“I felt the same. ‘Defeatist’ sums it up to a nicety. Did you tell him
his attitude struck you as defeatist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it didn’t do any good?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well, then, Jeeves. We must act. How much gin did you put in the
jug?”
“A liberal tumblerful, sir.”
“Would that be a normal dose for an adult defeatist, do you think?”
“I fancy it should prove adequate, sir.”
“I wonder. We must not spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar. I think
I’ll add just another fluid ounce or so.”
“I would not advocate it, sir. In the case of Lord Brancaster’s
parrot----”
“You are falling into your old error, Jeeves, of thinking that Gussie
is a parrot. Fight against this. I shall add the oz.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And, by the way, Jeeves, Mr. Fink-Nottle is in the market for bright,
clean stories to use in his speech. Do you know any?”
“I know a story about two Irishmen, sir.”
“Pat and Mike?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who were walking along Broadway?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just what he wants. Any more?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, every little helps. You had better go and tell it to him.”
“Very good, sir.”
He passed from the room, and I unscrewed the flask and tilted into the
jug a generous modicum of its contents. And scarcely had I done so,
when there came to my ears the sound of footsteps without. I had only
just time to shove the jug behind the photograph of Uncle Tom on the
mantelpiece before the door opened and in came Gussie, curveting like a
circus horse.
“What-ho, Bertie,” he said. “What-ho, what-ho, what-ho, and again
what-ho. What a beautiful world this is, Bertie. One of the nicest I
ever met.”
I stared at him, speechless. We Woosters are as quick as lightning, and
I saw at once that something had happened.
I mean to say, I told you about him walking round in circles. I
recorded what passed between us on the lawn. And if I portrayed the
scene with anything like adequate skill, the picture you will have
retained of this Fink-Nottle will have been that of a nervous wreck,
sagging at the knees, green about the gills, and picking feverishly
at the lapels of his coat in an ecstasy of craven fear. In a word,
defeatist. Gussie, during that interview, had, in fine, exhibited all
the earmarks of one licked to a custard.
Vastly different was the Gussie who stood before me now.
Self-confidence seemed to ooze from the fellow’s every pore. His face
was flushed, there was a jovial light in his eyes, the lips were parted
in a swashbuckling smile. And when with a genial hand he sloshed me on
the back before I could sidestep, it was as if I had been kicked by a
mule.
“Well, Bertie,” he proceeded, as blithely as a linnet without a thing
on his mind, “you will be glad to hear that you were right. Your theory
has been tested and proved correct. I feel like a fighting cock.”
My brain ceased to reel. I saw all.
“Have you been having a drink?”
“I have. As you advised. Unpleasant stuff. Like medicine. Burns your
throat, too, and makes one as thirsty as the dickens. How anyone can
mop it up, as you do, for pleasure, beats me. Still, I would be the
last to deny that it tunes up the system. I could bite a tiger.”
“What did you have?”
“Whisky. At least, that was the label on the decanter, and I have no
reason to suppose that a woman like your aunt--staunch, true-blue,
British--would deliberately deceive the public. If she labels her
decanters Whisky, then I consider that we know where we are.”
“A whisky and soda, eh? You couldn’t have done better.”
“Soda?” said Gussie thoughtfully. “I knew there was something I had
forgotten.”
“Didn’t you put any soda in it?”
“It never occurred to me. I just nipped into the dining-room and drank
out of the decanter.”
“How much?”
“Oh, about ten swallows. Twelve, maybe. Or fourteen. Say sixteen
medium-sized gulps. Gosh, I’m thirsty.”
He moved over to the wash-stand and drank deeply out of the water
bottle. I cast a covert glance at Uncle Tom’s photograph behind his
back. For the first time since it had come into my life, I was glad
that it was so large. It hid its secret well. If Gussie had caught
sight of that jug of orange juice, he would unquestionably have been on
to it like a knife.
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling braced,” I said.
He moved buoyantly from the wash-hand stand, and endeavoured to slosh
me on the back again. Foiled by my nimble footwork, he staggered to the
bed and sat down upon it.
“Braced? Did I say I could bite a tiger?”
“You did.”
“Make it two tigers. I could chew holes in a steel door. What an ass
you must have thought me out there in the garden. I see now you were
laughing in your sleeve.”
“No, no.”
“Yes,” insisted Gussie. “That very sleeve,” he said, pointing. “And I
don’t blame you. I can’t imagine why I made all that fuss about a potty
job like distributing prizes at a rotten little country grammar school.
