A Fic From Florida
Hello again. Another short fic, which I hope you'll enjoy. I'm a bit lonesome at the moment, so naturally that means odd ideas surface. I wrote this a long time ago, and I hope its not too terribly out of character. It contains my own personal favorite closing line, out of all the things I think I've ever written.
With apologies to P. G. Wodehouse, and much appreciation for his wonderful world! (All errors are strictly my own...)
It's one thing to be called a silly ass. I'm called such, frequently, and I suppose that at times I am a silly ass. I've even caught the occasional look on Jeeves' face that suggests---as fond as he is of the young master, filled with the feudal spirit and whatnot---he can't help but agree with the sentiment. I'll even admit that at times I can be a first rate rotter, and even a prize-winning chump. My Aunt Dahlia considers me a blot on the landscape, and she happens to be enormously fond of me. Indeed, I am prepared to take all manner of criticism with a certain cavalier spirit---but I do find it bally painful to be called a wastrel who should have never been born, a discredit to my class and to the Wooster name. And such had been the parting salvo---if that's the word I want---from my Aunt Agatha.
Now, readers of these memoirs will no doubt remember that Aunt Agatha is my evil relation, the one who drinks blood when the moon is full and sacrifices virgins to volcano gods. Ever since I entered man's estate, it has been her goal to see me married and "making something of myself." Personally, I like the way I'm made at present, and see no reason to muck up the machinery with a wife and child. I can't count the number of times she's dropped some winsome female on me and then frothed like a bulldog in a rat pit when the lass was in the habit of slurping her soup or fell madly in love with one of my chums. Somehow, I always get blamed for the mess, as if I can control how girls eat their meals or who sets their hearts aflutter. In fact, the whole rum business was put in play when, just before the dessert, I told Aunt Agatha that Miss Gretchen Crumb-Beasley, only daughter of the Lancaster Crumb-Beasleys, had given me the slip and plighted her troth to Oscar Figworthy of the Drones Club. At this announcement, Aunt Agatha blew like a train whistle, expounded on my lack of virtues, and shrieked for Jeeves to bring her coat.
"Now, Aunt Agatha, really---"
"You wretched boy! Look at you, gifted with money and looks and a good name, and what do you do? Throw your life away on frivolous pleasures!"
I tried to give her a knowing wink. "Well now, I never really stood a chance. Ossie is set to become Lord Snowfell and you know how a title turns a girl's head."
She jabbed a talon at my face. "What I know is this, Bertie Wooster---you are a wastrel and a discredit to your class and your name. You should never have been born!"
And with that she snatched her garment from Jeeves' hands and marched out like the Hun army in the Great War, slamming the door so hard that my teeth rattled.
Jeeves turned and simply looked at me. He could hardly have failed to hear all, standing as he was with my aunt's coat at the ready. Then he gave a discreet cough and returned to the kitchen.
I wandered back to the table, but the repast had turned to ashes in my mouth just like in whats-his-name's. Jeeves wisped back into the room.
"Shall I bring dessert, sir?"
"I don't think so."
"Coffee, sir?"
"No," I said, and got up and walked to the piano. I've found that, whenever something hits me hard, playing a few music-hall tunes will take the sting off. This time, however, my fingers felt cold and clumsy, and I could do no more than a half dozen bars of Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors before retreating into a dark study of my relative's words.
What, I thought, if she was right? If I had never been born---would the world be a better place without Bertram Wooster in it? What if my mother had given birth to some other chap, perhaps one who would have stood for Parliament by now, or become a doctor and found the cure to all the world's dreaded diseases? What good had I ever done anyone? I could count a dozen or so romances that had blossomed under my benevolent gaze, but ultimately I would have to give Jeeves the full credit for stage-managing them into existence. The more I considered, the less I found in my column of reasons for abiding on the earth.
And then I heard the most awful racket in the kitchen.
"Jeeves?" I called, wondering what on earth had set off such a clattering, as if all the metal objects, those mystical tools that produce the daily bread, had come crashing to the floor at once. When he failed to answer, something like a firebell went off in my head and I leapt to my feet and ran for the kitchen. Upon opening the door, I saw that a number of pots and pans were scattered randomly on the tile and, in their midst, Jeeves was struggling to rise. His face was quite red, and he held his right wrist with his left hand.
"Do pardon me, sir."
"Good lord, Jeeves, what happened?"
"I fear I spilled some water from the sink, sir, and slipped on it while attempting to rearrange the cupboards."
