Part 3

I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt--I won’t say restored, because a birthday party like Pongo Twistleton’s isn’t a thing you get restored after with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come upon me.

And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the scenario.

“What is this, Aunt Dahlia?” I inquired.

“It looks to me like tea,” was her response. “But you know best. You’re drinking it.”

If I hadn’t been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little doubt that I should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like it.

“Not the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me to get up and dress, and all that rot.”

“I’ve barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce no effect. And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get up and dress. I’ve come to take you back with me. I like your crust, wiring that you would come next year or whenever it was. You’re coming now. I’ve got a job for you.”

“But I don’t want a job.”

“What you want, my lad, and what you’re going to get are two very different things. There is man’s work for you to do at Brinkley Court. Be ready to the last button in twenty minutes.”

“But I can’t possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I’m feeling awful.”

She seemed to consider.

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it’s only humane to give you a day or two to recover. All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at the latest.”

“But, dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job? What sort of a job?”

“I’ll tell you if you’ll only stop talking for a minute. It’s quite an easy, pleasant job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of Market Snodsbury Grammar School?”

“Never.”

“It’s a grammar school at Market Snodsbury.”

I told her a little frigidly that I had divined as much.

“Well, how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp it so quickly?” she protested. “All right, then. Market Snodsbury Grammar School is, as you have guessed, the grammar school at Market Snodsbury. I’m one of the governors.”

“You mean one of the governesses.”

“I don’t mean one of the governesses. Listen, ass. There was a board of governors at Eton, wasn’t there? Very well. So there is at Market Snodsbury Grammar School, and I’m a member of it. And they left the arrangements for the summer prize-giving to me. This prize-giving takes place on the last--or thirty-first--day of this month. Have you got that clear?”

I took another oz. of the life-saving and inclined my head. Even after a Pongo Twistleton birthday party, I was capable of grasping simple facts like these.

“I follow you, yes. I see the point you are trying to make, certainly. Market ... Snodsbury ... Grammar School ... Board of governors ... Prize-giving.... Quite. But what’s it got to do with me?”

“You’re going to give away the prizes.”

I goggled. Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the mere aimless vapouring of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun without a hat.

“Me?”

“You.”

I goggled again.

“You don’t mean me?”

“I mean you in person.”

I goggled a third time.

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I am not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your beastly leg. The vicar was to have officiated, but when I got home I found a letter from him saying that he had strained a fetlock and must scratch his nomination. You can imagine the state I was in. I telephoned all over the place. Nobody would take it on. And then suddenly I thought of you.”

I decided to check all this rot at the outset. Nobody is more eager to oblige deserving aunts than Bertram Wooster, but there are limits, and sharply defined limits, at that.

“So you think I’m going to strew prizes at this bally Dotheboys Hall of yours?”

“I do.”

“And make a speech?”

“Exactly.”

I laughed derisively.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t start gargling now. This is serious.”

“I was laughing.”

“Oh, were you? Well, I’m glad to see you taking it in this merry spirit.”

“Derisively,” I explained. “I won’t do it. That’s final. I simply will not do it.”

“You will do it, young Bertie, or never darken my doors again. And you know what that means. No more of Anatole’s dinners for you.”

A strong shudder shook me. She was alluding to her _chef_, that superb artist. A monarch of his profession, unsurpassed--nay, unequalled--at dishing up the raw material so that it melted in the mouth of the ultimate consumer, Anatole had always been a magnet that drew me to Brinkley Court with my tongue hanging out. Many of my happiest moments had been those which I had spent champing this great man’s roasts and ragouts, and the prospect of being barred from digging into them in the future was a numbing one.

“No, I say, dash it!”

“I thought that would rattle you. Greedy young pig.”

“Greedy young pigs have nothing to do with it,” I said with a touch of hauteur. “One is not a greedy young pig because one appreciates the cooking of a genius.”

“Well, I will say I like it myself,” conceded the relative. “But not another bite of it do you get, if you refuse to do this simple, easy, pleasant job. No, not so much as another sniff. So put that in your twelve-inch cigarette-holder and smoke it.”

I began to feel like some wild thing caught in a snare.

“But why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that.”

“I often have.”

“I mean to say, I’m not the type. You have to have some terrific nib to give away prizes. I seem to remember, when I was at school, it was generally a prime minister or somebody.”

“Ah, but that was at Eton. At Market Snodsbury we aren’t nearly so choosy. Anybody in spats impresses us.”

“Why don’t you get Uncle Tom?”

“Uncle Tom!”

“Well, why not? He’s got spats.”

