Thank You, Jeeves:

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'Yes, sir. Unless—'

  'Unless?'

  'Well, I was wondering, sir, if on the whole it would not be best if you were to obviate all unpleasantness and embarrassment by removing yourself from the yacht.'

  'What!'

  'Yacht, sir.'

  'I know you said "Yacht". And I said "What!" Jeeves,' I went on, and there was a quiver in the voice, 'it is not like you to come in here at a crisis like this with straws in your hair and talk absolute drip. How the devil can I leave the yacht?'

  'The matter could be readily arranged, if you are agreeable, sir. It would, of course, involve certain inconveniences ...'

  'Jeeves,' I said, 'short of squeezing through the port-hole, which can't be done, I am ready to undergo any little passing inconvenience if it will get me off this bally floating dungeon and restore me to terra firma.' I paused and regarded him anxiously. 'This is not mere gibbering, is it? You really have a scheme?'

  'Yes, sir. The reason I hesitated to advance it was that I feared you might not approve of the idea of covering your face with boot polish.'

  'What!'

  'Time being of the essence, sir, I think it would not be advisable to employ burnt cork.'

  I turned my face to the wall. It was the end.

  'Leave me, Jeeves,' I said. 'You've been having a couple.'

  And I'm not sure that what cut me like a knife, more even than any agony at my fearful predicament, was not the realization that my original suspicions had been correct and that, after all these years, that superb brain had at last come unstuck. For, though I had tactfully affected to set all this talk of burnt cork and boot polish down to mere squiffiness, in my heart I was convinced that the fellow had gone off his onion.

  He coughed.

  'If you will permit me to explain, sir. The entertainers are just concluding their performance. In a short time they will be leaving the boat.'

  I sat up. Hope dawned once more, and remorse gnawed me like a bull pup worrying a rubber bone at the thought that I should have so misjudged this man. I saw what that giant brain was driving at.

  'You mean—?'

  'I have a small tin of boot polish here, sir. I brought it with me in anticipation of this move. It would be a simple task to apply it to your face and hands in such a manner as to create the illusion, should you encounter Mr Stoker, that you were a member of this troupe of negroid entertainers.'

  'Jeeves!'

  'The suggestion I would make, sir, is that, if you are amenable to what I propose, we should wait until these black-faced persons have left for the shore. I could then inform the captain that one of them, a personal friend of mine, had lingered behind to talk with me and so had missed the motor launch. I have little doubt that he would accord me permission to row you ashore in one of the smaller boats.'

  I stared at the man. Years of intimate acquaintance, the memory of swift ones he had pulled in the past, the knowledge that he lived largely on fish, thus causing his brain to be about as full of phosphorus as the human brain can jolly well stick, had not prepared me for this supreme effort.

  'Jeeves,' I said, 'as I have so often had occasion to say before, you stand alone.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Others abide our question. Thou art free.'

  'I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.'

  'You think it would work?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'The scheme carries your personal guarantee?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And you say you have the stuff handy?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  I flung myself into a chair and turned the features ceiling-wards.

  'Then start smearing, Jeeves,' I said, 'and continue to smear till your trained senses tell you that you have smeared enough.'

  13 A VALET EXCEEDS HIS DUTIES

  I must say, as a general rule, I always bar stories where the chap who's telling them skips lightly from point to point and leaves you to work it out for yourself as best you can just what has happened in the interim. I mean to say, the sort of story where Chapter Ten ends with the hero trapped in the underground den and Chapter Eleven starts with him being the life and soul of a gay party at the Spanish Embassy. And, strictly speaking, I suppose, I ought at this juncture to describe step by step the various moves which led me to safety and freedom, if you see what I mean.

