Old Little wasn’t able to take part in these banquets, but Bingo said that he came to the table and had his arrowroot[31], and sniffed the dishes, and told stories of entrées[32] he had had in the past. Anyhow, things seemed to be quite wonderful, and Bingo said he had got an idea. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.
“We make progress, Jeeves,” I said.
“That is very satisfactory, sir.”
“Mr Little tells me that when he came to the big scene[33] in Only a Factory Girl, his uncle was crying like a baby.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Where Lord Claude[34] takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says—”
“I am familiar with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It is my aunt’s favourite scene.”
“I think we’re on the right track.”
“It seems so, sir.”
“In fact, this looks like another success of yours. I’ve always said, and I always shall say, that you are a sage, Jeeves. All the other great thinkers of the age are nothing.”
“Thank you very much, sir. You can always rely on me.”
About a week after this, Bingo told the news that his uncle’s gout had ceased to trouble him, and that he would be back at the table with a knife and a fork as before.
“And, by the way,” said Bingo, “he wants you to lunch with him tomorrow.”
“Me? Why me? He doesn’t know I exist.”
“Oh, yes, he does. I’ve told him about you.”
“What have you told him?”
“Oh, various things. Anyhow, he wants to meet you. And take my tip, you’ll go! I think the lunch tomorrow will be something special.”
I don’t know why it was, but Bingo’s words sounded strange.
“There is something strange in it,” I said. “Why should your uncle ask a fellow to lunch whom he’s never seen?”
“My dear old fathead, haven’t I just said that I’ve been telling him all about you—that you’re my best friend—at school together, and all that sort of thing?”
“So what? Why do want me to come?”
Bingo hesitated for a moment.
“Well, I told you I’d got an idea. This is it. I want you to tell him the news. I’m not brave enough.”
“What!”
“And you call yourself a friend of mine!”
“Yes, I know; but there are limits.”
“Bertie,” said Bingo, “I saved your life once.”
“When?”
“Didn’t I? It must have been some other fellow, then. Well, anyway, we were studying at school together and all that. You can’t let me down[35].”
“Oh, all right,” I said. “But, when you say you are not brave enough, you misjudge yourself. A fellow who—”
“Cheerio![36]” said young Bingo. “One-thirty tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
I can say that the more I thought about the lunch the less I liked the idea. It was all very well for Bingo to say that I was invited; but what if they would drive me out? However, at one-thirty next day I was at No. 16, Pounceby Gardens, and punched the bell. And half a minute later I was in the drawingroom, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in my life.
The motto of the Little family was evidently “variety”. Young Bingo is long and thin; but the uncle was like a square.
“Mr Wooster, I am gratified—I am proud—I am honoured.”
“Oh, ah!” I said.
He stepped back a bit.
“You are very young and did so much!”
I couldn’t follow his thought. My family, especially my Aunt Agatha[37], have always told me that my existence is a wasted life, and that, since I won the prize at my school for the best collection of wild flowers made during the summer holidays, I haven’t done anything useful at all. I was wondering if he mixed me up with someone else, when the telephone bell rang outside in the hall, and the maid came in to say that I was wanted. I came down, and found it was young Bingo.
“Hallo!” said young Bingo. “So you’ve got there? Good man! I knew I could rely on you. Was my uncle pleased to see you?”
“Absolutely. I can’t understand why.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I just rang up to explain. The fact is, old man, I told him that you were the author of those books I’ve been reading to him.”
“What!”
“Yes, I said that “Rosie M. Banks” was your pen-name[38], and you didn’t want it generally known, because you were a modest man. He’ll listen to you now. A bright idea, right? Well, go on, old lad, and remember that I can’t possibly marry on what I’ve got now. So try to persuade him to give me more money. At least double. Well, that’s that. Cheerio!”
And he rang off. At that moment the gong sounded, and my host came downstairs.
I always look back to that lunch with a sort of regret. It was the best lunch in my life, and I could not appreciate it. Subconsciously, if you know what I mean, I could see it was pretty special, but I was shocked with the ghastly situation in which young Bingo had landed me.
Old Little began:
“My nephew has probably told you that I have been studying your books?”
“Yes. He mentioned it. How—er—how did you like them?”
He gazed reverently at me.
“Mr Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can be able to learn human nature so deeply; to write novels so true, so human, so moving, so vital!”
“Oh, it’s nothing special,” I said.
It was terribly hot in the room.
“Do you find the room a little warm?” he asked.
“Oh, no, no, rather not. Just right.”
“Then it’s the pepper. If my cook has a fault—which I am not prepared to admit—it is that she adores pepper. By the way, do you like her cooking?”
I was so relieved that we had changed the subject that I shouted approval.
“I am delighted to hear it, Mr Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to my mind that woman is a genius.”
“Absolutely!” I said.
“She has been with me seven years, and in all that time I have not known her guilty of a single lapse from the highest standard. Except once, in the winter of 1917, a certain mayonnaise of hers was not soft enough. But there had been several air-raids[39] about that time, and no doubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is perfect in this world, Mr Wooster. For seven years I have lived in constant apprehension lest some person might lure her. To my certain knowledge she has received offers, lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You can imagine, Mr Wooster, my sorrow when she said that she was going to change her place of employment!”
“Good Lord!”
“Oh, my dear author of A Red, Red Summer Rose! But I am glad to say the worst has not happened. Jane[40] is not leaving me.”
“Wonderful!”
“Wonderful, indeed. And, speaking of your books, may I say that what has impressed me about them even more than the actual narrative, is your philosophy of life. If there were more men like you, Mr Wooster, London would be a better place.”
This was opposite to my Aunt Agatha’s philosophy of life, she has always told me that it is the presence of guys like me that makes London a plague spot.
31
arrowroot – аррорут (крахмал, изготовленный из маранты, тропического растения из Южной Америки)