If he had told me the world was due to end at six past nine, I could not have been more astonished. Never in my years with Jeeves have I known him to be anything but the soul of grace. He does not walk, he floats, and had he somehow taken a misstep, I imagined that he would leap free of it like a ballet dancer---one well over six feet tall, in an apron and sleeve guards, no less.
"Are you hurt?"
"I believe I may have sprained my wrist, sir, when I attempted to break my fall. It is rather sore at the moment."
I shoved him into a chair and wished that I had been a doctor, and could magically heal him with pills and poultices and words with eight syllables or more. He assured me it was only a minor annoyance, but I insisted on picking up all the whatnots on the floor and instructed that they be left upon the counter until he was feeling tip-top again.
"A bit of rum luck there, Jeeves."
"Indeed sir...especially with the Semi-Annual Darts Tournament at the Lamb and Wolf tonight."
"What?"
"If you will recall sir, this is my evening off."
"Yes."
"As it happens, I have entered myself in a darts competition at the Lamb and Wolf---a pub, sir, on Baker Street."
I blinked. "I never knew you played darts!"
His lip quivered a bit; I suppose he'd made the error of trying to flex his wrist. "It has been a favorite diversion of mine since childhood, sir."
"And here I thought you only went in for reading improving books and shrimping!"
"A mere lark, of course---but as I have friends at this public house, I take part in our small competitions. I have already paid my entry fee but now I fear-" another quiver of the lip, and a knotting of the brow, "that I will have to, as they say on the turf, be scratched."
"How much did you stand to win?" I asked.
"At last tally, the prize was nearly a hundred pounds, sir."
The sportsmen in me winced. How devilishly unfair that Jeeves should be wounded in my service and have to miss the opening bell, not to mention the chance to pad his bank account. His face betrayed a slight sadness, and that set the Wooster brain on fire. Say what you will about my character, the Code of the Woosters is to always aid a pal in trouble. And while Jeeves is not technically my pal, he is my closest friend and companion, and deserved better from the young master than having to lose out on the chance to score a bundle.
"Jeeves---will they take a late entry?"
"I believe the contest is open until the hour of ten, sir."
"Then here's what we'll do---we'll toddle over to Baker Street and I'll enter the lists in your place. After all, I am the Drones Club darts champion, three years running."
Jeeves' eyebrows made a nervous lift. "Sir, if I may be so bold...the denizens of the Lamb and Wolf are not the company to which a gentleman of your quality is accustomed."
"Tut, Jeeves---I'm broadminded enough to rub elbows with the people. And, after all, I appear to be a disgrace to my own class, so maybe I should see if I can do any better mixing and mingling with the porters-harriet."
"I believe the word you are looking for is proletariat, sir."
"Exactly. Those chappies."
Jeeves had the look of an old owl, trying to decide if a younger one was really ready to get on with all this 'who-ing' business or not. "If you are certain, sir…"
"Indeed I am! By golly, we'll show them there's no finer team. You can still coach from the sidelines, can't you?"
"It is customary for each competitor to have his partisans, sir." Jeeves rose, and tapped a finger to his lip. "Your attire, however, presents a problem. If you are recognized as a gentleman of quality, it may lead to some awkwardness."
"So I'll go in disguise. I must have that set of ginger-whiskers around here somewhere. What about an eye-patch, would that work?"
I almost saw a smile creep onto Jeeves' face. "It would put your game at some disadvantage sir. But I believe that I can find some appropriate attire for you."
An hour later, we were alighting from a taxi and making our way into the Lamb and Wolf. Jeeves had nixed the whiskers, but rustled up an old pea jacket and baggy grey trousers, plus a red-checkered scarf that I knotted around my throat. I felt rather like Sherlock Holmes, sinking deep into the underworld in search of the Star of India or the murderer of Lord Deadbody or some such thing. It occurred to me just before we exited the taxi that I should hardly be addressing Jeeves as Jeeves---these lower orders tended to be on more of a first name basis.
"Should I call you Reginald?" I asked.
"Reggie would be more common, sir," he replied with his usual politeness. It sounded so very odd, considering that he had changed from his usual long coat and striped trousers into a very old and disreputable suit that looked to be the wrong size for him in every article. In short, while he sounded like Jeeves, he looked nothing like Jeeves, and that was almost more than the easily addled Wooster bean could digest.
