Carry On Jeeves Page #12

Carry On, Jeeves is a collection of ten short stories by P. G. Wodehouse. It was first published in the United Kingdom on 9 October 1925 by Herbert Jenkins, London, and in the United States on 7 October 1927 by George H. Doran, New York.

• Short story

								

judgement about suits is sound and can generally be relied upon.

But I as near as a toucher rebelled when he wouldn't let me wear a pair
of cloth-topped boots which I loved like a couple of brothers. And,
finally, when he tried to tread on me like a worm in the matter of a
hat, I put the Wooster foot down and showed him in no uncertain manner
who was who.

It's a long story, and I haven't time to tell you now, but the nub of
the thing was that he wanted me to wear the White House Wonder--as worn
by President Coolidge--when I had set my heart on the Broadway Special,
much patronized by the Younger Set; and the end of the matter was that,
after a rather painful scene, I bought the Broadway Special. So that's
how things were on this particular morning, and I was feeling pretty
manly and independent.

Well, I was in the bathroom, wondering what there was going to be
for breakfast while I massaged the spine with a rough towel and sang
slightly, when there was a tap at the door. I stopped singing and
opened the door an inch.

'What ho, without there!' I said.

'Lady Malvern has called, sir.'

'Eh?'

'Lady Malvern, sir. She is waiting in the sitting-room.'

'Pull yourself together, Jeeves, my man,' I said rather severely, for I
bar practical jokes before breakfast. 'You know perfectly well there's
no one waiting for me in the sitting-room. How could there be when it's
barely ten o'clock yet?'

'I gathered from her ladyship, sir, that she had landed from an ocean
liner at an early hour this morning.'

This made the thing a bit more plausible. I remembered that when I
had arrived in America about a year before, the proceedings had begun
at some ghastly hour like six, and that I had been shot out on to a
foreign shore considerably before eight.

'Who the deuce is Lady Malvern, Jeeves?'

'Her ladyship did not confide in me, sir.'

'Is she alone?'

'Her ladyship is accompanied by a Lord Pershore, sir. I fancy that his
lordship would be her ladyship's son.'

'Oh, well, put out rich raiment of sorts, and I'll be dressing.'

'Our heather-mixture lounge is in readiness, sir.'

'Then lead me to it.'

While I was dressing I kept trying to think who on earth Lady Malvern
could be. It wasn't till I had climbed through the top of my shirt and
was reaching out for the studs that I remembered.

'I've placed her, Jeeves. She's a pal of my Aunt Agatha.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Yes. I met her at lunch one Sunday before I left London. A very
vicious specimen. Writes books. She wrote a book on social conditions
in India when she came back from the Durbar.'

'Yes, sir? Pardon me, sir, but not that tie.'

'Eh?'

'Not that tie with the heather-mixture lounge, sir.'

It was a shock to me. I thought I had quelled the fellow. It was rather
a solemn moment. What I mean is, if I weakened now, all my good work
the night before would be thrown away. I braced myself.

'What's wrong with this tie? I've seen you give it a nasty look before.
Speak out like a man! What's the matter with it?'

'Too ornate, sir.'

'Nonsense! A cheerful pink. Nothing more.'

'Unsuitable, sir.'

'Jeeves, this is the tie I wear!'

'Very good, sir.'

Dashed unpleasant. I could see that the man was wounded. But I was
firm. I tied the tie, got into the coat and waistcoat, and went into
the sitting-room.

'Hullo-ullo-ullo!' I said. 'What?'

'Ah! How do you do, Mr Wooster? You have never met my son Wilmot, I
think? Motty, darling, this is Mr Wooster.'

Lady Malvern was a hearty, happy, healthy, overpowering sort of dashed
female, not so very tall but making up for it by measuring about six
feet from the O. P. to the Prompt Side. She fitted into my biggest
arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they
were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season. She had
bright, bulging eyes and a lot of yellow hair, and when she spoke she
showed about fifty-seven front teeth. She was one of those women who
kind of numb a fellow's faculties. She made me feel as if I were ten
years old and had been brought into the drawing-room in my Sunday
clothes to say how-d'you-do. Altogether by no means the sort of thing a
chappie would wish to find in his sitting-room before breakfast.

Motty, the son, was about twenty-three, tall and thin and meek-looking.
He had the same yellow hair as his mother, but he wore it plastered
down and parted in the middle. His eyes bulged, too, but they weren't
bright. They were a dull grey with pink rims. His chin gave up the
struggle about half-way down, and he didn't appear to have any
eyelashes. A mild, furtive, sheepish sort of blighter, in short.

'Awfully glad to see you,' I said, though this was far from the case,
for already I was beginning to have a sort of feeling that dirty work
was threatening in the offing. 'So you've popped over, eh? Making a
long stay in America?'

'About a month. Your aunt gave me your address and told me to be sure
to call on you.'

I was glad to hear this, for it seemed to indicate that Aunt Agatha
was beginning to come round a bit. As I believe I told you before,
there had been some slight unpleasantness between us, arising from the
occasion when she had sent me over to New York to disentangle my cousin
Gussie from the clutches of a girl on the music-hall stage. When I tell
you that by the time I had finished my operations Gussie had not only
married the girl but had gone on the Halls himself and was doing well,
you'll understand that relations were a trifle strained between aunt
and nephew.

I simply hadn't dared go back and face her, and it was a relief to
find that time had healed the wound enough to make her tell her pals
to call on me. What I mean is, much as I liked America, I didn't want
to have England barred to me for the rest of my natural; and, believe
me, England is a jolly sight too small for anyone to live in with Aunt
Agatha, if she's really on the war-path. So I was braced at hearing
these words and smiled genially on the assemblage.

'Your aunt said that you would do anything that was in your power to be
of assistance to us.'

'Rather! Oh, rather. Absolutely.'

'Thank you so much. I want you to put dear Motty up for a little while.'

I didn't get this for a moment.

'Put him up? For my clubs?'

'No, no! Darling Motty is essentially a home bird. Aren't you, Motty,
darling?'

Motty, who was sucking the knob of his stick, uncorked himself.

'Yes, mother,' he said, and corked himself up again.

'I should not like him to belong to clubs. I mean put him up here. Have
him to live with you while I am away.'

These frightful words trickled out of her like honey. The woman simply
didn't seem to understand the ghastly nature of her proposal. I gave
Motty the swift east-to-west. He was sitting with his mouth nuzzling
the stick, blinking at the wall. The thought of having this planted on
me for an indefinite period appalled me. Absolutely appalled me, don't
you know. I was just starting to say that the shot wasn't on the board
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