My Man Jeeves

  Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team

  MY MAN JEEVES

  BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

  1919

  CONTENTS

  LEAVE IT TO JEEVES

  JEEVES AND THE UNBIDDEN GUEST

  JEEVES AND THE HARD-BOILED EGG

  ABSENT TREATMENT

  HELPING FREDDIE

  RALLYING ROUND OLD GEORGE

  DOING CLARENCE A BIT OF GOOD

  THE AUNT AND THE SLUGGARD

  LEAVE IT TO JEEVES

  Jeeves--my man, you know--is really a most extraordinary chap. So capable.Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do without him. On broader lines he'slike those chappies who sit peering sadly over the marble battlementsat the Pennsylvania Station in the place marked "Inquiries." You knowthe Johnnies I mean. You go up to them and say: "When's the next trainfor Melonsquashville, Tennessee?" and they reply, without stopping tothink, "Two-forty-three, track ten, change at San Francisco." And they'reright every time. Well, Jeeves gives you just the same impression ofomniscience.

  As an instance of what I mean, I remember meeting Monty Byng in BondStreet one morning, looking the last word in a grey check suit, and Ifelt I should never be happy till I had one like it. I dug the addressof the tailors out of him, and had them working on the thing inside thehour.

  "Jeeves," I said that evening. "I'm getting a check suit like that oneof Mr. Byng's."

  "Injudicious, sir," he said firmly. "It will not become you."

  "What absolute rot! It's the soundest thing I've struck for years."

  "Unsuitable for you, sir."

  Well, the long and the short of it was that the confounded thing camehome, and I put it on, and when I caught sight of myself in the glass Inearly swooned. Jeeves was perfectly right. I looked a cross between amusic-hall comedian and a cheap bookie. Yet Monty had looked fine inabsolutely the same stuff. These things are just Life's mysteries, andthat's all there is to it.

  But it isn't only that Jeeves's judgment about clothes is infallible,though, of course, that's really the main thing. The man knowseverything. There was the matter of that tip on the "Lincolnshire."I forget now how I got it, but it had the aspect of being the real,red-hot tabasco.

  "Jeeves," I said, for I'm fond of the man, and like to do him a goodturn when I can, "if you want to make a bit of money have something onWonderchild for the 'Lincolnshire.'"

  He shook his head.

  "I'd rather not, sir."

  "But it's the straight goods. I'm going to put my shirt on him."

  "I do not recommend it, sir. The animal is not intended to win. Secondplace is what the stable is after."

  Perfect piffle, I thought, of course. How the deuce could Jeeves knowanything about it? Still, you know what happened. Wonderchild led tillhe was breathing on the wire, and then Banana Fritter came along andnosed him out. I went straight home and rang for Jeeves.

  "After this," I said, "not another step for me without your advice.From now on consider yourself the brains of the establishment."

  "Very good, sir. I shall endeavour to give satisfaction."

  And he has, by Jove! I'm a bit short on brain myself; the old beanwould appear to have been constructed more for ornament than for use,don't you know; but give me five minutes to talk the thing over withJeeves, and I'm game to advise any one about anything. And that's why,when Bruce Corcoran came to me with his troubles, my first act was toring the bell and put it up to the lad with the bulging forehead.

  "Leave it to Jeeves," I said.

  I first got to know Corky when I came to New York. He was a pal of mycousin Gussie, who was in with a lot of people down Washington Squareway. I don't know if I ever told you about it, but the reason why Ileft England was because I was sent over by my Aunt Agatha to try tostop young Gussie marrying a girl on the vaudeville stage, and I gotthe whole thing so mixed up that I decided that it would be a soundscheme for me to stop on in America for a bit instead of going back andhaving long cosy chats about the thing with aunt. So I sent Jeeves outto find a decent apartment, and settled down for a bit of exile. I'mbound to say that New York's a topping place to be exiled in. Everybodywas awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things goingon, and I'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine. Chappies introducedme to other chappies, and so on and so forth, and it wasn't long beforeI knew squads of the right sort, some who rolled in dollars in housesup by the Park, and others who lived with the gas turned down mostlyaround Washington Square--artists and writers and so forth. Brainycoves.

