Carry On Jeeves Page #9

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

								

door and the parcel was delivered.

It was certainly some book. It had a red cover with a fowl of some
species on it, and underneath the girl's name in gold letters. I opened
a copy at random.

'Often of a spring morning,' it said at the top of page twenty-one,
'as you wander through the fields, you will hear the sweet-toned,
carelessly flowing warble of the purple finch linnet. When you are
older you must read all about him in Mr Alexander Worple's wonderful
book, American Birds.'

You see. A boost for the uncle right away. And only a few pages later
there he was in the limelight again in connexion with the yellow-billed
cuckoo. It was great stuff. The more I read, the more I admired the
chap who had written it and Jeeves's genius in putting us on to the
wheeze. I didn't see how the uncle could fail to drop. You can't call a
chap the world's greatest authority on the yellow-billed cuckoo without
rousing a certain disposition towards chumminess in him.

'It's a cert!' I said.

'An absolute cinch!' said Corky.

And a day or two later he meandered up the Avenue to my flat to tell me
that all was well. The uncle had written Muriel a letter so dripping
with the milk of human kindness that if he hadn't known Mr Worple's
handwriting Corky would have refused to believe him the author of it.
Any time it suited Miss Singer to call, said the uncle, he would be
delighted to make her acquaintance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after this I had to go out of town. Divers sound sportsmen
had invited me to pay visits to their country places, and it wasn't
for several months that I settled down in the city again. I had been
wondering a lot, of course, about Corky, whether it all turned out
right, and so forth, and my first evening in New York, happening to
pop into a quiet sort of little restaurant which I go to when I don't
feel inclined for the bright lights, I found Muriel Singer there,
sitting by herself at a table near the door. Corky, I took it, was out
telephoning. I went up and passed the time of day.

'Well, well, well, what?' I said.

'Why, Mr Wooster! How do you do?'

'Corky around?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're waiting for Corky, aren't you?'

'Oh, I didn't understand. No, I'm not waiting for him.'

It seemed to me that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind
of thingummy, you know.

'I say, you haven't had a row with Corky, have you?'

'A row?'

'A spat, don't you know--little misunderstanding--faults on both
sides--er--and all that sort of thing.'

'Why, whatever makes you think that?'

'Oh, well, as it were, what? What I mean is--I thought you usually
dined with him before you went to the theatre.'

'I've left the stage now.'

Suddenly the whole thing dawned on me. I had forgotten what a long time
I had been away.

'Why, of course, I see now! You're married!'

'Yes.'

'How perfectly topping! I wish you all kinds of happiness.'

'Thank you so much. Oh, Alexander,' she said, looking past me, 'this is
a friend of mine--Mr Wooster.'

I spun round. A bloke with a lot of stiff grey hair and a red sort
of healthy face was standing there. Rather a formidable Johnnie, he
looked, though peaceful at the moment.

'I want you to meet my husband, Mr Wooster. Mr Wooster is a friend of
Bruce's, Alexander.'

The old boy grasped my hand warmly, and that was all that kept me from
hitting the floor in a heap. The place was rocking. Absolutely.

'So you know my nephew, Mr Wooster?' I heard him say. 'I wish you would
try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit this playing at
painting. But I have an idea that he is steadying down. I noticed it
first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to be introduced
to you. He seemed altogether quieter and more serious. Something seemed
to have sobered him. Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your
company at dinner tonight, Mr Wooster? Or have you dined?'

I said I had. What I needed then was air, not dinner. I felt that I
wanted to get into the open and think this thing out.

When I reached my flat I heard Jeeves moving about in his lair. I
called him.

'Jeeves,' I said, 'now is the time for all good men to come to the aid
of the party. A stiff b-and-s first of all, and then I've a bit of news
for you.'

He came back with a tray and a long glass.

'Better have one yourself, Jeeves. You'll need it.'

'Later on, perhaps, thank you, sir.'

'All right. Please yourself. But you're going to get a shock. You
remember my friend, Mr Corcoran?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And the girl who was to slide gracefully into his uncle's esteem by
writing the book on birds?'

'Perfectly, sir.'

'Well, she's slid. She's married the uncle.'

He took it without blinking. You can't rattle Jeeves.

'That was always a development to be feared, sir.'

'You don't mean to tell me that you were expecting it?'

'It crossed my mind as a possibility.'

'Did it, by Jove! Well, I think you might have warned us!'

'I hardly liked to take the liberty, sir.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course, as I saw after I had had a bite to eat and was in a calmer
frame of mind, what had happened wasn't my fault, if you came down to
it. I couldn't be expected to foresee that the scheme, in itself a
cracker-jack, would skid into the ditch as it had done; but all the
same I'm bound to admit that I didn't relish the idea of meeting Corky
again until time, the great healer, had been able to get in a bit of
soothing work. I cut Washington Square out absolutely for the next few
months. I gave it the complete miss-in-baulk. And then, just when I
was beginning to think I might safely pop down in that direction and
gather up the dropped threads, so to speak, time, instead of working
the healing wheeze, went and pulled the most awful bone and put the lid
on it. Opening the paper one morning, I read that Mrs Alexander Worple
had presented her husband with a son and heir.

I was so dashed sorry for poor old Corky that I hadn't the heart to
touch my breakfast. I was bowled over. Absolutely. It was the limit.

I hardly knew what to do. I wanted, of course, to rush down to
Washington Square and grip the poor blighter silently by the hand; and
then, thinking it over, I hadn't the nerve. Absent treatment seemed the
touch. I gave it him in waves.

But after a month or so I began to hesitate again. It struck me that
it was playing it a bit low-down on the poor chap, avoiding him like
this just when he probably wanted his pals to surge round him most.
I pictured him sitting in his lonely studio with no company but his
bitter thoughts, and the pathos of it got me to such an extent that I
bounded straight into a taxi and told the driver to go all out for the
studio.

I rushed in, and there was Corky, hunched up at the easel, painting
away, while on the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middle
age, holding a baby.

A fellow has to be ready for that sort of thing.

'Oh, ah!' I said, and started to back out.

Corky looked over his shoulder.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes