Thank You, Jeeves: Page 8

  'Oh, Bertie, I am giving you a lot of trouble.'

  I softened slightly. After all, the poor girl was scarcely to be blamed for what had occurred. As Chuffy had remarked earlier in the evening, love's love.

  'Don't you worry, old thing. We Woosters can rough it when it is a matter of giving two fond hearts a leg-up. You put your little head on the pillow and curl your little pink toes up and doze off. I shall be all right.'

  And, so saying, I uncorked a kindly smile, popped off, trickled down the stairs, opened the front door, and out into the scented night; and I don't suppose I was a dozen yards from the house when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder, occasioning me both mental and physical distress, and a shadowy form said, 'Gotcher!'

  'Ouch!' I replied.

  The shadowy form now revealed itself as that of Constable Dobson of the Chuffnell Regis police force. He was in apologetic vein.

  'I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you was the marauder.'

  I forced myself to be airy and affable. The young squire setting the lower orders at their ease.

  'Quite all right, Constable. Quite all right. Just going for a stroll.'

  'I understand, sir. Breath of air.'

  'You have put it in a nutshell. A breath, as you astutely observe, of air. The house is quite close.'

  'Yes, sir. Just over there.'

  'I mean stuffy.'

  'Oh, yes, sir. Well, good night, sir.'

  'Tra-la, Constable.'

  I proceeded on my way, a little shaken. I had left the garage door open, and I felt my way to the old two-seater, glad to be alone once more. In certain moods, no doubt, one would have found Constable Dobson a delightful and stimulating companion, but to-night I preferred his absence. I climbed into the car and, leaning back, endeavoured to compose myself for sleep.

  Now, whether I should have been able to achieve the dreamless had the conditions remained right, I cannot say. The point is pretty moot. As two-seaters go, I had always found mine fairly comfortable, but then I had never before tried to get the eight hours in it, and you would be surprised at the number of knobs and protuberances which seem suddenly to sprout out of a car's upholstery when you seek to convert it into a bed.

  But, as it happened, I was not given a square chance of making the test. I don't suppose I could have counted more than about a platoon and a half of sheep when a light suddenly flashed on the features and a voice instructed me to come on out of it.

  I sat up.

  'Ah, Sergeant!' I said.

  Another awkward meeting. Embarrassment on both sides.

  'Is that you, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  'Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.'

  'Not at all.'

  'Can't say it occurred to me that it might be you in here, sir.'

  'I thought I'd try to get a bit of sleep in the old car, Sergeant.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Such a warm night.'

  'Just so, sir.'

  His voice was respectful, but I could not conquer a suspicion that he was beginning to look a bit askance. There was something in his manner that gave me the idea that he considered Bertram eccentric.

  'Stuffy indoors.'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'I often park myself in the car in the summertime.'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'Good night, Sergeant.'

  'Good night, sir.'

  Well, you know how it is when someone butts in on you just as you are shaping for the beauty sleep. It breaks the spell, if you know what I mean. I curled up again, but I soon saw that all efforts in the direction of the restful night in my present environment would be fruitless. I counted about five more medium-sized flocks, but it was no good. Steps, I realized, would have to be taken through other channels.

  I hadn't done a great deal of exploring in these grounds of mine, but it so happened that one morning a sharp shower had driven me to the shelter of a species of shed or outhouse down in the south-west corner of the estate where the gardener-by-the-day stacked his tools and flower-pots and what not. And, unless memory deceived me, there had been in that outhouse or shed a pile of sacking on the floor.

  Well, you may say that sacking, considered in the light of a bed, isn't everybody's money, and in saying so you would be perfectly correct. But after half an hour in the seat of a Widgeon Seven, even sacking begins to look pretty good to you. It may be a little hardish on the frame, and it may smell a good deal of mice and the deep-delved earth, but there remains just one point to be put forward in its favour – viz. that it enables one to stretch the limbs. And stretching the limbs was the thing I felt now that I wanted to do most.

