Carry On Jeeves Page #3

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

								

the eighties, in a manner that would not have been tolerated in
the fo'c'sle of a whaler. Your uncle seems to remember everything
disgraceful that happened to anybody when he was in his early twenties.
There is a story about Sir Stanley Gervase-Gervase at Rosherville
Gardens which is ghastly in its perfection of detail. It seems that
Sir Stanley--but I can't tell you!'

'Have a dash!'

'No!'

'Oh, well, I shouldn't worry. No publisher will print the book if it's
as bad as all that.'

'On the contrary, your uncle told me that all negotiations are settled
with Riggs and Ballinger, and he's sending off the manuscript tomorrow
for immediate publication. They make a special thing of that sort of
book. They published Lady Carnaby's Memories of Eighty Interesting
Years.'

'I read 'em!'

'Well, then, when I tell you that Lady Carnaby's Memories are simply
not to be compared with your uncle's Recollections, you will understand
my state of mind. And father appears in nearly every story in the book!
I am horrified at the things he did when he was a young man!'

'What's to be done?'

'The manuscript must be intercepted before it reaches Riggs and
Ballinger, and destroyed!'

I sat up.

This sounded rather sporting.

'How are you going to do it?' I inquired.

'How can I do it? Didn't I tell you the parcel goes off tomorrow? I
am going to the Murgatroyds' dance tonight and shall not be back till
Monday. You must do it. That is why I telegraphed to you.'

'What!'

She gave me a look.

'Do you mean to say you refuse to help me, Bertie?'

'No; but--I say!'

'It's quite simple.'

'But even if I--What I mean is--Of course, anything I can do--but--if
you know what I mean--'

'You say you want to marry me, Bertie?'

'Yes, of course; but still--'

For a moment she looked exactly like her old father.

'I will never marry you if those Recollections are published.'

'But, Florence, old thing!'

'I mean it. You may look on it as a test, Bertie. If you have the
resource and courage to carry this thing through, I will take it as
evidence that you are not the vapid and shiftless person most people
think you. If you fail, I shall know that your Aunt Agatha was right
when she called you a spineless invertebrate and advised me strongly
not to marry you. It will be perfectly simple for you to intercept the
manuscript, Bertie. It only requires a little resolution.'

'But suppose Uncle Willoughby catches me at it? He'd cut me off with a
bob.'

'If you care more for your uncle's money than for me--'

'No, no! Rather not!'

'Very well, then. The parcel containing the manuscript will, of course,
be placed on the hall table tomorrow for Oakshott to take to the
village with the letters. All you have to do is to take it away and
destroy it. Then your uncle will think it has been lost in the post.'

It sounded thin to me.

'Hasn't he got a copy of it?'

'No; it has not been typed. He is sending the manuscript just as he
wrote it.'

'But he could write it over again.'

'As if he would have the energy!'

'But--'

'If you are going to do nothing but make absurd objections, Bertie--'

'I was only pointing things out.'

'Well, don't! Once and for all, will you do me this quite simple act of
kindness?'

The way she put it gave me an idea.

'Why not get Edwin to do it? Keep it in the family, kind of, don't you
know. Besides, it would be a boon to the kid.'

A jolly bright idea it seemed to me. Edwin was her young brother, who
was spending his holidays at Easeby. He was a ferret-faced kid, whom I
had disliked since birth. As a matter of fact, talking of Recollections
and Memories, it was young blighted Edwin who, nine years before, had
led his father to where I was smoking his cigar and caused all the
unpleasantness. He was fourteen now and had just joined the Boy Scouts.
He was one of those thorough kids, and took his responsibilities pretty
seriously. He was always in a sort of fever because he was dropping
behind schedule with his daily acts of kindness. However hard he tried,
he'd fall behind; and then you would find him prowling about the house,
setting such a clip to try and catch up with himself that Easeby was
rapidly becoming a perfect hell for man and beast.

The idea didn't seem to strike Florence.

'I shall do nothing of the kind, Bertie. I wonder you can't appreciate
the compliment I am paying you--trusting you like this.'

'Oh, I see that all right, but what I mean is, Edwin would do it so
much better than I would. These Boy Scouts are up to all sorts of
dodges. They spoor, don't you know, and take cover and creep about, and
what-not.'

'Bertie, will you or will you not do this perfectly trivial thing for
me? If not, say so now, and let us end this farce of pretending that
you care a snap of the fingers for me.'

'Dear old soul, I love you devotedly!'

'Then will you or will you not--'

'Oh, all right,' I said. 'All right! All right! All right!'

And then I tottered forth to think it over. I met Jeeves in the passage
just outside.

'I beg your pardon, sir. I was endeavouring to find you.'

'What's the matter?'

'I felt that I should tell you, sir, that somebody has been putting
black polish on our brown walking shoes.'

'What! Who? Why?'

'I could not say, sir.'

'Can anything be done with them?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Damn!'

'Very good, sir.'

       *       *       *       *       *

I've often wondered since then how these murderer fellows manage to
keep in shape while they're contemplating their next effort. I had a
much simpler sort of job on hand, and the thought of it rattled me to
such an extent in the night watches that I was a perfect wreck next
day. Dark circles under the eyes--I give you my word! I had to call on
Jeeves to rally round with one of those life-savers of his.

From breakfast on I felt like a bag-snatcher at a railway station. I
had to hang about waiting for the parcel to be put on the hall table,
and it wasn't put. Uncle Willoughby was a fixture in the library,
adding the finishing touches to the great work, I supposed, and the
more I thought the thing over the less I liked it. The chances against
my pulling it off seemed about three to two, and the thought of what
would happen if I didn't gave me cold shivers down the spine. Uncle
Willoughby was a pretty mild sort of old boy, as a rule, but I've known
him to cut up rough, and, by Jove, he was scheduled to extend himself
if he caught me trying to get away with his life work.

It wasn't till nearly four that he toddled out of the library with the
parcel under his arm, put it on the table, and toddled off again.
I was hiding a bit to the south-east at the moment, behind a suit
of armour. I bounded out and legged it for the table. Then I ripped
upstairs to hide the swag. I charged in like a mustang and nearly
stubbed my toe on young blighted Edwin, the Boy Scout. He was standing
at the chest of drawers, confound him, messing about with my ties.

'Hallo!' he said.

'What are you doing here?'

'I'm tidying your room. It's my last Saturday's act of kindness.'
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes