Death at the Excelsior, and Other Stories

  JEEVES AND THE CHUMP CYRIL

  You know, the longer I live, the more clearly I see that half thetrouble in this bally world is caused by the light-hearted andthoughtless way in which chappies dash off letters of introduction andhand them to other chappies to deliver to chappies of the third part.It's one of those things that make you wish you were living in theStone Age. What I mean to say is, if a fellow in those days wanted togive anyone a letter of introduction, he had to spend a month or socarving it on a large-sized boulder, and the chances were that theother chappie got so sick of lugging the thing round in the hot sunthat he dropped it after the first mile. But nowadays it's so easy towrite letters of introduction that everybody does it without a secondthought, with the result that some perfectly harmless cove like myselfgets in the soup.

  Mark you, all the above is what you might call the result of my riperexperience. I don't mind admitting that in the first flush of thething, so to speak, when Jeeves told me--this would be about threeweeks after I'd landed in America--that a blighter called CyrilBassington-Bassington had arrived and I found that he had brought aletter of introduction to me from Aunt Agatha ... where was I? Oh,yes ... I don't mind admitting, I was saying, that just at first I wasrather bucked. You see, after the painful events which had resulted inmy leaving England I hadn't expected to get any sort of letter fromAunt Agatha which would pass the censor, so to speak. And it was apleasant surprise to open this one and find it almost civil. Chilly,perhaps, in parts, but on the whole quite tolerably polite. I looked onthe thing as a hopeful sign. Sort of olive-branch, you know. Or do Imean orange blossom? What I'm getting at is that the fact that AuntAgatha was writing to me without calling me names seemed, more or less,like a step in the direction of peace.

  And I was all for peace, and that right speedily. I'm not saying a wordagainst New York, mind you. I liked the place, and was having quite aripe time there. But the fact remains that a fellow who's been used toLondon all his life does get a trifle homesick on a foreign strand, andI wanted to pop back to the cosy old flat in Berkeley Street--whichcould only be done when Aunt Agatha had simmered down and got over theGlossop episode. I know that London is a biggish city, but, believe me,it isn't half big enough for any fellow to live in with Aunt Agathawhen she's after him with the old hatchet. And so I'm bound to say Ilooked on this chump Bassington-Bassington, when he arrived, more orless as a Dove of Peace, and was all for him.

  He would seem from contemporary accounts to have blown in one morningat seven-forty-five, that being the ghastly sort of hour they shoot youoff the liner in New York. He was given the respectful raspberry byJeeves, and told to try again about three hours later, when there wouldbe a sporting chance of my having sprung from my bed with a glad cry towelcome another day and all that sort of thing. Which was rather decentof Jeeves, by the way, for it so happened that there was a slightestrangement, a touch of coldness, a bit of a row in other words,between us at the moment because of some rather priceless purple sockswhich I was wearing against his wishes: and a lesser man might easilyhave snatched at the chance of getting back at me a bit by loosingCyril into my bedchamber at a moment when I couldn't have stood atwo-minutes' conversation with my dearest pal. For until I have had myearly cup of tea and have brooded on life for a bit absolutelyundisturbed, I'm not much of a lad for the merry chit-chat.

  So Jeeves very sportingly shot Cyril out into the crisp morning air,and didn't let me know of his existence till he brought his card inwith the Bohea.

  "And what might all this be, Jeeves?" I said, giving the thing theglassy gaze.

  "The gentleman has arrived from England, I understand, sir. He calledto see you earlier in the day."

  "Good Lord, Jeeves! You don't mean to say the day starts earlier thanthis?"

  "He desired me to say he would return later, sir."

  "I've never heard of him. Have you ever heard of him, Jeeves?"

  "I am familiar with the name Bassington-Bassington, sir. There arethree branches of the Bassington-Bassington family--the ShropshireBassington-Bassingtons, the Hampshire Bassington-Bassingtons, and theKent Bassington-Bassingtons."

  "England seems pretty well stocked up with Bassington-Bassingtons."

  "Tolerably so, sir."

  "No chance of a sudden shortage, I mean, what?"

  "Presumably not, sir."

  "And what sort of a specimen is this one?"

  "I could not say, sir, on such short acquaintance."

  "Will you give me a sporting two to one, Jeeves, judging from what youhave seen of him, that this chappie is not a blighter or anexcrescence?"

  "No, sir. I should not care to venture such liberal odds."