  In addition to smelling of mice and mould, the particular segment of sacking on which some two minutes later I was reclining had a marked aroma of by-the-day gardener: and there was a moment when I had to ask myself if the mixture wasn't a shade too rich. But these things grow on one in time, and at the end of about a quarter of an hour I was rather enjoying the blend of scents than otherwise. I can recall inflating the lungs and more or less drinking it in. At the end of about half an hour a soothing drowsiness had begun to steal over me.

  And at the end of about thirty-five minutes the door flew open and there was the old, familiar lantern shining in again.

  'Ah!' said Sergeant Voules.

  And Constable Dobson said the same.

  I realized that the time had come to strike a forceful note with these two pests. I am all for not shackling the police, but what I maintain is that if the police come dodging about a householder's garden all night, routing him out every time he is on the point of snatching a little repose, they have jolly well got to be shackled.

  'Yes?' I said, and there was a touch of the imperious old aristocrat in my manner. 'What is it now?'

  Constable Dobson had been saying something in a pretty self-satisfied sort of way about having seen me creeping through the darkness and tracking me like a leopard, and Sergeant Voules, who was a man who believed in keeping nephews in their place, was remarking that he had seen me first and had tracked me just as much like a leopard as Constable Dobson: but at these crisp words a sudden silence fell upon them.

  'Is that you again, sir?' inquired the sergeant in rather an awed voice.

  'Yes, it is, dash it! What, may I ask, is the meaning of this incessant chivying? Sleep under these conditions becomes impossible.'

  'Very sorry, sir. It never occurred to me that it could be you.'

  'And why not?'

  'Well, sleeping in a shed, sir ...'

  'You do not dispute the fact that it is my shed?'

  'No, sir. But it sort of seems funny.'

  'I see nothing funny in it whatsoever.'

  'Uncle Ted means "odd", sir.'

  'Not so much of what Uncle Ted means. And don't call me Uncle Ted. What it sort of seemed to us, sir, was peculiar.'

  'I cannot subscribe to your opinion, Sergeant,' I said stiffly. 'I have a perfect right, have I not, to sleep where I please?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Exactly. It might be the coal cellar. It might be the front door steps. It happens to be this shed. I will now thank you, Sergeant, to withdraw. At this rate, I shan't drop off till daybreak.'

  'Are you intending to remain here the rest of the night, sir?'

  'Certainly. Why not?'

  I had got him. He was at a loss.

  'Well, I suppose there's no reason why you shouldn't, if you want to, sir. But it seems

  'Odd,' said Constable Dobson.

  'Peculiar,' said Sergeant Voules. 'It seems peculiar, having a bed of your own, sir, if I might say so ...'

  I had had enough of this.

  'I hate beds,' I said curtly. 'Can't stand them. Never could.'

  'Very good, sir.' He paused a moment. 'Quite a warm day today, sir.'

  'Quite.'

  'My young nephew here pretty near got a touch of the sun. Didn't you, Constable?'

  'Ah!' said Constable Dobson.

  'Made him come over all
funny.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Yes, sir. Sort of seemed to addle the brain.'

  I endeavoured without undue brusqueness to convey to this man the idea that I did not consider one in the morning a suitable time for discussing his nephew's addled brain.

  'You must give me all the family medical gossip another day,' I said. 'At the moment, I wish to be alone.'

  'Yes, sir. Good night, sir.'

  'Good night, Sergeant.'

  'If I might ask the question, sir, do you feel a sort of burning feeling about the temples?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Does your head throb, sir?'

  'It's beginning to.'

  'Ah! Well, good night, sir, again.'

  'Good night, Sergeant.'

  'Good night, sir.'

  'Good night, Constable.'

  'Good night, sir.'

  The door closed softly. I could hear them whispering for a moment or two, like a couple of specialists holding a conference outside the sick-room. Then they appeared to ooze off, for all became quiet save for the lapping of the waves on the shore. And, by Jove, so sedulously did these waves lap that gradually a drowsiness crept over me and not ten minutes after I had made up my mind that I should never get to sleep again in this world I was off as comfortably as a babe or suckling.

  It couldn't last, of course – not in a place like Chuffnell Regis, a hamlet containing more Nosey Parkers to the square foot than any other spot in England. The next thing I remember is someone joggling my arm.

