Very Good, Jeeves

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘No, sir, if I may take the liberty of opposing your view. I fancy that Mrs Wilberforce should make an ideal mate for his lordship. If there was a defect in his lordship’s mode of life, it was that he was a little unduly attached to the pleasures of the table—’

  ‘Ate like a pig, you mean?’

  ‘I would not have ventured to put it in quite that way, sir, but the expression does meet the facts of the case. He was also inclined to drink rather more than his medical adviser would have approved of. Elderly bachelors who are wealthy and without occupation tend somewhat frequently to fall into this error, sir. The future Lady Yaxley will check this. Indeed, I overheard her ladyship saying as much as I brought in the fish. She was commenting on a certain puffiness of the face which had been absent in his lordship’s appearance in the earlier days of their acquaintanceship, and she observed that his lordship needed looking after. I fancy, sir, that you will find the union will turn out an extremely satisfactory one.’

  It was – what’s the word I want? – it was plausible, of course, but still I shook the onion.

  ‘But, Jeeves!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘She is, as you remarked not long ago, definitely of the people.’

  He looked at me in a reproachful sort of way.

  ‘Sturdy lower middle class stock, sir.’

  ‘H’m!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I said “H’m!” Jeeves.’

  ‘Besides, sir, remember what the poet Tennyson said: “Kind hearts are more than coronets”.’

  ‘And which of us is going to tell Aunt Agatha that?’

  ‘If I might make the suggestion, sir, I would advise that we omitted to communicate with Mrs Spenser Gregson in any way. I have your suitcase practically packed. It would be a matter of but a few minutes to bring the car round from the garage—’

  ‘And off over the horizon to where men are men?’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure that even now I can altogether see eye to eye with you regarding your recent activities. You think you have scattered light and sweetness on every side. I am not so sure. However, with this latest suggestion you have rung the bell. I examine it narrowly and I find no flaw in it. It is the goods. I’ll get the car at once.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Remember what the poet Shakespeare said, Jeeves.’

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘“Exit hurriedly, pursued by a bear”. You’ll find it in one of his plays. I remember drawing a picture of it on the side of the page, when I was at school.’

  11 THE ORDEAL OF YOUNG TUPPY

  ‘WHAT-HO, JEEVES!’ I said, entering the room where he waded knee-deep in suitcases and shirts and winter suitings, like a sea-beast among rocks. ‘Packing?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the honest fellow, for there are no secrets between us.

  ‘Pack on!’ I said approvingly. ‘Pack, Jeeves, pack with care. Pack in the presence of the passenjare.’ And I rather fancy I added the words ‘Tra-la!’ for I was in merry mood.

  Every year, starting about the middle of November, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better class of country-house throughout England as to who will get Bertram Wooster’s patronage for the Christmas holidays. It may be one or it may be another. As my Aunt Dahlia says, you never know where the blow will fall.

  This year, however, I had decided early. It couldn’t have been later than Nov. 10 when a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by Sir Reginald Witherspoon, Bart, of Bleaching Court, Upper Bleaching, Hants.

  In coming to the decision to give this Witherspoon my custom, I had been actuated by several reasons, not counting the fact that, having married Aunt Dahlia’s husband’s younger sister Katherine, he is by way of being a sort of uncle of mine. In the first place, the Bart does one extraordinarily well, both browsing and sluicing being above criticism. Then, again, his stables always contain something worth riding, which is a consideration. And, thirdly, there is no danger of getting lugged into a party of amateur Waits and having to tramp the countryside in the rain, singing, ‘When Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night’. Or for the matter of that, ‘Noel! Noel!’

  All these things counted with me, but what really drew me to Bleaching Court like a magnet was the knowledge that young Tuppy Glossop would be among those present.

  I feel sure I have told you before about this black-hearted bird, but I will give you the strength of it once again, just to keep the records straight. He was the fellow, if you remember, who, ignoring a lifelong friendship in the course of which he had frequently eaten my bread and salt, betted me one night at the Drones that I wouldn’t swing myself across the swimming-bath by the ropes and rings and then, with almost inconceivable treachery, went and looped back the last ring, causing me to drop into the fluid and ruin one of the nattiest suits of dress-clothes in London.

  To execute a fitting vengeance on this bloke had been the ruling passion of my life ever since.

  ‘You are bearing in mind, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘the fact that Mr Glossop will be at Bleaching?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And, consequently, are not forgetting to put in the Giant Squirt?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Nor the Luminous Rabbit?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good! I am rather pinning my faith on the Luminous Rabbit, Jeeves. I hear excellent reports of it on all sides. You wind it up and put in it somebody’s room in the night watches, and it shines in the dark and jumps about, making odd, squeaking noises the while. The whole performance being, I should imagine, well calculated to scare young Tuppy into a decline.’

  ‘Very possibly, sir.’

  ‘Should that fail, there is always the Giant Squirt. We must leave no stone unturned to put it across the man somehow,’ I said. ‘The Wooster honour is at stake.’

  I would have spoken further on this subject, but just then the front-door bell buzzed.