  Corky was one of the artists. A portrait-painter, he called himself,but he hadn't painted any portraits. He was sitting on the side-lineswith a blanket over his shoulders, waiting for a chance to get into thegame. You see, the catch about portrait-painting--I've looked into thething a bit--is that you can't start painting portraits till peoplecome along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to untilyou've painted a lot first. This makes it kind of difficult for achappie. Corky managed to get along by drawing an occasional picturefor the comic papers--he had rather a gift for funny stuff when he gota good idea--and doing bedsteads and chairs and things for theadvertisements. His principal source of income, however, was derivedfrom biting the ear of a rich uncle--one Alexander Worple, who was inthe jute business. I'm a bit foggy as to what jute is, but it'sapparently something the populace is pretty keen on, for Mr. Worple hadmade quite an indecently large stack out of it.

  Now, a great many fellows think that having a rich uncle is a prettysoft snap: but, according to Corky, such is not the case. Corky's unclewas a robust sort of cove, who looked like living for ever. He wasfifty-one, and it seemed as if he might go to par. It was not this,however, that distressed poor old Corky, for he was not bigoted and hadno objection to the man going on living. What Corky kicked at was theway the above Worple used to harry him.

  Corky's uncle, you see, didn't want him to be an artist. He didn'tthink he had any talent in that direction. He was always urging him tochuck Art and go into the jute business and start at the bottom andwork his way up. Jute had apparently become a sort of obsession withhim. He seemed to attach almost a spiritual importance to it. And whatCorky said was that, while he didn't know what they did at the bottomof the jute business, instinct told him that it was something toobeastly for words. Corky, moreover, believed in his future as anartist. Some day, he said, he was going to make a hit. Meanwhile, byusing the utmost tact and persuasiveness, he was inducing his uncle tocough up very grudgingly a small quarterly allowance.

  He wouldn't have got this if his uncle hadn't had a hobby. Mr. Worplewas peculiar in this respect. As a rule, from what I've observed, theAmerican captain of industry doesn't do anything out of business hours.When he has put the cat out and locked up the office for the night, hejust relapses into a state of coma from which he emerges only to startbeing a captain of industry again. But Mr. Worple in his spare time waswhat is known as an ornithologist. He had written a book called_American Birds_, and was writing another, to be called _MoreAmerican Birds_. When he had finished that, the presumption was thathe would begin a third, and keep on till the supply of American birdsgave out. Corky used to go to him about once every three months and lethim talk about American birds. Apparently you could do what you likedwith old Worple if you gave him his head first on his pet subject, sothese little chats used to make Corky's allowance all right for thetime being. But it was pretty rotten for the poor chap. There was thefrightful suspense, you see, and, apart from that, birds, except whenbroiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.

  To complete the character-study of Mr. Worple, he was a man ofextremely uncertain temper, and his general tendency was to think thatCorky was a poor chump and that whatever step he took in any
directionon his own account, was just another proof of his innate idiocy. Ishould imagine Jeeves feels very much the same about me.

  So when Corky trickled into my apartment one afternoon, shooing a girlin front of him, and said, "Bertie, I want you to meet my fiancee, MissSinger," the aspect of the matter which hit me first was precisely theone which he had come to consult me about. The very first words I spokewere, "Corky, how about your uncle?"

  The poor chap gave one of those mirthless laughs. He was lookinganxious and worried, like a man who has done the murder all right butcan't think what the deuce to do with the body.

  "We're so scared, Mr. Wooster," said the girl. "We were hoping that youmight suggest a way of breaking it to him."

  Muriel Singer was one of those very quiet, appealing girls who have away of looking at you with their big eyes as if they thought you werethe greatest thing on earth and wondered that you hadn't got on to ityet yourself. She sat there in a sort of shrinking way, looking at meas if she were saying to herself, "Oh, I do hope this great strong manisn't going to hurt me." She gave a fellow a protective kind offeeling, made him want to stroke her hand and say, "There, there,little one!" or words to that effect. She made me feel that there wasnothing I wouldn't do for her. She was rather like one of thoseinnocent-tasting American drinks which creep imperceptibly into yoursystem so that, before you know what you're doing, you're starting outto reform the world by force if necessary and pausing on your way totell the large man in the corner that, if he looks at you like that,you will knock his head off. What I mean is, she made me feel alert anddashing, like a jolly old knight-errant or something of that kind. Ifelt that I was with her in this thing to the limit.

