The Jeeves Omnibus (314 page)

I should imagine that if there’s one thing that makes a fellow forget that he’s in holy orders, it’s a crisp punch on the beezer. A moment
before,
Stinker had been all concern about the disapproval of his superiors in the cloth, but now, as I read his mind, he was saying to himself ‘To hell with my superiors in the cloth,’ or however a curate would put it, ‘Let them eat cake.’

It was a superb spectacle while it lasted, and I was able to understand what people meant when they spoke of the Church Militant. A good deal to my regret it did not last long. Spode was full of the will to win, but Stinker had the science. It was not for nothing that he had added a Boxing Blue to his Football Blue when at the old Alma Mater. There was a brief mix-up, and the next thing one observed was Spode on the ground, looking like a corpse which had been in the water several days. His left eye was swelling visibly, and a referee could have counted a hundred over him without eliciting a response.

Stiffy, with a brief ‘At-a-boy!’, led Stinker off, no doubt to bathe his nose and staunch the vital flow, which was considerable, and I handed Gussie his glasses. He stood twiddling them in a sort of trance, and I made a suggestion which I felt was in his best interests.

‘Not presuming to dictate, Gussie, but wouldn’t it be wise to remove yourself before Spode comes to? From what I know of him, I think he’s one of those fellows who wake up cross.’

I have seldom seen anyone move quicker. We were out of the yew alley, if it was a yew alley, or the rhododendron walk, if that’s what it was, almost before the words had left my lips. We continued to set a good pace, but eventually we slowed up a bit, and he was able to comment on the recent scene.

‘That was a ghastly experience, Bertie,’ he said.

‘Can’t have been at all pleasant,’ I agreed.

‘My whole past life seemed to flash before me.’

‘That’s odd. You weren’t drowning.’

‘No, but the principle’s the same. I can tell you I was thankful when Pinker made his presence felt. What a splendid chap he is.’

‘One of the best.’

‘That’s what today’s Church needs, more curates capable of hauling off and letting fellows like Spode have it where it does most good. One feels so safe when he’s around.’

I put a point which seemed to have escaped his notice.

‘But he won’t always be around. He has Infants Bible Classes and Mothers Meetings and all that sort of thing to occupy his time. And don’t forget that Spode, though crushed to earth, will rise again.’

His jaw sagged a bit.

‘I never thought of that.’

‘If you take my advice, you’ll clear out and go underground for a while. Stiffy would lend you her car.’

‘I believe you’re right,’ he said, adding something about out of the mouths of babes and sucklings which I thought a bit offensive. ‘I’ll leave this evening.’

‘Without saying goodbye.’

‘Of course without saying goodbye. No, don’t go that way. Keep bearing to the left. I want to go to the kitchen garden. I told Em I’d meet her there.’

‘You told
who
?’

‘Emerald Stoker. Who did you think I meant? She had to go to the kitchen garden and gather beans and things for tonight’s dinner.’

And there, sure enough, she was with a large basin in her hands, busy about her domestic duties.

‘Here’s Bertie, Em,’ said Gussie, and she whisked round, spilling a bean or two.

I was disturbed to see how every freckle on her face lit up as she looked at him, as if she were gazing on some lovely sight, which was far from being the case. In me she didn’t seem much interested. A brief ‘Hullo, Bertie’ appeared to cover it as far as I was concerned, her whole attention being earmarked for Gussie. She was staring at him as a mother might have stared at a loved child who had shown up at the home after a clash with one of the neighbourhood children. Until then I had been too agitated to notice how dishevelled his encounter with Spode had left him, but I now saw that his general appearance was that of something that has been passed through a wringer.

‘What …
what
have you been doing to yourself?’ she ejaculated, if that’s the word. ‘You look like a devastated area.’

‘Inevitable in the circs,’ I said. ‘He’s been having a spot of unpleasantness with Spode.’

‘Is that the man you were telling me about? The human gorilla?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What happened?’

‘Spode tried to shake the stuffing out of him.’

‘You poor precious lambkin,’ said Emerald, addressing Gussie, not me. ‘Gosh, I wish I had him here for a minute. I’d teach him!’

