‘Pop,’ said the stripling, ‘that number’s no good.’ Old Blumenfield beamed over his shoulder.
‘Don’t you like it, darling?’
‘It gives me a pain.’
‘You’re dead right.’
‘You want something zippy there. Something with a bit of jazz to it!’
‘Quite right my boy. I’ll make a note of it. All right. Go on!’
I turned to George, who was muttering to himself in rather an overwrought way.
‘I say, George, old man, who the dickens is that kid?’
Old George groaned a bit hollowly, as if things were a trifle thick.
‘I didn’t know he had crawled in! It’s Blumenfield’s son. Now we’re going to have a Hades of a time!’
‘Does he always run things like this?’
‘Always!’
‘But why does old Blumenfield listen to him?’
‘Nobody seems to know. It may be pure fatherly love, or he may regard him as a mascot. My own idea is that he thinks the kid has exactly the amount of intelligence of the average member of the audience, and that what makes a hit with him will please the general public. While, conversely, what he doesn’t like will be too rotten for anyone. The kid is a pest, a wart, and a pot of poison, and should be strangled!’
The rehearsal went on. The hero got off his line. There was a slight outburst of frightfulness between the stage-manager and a Voice named Bill that came from somewhere near the roof, the subject under discussion being where the devil Bill’s ‘ambers’ were at that particular juncture. Then things went on again until the moment arrived for Cyril’s big scene.
I was still a trifle hazy about the plot, but I had got on to the fact that Cyril was some sort of an English peer who had come over to America doubtless for the best reasons. So far he had only had two lines to say. One was ‘Oh, I say!’ and the other was ‘Yes, by Jove!’; but I seemed to recollect, from hearing him read his part, that pretty soon he was due rather to spread himself. I sat back in my chair and waited for him to bob up.
He bobbed up about five minutes later. Things had got a bit stormy by that time. The Voice and the stage-director had had another of their love-feasts – this time something to do with why Bills’ ‘blues’ weren’t on the job or something. And, almost as soon as that was over, there was a bit of unpleasantness because a flowerpot fell off a window-ledge and nearly brained the hero. The atmosphere was consequently more or less hotted up when Cyril, who had been hanging about at the back of the stage, breezed down centre and toed the mark for his most substantial chunk of entertainment. The heroine had been saying something – I forget what – and all the chorus, with Cyril at their head, had begun to surge round her in the restless sort of way those chappies always do when there’s a number coming along.
Cyril’s first line was, ‘Oh, I say, you know, you mustn’t say that, really!’ and it seemed to me he passed it over the larynx with a goodish deal of vim and je-ne-sais-quoi. But, by Jove, before the heroine had time for the come-back, our little friend with the freckles had risen to lodge a protest.
‘Pop!’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘That one’s no good.’
‘Which one, darling?’
‘The one with a face like a fish.’
‘But they all have faces like fish, darling.’
The child seemed to see the justice of this objection. He became more definite.
‘The ugly one.’
‘Which ugly one? That one?’ said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril.
‘Yep! He’s rotten!’
‘I thought so myself.’
‘He’s a pill!’
‘You’re dead right, my boy. I’ve noticed it for some time.’
Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the footlights. Even from where I was sitting, I could see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassington family pride a frightful wallop. He started to get pink in the ears, and then in the nose, and then in the cheeks, till in about a quarter of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery on a sunset evening.
‘What the deuce do you mean?’
‘What the deuce do you mean?’ shouted old Blumenfield. ‘Don’t yell at me across the footlights!’
‘I’ve a dashed good mind to come down and spank that little brute!’
‘What!’
‘A dashed good mind!’
Old Blumenfield swelled like a pumped-up tyre. He got rounder than ever.
‘See here, mister – I don’t know your darn name –!’
