THE INIMITABLE JEEVES
PART 9
CHAPTER IX
A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION
You know, the
longer I live, the more clearly I see that half the trouble in this bally world
is caused by the light-hearted and thoughtless way in which chappies dash off
letters of introduction and hand 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 the Stone Age. What I mean to say is, if a fellow in those days wanted to
give anyone a letter of introduction, he had to spend a month or so carving it
on a large-sized boulder, and the chances were that the other chappie got so
sick of lugging the thing round in the hot sun that he dropped it after the
first mile. But nowadays it's so easy to write letters of introduction that
everybody does it without a second thought, with the result that some perfectly
harmless cove like myself gets in the soup.
Mark you, all
the above is what you might call the result of my riper experience. I don't mind
admitting that in the first flush of the thing, so, to speak, when Jeeves told
me—this would be about three weeks after I'd landed in America—that a blighter
called Cyril Bassington-Bassington had arrived and I found that he had brought
a letter 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 was rather bucked. You see, after the painful events
which had resulted in my leaving England I hadn't expected to get any sort of
letter from Aunt Agatha which would pass the censor, so to speak. And it was a
pleasant surprise to open this one and find it almost civil. Chilly, perhaps,
in parts, but on the whole quite tolerably polite. I looked on the thing as a
hopeful sign. Sort of olive-branch, you know. Or do I mean orange blossom? What
I'm getting at is that the fact that Aunt Agatha 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 word against New York,
mind you. I liked the place, and was having quite a ripe time there. But the
fact remains that a fellow who's been used to London all his life does get a
trifle homesick on a foreign strand, and I wanted to pop back to the cosy old
flat in Berkeley Street—which could only be done when Aunt Agatha had simmered
down and got over the Glossop 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 Agatha
when she's after him with the old hatchet. And so I'm bound to say I looked on
this chump Bassington-Bassington, when he arrived, more or less as a Dove of
Peace, and was all for him.
He would seem
from contemporary accounts to have blown in one morning at seven-forty-five,
that being the ghastly sort of hour they shoot you off the liner in New York.
He was given the respectful raspberry by Jeeves, and told to try again about
three hours later, when there would be a sporting chance of my having sprung
from my bed with a glad cry to welcome another day and all that sort of thing.
Which was rather decent of Jeeves, by the way, for it so happened that there
was a slight estrangement, a touch of coldness, a bit of a
row in other words, between us at the moment because of some rather priceless
purple socks which I was wearing against his wishes: and a lesser man might
easily have snatched at the chance of getting back at me a bit by loosing Cyril
into my bedchamber at a moment when I couldn't have stood a two-minutes'
conversation with my dearest pal. For until I have had my early cup of tea and
have brooded on life for a bit absolutely undisturbed, 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 in with the Bohea.
"And what
might all this be, Jeeves?" I said, giving the thing the glassy gaze.
"The
gentleman has arrived from England, I understand, sir. He called to see you earlier
in the day."
"Good
Lord, Jeeves! You don't mean to say the day starts earlier than this?"
"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 are three branches of
the Bassington-Bassington family—the Shropshire Bassington-Bassingtons, the
Hampshire Bassington-Bassingtons, and the Kent 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 you have seen of him,
that this chappie is not a blighter or an excrescence?"
"No, sir.
I should not care to venture such liberal odds."
"I knew
it. Well, the only thing that remains to be discovered is what kind 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 I recognised
the handwriting. "I say, Jeeves, this is from my Aunt Agatha!"
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Don't
dismiss it in that light way. Don't you see what this means? She says she wants
me to look after this excrescence while he's in New York. By Jove, Jeeves, if I
only fawn on him a bit, so that he sends back a favourable report to
head-quarters, I may yet be able to get back to England in time for Goodwood.
Now is certainly the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party,
Jeeves. We must rally round and cosset this cove in no uncertain manner."
"Yes,
sir."
"He isn't
going to stay in New York long," I said, taking another look at the
letter. "He's headed for Washington. Going to give the nibs there the
once-over, apparently, before taking a whirl at the Diplomatic Service. I
should say that we can win this lad's esteem and affection 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. It looks 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 of silence.
"Not those
socks, Jeeves," I said, gulping a bit but having a dash at the 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 a caterpillar out of the
salad. You could see he was feeling deeply. Deuced painful and all that, this
sort of thing, but a chappie has got to assert himself every now and then. Absolutely.
*
* *
* *
I was looking
for Cyril to show up again any time after breakfast, but he didn't appear: so
towards one o'clock I trickled out to the Lambs Club, where I had an
appointment to feed the Wooster face with a cove of the name of Caffyn I'd got
pally with since my arrival—George Caffyn, a fellow who wrote plays and what
not. I'd made a lot of friends during my stay in New York, the city being
crammed with bonhomous lads who one and all extended a welcoming hand to the
stranger in their midst.
Caffyn was a
bit late, but bobbed up finally, saying that he had been kept at a rehearsal of
his new musical comedy, "Ask Dad"; and we started in. We had just
reached the coffee, when the waiter came up and said that Jeeves wanted to see
me.
Jeeves was in
the waiting-room. He gave the socks one pained look as I came 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's nominee 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 would be 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 along with me, and we hopped
into a taxi. We sat around at the police-station for a bit on a wooden bench in
a sort of ante-room, and presently a policeman appeared, leading in Cyril.
"Halloa!
Halloa! Halloa!" I said. "What?"
