scene. I was still a trifle hazy about the plot but I got onto the fact that Cyril was some sort of an English peer who had come over to America doubtless for the best reasons. So far he'd only had two lines to say. One was, oh I say, in the other words, yes by Joe. But I seemed to recollect from hearing him read his part that pretty soon he was due rather to spread himself. I sat back in my chair and waited for him to bob up. He bobbed up about five minutes later. Things had got a bit stormy by that time. The voice and the stage director had had another of their love feasts. This time something to do with why Bill's blues weren't on the job or something. And almost as soon as that was over there was a bit of unpleasantness because a flower pot fell off a window ledge and nearly brained the hero. The atmosphere was consequently more or less hooded up when Cyril, who had been hanging about at the back of the stage, breathed down center and towed the mark for his most substantial chunk of entertainment. The heroine had been saying something. I forget what in all the course with Cyril at their head had begun to surge rounder in the rustless sort of way those chapies always do when there's a number coming along. Cyril's first line was, oh, I say, you know, you mustn't say that, really. And it seemed to me he passed it over the larynx with a goodish deal of them and Genois Secois. But by job before the heroine had time for the comeback our little friend with the freckles had risen to larger protest. Pop, yes darling, that one's no good. Which one darling? The one with a face like a fish. But they all have faces like fish, darling. The child seemed to see the justice of this objection. He became more definite. The ugly one. Which ugly one? That one. Cedro Bloominfield pointing to Cyril. Yep, he's rotten. I thought so myself. He's a pill. You're dead right, my boy. I've noticed it for some time. Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the footlights even from where I was sitting. I could see that these harsh words had hit the old Basington-Basington family pride. A frightful wallet. He started to get pink in the ears and then in the nose and then in the cheeks till in about a quarter of a minute. He looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery on a sunset evening. What the deuce do you mean? What the deuce do you mean? Shout at old Bloominfield. Don't yell at me across the footlights. I have a dash of mine to come down and spank that little brute. What? A dash of mine. Old Bloominfield swelled like a pumped up tire. He got rounder than ever. See, your mister, I don't know your darn name. My name's Basington-Basington and a jolly old Basington-Basington's. I mean, the Basington-Basington's aren't accustomed. Old Bloominfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Basington-Basington's and what they weren't accustomed to. The whole strength of the company rallied round to enjoy his remarks. You could see them jutting out from the wings and protruding from behind trees. You got to work good for my pop, said the stout child wagging his head, reprovingly at zero. I don't want any bolly cheek from you, said zero, gurgling a bit. What's that, barked old Bloominfield? Do you understand that this boy is my son? Yes, I do, said zero, and you both have my sympathy. You're fired, bothered old Bloominfield, swelling a good bit more, get out of my theater. About half past 10 next morning, just after I'd finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong. Jeeves tilted into my bedroom and said that zero was waiting to see me in the sitting room. How does he look, Jeeves, sir? What does Mr. Basington-Basington look like? It is hardly my place, sir, to criticize the facial peculiarities of your friends. I don't mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and whatnot? Not noticeably, sir, his manner is tranquil. That's wrong, sir, nothing, showing men will you? I'm bound to say I had expected to see zero showing a few more traces of last night's battle. I was looking for a bit of the overwrought soul and the quivering gag glints. If you know what I mean, he seemed pretty ordinary and quite fairly cheerful. Hello, Mr. Old Thing, Jee-Roe. I just looked in to say goodbye, goodbye. Yes, I'm off to Washington in an hour. He sat down on the bed, you know, Mr. Old Top, he went on, I've been thinking it all over and really doesn't seem quite fair to the jolly old governor by going on the stage and so forth. What do you think? I see what you mean. I mean to say he sent me over here to broaden my jolly old mind and words to that effect, don't you know? And I can't help thinking it would be a bit of a jar for the old boy if I gave him the bird and went on the stage instead. I don't know if you understand me, but what I mean to say is it's a sort of question of conscience. Can you leave this show without upsetting everything? Oh, that's all right. I've explained everything to Old Blumenfield and he quite sees my position. Of course, he's sorry to lose me. Said he didn't see how he could fill my place and all that sort of thing. But after all, even if it does land in a bit of a hole, I think I'm right in resigning my