‘My name’s Bassington-Bassington, and the jolly old Bassington-Bassingtons – I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons aren’t accustomed –’
Old Blumenfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Bassington-Bassingtons and what they weren’t accustomed to. The whole strength of the company rallied round to enjoy his remarks. You could see them jutting out from the wings and protruding from behind trees.
‘You got to work good for my pop!’ said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly at Cyril.
‘I don’t want any bally cheek from you!’ said Cyril, gurgling a bit.
‘What’s that?’ barked old Blumenfield. ‘Don’t you understand that this boy is my son?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Cyril. ‘And you both have my sympathy!’
‘You’re fired!’ bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more. ‘Get out of my theatre!’
About half past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the sitting-room.
‘How does he look, Jeeves?’
‘Sir?’
‘What does Mr Bassington-Bassington look like?’
‘It is hardly my place, sir, to criticize the facial peculiarities of your friends.’
‘I don’t mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and what not?’
‘Not noticeably, sir. His manner is tranquil.’
‘That’s rum!’
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing. Show him in, will you?’
I’m bound to say I had expected to see Cyril showing a few more traces of last night’s battle. I was looking for a bit of the overwrought soul and the quivering ganglions, if you know what I mean. He seemed pretty ordinary and quite fairly cheerful.
‘Hallo, Wooster, old thing!’
‘Cheero!’
‘I just looked in to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’
‘Yes. I’m off to Washington in an hour.’ He sat down on the bed. ‘You know, Wooster, old top,’ he went on, ‘I’ve been thinking it all over, and really it doesn’t seem quite fair to the jolly old guv’nor, my going on the stage and so forth. What do you think?’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘I mean to say, he sent me over here to broaden my jolly old mind and words to that effect, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking it would be a bit of a jar for the old boy if I gave him the bird and went on the stage instead. I don’t know if you understand me, but what I mean to say is, it’s a sort of question of conscience.’
‘Can you leave the show without upsetting everything?’
‘Oh, that’s all right. I’ve explained everything to old Blumenfield, and he quite sees my position. Of course, he’s sorry to lose me – said he didn’t see how he could fill my place and all that sort of thing – but, after all, even if it does land him in a bit of a hole, I think I’m right in resigning my part, don’t you?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘I thought you’d agree with me. Well, I ought to be shifting. Awfully glad to have seen something of you, and all that sort of rot. Pip-pip!’
‘Toodle-oo!’
He sallied forth, having told all those bally lies with the clear, blue, pop-eyed gaze of a young child. I rang for Jeeves. You know, ever since
last night I had been exercising the old bean to some extent, and a good deal of light had dawned upon me.
‘Jeeves!’
‘Sir?’
‘Did you put that pie-faced infant up to bally-ragging Mr Bassington-Bassington?’
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. Did you tell him to get Mr Bassington-Bassington sacked from the Ask Dad company?’
‘I would not take such a liberty, sir.’ He started to put out my clothes. ‘It is possible that young Master Blumenfield may have gathered from casual remarks of mine that I did not consider the stage altogether a suitable sphere for Mr Bassington-Bassington.’
‘I say, Jeeves, you know, you’re a bit of a marvel.’
‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.’
‘And I’m frightfully obliged, if you know what I mean. Aunt Agatha would have had sixteen or seventeen fits if you hadn’t headed him off.’
‘I fancy there might have been some little friction and unpleasantness, sir. I am laying out the blue suit with the thin red stripe, sir. I fancy the effect will be pleasing.’
It’s a rummy thing, but I had finished breakfast and gone out and got as far as the lift before I remembered what it was that I had meant to do to reward Jeeves for his really sporting behaviour in this matter of the chump Cyril. It cut me to the heart to do it, but I had decided to give him his way and let those purple socks pass out of my life. After all, there are times when a cove must make sacrifices. I was just going to nip back and break the glad news to him, when the lift came up, so I thought I would leave it till I got home.
The coloured chappie in charge of the lift looked at me, as I hopped in, with a good deal of quiet devotion and what not.
