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

Which made it all the more of a jar, about a fortnight later, when his telegram arrived. As follows:⁠—

Bertie old man I say Bertie could you possibly come down here at once. Everything gone wrong hang it all. Dash it Bertie you simply must come. I am in a state of absolute despair and heartbroken. Would you mind sending another hundred of those cigarettes. Bring Jeeves when you come Bertie. You simply must come Bertie. I rely on you. Don’t forget to bring Jeeves. Bingo.

For a chap who’s perpetually hard-up, I must say that young Bingo is the most wasteful telegraphist I ever struck. He’s got no notion of condensing. The silly ass simply pours out his wounded soul at twopence a word, or whatever it is, without a thought.

“How about it, Jeeves?” I said. “I’m getting a bit fed up. I can’t go chucking all my engagements every second week in order to biff down to Twing and rally round young Bingo. Send him a wire telling him to end it all in the village pond.”

“If you could spare me for the night, sir, I should be glad to run down and investigate.”

“Oh, dash it! Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done. After all, you’re the fellow he wants. All right, carry on.”

Jeeves got back late the next day.

“Well?” I said.

Jeeves appeared perturbed. He allowed his left eyebrow to flicker upwards in a concerned sort of manner.

“I have done what I could, sir,” he said, “but I fear Mr. Little’s chances do not appear bright. Since our last visit, sir, there has been a decidedly sinister and disquieting development.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“You may remember Mr. Steggles, sir⁠—the young gentleman who was studying for an examination with Mr. Heppenstall at the Vicarage?”

“What’s Steggles got to do with it?” I asked.

“I gather from Brookfield, sir, who chanced to overhear a conversation, that Mr. Steggles is interesting himself in the affair.”

“Good Lord! What, making a book on it?”

“I understand that he is accepting wagers from those in his immediate circle, sir. Against Mr. Little, whose chances he does not seem to fancy.”

“I don’t like that, Jeeves.”

“No, sir. It is sinister.”

“From what I know of Steggles there will be dirty work.”

“It has already occurred, sir.”

“Already?”

“Yes, sir. It seems that, in pursuance of the policy which he had been good enough to allow me to suggest to him, Mr. Little escorted Master Burgess to the church bazaar, and there met Mr. Steggles, who was in the company of young Master Heppenstall, the Reverend Mr. Heppenstall’s second son, who is home from Rugby just now, having recently recovered from an attack of mumps. The encounter took place in the refreshment-room, where Mr. Steggles was at that moment entertaining Master Heppenstall. To cut a long story short, sir, the two gentlemen became extremely interested in the hearty manner in which the lads were fortifying themselves; and Mr. Steggles offered to back his nominee in a weight-for-age eating contest against Master Burgess for a pound a side. Mr. Little admitted to me that he was conscious of a certain hesitation as to what the upshot might be, should Miss Burgess get to hear of the matter, but his sporting blood was too much for him and he agreed to the contest. This was duly carried out, both lads exhibiting the utmost willingness and enthusiasm, and eventually Master Burgess justified Mr. Little’s confidence by winning, but only after a bitter struggle. Next day both contestants were in considerable pain; inquiries were made and confessions extorted, and Mr. Little⁠—I learn from Brookfield, who happened to be near the door of the drawing-room at the moment⁠—had an extremely unpleasant interview with the young lady, which ended in her desiring him never to speak to her again.”

There’s no getting away from the fact that, if ever a man required watching, it’s Steggles. Machiavelli could have taken his correspondence course.

“It was a put-up job, Jeeves!” I said. “I mean, Steggles worked the whole thing on purpose. It’s his old nobbling game.”

“There would seem to be no doubt about that, sir.”

“Well, he seems to have dished poor old Bingo all right.”

“That is the prevalent opinion, sir. Brookfield tells me that down in the village at the Cow and Horses seven to one is being freely offered on Mr. Wingham and finding no takers.”

“Good Lord! Are they betting about it down in the village, too?”

“Yes, sir. And in adjoining hamlets also. The affair has caused widespread interest. I am told that there is a certain sporting reaction in even so distant a spot as Lower Bingley.”

“Well, I don’t see what there is to do. If Bingo is such a chump⁠—”

“One is fighting a losing battle, I fear, sir, but I did venture to indicate to Mr. Little a course of action which might prove of advantage. I recommended him to busy himself with good works.”

“Good works?”

“About the village, sir. Reading to the bedridden⁠—chatting with the sick⁠—that sort of thing, sir. We can but trust that good results will ensue.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said doubtfully. “But, by gosh, if I was a sick man I’d hate to have a looney like young Bingo coming and gibbering at my bedside.”

“There is that aspect of the matter, sir,” said Jeeves.

I didn’t hear a word from Bingo for a couple of weeks, and I took it after a while that he had found the going too hard and had chucked in the towel. And then, one night not long before Christmas, I came back to the flat pretty latish, having been out dancing at the Embassy. I was fairly tired, having swung a practically nonstop shoe from shortly after dinner till two a.m., and bed seemed to be indicated. Judge of my chagrin and all that sort of thing, therefore, when, tottering to my room and switching on the light, I observed the foul features of young Bingo all over the pillow. The blighter had appeared from nowhere and was in my bed, sleeping like an infant with a sort of happy, dreamy smile