'Jeeves,' I said, 'I wronged you.'
'Not at all, sir.'
'Yes, I did. I wronged you. I had a notion that you had given yourself
up entirely to the pleasures of the seaside and had chucked that
business altogether. I might have known better. Tell me all, Jeeves.'
He bowed in a gratified manner. I beamed. And, while we didn't actually
fall on each other's necks, we gave each other to understand that all
was well once more.
'In this super-super-film _Tiny Hands_, sir,' said Jeeves, 'the parents
of the child had, as I say, drifted apart.'
'Drifted apart,' I said, nodding. 'Right! And then?'
'Came a day, sir, when their little child brought them together again.'
'How?'
'If I remember rightly, sir, he said, "Dadda, doesn't 'oo love mummie
no more?"'
'And then?'
'They exhibited a good deal of emotion. There was what I believe is
termed a cut-back, showing scenes from their courtship and early
married life and some glimpses of Lovers Through the Ages, and the
picture concluded with a close-up of the pair in an embrace, with
the child looking on with natural gratification and an organ playing
"Hearts and Flowers" in the distance.'
'Proceed, Jeeves,' I said. 'You interest me strangely. I begin to grasp
the idea. You mean--?'
'I mean, sir, that, with this young gentleman on the premises, it might
be possible to arrange a _dénouement_ of a somewhat similar nature in
regard to Mr Bullivant and Miss Vickers.'
'Aren't you overlooking the fact that this kid is no relation of Mr
Bullivant or Miss Vickers?'
'Even with that handicap, sir, I fancy that good results might ensue. I
think that, if it were possible to bring Mr Bullivant and Miss Vickers
together for a short space of time in the presence of the child, sir,
and if the child were to say something of a touching nature--'
'I follow you absolutely, Jeeves,' I cried with enthusiasm. 'It's big.
This is the way I see it. We lay the scene in this room. Child, centre.
Girl, l.c. Freddie up stage, playing the piano. No, that won't do.
He can only play a little of "The Rosary" with one finger, so we'll
have to cut out the soft music. But the rest's all right. Look here,'
I said. 'This inkpot is Miss Vickers. This mug with "A Present from
Marvis Bay" on it is the child. This penwiper is Mr Bullivant. Start
with dialogue leading up to child's line. Child speaks line, let us
say, "Boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?" Business of outstretched
hands. Hold picture for a moment. Freddie crosses l. takes girl's hand.
Business of swallowing lump in throat. Then big speech: "Ah, Elizabeth,
has not this misunderstanding of ours gone on too long? See! A little
child rebukes us!" And so on. I'm just giving you the general outline.
Freddie must work up his own part. And we must get a good line for the
child. "Boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?" isn't definite enough. We
want something more--'
'If I might make the suggestion, sir--?'
'Yes?'
'I would advocate the words "Kiss Freddie!" It is short, readily
memorized, and has what I believe is technically termed the punch.'
'Genius, Jeeves!'
'Thank you very much, sir.'
'"Kiss Freddie!" it is, then. But, I say, Jeeves, how the deuce are
we to get them together in here? Miss Vickers cuts Mr Bullivant. She
wouldn't come within a mile of him.'
'It is awkward, sir.'
'It doesn't matter. We shall have to make it an exterior set instead
of an interior. We can easily corner her on the beach somewhere, when
we're ready. Meanwhile, we must get the kid word-perfect.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right! First rehearsal for lines and business at eleven sharp tomorrow
morning.'
* * * * *
Poor old Freddie was in such a gloomy frame of mind that I decided
not to tell him the idea till we had finished coaching the child. He
wasn't in the mood to have a thing like that hanging over him. So we
concentrated on Tootles. And pretty early in the proceedings we saw
that the only way to get Tootles worked up to the spirit of the thing
was to introduce sweets of some sort as a sub-motive, so to speak.
'The chief difficulty, sir,' said Jeeves, at the end of the first
rehearsal, 'is, as I envisage it, to establish in the young gentleman's
mind a connexion between the words we desire him to say and the
refreshment.'
'Exactly,' I said. 'Once the blighter has grasped the basic fact that
these two words, clearly spoken, result automatically in chocolate
nougat, we have got a success.'
I've often thought how interesting it must be to be one of those
animal-trainer blokes--to stimulate the dawning intelligence and all
that. Well, this was every bit as exciting. Some days success seemed to
be staring us in the eyeball, and the kid got out the line as if he had
been an old professional. And then he would go all to pieces again. And
time was flying.
'We must hurry up, Jeeves,' I said. 'The kid's uncle may arrive any day
now and take him away.'
'Exactly, sir.'
'And we have no understudy.'
'Very true, sir.'
'We must work! I must say this child is a bit discouraging at times. I
should have thought a deaf-mute would have learned his part by now.'
I will say this for the kid, though: he was a trier. Failure didn't
damp him. Whenever there was any kind of sweet in sight he had a dash
at his line, and kept saying something till he had got what he was
after. His chief fault was his uncertainty. Personally, I would have
been prepared to risk opening in the act and was ready to start the
public performance at the first opportunity, but Jeeves said no.
'I would not advocate undue haste, sir,' he said. 'As long as the young
gentleman's memory refuses to act with any certainty, we are running
grave risks of failure. Today, if you recollect, sir, he said "Kick
Freddie!" That is not a speech to win a young lady's heart, sir.'
'No. And she might do it, too. You're right. We must postpone
production.'
But, by Jove, we didn't! The curtain went up the very next afternoon.
* * * * *
It was nobody's fault--certainly not mine. It was just fate. Jeeves was
out, and I was alone in the house with Freddie and the child. Freddie
had just settled down at the piano, and I was leading the kid out of
the place for a bit of exercise, when, just as we'd got on to the
veranda, along came the girl Elizabeth on her way to the beach. And at
the sight of her the kid set up a matey yell, and she stopped at the
foot of the steps.
'Hallo, baby,' she said. 'Good morning,' she said to me. 'May I come
up?'
She didn't wait for an answer. She just hopped on to the veranda. She
seemed to be that sort of girl. She started fussing over the child. And
six feet away, mind you, Freddie smiting the piano in the sitting-room.
It was a dashed disturbing situation, take it from Bertram. At any
minute Freddie might take it into his head to come out on the veranda,
and I hadn't even begun to rehearse him in his part.