part, don't you? Oh, absolutely. I thought you'd agree with me while I ought to be shifting, awfully glad to have seen something of you and all that sort of rot, pipit, doodaloo. He's sorry forth having told all those broadly lies with the clear blue pop-out gaze of a young child. I rang for Jeeves. You know, ever since last night I had been exercising your beam to some extent and a good deal of light had dawned upon me. Jeeves, sir, did you put that pie-faced infant up to bally raggy Mr. Basington-Basington? Sir, oh, you know what I mean. Did you tell him to get Mr. Basington-Basington sacked from the ass dad company? I wouldn't take such a liberty, sir. He started to put out my clothes. It is possible that young master Blumenfield may have gathered from casual remarks of mine that I did not consider the stage altogether a suitable sphere. For Mr. Basington-Basington, I say, Jeeves, you know, you're a bit of a marvel. I endeavored to give satisfaction, sir, and I'm frightfully obliged, if you know what I mean. Aunt Agatha would have had 16 or 17 fits if you hadn't headed him off. I fancy there might have been some little friction and unpleasantness, sir. I'm laying out the blue suit with a thin red stripe, sir. I fancy the effect will be pleasing. It's a rummy thing, but I had finished breakfast and gone out and gone as far as the lift before I remembered what it was that I had meant to do to reward Jeeves for his really sporting behavior in this matter of the chump cereal. It cut me to the heart to do it, but I had decided to give him his way and let those purple socks pass out of my life. After all, there are times when a code must make sacrifices. I was just going to nip back and break the glad news to him when the lift came up, so I thought I would leave it till I got home. The colored chappy in charge of the lift looked at me as I hopped in with a good deal of quiet devotion and whatnot. I wish to thank you, sir, he said for your kindness. Hey, what? Mr. Jeeves, don't give me them purple socks, as you told him. Thank you very much, sir. I looked down, the blighter was a blaze of mauve from the ankle bone southward. I don't know when I've seen anything so dressy. Oh, I'm not at all right, oh, glad you like them, I said. Well, I mean to say what? Absolutely. End of chapter 10. Chapter 11 of the Inmitable 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 Vijay Das Sharma. The Inmitable Jeeves by PG Vothouse. Chapter 11, Comrade Bingo. The thing really started in the park at the marble arch end, where weird birds of every description collect on Sunday afternoons and stand on soap boxes and make speeches. It isn't often you'll find me there, but it so happened that on the sabbat, after my return to the good old metro, I had a call to pay in Manchester Square and taking a stroll round in that direction. So as not to arrive too early, I found myself right in the middle of it. Now that the empire is in the place it was, I always think the park on a Sunday is the center of London. If you know what I mean, I mean to say that's the spot that makes the returned exile really sure is back again. After what you might call my enforced sojourn in New York, I'm bound to say that I stood there fairly lapping it all up. It did me good to listen to the lads giving tongue and realize that all had ended happily and Bertram was home again. On the edge of the mob, farthest away from me, a gang of top-headed shappies was starting an open-air machinery service near at hand, an atheist who's letting himself go with a good deal of whim, though handicapped by a bit of having no roof to his mouth. While in front of me, there stood a little group of serious thinkers with a banner labeled Heralds of the Red Dawn. And as I came up one of the heralds, a bearded egg in a slouch hat and a tweed suit was slipping it into the idle ridge with such breadth and vigor that I paused for a moment to get an earful. While I was standing there, somebody spoke to me. Mr. Wooster, surely, Stout Chappy couldn't place him for a second. Then I got him. Bingo little's uncle, the one I had lunch with at the time when young Bingo was in love with that waitress at the Piccadilly Bun Shop. No wonder I hadn't recognized him at first. When I had seen him last, he had been a rather sloppy old gentleman coming down to lunch. I remember in carpet slippers and a velvet smoking jacket. Whereas now, Dapper simply wasn't the word. He absolutely gleaned in the sunlight, in a silk hat, morning coat, lavender spats and sponge-backed trousers as now worn, dressy to a degree. Oh, hello, I said, going strong. I'm in excellent health. I thank you, and you. In the pink, just been over to America. Ah, collecting local color, one of your delightful romances. Eh, I had to think a bit before I got on to what he meant. Oh, no, I said. Just felt I needed a change. Seen anything of Bingo lately? I asked quickly, being desirous of heading the old thing of, what you might call, the literary side of my life. Bingo, your nephew. Oh, Richard, no, not very recently. Since my marriage, our little coolness seems to have sprung up. Sorry to hear that. So you married since I saw you. What, Mrs. Little, all right? My