Sometimes of a morning, as I've sat in bed sucking down the early cup
of tea and watched Jeeves flitting about the room and putting out the
raiment for the day, I've wondered what the deuce I should do if the
fellow ever took it into his head to leave me. It's not so bad when
I'm in New York, but in London the anxiety is frightful. There used
to be all sorts of attempts on the part of low blighters to sneak him
away from me. Young Reggie Foljambe to my certain knowledge offered him
double what I was giving him, and Alistair Bingham-Reeves, who's got a
valet who had been known to press his trousers sideways, used to look
at him, when he came to see me, with a kind of glittering, hungry eye
which disturbed me deucedly. Bally pirates!
The thing, you see, is that Jeeves is so dashed competent. You can spot
it even in the way he shoves studs into a shirt.
I rely on him absolutely in every crisis, and he never lets me down.
And, what's more, he can always be counted on to extend himself
on behalf of any pal of mine who happens to be to all appearances
knee-deep in the bouillon. Take the rather rummy case, for instance, of
dear old Bicky and his uncle, the hard-boiled egg.
It happened after I had been in America for a few months. I got back to
the flat latish one night, and when Jeeves brought me the final drink
he said:
'Mr Bickersteth called to see you this evening, sir, while you were
out.'
'Oh?' I said.
'Twice, sir. He appeared a trifle agitated.'
'What, pipped?'
'He gave that impression, sir.'
I sipped the whisky. I was sorry if Bicky was in trouble, but, as a
matter of fact, I was rather glad to have something I could discuss
freely with Jeeves just then, because things had been a bit strained
between us for some time, and it had been rather difficult to hit on
anything to talk about that wasn't apt to take a personal turn. You
see, I had decided--rightly or wrongly--to grow a moustache, and this
had cut Jeeves to the quick. He couldn't stick the thing at any price,
and I had been living ever since in an atmosphere of bally disapproval
till I was getting jolly well fed up with it. What I mean is, while
there's no doubt that in certain matters of dress Jeeves's judgement
is absolutely sound and should be followed, it seemed to me that it
was getting a bit too thick if he was going to edit my face as well
as my costume. No one can call me an unreasonable chappie, and many's
the time I've given in like a lamb when Jeeves has voted against one
of my pet suits or ties; but when it comes to a valet's staking out a
claim on your upper lip you've simply got to have a bit of the good old
bulldog pluck and defy the blighter.
'He said that he would call again later, sir.'
'Something must be up, Jeeves.'
'Yes, sir.'
I gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl. It seemed to hurt Jeeves a
good deal, so I chucked it.
'I see by the paper, sir, that Mr Bickersteth's uncle is arriving on
the _Carmantic_.'
'Yes?'
'His Grace the Duke of Chiswick, sir.'
This was news to me, that Bicky's uncle was a duke. Rum, how little one
knows about one's pals. I had met Bicky for the first time at a species
of beano or jamboree down in Washington Square, not long after my
arrival in New York. I suppose I was a bit homesick at the time, and I
rather took to Bicky when I found that he was an Englishman and had, in
fact, been up at Oxford with me. Besides, he was a frightful chump, so
we naturally drifted together; and while we were taking a quiet snort
in a corner that wasn't all cluttered up with artists and sculptors,
he furthermore endeared himself to me by a most extraordinarily gifted
imitation of a bull-terrier chasing a cat up a tree. But, though we had
subsequently become extremely pally, all I really knew about him was
that he was generally hard up, and had an uncle who relieved the strain
a bit from time to time by sending him monthly remittances.
'If the Duke of Chiswick is his uncle,' I said, 'why hasn't he a title?
Why isn't he Lord What-Not?'
'Mr Bickersteth is the son of His Grace's late sister, sir, who married
Captain Rollo Bickersteth of the Coldstream Guards.'
Jeeves knows everything.
'Is Mr Bickersteth's father dead too?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Leave any money?'
'No, sir.'
I began to understand why poor old Bicky was always more or less on the
rocks. To the casual and irreflective observer it may sound a pretty
good wheeze having a duke for an uncle, but the trouble about old
Chiswick was that, though an extremely wealthy old buster, owning half
London and about five counties up north, he was notoriously the most
prudent spender in England. He was what Americans call a hard-boiled
egg. If Bicky's people hadn't left him anything and he depended on what
he could prise out of the old duke, he was in a pretty bad way. Not
that that explained why he was hunting me like this, because he was a
chap who never borrowed money. He said he wanted to keep his pals, so
never bit anyone's ear on principle.