"Right." I tried the name on my tongue, thinking how strange it sounded. Then it occurred to me that I had never heard Jeeves call me by my Christian name, or by the nickname I've carried since childhood. It has always been 'sir' or 'Mr. Wooster.' That hardly seemed fair, and I was about to insist that he address me as my friends did when suddenly we were at the door and wading through a virtual ocean---or is that sea?---of humanity. It appeared that every off-duty tradesman in London had assembled for the sole purpose of entering this competition. A chalk board over the bar listed the competitors, with names like 'Mad-Dog Dirk' and 'Bowlegs Billy.' I signaled for the bartender and pulled out the fiver that was required as an entry fee.
"And what's your moniker?" he asked.
"Wooster, Bertram---W-O-O-"
"Put him down as Eagle Eye," came a voice behind me. I whirled around, jaw dropping. I had no idea that Jeeves could sound like a tough from the darkest of the London streets. He nodded slightly, reminding me of the deception, and I gave the bartender my best scowl.
"That's right. Eagle Eye. E-A-G-"
"I can spell, damn you!"
"Here now! There's no need to be rude."
Jeeves caught my elbow and took note of my place in the opening round. As with most darts tournaments in public houses, one had to partake of the local ale in order to get in the spirit of the thing. Jeeves ordered two tankards, clicking his to mine in a very sociable manner.
"Your health, sir," he said.
"Jolly good! Down the hatch!" And with that I took a snout-full and immediately began to choke and cough and generally require Jeves' back-slapping assistance before I could regain my composure. "This is swill!" I protested. "Like something MacIntosh might have put on leg of a chair!"
Jeeves leaned in close. "Perhaps it would not be wise to announce your displeasure, sir. The proprietor takes great pride in his signature ale."
"Even though it tastes like...well, I'd rather not say."
"Indeed, sir. Perhaps you could manage small sips, and thus make the glass last all evening."
"Hmm, you're right." I considered for a moment. "Do the people here actually belly up for this witch's brew?"
"It is quite popular, sir."
"Then that could work to our advantage, Jeeves." I detached myself from him and strolled back to the bar, slapping my palm down on it to get the man's attention.
"What do YOU want?" he demanded. He was a surly chap, with a rather rank odor.
"A round for the house. Double for all my fellow competitors."
He blinked at me. "Let's see your cash."
"Are you implying that I would welch on a bill?"
"I'm saying let's see your cash...what do you think you are, a bleedin' gentleman?"
Amidst all the racket, I somehow heard Jeeves' warning cough. "Ha! Me, a gentleman---that's a fine one! Quite a wheeze, actually! No, I am most definitely NOT a gentleman, but I have by good fortune come into some ready coin of the realm and I intend to make many new friends here tonight. Allow me to prove it."
Suitably oiled with filthy lucre---which is really an odd term, because I find the bills in my wallet are never soiled or dirty; I suspect Jeeves irons them---the bartender began to pour and, as I had cleverly deduced, I was soon the closest chum of every costermonger and taxi-driver in the place. A few more rounds and not only did I have a new host of pals, I also had much less in the way of competition. Most of the players had been drinking since the early evening, and my stint as host soon swept them under the table. In fact, it was almost anti-climatic, if that's the word I want, when we were finally summoned to the lists. I won each round with ease, and my rival in the final match failed to score any bulls-eyes, though he did manage to drive two of his projectiles into his right leg.
Fortunately, he was an old seaman with a wooden limb, so this was not terribly painful for him. Not that he would have felt it even had he possessed flesh and blood from the knee down, he was so brilliantly tight.
Like the pure knight of old, I stepped forward to collect my reward, a purse of nearly one hundred and twenty pounds. I was set to make a small speech and express my appreciation for such a rousing evening in fine company, when a shrill voice came stabbing out of a corner.
"Wait a second! That's Wooster---from the Drones Club!"
"I hardly see what that has to....good lord, Toby????"
A small man with a ferret face charged through the crowd. I recognized him as Toby, one of our porters at the club, or should I say, one of our former porters. We'd let him go some six months before, when we caught him pinching hard rolls. It's one thing for the help to nip an occasional muffin or two, but when you don't have a single hard roll to play indoor cricket with, measures must be taken.
"I know him!" Toby shouted. "He's one of them high-falutin' gentlemen, thinks he can come in here and make fools of us."
"Now see here, Toby, I hardly think that's---"
Whatever else I had planned to say got lost in the scrapping of chairs and a sudden beastial growl that seemed to arise out of the throat of every manin the place---and most of the women as well---all at the same time. Everywhere I looked, the very proletarits that had been feasting on my noblesse oblige were suddenly approaching me with raised fists and murderous gleams in their eyes. It was like a army advancing, and while Woosters are known to be men of steel, even steel will melt in a hot enough soup.