wife is happily robust, but are not Mrs. Little. Since we last met, a gracious sovereign has been pleased to bestow on me a signal mark of his favor in the shape of a peerage. On the publication of the last on his list, I became Lord Bittlesham. By job, really, I say, heartiest congratulations. That's the stuff to give the troops what? Lord Bittlesham, I said, why you are the owner of Ocean Breeze. Yes, marriage has enlarged my horizon in many directions. My wife is interested in horse racing and I now maintain a small stable. I understand that Ocean Breeze is fan seat. As I'm told, the expression is, for a race which will take place at the end of the month at Goodwood, the Duke of Richmond seat in Sussex. The Goodwood Cup, rather, I've got my chemise on it for one. Indeed, well, I trust the animal will justify your confidence. I know little of these matters myself, but my wife tells me that it is regarded in knowledgeable circles as what I believe is termed a snake. At this moment, I suddenly noticed that the audience was gazing in our direction with a good deal of interest and I saw that the bearded Sharpie was pointing at us. Yes, look at them, drink them in. He was yelling, his voice rising above the perpetual motion fellows and beating the missionary service all to nothing. There you see two typical members of the class which has downtrodden the poor for centuries. Idlers, non-producers, look at the tall, thin one with the face like a motor mascot. Has he ever done an honest day's work in his life? No, a prowler, a tripler and a blood sucker and I bet he still owes his tailor for those trousers. He seemed to me to be verging on the personal and I didn't think a lot of it. Old Bittlesham, on the other hand, was pleased and amused. A great gift of expression these fellows have, he chuckled, very trenchant. And the fat one proceeded the Sharpie. Don't miss him, do you know who that is? That's Lord Bittlesham, one of the worst. What has he ever done except eat four square meals a day? His god is his belly and his sacrifices burnt offerings to it. If you opened that man now, you would find enough lunch to support 10 working class families for a week. You know, that's rather well put, I said, but the old boy didn't seem to see it. He had turned a brightish magenta and was bubbling like a kettle on the boil. Come away, Mr. Wooster, he said. I am the last man to oppose the right of free speech, but I refuse to listen to this vulgar abuse any longer. We liked it with quite dignity, the Sharpie pursuing us with his foul innuendos to the last, dashed embarrassing. Next day I looked in at the club and found Young Bingo in the smoking room. Hello Bingo, I said, toddling over to his corner full of bonomi, for I was glad to see the chump. How's the boy? Jogging along, I saw your uncle yesterday. Young Bingo unleashed a grin that split his face in half. I know you did, you trifla. Well, sit down, old tiling, and suck a bit of blood. How's the prowling these days? Good Lord, you weren't there. Yes, I was. I didn't see you. Yes, you did, but perhaps you didn't recognize me in the shrubbery. The shrubbery? The beard, my boy, worth every penny I paid for it. Defies detection, of course. It's a nuisance having people shouting, beaver at you all the time, but once got to put up with that. I gobbled at him. I don't understand. It's a long story, have a martini or a small gore and soda, and I'll tell you all about it. Before we start, give me your honest opinion. Isn't she the most wonderful girl you ever saw in your puff? He had produced a photograph from somewhere, like a conjurer taking a rabbit out of a hat, and was waving it in front of me. It appeared to be a female of sorts, all eyes and teeth. Oh, great scot, I said. Don't tell me you are in love again. He seemed aggrieved. What do you mean, again? Well, to my certain knowledge, you've been in love with at least half a dozen girls since the spring, and it's only July now. There was that waitress and anoria gossip, and oh, Tash, not to say Pesh, those girls may passing fancies. This is the real thing. Where did you meet her? On top of a bus, her name is Charlotte Coday Robotham. My God. It's not her fault, poor child. Her father had a Christian dad, because he's all for the revolution, and it seems that the original Charlotte Coday used to go about stabbing oppressors in their baths, which entitles her to consideration and respect. You must meet old Robotham. Bertie, a delightful chap, wants to massacre the bourgeoisie, sack Park Lane, and disembubble the hereditary aristocracy. Well, nothing could be fairer than that. What? But about Charlotte. We were on top of the bus, and it started to rain. I offered her my umbrella, and we chatted of this and that. I fell in love and got her a dress, and a couple of days later, I bought the beard and toddled round and met the family. But why the beard? Well, she had told me all about her father on the bus, and I saw that to get any footing at all in the home, I should have to join these red-toned blighters. And naturally, if I was to make speeches in the park, where at any moment I might run into a dozen people I knew, something in the nature of a disguise was