Oh, no, sir. I note that you are in possession of Mr. Fink-Nottle's orange juice. I was merely about to observe that in my opinion it would be injudicious to add spirit to it.
That is a remark, Jeeves, and it is precisely
Because I have already attended to the matter, sir.
What?
Yes, sir. I decided, after all, to acquiesce in your wishes.
I stared at the man, astounded. I was deeply moved. Well, I mean, wouldn't any chap who had been going about thinking that the old feudal spirit was dead and then suddenly found it wasn't have been deeply moved?
Jeeves, I said, I am touched.
Thank you, sir.
Touched and gratified.
Thank you very much, sir.
But what caused this change of heart?
I chanced to encounter Mr. Fink-Nottle in the garden, sir, while you were still in bed, and we had a brief conversation.
And you came away feeling that he needed a bracer?
Very much so, sir. His attitude struck me as defeatist.
I nodded.
I felt the same. 'Defeatist' sums it up to a nicety. Did you tell him his attitude struck you as defeatist?
Yes, sir.
But it didn't do any good?
No, sir.
Very well, then, Jeeves. We must act. How much gin did you put in the jug?
A liberal tumblerful, sir.
Would that be a normal dose for an adult defeatist, do you think?
I fancy it should prove adequate, sir.
I wonder. We must not spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. I think I'll add just another fluid ounce or so.
I would not advocate it, sir. In the case of Lord Brancaster's parrot
You are falling into your old error, Jeeves, of thinking that Gussie is a parrot. Fight against this. I shall add the oz.
Very good, sir.
And, by the way, Jeeves, Mr. Fink-Nottle is in the market for bright, clean stories to use in his speech. Do you know any?
I know a story about two Irishmen, sir.
Pat and Mike?
Yes, sir.
Who were walking along Broadway?
Yes, sir.
Just what he wants. Any more?
No, sir.
Well, every little helps. You had better go and tell it to him.
Very good, sir.
He passed from the room, and I unscrewed the flask and tilted into the jug a generous modicum of its contents. And scarcely had I done so, when there came to my ears the sound of footsteps without. I had only just time to shove the jug behind the photograph of Uncle Tom on the mantelpiece before the door opened and in came Gussie, curveting like a circus horse.
What-ho, Bertie, he said. What-ho, what-ho, what-ho, and again what-ho. What a beautiful world this is, Bertie. One of the nicest I ever met.
I stared at him, speechless. We Woosters are as quick as lightning, and I saw at once that something had happened.
I mean to say, I told you about him walking round in circles. I recorded what passed between us on the lawn. And if I portrayed the scene with anything like adequate skill, the picture you will have retained of this Fink-Nottle will have been that of a nervous wreck, sagging at the knees, green about the gills, and picking feverishly at the lapels of his coat in an ecstasy of craven fear. In a word, defeatist. Gussie, during that interview, had, in fine, exhibited all the earmarks of one licked to a custard.
Vastly different was the Gussie who stood before me now. Self-confidence seemed to ooze from the fellow's every pore. His face was flushed, there was a jovial light in his eyes, the lips were parted in a swashbuckling smile. And when with a genial hand he sloshed me on the back before I could sidestep, it was as if I had been kicked by a mule.
Well, Bertie, he proceeded, as blithely as a linnet without a thing on his mind, you will be glad to hear that you were right. Your theory has been tested and proved correct. I feel like a fighting cock.
My brain ceased to reel. I saw all.
Have you been having a drink?
I have. As you advised. Unpleasant stuff. Like medicine. Burns your throat, too, and makes one as thirsty as the dickens. How anyone can mop it up, as you do, for pleasure, beats me. Still, I would be the last to deny that it tunes up the system. I could bite a tiger.
What did you have?
Whisky. At least, that was the label on the decanter, and I have no reason to suppose that a woman like your auntstaunch, true-blue, Britishwould deliberately deceive the public. If she labels her decanters Whisky, then I consider that we know where we are.
A whisky and soda, eh? You couldn't have done better.
Soda? said Gussie thoughtfully. I knew there was something I had forgotten.
Didn't you put any soda in it?
It never occurred to me. I just nipped into the dining-room and drank out of the decanter.
How much?
Oh, about ten swallows. Twelve, maybe. Or fourteen. Say sixteen medium-sized gulps. Gosh, I'm thirsty.
He moved over to the wash-stand and drank deeply out of the water bottle. I cast a covert glance at Uncle Tom's photograph behind his back. For the first time since it had come into my life, I was glad that it was so large. It hid its secret well. If Gussie had caught sight of that jug of orange juice, he would unquestionably have been on to it like a knife.
Well, I'm glad you're feeling braced, I said.
He moved buoyantly from the wash-hand stand, and endeavoured to slosh me on the back again. Foiled by my nimble footwork, he staggered to the bed and sat down upon it.
Braced? Did I say I could bite a tiger?
You did.
Make it two tigers. I could chew holes in a steel door. What an ass you must have thought me out there in the garden. I see now you were laughing in your sleeve.
No, no.
Yes, insisted Gussie. That very sleeve, he said, pointing. And I don't blame you. I can't imagine why I made all that fuss about a potty job like distributing prizes at a rotten little country grammar school. Can you imagine, Bertie?
Exactly. Nor can I imagine. There's simply nothing to it. I just shin up on the platform, drop a few gracious words, hand the little blighters their prizes, and hop down again, admired by all. Not a suggestion of split trousers from start to finish. I mean, why should anybody split his trousers? I can't imagine. Can you imagine?
No.
Nor can I imagine. I shall be a riot. I know just the sort of stuff that's neededsimple, manly, optimistic stuff straight from the shoulder. This shoulder, said Gussie, tapping. Why I was so nervous this morning I can't imagine. For anything simpler than distributing a few footling books to a bunch of grimy-faced kids I can't imagine. Still, for some reason I can't imagine, I was feeling a little nervous, but now I feel fine, Bertiefine, fine, fineand I say this to you as an old friend. Because that's what you are, old man, when all the smoke has cleared awayan old friend. I don't think I've ever met an older friend. How long have you been an old friend of mine, Bertie?
Oh, years and years.
Imagine! Though, of course, there must have been a time when you were a new friend.... Hullo, the luncheon gong. Come on, old friend.
And, rising from the bed like a performing flea, he made for the door.
I followed rather pensively. What had occurred was, of course, so much velvet, as you might say. I mean, I had wanted a braced Fink-Nottle indeed, all my plans had had a braced Fink-Nottle as their end and aim
but I found myself wondering a little whether the Fink-Nottle now sliding down the banister wasn't, perhaps, a shade too braced. His demeanour seemed to me that of a man who might quite easily throw bread about at lunch.
Fortunately, however, the settled gloom of those round him exercised a restraining effect upon him at the table. It would have needed a far more plastered man to have been rollicking at such a gathering. I had told the Bassett that there were aching hearts in Brinkley Court, and it now looked probable that there would shortly be aching tummies. Anatole, I learned, had retired to his bed with a fit of the vapours, and the meal now before us had been cooked by the kitchen maidas C3 a performer as ever wielded a skillet.