  But when a tactician like Jeeves is in charge of the arrangements, it all seems so unnecessary. Simply a waste of time. If Jeeves sets out to shift a fellow from Spot A to Spot B, from a state-room on a yacht, for instance, to the shore in front of his cottage, he just does it. No hitches. No difficulties. No fuss. No excitement. Absolutely nothing to report. I mean, one just reaches for the nearest tin of boot polish, blacks one's face, strolls across the deck, saunters down the gangway, waves a genial farewell to such members of the crew as may be leaning over the side, spitting into the water, steps into a boat, and in about ten minutes there one is, sniffing the cool night air on the mainland. A smooth bit of work.

  I mentioned this to Jeeves as we tied up at the landing stage, and he said it was extremely kind of me to say so.

  'Not at all, Jeeves,' I said. 'I repeat. An exceedingly smooth bit of work, and a credit to you.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Thank you, Jeeves. And now what?'

  We had left the landing stage and were standing on the road that ran past my garden gate. All was still. The stars twinkled above. We were alone with Nature. There was not even a sign of Police Sergeant Voules or Constable Dobson. Chuffnell Regis slept, as you might say. And yet, looking at my watch, I found that the hour was only a few minutes after nine. It gave me quite a start, I recall. What with stress of emotion, so to speak, and the spirit having been on the rack, as it were, I had got the impression that the night was particularly well advanced, and wouldn't have been surprised to find it one in the morning.

  'And now what, Jeeves?' I said.

  I noted a soft smile playing over the finely chiselled face and resented same. I was grateful to the man, of course, for having saved me from the fate that is worse than death, but one has to check this sort of thing. I gave him one of my looks.

  'Something is tickling you, Jeeves?' I said, coldly.

  'I beg your pardon, sir. I had not intended to betray amusement, but I could not help being a little entertained by your appearance. It is somewhat odd, sir.'

  'Most people would look somewhat odd with boot polish all over them, Jeeves.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Greta Garbo, to name but one.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Or Dean Inge.'

  'Very true, sir.'

  'Then spare me these personal comments, Jeeves, and reply to my question.'

  'I fear I have forgotten what it was that you asked me, sir.'

  'My question was – and is – "Now what?"'

  'You desire a suggestion respecting your next move, sir?'

  'I do.'

  'I would advise repairing to your cottage, sir, and cleansing your face and hands.'

  'So far, sound. It is just what I was thinking of doing.'

  'After which, if I might hazard the advice, sir, I think it would be well if you were to catch the next train to London.'

  'Again, sound.'

  'Once there, sir, I would advocate a visit to some Continental resort, such as Paris or Berlin or even, perhaps, as far afield as Italy.'

  'Or Sunny Spain?'

  'Yes, sir. Possibly Spain.'

  'Or even Egypt?'

  'You would find Egypt somewhat warm at this season of the year, sir.'

  'Not half so warm as England, if Pop Stoker re-establishes connection.'

  'Very true, sir.'

  'There's a lad, Jeeves! There's a tough citizen! There's a fellow who chews broken glass and drives nails into the back of his neck instead of using a collar stud!'

  'Mr Stoker's personality is decidedly forceful, sir.'

  'Bless my soul, Jeeves, I can remember the time when I thought Sir Roder
ick Glossop a man-eater. And even my Aunt Agatha. They pale in comparison, Jeeves. Positively pale. Which brings us to a consideration of your position. Do you intend to go back to the yacht and continue mingling with that gruesome bird?'

  'No, sir. I fancy Mr Stoker would not receive me cordially. It will be readily apparent to a gentleman of his intelligence, when he discovers your flight, that I must have been instrumental in assisting you to leave the boat. I shall return to his lordship's employment, sir.'

  'He'll be glad to get you back.'

  'It is very kind of you to say so, sir.'

  'Not at all, Jeeves. Anybody would be.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Then you'll push on to the Hall?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'A very hearty good night, then. I will drop you a line to let you know where I am and how I have made out.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Thank you, Jeeves. There will be a slight testimonial of my appreciation wedged into the envelope.'

  'Extremely generous of you, sir.'

  'Generous, Jeeves? Do you realize that if it hadn't been for you I should now be behind locked doors on that bloodsome yacht? But you know how I feel.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'By the way, is there a train to London to-night?'

