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

“What’s that?”

“Rather sporting,” said young Bingo. “The competitors enter in couples, each couple being assigned an animal cry and a potato. For instance, let’s suppose that you and Jeeves entered. Jeeves would stand at a fixed point holding a potato. You would have your head in a sack, and you would grope about trying to find Jeeves and making a noise like a cat; Jeeves also making a noise like a cat. Other competitors would be making noises like cows and pigs and dogs, and so on, and groping about for their potato-holders, who would also be making noises like cows and pigs and dogs and so on⁠—”

I stopped the poor fish.

“Jolly if you’re fond of animals,” I said, “but on the whole⁠—”

“Precisely, sir,” said Jeeves. “I wouldn’t touch it.”

“Too open, what?”

“Exactly, sir. Very hard to estimate form.”

“Carry on, Bingo. Where do we go from there?”

“Mothers’ Sack Race.”

“Ah! that’s better. This is where you know something.”

“A gift for Mrs. Penworthy, the tobacconist’s wife,” said Bingo confidently. “I was in at her shop yesterday, buying cigarettes, and she told me she had won three times at fairs in Worcestershire. She only moved to these parts a short time ago, so nobody knows about her. She promised me she would keep herself dark, and I think we could get a good price.”

“Risk a tenner each way, Jeeves, what?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Girls’ Open Egg and Spoon Race,” read Bingo.

“How about that?”

“I doubt if it would be worth while to invest, sir,” said Jeeves. “I am told it is a certainty for last year’s winner, Sarah Mills, who will doubtless start an odds-on favourite.”

“Good, is she?”

“They tell me in the village that she carries a beautiful egg, sir.”

“Then there’s the Obstacle Race,” said Bingo. “Risky, in my opinion. Like betting on the Grand National. Fathers’ Hat-Trimming Contest⁠—another speculative event. That’s all, except for the Choir Boys’ Hundred Yards Handicap, for a pewter mug presented by the vicar⁠—open to all whose voices have not broken before the second Sunday in Epiphany. Willie Chambers won last year, in a canter, receiving fifteen yards. This time he will probably be handicapped out of the race. I don’t know what to advise.”

“If I might make a suggestion, sir.”

I eyed Jeeves with interest. I don’t know that I’d ever seen him look so nearly excited.

“You’ve got something up your sleeve?”

“I have, sir.”

“Red-hot?”

“That precisely describes it, sir. I think I may confidently assert that we have the winner of the Choir Boys’ Handicap under this very roof, sir. Harold, the pageboy.”

“Pageboy? Do you mean the tubby little chap in buttons one sees bobbing about here and there? Why, dash it, Jeeves, nobody has a greater respect for your knowledge of form than I have, but I’m hanged if I can see Harold catching the judge’s eye. He’s practically circular, and every time I’ve seen him he’s been leaning up against something, half asleep.”

“He receives thirty yards, sir, and could win from scratch. The boy is a flier.”

“How do you know?”

Jeeves coughed, and there was a dreamy look in his eye.

“I was as much astonished as yourself, sir, when I first became aware of the lad’s capabilities. I happened to pursue him one morning with the intention of fetching him a clip on the side of the head⁠—”

“Great Scott, Jeeves! You!”

“Yes, sir. The boy is of an outspoken disposition, and had made an opprobrious remark respecting my personal appearance.”

“What did he say about your appearance?”

“I have forgotten, sir,” said Jeeves, with a touch of austerity. “But it was opprobrious. I endeavoured to correct him, but he outdistanced me by yards and made good his escape.”

“But, I say, Jeeves, this is sensational. And yet⁠—if he’s such a sprinter, why hasn’t anybody in the village found it out? Surely he plays with the other boys?”

“No, sir. As his lordship’s pageboy, Harold does not mix with the village lads.”

“Bit of a snob, what?”

“He is somewhat acutely alive to the existence of class distinctions, sir.”

“You’re absolutely certain he’s such a wonder?” said Bingo. “I mean, it wouldn’t do to plunge unless you’re sure.”

“If you desire to ascertain the boy’s form by personal inspection, sir, it will be a simple matter to arrange a secret trial.”

“I’m bound to say I should feel easier in my mind,” I said.

“Then if I may take a shilling from the money on your dressing-table⁠—”

“What for?”

“I propose to bribe the lad to speak slightingly of the second footman’s squint, sir. Charles is somewhat sensitive on the point, and should undoubtedly make the lad extend himself. If you will be at the first-floor passage-window, overlooking the backdoor, in half an hour’s time⁠—”

I don’t know when I’ve dressed in such a hurry. As a rule, I’m what you might call a slow and careful dresser: I like to linger over the tie and see that the trousers are just so; but this morning I was all worked up. I just shoved on my things anyhow, and joined Bingo at the window with a quarter of an hour to spare.

The passage-window looked down on to a broad sort of paved courtyard, which ended after about twenty yards in an archway through a high wall. Beyond this archway you got on to a strip of the drive, which curved round for another thirty yards or so, till it was lost behind a thick shrubbery. I put myself in the stripling’s place and thought what steps I would take with a second footman after me. There was only one thing to do⁠—leg it for the shrubbery and take cover; which meant that at least fifty yards would have to be covered⁠—an excellent test. If good old Harold could fight off the second footman’s challenge long enough to allow him to reach the bushes, there wasn’t a choirboy in England who could give him thirty yards in the hundred. I waited, all of a twitter, for what seemed hours, and then suddenly there was a confused noise without, and something round and