The evidence was all in. The machinery of the law had worked without a
hitch. And the beak, having adjusted a pair of pince-nez which looked
as though they were going to do a nose dive any moment, coughed like
a pained sheep and slipped us the bad news. 'The prisoner, Wooster,'
he said--and who can paint the shame and agony of Bertram at hearing
himself so described?--'will pay a fine of five pounds.'
'Oh, rather!' I said. 'Absolutely! Like a shot!'
I was dashed glad to get the thing settled at such a reasonable figure.
I gazed across what they call the sea of faces till I picked up Jeeves,
sitting at the back. Stout fellow, he had come to see the young master
through his hour of trial.
'I say, Jeeves,' I sang out, 'have you got a fiver? I'm a bit short.'
'Silence!' bellowed some officious blighter.
'It's all right,' I said; 'just arranging the financial details. Got
the stuff, Jeeves?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good egg!'
'Are you a friend of the prisoner?' asked the beak.
'I am in Mr Wooster's employment, Your Worship, in the capacity of
gentleman's personal gentleman.'
'Then pay the fine to the clerk.'
'Very good, Your Worship.'
The beak gave a coldish nod in my direction, as much as to say that
they might now strike the fetters from my wrists; and having hitched up
the pince-nez once more, proceeded to hand poor old Sippy one of the
nastiest looks ever seen in Bosher Street Police Court.
'The case of the prisoner Leon Trotzky--which,' he said, giving
Sippy the eye again, 'I am strongly inclined to think an assumed and
fictitious name--is more serious. He has been convicted of a wanton and
violent assault upon the police. The evidence of the officer has proved
that the prisoner struck him in the abdomen, causing severe internal
pain, and in other ways interfered with him in the execution of his
duties. I am aware that on the night following the annual aquatic
contest between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge a certain
licence is traditionally granted by the authorities, but aggravated
acts of ruffianly hooliganism like that of the prisoner Trotzky cannot
be overlooked or palliated. He will serve a sentence of thirty days in
the Second Division without the option of a fine.'
'No, I say--here--hi--dash it all!' protested poor old Sippy.
'Silence!' bellowed the officious blighter.
'Next case,' said the beak. And that was that.
* * * * *
The whole affair was most unfortunate. Memory is a trifle blurred; but
as far as I can piece together the facts, what happened was more or
less this:
Abstemious cove though I am as a general thing, there is one night in
the year when, putting all other engagements aside, I am rather apt to
let myself go a bit and renew my lost youth, as it were. The night to
which I allude is the one following the annual aquatic contest between
the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge; or, putting it another
way, Boat-Race Night. Then, if ever, you will see Bertram under the
influence. And on this occasion, I freely admit, I had been doing
myself rather juicily, with the result that when I ran into old Sippy
opposite the Empire I was in quite fairly bonhomous mood. This being
so, it cut me to the quick to perceive that Sippy, generally the
brightest of revellers, was far from being his usual sunny self. He had
the air of a man with a secret sorrow.
'Bertie,' he said as we strolled along towards Piccadilly Circus, 'the
heart bowed down by weight of woe to weakest hope will cling.' Sippy is
by way of being an author, though mainly dependent for the necessaries
of life on subsidies from an old aunt who lives in the country, and
his conversation often takes a literary turn. 'But the trouble is that
I have no hope to cling to, weak or otherwise. I am up against it,
Bertie.'
'In what way, laddie?'
'I've got to go tomorrow and spend three weeks with some absolutely
dud--I will go further--some positively scaly friends of my Aunt Vera.
She has fixed the thing up, and may a nephew's curse blister every bulb
in her garden.'
'Who are these hounds of hell?' I asked.
'Some people named Pringle. I haven't seen them since I was ten, but I
remember them at that time striking me as England's premier warts.'
'Tough luck. No wonder you've lost your morale.'
'The world,' said Sippy, 'is very grey. How can I shake off this awful
depression?'
It was then that I got one of those bright ideas one does get round
about 11.30 on Boat-Race Night.
'What you want, old man,' I said, 'is a policeman's helmet.'
'Do I, Bertie?'
'If I were you, I'd just step straight across the street and get that
one over there.'
'But there's a policeman inside it. You can see him distinctly.'
'What does that matter?' I said. I simply couldn't follow his reasoning.
Sippy stood for a moment in thought.
'I believe you're absolutely right,' he said at last. 'Funny I never
thought of it before. You really recommend me to get that helmet?'
'I do, indeed.'
'Then I will,' said Sippy, brightening up in the most remarkable manner.
* * * * *
So there you have the posish, and you can see why, as I left the dock a
free man, remorse gnawed at my vitals. In his twenty-fifth year, with
life opening out before him and all that sort of thing, Oliver Randolph
Sipperley had become a jail-bird, and it was all my fault. It was I who
had dragged that fine spirit down into the mire, so to speak, and the
question now arose, What could I do to atone?
Obviously the first move must be to get in touch with Sippy and see if
he had any last messages and what-not. I pushed about a bit, making
inquiries, and presently found myself in a little dark room with
whitewashed walls and a wooden bench. Sippy was sitting on the bench
with his head in his hands.
'How are you, old lad?' I asked in a hushed, bedside voice.
'I'm a ruined man,' said Sippy, looking like a poached egg.
'Oh, come,' I said, 'it's not so bad as all that. I mean to say,
you had the swift intelligence to give a false name. There won't be
anything about you in the papers.'
'I'm not worrying about the papers. What's bothering me is, how can I
go and spend three weeks with the Pringles, starting today, when I've
got to sit in a prison cell with a ball and chain on my ankle?'
'But you said you didn't want to go.'
'It isn't a question of wanting, fathead. I've got to go. If I don't
my aunt will find out where I am. And if she finds out that I am doing
thirty days, without the option, in the lowest dungeon beneath the
castle moat--well, where shall I get off?'