I called to a higher power.
"Jeeves!"
He caught my elbow. "This way, sir!"
We flew over the bar, ducked under some bottles, and scrambled like rats down a dark passageway that gave at last to a darker door which led to a still murkier alley. I have always been a fast runner, but Jeeves was a zephyr wind, and I barely kept pace as we wove through narrow lanes and hopped over ditches. At last we were back on a road, and Jeeves magically produced a taxi, which I flung myself into. As we rounded a turn on two wheels, I looked back to see the murderous mob still howling for my blood, and I knew then how Marie Antoinette must have felt when that whole let them eat cake business didn't play to the cheap seats.
For several minutes, all I could do was gasp for air. Then my nerves required a cigarette, which Jeeves kindly lit for me, expertly striking a match.
"I say, Jeeves...that was a close one!"
"Indeed, sir. I am sorry that I did not accurately anticipate what would happen if our little ruse were to be discovered."
"We're lucky to get out there alive!"
"One hopes the worst that could have happened, sir, would have been them relieving you of your winnings."
I laughed defiantly and pulled out the greasy envelope into which the prize was stashed. "And at that they failed! Here, Jeeves, take it."
"But sir!"
"No, I will not hear it---I did it for you. As you were wounded in my service, and all that. Seemed the proper thing to do."
He gave that slight nod of the head, and while it might have been a trick of the streetlights, I thought I detected a slight twinkle in his eye. "Thank you sir. I am most appreciative."
I drew a reflective puff on the cigarette. "Actually, I should be thanking you, Jeeves. If this business hadn't come along, no doubt I would have spent the whole evening brooding over Aunt Agatha's remarks about my character. About what the world would have been like if I had never been born."
"It would have been a much lesser place, sir."
And at that, I for once had the sense to stop talking, to maybe not be such a silly ass for the rest of the ride home.
Later, after a good warm bath and a nice stiff one to wash the awful taste of that pub ale from my palate, I started to wonder what was going on at the back of my brain. It felt exactly like a mouse might be nibbling on my thoughts. I considered the evidence, even going as far as to make notes in the steam-coated mirror.
One---Jeeves had overheard my Aunt Agatha's tirade.
Two---Jeeves had taken a tumble in the kitchen and hurt his wrist.
Three--That's absurd, Jeeves never falls down.
Four---This just happened to be the night of the big darts tournament.
Five---
Here I ran out of room and was on my own, deduction-wise. I plodded as best I could.
Jeeves had said he had friends at the pub. Strange that no one in the room had hailed him, had shouted out 'Reggie, you old sport!' or something of that nature.
And now that I thought back on it, I could not recall seeing his name on the chalk board. Lots of Mad Dogs and Red Bulls and such, but no Jeeves.
Somehow he'd know about the competition, known that I was a fiend at darts, and...
He'd never been hurt! Why, he'd helped me get dressed, and run the bath water, and everything else he normally does, with no sign of pain. He'd staged the entire thing, from start to finish. But why?
And then the mouse in my head got to the cheese at last.
Jeeves had wanted to cheer me up. And he'd known exactly how I would react to his little ploy; all up on the psychology of the individual as he was, and said individual being the young master, it had been a matter of seconds for him to conceive the plan.
The wonder of the thing left me breathless. The man's brains knew no limits.
I returned to the bedroom prepared to tell him what I'd reasoned, to show him that there were two subtle brains in the old apartment. But then when I saw him turning back my covers and fluffing the pillow, I lost the will to say it.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" he asked, placing my dressing gown over the covers as I slid beneath them.
"Just one thing, Jeeves. I wondered, just before we went into the pub, how it would sound."
He tilted his head. "How what would sound, sir?"
"My name. Not sir, or Mr. Wooster, but-"
"Bertram, sir?"
"No, no...what everyone else calls me! I want to hear you say it---just dash the propriety and feudal spirit and all that, this one time."
Jeeves never fully smiles, but he does have a way of looking very indulgent, like a fond mother with a wayward child. "You mean 'Bertie'...sir?"
It did sound different. Not the way the chaps at the Drones shout it, or the way my aunts snarl it, or even the way silly girls drawl it out or snap it off, or stick 'darling' or some such in front of it. It's bally hard to describe how a name sounds coming from a different pair of lips, but there it is. And I had never before heard it said with such honest affection.
"Yes, thank you Jeeves. That will be all."
"Good night sir."
