THE INIMITABLE JEEVES
PART 11
CHAPTER XI
COMRADE BINGO
The thing
really started in the Park—at the Marble Arch end—where weird birds of every
description collect on Sunday afternoons and stand on soap-boxes and make
speeches. It isn't often you'll find me there, but it so happened that on the
Sabbath after my return to the good old Metrop. I had a call to pay in
Manchester Square, and, taking a stroll round in that direction so as not to
arrive too early, I found myself right in the middle of it.
Now that the
Empire isn't the place it was, I always think the Park on a Sunday is the
centre of London, if you know what I mean. I mean to say, that's the spot that
makes the returned exile really sure he's back again. After what you might call
my enforced sojourn in New York I'm bound to say that I stood there fairly
lapping it all up. It did me good to listen to the lads giving tongue and
realise that all had ended happily and Bertram was home again.
On the edge of
the mob farthest away from me a gang of top-hatted chappies were starting an
open-air missionary service; nearer at hand an atheist was letting himself go
with a good deal of vim, though handicapped a bit by having no roof to his
mouth; while in front of me there stood a little group of serious thinkers with
a banner labelled "Heralds of the Red Dawn"; and as I came up, one of the heralds, a bearded egg in a slouch
hat and a tweed suit, was slipping it into the Idle Rich with such breadth and
vigour that I paused for a moment to get an earful. While I was standing there
somebody spoke to me.
"Mr.
Wooster, surely?"
Stout chappie.
Couldn't place him for a second. Then I got him. Bingo Little's uncle, the one
I had lunch with at the time when young Bingo was in love with that waitress at
the Piccadilly bun-shop. No wonder I hadn't recognised him at first. When I had
seen him last he had been a rather sloppy old gentleman—coming down to lunch, I
remember, in carpet slippers and a velvet smoking-jacket; whereas now dapper
simply wasn't the word. He absolutely gleamed in the sunlight in a silk hat,
morning coat, lavender spats and sponge-bag trousers, as now worn. Dressy to a
degree.
"Oh,
hallo!" I said. "Going strong?"
"I am in
excellent health, I thank you. And you?"
"In the
pink. Just been over to America."
"Ah!
Collecting local colour for one of your delightful romances?"
"Eh?"
I had to think a bit before I got on to what he meant. Then I remembered the
Rosie M. Banks business. "Oh, no," I said. "Just felt I needed a
change. Seen anything of Bingo lately?" I asked quickly, being desirous of
heading the old thing off what you might call the literary side of my life.
"Bingo?"
"Your
nephew."
"Oh,
Richard? No, not very recently. Since my marriage a little coolness seems to
have sprung up."
"Sorry to
hear that. So you've married since I saw you, what? Mrs. Little all
right?"
"My wife
is happily robust. But—er—not Mrs. Little. Since we last met a gracious
Sovereign has been pleased to bestow on me a signal mark of his favour in the
shape of—ah—a peerage. On the publication of the last Honours List I became
Lord Bittlesham."
"By Jove!
Really? I say, heartiest congratulations. That's the stuff to give the troops,
what? Lord Bittlesham?" I said. "Why, you're the owner of Ocean
Breeze."
"Yes.
Marriage has enlarged my horizon in many directions. My wife is interested in
horse-racing, and I now maintain a small stable. I understand that Ocean Breeze
is fancied, as I am told the expression is, for a race which will take place at
the end of the month at Goodwood, the Duke of Richmond's seat in Sussex."
"The Goodwood
Cup. Rather! I've got my chemise on it for one."
"Indeed?
Well, I trust the animal will justify your confidence. I know little of these
matters myself, but my wife tells me that it is regarded in knowledgeable
circles as what I believe is termed a snip."
At this moment
I suddenly noticed that the audience was gazing in our direction with a good
deal of interest, and I saw that the bearded chappie was pointing at us.
"Yes, look
at them! Drink them in!" he was yelling, his voice rising above the perpetual-motion
fellow's and beating the missionary service all to nothing. "There you see
two typical members of the class which has down-trodden the poor for centuries.
Idlers! Non-producers! Look at the tall thin one with the face like a
motor-mascot. Has he ever done an honest day's work in his life? No! A prowler,
a trifler, and a blood-sucker! And I bet he still owes his tailor for those
trousers!"
He seemed to me
to be verging on the personal, and I didn't think a lot of it. Old Bittlesham,
on the other hand, was pleased and amused.
"A great
gift of expression these fellows have," he chuckled. "Very
trenchant."
"And the
fat one!" proceeded the chappie. "Don't miss him. Do you know who
that is? That's Lord Bittlesham! One of the worst. What has he ever done except
eat four square meals a day? His god is his belly, and he sacrifices
burnt-offerings to it. If you opened that man now you would find enough lunch
to support ten working-class families for a week."
