My Man Jeeves by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (golden son ebook txt) 📕

had to have that

remittance.”

 

“I get you absolutely, dear boy.”

 

“Well, when I got to New York it looked a decent sort of place to me,

so I thought it would be a pretty sound notion to stop here. So I

cabled to my uncle telling him that I had dropped into a good business

wheeze in the city and wanted to chuck the ranch idea. He wrote back

that it was all right, and here I’ve been ever since. He thinks I’m

doing well at something or other over here. I never dreamed, don’t you

know, that he would ever come out here. What on earth am I to do?”

 

“Jeeves,” I said, “what on earth is Mr. Bickersteth to do?”

 

“You see,” said Bicky, “I had a wireless from him to say that he was

coming to stay with me—to save hotel bills, I suppose. I’ve always

given him the impression that I was living in pretty good style. I

can’t have him to stay at my boarding-house.”

 

“Thought of anything, Jeeves?” I said.

 

“To what extent, sir, if the question is not a delicate one, are you

prepared to assist Mr. Bickersteth?”

 

“I’ll do anything I can for you, of course, Bicky, old man.”

 

“Then, if I might make the suggestion, sir, you might lend Mr.

Bickersteth–-”

 

“No, by Jove!” said Bicky firmly. “I never have touched you, Bertie,

and I’m not going to start now. I may be a chump, but it’s my boast

that I don’t owe a penny to a single soul—not counting tradesmen, of

course.”

 

“I was about to suggest, sir, that you might lend Mr. Bickersteth this

flat. Mr. Bickersteth could give his grace the impression that he was

the owner of it. With your permission I could convey the notion that I

was in Mr. Bickersteth’s employment, and not in yours. You would be

residing here temporarily as Mr. Bickersteth’s guest. His grace would

occupy the second spare bedroom. I fancy that you would find this

answer satisfactorily, sir.”

 

Bicky had stopped rocking himself and was staring at Jeeves in an awed

sort of way.

 

“I would advocate the dispatching of a wireless message to his grace

on board the vessel, notifying him of the change of address. Mr.

Bickersteth could meet his grace at the dock and proceed directly here.

Will that meet the situation, sir?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

Bicky followed him with his eye till the door closed.

 

“How does he do it, Bertie?” he said. “I’ll tell you what I think it

is. I believe it’s something to do with the shape of his head. Have you

ever noticed his head, Bertie, old man? It sort of sticks out at the

back!”

 

*

 

I hopped out of bed early next morning, so as to be among those present

when the old boy should arrive. I knew from experience that these ocean

liners fetch up at the dock at a deucedly ungodly hour. It wasn’t much

after nine by the time I’d dressed and had my morning tea and was

leaning out of the window, watching the street for Bicky and his uncle.

It was one of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make a chappie wish

he’d got a soul or something, and I was just brooding on life in

general when I became aware of the dickens of a spate in progress down

below. A taxi had driven up, and an old boy in a top hat had got out

and was kicking up a frightful row about the fare. As far as I could

make out, he was trying to get the cab chappie to switch from New York

to London prices, and the cab chappie had apparently never heard of

London before, and didn’t seem to think a lot of it now. The old boy

said that in London the trip would have set him back eightpence; and

the cabby said he should worry. I called to Jeeves.

 

“The duke has arrived, Jeeves.”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“That’ll be him at the door now.”

 

Jeeves made a long arm and opened the front door, and the old boy

crawled in, looking licked to a splinter.

 

“How do you do, sir?” I said, bustling up and being the ray of

sunshine. “Your nephew went down to the dock to meet you, but you must

have missed him. My name’s Wooster, don’t you know. Great pal of

Bicky’s, and all that sort of thing. I’m staying with him, you know.

Would you like a cup of tea? Jeeves, bring a cup of tea.”

 

Old Chiswick had sunk into an armchair and was looking about the room.

 

“Does this luxurious flat belong to my nephew Francis?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“It must be terribly expensive.”

 

“Pretty well, of course. Everything costs a lot over here, you know.”

 

He moaned. Jeeves filtered in with the tea. Old Chiswick took a stab at

it to restore his tissues, and nodded.

 

“A terrible country, Mr. Wooster! A terrible country! Nearly eight

shillings for a short cab-drive! Iniquitous!” He took another look

round the room. It seemed to fascinate him. “Have you any idea how

much my nephew pays for this flat, Mr. Wooster?”

 

“About two hundred dollars a month, I believe.”

 

“What! Forty pounds a month!”

 

I began to see that, unless I made the thing a bit more plausible, the

scheme might turn out a frost. I could guess what the old boy was

thinking. He was trying to square all this prosperity with what he knew

of poor old Bicky. And one had to admit that it took a lot of squaring,

for dear old Bicky, though a stout fellow and absolutely unrivalled as

an imitator of bull-terriers and cats, was in many ways one of the most

pronounced fatheads that ever pulled on a suit of gent’s underwear.

 

“I suppose it seems rummy to you,” I said, “but the fact is New York

often bucks chappies up and makes them show a flash of speed that you

wouldn’t have imagined them capable of. It sort of develops them.