He turned off the light and closed the door. And in the darkness I told Aunt Agatha to go soak her head. Jeeves was glad I had been born, and that was good enough for me.
With apologies to P. G. Wodehouse, and much appreciation for his wonderful world! (All errors are strictly my own...)
It's one thing to be called a silly ass. I'm called such, frequently, and I suppose that at times I am a silly ass. I've even caught the occasional look on Jeeves' face that suggests---as fond as he is of the young master, filled with the feudal spirit and whatnot---he can't help but agree with the sentiment. I'll even admit that at times I can be a first rate rotter, and even a prize-winning chump. My Aunt Dahlia considers me a blot on the landscape, and she happens to be enormously fond of me. Indeed, I am prepared to take all manner of criticism with a certain cavalier spirit---but I do find it bally painful to be called a wastrel who should have never been born, a discredit to my class and to the Wooster name. And such had been the parting salvo---if that's the word I want---from my Aunt Agatha.
Now, readers of these memoirs will no doubt remember that Aunt Agatha is my evil relation, the one who drinks blood when the moon is full and sacrifices virgins to volcano gods. Ever since I entered man's estate, it has been her goal to see me married and "making something of myself." Personally, I like the way I'm made at present, and see no reason to muck up the machinery with a wife and child. I can't count the number of times she's dropped some winsome female on me and then frothed like a bulldog in a rat pit when the lass was in the habit of slurping her soup or fell madly in love with one of my chums. Somehow, I always get blamed for the mess, as if I can control how girls eat their meals or who sets their hearts aflutter. In fact, the whole rum business was put in play when, just before the dessert, I told Aunt Agatha that Miss Gretchen Crumb-Beasley, only daughter of the Lancaster Crumb-Beasleys, had given me the slip and plighted her troth to Oscar Figworthy of the Drones Club. At this announcement, Aunt Agatha blew like a train whistle, expounded on my lack of virtues, and shrieked for Jeeves to bring her coat.
"Now, Aunt Agatha, really---"
"You wretched boy! Look at you, gifted with money and looks and a good name, and what do you do? Throw your life away on frivolous pleasures!"
I tried to give her a knowing wink. "Well now, I never really stood a chance. Ossie is set to become Lord Snowfell and you know how a title turns a girl's head."
She jabbed a talon at my face. "What I know is this, Bertie Wooster---you are a wastrel and a discredit to your class and your name. You should never have been born!"
And with that she snatched her garment from Jeeves' hands and marched out like the Hun army in the Great War, slamming the door so hard that my teeth rattled.
Jeeves turned and simply looked at me. He could hardly have failed to hear all, standing as he was with my aunt's coat at the ready. Then he gave a discreet cough and returned to the kitchen.
I wandered back to the table, but the repast had turned to ashes in my mouth just like in whats-his-name's. Jeeves wisped back into the room.
"Shall I bring dessert, sir?"
"I don't think so."
"Coffee, sir?"
"No," I said, and got up and walked to the piano. I've found that, whenever something hits me hard, playing a few music-hall tunes will take the sting off. This time, however, my fingers felt cold and clumsy, and I could do no more than a half dozen bars of Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors before retreating into a dark study of my relative's words.
What, I thought, if she was right? If I had never been born---would the world be a better place without Bertram Wooster in it? What if my mother had given birth to some other chap, perhaps one who would have stood for Parliament by now, or become a doctor and found the cure to all the world's dreaded diseases? What good had I ever done anyone? I could count a dozen or so romances that had blossomed under my benevolent gaze, but ultimately I would have to give Jeeves the full credit for stage-managing them into existence. The more I considered, the less I found in my column of reasons for abiding on the earth.
And then I heard the most awful racket in the kitchen.
"Jeeves?" I called, wondering what on earth had set off such a clattering, as if all the metal objects, those mystical tools that produce the daily bread, had come crashing to the floor at once. When he failed to answer, something like a firebell went off in my head and I leapt to my feet and ran for the kitchen. Upon opening the door, I saw that a number of pots and pans were scattered randomly on the tile and, in their midst, Jeeves was struggling to rise. His face was quite red, and he held his right wrist with his left hand.
"Do pardon me, sir."
"Good lord, Jeeves, what happened?"
"I fear I spilled some water from the sink, sir, and slipped on it while attempting to rearrange the cupboards."
If he had told me the world was due to end at six past nine, I could not have been more astonished. Never in my years with Jeeves have I known him to be anything but the soul of grace. He does not walk, he floats, and had he somehow taken a misstep, I imagined that he would leap free of it like a ballet dancer---one well over six feet tall, in an apron and sleeve guards, no less.