  "I knew it. Well, the only thing that remains to be discovered is whatkind of a blighter he is."

  "Time will tell, sir. The gentleman brought a letter for you, sir."

  "Oh, he did, did he?" I said, and grasped the communication. And then Irecognised the handwriting. "I say, Jeeves, this is from my AuntAgatha!"

  "Indeed, sir?"

  "Don't dismiss it in that light way. Don't you see what this means? Shesays she wants me to look after this excrescence while he's in NewYork. By Jove, Jeeves, if I only fawn on him a bit, so that he sendsback a favourable report to head-quarters, I may yet be able to getback to England in time for Goodwood. Now is certainly the time for allgood men to come to the aid of the party, Jeeves. We must rally roundand cosset this cove in no uncertain manner."

  "Yes, sir."

  "He isn't going to stay in New York long," I said, taking another lookat the letter. "He's headed for Washington. Going to give the nibsthere the once-over, apparently, before taking a whirl at theDiplomatic Service. I should say that we can win this lad's esteem andaffection with a lunch and a couple of dinners, what?"

  "I fancy that should be entirely adequate, sir."

  "This is the jolliest thing that's happened since we left England. Itlooks to me as if the sun were breaking through the clouds."

  "Very possibly, sir."

  He started to put out my things, and there was an awkward sort ofsilence.

  "Not those socks, Jeeves," I said, gulping a bit but having a dash atthe careless, off-hand tone. "Give me the purple ones."

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "Those jolly purple ones."

  "Very good, sir."

  He lugged them out of the drawer as if he were a vegetarian fishing acaterpillar out of the salad. You could see he was feeling deeply.Deuced painful and all that, this sort of thing, but a chappie has gotto assert himself every now and then. Absolutely.

  * * * * *

  I was looking for Cyril to show up again any time after breakfast, buthe didn't appear: so towards one o'clock I trickled out to the LambsClub, where I had an appointment to feed the Wooster face with a coveof the name of Caffyn I'd got pally with since my arrival--GeorgeCaffyn, a fellow who wrote plays and what not. I'd made a lot offriends during my stay in New York, the city being crammed withbonhomous lads who one and all extended a welcoming hand to thestranger in their midst.

  Caffyn was a bit late, but bobbed up finally, saying that he had beenkept at a rehearsal of his new musical comedy, "Ask Dad"; and westarted in. We had just reached the coffee, when the waiter came up andsaid that Jeeves wanted to see me.

  Jeeves was in the waiting-room. He gave the socks one pained look as Icame in, then averted his eyes.

  "Mr. Bassington-Bassington has just telephoned, sir."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Where is he?"

  "In prison, sir."

  I reeled against the wallpaper. A nice thing to happen to Aunt Agatha'snominee on his first morning under my wing, I did _not_ think!

  "In prison!"

  "Yes, sir. He said on the telephone that he had been arrested and wouldbe glad if you could step round and bail him out."

  "Arrested! What for?"

  "He did not favour me with his confidence in that respect, sir."


  "This is a bit thick, Jeeves."

  "Precisely, sir."

  I collected old George, who very decently volunteered to stagger alongwith me, and we hopped into a taxi. We sat around at the police-stationfor a bit on a wooden bench in a sort of ante-room, and presently apoliceman appeared, leading in Cyril.

  "Halloa! Halloa! Halloa!" I said. "What?"

  My experience is that a fellow never really looks his best just afterhe's come out of a cell. When I was up at Oxford, I used to have aregular job bailing out a pal of mine who never failed to get pinchedevery Boat-Race night, and he always looked like something that hadbeen dug up by the roots. Cyril was in pretty much the same sort ofshape. He had a black eye and a torn collar, and altogether was nothingto write home about--especially if one was writing to Aunt Agatha. Hewas a thin, tall chappie with a lot of light hair and pale-blue gogglyeyes which made him look like one of the rarer kinds of fish.

  "I got your message," I said.

  "Oh, are you Bertie Wooster?"

  "Absolutely. And this is my pal George Caffyn. Writes plays and whatnot, don't you know."

  We all shook hands, and the policeman, having retrieved a piece ofchewing-gum from the underside of a chair, where he had parked itagainst a rainy day, went off into a corner and began to contemplatethe infinite.

  "This is a rotten country," said Cyril.

  "Oh, I don't know, you know, don't you know!" I said.

  "We do our best," said George.