Something in the air, don’t you know. I imagine that Bicky in the past,

when you knew him, may have been something of a chump, but it’s quite

different now. Devilish efficient sort of chappie, and looked on in

commercial circles as quite the nib!”

 

“I am amazed! What is the nature of my nephew’s business, Mr. Wooster?”

 

“Oh, just business, don’t you know. The same sort of thing Carnegie and

Rockefeller and all these coves do, you know.” I slid for the door.

“Awfully sorry to leave you, but I’ve got to meet some of the lads

elsewhere.”

 

Coming out of the lift I met Bicky bustling in from the street.

 

“Halloa, Bertie! I missed him. Has he turned up?

 

“He’s upstairs now, having some tea.”

 

“What does he think of it all?”

 

“He’s absolutely rattled.”

 

“Ripping! I’ll be toddling up, then. Toodle-oo, Bertie, old man. See

you later.”

 

“Pip-pip, Bicky, dear boy.”

 

He trotted off, full of merriment and good cheer, and I went off to the

club to sit in the window and watch the traffic coming up one way and

going down the other.

 

It was latish in the evening when I looked in at the flat to dress for

dinner.

 

“Where’s everybody, Jeeves?” I said, finding no little feet pattering

about the place. “Gone out?”

 

“His grace desired to see some of the sights of the city, sir. Mr.

Bickersteth is acting as his escort. I fancy their immediate objective

was Grant’s Tomb.”

 

“I suppose Mr. Bickersteth is a bit braced at the way things are

going—what?”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I say, I take it that Mr. Bickersteth is tolerably full of beans.”

 

“Not altogether, sir.”

 

“What’s his trouble now?”

 

“The scheme which I took the liberty of suggesting to Mr. Bickersteth

and yourself has, unfortunately, not answered entirely satisfactorily,

sir.”

 

“Surely the duke believes that Mr. Bickersteth is doing well in

business, and all that sort of thing?”

 

“Exactly, sir. With the result that he has decided to cancel Mr.

Bickersteth’s monthly allowance, on the ground that, as Mr. Bickersteth

is doing so well on his own account, he no longer requires pecuniary

assistance.”

 

“Great Scot, Jeeves! This is awful.”

 

“Somewhat disturbing, sir.”

 

“I never expected anything like this!”

 

“I confess I scarcely anticipated the contingency myself, sir.”

 

“I suppose it bowled the poor blighter over absolutely?”

 

“Mr. Bickersteth appeared somewhat taken aback, sir.”

 

My heart bled for Bicky.

 

“We must do something, Jeeves.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Can you think of anything?”

 

“Not at the moment, sir.”

 

“There must be something we can do.”

 

“It was a maxim of one of my former employers, sir—as I believe I

mentioned to you once before—the present Lord Bridgnorth, that there

is always a way. I remember his lordship using the expression on the

occasion—he was then a business gentleman and had not yet received his

title—when a patent hair-restorer which he chanced to be promoting

failed to attract the public. He put it on the market under another

name as a depilatory, and amassed a substantial fortune. I have

generally found his lordship’s aphorism based on sound foundations. No

doubt we shall be able to discover some solution of Mr. Bickersteth’s

difficulty, sir.”

 

“Well, have a stab at it, Jeeves!”

 

“I will spare no pains, sir.”

 

I went and dressed sadly. It will show you pretty well how pipped I was

when I tell you that I near as a toucher put on a white tie with a

dinner-jacket. I sallied out for a bit of food more to pass the time

than because I wanted it. It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill

of fare with poor old Bicky headed for the breadline.

 

When I got back old Chiswick had gone to bed, but Bicky was there,

hunched up in an armchair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette

hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a more or less glassy stare

in his eyes. He had the aspect of one who had been soaked with what the

newspaper chappies call “some blunt instrument.”

 

“This is a bit thick, old thing—what!” I said.

 

He picked up his glass and drained it feverishly, overlooking the fact

that it hadn’t anything in it.

 

“I’m done, Bertie!” he said.

 

He had another go at the glass. It didn’t seem to do him any good.

 

“If only this had happened a week later, Bertie! My next month’s money

was due to roll in on Saturday. I could have worked a wheeze I’ve been

reading about in the magazine advertisements. It seems that you can

make a dashed amount of money if you can only collect a few dollars

and start a chicken-farm. Jolly sound scheme, Bertie! Say you buy a

hen—call it one hen for the sake of argument. It lays an egg every

day of the week. You sell the eggs seven for twenty-five cents. Keep

of hen costs nothing. Profit practically twenty-five cents on every

seven eggs. Or look at it another way: Suppose you have a dozen eggs.

Each of the hens has a dozen chickens. The chickens grow up and have

more chickens. Why, in no time you’d have the place covered knee-deep

in hens, all laying eggs, at twenty-five cents for every seven. You’d

make a fortune. Jolly life, too, keeping hens!” He had begun to get

quite worked up at the thought of it,