At the end of the second refrain the kid stopped and began to leave the stage. Upon which the following brief dialogue took place:
YOUNG BINGO (Voice heard): “Go on!”
THE KID (coyly): “I don’t like to.”
YOUNG BINGO (still louder): “Go on, you little blighter, or I’ll slay you!”
I suppose the kid realized that Bingo was sincere, came back. Having shut his eyes and giggled hysterically, he said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will now call upon Squire Tressidder[204] to sing the refrain!”
Sometimes I began to think that young Bingo ought to be in an asylym. I suppose, poor fish, he had pictured this as the big punch of the evening. He had imagined, I suppose, that the Squire would spring jovially to his feet, sing the song, and all would be gaiety and mirth. Well, what happened was simply that old Tressidder—and, mark you, I’m not blaming him—just sat where he was, swelling and turning purple every second. The lower middle classes remained in frozen silence, waiting for the roof to fall. But the village people yelled with enthusiasm.
And then the lights went out again.
When they went up, some minutes later, the Squire was marching out at the head of his family; the Burgess girl was at the piano with a pale look; and the curate was gazing at her with something in his expression that seemed to suggest that all this was deplorable.
The show went on once more. There were some dialogues, and then the girl at the piano struck up the prelude to that Orange-Girl[205] number that’s the big hit of the Palace revue. The entire company was on the stage. It looked like the finale. But I realized that it was something more. It was the finish.
Do you remember that Orange number at the Palace? It goes:
Oh, won’t you something something oranges,
My something oranges,
My something oranges;
Oh, won’t you something something something I forget,
Something something something tumty tumty yet: Oh—
or words to that effect. It’s a clever lyric, and the music is good, too; but the most interesting thing that made the number was the point where the girls take oranges out of their baskets, you know, and toss them lightly to the audience.
But at the Palace, of course, the oranges are made of yellow wool, and the girls drop them limply into the first and second rows. But here everything was different. A great orange flew past my ear and burst on the wall behind me. Another landed on the neck of one of the important persons in the third row. And then a third one took me right on the tip of my nose.
The air was thick with shrieks and fruit. The kids on the stage, were having the time of their lives[206]. I suppose they realized that this couldn’t go on forever, and were making the most of their chances[207]. The village people had begun to pick up all the oranges that hadn’t burst and were shooting them back. In fact, there was a certain amount of confusion; and out went the lights again.
I slid for the door. The spectators were cursing poor old Bingo; they were going to drown him in the village.
So I decided to warn young Bingo to use some side exit. I went behind, and found him sitting on a box. His hair was standing up and his ears were hanging down.
“Bertie,” he said hollowly, as he saw me, “it was that blighter Steggles! I caught one of the kids before he could get away and he told me everything. Steggles substituted real oranges for the balls of wool which I had specially prepared.”
“Good heavens, man,” I said, “You’ve got to get out. And quick!”
“Bertie,” said Bingo in a dull voice, “she was here just now. She said it was all my fault and that she would never speak to me again. She said she had always suspected me of being a heartless practical joker, and now she knew.”
“That’s the least of your troubles,”’ I said. “Do you realize that about two hundred people are waiting for you outside to throw you into the pond?”
“No!”
“Absolutely!”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I can sneak out through the cellar and climb over the wall at the back. They can’t catch me.”
A week later Jeeves he had brought me my tea and directed my attention to an announcement in the engagements and marriages column.
It was a brief statement that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between the Hon. and Rev. Hubert Wingham, and Mary, only daughter of the late Matthew Burgess, of Weatherly Court, Hants.
“Of course,” I said, “I expected this, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She would never forgive him what happened that night.”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t suppose it will take old Bingo long to get over it. It’s about the hundred and eleventh time this sort of thing has happened to him.”
“Yes, sir. Your breakfast will be ready almost immediately, sir. Kidneys on toast and mushrooms. I will bring it when you ring.”
16
Claude and Eustace are leaving
One day Aunt Agatha came into my sitting-room while I was having a placid cigarette and started to tell me about Claude and Eustace.
“Thank goodness,” said Aunt Agatha, “arrangements have at last been made about Eustace and Claude.”
“Arrangements?” I did not understand.
“They sail on Friday for South Africa. Mr Van Alstyne[208], a friend of poor Emily’s, has invited them to his firm at Johannesburg, and we are hoping that they will settle down there and do well.”
I didn’t get the thing at all.
“Friday? The day after tomorrow, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“For South Africa?”
“Yes. They leave.”
“But … I mean, aren’t they in the middle of their term at Oxford?”
Aunt Agatha looked at me coldly.
“Do you positively mean to tell me, Bertie, that you take so little interest in the affairs of your nearest relatives that you are not aware that Claude and Eustace were expelled from Oxford over a fortnight ago?”
“No, really?”
“You are hopeless, Bertie. I should have thought that even you—”
“But why?”
“They poured lemonade on the Junior Dean of their college[209] … I see nothing amusing here, Bertie.”
“No, no, rather not,” I said hurriedly. “I wasn’’t laughing. Just coughing. Got something stuck in my throat, you know.”
“Poor Emily,” went on Aunt Agatha, “she is one of those mothers who are the ruin of their children, she wished to keep the boys in London. But I was firm. The Colonies are the only place for wild youths like Eustace and Claude. So they sail on Friday. They have been staying for the last two weeks with your Uncle Clive in Worcestershire. They will spend tomorrow night in London and catch the boat on Friday morning.”
“Bit risky, isn’t it? I mean, if they’re left all alone in London …”
“They will not be left alone. They will be in your charge.”
“Mine!”
“Yes. I wish you to put them up in your flat for the night, and see that they do not miss the train in the morning.”
“Oh, I say, no!”
“Bertie!”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know. They’re rather crazy, you know … Always glad to see them, of course, but …”
“Bertie!”
“Oh, all right,” I said. “All right.”
When she had gone, I rang for Jeeves to break the news to him.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said, “Mr Claude and Mr Eustace will be staying here tomorrow night.”