“Get up and dress?”
“Yes.”
I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves
entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man
at a straw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt--I won’t say restored,
because a birthday party like Pongo Twistleton’s isn’t a thing you get
restored after with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old
Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come
upon me.
And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the
scenario.
“What is this, Aunt Dahlia?” I inquired.
“It looks to me like tea,” was her response. “But you know best. You’re
drinking it.”
If I hadn’t been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little
doubt that I should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like
it.
“Not the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me
to get up and dress, and all that rot.”
“I’ve barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce
no effect. And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get
up and dress. I’ve come to take you back with me. I like your crust,
wiring that you would come next year or whenever it was. You’re coming
now. I’ve got a job for you.”
“But I don’t want a job.”
“What you want, my lad, and what you’re going to get are two very
different things. There is man’s work for you to do at Brinkley Court.
Be ready to the last button in twenty minutes.”
“But I can’t possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I’m
feeling awful.”
She seemed to consider.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it’s only humane to give you a day or two
to recover. All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at the
latest.”
“But, dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job?
What sort of a job?”
“I’ll tell you if you’ll only stop talking for a minute. It’s quite an
easy, pleasant job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of Market
Snodsbury Grammar School?”
“Never.”
“It’s a grammar school at Market Snodsbury.”