  "Old George is an American," I explained. "Writes plays, don't youknow, and what not."

  "Of course, I didn't invent the country," said George. "That wasColumbus. But I shall be delighted to consider any improvements you maysuggest and lay them before the proper authorities."

  "Well, why don't the policemen in New York dress properly?"

  George took a look at the chewing officer across the room.

  "I don't see anything missing," he said

  "I mean to say, why don't they wear helmets like they do in London? Whydo they look like postmen? It isn't fair on a fellow. Makes it dashedconfusing. I was simply standing on the pavement, looking at things,when a fellow who looked like a postman prodded me in the ribs with aclub. I didn't see why I should have postmen prodding me. Why thedickens should a fellow come three thousand miles to be prodded bypostmen?"

  "The point is well taken," said George. "What did you do?"

  "I gave him a shove, you know. I've got a frightfully hasty temper, youknow. All the Bassington-Bassingtons have got frightfully hastytempers, don't you know! And then he biffed me in the eye and lugged meoff to this beastly place."

  "I'll fix it, old son," I said. And I hauled out the bank-roll and wentoff to open negotiations, leaving Cyril to talk to George. I don't mindadmitting that I was a bit perturbed. There were furrows in the oldbrow, and I had a kind of foreboding feeling. As long as this chumpstayed in New York, I was responsible for him: and he didn't give methe impression of being the species of cove a reasonable chappie wouldcare to be responsible for for more than about three minutes.

  I mused with a considerable amount of tensity over Cyril that night,when I had got home and Jeeves had brought me the final whisky. Icouldn't help feeling that this visit of his to America was going to beone of those times that try men's souls and what not. I hauled out AuntAgatha's letter of introduction and re-read it, and there was nogetting away from the fact that she undoubtedly appeared to be somewhatwrapped up in this blighter and to consider it my mission in life toshield him from harm while on the premises. I was deuced thankful thathe had taken such a liking for George Caffyn, old George being a steadysort of cove. After I had got him out of his dungeon-cell, he and oldGeorge had gone off together, as chummy as brothers, to watch theafternoon rehearsal of "Ask Dad." There was some talk, I gathered, oftheir dining together. I felt pretty easy in my mind while George hadhis eye on him.

  I had got about as far as this in my meditations, when Jeeves came inwith a telegram. At least, it wasn't a telegram: it was a cable--fromAunt Agatha--and this is what it said:----

  Has Cyril Bassington-Bassington called yet? On no account introduce him into theatrical circles. Vitally important. Letter follows.

  I read it a couple of times.

  "This is rummy, Jeeves!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very rummy and dashed disturbing!"

  "Will there be anything further to-night, sir?"

  Of course, if he was going to be as bally unsympathetic as that therewas nothing to be done. My idea had been to show him the cable and askhis advice. But if he was letting those purple socks rankle to thatextent, the good old _noblesse oblige_ of the Woosters couldn'tlower itself to the extent of pleading with the man. Absolutely not. SoI gave it a miss.

  "Nothing more, thanks."

  "Good night, sir."

  "Good night."

  He floated away, and I sat down to think the thing over. I had beendirecting the best efforts of the old bean to the problem for a matterof half an hour, when there was a ring at the bell. I went to the door,and there was Cyril, looking pretty festive.

  "I'll come in for a bit if I may," he said. "Got something ratherpriceless to tell you."

  He curveted past me into the sitting-room, and when I got there aftershutting the front door I found him reading Aunt Agatha's cable andgiggling in a rummy sort of manner. "Oughtn't to have looked at this, Isuppose. Caught sight of my name and read it without thinking. I say,Wooster, old friend of my youth, this is rather funny. Do you mind if Ihave a drink? Thanks awfully and all that sort of rot. Yes, it's ratherfunny, considering what I came to tell you. Jolly old Caffyn has givenme a small part in that musical comedy of his, 'Ask Dad.' Only a bit,you know, but quite tolerably ripe. I'm feeling frightfully braced,don't you know!"

  He drank his drink, and went on. He didn't seem to notice that I wasn'tjumping about the room, yapping with joy.

  "You know, I've always wanted to go on the stage, you know," he said."But my jolly old guv'nor wouldn't stick it at any price. Put the oldWaukeesi down with a bang, and turned bright purple whenever thesubject was mentioned. That's the real reason why I came over here, ifyou want to know. I knew there wasn't a chance of my being able to workthis stage wheeze in London without somebody getting on to it andtipping off the guv'nor, so I rather brainily sprang the scheme ofpopping over to Washington to broaden my mind. There's nobody tointerfere on this side, you see, so I can go right ahead!"