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ I said. ‘I expect it’s Aunt Dahlia. She ’phoned that she would be calling this morning.’

  It was not Aunt Dahlia. It was a telegraph-boy with telegram. I opened it, read it, and carried it back to the bedroom, the brow a bit knitted.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said. ‘A rummy communication has arrived. From Mr Glossop.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘I will read it to you. Handed in at Upper Bleaching. Message runs as follows:

  ‘“When you come to-morrow, bring my football boots. Also, if humanly possible, Irish water-spaniel. Urgent. Regards. Tuppy.”

  ‘What do you make of that, Jeeves?’

  ‘As I interpret the document, sir, Mr Glossop wishes you, when you come to-morrow, to bring his football boots. Also, if humanly possible, an Irish water-spaniel. He hints that the matter is urgent, and sends his regards.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how I read it, too. But why football boots?’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Glossop wishes to play football, sir.’

  I considered this.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That may be the solution. But why would a man, staying peacefully at a country-house, suddenly develop a craving to play football?’

  ‘I could not say, sir.’

  ‘And why an Irish water-spaniel?’

  ‘There again I fear I can hazard no conjecture, sir.’

  ‘What is an Irish water-spaniel?’

  ‘A water-spaniel of a variety bred in Ireland, sir.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. But why should I sweat about the place collecting dogs – of whatever nationality – for young Tuppy? Does he think I’m Santa Claus? Is he under the impression that my feelings towards him, after that Drones Club incident, are those of kindly benevolence? Irish water-spaniels, indeed! Tchah!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Tchah, Jeeves.’

&
nbsp; ‘Very good, sir.’

  The front-door bell buzzed again.

  ‘Our busy morning, Jeeves.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘All right. I’ll go.’

  This time it was Aunt Dahlia. She charged in with the air of a woman with something on her mind – giving tongue, in fact, while actually on the very doormat.

  ‘Bertie,’ she boomed, in that ringing voice of hers which cracks window-panes and upsets vases, ‘I’ve come about that young hound, Glossop.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Aunt Dahlia,’ I replied soothingly. ‘I have the situation well in hand. The Giant Squirt and the Luminous Rabbit are even now being packed.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t for a moment suppose you do, either,’ said the relative somewhat brusquely, ‘but, if you’ll kindly stop gibbering, I’ll tell you what I mean. I have had a most disturbing letter from Katherine. About this reptile. Of course, I haven’t breathed a word to Angela. She’d hit the ceiling.’

  This Angela is Aunt Dahlia’s daughter. She and young Tuppy are generally supposed to be more or less engaged, though nothing definitely ‘Morning Posted’ yet.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why would Angela hit the ceiling?’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you, if you were practically engaged to a fiend in human shape and somebody told you he had gone off to the country and was flirting with a dog-girl?’

  ‘With a what was that, once again?’

  ‘A dog-girl. One of these dashed open-air flappers in thick boots and tailor-made tweeds who infest the rural districts and go about the place followed by packs of assorted dogs. I used to be one of them myself in my younger days, so I know how dangerous they are. Her name is Dalgleish. Old Colonel Dalgleish’s daughter. They live near Bleaching.’

  I saw a gleam of daylight.

  ‘Then that must be what his telegram was about. He’s just wired, asking me to bring down an Irish water-spaniel. A Christmas present for this girl, no doubt.’

  ‘Probably. Katherine tells me he seems to be infatuated with her. She says he follows her about like one of her dogs, looking like a tame cat and bleating like a sheep.’

  ‘Quite the private Zoo, what?’

  ‘Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia – and I could see her generous nature was stirred to its depths – ‘one more crack like that out of you, and I shall forget that I am an aunt and hand you one.’

  I became soothing. I gave her the old oil.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ I said. ‘There’s probably nothing in it. Whole thing no doubt much exaggerated.’

  ‘You think so, eh? Well, you know what he’s like. You remember the trouble we had when he ran after that singing-woman.’

  I recollected the case. You will find it elsewhere in the archives. Cora Bellinger was the female’s name. She was studying for Opera, and young Tuppy thought highly of her. Fortunately, however, she punched him in the eye during Beefy Bingham’s clean, bright entertainment in Bermondsey East, and love died.

  ‘Besides,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. Just before he went to Bleaching, he and Angela quarrelled.’

  ‘They did?’

  ‘Yes. I got it out of Angela this morning. She was crying her eyes out, poor angel. It was something about her last hat. As far as I could gather, he told her it made her look like a Pekingese, and she told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next. And he said “Right-ho!” and breezed off. I can see what has happened. This dog-girl has caught him on the rebound, and, unless something is done quick, anything may happen. So place the facts before Jeeves, and tell him to take action the moment you get down there.’

  I am always a little piqued, if you know what I mean, at this assumption on the relative’s part that Jeeves is so dashed essential on these occasions. My manner, therefore, as I replied, was a bit on the crisp side.