  "I don't see why your uncle shouldn't be most awfully bucked," I saidto Corky. "He will think Miss Singer the ideal wife for you."

  Corky declined to cheer up.

  "You don't know him. Even if he did like Muriel he wouldn't admit it.That's the sort of pig-headed guy he is. It would be a matter ofprinciple with him to kick. All he would consider would be that I hadgone and taken an important step without asking his advice, and hewould raise Cain automatically. He's always done it."

  I strained the old bean to meet this emergency.

  "You want to work it so that he makes Miss Singer's acquaintancewithout knowing that you know her. Then you come along----"

  "But how can I work it that way?"

  I saw his point. That was the catch.

  "There's only one thing to do," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "Leave it to Jeeves."

  And I rang the bell.

  "Sir?" said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummythings about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you veryseldom see him come into a room. He's like one of those weird chappiesin India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space ina sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where theywant them. I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and hesays he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quitebring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the fleshof animals slain in anger and pie.

  The moment I saw the man standing there, registering respectfulattention, a weight seemed to roll off my mind. I felt like a lostchild who spots his father in the offing. There was something about himthat gave me confidence.

  Jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces. His eyegleams with the light of pure intelligence.

  "Jeeves, we want your advice."

  "Very good, sir."

  I boiled down Corky's painful case into a few well-chosen words.

  "So you see what it amount to, Jeeves. We want you to suggest some wayby which Mr. Worple can make Miss Singer's acquaintance without gettingon to the fact that Mr. Corcoran already knows her. Understand?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  "Well, try to think of something."

  "I have thought of something already, sir."

  "You have!"

  "The scheme I would suggest cannot fail of success, but it has what mayseem to you a drawback, sir, in that it requires a certain financialoutlay."

  "He means," I translated to Corky, "that he has got a pippin of anidea, but it's going to cost a bit."

  Naturally the poor chap's face dropped, for this seemed to dish thewhole thing. But I was still under the influence of the girl's meltinggaze, and I saw that this was where I started in as a knight-errant.

  "You can count on me for all that sort of thing, Corky," I said. "Onlytoo glad. Carry on, Jeeves."

  "I would suggest, sir, that Mr. Corcoran take advantage of Mr. Worple'sattachment to ornithology."

  "How on earth did you know that he was fond of birds?"

  "It is the way these New York apartments are constructed, sir. Quiteunlike our London houses. The partitions between the rooms are of theflimsiest nature. With no wish to overhear, I have sometimes heard Mr.Corcoran expressing himself with a generous strength on the subject Ihave mentioned."

  "Oh! Well?"

  "Why should not the young lady write a small volume, to be entitled--letus say--_The Children's Book of American Birds_, and dedicate itto Mr. Worple! A limited edition could be published at your expense,sir, and a great deal of the book would, of course, be given over toeulogistic remarks concerning Mr. Worple's own larger treatise on thesame subject. I should recommend the dispatching of a presentation copyto Mr. Worple, immediately on publication, accompanied by a letter inwhich the young lady asks to be allowed to make the acquaintance of oneto whom she owes so much. This would, I fancy, produce the desiredresult, but as I say, the expense involved would be considerable."

  I felt like the proprietor of a performing dog on the vaudeville stagewhen the tyke has just pulled off his trick without a hitch. I hadbetted on Jeeves all along, and I had known that he wouldn't let medown. It beats me sometimes why a man with his genius is satisfied tohang around pressing my clothes and what-not. If I had half Jeeves'sbrain, I should have a stab at being Prime Minister or something.

  "Jeeves," I said, "that is absolutely ripping! One of your very bestefforts."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The girl made an objection.

  "But I'm sure I couldn't write a book about anything. I can't evenwrite good letters."

  "Muriel's talents," said Corky, with a little cough "lie more in thedirection of the drama, Bertie. I didn't mention it before, but one ofour reasons for being a trifle nervous as to how Uncle Alexander willreceive the news is that Muriel is in the chorus of that show _Chooseyour Exit_ at the Manhattan. It's absurdly unreasonable, but we bothfeel that that fact might increase Uncle Alexander's natural tendencyto kick like a steer."