"Are you hurt?"
"I believe I may have sprained my wrist, sir, when I attempted to break my fall. It is rather sore at the moment."
I shoved him into a chair and wished that I had been a doctor, and could magically heal him with pills and poultices and words with eight syllables or more. He assured me it was only a minor annoyance, but I insisted on picking up all the whatnots on the floor and instructed that they be left upon the counter until he was feeling tip-top again.
"A bit of rum luck there, Jeeves."
"Indeed sir...especially with the Semi-Annual Darts Tournament at the Lamb and Wolf tonight."
"What?"
"If you will recall sir, this is my evening off."
"Yes."
"As it happens, I have entered myself in a darts competition at the Lamb and Wolf---a pub, sir, on Baker Street."
I blinked. "I never knew you played darts!"
His lip quivered a bit; I suppose he'd made the error of trying to flex his wrist. "It has been a favorite diversion of mine since childhood, sir."
"And here I thought you only went in for reading improving books and shrimping!"
"A mere lark, of course---but as I have friends at this public house, I take part in our small competitions. I have already paid my entry fee but now I fear-" another quiver of the lip, and a knotting of the brow, "that I will have to, as they say on the turf, be scratched."
"How much did you stand to win?" I asked.
"At last tally, the prize was nearly a hundred pounds, sir."
The sportsmen in me winced. How devilishly unfair that Jeeves should be wounded in my service and have to miss the opening bell, not to mention the chance to pad his bank account. His face betrayed a slight sadness, and that set the Wooster brain on fire. Say what you will about my character, the Code of the Woosters is to always aid a pal in trouble. And while Jeeves is not technically my pal, he is my closest friend and companion, and deserved better from the young master than having to lose out on the chance to score a bundle.
"Jeeves---will they take a late entry?"
"I believe the contest is open until the hour of ten, sir."
"Then here's what we'll do---we'll toddle over to Baker Street and I'll enter the lists in your place. After all, I am the Drones Club darts champion, three years running."
Jeeves' eyebrows made a nervous lift. "Sir, if I may be so bold...the denizens of the Lamb and Wolf are not the company to which a gentleman of your quality is accustomed."
"Tut, Jeeves---I'm broadminded enough to rub elbows with the people. And, after all, I appear to be a disgrace to my own class, so maybe I should see if I can do any better mixing and mingling with the porters-harriet."
"I believe the word you are looking for is proletariat, sir."
"Exactly. Those chappies."
Jeeves had the look of an old owl, trying to decide if a younger one was really ready to get on with all this 'who-ing' business or not. "If you are certain, sir…"
"Indeed I am! By golly, we'll show them there's no finer team. You can still coach from the sidelines, can't you?"
"It is customary for each competitor to have his partisans, sir." Jeeves rose, and tapped a finger to his lip. "Your attire, however, presents a problem. If you are recognized as a gentleman of quality, it may lead to some awkwardness."
"So I'll go in disguise. I must have that set of ginger-whiskers around here somewhere. What about an eye-patch, would that work?"
I almost saw a smile creep onto Jeeves' face. "It would put your game at some disadvantage sir. But I believe that I can find some appropriate attire for you."
An hour later, we were alighting from a taxi and making our way into the Lamb and Wolf. Jeeves had nixed the whiskers, but rustled up an old pea jacket and baggy grey trousers, plus a red-checkered scarf that I knotted around my throat. I felt rather like Sherlock Holmes, sinking deep into the underworld in search of the Star of India or the murderer of Lord Deadbody or some such thing. It occurred to me just before we exited the taxi that I should hardly be addressing Jeeves as Jeeves---these lower orders tended to be on more of a first name basis.
"Should I call you Reginald?" I asked.
"Reggie would be more common, sir," he replied with his usual politeness. It sounded so very odd, considering that he had changed from his usual long coat and striped trousers into a very old and disreputable suit that looked to be the wrong size for him in every article. In short, while he sounded like Jeeves, he looked nothing like Jeeves, and that was almost more than the easily addled Wooster bean could digest.
"Right." I tried the name on my tongue, thinking how strange it sounded. Then it occurred to me that I had never heard Jeeves call me by my Christian name, or by the nickname I've carried since childhood. It has always been 'sir' or 'Mr. Wooster.' That hardly seemed fair, and I was about to insist that he address me as my friends did when suddenly we were at the door and wading through a virtual ocean---or is that sea?---of humanity. It appeared that every off-duty tradesman in London had assembled for the sole purpose of entering this competition. A chalk board over the bar listed the competitors, with names like 'Mad-Dog Dirk' and 'Bowlegs Billy.' I signaled for the bartender and pulled out the fiver that was required as an entry fee.