  I tried to reason with the poor chump.

  "But your guv'nor will have to know some time."

  "That'll be all right. I shall be the jolly old star by then, and hewon't have a leg to stand on."

  "It seems to me he'll have one leg to stand on while he kicks me withthe other."

  "Why, where do you come in? What have you got to do with it?"

  "I introduced you to George Caffyn."

  "So you did, old top, so you did. I'd quite forgotten. I ought to havethanked you before. Well, so long. There's an early rehearsal of 'AskDad' to-morrow morning, and I must be toddling. Rummy the thing shouldbe called 'Ask Dad,' when that's just what I'm not going to do. Seewhat I mean, what, what? Well, pip-pip!"

  "Toodle-oo!" I said sadly, and the blighter scudded off. I dived forthe phone and called up George Caffyn.

  "I say, George, what's all this about Cyril Bassington-Bassington?"

  "What about him?"

  "He tells me you've given him a part in your show."

  "Oh, yes. Just a few lines."

  "But I've just had fifty-seven cables from home telling me on noaccount to let him go on the stage."

  "I'm sorry. But Cyril is just the type I need for that part. He'ssimply got to be himself."

  "It's pretty tough on me, George, old man. My Aunt Agatha sent thisblighter over with a letter of introduction to me, and she will hold meresponsible."

  "She'll cut you out of her will?"

  "It isn't a question of money. But--of course, you've never met my AuntAgatha, so it's rathe
r hard to explain. But she's a sort of humanvampire-bat, and she'll make things most fearfully unpleasant for mewhen I go back to England. She's the kind of woman who comes and ragsyou before breakfast, don't you know."

  "Well, don't go back to England, then. Stick here and becomePresident."

  "But, George, old top----!"

  "Good night!"

  "But, I say, George, old man!"

  "You didn't get my last remark. It was 'Good night!' You Idle Rich maynot need any sleep, but I've got to be bright and fresh in the morning.God bless you!"

  I felt as if I hadn't a friend in the world. I was so jolly well workedup that I went and banged on Jeeves's door. It wasn't a thing I'd havecared to do as a rule, but it seemed to me that now was the time forall good men to come to the aid of the party, so to speak, and that itwas up to Jeeves to rally round the young master, even if it broke uphis beauty-sleep.

  Jeeves emerged in a brown dressing-gown.

  "Sir?"

  "Deuced sorry to wake you up, Jeeves, and what not, but all sorts ofdashed disturbing things have been happening."

  "I was not asleep. It is my practice, on retiring, to read a few pagesof some instructive book."

  "That's good! What I mean to say is, if you've just finished exercisingthe old bean, it's probably in mid-season form for tackling problems.Jeeves, Mr. Bassington-Bassington is going on the stage!"

  "Indeed, sir?"

  "Ah! The thing doesn't hit you! You don't get it properly! Here's thepoint. All his family are most fearfully dead against his going on thestage. There's going to be no end of trouble if he isn't headed off.And, what's worse, my Aunt Agatha will blame me, you see."

  "I see, sir."

  "Well, can't you think of some way of stopping him?"

  "Not, I confess, at the moment, sir."

  "Well, have a stab at it."

  "I will give the matter my best consideration, sir. Will there beanything further to-night?"

  "I hope not! I've had all I can stand already."

  "Very good, sir."

  He popped off.

  * * * * *

  The part which old George had written for the chump Cyril took up abouttwo pages of typescript; but it might have been Hamlet, the way thatpoor, misguided pinhead worked himself to the bone over it. I suppose,if I heard him his lines once, I did it a dozen times in the firstcouple of days. He seemed to think that my only feeling about the wholeaffair was one of enthusiastic admiration, and that he could rely on mysupport and sympathy. What with trying to imagine how Aunt Agatha wasgoing to take this thing, and being woken up out of the dreamless inthe small hours every other night to give my opinion of some new bit ofbusiness which Cyril had invented, I became more or less the good oldshadow. And all the time Jeeves remained still pretty cold and distantabout the purple socks. It's this sort of thing that ages a chappie,don't you know, and makes his youthful _joie-de-vivre_ go a bitgroggy at the knees.

