My Man Jeeves - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best ereader for pc .TXT) 📗
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
- Performer: 1933652217
Book online «My Man Jeeves - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best ereader for pc .TXT) 📗». Author Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
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 free 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 chappie is rummy to a degree. You’re sitting
in the old armchair, 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.”
“Jeeves, Mr. Bickersteth is still up the pole. Any ideas?”
“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 floated 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 chappies 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 the
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 a 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 if
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 prizefighter, 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 to-morrow afternoon.”
I was amazed. This chappie was a Napoleon.
“Eighty-seven, Jeeves. At how much a head?”
“I was obliged to agree to a reduction for quantity, sir. The terms
finally arrived at were one hundred and fifty dollars for the party.”
I thought a bit.
“Payable in advance?”
“No, sir. I endeavoured to obtain payment in advance, but was not
successful.”
“Well, any way, when we get it I’ll make it up to five hundred.
Bicky’ll never know. Do you suspect Mr. Bickersteth would suspect
anything, Jeeves, if I made it up to five hundred?”
“I fancy not, sir. Mr. Bickersteth is an agreeable gentleman, but not
bright.”
“All right, then. After breakfast run down to the bank and get me some
money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, you’re a bit of a marvel, Jeeves.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Right-o!”
“Very good, sir.”
When I took dear old Bicky aside in the course of the morning and told
him what had happened he nearly broke down. He tottered into the
sitting-room and buttonholed old Chiswick, who was reading the comic
section of the morning paper with a kind of grim resolution.
“Uncle,” he said, “are you doing anything special to-morrow afternoon?
I mean to say, I’ve asked a few of my pals in to meet you, don’t you
know.”
The old boy cocked a speculative eye at him.
“There will be no reporters among them?”
“Reporters? Rather not! Why?”
“I refuse to be badgered by reporters. There were a number of adhesive
young men who endeavoured to elicit from me my views on America while
the boat was approaching the dock. I will not be subjected to this
persecution again.”
“That’ll be absolutely all right, uncle. There won’t be a newspaper-man
in the place.”
“In that case I shall be glad to make the acquaintance of your
friends.”
“You’ll shake hands with them and so forth?”
“I shall naturally order my behaviour according to the accepted rules
of civilized intercourse.”
Bicky thanked him heartily and came off to lunch with me at the club,
where he babbled freely of hens, incubators, and other rotten things.
After mature consideration we had decided to unleash the Birdsburg
contingent on the old boy ten at a time. Jeeves brought his theatre pal
round to see us, and we arranged the whole thing with him. A very
decent chappie, but rather inclined to collar the conversation and turn
it in the direction of his home-town’s new water-supply system. We
settled that, as an hour was about all he would be likely to stand,
each gang should consider itself entitled to seven minutes of the
duke’s society by Jeeves’s stop-watch, and that when their time was up
Jeeves should slide into the room and cough meaningly. Then we parted
with what I believe are called mutual expressions of goodwill, the
Birdsburg chappie extending a cordial invitation to us all to pop out
some day and take a look at the new water-supply system, for which we
thanked him.
Next day the deputation rolled in. The first shift consisted of the
cove we had met and nine others almost exactly like him in every
respect. They all looked deuced keen and businesslike, as if from youth
up they had been working in the office and catching the boss’s eye and
whatnot. They shook hands with the old boy with a good deal of
apparent satisfaction—all except one chappie, who seemed to be
brooding about something—and then they stood off and became chatty.
“What message have you for Birdsburg, Duke?” asked our pal.
The old boy seemed a bit rattled.
“I have never been to Birdsburg.”
The chappie seemed pained.
“You should pay it a visit,” he said. “The most rapidly-growing city in
the country. Boost for Birdsburg!”
“Boost for Birdsburg!” said the other chappies reverently.
The chappie who had been brooding suddenly gave tongue.
“Say!”
He was a stout sort of well-fed cove with one of those determined chins
and
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