indicated. So I bought the beard, and my cherv, old boy, I've become dash-detached to the thing. When I take it off to come in here, for instance, I feel absolutely nude. It's done me a lot of good with old Robotham. He thinks I'm a Bolshevist of sorts who has to go about disguised because of the police. You really must meet old Robotham, Bertie. I tell you what, are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon? Nothing special, why? Good, then you can have us all to tea at your flat. I had promised to take the crowd to Lyon's popular cafe after a meeting we are holding down in Lambeth. But I can say money this way, and believe me, Ladi, nowadays, as far as I'm concerned, a penny-saint is a penny earned. My uncle told you he'd got married? Yes, and he said there was a coolness between you. Coolness? I'm down to zero. Ever since he married, he's been launching out in every direction and economizing on me. I suppose that periods cost the old devil the deuce of a sum. Even Baronetsis have gone up frightfully nowadays, I'm told. And he started at racing stable. By the way, put your last call a start on Ocean Breeze for the Goodwood Cup. It's a cert. I'm going to. It can't lose. I mean to win enough on it to marry Charlotte Wibb. You are going to Goodwood, of course. Rather, so are we. We are holding a meeting at Capte just outside the paddock. But I say, aren't you taking frightful risks? Your uncle's sure to be at Goodwood. Suppose he spots you, he'll be fed to the gills if he finds out that you are the fellow who ragged him in the park. How the deuce is he to find out? Use your intelligence, you prowling inhaler of red corpuscles. If he didn't spot me yesterday, why should he spot me at Goodwood? Well, thanks for your cordial invitation for tomorrow, old thing. We shall be delighted to accept. Do us well, Ladi, and blessings shall reward you. By the way, I may have micelled you by using the word tea. None of your wafer slices of bread and butter. We are good trenchermen, we of the revolution. What we shall require will be something on the order of scrambled eggs, muffins, jam, ham, cake, and sardines. Expect us at five sharp. But I say, I'm not quite sure. Yes, you are, silly ass. Don't you see that this is going to do you a bit of good when the revolution breaks loose? When you see old Robotham sprinting up Piccadilly with a dripping knife in each hand, you'll be jolly thankful to be able to remind him that he wants to eat your tea and shrimps. Never before of us, Charlotte, self, near old man, and comrade Bart. I suppose he will insist on coming along. Who the devil's comrade Bart? Did you notice a fellow standing on my left in our little troop yesterday? Small, shriveled chap. Looks like a haddock with lung trouble. That's Bart. My rival, dash him. He's sort of semi-engaged to Charlotte at the moment. Till I came along, he was the blue-white boy. He's got a voice like a foghorn and roamed Robotham, things a lot of him. But hang it, if I can't thoroughly encompass this Bart and cut him out and put him where he belongs, among the discards. Well, I'm not the man I was. That's all. He may have a big voice, but he hasn't my gift of expression. Thank heaven I was once corks of my college boat. Well, I must be pushing now. I say, you don't know how I could raise 50 quid somehow, do you? Why don't you work? Work, said Young Bingo, surprised. What me? No, I shall have to think of some way. I must put at least 50 on Ocean Breeze. Well, see you tomorrow. God bless you, old sort. And don't forget the muffins. I don't know why. Ever since I first knew him at school, I should have felt a rummy feeling of responsibility for Young Bingo. I mean to say he's not my son, thank goodness, or my brother, or anything like that. He's got absolutely no blame on me at all. And yet, a large-sized chunk of my existence seems to be spent in fussing over him like a bawly old hen and hauling him out of the soup. I suppose it must be some rare beauty in my nature or something. At any rate, this latest affair of his worries me. He seemed to be doing his best to marry into a family of pronounced loonies and how the dews he thought he was going to support even a mentally afflicted wife on nothing a year beat me. Old Bittlesham was bound to knock off his allowance if he did anything of the sort. And with a fellow like Young Bingo, if you knocked off his allowance, you might just as well hit him on the head with an axe and make a clean job of it. Jeeves, I said when I got home, I'm worried. Sir, about Mr. Little, I won't tell you about it now because he is bringing some friends of his to tea tomorrow. And then you will be able to judge for yourself. I want you to observe closely Jeeves and form your decision. Very good, sir. And about the tea, get in some muffins. Yes, sir. And some jam, ham, cake, scrambled eggs and five or six bagel loads of sardines. Sardines, sir, said Jeeves with a shudder. Sardines. There was an awkward pause. Don't blame me, Jeeves, I said. It isn't my fault. No, sir. Well, that's that. Yes, sir. I could see the man who's brooding tensely. I found as a general rule in life that the things you think are going to be the scaliest nearly always