  In the middle of it Aunt Agatha's letter arrived. It took her about sixpages to do justice to Cyril's father's feelings in regard to his goingon the stage and about six more to give me a kind of sketch of what shewould say, think, and do if I didn't keep him clear of injuriousinfluences while he was in America. The letter came by the afternoonmail, and left me with a pretty firm conviction that it wasn't a thingI ought to keep to myself. I didn't even wait to ring the bell: Iwhizzed for the kitchen, bleating for Jeeves, and butted into themiddle of a regular tea-party of sorts. Seated at the table were adepressed-looking cove who might have been a valet or something, and aboy in a Norfolk suit. The valet-chappie was drinking a whisky andsoda, and the boy was being tolerably rough with some jam and cake.

  "Oh, I say, Jeeves!" I said. "Sorry to interrupt the feast of reasonand flow of soul and so forth, but----"

  At this juncture the small boy's eye hit me like a bullet and stoppedme in my tracks. It was one of those cold, clammy, accusing sort ofeyes--the kind that makes you reach up to see if your tie is straight:and he looked at me as if I were some sort of unnecessary product whichCuthbert the Cat had brought in after a ramble among the local ash-cans.He was a stoutish infant with a lot of freckles and a good deal of jamon his face.

  "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" I said. "What?" There didn't seem much else tosay.

  The stripling stared at me in a nasty sort of way through the jam. Hemay have loved me at first sight, but the impression he gave me wasthat he didn't think a lot of me and wasn't betting much that I wouldimprove a great deal on acquaintance. I had a kind of feeling that Iwas about as popular with him as a cold Welsh rabbit.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "My name? Oh, Wooster, don't you know, and what not."

  "My pop's richer than you are!"

  That seemed to be all about me. The child having said his say, startedin on the jam again. I turned to Jeeves.

  "I say, Jeeves, can you spare a moment? I want to show you something."

  "Very good, sir." We toddled into the sitting-room.

  "Who is your little friend, Sidney the Sunbeam, Jeeves?"

  "The young gentleman, sir?"

  "It's a loose way of describing him, but I know what you mean."

  "I trust I was not taking a liberty in entertaining him, sir?"

  "Not a bit. If that's your idea of a large afternoon, go ahead."

  "I happened to meet the young gentleman taking a walk with his father'svalet, sir, whom I used to know somewhat intimately in London, and Iventured to invite them both to join me here."

  "Well, never mind about him, Jeeves. Read this letter."

  He gave it the up-and-down.

  "Very disturbing, sir!" was all he could find to say.

  "What are we going to do about it?"

  "Time may provide a solution, sir."

  "On the other hand, it mayn't, what?"

  "Extremely true, sir.".

  We'd got as far as this, when there was a ring at the door. Jeevesshimmered off, and Cyril blew in, full of good cheer andblitheringness.

  "I say, Wooster, old thing," he said, "I want your advice. You knowthis jolly old part of mine. How ought I to dress it? What I mean is,the first act scene is laid in an hotel of sorts, at about three in theafternoon. What ought I to wear, do you think?"

  I wasn't feeling fit for a discussion of gent's suitings.

  "You'd better consult Jeeves," I said.

  "A hot and by no means unripe idea! Where is he?"

  "Gone back to the kitchen, I suppose."

  "I'll smite the good old bell, shall I? Yes? No?"

  "Right-o!"

  Jeeves poured silently in.

  "Oh, I say, Jeeves," began Cyril, "I just wanted to have a syllable ortwo with you. It's this way--Hallo, who's this?"

  I then perceived that the stout stripling had trickled into the roomafter Jeeves. He was standing near the door looking at Cyril as if hisworst fears had been realised. There was a bit of a silence. The childremained there, drinking Cyril in for about half a minute; then he gavehis verdict:

  "Fish-face!"

  "Eh? What?" said Cyril.

  The child, who had evidently been taught at his mother's knee to speakthe truth, made his meaning a trifle clearer.

  "You've a face like a fish!"

  He spoke as if Cyril was more to be pitied than censured, which I ambound to say I thought rather decent and broad-minded of him. I don'tmind admitting that, whenever I looked at Cyril's face, I always had afeeling that he couldn't have got that way without its being mostly hisown fault. I found myself warming to this child. Absolutely, don't youknow. I liked his conversation.