“Bertie,” she said, “I will tell you why not Uncle Tom. You remember me losing all that money at baccarat at Cannes? Well, very shortly I shall have to sidle up to Tom and break the news to him. If, right after that, I ask him to put on lavender gloves and a topper and distribute the prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School, there will be a divorce in the family. He would pin a note to the pincushion and be off like a rabbit. No, my lad, you’re for it, so you may as well make the best of it.”

“But, Aunt Dahlia, listen to reason. I assure you, you’ve got hold of the wrong man. I’m hopeless at a game like that. Ask Jeeves about the time I got lugged in to address a girls’ school. I made the most colossal ass of myself.”

“And I confidently anticipate that you will make an equally colossal ass of yourself on the thirty-first of this month. That’s why I want you. The way I look at it is that, as the thing is bound to be a frost, anyway, one may as well get a hearty laugh out of it. I shall enjoy seeing you distribute those prizes, Bertie. Well, I won’t keep you, as, no doubt, you want to do your Swedish exercises. I shall expect you in a day or two.”

And with these heartless words she beetled off, leaving me a prey to the gloomiest emotions. What with the natural reaction after Pongo’s party and this stunning blow, it is not too much to say that the soul was seared.

And I was still writhing in the depths, when the door opened and Jeeves appeared.

“Mr. Fink-Nottle to see you, sir,” he announced.

-5-

I gave him one of my looks.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I had scarcely expected this of you. You are aware that I was up to an advanced hour last night. You know that I have barely had my tea. You cannot be ignorant of the effect of that hearty voice of Aunt Dahlia’s on a man with a headache. And yet you come bringing me Fink-Nottles. Is this a time for Fink or any other kind of Nottle?”

“But did you not give me to understand, sir, that you wished to see Mr. Fink-Nottle to advise him on his affairs?”

This, I admit, opened up a new line of thought. In the stress of my emotions, I had clean forgotten about having taken Gussie’s interests in hand. It altered things. One can’t give the raspberry to a client. I mean, you didn’t find Sherlock Holmes refusing to see clients just because he had been out late the night before at Doctor Watson’s birthday party. I could have wished that the man had selected some more suitable hour for approaching me, but as he appeared to be a sort of human lark, leaving his watery nest at daybreak, I supposed I had better give him an audience.

“True,” I said. “All right. Bung him in.”

“Very good, sir.”

“But before doing so, bring me one of those pick-me-ups of yours.”

“Very good, sir.”

And presently he returned with the vital essence.

I have had occasion, I fancy, to speak before now of these pick-me-ups of Jeeves’s and their effect on a fellow who is hanging to life by a thread on the morning after. What they consist of, I couldn’t tell you. He says some kind of sauce, the yolk of a raw egg and a dash of red pepper, but nothing will convince me that the thing doesn’t go much deeper than that. Be that as it may, however, the results of swallowing one are amazing.

For perhaps the split part of a second nothing happens. It is as though all Nature waited breathless. Then, suddenly, it is as if the Last Trump had sounded and Judgment Day set in with unusual severity.

Bonfires burst out in all in parts of the frame. The abdomen becomes heavily charged with molten lava. A great wind seems to blow through the world, and the subject is aware of something resembling a steam hammer striking the back of the head. During this phase, the ears ring loudly, the eyeballs rotate and there is a tingling about the brow.

And then, just as you are feeling that you ought to ring up your lawyer and see that your affairs are in order before it is too late, the whole situation seems to clarify. The wind drops. The ears cease to ring. Birds twitter. Brass bands start playing. The sun comes up over the horizon with a jerk.

And a moment later all you are conscious of is a great peace.

As I drained the glass now, new life seemed to burgeon within me. I remember Jeeves, who, however much he may go off the rails at times in the matter of dress clothes and in his advice to those in love, has always had a neat turn of phrase, once speaking of someone rising on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher things. It was that way with me now. I felt that the Bertram Wooster who lay propped up against the pillows had become a better, stronger, finer Bertram.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said.

“Not at all, sir.”

“That touched the exact spot. I am now able to cope with life’s problems.”

“I am gratified to hear it, sir.”

“What madness not to have had one of those before tackling Aunt Dahlia! However, too late to worry about that now. Tell me of Gussie. How did he make out at the fancy-dress ball?”

“He did not arrive at the fancy-dress ball, sir.”

I looked at him a bit austerely.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I admit that after that pick-me-up of yours I feel better, but don’t try me too high. Don’t stand by my sick bed talking absolute rot. We shot Gussie into a cab and he started forth, headed for wherever this fancy-dress ball was. He must have arrived.”