  I saw what he meant. Goodness knows there was fuss enough in our familywhen I tried to marry into musical comedy a few years ago. And therecollection of my Aunt Agatha's attitude in the matter of Gussie andthe vaudeville girl was still fresh in my mind. I don't know why itis--one of these psychology sharps could explain it, I suppose--butuncles and aunts, as a class, are always dead against the drama,legitimate or otherwise. They don't seem able to stick it at any price.

  But Jeeves had a solution, of course.

  "I fancy it would be a simple matter, sir, to find some impecuniousauthor who would be glad to do the actual composition of the volume fora small fee. It is only necessary that the young lady's name shouldappear on the title page."

  "That's true," said Corky. "Sam Patterson would do it for a hundreddollars. He writes a novelette, three short stories, and ten thousandwords of a serial for one of the all-fiction magazines under differentnames every month. A little thing like this would be nothing to him.I'll get after him right away."

  "Fine!"

  "Will that be all, sir?" said Jeeves. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

  I always used to think that publishers had to be devilish intelligentfellows, loaded down with the grey matter; but I've got their numbernow. All a publisher has to do is to write cheques at intervals, whilea
lot of deserving and industrious chappies rally round and do the realwork. I know, because I've been one myself. I simply sat tight in theold apartment with a fountain-pen, and in due season a topping, shinybook came along.

  I happened to be down at Corky's place when the first copies of _TheChildren's Book of American Birds_ bobbed up. Muriel Singer wasthere, and we were talking of things in general when there was a bangat the door and the parcel was delivered.

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

  "Often of a spring morning," it said at the top of page twenty-one, "asyou wander through the fields, you will hear the sweet-toned,carelessly flowing warble of the purple finch linnet. When you areolder you must read all about him in Mr. Alexander Worple's wonderfulbook--_American Birds_."

  You see. A boost for the uncle right away. And only a few pages laterthere he was in the limelight again in connection with the yellow-billedcuckoo. It was great stuff. The more I read, the more I admired the chapwho 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 theworld's greatest authority on the yellow-billed cuckoo without rousing acertain 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 apartment totell me that all was well. The uncle had written Muriel a letter sodripping with the milk of human kindness that if he hadn't known Mr.Worple's handwriting Corky would have refused to believe him the authorof it. Any time it suited Miss Singer to call, said the uncle, he wouldbe delighted to make her acquaintance.

  Shortly after this I had to go out of town. Divers sound sportsmen hadinvited me to pay visits to their country places, and it wasn't forseveral months that I settled down in the city again. I had beenwondering a lot, of course, about Corky, whether it all turned outright, and so forth, and my first evening in New York, happening to popinto a quiet sort of little restaurant which I go to when I don't feelinclined for the bright lights, I found Muriel Singer there, sitting byherself at a table near the door. Corky, I took it, was outtelephoning. 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, akind 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 bothsides--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 usuallydined 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 timeI 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 isa friend of mine--Mr. Wooster."

  I spun round. A chappie with a lot of stiff grey hair and a red sort ofhealthy face was standing there. Rather a formidable Johnnie, helooked, though quite peaceful at the moment.

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

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

  "So you know my nephew, Mr. Wooster," I heard him say. "I wish youwould try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit thisplaying at painting. But I have an idea that he is steadying down. Inoticed it first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to beintroduced to you. He seemed altogether quieter and more serious.Something seemed to have sobered him. Perhaps you will give us thepleasure of your company at dinner to-night, Mr. Wooster? Or have youdined?"

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

  When I reached my apartment I heard Jeeves moving about in his lair. Icalled him.

