Jeeves Stories by P. G. Wodehouse (best ereader for pdf and epub .TXT) 📕

don’t think about more often than I can help. For the days that followed the unexpected resurrection of the blighted twins were so absolutely foul that the old nerves began to stick out of my body a foot long and curling at the ends. All of a twitter, believe me. I imagine the fact of the matter is that we Woosters are so frightfully honest and open and all that, that it gives us the pip to have to deceive.

All was quiet along the Potomac for about twenty-four hours, and then Aunt Agatha trickled in to have a chat. Twenty minutes earlier and she would have found the twins gaily shoving themselves outside a couple of rashers and an egg. She sank into a chair, and I could see that she was not in her usual sunny spirits.

“Bertie,” she said, “I am uneasy.”

So was I. I didn’t know how long she intended to stop, or when the twins were coming back.

“I wonder,” she said, “if I took too harsh a view towards Claude and Eustace.”

“You couldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I⁠—er⁠—mean it would be so unlike you to be harsh to anybody, Aunt Agatha.” And not bad, either. I mean, quick⁠—like that⁠—without thinking. It pleased the old relative, and she looked at me with slightly less loathing than she usually does.

“It is nice of you to say that, Bertie, but what I was thinking was, are they safe?”

“Are they what?”

It seemed such a rummy adjective to apply to the twins, they being about as innocuous as a couple of sprightly young tarantulas.

“Do you think all is well with them?”

“How do you mean?”

Aunt Agatha eyed me almost wistfully.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Bertie,” she said, “that your Uncle George may be psychic?”

She seemed to me to be changing the subject.

“Psychic?”

“Do you think it is possible that he could see things not visible to the normal eye?”

I thought it dashed possible, if not probable. I don’t know if you’ve ever met my Uncle George. He’s a festive old egg who wanders from club to club continually having a couple with other festive old eggs. When he heaves in sight, waiters brace themselves up and the wine steward toys with his corkscrew. It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.

“Your Uncle George was dining with me last night, and he was quite shaken. He declares that, while on his way from the Devonshire Club to Boodle’s he suddenly saw the phantasm of Eustace.”

“The what of Eustace?”

“The phantasm. The wraith. It was so clear that he thought for an instant that it was Eustace himself. The figure vanished round a corner, and when Uncle George got there nothing was to be seen. It is all very queer and disturbing. It had a marked effect on poor George. All through dinner he touched nothing but barley-water, and his manner was quite disturbed. You do think those poor, dear boys are safe, Bertie? They have not met with some horrible accident?”

It made my mouth water to think of it, but I said no, I didn’t think they had met with any horrible accident. I thought Eustace was a horrible accident, and Claude about the same, but I didn’t say so. And presently she biffed off, still worried.

When the twins came in, I put it squarely to the blighters. Jolly as it was to give Uncle George shocks, they must not wander at large about the metrop.

“But, my dear old soul,” said Claude. “Be reasonable. We can’t have our movements hampered.”

“Out of the question,” said Eustace.

“The whole essence of the thing, if you understand me,” said Claude, “is that we should be at liberty to flit hither and thither.”

“Exactly,” said Eustace. “Now hither, now thither.”

“But, damn it⁠—”

“Bertie!” said Eustace reprovingly. “Not before the boy!”

“Of course, in a way I see his point,” said Claude. “I suppose the solution of the problem would be to buy a couple of disguises.”

“My dear old chap!” said Eustace, looking at him with admiration. “The brightest idea on record. Not your own, surely?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it was Bertie who put it into my head.”

“Me!”

“You were telling me the other day about old Bingo Little and the beard he bought when he didn’t want his uncle to recognise him.”

“If you think I’m going to have you two excrescences popping in and out of my flat in beards⁠—”

“Something in that,” agreed Eustace. “We’ll make it whiskers, then.”

“And false noses,” said Claude.

“And, as you say, false noses. Right-o, then, Bertie, old chap, that’s a load off your mind. We don’t want to be any trouble to you while we’re paying you this little visit.”

And, when I went buzzing round to Jeeves for consolation, all he would say was something about Young Blood. No sympathy.

“Very good, Jeeves,” I said. “I shall go for a walk in the Park. Kindly put me out the Old Etonian spats.”

“Very good, sir.”

It must have been a couple of days after that that Marion Wardour rolled in at about the hour of tea. She looked warily round the room before sitting down.

“Your cousins not at home, Bertie?” she said.

“No, thank goodness!”

“Then I’ll tell you where they are. They’re in my sitting room, glaring at each other from opposite corners, waiting for me to come in. Bertie, this has got to stop.”

“You’re seeing a good deal of them, are you?”

Jeeves came in with the tea, but the poor girl was so worked up that she didn’t wait for him to pop off before going on with her complaint. She had an absolutely hunted air, poor thing.

“I can’t move a step without tripping over one or both of them,” she said. “Generally both. They’ve taken to calling together, and they just settle down grimly and try to sit each other out. It’s wearing me to a shadow.”

“I know,” I said sympathetically. “I know.”

“Well, what’s to be done?”

“It beats me. Couldn’t you tell your maid to say you are not