turn out not so bad after all. But it wasn't that way with Bingo's tea party. From the moment he invited himself, I felt that the thing was going to be blue around the edges and it was. And I think the most gruesome part of the whole affair was the fact that for the first time since I'd known him, I saw Jeeves come very near to being rattled. I suppose there's a chink in everyone's armor and young Bingo found Jeeves right at the drop of the flag when he breezed him with six inches or so of brown beard hanging on to his chin. I have forgotten to warn Jeeves about the beard and it came on him absolutely out of a blue sky. I saw the man's jaw drop and he clutched at the table for support. I don't blame him, mind you. Few people have ever looked powder than young Bingo in the fungus. Jeeves paled a little. Then the weakness passed and he was himself again. But I could see that he had been shaken. Young Bingo was too busy introducing the mob to take much notice. They were a very see-through collection. Comrade Putt looked like one of the tilings that come out of dead trees after the rain. Moth-heaton was the word I should have used to describe Old Rabotham. And as for Charlotte, she seemed to take me straight into another and a dreadful world. It wasn't that she was exactly that looking. In fact, if she had knocked off starchy foods and done Swedish exercises for a bit, she might have been quite tolerable, but there was too much of her belowy curves when nourished perhaps expresses best. And while she may have had a heart of gold, the thing you noticed about her first was that she had a tooth of gold. I know that young Bingo, when in form, could fall in love with practically anything of the other sex, but this time I couldn't see any excuse for him at all. My friend, Mr. Wooster, said Bingo, completing the ceremonial. Old Rabotham looked at me and then he looked round the room, and I could see he wasn't particularly praised. There's nothing of absolutely oriental luxury about the old flat, but I have managed to make myself fairly comfortable and I suppose the surroundings jarred him a bit. Mr. Wooster, said Old Rabotham. May I say, comrade Wooster? I beg your pardon? Are you of the movement? Well, or do you yearn for the revolution? Well, I don't know that I exactly yearn. I mean to say, as far as I can make out, the whole hub of the scheme seems to be to massacre curves like me, and I don't mind owning. I'm not frightfully keen on the idea. But I'm taking him round, said Bingo. I'm wrestling with him. A few more treatments ought to do the trick. Old Rabotham looked at me a bit doubtfully. Comrade Luttle has great eloquence, he admitted. I think he does something wonderful, said the girl, and young Bingo shot a glance of such succulent devotion at her that I reeled in my trunks. It seemed to depress comrade Butt, a good deal too. He scowled at the carpet and said something about dancing on volcanoes. Tea is served, sir, said Chiefs. Tea, pa, said Charlotte, starting at the word like the old war horse who hears the bugle and we got down to it. Funny how one changes as the years roll on. At school, I remember, I would cheerfully have sold my soul for scrambled eggs and sardines at five in the afternoon. But somehow, since reaching man's estate, I had rather dropped out of the habit and I'm bound to admit I was appalled to a goodish extent. At the way, the sons and daughter of the devolution shocked their heads down and went for the food stuffs. Even comrade Butt cast off his gloom for a space and immersed his whole being in scrambled eggs, only coming to the surface at intervals to grab another cup of tea. Presently the hot water gave out and I turned to Chiefs. More hot water, very good, sir. Hey, what's this, what's this? Old Robotham had lowered his cup and was eyeing us sternly. He tapped Chiefs on the shoulder. No servility, my lad, no servility. I beg your pardon, sir. Don't call me sir, call me comrade. Do you know what you are, my lad? You are an absolute relic of an exploded feudal system. Very good, sir. If there's one thing that makes my blood boil in my veins, have another sardine. Chipped in young bingo, the first sensible thing he'd done since I had known him. Old Robotham took three and dropped the subject and Chiefs drifted away. I could see by the look of his back what he felt. At last, just as I was beginning to feel that it was going on forever, the thing finished. I woke up to find the party, getting ready to leave. Sardines, and about three quarters of tea, had mellowed Old Robotham. There was quite a genial look in his eye as he shook my hand. I must thank you for your hospitality, comrade Wuster, he said. Oh, not at all, only to glad. Hospitality started the man butt, going off in my ear like a depth charge. He was calling in a morose sort of manner at young bingo and the girl who were giggling together by the window. I wondered the food didn't turn to ashes in our mouths. Eggs, muffins, sardines, all wrung from the bleeding lips of the starving poor. Oh, I say, what a beastly idea. I will send you some literature on the subject of the cause, said Old Robotham. And soon I hope we shall see you at one of our little