"You know,
that's rather well put," I said, but the old boy didn't seem to see it. He
had turned a brightish magenta and was bubbling like a kettle on the boil.
"Come
away, Mr. Wooster," he said. "I am the last man to oppose the right
of free speech, but I refuse to listen to this vulgar abuse any longer."
We legged it
with quiet dignity, the chappie pursuing us with his foul innuendoes to the
last. Dashed embarrassing.
*
* *
* *
Next day I
looked in at the club, and found young Bingo in the smoking-room.
"Hallo,
Bingo," I said, toddling over to his corner full of bonhomie, for I was
glad to see the chump, "How's the boy?"
"Jogging
along."
"I saw
your uncle yesterday."
Young Bingo
unleashed a grin that split his face in half.
"I know
you did, you trifler. Well, sit down, old thing, and suck a bit of blood. How's
the prowling these days?"
"Good
Lord! You weren't there!"
"Yes, I
was."
"I didn't
see you."
"Yes, you
did. But perhaps you didn't recognise me in the shrubbery."
"The
shrubbery?"
"The
beard, my boy. Worth every penny I paid for it. Defies detection. Of course,
it's a nuisance having people shouting 'Beaver!' at you all the time, but one's
got to put up with that."
I goggled at
him.
"I don't
understand."
"It's a
long story. Have a martini or a small gore-and-soda, and I'll tell you all
about it. Before we start, give me your honest opinion. Isn't she the most
wonderful girl you ever saw in your puff?"
He had produced
a photograph from somewhere, like a conjurer taking a rabbit out of a hat, and
was waving it in front of me. It appeared to be a female of sorts, all eyes and
teeth.
"Oh, Great
Scott!" I said. "Don't tell me you're in love again."
He seemed
aggrieved.
"What do
you mean—again?"
"Well, to
my certain knowledge you've been in love with at least half a dozen girls since
the spring, and it's only July now. There was that waitress and Honoria Glossop
and——"
"Oh, tush!
Not to say pish! Those girls? Mere passing fancies. This is the real
thing."
"Where did
you meet her?"
"On top of
a bus. Her name is Charlotte Corday Rowbotham."
"My
God!"
"It's not
her fault, poor child. Her father had her christened that because he's all for
the Revolution, and it seems that the
original Charlotte Corday used to go about stabbing oppressors in their baths,
which entitles her to consideration and respect. You must meet old Rowbotham,
Bertie. A delightful chap. Wants to massacre the bourgeoisie, sack Park Lane,
and disembowel the hereditary aristocracy. Well, nothing could be fairer than
that, what? But about Charlotte. We were on top of the bus, and it started to
rain. I offered her my umbrella, and we chatted of this and that. I fell in
love and got her address, and a couple of days later I bought the beard and
toddled round and met the family."
"But why
the beard?"
"Well, she
had told me all about her father on the bus, and I saw that to get any footing
at all in the home I should have to join these Red Dawn blighters; and
naturally, if I was to make speeches in the Park, where at any moment I might
run into a dozen people I knew, something in the nature of a disguise was
indicated. So I bought the beard, and, by Jove, old boy, I've become dashed
attached to the thing. When I take it off to come in here, for instance, I feel
absolutely nude. It's done me a lot of good with old Rowbotham. He thinks I'm a
Bolshevist of sorts who has to go about disguised because of the police. You
really must meet old Rowbotham, Bertie. I tell you what, are you doing anything
to-morrow afternoon?"
"Nothing
special. Why?"
"Good!
Then you can have us all to tea at your flat. I had promised to take the crowd
to Lyons' Popular Café after a meeting we're holding down in Lambeth, but I can
save money this way; and, believe me, laddie, nowadays, as far as I'm
concerned, a penny saved is a penny earned. My uncle told you he'd got
married?"
"Yes. And
he said there was a coolness between you."
"Coolness?
I'm down to zero. Ever since he married he's been launching out in every
direction and economising on me. I suppose that peerage cost the old
devil the deuce of a sum. Even baronetcies have gone up frightfully nowadays,
I'm told. And he's started a racing-stable. By the way, put your last
collar-stud on Ocean Breeze for the Goodwood Cup. It's a cert."
"I'm going
to."
"It can't
lose. I mean to win enough on it to marry Charlotte with. You're going to
Goodwood, of course?"
"Rather!"
"So are
we. We're holding a meeting on Cup day just outside the paddock."
"But, I
say, aren't you taking frightful risks? Your uncle's sure to be at Goodwood.
Suppose he spots you? He'll be fed to the gills if he finds out that you're the
fellow who ragged him in the Park."
"How the
deuce is he to find out? Use your intelligence, you prowling inhaler of red
corpuscles. If he didn't spot me yesterday, why should he spot me at Goodwood?