  I sat up. There was the good old lantern once more.

  'Now, listen ...' I was beginning, with a generous strength, when the words froze on my lips.

  The fellow who was joggling my arm was Chuffy.

  9 LOVERS' MEETINGS

  It has been well said of Bertram Wooster that he is a man who is at all times glad to see his friends and can be relied upon to greet them with a cheery smile and a gay quip. But though in the main this is correct, I make one proviso – viz. that the conditions be right. On the present occasion they were not. When an old schoolmate's fiancée is roosting in your bed in a suit of your personal pyjamas, it is hard to frisk round this old schoolmate with any abandon when he suddenly appears in the immediate vicinity.

  I uttered, accordingly, no gay quip. I couldn't even manage the cheery smile. I just sat goggling at the man, wondering how he had got there, how long he proposed to remain, and what the chances were of Pauline Stoker suddenly shoving her head out of window and shouting to me to come and grapple with a mouse or something.

  Chuffy was bending over me with a sort of bedside manner. In the background I could see Sergeant Voules hovering with something of the air of a trained nurse. What had become of Constable Dobson, I did not know. It seemed too jolly to think that he was dead, so I took it that he had returned to his beat.

  'It's all right, Bertie,' said Chuffy soothingly. 'It's me, old man.'

  'I found his lordship by the side of the harbour,' explained the sergeant.

  I must say I chafed a bit. I saw what had happened. When you tear a lover of Chuffy's calibre from the girl of his heart, he does not just mix himself a final spot and turn in – he goes and stands beneath her window. And if she's on a yacht, anchored out in the middle of a harbour, this can only be done, of course, by infesting the water-front. All quite in order, no doubt, but in the present circs dashed inconvenient, to use the mildest term. And what was making me chafe was the thought that if only he had got to his parking place a bit earlier he would have been in a position to welcome the girl as she came ashore, thus obviating all the present awkwardness.

  'The sergeant was worried about you, Bertie. He seemed to think your manner was strange. So he brought me along to have a look at you. Very sensible of you, Voules.'

  'Thank you, m'lord.'

  'A sound move.'

  'Thank you, m'lord.'

  'You couldn't have done a wiser thing.'

  'Thank you, m'lord.'

  It was sickening to hear them.

  'So you've got a touch of the sun, Bertie?'

  'I have not got a touch of any bally sun.'

  'Voules thought so.'

  'Voules is an ass.'

  The sergeant bridled somewhat.

  'Begging your pardon, sir, you informed me that your head throbbed, and I assumed that the brain was addled.'

  'Exactly. You must have gone slightly off your rocker, old chap,' said Chuffy gently, 'mustn't you? To be sleeping out here, I mean, what?'

  'Why shouldn't I sleep out here?'

  I saw Chuffy and the sergeant exchange glances.

  'But you've got a bedroom, old fellow. You've got a nice bedroom, haven't you? I should have thought you would have found it so much snugger and jollier in your cosy little bedroom.'

  The Woosters have all been pretty quick thinkers. I saw that I had got to make this move of mine seem plausible.

  'There's a spider in my bedroom.'

  'A spider, eh? Pink?'

  'Pinkish.'

  'With long legs?'

  'Fairly long legs.'

  'And hairy, I shouldn't wonder?'

  'Very hairy.'

  The rays of the lantern were falling on Chuffy's face, and at this point I observed a subtle change come into his expression. A moment before, he had been solicitous old Doctor Chuffnell, gravely concerned about the sorely sick patient whom he had been called in to treat. He now grinned in a most unpleasant manner and, rising, drew Sergeant Voules aside and addressed a remark to him which told me that he had placed an entirely wrong construction on the matter.

  'It's all right, Sergeant. Nothing to worry about. He's simply as tight as an owl.'

  I think he imagined he was speaking in a tactful undertone, but his words came clearly to my ears, as did the sergeant's reply.

  'Is that so, m'lord?' said Sergeant Voules. And his voice was the voice of a sergeant to whom all things have been made clear.

  'That's all that's the trouble. Completely boiled. You notice the glassy look in the eyes?'

  'Yes, m'lord.'