At this juncture the door-bell rang. Jeeves floated out to answer it.
'Yes, sir. Mr Wooster has just returned,' I heard him say. And Bicky
came beetling in, looking pretty sorry for himself.
'Hallo, Bicky,' I said. 'Jeeves told me you had been trying to get me.
What's the trouble, Bicky?'
'I'm in a hole, Bertie. I want your advice.'
'Say on, old lad.'
'My uncle's turning up tomorrow, Bertie.'
'So Jeeves told me.'
'The Duke of Chiswick, you know.'
'So Jeeves told me.'
Bicky seemed a bit surprised.
'Jeeves seems to know everything.'
'Rather rummily, that's exactly what I was thinking just now myself.'
'Well, I wish,' said Bicky, gloomily, 'that he knew a way to get me out
of the hole I'm in.'
'Mr Bickersteth is in a hole, Jeeves,' I said, 'and wants you to rally
round.'
'Very good, sir.'
Bicky looked a bit doubtful.
'Well, of course, you know, Bertie, this thing is by way of being a bit
private and all that.'
'I shouldn't worry about that, old top. I bet Jeeves knows all about it
already. Don't you, Jeeves?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Eh?' said Bicky, rattled.
'I am open to correction, sir, but is not your dilemma due to the fact
that you are at a loss to explain to His Grace why you are in New York
instead of in Colorado?'
Bicky rocked like a jelly in a high wind.
'How the deuce do you know anything about it?'
'I chanced to meet His Grace's butler before we left England. He
informed me that he happened to overhear His Grace speaking to you on
the matter, sir, as he passed the library door.'
Bicky gave a hollow sort of laugh.
'Well, as everybody seems to know all about it, there's no need to try
to keep it dark. The old boy turfed me out, Bertie, because he said
I was a brainless nincompoop. The idea was that he would give me a
remittance on condition that I dashed out to some blighted locality of
the name of Colorado and learned farming or ranching, or whatever they
call it, at some bally ranch or farm, or whatever it's called. I didn't
fancy the idea a bit. I should have had to ride horses and pursue cows,
and so forth. At the same time, don't you know, I had to have that
remittance.'
'I get you absolutely, old thing.'
'Well, when I got to New York it looked a decent sort of place to me,
so I thought it would be a pretty sound notion to stop here. So I
cabled to my uncle telling him that I had dropped into a good business
wheeze in the city and wanted to chuck the ranch idea. He wrote back
that it was all right, and here I've been ever since. He thinks I'm
doing well at something or other over here. I never dreamed, don't you
know, that he would ever come out here. What on earth am I to do?'
'Jeeves,' I said, 'what on earth is Mr Bickersteth to do?'
'You see,' said Bicky, 'I had a wireless from him to say that he was
coming to stay with me--to save hotel bills, I suppose. I've always
given him the impression that I was living in pretty good style. I
can't have him to stay at my boarding-house.'
'Thought of anything, Jeeves?' I said.
'To what extent, sir, if the question is not a delicate one, are you
prepared to assist Mr Bickersteth?'
'I'll do anything I can for you, of course, Bicky, old man.'
'Then, if I might make the suggestion, sir, you might lend Mr
Bickersteth--'
'No, by Jove!' said Bicky firmly. 'I never have touched you, Bertie,
and I'm not going to start now. I may be a chump, but it's my boast
that I don't owe a penny to a single soul--not counting tradesmen, of
course.'
'I was about to suggest, sir, that you might lend Mr Bickersteth this
flat. Mr Bickersteth could give His Grace the impression that he was
the owner of it. With your permission I could convey the notion that
I was in Mr Bickersteth's employment and not in yours. You would be
residing here temporarily as Mr Bickersteth's guest. His Grace would
occupy the second spare bedroom. I fancy that you would find this
answer satisfactory, sir.'
Bicky had stopped rocking himself and was staring at Jeeves in an awed
sort of way.
'I would advocate the dispatching of a wireless message to His Grace
on board the vessel, notifying him of the change of address. Mr
Bickersteth could meet His Grace at the dock and proceed directly here.
Will that meet the situation, sir?'