  It seemed to take Cyril a moment or two really to grasp the thing, andthen you could hear the blood of the Bassington-Bassingtons begin tosizzle.

  "Well, I'm dashed!" he said. "I'm dashed if I'm not!"

  "I wouldn't have a face like that," proceeded the child, with a gooddeal of earnestness, "not if you gave me a million dollars." He thoughtfor a moment, then corrected himsel
f. "Two million dollars!" he added.

  Just what occurred then I couldn't exactly say, but the next fewminutes were a bit exciting. I take it that Cyril must have made a divefor the infant. Anyway, the air seemed pretty well congested with armsand legs and things. Something bumped into the Wooster waistcoat justaround the third button, and I collapsed on to the settee and ratherlost interest in things for the moment. When I had unscrambled myself,I found that Jeeves and the child had retired and Cyril was standing inthe middle of the room snorting a bit.

  "Who's that frightful little brute, Wooster?"

  "I don't know. I never saw him before to-day."

  "I gave him a couple of tolerably juicy buffets before he legged it. Isay, Wooster, that kid said a dashed odd thing. He yelled out somethingabout Jeeves promising him a dollar if he called me--er--what he said."

  It sounded pretty unlikely to me.

  "What would Jeeves do that for?"

  "It struck me as rummy, too."

  "Where would be the sense of it?"

  "That's what I can't see."

  "I mean to say, it's nothing to Jeeves what sort of a face you have!"

  "No!" said Cyril. He spoke a little coldly, I fancied. I don't knowwhy. "Well, I'll be popping. Toodle-oo!"

  "Pip-pip!"

  It must have been about a week after this rummy little episode thatGeorge Caffyn called me up and asked me if I would care to go and see arun-through of his show. "Ask Dad," it seemed, was to open out of townin Schenectady on the following Monday, and this was to be a sort ofpreliminary dress-rehearsal. A preliminary dress-rehearsal, old Georgeexplained, was the same as a regular dress-rehearsal inasmuch as it wasapt to look like nothing on earth and last into the small hours, butmore exciting because they wouldn't be timing the piece andconsequently all the blighters who on these occasions let their angrypassions rise would have plenty of scope for interruptions, with theresult that a pleasant time would be had by all.

  The thing was billed to start at eight o'clock, so I rolled up atten-fifteen, so as not to have too long to wait before they began. Thedress-parade was still going on. George was on the stage, talking to acove in shirt-sleeves and an absolutely round chappie with bigspectacles and a practically hairless dome. I had seen George with thelatter merchant once or twice at the club, and I knew that he wasBlumenfield, the manager. I waved to George, and slid into a seat atthe back of the house, so as to be out of the way when the fightingstarted. Presently George hopped down off the stage and came and joinedme, and fairly soon after that the curtain went down. The chappie atthe piano whacked out a well-meant bar or two, and the curtain went upagain.

  I can't quite recall what the plot of "Ask Dad" was about, but I doknow that it seemed able to jog along all right without much help fromCyril. I was rather puzzled at first. What I mean is, through broodingon Cyril and hearing him in his part and listening to his views on whatought and what ought not to be done, I suppose I had got a sort ofimpression rooted in the old bean that he was pretty well the backboneof the show, and that the rest of the company didn't do much except goon and fill in when he happened to be off the stage. I sat there fornearly half an hour, waiting for him to make his entrance, until Isuddenly discovered he had been on from the start. He was, in fact, therummy-looking plug-ugly who was now leaning against a potted palm acouple of feet from the O.P. side, trying to appear intelligent whilethe heroine sang a song about Love being like something which for themoment has slipped my memory. After the second refrain he began todance in company with a dozen other equally weird birds. A painfulspectacle for one who could see a vision of Aunt Agatha reaching forthe hatchet and old Bassington-Bassington senior putting on hisstrongest pair of hob-nailed boots. Absolutely!

  The dance had just finished, and Cyril and his pals had shuffled offinto the wings when a voice spoke from the darkness on my right.

  "Pop!"

  Old Blumenfield clapped his hands, and the hero, who had just beenabout to get the next line off his diaphragm, cheesed it. I peered intothe shadows. Who should it be but Jeeves's little playmate with thefreckles! He was now strolling down the aisle with his hands in hispockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of respectful attentionseemed to pervade the building.