“No, sir. As I gather from Mr. Fink-Nottle, he entered the cab convinced in his mind that the entertainment to which he had been invited was to be held at No. 17, Suffolk Square, whereas the actual rendezvous was No. 71, Norfolk Terrace. These aberrations of memory are not uncommon with those who, like Mr. Fink-Nottle, belong essentially to what one might call the dreamer-type.”

“One might also call it the fatheaded type.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“On reaching No. 17, Suffolk Square, Mr. Fink-Nottle endeavoured to produce money to pay the fare.”

“What stopped him?”

“The fact that he had no money, sir. He discovered that he had left it, together with his ticket of invitation, on the mantelpiece of his bedchamber in the house of his uncle, where he was residing. Bidding the cabman to wait, accordingly, he rang the door-bell, and when the butler appeared, requested him to pay the cab, adding that it was all right, as he was one of the guests invited to the dance. The butler then disclaimed all knowledge of a dance on the premises.”

“And declined to unbelt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Upon which----”

“Mr. Fink-Nottle directed the cabman to drive him back to his uncle’s residence.”

“Well, why wasn’t that the happy ending? All he had to do was go in, collect cash and ticket, and there he would have been, on velvet.”

“I should have mentioned, sir, that Mr. Fink-Nottle had also left his latchkey on the mantelpiece of his bedchamber.”

“He could have rung the bell.”

“He did ring the bell, sir, for some fifteen minutes. At the expiration of that period he recalled that he had given permission to the caretaker--the house was officially closed and all the staff on holiday--to visit his sailor son at Portsmouth.”

“Golly, Jeeves!”

“Yes, sir.”

“These dreamer types do live, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened then?”

“Mr. Fink-Nottle appears to have realized at this point that his position as regards the cabman had become equivocal. The figures on the clock had already reached a substantial sum, and he was not in a position to meet his obligations.”

“He could have explained.”

“You cannot explain to cabmen, sir. On endeavouring to do so, he found the fellow sceptical of his bona fides.”

“I should have legged it.”

“That is the policy which appears to have commended itself to Mr. Fink-Nottle. He darted rapidly away, and the cabman, endeavouring to detain him, snatched at his overcoat. Mr. Fink-Nottle contrived to extricate himself from the coat, and it would seem that his appearance in the masquerade costume beneath it came as something of a shock to the cabman. Mr. Fink-Nottle informs me that he heard a species of whistling gasp, and, looking round, observed the man crouching against the railings with his hands over his face. Mr. Fink-Nottle thinks he was praying. No doubt an uneducated, superstitious fellow, sir. Possibly a drinker.”

“Well, if he hadn’t been one before, I’ll bet he started being one shortly afterwards. I expect he could scarcely wait for the pubs to open.”

“Very possibly, in the circumstances he might have found a restorative agreeable, sir.”

“And so, in the circumstances, might Gussie too, I should think. What on earth did he do after that? London late at night--or even in the daytime, for that matter--is no place for a man in scarlet tights.”

“No, sir.”

“He invites comment.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can see the poor old bird ducking down side-streets, skulking in alley-ways, diving into dust-bins.”

“I gathered from Mr. Fink-Nottle’s remarks, sir, that something very much on those lines was what occurred. Eventually, after a trying night, he found his way to Mr. Sipperley’s residence, where he was able to secure lodging and a change of costume in the morning.”

I nestled against the pillows, the brow a bit drawn. It is all very well to try to do old school friends a spot of good, but I could not but feel that in espousing the cause of a lunkhead capable of mucking things up as Gussie had done, I had taken on a contract almost too big for human consumption. It seemed to me that what Gussie needed was not so much the advice of a seasoned man of the world as a padded cell in Colney Hatch and a couple of good keepers to see that he did not set the place on fire.

Indeed, for an instant I had half a mind to withdraw from the case and hand it back to Jeeves. But the pride of the Woosters restrained me. When we Woosters put our hands to the plough, we do not readily sheathe the sword. Besides, after that business of the mess-jacket, anything resembling weakness would have been fatal.

“I suppose you realize, Jeeves,” I said, for though one dislikes to rub it in, these things have to be pointed out, “that all this was your fault?”

“Sir?”

“It’s no good saying ‘Sir?’ You know it was. If you had not insisted on his going to that dance--a mad project, as I spotted from the first--this would not have happened.”

“Yes, sir, but I confess I did not anticipate----”

“Always anticipate everything, Jeeves,” I said, a little sternly. “It is the only way. Even if you had allowed him to wear a Pierrot costume, things would not have panned out as they did. A Pierrot costume has pockets. However,” I went on more kindly, “we need not go into that now. If all this has shown you what comes of going about the place in scarlet tights, that is something gained. Gussie waits without, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then shoot him in, and I will see what I can do for him.”

