Pelham Wodehouse - Right Ho, Jeeves

It was the same now. When I realized, listening to her words, that she must be referring to Gussie—I mean to say, there couldn't have been a whole platoon of men taking thorns out of her dog that day; the animal wasn't a pin-cushion—and became aware that Gussie, who an instant before had, to all appearances, gone so far back in the betting as not to be worth a quotation, was the big winner after all, a positive thrill permeated the frame and there escaped my lips a “Wow!” so crisp and hearty that the Bassett leaped a liberal inch and a half from terra firma.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

I waved a jaunty hand.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. Just remembered there's a letter I have to write tonight without fail. If you don't mind, I think I'll be going in. Here,” I said, “comes Gussie Fink-Nottle. He will look after you.”

And, as I spoke, Gussie came sidling out from behind a tree.

I passed away and left them to it. As regards these two, everything was beyond a question absolutely in order. All Gussie had to do was keep his head down and not press. Already, I felt, as I legged it back to the house, the happy ending must have begun to function. I mean to say, when you leave a girl and a man, each of whom has admitted in set terms that she and he loves him and her, in close juxtaposition in the twilight, there doesn't seem much more to do but start pricing fish slices.

Something attempted, something done, seemed to me to have earned two-penn'orth of wassail in the smoking-room.

I proceeded thither.

The makings were neatly laid out on a side-table, and to pour into a glass an inch or so of the raw spirit and shoosh some soda-water on top of it was with me the work of a moment. This done, I retired to an arm-chair and put my feet up, sipping the mixture with carefree enjoyment, rather like Caesar having one in his tent the day he overcame the Nervii.

As I let the mind dwell on what must even now be taking place in that peaceful garden, I felt bucked and uplifted. Though never for an instant faltering in my opinion that Augustus Fink-Nottle was Nature's final word in cloth-headed guffins, I liked the man, wished him well, and could not have felt more deeply involved in the success of his wooing if I, and not he, had been under the ether.

The thought that by this time he might quite easily have completed the preliminary pourparlers and be deep in an informal discussion of honeymoon plans was very pleasant to me.

Of course, considering the sort of girl Madeline Bassett was—stars and rabbits and all that, I mean—you might say that a sober sadness would have been more fitting. But in these matters you have got to realize that tastes differ. The impulse of right-thinking men might be to run a mile when they saw the Bassett, but for some reason she appealed to the deeps in Gussie, so that was that.

I had reached this point in my meditations, when I was aroused by the sound of the door opening. Somebody came in and started moving like a leopard toward the side-table and, lowering the feet, I perceived that it was Tuppy Glossop.

The sight of him gave me a momentary twinge of remorse, reminding me, as it did, that in the excitement of getting Gussie fixed up I had rather forgotten about this other client. It is often that way when you're trying to run two cases at once.

However, Gussie now being off my mind, I was prepared to devote my whole attention to the Glossop problem.

I had been much pleased by the way he had carried out the task assigned him at the dinner-table. No easy one, I can assure you, for the browsing and sluicing had been of the highest quality, and there had been one dish in particular—I allude to the nonnettes de poulet Agnes Sorel –which might well have broken down the most iron resolution. But he had passed it up like a professional fasting man, and I was proud of him.

“Oh, hullo, Tuppy,” I said, “I wanted to see you.”

He turned, snifter in hand, and it was easy to see that his privations had tried him sorely. He was looking like a wolf on the steppes of Russia which has seen its peasant shin up a high tree.

“Yes?” he said, rather unpleasantly. “Well, here I am.”

“Well?”

“How do you mean—well?”

“Make your report.”

“What report?”

“Have you nothing to tell me about Angela?”

“Only that she's a blister.”

I was concerned.

“Hasn't she come clustering round you yet?”

“She has not.”

“Very odd.”

“Why odd?”

“She must have noted your lack of appetite.”

He barked raspingly, as if he were having trouble with the tonsils of the soul.

“Lack of appetite! I'm as hollow as the Grand Canyon.”

“Courage, Tuppy! Think of Gandhi.”

“What about Gandhi?”

“He hasn't had a square meal for years.”

“Nor have I. Or I could swear I hadn't. Gandhi, my left foot.”

I saw that it might be best to let the Gandhi motif slide. I went back to where we had started.

“She's probably looking for you now.”

“Who is? Angela?”

“Yes. She must have noticed your supreme sacrifice.”

“I don't suppose she noticed it at all, the little fathead. I'll bet it didn't register in any way whatsoever.”

“Come, Tuppy,” I urged, “this is morbid. Don't take this gloomy view. She must at least have spotted that you refused those nonnettes de poulet Agnes Sorel . It was a sensational renunciation and stuck out like a sore thumb. And the cepes a la Rossini –”

A hoarse cry broke from his twisted lips:

“Will you stop it, Bertie! Do you think I am made of marble? Isn't it bad enough to have sat watching one of Anatole's supremest dinners flit by, course after course, without having you making a song about it? Don't remind me of those nonnettes . I can't stand it.”

I endeavoured to hearten and console.

“Be brave, Tuppy. Fix your thoughts on that cold steak-and-kidney pie in the larder. As the Good Book says, it cometh in the morning.”

“Yes, in the morning. And it's now about half-past nine at night. You would bring that pie up, wouldn't you? Just when I was trying to keep my mind off it.”

I saw what he meant. Hours must pass before he could dig into that pie. I dropped the subject, and we sat for a pretty good time in silence. Then he rose and began to pace the room in an overwrought sort of way, like a zoo lion who has heard the dinner-gong go and is hoping the keeper won't forget him in the general distribution. I averted my gaze tactfully, but I could hear him kicking chairs and things. It was plain that the man's soul was in travail and his blood pressure high.

Presently he returned to his seat, and I saw that he was looking at me intently. There was that about his demeanour that led me to think that he had something to communicate.

Nor was I wrong. He tapped me significantly on the knee and spoke:

“Bertie.”

“Hullo?”

“Shall I tell you something?”

“Certainly, old bird,” I said cordially. “I was just beginning to feel that the scene could do with a bit more dialogue.”

“This business of Angela and me.”

“Yes?”

“I've been putting in a lot of solid thinking about it.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I have analysed the situation pitilessly, and one thing stands out as clear as dammit. There has been dirty work afoot.”

“I don't get you.”

“All right. Let me review the facts. Up to the time she went to Cannes Angela loved me. She was all over me. I was the blue-eyed boy in every sense of the term. You'll admit that?”

“Indisputably.”

“And directly she came back we had this bust-up.”