  "Pop," said the stripling, "that number's no good." Old Blumenfieldbeamed 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 anoverwrought 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'regoing 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 regardhim as a mascot. My own idea is that he thinks the kid has exactly theamount of intelligence of the average member of the audience, and thatwhat makes a hit with him will please the general public. While,conversely, what he doesn't like will be too rotten for anyone. The kidis 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 slightoutburst of frightfulness between the stage-manager and a Voice namedBill that came from somewhere near the roof, the subject underdiscussion being where the devil Bill's "ambers" were at thatparticular juncture. Then things went on again until the moment arrivedfor Cyril's big scene.

  I was still a trifle hazy about the plot, but I had got on to the factthat Cyril was some sort of an English peer who had come over toAmerica doubtless for the best reasons. So far he had only had twolines 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 prettysoon he was due rather to spread himself. I sat back in my chair andwaited for him to bob up.

  He bobbed up about five minutes later. Things had got a bit stormy bythat time. The Voice and the stage-director had had another of theirlove-feasts--this time something to do with why Bill's "blues" weren'ton the job or something. And, almost as soon as that was over, therewas a bit of unpleasantness because a flower-pot fell off awindow-ledge and nearly brained the hero. The atmosphere wasconsequently more or less hotted up when Cyril, who had been hangingabout at the back of the stage, breezed down centre and toed the markfor his most substantial chunk of entertainment. The heroine had beensaying something--I forget what--and all the chorus, with Cyril attheir head, had begun to surge round her in the restless sort of waythose 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 agoodish deal of vim and _je-ne-sais-quoi._ But, by Jove, beforethe heroine had time for the come-back, our little friend with thefreckles 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 moredefinite.

  "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, Icould see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassingtonfamily pri
de 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 quarterof a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato canneryon a sunset evening.

  "What the deuce do you mean?"

  "What the deuce do you mean?" shouted old Blumenfield. "Don't yell atme 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 thanever.

  "See here, mister--I don't know your darn name----!"

  "My name's Bassington-Bassington, and the jolly oldBassington-Bassingtons--I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons aren'taccustomed----"

  Old Blumenfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what hethought of the Bassington-Bassingtons and what they weren't accustomedto. The whole strength of the company rallied round to enjoy hisremarks. You could see them jutting out from the wings and protrudingfrom behind trees.

  "You got to work good for my pop!" said the stout child, waggling hishead reprovingly at Cyril.

  "I don't want any bally cheek from you!" said Cyril, gurgling a bit.

  "What's that?" barked old Blumenfield. "Do you understand that this boyis 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 lubricatingthe good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filteredinto my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in thesitting-room.

  "How does he look, Jeeves?"

  "Sir?"

  "What does Mr. Bassington-Bassington look like?"

  "It is hardly my place, sir, to criticise the facial peculiarities ofyour 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 tracesof last night's battle. I was looking for a bit of the overwrought souland the quivering ganglions, if you know what I mean. He seemed prettyordinary and quite fairly cheerful.

  "Hallo, Wooster, old thing!"

  "Cheero!"

  "I just looked in to say good-bye."

  "Good-bye?"

  "Yes. I'm off to Washington in an hour." He sat down on the bed. "Youknow, 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, mygoing 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 andwords to that effect, don't you know, and I can't help thinking itwould be a bit of a jar for the old boy if I gave him the bird and wenton the stage instead. I don't know if you understand me, but what Imean 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--saidhe didn't see how he could fill my place and all that sort ofthing--but, after all, even if it does land him in a bit of a hole, Ithink 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. Awfullyglad 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, eversince last night I had been exercising the old bean to some extent, anda 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 myclothes. "It is possible that young Master Blumenfield may havegathered from casual remarks of mine that I did not consider the stagealtogether 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 Agathawould 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. Ifancy the effect will be pleasing."

  * * * * *

  It's a rummy thing, but I had finished breakfast and gone out and gotas far as the lift before I remembered what it was that I had meant todo to reward Jeeves for his really sporting behaviour in this matter ofthe chump Cyril. It cut me to the heart to do it, but I had decided togive him his way and let those purple socks pass out of my life. Afterall, there are times when a cove must make sacrifices. I was just goingto nip back and break the glad news to him, when the lift came up, so Ithought I would leave it till I got home.

  The coloured chappie in charge of the lift looked at me, as I hoppedin, 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 me them purple socks, as you told him. Thankyo' very much, suh!"

  I looked down. The blighter was a blaze of mauve from the ankle-bonesouthward. 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!