"Jeeves," I said, "you, who had the job of drying and pressing those
dress clothes of mine, are aware that I have suffered much at young
Tuppy Glossop's hands. By rights, I suppose, I ought to be welcoming
the fact that the Wrath of Heaven is now hovering over him in this
fearful manner.
"But the view I take of it is that Heaven looks like overdoing it.
Heaven's idea of a fitting retribution is not mine. In my most
unrestrained moments I never wanted the poor blighter assassinated. And
the idea in Hockley-cum-Meston seems to be that a good opportunity has
arisen of making it a bumper Christmas for the local undertaker.
"There was a fellow with red hair at the Green Pig this afternoon who
might have been the undertaker's partner, the way he talked. We must
act, and speedily, Jeeves. We must put a bit of a jerk in it and save
young Tuppy in spite of himself."
"What course would you advocate, sir?"
"I'll tell you. He refuses to do the sensible thing and slide out,
because the girl will be watching the game and he imagines, poor
lizard, that he is going to shine and impress her. So we must employ
guile. You must go up to London to-day, Jeeves, and to-morrow morning
you will send a telegram, signed 'Angela,' which will run as follows.
Jot it down. Ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"'So sorry----'" I pondered. "What would a girl say, Jeeves, who,
having had a row with the bird she was practically engaged to, because
he told her she looked like a Pekingese in her new hat, wanted to
extend the olive branch?"
"'So sorry I was cross,' sir, would, I fancy, be the expression."
"Strong enough, do you think?"
"Possibly the addition of the word 'darling' would give the necessary
verisimilitude, sir."
"Right. Resume the jotting. 'So sorry I was cross, darling.' No; wait,
Jeeves. Scratch that out. I see where we have gone off the rails. I see
where we are missing a chance to make this the real Tabasco. Sign the
telegram not 'Angela' but 'Travers.'"
"Very good, sir."
"Or, rather, 'Dahlia Travers.' And this is the body of the
communication. 'Please return at once.'"
"'Immediately' would be more economical, sir. Only one word. And it has
a stronger ring."
"True. Jot on, then. 'Please return immediately. Angela in a hell of a
state.'"
"I would suggest 'Seriously ill,' sir."
"All right. 'Seriously ill.' 'Angela seriously ill. Keeps calling for
you and says you were quite right about hat.'"
"If I might suggest, sir----?"
"Well, go ahead."
"I fancy the following would meet the case. 'Please return immediately.
Angela seriously ill. High fever and delirium. Keeps calling your name
piteously and saying something about a hat and that you were quite
right. Please catch earliest possible train. Dahlia Travers.'"
"That sounds all right."
"Yes, sir."
"You like that 'piteously'? You don't think 'incessantly'?"
"No, sir. 'Piteously' is the _mot juste_."
"All right. You know. Well, send it off in time to get here at
two-thirty."
"Yes, sir."
"Two-thirty, Jeeves; you see the devilish cunning?"
"No, sir."
"I will tell you. If the telegram arrived earlier he would get it
before the game. By two-thirty, however, he will have started for the
grounds. I shall hand it to him the moment there is a lull in the
battle. By that time he will have begun to get some idea of what a
football match between Upper Bleaching and Hockley-cum-Meston is like,
and the thing ought to work like magic. I can't imagine anyone who has
been sporting awhile with those thugs I saw yesterday not welcoming
any excuse to call it a day. You follow me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good, Jeeves."
"Very good, sir."
* * * * *
You can always rely on Jeeves. Two-thirty, I had said, and two-thirty
it was. The telegram arrived almost on the minute. I was going to my
room to change into something warmer at the moment, and I took it up
with me. Then into the heavy tweeds and off in the car to the field
of play. I got there just as the two teams were lining up, and half a
minute later the whistle blew and the war was on.
What with one thing and another--having been at a school where they
didn't play it and so forth--Rugby football is a game I can't claim
absolutely to understand in all its niceties, if you know what I mean.