'Absolutely.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Bicky followed him with his eye till the door closed.
'How does he do it, Bertie?' he said. 'I'll tell you what I think it
is. I believe it's something to do with the shape of his head. Have you
ever noticed his head, Bertie, old man? It sort of sticks out at the
back!'
* * * * *
I hopped out of bed pretty early next morning, so as to be among those
present when the old boy should arrive. I knew from experience that
these ocean liners fetch up at the dock at a deucedly ungodly hour.
It wasn't much after nine by the time I'd dressed and had my morning
tea and was leaning out of the window, watching the street for Bicky
and his uncle. It was one of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make
a chappie wish he'd got a soul or something, and I was just brooding
on life in general when I became aware of the dickens of a spat in
progress down below. A taxi had driven up, and an old boy in a top hat
had got out and was kicking up a frightful row about the fare. As far
as I could make out, he was trying to get the cabby to switch from New
York to London prices, and the cabby had apparently never heard of
London before, and didn't seem to think a lot of it now. The old boy
said that in London the trip would have set him back a shilling; and
the cabby said he should worry. I called to Jeeves.
'The duke has arrived, Jeeves.'
'Yes, sir?'
'That'll be him at the door now.'
Jeeves made a long arm and opened the front door, and the old boy
crawled in.
'How do you do, sir?' I said, bustling up and being the ray of
sunshine. 'Your nephew went down to the dock to meet you, but you
must have missed him. My name's Wooster, don't you know. Great pal of
Bicky's, and all that sort of thing. I'm staying with him, you know.
Would you like a cup of tea? Jeeves, bring a cup of tea.'
Old Chiswick had sunk into an arm-chair and was looking about the room.
'Does this luxurious flat belong to my nephew Francis?'
'Absolutely.'
'It must be terribly expensive.'
'Pretty well, of course. Everything costs a lot over here, you know.'
He moaned. Jeeves filtered in with the tea. Old Chiswick took a stab at
it to restore his tissues, and nodded.
'A terrible country, Mr Wooster! A terrible country. Nearly eight
shillings for a short cab-drive. Iniquitous!' He took another look
round the room. It seemed to fascinate him. 'Have you any idea how
much my nephew pays for this flat, Mr Wooster?'
'About two hundred dollars a month, I believe.'
'What! Forty pounds a month!'
I began to see that, unless I made the thing a bit more plausible,
the scheme might turn out a frost. I could guess what the old boy was
thinking. He was trying to square all this prosperity with what he knew
of poor old Bicky. And one had to admit that it took a lot of squaring,
for dear old Bicky, though a stout fellow and absolutely unrivalled as
an imitator of bull-terriers and cats, was in many ways one of the most
pronounced fatheads that ever pulled on a suit of gents' underwear.
'I suppose it seems rummy to you,' I said, 'but the fact is New York
often bucks fellows up and makes them show a flash of speed that you
wouldn't have imagined them capable of. It sort of develops them.
Something in the air, don't you know. I imagine that Bicky in the
past, when you knew him, may have been something of a chump, but it's
quite different now. Devilish efficient sort of bird, and looked on in
commercial circles as quite the nib!'
'I am amazed! What is the nature of my nephew's business, Mr Wooster?'
'Oh, just business, don't you know. The same sort of thing Rockefeller
and all these coves do, you know.' I slid for the door. 'Awfully sorry
to leave you, but I've got to meet some of the lads elsewhere.'
Coming out of the lift I met Bicky bustling in from the street.
'Hallo, Bertie. I missed him. Has he turned up?'
'He's upstairs now, having some tea.'
'What does he think of it all?'
'He's absolutely rattled.'
'Ripping! I'll be toddling up, then. Toodle-oo, Bertie, old man. See
you later.'
'Pip-pip, Bicky, dear boy.'
He trotted off, full of merriment and good cheer, and I went off to the
club to sit in the window and watch the traffic coming up one way and
going down the other.
It was latish in the evening when I looked in at the flat to dress for
dinner.
'Where's everybody, Jeeves?' I said, finding no little feet pattering
about the place. 'Gone out?'
'His Grace desired to see some of the sights of the city, sir. Mr
Bickersteth is acting as his escort. I fancy their immediate objective
was Grant's Tomb.'
'I suppose Mr Bickersteth is a bit bucked at the way things are
going--what?'