  "Jeeves," I said, "now is the time for all good men to come to the aidof the party. A stiff b.-and-s. first of all, and then I've a bit ofnews 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. Youremember my friend, Mr. Corcoran?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And the girl who was to slide gracefully into his uncle's esteem bywriting 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 calmerframe of mind, what had happened wasn't my fault, if you come down toit. I couldn't be expected to foresee that the scheme, in itself acracker-jack, would skid into the ditch as it had done; but all thesame I'm bound to admit that I didn't relish the idea of meeting Corkyagain until time, the great healer, had been able to get in a bit ofsoothing work. I cut Washington Square out absolutely for the next fewmonths. I gave it the complete miss-in-baulk. And then, just when I wasbeginning to think I might safely pop down in that direction and gatherup the dropped threads, so to speak, time, instead of working thehealing wheeze, went and pulled the most awful bone and put the lid onit. Opening the paper one morning, I read that Mrs. Alexander Worplehad presented her husband with a son and heir.

  I was so darned sorry for poor old Corky that I hadn't the heart totouch my breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself. I was bowledover. Absolutely. It was the limit.

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

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

  I rushed in, and there was Corky, hunched up at the easel, paintingaway, while on the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middleage, 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.

  "Halloa, Bertie. Don't go. We're just finishing for the day. That willbe all this afternoon," he said to the nurse, who got up with the babyand decanted it into a perambulator which was standing in the fairway.

  "At the same hour to-morrow, Mr. Corcoran?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Good afternoon."

  "Good afternoon."

  Corky stood there, looking at the door, and then he turned to me andbegan to get it off his chest. Fortunately, he seemed to take it forgranted that I knew all about what had happened, so it wasn't asawkward as it might have been.

  "It's
my uncle's idea," he said. "Muriel doesn't know about it yet. Theportrait's to be a surprise for her on her birthday. The nurse takesthe kid out ostensibly to get a breather, and they beat it down here.If you want an instance of the irony of fate, Bertie, get acquaintedwith this. Here's the first commission I have ever had to paint aportrait, and the sitter is that human poached egg that has butted inand bounced me out of my inheritance. Can you beat it! I call itrubbing the thing in to expect me to spend my afternoons gazing intothe ugly face of a little brat who to all intents and purposes has hitme behind the ear with a blackjack and swiped all I possess. I can'trefuse to paint the portrait because if I did my uncle would stop myallowance; yet every time I look up and catch that kid's vacant eye, Isuffer agonies. I tell you, Bertie, sometimes when he gives me apatronizing glance and then turns away and is sick, as if it revoltedhim to look at me, I come within an ace of occupying the entire frontpage of the evening papers as the latest murder sensation. There aremoments when I can almost see the headlines: 'Promising Young ArtistBeans Baby With Axe.'"

  I patted his shoulder silently. My sympathy for the poor old scout wastoo deep for words.

  I kept away from the studio for some time after that, because it didn'tseem right to me to intrude on the poor chappie's sorrow. Besides, I'mbound to say that nurse intimidated me. She reminded me so infernallyof Aunt Agatha. She was the same gimlet-eyed type.

  But one afternoon Corky called me on the 'phone.

  "Bertie."

  "Halloa?"

  "Are you doing anything this afternoon?"

  "Nothing special."

  "You couldn't come down here, could you?"

  "What's the trouble? Anything up?"

  "I've finished the portrait."

  "Good boy! Stout work!"

  "Yes." His voice sounded rather doubtful. "The fact is, Bertie, itdoesn't look quite right to me. There's something about it--My uncle'scoming in half an hour to inspect it, and--I don't know why it is, butI kind of feel I'd like your moral support!"

  I began to see that I was letting myself in for something. Thesympathetic co-operation of Jeeves seemed to me to be indicated.

  "You think he'll cut up rough?"

  "He may."

  I threw my mind back to the red-faced chappie I had met at therestaurant, and tried to picture him cutting up rough. It was only tooeasy. I spoke to Corky firmly on the telephone.

  "I'll come," I said.

  "Good!"

  "But only if I may bring Jeeves!"

  "Why Jeeves? What's Jeeves got to do with it? Who wants Jeeves? Jeevesis the fool who suggested the scheme that has led----"

  "Listen, Corky, old top! If you think I am going to face that uncle ofyours without Jeeves's support, you're mistaken. I'd sooner go into aden of wild beasts and bite a lion on the back of the neck."

  "Oh, all right," said Corky. Not cordially, but he said it; so I rangfor Jeeves, and explained the situation.

  "Very good, sir," said Jeeves.