Well, thanks for your cordial invitation for to-morrow, old thing. We shall be
delighted to accept. Do us well, laddie, and blessings shall reward you. By the
way, I may have misled you by using the word 'tea.' None of your wafer slices
of bread-and-butter. We're good trenchermen, we of the Revolution. What we
shall require will be something on the order of scrambled eggs, muffins, jam,
ham, cake and sardines. Expect us at five sharp."
"But, I
say, I'm not quite sure——"
"Yes, you
are. Silly ass, don't you see that this is going to do you a bit of good when
the Revolution breaks loose? When you see old Rowbotham
sprinting up Piccadilly with a dripping knife in each hand, you'll be jolly
thankful to be able to remind him that he once ate your tea and shrimps. There
will be four of us—Charlotte, self, the old man, and Comrade Butt. I suppose he
will insist on coming along."
"Who the
devil's Comrade Butt?"
"Did you
notice a fellow standing on my left in our little troupe yesterday? Small,
shrivelled chap. Looks like a haddock with lung-trouble. That's Butt. My rival,
dash him. He's sort of semi-engaged to Charlotte at the moment. Till I came
along he was the blue-eyed boy. He's got a voice like a fog-horn, and old
Rowbotham thinks a lot of him. But, hang it, if I can't thoroughly encompass
this Butt and cut him out and put him where he belongs among the discards—well,
I'm not the man I was, that's all. He may have a big voice, but he hasn't my
gift of expression. Thank heaven I was once cox of my college boat. Well, I
must be pushing now. I say, you don't know how I could raise fifty quid somehow,
do you?"
"Why don't
you work?"
"Work?"
said young Bingo, surprised. "What, me? No, I shall have to think of some
way. I must put at least fifty on Ocean Breeze. Well, see you to-morrow. God
bless you, old sort, and don't forget the muffins."
*
* *
* *
I don't know
why, ever since I first knew him at school, I should have felt a rummy feeling
of responsibility for young Bingo. I mean to say, he's not my son (thank
goodness) or my brother or anything like that. He's got absolutely no claim on
me at all, and yet a large-sized chunk of my existence seems to be spent in
fussing over him like a bally old hen and hauling him out of the soup. I
suppose it must be some rare beauty in my nature or something. At any rate,
this latest affair of his worried me. He seemed to be doing his best to marry
into a family of pronounced loonies, and how the deuce he thought he was going
to support even a mentally afflicted wife on nothing a year beat me. Old
Bittlesham was bound to knock off his allowance if he did anything of the sort;
and, with a fellow like young Bingo, if you knocked off his allowance, you
might just as well hit him on the head with an axe and make a clean job of it.
"Jeeves,"
I said, when I got home, "I'm worried."
"Sir?"
"About Mr.
Little. I won't tell you about it now, because he's bringing some friends of
his to tea to-morrow, and then you will be able to judge for yourself. I want
you to observe closely, Jeeves, and form your decision."
"Very
good, sir."
"And about
the tea. Get in some muffins."
"Yes,
sir."
"And some
jam, ham, cake, scrambled eggs, and five or six wagonloads of sardines."
"Sardines,
sir?" said Jeeves, with a shudder.
"Sardines."
There was an
awkward pause.
"Don't
blame me, Jeeves," I said. "It isn't my fault."
"No,
sir."
"Well,
that's that."
"Yes,
sir."
I could see the
man was brooding tensely.
*
* *
* *
I've found, as
a general rule in life, that the things you think are going to be the scaliest nearly
always turn out not so bad after all; but it wasn't that way with Bingo's
tea-party. From the moment he invited himself I felt that the thing was going
to be blue round the edges, and it was. And I think the most gruesome part of
the whole affair was the fact that, for the first time since I'd known him, I
saw Jeeves come very near to being rattled. I suppose there's a chink in
everyone's armour, and young Bingo found Jeeves's right at the drop of the flag
when he breezed in with six inches or so of brown beard hanging on to his chin.
I had forgotten to warn Jeeves about the beard, and it came on him absolutely
out of a blue sky. I saw the man's jaw drop, and he clutched at the table for
support. I don't blame him, mind you. Few people have ever looked fouler than
young Bingo in the fungus. Jeeves paled a little; then the weakness passed and
he was himself again. But I could see that he had been shaken.
Young Bingo was
too busy introducing the mob to take much notice. They were a very C
collection. Comrade Butt looked like one of the things that come out of dead
trees after the rain; moth-eaten was the word I should have used to describe
old Rowbotham; and as for Charlotte, she seemed to take me straight into another
and a dreadful world. It wasn't that she was exactly bad-looking. In fact, if
she had knocked off starchy foods and done Swedish exercises for a bit, she
might have been quite tolerable. But there was too much of her. Billowy curves.