-6-

Gussie, on arrival, proved to be still showing traces of his grim experience. The face was pale, the eyes gooseberry-like, the ears drooping, and the whole aspect that of a man who has passed through the furnace and been caught in the machinery. I hitched myself up a bit higher on the pillows and gazed at him narrowly. It was a moment, I could see, when first aid was required, and I prepared to get down to cases.

“Well, Gussie.”

“Hullo, Bertie.”

“What ho.”

“What ho.”

These civilities concluded, I felt that the moment had come to touch delicately on the past.

“I hear you’ve been through it a bit.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks to Jeeves.”

“It wasn’t Jeeves’s fault.”

“Entirely Jeeves’s fault.”

“I don’t see that. I forgot my money and latchkey----”

“And now you’d better forget Jeeves. For you will be interested to hear, Gussie,” I said, deeming it best to put him in touch with the position of affairs right away, “that he is no longer handling your little problem.”

This seemed to slip it across him properly. The jaws fell, the ears drooped more limply. He had been looking like a dead fish. He now looked like a deader fish, one of last year’s, cast up on some lonely beach and left there at the mercy of the wind and tides.

“What!”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mean that Jeeves isn’t going to----”

“No.”

“But, dash it----”

I was kind, but firm.

“You will be much better off without him. Surely your terrible experiences of that awful night have told you that Jeeves needs a rest. The keenest of thinkers strikes a bad patch occasionally. That is what has happened to Jeeves. I have seen it coming on for some time. He has lost his form. He wants his plugs decarbonized. No doubt this is a shock to you. I suppose you came here this morning to seek his advice?”

“Of course I did.”

“On what point?”

“Madeline Bassett has gone to stay with these people in the country, and I want to know what he thinks I ought to do.”

“Well, as I say, Jeeves is off the case.”

“But, Bertie, dash it----”

“Jeeves,” I said with a certain asperity, “is no longer on the case. I am now in sole charge.”

“But what on earth can you do?”

I curbed my resentment. We Woosters are fair-minded. We can make allowances for men who have been parading London all night in scarlet tights.

“That,” I said quietly, “we shall see. Sit down and let us confer. I am bound to say the thing seems quite simple to me. You say this girl has gone to visit friends in the country. It would appear obvious that you must go there too, and flock round her like a poultice. Elementary.”

“But I can’t plant myself on a lot of perfect strangers.”

“Don’t you know these people?”

“Of course I don’t. I don’t know anybody.”

I pursed the lips. This did seem to complicate matters somewhat.

“All that I know is that their name is Travers, and it’s a place called Brinkley Court down in Worcestershire.”

I unpursed my lips.

“Gussie,” I said, smiling paternally, “it was a lucky day for you when Bertram Wooster interested himself in your affairs. As I foresaw from the start, I can fix everything. This afternoon you shall go to Brinkley Court, an honoured guest.”

He quivered like a _mousse_. I suppose it must always be rather a thrilling experience for the novice to watch me taking hold.

“But, Bertie, you don’t mean you know these Traverses?”

“They are my Aunt Dahlia.”

“My gosh!”

“You see now,” I pointed out, “how lucky you were to get me behind you. You go to Jeeves, and what does he do? He dresses you up in scarlet tights and one of the foulest false beards of my experience, and sends you off to fancy-dress balls. Result, agony of spirit and no progress. I then take over and put you on the right lines. Could Jeeves have got you into Brinkley Court? Not a chance. Aunt Dahlia isn’t his aunt. I merely mention these things.”

“By Jove, Bertie, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“My dear chap!”

“But, I say.”

“Now what?”

“What do I do when I get there?”

“If you knew Brinkley Court, you would not ask that question. In those romantic surroundings you can’t miss. Great lovers through the ages have fixed up the preliminary formalities at Brinkley. The place is simply ill with atmosphere. You will stroll with the girl in the shady walks. You will sit with her on the shady lawns. You will row on the lake with her. And gradually you will find yourself working up to a point where----”

“By Jove, I believe you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right. I’ve got engaged three times at Brinkley. No business resulted, but the fact remains. And I went there without the foggiest idea of indulging in the tender pash. I hadn’t the slightest intention of proposing to anybody. Yet no sooner had I entered those romantic grounds than I found myself reaching out for the nearest girl in sight and slapping my soul down in front of her. It’s something in the air.”

“I see exactly what you mean. That’s just what I want to be able to do--work up to it. And in London--curse the place--everything’s in such a rush that you don’t get a chance.”