Thank You, Jeeves

In the interval which had elapsed since I had first been apprised of the man's desire to have speech with me, I had been thinking things over: and the only conclusion to which I could come was that he must have had a change of heart of some nature and decided that an apology was due me for the way he had behaved. It was, therefore, a somewhat softened Bertram Wooster who now rose to do the honours.

'Ah, Sir Roderick,' I said. 'Good morning.'

Nothing could have exceeded the courtesy with which I had spoken. Conceive of my astonishment, therefore, when his only reply was a grunt, and an indubitably unpleasant grunt, at that. I felt that my diagnosis of the situation had been wrong. Right off the bull's-eye I had been. Here was no square-shooting apologizer. He couldn't have been glaring at me with more obvious distaste if I had been the germ of dementia praecox.

Well, if that was the attitude he was proposing to adopt, well, I mean to say. My geniality waned. I drew myself up coldly, at the same time raising a stiff eyebrow. And I was just about to work off the old To-what-am-I-indebted-for-this-visit gag, when he chipped in ahead of me.

'You ought to be certified!'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're a public menace. For weeks, it appears, you have been making life a hell for all your neighbours with some hideous musical instrument. I see you have it with you now. How dare you play that thing in a respectable block of flats? Infernal din!'

I remained cool and dignified.

'Did you say "infernal din"?'

'I did.'

'Oh? Well, let me tell you that the man that hath no music in himself...' I stepped to the door. 'Jeeves,' I called down the passage, 'what was it Shakespeare said the man who hadn't music in himself was fit for?'

'Treasons, stratagems, and spoils, sir.'

'Thank you, Jeeves. Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,' I said, returning.

He danced a step or two.

'Are you aware that the occupant of the flat below, Mrs Tinkler-Moulke, is one of my patients, a woman in a highly nervous condition. I have had to give her a sedative.'

I raised a hand.

'Spare me the gossip from the loony-bin,' I said distantly. 'Might I inquire, on my side, if you are aware that Mrs Tinkler-Moulke owns a Pomeranian?'

'Don't drivel.'

'I am not drivelling. This animal yaps all day and not infrequently far into the night. So Mrs Tinkler-Moulke has had the nerve to complain of my banjolele, has she? Ha! Let her first pluck out the Pom which is in her own eye,' I said, becoming a bit scriptural.

He chafed visibly.

'I am not here to talk about dogs. I wish for your assurance that you will immediately cease annoying this unfortunate woman.'

I shook the head.

'I am sorry she is a cold audience, but my art must come first.'

'That is your final word, is it?'

'It is.'

'Very good. You will hear more of this.'

'And Mrs Tinkler-Moulke will hear more of this,' I replied, brandishing the banjolele.

I touched the buzzer.

'Jeeves,' I said, 'show Sir R. Glossop out!'

I confess that I was well pleased with the manner in which I had comported myself during this clash of wills. There was a time, you must remember, when the sudden appearance of old Glossop in my sitting-room would have been enough to send me bolting for cover like a rabbit. But since then I had passed through the furnace, and the sight of him no longer filled me with a nameless dread. With a good deal of quiet self-satisfaction I proceeded to play 'The Wedding of the Painted Doll', 'Singin' In the Rain', 'Three Little Words', 'Good-Night, Sweetheart', 'My Love Parade', 'Spring Is Here', 'Whose Baby Are You', and part of 'I Want an Automobile With a Horn That Goes Toot-Toot', in the order named: and it was as I was approaching the end of this last number that the telephone rang.

I went to the instrument and stood listening. And, as I listened, my face grew hard and set.

'Very good, Mr Manglehoffer,' I said coldly. 'You may inform Mrs Tinkler-Moulke and her associates that I choose the latter alternative.'

I touched the bell.

'Jeeves,' I said, 'there has been a spot of trouble.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Unpleasantness is rearing its ugly head in Berkeley Mansions, WI. I note also a lack of give-and-take and an absence of the neighbourly spirit. I have just been talking to the manager of this building on the telephone, and he has delivered an ultimatum. He says I must either chuck playing the banjolele or clear out.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Complaints, it would seem, have been lodged by the Honourable Mrs Tinkler-Moulke, of C.6; by Lieutenant-Colonel J. J. Bustard, DSO, of B.5; and by Sir Everard and Lady Blennerhassett, of B.7. All right. So be it. I don't care. We shall be well rid of these Tinkler-Moulkes, these Bustards, and these Blennerhassetts. I leave them without a pang.'

'You are proposing to move, sir?'

I raised the eyebrows.

'Surely, Jeeves, you cannot imagine that I ever considered any other course?'

'But I fear you will encounter a similar hostility elsewhere, sir.'

'Not where I am going. It is my intention to retire to the depths of the country. In some old world, sequestered nook I shall find a cottage, and there resume my studies.'

'A cottage, sir?'

'A cottage, Jeeves. If possible, honeysuckle-covered.'

The next moment, you could have knocked me down with a toothpick. There was a brief pause, and then Jeeves, whom I have nurtured in my bosom, so to speak, for years and years and years, gave a sort of cough and there proceeded from his lips these incredible words:

'In that case, I fear I must give my notice.'

There was a tense silence. I stared at the man.

'Jeeves,' I said, and you wouldn't be far out in describing me as stunned, 'did I hear you correctly?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You actually contemplate leaving my entourage?'

'Only with the greatest reluctance, sir. But if it is your intention to play that instrument within the narrow confines of a country cottage ...'

I drew myself up.

'You say "that instrument", Jeeves. And you say it in an unpleasant, soupy voice. Am I to understand that you dislike this banjolele?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You've stood it all right up to now.'

'With grave difficulty, sir.'

'And let me tell you that better men than you have stood worse than banjoleles. Are you aware that a certain Bulgarian, Elia Gospodinoff, once played the bagpipes for twenty-four hours without a stop? Ripley vouches for this in his "Believe It Or Not".'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Well, do you suppose Gospodinoff's personal attendant kicked? A laughable idea. They are made of better stuff than that in Bulgaria. I am convinced that he was behind the young master from start to finish of his attempt on the Central European record, and I have no doubt frequently rallied round with ice packs and other restoratives. Be Bulgarian, Jeeves.'

'No, sir. I fear I cannot recede from my position.'

'But, dash it, you say you are receding from your position.'

'I should have said, I cannot abandon the stand which I have taken.'

'Oh.'

I mused awhile.

'You mean this, Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You have thought it all out carefully, weighing the pros and cons, balancing this against that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you are resolved?'