  ‘Jeeves’s services will not be required,’ I said. ‘I can handle this business. The programme which I have laid out will be quite sufficient to take young Tuppy’s mind off love-making. It is my intention to insert the Luminous Rabbit in his room at the first opportunity that presents itself. The Luminous Rabbit shines in the dark and jumps about, making odd, squeaking noises. It will sound to young Tuppy like the Voice of Conscience, and I anticipate that a single treatment will make him retire into a nursing-home for a couple of weeks or so. At the end of which period he will have forgotten all about the bally girl.’

  ‘Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia, with a sort of frozen calm, ‘you are the Abysmal Chump. Listen to me. It’s simply because I am fond of you and have influence with the Lunacy Commissioners that you weren’t put in a padded cell years ago. Bungle this business, and I withdraw my protection. Can’t you understand that this thing is far too serious for any fooling about? Angela’s whole happiness is at stake. Do as I tell you, and put it up to Jeeves.’

  ‘Just as you say, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said stiffly.

  ‘All right, then. Do it now.’

  I went back to the bedroom.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, and I did not trouble to conceal my chagrin, ‘you need not pack the Luminous Rabbit.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Nor the Giant Squirt.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘They have been subjected to destructive criticism, and the zest has gone. Oh, and, Jeeves.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Mrs Travers wishes you, on arriving at Bleaching Court, to disentangle Mr Glossop from a dog-girl.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I will attend to the matter and will do my best to give satisfaction.’

  That Aunt Dahlia had not exaggerated the perilous nature of the situation was made clear to me on the following afternoon. Jeeves and I drove down to Bleaching in the two-seater, and we were tooling along about half-way between the village and the Court when suddenly there appeared ahead of us a sea of dogs and in the middle of it young Tuppy frisking round one of those largish, corn-fed girls. He was bending towards her in a devout sort of way, and even at a considerable distance I could see that his ears were pink. His attitude, in short, was unmistakably that of a man endeavouring to push a good thing along; and when I came closer and noted that the girl wore tailor-made tweeds and thick boots, I had no further doubts.

  ‘You observe, Jeeves?’ I said in a low, significant voice.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The girl, what?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I tootled amiably on the horn and yodelled a bit. They turned – Tuppy, I fancied, not any too pleased.

  ‘Oh, hullo, Bertie,’ he said.

  ‘Hullo,’ I said.

  ‘My friend, Bertie Wooster,’ said Tuppy to the girl, in what seemed to me rather an apologetic manner. You know – as if he would have preferred to hush me up.

  ‘Hullo,’ said the girl.

  ‘Hullo,’ I said.

  ‘Hullo, Jeeves,’ said Tuppy.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Jeeves.

  There was a somewhat constrained silence.

  ‘Well, good-bye, Bertie,’ said young Tuppy. ‘You’ll be wanting to push along, I expect.’

  We Woosters can take a hint as well as the next man.

  ‘See you later,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, rather,’ said Tuppy.

  I set the machinery in motion again, and we rolled off.

  ‘Sinister, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘You noticed that the subject was looking like a stuffed frog?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And gave no indication of wanting us to stop and join the party?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I think Aunt Dahlia’s fears are justified. The thing seems serious.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, strain the brain, Jeeves.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  It wasn’t till I was dressing for dinner that night that I saw young Tuppy again. He trickled in just as I was arrang
ing the tie.

  ‘Hullo!’ I said.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Tuppy.

  ‘Who was the girl?’ I asked, in that casual, snaky way of mine – off-hand, I mean.

  ‘A Miss Dalgleish,’ said Tuppy, and I noticed that he blushed a spot.

  ‘Staying here?’

  ‘No. She lives in that house just before you come to the gates of this place. Did you bring my football boots?’

  ‘Yes. Jeeves has got them somewhere.’

  ‘And the water-spaniel?’

  ‘Sorry. No water-spaniel.’

  ‘Dashed nuisance. She’s set her heart on an Irish water-spaniel.’

  ‘Well, what do you care?’

  ‘I wanted to give her one.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tuppy became a trifle haughty. Frigid. The rebuking eye.

  ‘Colonel and Mrs Dalgleish,’ he said, ‘have been extremely kind to me since I got here. They have entertained me. I naturally wish to make some return for their hospitality. I don’t want them to look upon me as one of those ill-mannered modern young men you read about in the papers who grab everything they can lay their hooks on and never buy back. If people ask you to lunch and tea and what not, they appreciate it if you make them some little present in return.’

  ‘Well, give them your football boots. In passing, why did you want the bally things?’

  ‘I’m playing in a match next Thursday.’

  ‘Down here?’

  ‘Yes. Upper Bleaching versus Hockley-cum-Meston. Apparently it’s the big game of the year.’

  ‘How did you get roped in?’

  ‘I happened to mention in the course of conversation the other day that, when in London, I generally turn out on Saturdays for the Old Austinians, and Miss Dalgleish seemed rather keen that I should help the village.’

  ‘Which village?’

  ‘Upper Bleaching, of course.’

  ‘Ah, then you’re going to play for Hockley?’

  ‘You needn’t be funny, Bertie. You may not know it, but I’m pretty hot stuff on the football field. Oh, Jeeves.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Jeeves, entering right centre.

  ‘Mr Wooster tells me you have my football boots.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have placed them in your room.’