“But Gussie isn’t a parrot.”
“No, sir, but----”
“It is high time, in my opinion, that this question of what young
Gussie really is was threshed out and cleared up. He seems to think
he is a male newt, and you now appear to suggest that he is a parrot.
The truth of the matter being that he is just a plain, ordinary poop
and needs a snootful as badly as ever man did. So no more discussion,
Jeeves. My mind is made up. There is only one way of handling this
difficult case, and that is the way I have outlined.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Right ho, Jeeves. So much for that, then. Now here’s something else:
You noticed that I said I was going to put this project through
tomorrow, and no doubt you wondered why I said tomorrow. Why did I,
Jeeves?”
“Because you feel that if it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
it were done quickly, sir?”
“Partly, Jeeves, but not altogether. My chief reason for fixing
the date as specified is that tomorrow, though you have doubtless
forgotten, is the day of the distribution of prizes at Market Snodsbury
Grammar School, at which, as you know, Gussie is to be the male star
and master of the revels. So you see we shall, by lacing that juice,
not only embolden him to propose to Miss Bassett, but also put him so
into shape that he will hold that Market Snodsbury audience spellbound.”
“In fact, you will be killing two birds with one stone, sir.”
“Exactly. A very neat way of putting it. And now here is a minor point.
On second thoughts, I think the best plan will be for you, not me, to
lace the juice.”
“Sir?”
“Jeeves!”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“And I’ll tell you why that will be the best plan. Because you are in
a position to obtain ready access to the stuff. It is served to Gussie
daily, I have noticed, in an individual jug. This jug will presumably
be lying about the kitchen or somewhere before lunch tomorrow. It will
be the simplest of tasks for you to slip a few fingers of gin in it.”
“No doubt, sir, but----”
“Don’t say ‘but,’ Jeeves.”
“I fear, sir----”
“‘I fear, sir’ is just as bad.”
“What I am endeavouring to say, sir, is that I am sorry, but I am
afraid I must enter an unequivocal _nolle prosequi_.”
“Do what?”
“The expression is a legal one, sir, signifying the resolve not to
proceed with a matter. In other words, eager though I am to carry out
your instructions, sir, as a general rule, on this occasion I must
respectfully decline to co-operate.”
“You won’t do it, you mean?”
“Precisely, sir.”
I was stunned. I began to understand how a general must feel when he
has ordered a regiment to charge and has been told that it isn’t in the
mood.
“Jeeves,” I said, “I had not expected this of you.”
“No, sir?”
“No, indeed. Naturally, I realize that lacing Gussie’s orange juice
is not one of those regular duties for which you receive the monthly
stipend, and if you care to stand on the strict letter of the contract,
I suppose there is nothing to be done about it. But you will permit me
to observe that this is scarcely the feudal spirit.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
“It is quite all right, Jeeves, quite all right. I am not angry, only a
little hurt.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Right ho, Jeeves.”
-14-
Investigation proved that the friends Angela had gone to spend the day
with were some stately-home owners of the name of Stretchley-Budd,
hanging out in a joint called Kingham Manor, about eight miles distant
in the direction of Pershore. I didn’t know these birds, but their
fascination must have been considerable, for she tore herself away
from them only just in time to get back and dress for dinner. It was,
accordingly, not until coffee had been consumed that I was able to get
matters moving. I found her in the drawing-room and at once proceeded
to put things in train.
It was with very different feelings from those which had animated the
bosom when approaching the Bassett twenty-four hours before in the same
manner in this same drawing-room that I headed for where she sat. As
I had told Tuppy, I have always been devoted to Angela, and there is
nothing I like better than a ramble in her company.
And I could see by the look of her now how sorely in need she was of my
aid and comfort.
Frankly, I was shocked by the unfortunate young prune’s appearance. At
Cannes she had been a happy, smiling English girl of the best type,
full of beans and buck. Her face now was pale and drawn, like that of
a hockey centre-forward at a girls’ school who, in addition to getting
a fruity one on the shin, has just been penalized for “sticks”. In any
normal gathering, her demeanour would have excited instant remark, but
the standard of gloom at Brinkley Court had become so high that it
passed unnoticed. Indeed, I shouldn’t wonder if Uncle Tom, crouched in
his corner waiting for the end, didn’t think she was looking indecently
cheerful.