meetings. Chiefs came in to clear away and found me sitting among the ruins. It was all very well for comrade Butt to knock the food, but he had pretty well finished at the ham. And if you had shoved the remainder of the jam into the bleeding lips of the starving poor, it would hardly have made them sticky. Well, chiefs, I said, how about it? I would prefer to express no opinion, sir. Chiefs, Mr. Little, is in love with that female. So I gathered, sir. She was slapping him in the passage. I clutched my brow, slapping him. Yes, sir, rugishly. Great Scott, I didn't know it had got as far as that. How did comrade Butt seem to be taking it? Or perhaps he didn't see. Yes, sir, he observes the entire proceedings. He struck me as extremely jealous. I don't blame him, chiefs. What are we to do? I could not say, sir. It's a bit thick. Very much so, sir. And that was all the consolation I got from chiefs. End of Comrade Bingo, recorded by Vijeta Sharma. Chapter 12 of the inimitable chiefs. This is a LibriVox recording. Well, LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The inimitable chiefs by PG Wodehouse. Bingo has a bad good wood. I'd promised to meet young Bingo next day to tell him what I thought of his infernal Charlotte. And I was mooching slowly up St. James Street, trying to think how the dickens I could explain it to him without hurting his feelings. That I considered her one of the world's foulest. When who should come toddling out of the Devonshire Club, but old Bitholsham and Bingo himself, I hurried on and overtook them. What ho, I said. The result of this simple greeting was a bit of a shock. Old Bitholsham quivered from head to foot like a pollack's black mange. His eyes were popping and his face had gone sort of greenish. Mr. Wooster, he seemed to recover somewhat as if I wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to him. You gave me a severe start. Oh, sorry. My uncle, said young Bingo in a hushed bedside sort of voice, isn't feeling quite himself this morning. He's had a threatening letter. I go in fear of my life, said old Bitholsham. Threatening letter. Written, said old Bitholsham in an uneducated hand and couched in terms of uncompromising menace. Mr. Wooster, do you recall a sinister bearded man who assailed me in no measured terms in Hyde Park last Sunday? I jumped and shot a look at young Bingo. The only expression on his face was one of grave kindly concern. Why, yes, I said bearded man, chap with a beard. Could you identify him if necessary? Well, I, er, how do you mean? The fact is, Bertie, said Bingo, we think this man with a beard is at the bottom of all this business. I happened to be walking late last night through Ponspey Gardens where Uncle Mortimer lives. And as I was passing the house, a fellow came hurrying down the steps in a furtive sort of way. Probably had just been shoving the letter in at the front door. I noticed that he had a beard. I didn't think any more of it, however, until this morning when Uncle Mortimer showed me the letter he had received and told me about the chap in the park. I'm going to make inquiries. The police should be informed, said Lord Biddlesham. No, said young Bingo firmly, not at this stage of the proceedings. It would hamper me. Don't you worry, Uncle. I think I can track this fellow down. You leave it all to me. I'll pop you into a taxi now and go and talk it over with Bertie. You're a good boy, Richards, and old Biddlesham. And we put him in a passing cab and pushed off. I turned and looked young Bingo squarely in the eye. Did you send that letter, I said. Rather, you ought to have seen it, Bertie, one of the best gents' ordinary threatening letters I ever wrote. But where's the sense of it? Bertie, my lad, said Bingo, taking me earnestly by the coat sleeve. I had an excellent reason. Posterity may say of me what it will, but one thing it can never say, that I had not a good, solid business head. Look here, he waved a bit of paper in front of my eyes. Great Scott was a check, an absolute dash check for 50 of the best, signed Biddlesham, and made out to the order of R. Little. What's that for? Expenses, said Bingo, pouching it. You don't suppose an investigation like this can be carried on for nothing, do you? I now proceed to the bank and startle them into a fit with it. Later, I edge around to my booking and put the entire sum on ocean breeze. What you want in situations of this kind, Bertie, is tacked. If I had gone to my uncle and asked him for 50 quid, would I have got it? No, but by exercising tack, oh, by the way, what do you think of Charlotte? Well, her young Bingo massage my sleeve affectionately. I know, old man, I know. Don't try to find words. She bold you over, eh? Lefty speechless, what? I know. That's the effect she has on everybody. Well, I leave you here, laddie. Oh, before we part, but, what a but. It's just worse blunder, don't you think? I must say I've seen cheerier souls. I think I've got him licked, Bertie. Charlotte is coming over to the zoo with me this afternoon, alone, and later on to the pictures. That looks like the beginning of the end, what? Well, toodaloo, friend of my youth. If you've nothing better to do this morning, you might