"What ho, Jeeves!" I said, entering the room where he waded knee-deep
in suitcases and shirts and winter suitings, like a sea beast among
rocks. "Packing?"
"Yes, sir," replied the honest fellow, for there are no secrets between
us.
"Pack on!" I said approvingly. "Pack, Jeeves, pack with care. Pack in
the presence of the passenjare." And I rather fancy I added the words
"Tra-la!" for I was in merry mood.
Every year, starting about the middle of November, there is a good
deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better class of
country houses throughout England as to who will get Bertram Wooster's
patronage for the Christmas holidays. It may be one, or it may be
another. As my aunt Dahlia says, you never know where the blow will
fall.
This year, however, I had decided early. It couldn't have been later
than November tenth when a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately
homes as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by Sir
Reginald Witherspoon, Bart., of Bleaching Court, Upper Bleaching, Hants.
In coming to the decision to give this Witherspoon my custom, I had
been actuated by several reasons, not counting the fact that, having
married Aunt Dahlia's husband's younger sister Katherine, he is by way
of being a sort of uncle of mine. In the first place the Bart. does one
extraordinarily well, both browsing and sluicing being above criticism.
Then, again, his stables always contain something worth riding, which
is a consideration. And thirdly, there is no danger of getting lugged
into a party of amateur waits and having to tramp the countryside in
the rain singing: "When Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night." Or,
for the matter of that: "Noël! Noël!"
All these things counted with me, but what really drew me to Bleaching
Court like a magnet was the knowledge that young Tuppy Glossop would be
among those present.
I feel sure I have told you before about this black-hearted bird, but I
will give you the strength of it once again, just to keep the records
straight. He was the fellow, if you remember, who, ignoring a lifelong
friendship in the course of which he had frequently eaten my bread and
salt, bet me one night at the Drones' that I wouldn't swing myself
across the swimming bath by the ropes and rings and then, with almost
inconceivable treachery, went and looped back the last ring, causing
me to drop into the fluid and ruin one of the nattiest suits of dress
clothes in London.
To execute a fitting vengeance on this bloke had been the ruling
passion of my life ever since.
"You are bearing in mind, Jeeves," I said, "the fact that Mr. Glossop
will be at Bleaching?"
"Yes, sir."
"And, consequently, are not forgetting to put in the Giant Squirt?"
"No, sir."
"Nor the Luminous Rabbit?"
"No, sir."
"Good! I am rather pinning my faith on the Luminous Rabbit, Jeeves. I
hear excellent reports of it on all sides. You wind it up and put it
in somebody's room in the night watches, and it shines in the dark and
jumps about, making odd, squeaking noises. The whole performance being,
I should imagine, well calculated to scare young Tuppy into a decline."
"Very possibly, sir."
"Should that fail, there is always the Giant Squirt. We must leave no
stone unturned to put it across the man somehow," I said. "The Wooster
honour is at stake."
I would have spoken further on this subject, but just then the front
doorbell buzzed.
"I'll answer it," I said. "I expect it's Aunt Dahlia. She phoned that
she would be calling this morning."
It was not Aunt Dahlia. It was a telegraph boy with telegram. I opened
it, read it, and carried it back to the bedroom, the brow a bit knitted.
"Jeeves," I said, "a rummy communication has arrived. From Mr. Glossop."
"Indeed, sir?"
"I will read it to you. Handed in at Upper Bleaching. Message runs as
follows:
"WHEN YOU COME TO-MORROW BRING MY FOOTBALL BOOTS ALSO, IF HUMANLY
POSSIBLE IRISH WATER SPANIEL URGENT REGARDS TUPPY