Well-nourished, perhaps, expresses it best. And, while she may have had a heart
of gold, the thing you noticed about her first was that she had a tooth of
gold. I knew that young Bingo, when in form, could fall in love with
practically anything of the other sex; but this time I couldn't see any excuse
for him at all.
"My
friend, Mr. Wooster," said Bingo, completing the ceremonial.
Old Rowbotham
looked at me and then he looked round the room, and I could see he wasn't
particularly braced. There's nothing of absolutely Oriental luxury about the
old flat, but I have managed to make myself fairly comfortable, and I suppose
the surroundings jarred him a bit.
"Mr.
Wooster?" said old Rowbotham. "May I say Comrade Wooster?"
"I beg
your pardon?"
"Are you
of the movement?"
"Well—er——"
"Do you
yearn for the Revolution?"
"Well, I
don't know that I exactly yearn. I mean to say, as far as I can make out, the
whole hub of the scheme seems to be to massacre coves like me; and I don't mind
owning I'm not frightfully keen on the idea."
"But I'm
talking him round," said Bingo. "I'm wrestling with him. A few more
treatments ought to do the trick."
Old Rowbotham
looked at me a bit doubtfully.
"Comrade
Little has great eloquence," he admitted.
"I think
he talks something wonderful," said the girl, and young Bingo shot a
glance of such succulent devotion at her that I reeled in my tracks. It seemed
to depress Comrade Butt a good deal too. He scowled at the carpet and said
something about dancing on volcanoes.
"Tea is
served, sir," said Jeeves.
"Tea,
pa!" said Charlotte, starting at the word like the old war-horse who hears
the bugle; and we got down to it.
Funny how one
changes as the years roll on. At school, I remember, I would cheerfully have sold my soul for scrambled eggs and sardines
at five in the afternoon; but somehow, since reaching man's estate, I had
rather dropped out of the habit; and I'm bound to admit I was appalled to a
goodish extent at the way the sons and daughter of the Revolution shoved their
heads down and went for the foodstuffs. Even Comrade Butt cast off his gloom
for a space and immersed his whole being in scrambled eggs, only coming to the
surface at intervals to grab another cup of tea. Presently the hot water gave
out, and I turned to Jeeves.
"More hot
water."
"Very
good, sir."
"Hey!
what's this? What's this?" Old Rowbotham had lowered his cup and was
eyeing us sternly. He tapped Jeeves on the shoulder. "No servility, my
lad; no servility!"
"I beg
your pardon, sir?"
"Don't
call me 'sir.' Call me Comrade. Do you know what you are, my lad? You're an
obsolete relic of an exploded feudal system."
"Very
good, sir."
"If
there's one thing that makes the blood boil in my veins——"
"Have
another sardine," chipped in young Bingo—the first sensible thing he'd
done since I had known him. Old Rowbotham took three and dropped the subject,
and Jeeves drifted away. I could see by the look of his back what he felt.
At last, just
as I was beginning to feel that it was going on for ever, the thing finished. I
woke up to find the party getting ready to leave.
Sardines and
about three quarts of tea had mellowed old Rowbotham. There was quite a genial
look in his eye as he shook my hand.
"I must
thank you for your hospitality, Comrade Wooster," he said.
"Oh, not
at all! Only too glad——"
"Hospitality?"
snorted the man Butt, going off in my ear like a depth-charge. He was scowling
in a morose sort of manner at young Bingo and the girl, who were giggling
together by the window. "I wonder the food didn't turn to ashes in our
mouths! Eggs! Muffins! Sardines! All wrung from the bleeding lips of the
starving poor!"
"Oh, I
say! What a beastly idea!"
"I will
send you some literature on the subject of the Cause," said old Rowbotham.
"And soon, I hope, we shall see you at one of our little meetings."
Jeeves came in
to clear away, and found me sitting among the ruins. It was all very well for
Comrade Butt to knock the food, but he had pretty well finished the ham; and if
you had shoved the remainder of the jam into the bleeding lips of the starving
poor it would hardly have made them sticky.
"Well,
Jeeves," I said, "how about it?"
"I would
prefer to express no opinion, sir."
"Jeeves,
Mr. Little is in love with that female."
"So I
gathered, sir. She was slapping him in the passage."
I clutched my
brow.
"Slapping
him?"
"Yes, sir.
Roguishly."
"Great
Scott! I didn't know it had got as far as that. How did Comrade Butt seem to be
taking it? Or perhaps he didn't see?"
"Yes, sir,
he observed the entire proceedings. He struck me as extremely jealous."
"I don't
blame him. Jeeves, what are we to do?"
"I could
not say, sir."
"It's a
bit thick."
"Very much
so, sir."
And that was
all the consolation I got from Jeeves.