take a stroll along Bond Street and be picking out a wedding present. I lost sight of Bingo after that. I left messages a couple of times at the club, asking him to ring me up, but they didn't have any effect. I took it that he was too busy to respond. The Sons of the Red Dawn also passed out of my life, though Jeeves told me he had met Conrad Butt one evening and had a brief chat with him. He reported Butt as gloomier than ever. In the competition for the bulging Charlotte, Butt had apparently gone right back in the betting. Mr. Little would appear to have eclipsed him entirely, sir, said Jeeves. Bad news, Jeeves. Bad news. Yes, sir. Suppose what it amounts to, Jeeves, is that when young Bingo really takes his coat off and starts in, there's no power of God or man that can prevent him from making a chump of himself. It would seem so, sir, said Jeeves. Then Goodwood came along and I dug out the best suit and popped down. I never know when I'm telling a story whether to cut the thing down to plain facts or whether to drool on and shove in a lot of atmosphere and all that. I mean, many a cove would no doubt edge into the final spasm of this narrative with a long description of Goodwood featuring the blue sky, the rolling prospect, the joyous crowds of pickpockets and the parties of the second part who were having their pockets picked and in a word, whatnot. But better give it a miss, I think. Even if I wanted to go under details about the ballet meeting, I don't think I'd have the heart to. The thing's too recent. The anguish hasn't had time to pass. You see, what happened was that ocean breeze cursed him, finished absolutely nowhere for the cup. Believe me, nowhere. These are the times that try men's souls. It's never pleasant to be caught in the machinery when a favorite comes unstitched and in the case of this particular dashed animal, one had come to look on the running of the race as a pure formality, a sort of quite old world ceremony to be gone through before one sauntered up to the bookie and collected. I had wandered out of the paddock to try and forget when I bumped into old Biddleship and he looked so rattled and purple and his eyes were standing out of his head at such an angle that I simply pushed my hand out and shook his in silence. Me too, I said. Me too, how much did you drop? Drop. On ocean breeze. I did not bet on ocean breeze. What, you owned the favorite for the cup and didn't back it? I never bet on horse racing. It is against my principles. I'm told that the animal failed to win the contest. Failed to win, why he came so far behind that he nearly came in first in the next race. Tut, said old Biddleship. Tut his right hair green. Then the rumminess of the thing struck me. But if you haven't dropped a parcel over the race, I said, why are you looking so rattled? That fellow is here. What fellow? That bearded man. It will show you to what an extent the iron had entered into my soul when I say this was the first time I'd given a thought to young Bingo. I suddenly remember now that he had told me he would be at Goodwood. He was making inflammatory speech at this very moment, specifically directed at me. Come, where the crowd is. He lugged me along and by using his weight scientifically got us into the front right. Look, listen, young Bingo was certainly tearing off some ripe stuff inspired by the agony of having put his little all on a steamer that hadn't finished in the first six. He was fairly letting himself go on the subject of the blackness of the hearts of plutocratic owners who allowed a trusting public to imagine a horse was the real goods when it couldn't trot the length of it stable without getting its legs crossed and sitting down to rest. He then went on to draw what I'm bound to say was a most moving picture of the ruin of the working man's home due to this dishonesty. He showed us the working man, all optimism and simple trust, believing every word he read in the papers about ocean breezes formed, depriving his wife and children of food in order to back the brute, going without beer so as to be able to cram an extra bob on, robbing the baby's money box with a hat pin on the eve of the race and finally getting let down with it, dud. Dashed impressed if it was. I could see how overall Botham nodded his head gently while poor old Butt clowered at the speaker with ill-conceived jealousy. The audience ate it. But what does Lord Bittlesham care? shouted Bingo, if the poor working man loses his hard-earned savings. I tell you, friends and comrades, you may talk and you may argue and you may cheer and you may pass resolutions. But what you need is action, action. The world won't be a fit place for honest men to live in till the blood of Lord Bittlesham and his kind flows in rivers down the gutters of Park Lane. Roars of approval from the populace, most of whom I suppose had their little bit unblighted ocean breeze and were feeling it deeply. Old Bittlesham bounded over to a large sad policeman who was watching the proceedings and appeared to be urging him to rally round. The policeman pulled at his mustache and smiled gently. But that was as far as he seemed inclined to go. An old Bittlesham came back to me, puffing