  That's the sort of chap he is. You can't rattle him.

  We found Corky near the door, looking at the picture, with one hand upin a defensive sort of way, as if he thought it might swing on him.

  "Stand right where you are, Bertie," he said, without moving. "Now,tell me honestly, how does it strike you?"

  The light from the big window fell right on the picture. I took a goodlook at it. Then I shifted a bit nearer and took another look. Then Iwent back to where I had been at first, because it hadn't seemed quiteso bad from there.

  "Well?" said Corky, anxiously.

  I hesitated a bit.

  "Of course, old man, I only saw the kid once, and then only for amoment, but--but it _was_ an ugly sort of kid, wasn't it, if Iremember rightly?"

  "As ugly as that?"

  I looked again, and honesty compelled me to be frank.

  "I don't see how it could have been, old chap."

  Poor old Corky ran his fingers through his hair in a temperamental sortof way. He groaned.

  "You're right quite, Bertie. Something's gone wrong with the darnedthing. My private impression is that, without knowing it, I've workedthat stunt that Sargent and those fellows pull--painting the soul ofthe sitter. I've got through the mere outward appearance, and have putthe child's soul on canvas."

  "But could a child of that age have a soul like that? I don't see howhe could have managed it in the time. What do you think, Jeeves?"

  "I doubt it, sir."

  "It--it sorts of leers at you, doesn't it?"

  "You've noticed that, too?" said Corky.

  "I don't see how one could help noticing."

  "All I tried to do was to give the little brute a cheerful expression.But, as it worked out, he looks positively dissipated."

  "Just what I was going to suggest, old man. He looks as if he were inthe middle of a colossal spree, and enjoying every minute of it. Don'tyou think so, Jeeves?"

  "He has a decidedly inebriated air, sir."

  Corky was starting to say something when the door opened, and the unclecame in.

  For about three seconds all was joy, jollity, and goodwill. The old boyshook hands with me, slapped Corky on the back, said that he didn'tthink he had ever seen such a fine day, and whacked his leg with hisstick. Jeeves had projected himself into the background, and he didn'tnotice him.

  "Well, Bruce, my boy; so the portrait is really finished, is it--reallyfinished? Well, bring it out. Let's have a look at it. This will be awonderful surprise for your aunt. Where is it? Let's----"

  And then he got it--suddenly, when he wasn't set for the punch; and herocked back on his heels.

  "Oosh!" he exclaimed. And for perhaps a minute there was one of thescaliest silences I've ever run up against.

  "Is this a practical joke?" he said at last, in a way that set aboutsixteen draughts cutting through the room at once.

  I thought it was up to me to rally round old Corky.

  "You want to stand a bit farther away from it," I said.

  "You're perfectly right!" he snorted. "I do! I want to stand so faraway from it that I can't see the thing with a telescope!" He turned onCorky like an untamed tiger of the jungle who has just located a chunkof meat. "And this--this--is what you have been wasting your time andmy money for all these years! A painter! I wouldn't let you paint ahouse of mine! I gave you this commission, thinking that you were acompetent worker, and this--this--this extract from a comic colouredsupplement is the result!" He swung towards the door, lashing his tailand growling to himself. "This ends it! If you wish to continue thisfoolery of pretending to be an artist because you want an excuse foridleness, please yourself. But let me tell you this. Unless you reportat my office on Monday morning, prepared to abandon all this idiocy andstart in at the bottom of the business to work your way up, as youshould have done half a dozen years ago, not another cent--not anothercent--not another--Boosh!"

  Then the door closed, and he was no longer with us. And I crawled outof the bombproof shelter.

  "Corky, old top!" I whispered faintly.

  Corky was standing staring at the picture. His face was set. There wasa hunted look in his eye.

  "Well, that finishes it!" he muttered brokenly.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Do? What can I do? I can't stick on here if he cuts off supplies. Youheard what he said. I shall have to go to the office on Monday."

  I couldn't think of a thing to say. I knew exactly how he felt aboutthe office. I don't know when I've been so infernally uncomfortable. Itwas like hanging round trying to make conversation to a pal who's justbeen sentenced to twenty years in quod.

  And then a soothing voice broke the silence.

  "If I might make a suggestion, sir!"