‘I wish to thank yo’, suh,’ he said, ‘for yo’ kindness.’
‘Eh? What?’
‘Misto’ Jeeves done give them purple socks, as you told him. Thank yo’ very much, suh!’
I looked down. The blighter was a blaze of mauve from the ankle-bone southward. I don’t know when I’ve seen anything so dressy.
‘Oh, ah! Not at all! Right-o! Glad you like them!’ I said.
Well, I mean to say, what? Absolutely!
11
* * *
Comrade Bingo
THE THING REALLY started in the park – at the Marble Arch end – where weird birds of every description collect on Sunday afternoons and stand on soap-boxes and make speeches. It isn’t often you’ll find me there, but it so happened that on the Sabbath after my return to the good old metrop. I had a call to pay in Manchester Square, and, taking a stroll round in that direction so as not to arrive too early, I found myself right in the middle of it.
Now that the Empire isn’t the place it was, I always think the park on a Sunday is the centre of London, if you know what I mean. I mean to say, that’s the spot that makes the returned exile really sure he’s back again. After what you might call my enforced sojourn in New York I’m bound to say that I stood there fairly lapping it all up. It did me good to listen to the lads giving tongue and realize that all had ended happily and Bertram was home again.
On the edge of the mob farthest away from me a gang of top-hatted chappies were starting an open-air missionary service; nearer at hand an atheist was letting himself go with a good deal of vim, though handicapped a bit by having no roof to his mouth; while in front of me there stood a little group of serious thinkers with a banner labelled ‘Heralds of the Red Dawn’; and as I came up, one of the heralds, a bearded egg in a slouch hat and a tweed suit, was slipping it into the Idle Rich with such breadth and vigour that I paused for a moment to get an earful. While I was standing there somebody spoke to me.
‘Mr Wooster, surely?’
Stout chappie. Couldn’t place him for a second. Then I got him. Bingo Little’s uncle, the one I had lunch with at the time when young Bingo was in love with that waitress at the Piccadilly bun-shop. No wonder I hadn’t recognized him at first. When I had seen him last he had been a rather sloppy old gentleman – coming down to lunch, I remember, in carpet slippers and a velvet smoking-jacket; whereas now dapper simply wasn’t the word. He absolutely gleamed in the sunlight in a silk hat, morning coat, lavender spats and spongebag trousers, as now worn. Dressy to a degree.
‘Oh, hallo!’ I said. ‘Going strong?’
‘I am in excellent health, I thank you. And you?’
‘In the pink. Just been over to America.’
‘Ah! Collecting local colour for one of your delightful romances?’
‘Eh?’ I had to think a bit before I got on to what he meant. ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘Just felt I needed a change. Seen anything of Bingo lately?’ I asked quickly, being desirous of heading the old thing off what you might call the literary side of my life.
‘Bingo?’
‘Your nephew.’
‘Oh, Richard? No, not very recently. Since my marriage a little coolness seems to have sprung up.’
‘Sorry to hear that. So you’ve married since I saw you, what? Mrs Little all right?’
‘My wife is happily robust. But – er – not Mrs Little. Since we last met a gracious Sovereign has been pleased to bestow on me a signal mark of his favour in the shape of – ah – a peerage. On the publication of the last Honours List I became Lord Bittlesham.’
‘By Jove! Really? I say, heartiest congratulations. That’s the stuff to give the troops, what? Lord Bittlesham?’ I said. ‘Why, you’re the owner of Ocean Breeze.’
‘Yes. Marriage has enlarged my horizon in many directions. My wife is interested in horse-racing, and I now maintain a small stable. I understand that Ocean Breeze is fancied, as I am told the expression is, for a race which will take place at the end of the month at Goodwood, the Duke of Richmond’s seat in Sussex.’
‘The Goodwood Cup. Rather! I’ve got my chemise on it for one.’