not a little. It was monstrous. The man definitely threatens my personal safety and that policeman declines to interfere, said it was just talk. Talk, it's monstrous. Absolutely, I said, but I can't say it seemed to cheer him up much. Comrade Butt had taken the center of the stage now. He had a voice like the last trump and you could hear every word he said, but somehow he didn't seem to be clicking. I suppose the fact was he was too impersonal, if that's the word I want. After bingo speech, the audience was in the mood for something a good deal snappier than just general remarks about the cause. They had started to heckle the poor blighter pretty freely when he stepped in the middle of a sentence and I saw that he was staring at old Bittlesham. The crowd thought he had dried up. Suck a Lodge and shouted someone. Comrade Butt pulled himself together with the jerk and even from where I stood I could see the nasty gleam in his eye. Ah, he yelled, you may mock, comrades. You may jeer and sneer and you may scoff, but let me tell you the movement is spreading every day and every hour. Yes, even amongst the so-called upper classes it's spreading. Perhaps you'll believe me when I tell you that here today on this very spot we have in our little band one of our most earnest workers, the nephew of that very Lord Bittlesham whose name you were hooting but a moment ago. And before old Bingo had a notion of what was up he reached out a hand and grabbed the beard. It came off in one piece and well as Bingo's speech had gone it was simply nothing compared with the hit made by this bit of business. I heard old Bittlesham give one short, sharp snort of amazement at my side and then any remarks he may have made were drowned in thunders of applause. I'm bound to say that in this crisis young Bingo acted with a good deal of decision and character to grab Comrade Butt by the neck and try to twist his head off was with him the work of a moment. But before he could get any results the sad policeman brightening up like magic had charged in and in the next minute he was shoving his way back through the crowd with Bingo in his right hand and Comrade Butt in his left. Let me pass sir please he said civilly as he came up against old Bittlesham who was blocking the gangway. Eh said old Bittlesham, still dazed. At the sound of his voice young Bingo looked up quickly from under the shadow of the policeman's right hand and as he did so all the stuffing seemed to go out of him with a rush. For an instant he drew like a ballet lily and then shuffled brokenly on. His air was the air of a man who has got it in the neck properly. Sometimes when Jeeve has brought in my morning tea and shoved it on the table beside my bed he drifts silently from the room and leaves me to go at it. At other times he sort of shimmies respectfully in the middle of the carpet and then I know that he wants a word or two. On that day after I got back from Goodwood I was lying on my back staring at the ceiling when I noticed that he was still in my mist. Oh hello I said yes. Mr. Little called early in the morning sir. Oh by Jeeve what did he tell you about what happened? Yes sir it was in connection with that that he wished to see you. He proposes us to retire to the country and remain there for some little while. Gosh sensible. That was my opinion also sir there was however a slight financial difficulty to overcome. I took the liberty of advancing him 10 pounds on your behalf to meet current expenses. I trust that meets with your approval sir. Oh of course take a tenor off the dressing table. Very good sir. Jeeves I said sir what beats me is how the dickens the thing happened. I mean how did the chappy butt ever get to know who he was? Jeeves coughed there sir I feel I may have been somewhat to blame. You? How? I fear I may carelessly have disclosed Mr. Little's identity to Mr. Butt on the occasion when I had that conversation with him. I sat up. What? Indeed now that I recall the incident sir I distinctly remember saying that Mr. Little's work for the cause really seemed to me to deserve something in the nature of public recognition. I greatly regret having been the means of bringing about a temporary estrangement between Mr. Little and his lordship and I am afraid there is another aspect to this matter. I am also responsible for the breaking off of relations between Mr. Little and the young lady who came to tea here. I sat up again. It's a rubby thing but the silver lining had absolutely escaped my notice till then. Do you mean to say it's off? Completely sir. I gathered for Mr. Little's remarks that his hopes in that direction may now be looked on as definitely quenched. There were no other obstacles. The young lady's father I am informed by Mr. Little. Now regards him as a spy and a deceiver. Well I'm dashed. I appear inadvertently to have caused much trouble sir. Jeez I said sir, how much money is there on the dressing table? In addition to the 10 pound note which you instructed me to take sir, there are two five pound notes, three one pounds, a 10 shillings, two half crowns, a floron, four shillings, a six pence, and a half penny sir. Color it all I said. You've earned it. End of chapter.