And by what I have always thought an odd coincidence her wish was granted. A crashing sound like that made by a herd of hippopotami going through the reeds on a river bank attracted my notice and I beheld Spode approaching at a rate of knots with the obvious intention of resuming at as early a date as possible his investigations into the colour of Gussie’s insides which Stinker’s intervention had compelled
him
to file under the head of unfinished business. In predicting that this menace, though crushed to earth, would rise again, I had been perfectly correct.

There seemed to me a strong resemblance in the newcomer’s manner to that of those Assyrians who, so we learn from sources close to them, came down like a wolf on the fold with their cohorts all gleaming with purple and gold. He could have walked straight into their camp, and they would have laid down the red carpet for him, recognizing him instantly as one of the boys.

But where the Assyrians had had the bulge on him was that they weren’t going to find in the fold a motherly young woman with strong wrists and a basin in her hands. This basin appeared to be constructed of some thickish form of china, and as Spode grabbed Gussie and started to go into the old shaking routine it descended on the back of his head with what some call a dull and others a sickening thud. It broke into several fragments, but by that time its mission had been accomplished. His powers of resistance sapped, no doubt, by his recent encounter with the Rev. H.P. Pinker, Spode fell to earth he knew not where and lay there looking peaceful. I remember thinking at the time that this was not his lucky day, and it just showed, I thought, that it’s always a mistake to be a louse in human shape, as he had been from birth, because sooner or later retribution is bound to overtake you. As I recall Jeeves putting it once, the mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small, or words to that effect.

For a space Emerald Stoker stood surveying her handiwork with a satisfied smile on her face, and I didn’t blame her for looking a bit smug, for she had unquestionably fought the good fight. Then suddenly, with a quick ‘Oh, golly!’ she was off like a nymph surprised while bathing, and a moment later I understood what had caused this mobility. She had seen Madeline Bassett approaching, and no cook likes to have to explain to her employer why she has been bonneting her employer’s guests with china basins.

As Madeline’s eyes fell on the remains, they widened to the size of golf balls and she looked at Gussie as if he had been a mass murderer she wasn’t very fond of.

‘What have you been doing to Roderick?’ she demanded.

‘Eh?’ said Gussie.

‘I said, What have you done to Roderick?’

Gussie adjusted his spectacles and shrugged a shoulder.

‘Oh, that? I merely chastised him. The fellow had only himself to blame. He asked for it, and I had to teach him a lesson.’

‘You brute!’

‘Not at all. He had the option of withdrawing. He must have foreseen what would happen when he saw me remove my glasses. When I remove my glasses, those who know what’s good for them take to the hills.’

‘I hate you, I hate you!’ cried Madeline, a thing I didn’t know anyone ever said except in the second act of a musical comedy.

‘You do?’ said Gussie.

‘Yes, I do. I loathe you.’

‘Then in that case,’ said Gussie, ‘I shall now eat a ham sandwich.’

And this he proceeded to do with a sort of wolfish gusto that sent cold shivers down my spine, and Madeline shrieked sharply.

‘This is the end!’ she said, another thing you don’t often hear.

When things between two once loving hearts have hotted up to this extent, it is always the prudent course for the innocent bystander to edge away, and this I did. I started back to the house, and in the drive I met Jeeves. He was at the wheel of Stiffy’s car. Beside him, looking like a Scotch elder rebuking sin, was the dog Bartholomew.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘I have been taking this little fellow to the veterinary surgeon. Miss Byng was uneasy because he bit Mr. Fink-Nottle. She was afraid he might have caught something. I am glad to say the surgeon has given him a clean bill of health.’

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘I have a tale of horror to relate.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘The lute is mute,’ I said, and as briefly as possible put him in possession of the facts. When I had finished, he agreed that it was most disturbing.

‘But I fear there is nothing to be done, sir.’

I reeled. I have grown so accustomed to seeing Jeeves solve every problem, however sticky, that this frank confession of his inability to deliver the goods unmanned me.

‘You’re baffled?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘At a loss?’

‘Precisely, sir. Possibly at some future date a means of adjusting matters will occur to me, but at the moment, I regret to say, I can think of nothing. I am sorry, sir.’