‘Indeed? Well, I trust the animal will justify your confidence. I know little of these matters myself, but my wife tells me that it is regarded in knowledgeable circles as what I believe is termed a snip.’
At this moment I suddenly noticed that the audience was gazing in our direction with a good deal of interest, and I saw that the bearded chappie was pointing at us.
‘Yes, look at them! Drink them in!’ he was yelling, his voice rising above the perpetual-motion fellow’s and beating the missionary service all to nothing. ‘There you see two typical members of the class which has down-trodden the poor for centuries. Idlers! Non-producers! Look at the tall thin one with the face like a motor-mascot. Has he ever done an honest day’s work in his life? No! A prowler, a trifler, and a blood-sucker! And I bet he still owes his tailor for those trousers!’
He seemed to me to be verging on the personal, and I didn’t think a lot of it. Old Bittlesham, on the other hand, was pleased and amused.
‘A great gift of expression these fellows have,’ he chuckled. ‘Very trenchant.’
‘And the fat one!’ proceeded the chappie. ‘Don’t miss him. Do you know who that is? That’s Lord Bittlesham! One of the worst. What has he ever done except eat four square meals a day? His god is his belly, and he sacrifices burnt-offerings to it. If you opened that man now you would find enough lunch to support ten working-class families for a week.’
‘You know, that’s rather well put,’ I said, but the old boy didn’t seem to see it. He had turned a brightish magenta and was bubbling like a kettle on the boil.
‘Come away, Mr Wooster,’ he said. ‘I am the last man to oppose the right of free speech, but I refuse to listen to this vulgar abuse any longer.’
We legged it with quiet dignity, the chappie pursuing us with his foul innuendoes to the last. Dashed embarrassing.
Next day I looked in at the club, and found young Bingo in the smoking-room.
‘Hallo, Bingo,’ I said, toddling over to his corner full of bonhomie, for I was glad to see the chump. ‘How’s the boy?’
‘Jogging along.’
‘I saw your uncle yesterday.�
��
Young Bingo unleashed a grin that split his face in half.
‘I know you did, you trifler. Well, sit down, old thing, and suck a bit of blood. How’s the prowling these days?’
‘Good Lord! You weren’t there!’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Yes, you did. But perhaps you didn’t recognize me in the shrubbery.’
‘The shrubbery?’
‘The beard, my boy. Worth every penny I paid for it. Defies detection. Of course, it’s a nuisance having people shouting “Beaver!” at you all the time, but one’s got to put up with that.’
I goggled at him.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a long story. Have a martini or a small gore-and-soda, and I’ll tell you all about it. Before we start, give me your honest opinion. Isn’t she the most wonderful girl you ever saw in your puff?’
He had produced a photograph from somewhere, like a conjurer taking a rabbit out of a hat, and was waving it in front of me. It appeared to be a female of sorts, all eyes and teeth.
‘Oh, Great Scott!’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in love again.’
He seemed aggrieved.
‘What do you mean – again?’
‘Well, to my certain knowledge you’ve been in love with at least half a dozen girls since the spring, and it’s only July now. There was that waitress and Honoria Glossop and –’
‘Oh, tush! Not to say pish! Those girls? Mere passing fancies. This is the real thing.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘On top of a bus. Her name is Charlotte Corday Rowbotham.’
‘My God!’
‘It’s not her fault, poor child. Her father had her christened that because he’s all for the Revolution, and it seems that the original Charlotte Corday used to go about stabbing oppressors in their baths, which entitles her to consideration and respect. You must meet old Rowbotham, Bertie. A delightful chap. Wants to massacre the bourgeosie, sack Park Lane and disembowel the hereditary aristocracy. Well, nothing could be fairer than that, what? But about Charlotte. We were on top of the bus, and it started to rain. I offered her my umbrella, and we chatted of this and that. I fell in love and got her address, and a couple of days later I bought the beard and toddled round and met the family.’
The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 1: Page 55