"And what's your moniker?" he asked.
"Wooster, Bertram---W-O-O-"
"Put him down as Eagle Eye," came a voice behind me. I whirled around, jaw dropping. I had no idea that Jeeves could sound like a tough from the darkest of the London streets. He nodded slightly, reminding me of the deception, and I gave the bartender my best scowl.
"That's right. Eagle Eye. E-A-G-"
"I can spell, damn you!"
"Here now! There's no need to be rude."
Jeeves caught my elbow and took note of my place in the opening round. As with most darts tournaments in public houses, one had to partake of the local ale in order to get in the spirit of the thing. Jeeves ordered two tankards, clicking his to mine in a very sociable manner.
"Your health, sir," he said.
"Jolly good! Down the hatch!" And with that I took a snout-full and immediately began to choke and cough and generally require Jeves' back-slapping assistance before I could regain my composure. "This is swill!" I protested. "Like something MacIntosh might have put on leg of a chair!"
Jeeves leaned in close. "Perhaps it would not be wise to announce your displeasure, sir. The proprietor takes great pride in his signature ale."
"Even though it tastes like...well, I'd rather not say."
"Indeed, sir. Perhaps you could manage small sips, and thus make the glass last all evening."
"Hmm, you're right." I considered for a moment. "Do the people here actually belly up for this witch's brew?"
"It is quite popular, sir."
"Then that could work to our advantage, Jeeves." I detached myself from him and strolled back to the bar, slapping my palm down on it to get the man's attention.
"What do YOU want?" he demanded. He was a surly chap, with a rather rank odor.
"A round for the house. Double for all my fellow competitors."
He blinked at me. "Let's see your cash."
"Are you implying that I would welch on a bill?"
"I'm saying let's see your cash...what do you think you are, a bleedin' gentleman?"
Amidst all the racket, I somehow heard Jeeves' warning cough. "Ha! Me, a gentleman---that's a fine one! Quite a wheeze, actually! No, I am most definitely NOT a gentleman, but I have by good fortune come into some ready coin of the realm and I intend to make many new friends here tonight. Allow me to prove it."
Suitably oiled with filthy lucre---which is really an odd term, because I find the bills in my wallet are never soiled or dirty; I suspect Jeeves irons them---the bartender began to pour and, as I had cleverly deduced, I was soon the closest chum of every costermonger and taxi-driver in the place. A few more rounds and not only did I have a new host of pals, I also had much less in the way of competition. Most of the players had been drinking since the early evening, and my stint as host soon swept them under the table. In fact, it was almost anti-climatic, if that's the word I want, when we were finally summoned to the lists. I won each round with ease, and my rival in the final match failed to score any bulls-eyes, though he did manage to drive two of his projectiles into his right leg.
Fortunately, he was an old seaman with a wooden limb, so this was not terribly painful for him. Not that he would have felt it even had he possessed flesh and blood from the knee down, he was so brilliantly tight.
Like the pure knight of old, I stepped forward to collect my reward, a purse of nearly one hundred and twenty pounds. I was set to make a small speech and express my appreciation for such a rousing evening in fine company, when a shrill voice came stabbing out of a corner.
"Wait a second! That's Wooster---from the Drones Club!"
"I hardly see what that has to....good lord, Toby????"
A small man with a ferret face charged through the crowd. I recognized him as Toby, one of our porters at the club, or should I say, one of our former porters. We'd let him go some six months before, when we caught him pinching hard rolls. It's one thing for the help to nip an occasional muffin or two, but when you don't have a single hard roll to play indoor cricket with, measures must be taken.
"I know him!" Toby shouted. "He's one of them high-falutin' gentlemen, thinks he can come in here and make fools of us."
"Now see here, Toby, I hardly think that's---"
Whatever else I had planned to say got lost in the scrapping of chairs and a sudden beastial growl that seemed to arise out of the throat of every manin the place---and most of the women as well---all at the same time. Everywhere I looked, the very proletarits that had been feasting on my noblesse oblige were suddenly approaching me with raised fists and murderous gleams in their eyes. It was like a army advancing, and while Woosters are known to be men of steel, even steel will melt in a hot enough soup.
I called to a higher power.
"Jeeves!"