I shrugged the shoulders. The iron had entered into my soul, but the upper lip was stiff.

‘It’s all right, Jeeves. Not your fault if a thing like this lays you a stymie. Drive on, Jeeves,’ I said, and he drove on. The dog Bartholomew gave me an unpleasantly superior look as they moved off, as if asking me if I were saved.

I pushed along to my room, the only spot in this joint of terror where anything in the nature of peace and quiet was to be had, not that even there one got much of it. The fierce rush of life at Totleigh Towers had got me down, and I wanted to be alone.

I suppose I must have sat there for more than half an hour, trying to think what was to be done for the best, and then out of what I have heard Jeeves describe as the welter of emotions one coherent thought emerged, and that was that if I didn’t shortly get a snifter, I would expire in my tracks. It was now the cocktail hour, and I knew that, whatever his faults, Sir Watkyn Bassett provided aperitifs for his guests. True, I had promised Stiffy that I would avoid his society, but I had not anticipated then that this emergency would arise. It was a straight choice between betraying her trust and perishing where I sat, and I decided on the former alternative.

I found Pop Bassett in the drawing-room with a well-laden tray at his elbow and hurried forward, licking my lips. To say that he looked glad to see me would be overstating it, but he offered me a life-saver and I accepted it gratefully. An awkward silence of about twenty minutes followed, and then, just as I had finished my second and was fishing for the olive, Stiffy entered. She gave me a quick reproachful look, and I could see that her trust in Bertram’s promises would never be the same again, but it was to Pop Bassett that she directed her attention.

‘Hullo, Uncle Watkyn.’

‘Good evening, my dear.’

‘Having a spot before dinner?’

‘I am.’

‘You think you are,’ said Stiffy, ‘but you aren’t, and I’ll tell you why. There isn’t going to be any dinner. The cook’s eloped with Gussie Fink-Nottle.’

I WONDER IF
you have ever noticed a rather peculiar thing, viz. how differently the same news item can affect two different people? I mean, you tell something to Jones and Brown, let us say, and while Jones sits plunged in gloom and looking licked to a splinter, Brown gives three rousing cheers and goes into a buck-and-wing dance. And the same thing is true of Smith and Robinson. Often struck me as curious, that has.

It was so now. Listening to the recent heated exchanges between Madeline Bassett and Gussie hadn’t left me what you might call optimistic, but the heart bowed down with weight of woe to weakest hope will cling, as the fellow said, and I had tried to tell myself that their mutual love, though admittedly having taken it on the chin at the moment, might eventually get cracking again, causing all to be forgotten and forgiven. I mean to say, remorse has frequently been known to set in after a dust-up between a couple of troth-plighters, with all that Sorry-I-was-cross and Can-you-ever-forgive-me stuff, and love, after being down in the cellar for a time with no takers, perks up and carries on again as good as new. Oh, blessings on the falling-out that all the more endears is the way I heard Jeeves put it once.

But at Stiffy’s words this hope collapsed as if it had been struck on the back of the head with a china basin containing beans, and I sank forward in my chair, the face buried in the hands. It is always my policy to look on the bright side, but in order to do this you have to have a bright side to look on, and under existing conditions there wasn’t one. This, as Madeline Bassett would have said, was the end. I had come to this house as a raisonneur to bring the young folks together, but however much of a raisonneur you are, you can’t bring young folks together if one of them elopes with somebody else. You are not merely hampered, but shackled. So now, as I say, I sank forward in my chair, the f. buried in the h.

To Pop Bassett, on the other hand, this bit of front page news had plainly come as rare and refreshing fruit. My face being buried as
stated,
I couldn’t see if he went into a buck-and-wing dance, but I should think it highly probable that he did a step or two, for when he spoke you could tell from the timbre of his voice that he was feeling about as pepped up as a man can feel without bursting.

One could understand his fizziness, of course. Of all the prospective sons-in-law in existence, Gussie, with the possible exception of Bertram Wooster, was the one he would have chosen last. He had viewed him with concern from the start, and if he had been living back in the days when fathers called the shots in the matter of their daughters’ marriages, would have forbidden the banns without a second thought.