My experience
is that a fellow never really looks his best just after he's come out of a
cell. When I was up at Oxford, I used to have a regular job bailing out a pal
of mine who never failed to get pinched every Boat-Race night, and he always
looked like something that had been dug up by the roots. Cyril was in pretty
much the same sort of shape. He had a black eye and a torn collar, and
altogether was nothing to write home about—especially if one was writing to
Aunt Agatha. He was a thin, tall chappie with a lot of light hair and pale-blue
goggly eyes 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 what not, don't you
know."
We all shook
hands, and the policeman, having retrieved a piece of chewing-gum from the
underside of a chair, where he had parked it against a rainy day, went off into
a corner and began to contemplate the 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 you know,
and what not."
"Of
course, I didn't invent the country," said George. "That was
Columbus. But I shall be delighted to consider any improvements you may suggest
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? Why do they look like
postmen? It isn't fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed confusing. I was simply
standing on the pavement, looking at things, when a fellow who looked like a
postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn't see why I should have
postmen prodding me. Why the dickens should a fellow come three thousand miles
to be prodded by postmen?"
"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, you know. All the
Bassington-Bassingtons have got frightfully hasty tempers, don't you know! And
then he biffed me in the eye and lugged me off to this beastly place."
"I'll fix
it, old son," I said. And I hauled out the bank-roll and went off to open
negotiations, leaving Cyril to talk to George. I don't mind admitting that I
was a bit perturbed. There were furrows in the old brow, and I had a kind of
foreboding feeling. As long as this chump stayed in New York, I was responsible
for him: and he didn't give me the impression of being the species of cove a
reasonable chappie would care 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. I couldn't help feeling that this visit
of his to America was going to be one of those times that try men's souls and
what not. I hauled out Aunt Agatha's letter of introduction and re-read it, and
there was no getting away from the fact that she undoubtedly appeared to be
somewhat wrapped up in this blighter and to consider it my mission in life to
shield him from harm while on the premises. I was deuced thankful that he had
taken such a liking for George Caffyn, old George being a steady sort of cove.
After I had got him out of his dungeon-cell, he and old George had gone off
together, as chummy as brothers, to watch the afternoon rehearsal of "Ask
Dad." There was some talk, I gathered, of their dining together. I felt
pretty easy in my mind while George had his eye on him.
I had got about
as far as this in my meditations, when Jeeves came in with a telegram. At
least, it wasn't a telegram: it was a cable—from Aunt 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 there was nothing to be done
My idea had been to show him the cable and ask his advice. But if he was
letting those purple socks rankle to that extent, the good old noblesse
oblige of the Woosters couldn't lower itself to the extent of pleading with
the man. Absolutely not. So I 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 been directing the best
efforts of the old bean to the problem for a matter of 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 rather priceless to
tell you."
He curveted
past me into the sitting-room, and when I got there after shutting the front
door I found him reading Aunt Agatha's cable and giggling in a rummy sort of
manner. "Oughtn't to have looked at this, I suppose. 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 I have a drink? Thanks awfully and all that
sort of rot. Yes, it's rather funny, considering what I came to tell you.
Jolly old Caffyn has given me 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't jumping 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 old Waukeesi down
with a bang, and turned bright purple whenever the subject was mentioned.
That's the real reason why I came over here, if you want to know. I knew there
wasn't a chance of my being able to work this stage wheeze in London without
somebody getting on to it and tipping off the guv'nor, so I rather brainily
sprang the scheme of popping over to Washington to broaden my mind. There's
nobody to interfere 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 he won't have a leg to
stand on."
"It seems
to me he'll have one leg to stand on while he kicks me with the 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 have thanked you
before. Well, so long. There's an early rehearsal of 'Ask Dad' to-morrow
morning, and I must be toddling. Rummy the thing should be called 'Ask Dad,'
when that's just what I'm not going to do. See what I mean, what, what? Well,
pip-pip!"
"Toodle-oo!"
I said sadly, and the blighter scudded off. I dived for the 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 no account to let him go on
the stage."
"I'm
sorry. But Cyril is just the type I need for that part. He's simply got to be
himself."
"It's pretty
tough on me, George, old man. My Aunt Agatha sent this blighter over with a
letter of introduction to me, and she will hold me responsible."
"She'll
cut you out of her will?"
"It isn't
a question of money. But—of course, you've never met my Aunt Agatha, so it's
rather hard to explain. But she's a sort of human vampire-bat, and she'll make
things most fearfully unpleasant for me when I go back to England. She's the
kind of woman who comes and rags you before breakfast, don't you know."
"Well,
don't go back to England, then. Stick here and become President."
"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 may not 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 worked up that I went and
banged on Jeeves's door. It wasn't a thing I'd have cared to do as a rule, but
it seemed to me that now was the time for all good men to come to the aid
of the party, so to speak, and that it was up to Jeeves to rally round the
young master, even if it broke up his beauty-sleep.
Jeeves emerged
in a brown dressing-gown.
"Sir?"
"Deuced
sorry to wake you up, Jeeves, and what not, but all sorts of dashed disturbing
things have been happening."
"I was not
asleep. It is my practice, on retiring, to read a few pages of some instructive
book."
"That's
good! What I mean to say is, if you've just finished exercising the 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 the point. All his
family are most fearfully dead against his going on the stage. 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 be anything further
to-night?"
"I hope
not! I've had all I can stand already."
"Very
good, sir."
He popped off.