'Sir?'
'I say, I take it that Mr Bickersteth is tolerably full of beans.'
'Not altogether, sir.'
'What's his trouble now?'
'The scheme which I took the liberty of suggesting to Mr Bickersteth
and yourself has, unfortunately, not answered entirely satisfactorily,
sir.'
'Surely the duke believes that Mr Bickersteth is doing well in
business, and all that sort of thing?'
'Exactly, sir. With the result that he has decided to cancel Mr
Bickersteth's monthly allowance, on the ground that, as Mr Bickersteth
is doing so well on his own account, he no longer requires pecuniary
assistance.'
'Great Scott, Jeeves! This is awful!'
'Somewhat disturbing, sir.'
'I never expected anything like this!'
'I confess I scarcely anticipated the contingency myself, sir.'
'I suppose it bowled the poor blighter over absolutely?'
'Mr Bickersteth appeared somewhat taken aback, sir.'
My heart bled for Bicky.
'We must do something, Jeeves.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Can you think of anything?'
'Not at the moment, sir.'
'There must be something we can do.'
'It was a maxim of one of my former employers, sir--as I believe I
mentioned to you once before--the present Lord Bridgworth, that there
is always a way. No doubt we shall be able to discover some solution of
Mr Bickersteth's difficulty, sir.'
'Well, have a stab at it, Jeeves.'
'I will spare no pains, sir.'
I went and dressed sadly. It will show you pretty well how pipped I was
when I tell you that I as near as a toucher put on a white tie with a
dinner-jacket. I sallied out for a bit of food more to pass the time
than because I wanted it. It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill
of fare with poor old Bicky headed for the bread-line.
When I got back old Chiswick had gone to bed, but Bicky was there,
hunched up in an arm-chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette
hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a more or less glassy stare
in his eyes.
'This is a bit thick, old thing--what!' I said.
He picked up his glass and drained it feverishly, overlooking the fact
that it hadn't anything in it.
'I'm done, Bertie!' he said.
He had another go at the glass. It didn't seem to do him any good.
'If only this had happened a week later, Bertie! My next month's money
was due to roll in on Saturday. I could have worked a wheeze I've been
reading about in the magazine advertisements. It seems that you can
make a dashed amount of money if you can only collect a few dollars and
start a chicken farm. Jolly life, too, keeping hens!' He had begun to
get quite worked up at the thought of it, but he slopped back in his
chair at this juncture with a good deal of gloom. 'But, of course, it's
no good,' he said, 'because I haven't the cash.'
'You've only to say the word, you know, Bicky, old top.'
'Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I'm not going to sponge on you.'
That's always the way in this world. The chappies you'd like to lend
money to won't let you, whereas the chappies you don't want to lend
it to will do everything except actually stand you on your head and
lift the specie out of your pockets. As a lad who has always rolled
tolerably freely in the right stuff, I've had lots of experience of
the second class. Many's the time, back in London, I've hurried along
Piccadilly and felt the hot breath of the toucher on the back of my
neck and heard his sharp, excited yapping as he closed in on me. I've
simply spent my life scattering largesse to blighters I didn't care a
hang for; yet here was I now, dripping doubloons and pieces of eight
and longing to hand them over, and Bicky, poor fish, absolutely on his
uppers, not taking any at any price.
'Well, there's only one hope then.'
'What's that?'
'Jeeves.'
'Sir?'
There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full of zeal. In this matter of
shimmering into rooms the man is rummy to a degree. You're sitting in
the old arm-chair, thinking of this and that, and then suddenly you
look up, and there he is. He moves from point to point with as little
uproar as a jelly-fish. The thing startled poor old Bicky considerably.
He rose from his seat like a rocketing pheasant. I'm used to Jeeves
now, but often in the days when he first came to me I've bitten my
tongue freely on finding him unexpectedly in my midst.
'Did you call, sir?'
'Oh, there you are, Jeeves!'
'Precisely, sir.'
'Any ideas, Jeeves?'
'Why, yes, sir. Since we had our recent conversation I fancy I have
found what may prove a solution. I do not wish to appear to be taking
a liberty, sir, but I think that we have overlooked His Grace's
potentialities as a source of revenue.'
Bicky laughed what I have sometimes seen described as a hollow, mocking
laugh, a sort of bitter cackle from the back of the throat, rather like
a gargle.