He caught my elbow. "This way, sir!"
We flew over the bar, ducked under some bottles, and scrambled like rats down a dark passageway that gave at last to a darker door which led to a still murkier alley. I have always been a fast runner, but Jeeves was a zephyr wind, and I barely kept pace as we wove through narrow lanes and hopped over ditches. At last we were back on a road, and Jeeves magically produced a taxi, which I flung myself into. As we rounded a turn on two wheels, I looked back to see the murderous mob still howling for my blood, and I knew then how Marie Antoinette must have felt when that whole let them eat cake business didn't play to the cheap seats.
For several minutes, all I could do was gasp for air. Then my nerves required a cigarette, which Jeeves kindly lit for me, expertly striking a match.
"I say, Jeeves...that was a close one!"
"Indeed, sir. I am sorry that I did not accurately anticipate what would happen if our little ruse were to be discovered."
"We're lucky to get out there alive!"
"One hopes the worst that could have happened, sir, would have been them relieving you of your winnings."
I laughed defiantly and pulled out the greasy envelope into which the prize was stashed. "And at that they failed! Here, Jeeves, take it."
"But sir!"
"No, I will not hear it---I did it for you. As you were wounded in my service, and all that. Seemed the proper thing to do."
He gave that slight nod of the head, and while it might have been a trick of the streetlights, I thought I detected a slight twinkle in his eye. "Thank you sir. I am most appreciative."
I drew a reflective puff on the cigarette. "Actually, I should be thanking you, Jeeves. If this business hadn't come along, no doubt I would have spent the whole evening brooding over Aunt Agatha's remarks about my character. About what the world would have been like if I had never been born."
"It would have been a much lesser place, sir."
And at that, I for once had the sense to stop talking, to maybe not be such a silly ass for the rest of the ride home.
Later, after a good warm bath and a nice stiff one to wash the awful taste of that pub ale from my palate, I started to wonder what was going on at the back of my brain. It felt exactly like a mouse might be nibbling on my thoughts. I considered the evidence, even going as far as to make notes in the steam-coated mirror.
One---Jeeves had overheard my Aunt Agatha's tirade.
Two---Jeeves had taken a tumble in the kitchen and hurt his wrist.
Three--That's absurd, Jeeves never falls down.
Four---This just happened to be the night of the big darts tournament.
Five---
Here I ran out of room and was on my own, deduction-wise. I plodded as best I could.
Jeeves had said he had friends at the pub. Strange that no one in the room had hailed him, had shouted out 'Reggie, you old sport!' or something of that nature.
And now that I thought back on it, I could not recall seeing his name on the chalk board. Lots of Mad Dogs and Red Bulls and such, but no Jeeves.
Somehow he'd know about the competition, known that I was a fiend at darts, and...
He'd never been hurt! Why, he'd helped me get dressed, and run the bath water, and everything else he normally does, with no sign of pain. He'd staged the entire thing, from start to finish. But why?
And then the mouse in my head got to the cheese at last.
Jeeves had wanted to cheer me up. And he'd known exactly how I would react to his little ploy; all up on the psychology of the individual as he was, and said individual being the young master, it had been a matter of seconds for him to conceive the plan.
The wonder of the thing left me breathless. The man's brains knew no limits.
I returned to the bedroom prepared to tell him what I'd reasoned, to show him that there were two subtle brains in the old apartment. But then when I saw him turning back my covers and fluffing the pillow, I lost the will to say it.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" he asked, placing my dressing gown over the covers as I slid beneath them.
"Just one thing, Jeeves. I wondered, just before we went into the pub, how it would sound."
He tilted his head. "How what would sound, sir?"
"My name. Not sir, or Mr. Wooster, but-"
"Bertram, sir?"
"No, no...what everyone else calls me! I want to hear you say it---just dash the propriety and feudal spirit and all that, this one time."
Jeeves never fully smiles, but he does have a way of looking very indulgent, like a fond mother with a wayward child. "You mean 'Bertie'...sir?"
It did sound different. Not the way the chaps at the Drones shout it, or the way my aunts snarl it, or even the way silly girls drawl it out or snap it off, or stick 'darling' or some such in front of it. It's bally hard to describe how a name sounds coming from a different pair of lips, but there it is. And I had never before heard it said with such honest affection.
"Yes, thank you Jeeves. That will be all."
"Good night sir."
He turned off the light and closed the door. And in the darkness I told Aunt Agatha to go soak her head. Jeeves was glad I had been born, and that was good enough for me.