  'I've seen him like this before. Once, after a bump-supper at Oxford, he insisted that he was a mermaid and wanted to dive into the college fountain and play the harp there.'

  'Young gents will be young gents,' said Sergeant Voules in a tolerant and broad-minded manner.

  'We must put him to bed.'

  I jumped up. Horror-stricken. Trembling like a leaf.

  'I don't want to go to bed!'

  Chuffy stroked my arm soothingly.

  'It's all right, Bertie. Quite all right. We understand. No wonder you were frightened. Beastly great spider. Enough to frighten any one. But it's all right now. Voules and I will come up to your room with you and kill it. You aren't scared of spiders, Voules?'

  'No, m'lord.'

  'You hear that, Bertie? Voules will stand by you. Voules can tackle any spider. How many spiders was it you were telling me you took on in India once, Voules?'

  'Ninety-six, m'lord.'

  'Big ones, if I remember rightly?'

  'Whackers, m'lord.'

  'There, Bertie. You see there's nothing to be afraid of. You take this arm, Sergeant. I'll take the other. Just relax, Bertie. We'll hold you up.'

  Looking back, I am not certain whether I didn't do the wrong thing at this juncture. It may be that a few well-chosen words would have served me better. But you know how it is about well-chosen words. When you need them most, you can't find any. The sergeant had begun to freeze on to my left arm, and I couldn't think of a single remark. So, in lieu of conversation, I punched him in the tummy and made a dash for the open spaces.

  Well, you can't go far at a high rate of speed in a dark shed littered with the belongings of a by-the-day gardener. I suppose there were quite half a dozen things I could have come a purler over. The one which actually caused me to take the toss was a watering-can. I fell with a dull, sickening thud, and when reason returned to her throne I found I was being carried through t
he summer night in the direction of the house. Chuffy had got me under the arms, and Sergeant Voules was attached to my feet. And, thus linked, we passed through the front door and up the stairs. It wasn't, perhaps, actually the frog's march, but it was quite near enough to it to wound my amour propre.

  Not that I was thinking such a frightful lot about my amour propre at the moment. We had reached the bedroom door now, and what I was asking myself was, What would the harvest be when Chuffy opened it and noted the contents?

  'Chuffy,' I said, and I spoke earnestly, 'don't go into that room!'

  But it's no good speaking earnestly if your head's hanging down and your tongue has got tangled up with your back teeth. All that actually emerged was a sort of gargle, and Chuffy completely misunderstood it.

  'I know, I know,' he said. 'Never mind. Soon be in beddy-bye now.'

  I considered his manner offensive, and would have said so, but at this moment speech was, so to speak, wiped from my lips, as it were, by amazement. With a quick heave, my bearers had suddenly dumped me on the bed, and all that the frame had encountered was a blanket and pillow. Of anything in the nature of a girl in heliotrope pyjamas there was absolutely no trace.

  I lay there, wondering. Chuffy had found the candle and lighted it, and I was now in a position to look about me.

  Pauline Stoker had absolutely disappeared. Leaving not a wrack behind, as I remember Jeeves saying once.

  Dashed odd.

  Chuffy was dismissing his assistant.

  'Thanks, Sergeant. I can manage now.'

  'You're sure, m'lord?'

  'Yes, it's quite all right. He always drops off to sleep on these occasions.'

  'Then I think I'll be going, m'lord. It's a bit late for me.'

  'Yes, pop off. Good night.'

  'Good night, m'lord.'

  The sergeant clumped down the stairs, making enough row for two sergeants, and Chuffy, with something of the air of a mother brooding over a sleeping child, took off my boots.

  'That's my little man,' he said. 'Now you lie quite quiet, Bertie, and take things easy.'

  It is a thing I have often wondered, whether I would or would not have commented upon what I considered the insufferably patronizing note in his voice as he called me his little man. I wanted to, but I saw that it would be fruitless unless I could think of something more than a little biting: and it was while I was searching in my mind for the telling phrase that the door of the hanging cupboard outside the room opened and Pauline Stoker came strolling in as if she hadn't a care in the world. In fact, she seemed distinctly entertained.