I can follow the broad, general principles, of course.
I mean to say, I know that the main scheme is to work the ball down
the field somehow and deposit it over the line at the other end, and
that, in order to squelch this programme, each side is allowed to put
in a certain amount of assault and battery and do things to its fellow
man which, if done elsewhere, would result in fourteen days without
the option, coupled with some strong remarks from the Bench. But there
I stop. What you might call the "science" of the thing is to Bertram
Wooster a sealed book. However, I am informed by experts that on this
occasion there was not enough science for anybody to notice.
There had been a good deal of rain in the last few days, and the going
appeared to be a bit sticky. In fact, I have seen swamps that were
drier than this particular bit of ground. The red-haired bloke whom I
had encountered in the pub paddled up and kicked off amidst cheers from
the populace, and the ball went straight to where Tuppy was standing, a
pretty colour scheme in light blue and orange. Tuppy caught it neatly
and hoofed it back, and it was at this point that I understood that an
Upper Bleaching _versus_ Hockley-cum-Meston game had certain features
not usually seen on the football field.
For Tuppy, having done his bit, was just standing there looking modest,
when there was a thunder of large feet and the red-haired bird,
galloping up, seized him by the neck, hurled him to earth, and fell on
him. I had a glimpse of Tuppy's face, as it registered horror, dismay,
and a general suggestion of stunned dissatisfaction with the scheme of
things, and then he disappeared.
By the time he had come to the surface a sort of mob warfare was going
on at the other side of the field. Two assortments of sons-of-the-soil
had got their heads down and were shoving earnestly against each other,
with the ball somewhere in the middle.
Tuppy wiped a fair portion of Hampshire out of his eye, peered round
him in a dazed kind of way, saw the mass meeting, and ran toward it,
arriving just in time for a couple of heavyweights to gather him in
and give him the mud treatment again. This placed him in an admirable
position for a third heavyweight to kick him in the ribs with a boot
like a violin case. The red-haired man then fell on him. It was all
good, brisk play, and looked fine from my side of the ropes.
I saw now where Tuppy had made his mistake. He was too dressy. On
occasions such as this it is safest not to be conspicuous, and that
blue-and-orange shirt rather caught the eye. A sober beige, blending
with the colour of the ground, was what his best friends would have
recommended.
And in addition to the fact that his costume attracted attention, I
rather think that the men of Hockley-cum-Meston resented his being on
the field at all. They felt that, as a non-local, he had butted in on a
private fight and had no business there.
At any rate, it certainly appeared to me that they were giving him
preferential treatment. After each of those shoving bees to which I
have alluded, when the edifice caved in and tons of humanity wallowed
in a tangled mass in the juice, the last soul to be excavated always
seemed to be Tuppy. And on the rare occasions when he actually managed
to stand upright for the moment, somebody--generally the red-haired
man--invariably sprang to the congenial task of spilling him again.
In fact, it was beginning to look as though that telegram would come
too late to save a human life, when an interruption occurred. Play
had worked round close to where I was standing, and there had been
the customary collapse of all concerned, with Tuppy at the bottom
of the basket, as usual. But this time, when they got up and started
to count the survivors, a sizable cove in what had once been a white
shirt remained on the ground. And a hearty cheer went up from a hundred
patriotic throats as the news spread that Upper Bleaching had drawn
first blood.
The victim was carried off by a couple of his old chums, and the rest
of the players sat down and pulled their stockings up and thought of
Life for a bit. The moment had come, it seemed to me, to remove Tuppy
from the abattoir, and I hopped over the ropes and toddled to where he
sat scraping mud from his wishbone.
His air was that of a man who has been passed through a wringer, and
his eyes, what you could see of them, had a strange, smouldering gleam.
He was so crusted with alluvial deposits that one realized how little
a mere bath would ever be able to effect. To fit him to take his place
once more in polite society, he would certainly have to be sent to the
cleaner's. Indeed, it was a moot point whether it wouldn't be simpler
just to throw him away.