  'Yes, sir. The 10.21. You should be able to catch it comfortably, sir. I fear it is not an express.'

  I waved a hand.

  'As long as it moves, Jeeves, as long as the wheels revolve and it trickles from point to point, it will do me nicely. Good night, then.'

  'Good night, sir.'

  It was with uplifted heart that I entered the cottage. Nor was my satisfaction lessened by the discovery that Brinkley had not yet returned. As an employer, I might look a bit askance at the idea of the blighter being given the evening off and taking a night and a day, but in the capacity of a private citizen with boot polish on his face, I was all for it. On such occasions, solitude is, as Jeeves would have said, of the essence.

  I went up to the bedroom with all possible speed, and poured water from the jug into the basin, bath-rooms not being provided in Chuffy's little homes. This done, I dipped the face and instituted a hearty soaping. Then, having rinsed thoroughly, I moved to the mirror, and picture my chagrin and dismay when I discovered that I was still as black as ever. You might say I had hardly so much as scratched the surface.

  These are the moments that make a fellow think a bit, and it wasn't long before I saw where the snag was. I remembered hearing or reading somewhere that in crises like this you have to have butter. I was just about to go downstairs and get some, when suddenly I heard a noise.

  Now, a fellow in my position – virtually the hunted stag, I mean to say – has got to take considerable thought as to what his next move shall be when he hears a noise on the premises. Quite possibly, I felt, this might be J. Washburn Stoker baying on the trail, for if he had happened to drop into the state-room and observe that it was empty, the first thing he would do would be to come dashing to my cottage. So there was nothing of the lion leaping from its den about the way I now left the bedroom, but rather a bit more than a suggestion of a fairly diffident snail poking its head out of its shell during a thunderstorm. For the nonce, I merely stood in the doorway and listened.

  There was plenty to listen to. Whoever was making the row was down in the sitting-room, and he seemed to me to be throwing the furniture about. And I think it was the reflection that a keen, practical man like Pop Stoker, if on my track, would hardly waste time doing this sort of thing that braced me at length to the point of tiptoeing to the banisters and peeping over.

  What I describe as the sitting-room, I must tell you, was really more in the nature of a sort of lounge-hall. It was rather liberally furnished for such a smallish place, and contained a table, a grandfather clock, a sofa, two chairs, and from one to three glass cases with stuffed birds in them. From where I stood, looking over the banisters, I had a complete view of the entire lay-out. It was fairly dim down there, but I could see pretty well, because there was an oil lamp burning on the mantelpiece. By its light I was able to observe that the sofa had been upset, the two chairs thrown through the window, and the stuffed-bird cases smashed; and at the moment of going to press, a shadowy form was in the far corner, wrestling with the grandfather clock.

  It was difficult to say with any certainty which of the pair was getting the better of it. If in sporting vein, I think I should have been inclined to put my money on the clock. But I was not in sporting vein. A sudden twist of the combatants had revealed to me the face of the shadowy f., and with a considerable rush of emotion I perceived that it was Brinkley. Like a sheep wandering back to the fold, this blighted Bolshevik had rolled home, twenty-four hours late, plainly stewed to the gills.

  All the householder awoke in me. I forgot that it was injudicious of me to allow myself to be seen. All I could think of was that this bally Five-Year-Planner was smashing up the Wooster home.

  'Brinkley!' I bellowed.

  I imagine he thought at first that it was the voice of the clock, for he flung himself upon it with renewed energy. Then, suddenly, his eye fell on me, and he broke away and stood staring. The clock, after rocking to and fro for a moment, settled into the perpendicular with a jerk and, having struck thirteen, relapsed into silence.

  'Brinkley!' I repeated, and was about to add 'Dash it!' when a sort of gleam came into his eyes, the gleam of the man who understands all. For an instant he stood there, goggling. Then he uttered a cry.

  'Lor lumme! The Devil!'