'I do not allude, sir,' explained Jeeves, 'to the possibility of
inducing His Grace to part with money. I am taking the liberty of
regarding His Grace in the light of an at present--if I may say
so--useless property, which is capable of being developed.'
Bicky looked at me in a helpless kind of way. I'm bound to say I didn't
get it myself.
'Couldn't you make it a bit easier, Jeeves?'
'In a nutshell, sir, what I mean is this: His Grace is, in a sense, a
prominent personage. The inhabitants of this country, as no doubt you
are aware, sir, are peculiarly addicted to shaking hands with prominent
personages. It occurred to me that Mr Bickersteth or yourself might
know of persons who would be willing to pay a small fee--let us say
two dollars or three--for the privilege of an introduction, including
handshake, to His Grace.'
Bicky didn't seem to think much of it.
'Do you mean to say that anyone would be mug enough to part with solid
cash just to shake hands with my uncle?'
'I have an aunt, sir, who paid five shillings to a young fellow for
bringing a moving-picture actor to tea at her house one Sunday. It gave
her social standing among the neighbours.'
Bicky wavered.
'If you think it could be done--'
'I feel convinced of it, sir.'
'What do you think, Bertie?'
'I'm for it, old boy, absolutely. A very brainy wheeze.'
'Thank you, sir. Will there be anything further? Good night, sir.'
And he flitted out, leaving us to discuss details.
* * * * *
Until we started this business of floating old Chiswick as a
money-making proposition I had never realized what a perfectly foul
time those Stock Exchange fellows must have when the public isn't
biting freely. Nowadays I read that bit they put in the financial
reports about 'The market opened quietly' with a sympathetic eye, for,
by Jove, it certainly opened quietly for us. You'd hardly believe how
difficult it was to interest the public and make them take a flutter on
the old boy. By the end of a week the only name we had on our list was
a delicatessen-store keeper down in Bicky's part of the town, and as he
wanted us to take it out in sliced ham instead of cash that didn't help
much. There was a gleam of light when the brother of Bicky's pawnbroker
offered ten dollars, money down, for an introduction to old Chiswick,
but the deal fell through, owing to its turning out that the chap was
an anarchist and intended to kick the old boy instead of shaking hands
with him. At that, it took me the deuce of a time to persuade Bicky not
to grab the cash and let things take their course. He seemed to regard
the pawnbroker's brother rather as a sportsman and benefactor of his
species than otherwise.
The whole thing, I'm inclined to think, would have been off if it
hadn't been for Jeeves. There is no doubt that Jeeves is in a class of
his own. In the matter of brain and resource I don't think I have ever
met a chappie so supremely like mother made. He trickled into my room
one morning with the good old cup of tea, and intimated that there was
something doing.
'Might I speak to you with regard to that matter of His Grace, sir?'
'It's all off. We've decided to chuck it.'
'Sir?'
'It won't work. We can't get anybody to come.'
'I fancy I can arrange that aspect of the matter, sir.'
'Do you mean to say you've managed to get anybody?'
'Yes, sir. Eighty-seven gentlemen from Birdsburg, sir.' I sat up in bed
and spilt the tea.
'Birdsburg?'
'Birdsburg, Missouri, sir.'
'How did you get them?'
'I happened last night, sir, as you had intimated that you would be
absent from home, to attend a theatrical performance, and entered
into conversation between the acts with the occupant of the adjoining
seat. I had observed that he was wearing a somewhat ornate decoration
in his buttonhole, sir--a large blue button with the words "Boost
for Birdsburg" upon it in red letters, scarcely a judicious addition
to a gentleman's evening costume. To my surprise I noticed that the
auditorium was full of persons similarly decorated. I ventured to
inquire the explanation, and was informed that these gentlemen, forming
a party of eighty-seven, are a convention from a town of the name
of Birdsburg in the State of Missouri. Their visit, I gathered, was
purely of a social and pleasurable nature, and my informant spoke at
some length of the entertainments arranged for their stay in the city.
It was when he related with a considerable amount of satisfaction and
pride that a deputation of their number had been introduced to and had
shaken hands with a well-known prize-fighter that it occurred to me
to broach the subject of His Grace. To make a long story short, sir,
I have arranged, subject to your approval, that the entire convention
shall be presented to His Grace tomorrow afternoon.'