"Tuppy, old man," I said.
"Eh?" said Tuppy.
"A telegram for you."
"Eh?"
"I've got a wire here that came after you left the house."
"Eh?" said Tuppy.
I stirred him up a trifle with the ferrule of my stick, and he seemed
to come to life.
"Be careful what you're doing, you silly ass," he said, in part. "I'm
one solid bruise. What are you gibbering about?"
"A telegram has come for you. I think it may be important."
He snorted in a bitter sort of way. "Do you suppose I've time to read
telegrams now?"
"But this one may be frightfully urgent," I said. "Here it is."
But, if you understand me, it wasn't. How I had happened to do it, I
don't know, but apparently, in changing the upholstery, I had left it
in my other coat.
"Oh, my gosh," I said. "I've left it behind."
"It doesn't matter."
"But it does. It's probably something you ought to read at once.
Immediately, if you know what I mean. If I were you, I'd just say a few
words of farewell to the murder squad and come back to the house right
away."
He raised his eyebrows. At least, I think he must have done so, because
the mud on his forehead stirred a little, as if something was going on
underneath it.
"Do you imagine," he said, "that I would slink away under her very
eyes? Good Lord! Besides," he went on, in a quiet, meditative voice,
"there is no power on earth that could get me off this field until I've
thoroughly disemboweled that red-haired bounder. Have you noticed how
he keeps tackling me when I haven't got the ball?"
"Isn't that right?"
"Of course it's not right. Never mind. A bitter retribution awaits that
bird. I've had enough of it. From now on I assert my personality."
"I'm a bit foggy as to the rules of this pastime," I said. "Are you
allowed to bite him?"
"I'll try and see what happens," said Tuppy, struck with the idea and
brightening a little.
At this point the pallbearers returned, and fighting became general
again all along the Front.
* * * * *
There's nothing like a spot of rest and what you might call "folding of
the hands" for freshening up the shop-soiled athlete. The dirty work,
resumed after this brief breather, started off with an added vim which
it did one good to see. And the life and soul of the party was young
Tuppy.
You know, only meeting a fellow at luncheon or at the races or loafing
round country houses and so forth, you don't get on to his hidden
depths, if you know what I mean. Until this moment, if asked, I would
have said that Tuppy Glossop was, on the whole, essentially a pacific
sort of bloke, with little or nothing of the tiger of the jungle in
him. Yet here he was, running to and fro with fire streaming from his
nostrils, a positive danger to traffic.
Yes, absolutely. Encouraged by the fact that the referee was either
filled with the spirit of Live and Let Live or else had got his whistle
choked up with mud, the result being that he appeared to regard the
game with a sort of calm detachment, Tuppy was putting in some very
impressive work. Even to me, knowing nothing of the finesse of the
thing, it was plain that if Hockley-cum-Meston wanted the happy ending
they must eliminate young Tuppy at the earliest possible moment.
And I will say for them that they did their best, the red-haired man
being particularly assiduous. But Tuppy was made of durable material.
Every time the opposition talent ground him into the mire and sat on
his head he rose on stepping stones of his dead self, if you follow me,
to higher things. And in the end it was the red-haired bloke who did
the dust biting.
I couldn't tell you exactly how it happened, for by this time the
shades of night were drawing in a bit and there was a dollop of mist
rising, but one moment the fellow was hare-ing along, apparently
without a care in the world, and then suddenly Tuppy had appeared from
nowhere and was sailing through the air at his neck. They connected
with a crash and a slither, and a little later the red-haired bird was
hopping off, supported by a brace of friends, something having gone
wrong with his left ankle.
After that, there was nothing to it. Upper Bleaching, thoroughly
bucked, became busier than ever. There was a lot of earnest work in a
sort of inland sea down at the Hockley end of the field, and then a
kind of tidal wave poured over the line, and when the bodies had been
removed and the tumult and the shouting had died, there was young Tuppy
lying on the ball.