  And, snatching up a carving knife which he appeared to have placed on the mantelpiece with a sort of idea that you never knew when these things may not come in useful, he came bounding up the stairs.

  Well, it was a close thing. If I ever have grandchildren – which, at the moment, seems a longish shot – and they come clustering round my knee of an evening for a story, the one I shall tell them is about my getting back into the bedroom just one split second ahead of that carving knife. And if as a result they have convulsions during the night and wake up screaming, they will have got some rough idea of their aged relative's emotions at this juncture. To say that Bertram, even when he had slammed the door, locked it, shoved a chair against it, and a bed against the chair, felt wholly at his ease would be a wilful overstatement. I cannot put my mental attitude more clearly than by saying that, if J. Washburn Stoker had happened to drop in at that moment, I would have welcomed him like a brother.

  Brinkley was at the keyhole, begging me to come out and let him ascertain the colour of my insides; and, by Jove, what seemed to me to add the final touch to the whole unpleasantness was that he spoke in the same respectful voice he always used. Kept calling me 'Sir', too, which struck me as dashed silly. I mean, if you're asking a fellow to come out of a room so that you can dismember him with a carving knife, it's absurd to tack a 'Sir' on to every sentence. The two things don't go together.

  At this point it seemed to me that my first move ought to be to clear up the obvious misunderstanding that existed in his mind.

  I put the lips to the woodwork.

  'It's all right, Brinkley'

  'It will be if you come out, sir,' he said civilly.

  'I mean, I'm not the Devil.'

  'Oh, yes, you are, sir.'

  'I'm not, I tell you.'

  'Oh, yes, sir.'

  'I'm Mr Wooster.'

  He uttered a piercing cry.

  'He's got Mr Wooster in there!'

  You don't get the old-fashioned soliloquy much nowadays, so I took it that he was addressing some third party. And, sure enough, there was a sort of rumbling puffing and a tonsil-ridden voice spoke.

  'What's all this?'

  It was my sleepless neighbour, Police Sergeant Voules.

  My first emotion on realising that the Law was in our midst was one of pretty sizeable relief. There were lots of things about this vigilant man I didn't like – his habit of poking his nose into people's garages and
potting sheds, for one – but, whatever you might feel about some of his habits, there was no denying that he was a useful chap to have around in a situation like this. Tackling a loony valet is not everyone's job. You need a certain personality and presence. These this outsize guardian of the peace had got in full measure. And I was just about to urge him on with encouraging noises through the door, when something seemed to whisper to me that it would be more prudent to refrain.

  You see, the whole thing about these vigilant police sergeants is that they detain and question. Finding Bertram Wooster in the equivocal position of going about the place with his face blacked up, Sergeant Voules would not just pass the thing off with a shrug of the shoulders and a light good night. He would, as I say, detain and question. Recalling our encounters of the previous night, he would view with concern. He would insist on my accompanying him to the police station while he sent for Chuffy to come and advise what to do for the best. Doctors would be summoned, ice packs applied. With the result that I would most certainly be confined to the neighbourhood quite long enough for old Stoker to discover that my room was empty and my bed had not been slept in and to come rushing ashore to scoop me up and carry me back to the yacht again.

  On second thoughts, therefore, I said nothing. Merely breathed softly through the nose.

  Outside the door, snappy dialogue was in progress; and I give you my honest word that, if I hadn't had authoritative information to the contrary, I should have said that this extraordinary bird, Brinkley, was as sober as a teetotal Girl Guide. All that one of the biggest toots in history had done to him was to put a sort of precise edge on his speech and cause him to articulate with a crystal clearness which was more like a silver bell than anything.

  'The Devil is in there, murdering Mr Wooster, sir,' he was saying. And, except in radio announcers, I've never heard anything more beautifully modulated.

  You would call that a fairly sensational announcement, I suppose; but it didn't seem to register immediately with Sergeant Voules. The sergeant was one of those men who like to take things in their proper order and tidy up as they go along; and for the moment, it seemed, he was interested exclusively in the carving knife.