  It was Jeeves. He had slid from the shadows and was gazing gravely atthe picture. Upon my word, I can't give you a better idea of theshattering effect of Corky's uncle Alexander when in action than bysaying that he had absolutely made me forget for the moment that Jeeveswas there.

&nb
sp; "I wonder if I have ever happened to mention to you, sir, a Mr. DigbyThistleton, with whom I was once in service? Perhaps you have met him?He was a financier. He is now Lord Bridgnorth. It was a favouritesaying of his that there is always a way. The first time I heard himuse the expression was after the failure of a patent depilatory whichhe promoted."

  "Jeeves," I said, "what on earth are you talking about?"

  "I mentioned Mr. Thistleton, sir, because his was in some respectsa parallel case to the present one. His depilatory failed, but hedid not despair. He put it on the market again under the name ofHair-o, guaranteed to produce a full crop of hair in a few months.It was advertised, if you remember, sir, by a humorous picture of abilliard-ball, before and after taking, and made such a substantialfortune that Mr. Thistleton was soon afterwards elevated to the peeragefor services to his Party. It seems to me that, if Mr. Corcoran looksinto the matter, he will find, like Mr. Thistleton, that there is alwaysa way. Mr. Worple himself suggested the solution of the difficulty. Inthe heat of the moment he compared the portrait to an extract from acoloured comic supplement. I consider the suggestion a very valuableone, sir. Mr. Corcoran's portrait may not have pleased Mr. Worple as alikeness of his only child, but I have no doubt that editors would gladlyconsider it as a foundation for a series of humorous drawings. If Mr.Corcoran will allow me to make the suggestion, his talent has always beenfor the humorous. There is something about this picture--something boldand vigorous, which arrests the attention. I feel sure it would be highlypopular."

  Corky was glaring at the picture, and making a sort of dry, suckingnoise with his mouth. He seemed completely overwrought.

  And then suddenly he began to laugh in a wild way.

  "Corky, old man!" I said, massaging him tenderly. I feared the poorblighter was hysterical.

  He began to stagger about all over the floor.

  "He's right! The man's absolutely right! Jeeves, you're a life-saver!You've hit on the greatest idea of the age! Report at the office onMonday! Start at the bottom of the business! I'll buy the business if Ifeel like it. I know the man who runs the comic section of the_Sunday Star_. He'll eat this thing. He was telling me only theother day how hard it was to get a good new series. He'll give meanything I ask for a real winner like this. I've got a gold-mine.Where's my hat? I've got an income for life! Where's that confoundedhat? Lend me a fiver, Bertie. I want to take a taxi down to Park Row!"

  Jeeves smiled paternally. Or, rather, he had a kind of paternalmuscular spasm about the mouth, which is the nearest he ever gets tosmiling.

  "If I might make the suggestion, Mr. Corcoran--for a title of theseries which you have in mind--'The Adventures of Baby Blobbs.'"

  Corky and I looked at the picture, then at each other in an awed way.Jeeves was right. There could be no other title.

  "Jeeves," I said. It was a few weeks later, and I had just finishedlooking at the comic section of the _Sunday Star_. "I'm anoptimist. I always have been. The older I get, the more I agree withShakespeare and those poet Johnnies about it always being darkestbefore the dawn and there's a silver lining and what you lose on theswings you make up on the roundabouts. Look at Mr. Corcoran, forinstance. There was a fellow, one would have said, clear up to theeyebrows in the soup. To all appearances he had got it right in theneck. Yet look at him now. Have you seen these pictures?"

  "I took the liberty of glancing at them before bringing them to you,sir. Extremely diverting."

  "They have made a big hit, you know."

  "I anticipated it, sir."

  I leaned back against the pillows.

  "You know, Jeeves, you're a genius. You ought to be drawing acommission on these things."

  "I have nothing to complain of in that respect, sir. Mr. Corcoran hasbeen most generous. I am putting out the brown suit, sir."

  "No, I think I'll wear the blue with the faint red stripe."

  "Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

  "But I rather fancy myself in it."

  "Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

  "Oh, all right, have it your own way."

  "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

  Of course, I know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then Jeeves isalways right. You've got to consider that, you know. What?