And that, with the exception of a few spots of mayhem in the last five
minutes, concluded the proceedings.
* * * * *
I drove back to the court in rather what you might term a pensive frame
of mind. Things having happened as they had happened, there seemed to
me a goodish bit of hard thinking to be done.
There was a servitor of sorts in the hall when I arrived, and I asked
him to send up a whisky-and-soda, strongish, to my room. The old brain,
I felt, needed stimulating. And about ten minutes later there was a
knock at the door, and in came Jeeves, bearing tray and materials.
"Hullo, Jeeves," I said, surprised. "Are you back?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did you get here?"
"Some little while ago, sir. Was it an enjoyable game, sir?"
"In a sense, Jeeves," I said, "yes. Replete with interest and all
that, if you know what I mean. But I fear that, owing to a touch of
carelessness on my part, the worst has happened. I left the telegram in
my other coat, so young Tuppy remained in action throughout."
"Was he injured, sir?"
"Worse than that, Jeeves. He was the star of the game. Toasts, I should
imagine, are now being drunk to him at every pub in the village. So
spectacularly did he play--in fact, so heartily did he joust--that
I can't see the girl not being all over him. Unless I am greatly
mistaken, the moment they meet she will exclaim, 'My hero!' and fall
into his bally arms."
"Indeed, sir?"
I didn't like the man's manner. Too calm. Unimpressed. A little leaping
about with fallen jaw was what I had expected my words to produce, and
I was on the point of saying as much when the door opened again and
Tuppy limped in.
He was wearing an ulster over his football things, and I wondered why
he had come to pay a social call on me instead of proceeding straight
to the bathroom. He eyed my glass in a wolfish sort of way.
"Whisky?" he said, in a hushed voice.
"And soda."
"Bring me one, Jeeves," said young Tuppy. "A large one."
"Very good, sir."
Tuppy wandered to the window and looked out into the gathering
darkness, and for the first time I perceived that he had a grouch of
some description. You can generally tell by a fellow's back. Humped.
Bent. Bowed down with weight of woe, if you follow me.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
Tuppy emitted a mirthless.
"Oh, nothing much," he said. "My faith in woman is dead, that's all."
"It is?"
"You jolly well bet it is. Women are a washout. I see no future for the
sex, Bertie. Blisters, all of them."
"Er--even the Dogsbody girl?"
"Her name," said Tuppy, a little stiffly, "is Dalgleish, if it happens
to interest you. And if you want to know something else, she's the
worst of the lot."
"My dear chap!"
Tuppy turned. Beneath the mud, I could see that his face was drawn and,
to put it in a nutshell, wan.
"Do you know what happened, Bertie?"
"What?"
"She wasn't there."
"Where?"
"At the match, you silly ass."
"Not at the match?"
"No."
"You mean, not among the throng of eager spectators?"
"Of course I mean not among the spectators. Did you think I expected
her to be playing?"
"But I thought the whole scheme of the thing----"
"So did I. My gosh!" said Tuppy, laughing another of those hollow ones.
"I worked myself to the bone for her sake. I allow a mob of homicidal
maniacs to kick me in the ribs and stroll about on my face. And then
when I have braved a fate worse than death, so to speak, all to please
her, I find that she didn't bother to come and watch the game.
"She got a phone call from London from somebody who said he had located
an Irish water spaniel, and up she popped in her car, leaving me flat.
I met her just now outside her house, and she told me. And all she
could think of was that she was as sore as a sun-burnt neck because
she had had her trip for nothing. Apparently it wasn't an Irish water
spaniel at all. Just an ordinary English water spaniel.
"And to think I fancied I loved a girl like that! A nice life partner
she would make! When pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering
angel, thou--I don't think! Why, if a man married a girl like that and
happened to get stricken by some dangerous illness, would she smooth
his pillow and press cooling drinks on him? Not a chance! She'd be off
somewhere trying to buy Siberian eel-hounds. I'm through with women."