Can you imagine, Bertie?”
“No.”
“Exactly. Nor can I imagine. There’s simply nothing to it. I just
shin up on the platform, drop a few gracious words, hand the little
blighters their prizes, and hop down again, admired by all. Not a
suggestion of split trousers from start to finish. I mean, why should
anybody split his trousers? I can’t imagine. Can you imagine?”
“No.”
“Nor can I imagine. I shall be a riot. I know just the sort of stuff
that’s needed--simple, manly, optimistic stuff straight from the
shoulder. This shoulder,” said Gussie, tapping. “Why I was so nervous
this morning I can’t imagine. For anything simpler than distributing
a few footling books to a bunch of grimy-faced kids I can’t imagine.
Still, for some reason I can’t imagine, I was feeling a little nervous,
but now I feel fine, Bertie--fine, fine, fine--and I say this to you as
an old friend. Because that’s what you are, old man, when all the smoke
has cleared away--an old friend. I don’t think I’ve ever met an older
friend. How long have you been an old friend of mine, Bertie?”
“Oh, years and years.”
“Imagine! Though, of course, there must have been a time when you were
a new friend.... Hullo, the luncheon gong. Come on, old friend.”
And, rising from the bed like a performing flea, he made for the door.
I followed rather pensively. What had occurred was, of course, so much
velvet, as you might say. I mean, I had wanted a braced Fink-Nottle--
indeed, all my plans had had a braced Fink-Nottle as their end and aim
--but I found myself wondering a little whether the Fink-Nottle now
sliding down the banister wasn’t, perhaps, a shade too braced. His
demeanour seemed to me that of a man who might quite easily throw bread
about at lunch.
Fortunately, however, the settled gloom of those round him exercised a
restraining effect upon him at the table. It would have needed a far
more plastered man to have been rollicking at such a gathering. I had
told the Bassett that there were aching hearts in Brinkley Court, and
it now looked probable that there would shortly be aching tummies.
Anatole, I learned, had retired to his bed with a fit of the vapours,
and the meal now before us had been cooked by the kitchen maid--as C3 a
performer as ever wielded a skillet.
This, coming on top of their other troubles, induced in the company a
pretty unanimous silence--a solemn stillness, as you might say--which
even Gussie did not seem prepared to break. Except, therefore, for one
short snatch of song on his part, nothing untoward marked the occasion,
and presently we rose, with instructions from Aunt Dahlia to put on
festal raiment and be at Market Snodsbury not later than 3.30. This
leaving me ample time to smoke a gasper or two in a shady bower beside
the lake, I did so, repairing to my room round about the hour of three.
Jeeves was on the job, adding the final polish to the old topper, and
I was about to apprise him of the latest developments in the matter of
Gussie, when he forestalled me by observing that the latter had only
just concluded an agreeable visit to the Wooster bedchamber.
“I found Mr. Fink-Nottle seated here when I arrived to lay out your
clothes, sir.”
“Indeed, Jeeves? Gussie was in here, was he?”
“Yes, sir. He left only a few moments ago. He is driving to the school
with Mr. and Mrs. Travers in the large car.”
“Did you give him your story of the two Irishmen?”
“Yes, sir. He laughed heartily.”
“Good. Had you any other contributions for him?”
“I ventured to suggest that he might mention to the young gentlemen
that education is a drawing out, not a putting in. The late Lord
Brancaster was much addicted to presenting prizes at schools, and he
invariably employed this dictum.”
“And how did he react to that?”
“He laughed heartily, sir.”
“This surprised you, no doubt? This practically incessant merriment, I
mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You thought it odd in one who, when you last saw him, was well up in
Group A of the defeatists.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is a ready explanation, Jeeves. Since you last saw him, Gussie
has been on a bender. He’s as tight as an owl.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Absolutely. His nerve cracked under the strain, and he sneaked into
the dining-room and started mopping the stuff up like a vacuum cleaner.
Whisky would seem to be what he filled the radiator with. I gather that
he used up most of the decanter. Golly, Jeeves, it’s lucky he didn’t
get at that laced orange juice on top of that, what?”
“Extremely, sir.”
I eyed the jug. Uncle Tom’s photograph had fallen into the fender, and
it was standing there right out in the open, where Gussie couldn’t have
helped seeing it. Mercifully, it was empty now.
“It was a most prudent act on your part, if I may say so, sir, to
dispose of the orange juice.”