the sitting-room. It was a dash disturbing situation, don’t you know.

  At any minute Freddie might take it into his head to come out on to

  the veranda, and we hadn’t even begun to rehearse him in his part.

  I tried to break up the scene.

  “We were just going down to the beach,” I said.

  “Yes?” said the girl. She listened for a moment. “So you’re hav-

  ing your piano tuned?” she said. “My aunt has been trying to fi nd a

  tuner for ours. Do you mind if I go in and tell this man to come on

  to us when he’s fi nished here?”

  “Er – not yet!” I said. “Not yet, if you don’t mind. He can’t bear

  to be disturbed when he’s working. It’s the artistic temperament. I’ll

  tell him later.”

  “Very well,” she said, getting up to go. “Ask him to call at Pine

  Bungalow. West is the name. Oh, he seems to have stopped. I sup-

  pose he will be out in a minute now. I’ll wait.”

  “Don’t you think – shouldn’t we be going on to the beach?” I

  said.

  She had started talking to the kid and didn’t hear. She was feel-

  ing in her pocket for something.

  “Th

  e beach,” I babbled.

  “See what I’ve brought for you, baby,” she said. And, by George,

  don’t you know, she held up in front of the kid’s bulging eyes a chunk

  of toff ee about the size of the Automobile Club.

  Th

  at fi nished it. We had just been having a long rehearsal, and

  the kid was all worked up in his part. He got it right fi rst time.

  “Kiss Fweddie!” he shouted.

  And the front door opened, and Freddie came out on to the

  veranda, for all the world as if he had been taking a cue.

  He looked at the girl, and the girl looked at him. I looked at the

  ground, and the kid looked at the toff ee.

  “Kiss Fweddie!” he yelled. “Kiss Fweddie!”

  Th

  e girl was still holding up the toff ee, and the kid did what

  Jimmy Pinkerton would have called “business of outstretched hands”

  towards it.

  “Kiss Fweddie!” he shrieked.

  “What does this mean?” said the girl, turning to me.

  “You’d better give it to him, don’t you know,” I said. “He’ll go

  on till you do.”

  81

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  She gave the kid his toff ee, and he subsided. Poor old Freddie

  still stood there gaping, without a word.

  “What does it mean?” said the girl again. Her face was pink,

  and her eyes were sparkling in the sort of way, don’t you know, that

  makes a fellow feel as if he hadn’t any bones in him, if you know

  what I mean. Did you ever tread on your partner’s dress at a dance

  and tear it, and see her smile at you like an angel and say: “Please

  don’t apologize. It’s nothing,” and then suddenly meet her clear blue

  eyes and feel as if you had stepped on the teeth of a rake and had the

  handle jump up and hit you in the face? Well, that’s how Freddie’s

  Angela looked.

  “Well? ” she said, and her teeth gave a little click.

  I gulped. Th

  en I said it was nothing. Th

  en I said it was nothing

  much. Th

  en I said, “Oh, well, it was this way.” And, after a few brief

  remarks about Jimmy Pinkerton, I told her all about it. And all the

  while Idiot Freddie stood there gaping, without a word.

  And the girl didn’t speak, either. She just stood listening.

  And then she began to laugh. I never heard a girl laugh so much.

  She leaned against the side of the veranda and shrieked. And all the

  while Freddie, the World’s Champion Chump, stood there, saying

  nothing.

  Well I sidled towards the steps. I had said all I had to say, and it

  seemed to me that about here the stage-direction “exit” was written

  in my part. I gave poor old Freddie up in despair. If only he had said

  a word, it might have been all right. But there he stood, speechless.

  What can a fellow do with a fellow like that?

  Just out of sight of the house I met Jimmy Pinkerton.

  “Hello, Reggie!” he said. “I was just coming to you. Where’s the

  kid? We must have a big rehearsal to-day.”

  “No good,” I said sadly. “It’s all over. Th

  e thing’s fi nished. Poor

  dear old Freddie has made an ass of himself and killed the whole

  show.”

  “Tell me,” said Jimmy.

  I told him.

  “Fluff ed in his lines, did he?” said Jimmy, nodding thought-

  fully. “It’s always the way with these amateurs. We must go back

  at once. Th

  ings look bad, but it may not be too late,” he said as

  we started. “Even now a few well-chosen words from a man of the

  world, and—”

  82

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “Great Scot!” I cried. “Look!”

  In front of the cottage stood six children, a nurse, and the fellow

  from the grocer’s staring. From the windows of the houses opposite

  projected about four hundred heads of both sexes, staring. Down the

  road came galloping fi ve more children, a dog, three men, and a boy,

  about to stare. And on our porch, as unconscious of the spectators

  as if they had been alone in the Sahara, stood Freddie and Angela,

  clasped in each other’s arms.

  %

  Dear old Freddie may have been fl uff y in his lines, but, by

  George, his business had certainly gone with a bang!

  Rallying Round Old George

  I think one of the rummiest aff airs I was ever mixed up with, in the

  course of a lifetime devoted to butting into other people’s business,

  was that aff air of George Lattaker at Monte Carlo. I wouldn’t bore

  you, don’t you know, for the world, but I think you ought to hear

  about it.

  We had come to Monte Carlo on the yacht Circe, belonging to

  an old sportsman of the name of Marshall. Among those present

  were myself, my man Voules, a Mrs. Vanderley, her daughter Stella,

  Mrs. Vanderley’s maid Pilbeam and George.

  George was a dear old pal of mine. In fact, it was I who had

  worked him into the party. You see, George was due to meet his

  Uncle Augustus, who was scheduled, George having just reached

  his twenty-fi fth birthday, to hand over to him a legacy left by one

  of George’s aunts, for which he had been trustee. Th

  e aunt had died

  when George was quite a kid. It was a date that George had been

  looking forward to; for, though he had a sort of income – an income,

  after-all, is only an income, whereas a chunk of o’ goblins is a pile.

  George’s uncle was in Monte Carlo, and had written George that he

  would come to London and unbelt; but it struck me that a far better

  plan was for George to go to his uncle at Monte Carlo instead. Kill

  two birds with one stone, don’t you know. Fix up his aff airs and have

  a pleasant holiday simultaneously. So George had tagged along, and

  83

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  at the time when the trouble started we were anchored in Monaco

  Harbour, and Uncle Augustus was due next day.

  %

  Looking back, I may say that, so far as I was mixed up in it, the

  thing began at seven o’clock in the morning, when I was aroused

  from a dreamless sleep by the dickens of a scrap in progress outside

  my state-room door. Th

  e chief ingredients were a female voice that

  sobbed and said: “Oh, Harold!” and a male voice “raised in anger,” as

  they say, which after considerable diffi

  culty, I identifi ed as Voules’s.

  I hardly recognized it. In his offi

  cial capacity Voules talks exactly

  like you’d expect a statue to talk, if it could. In private, however, he

  evidently relaxed to some extent, and to have that sort of thing going

  on in my midst at that hour was too much for me.

  “Voules!” I yelled.

  Spion Kop ceased with a jerk. Th

  ere was silence, then sobs di-

  minishing in the distance, and fi nally a tap at the door. Voules en-

  tered with that impressive, my-lord-the-carriage-waits look which is

  what I pay him for. You wouldn’t have believed he had a drop of any

  sort of emotion in him.

  “Voules,” I said, “are you under the delusion that I’m going to

  be Queen of the May? You’ve called me early all right. It’s only just

  seven.”

  “I understood you to summon me, sir.”

  “I summoned you to fi nd out why you were making that infernal

  noise outside.”

  “I owe you an apology, sir. I am afraid that in the heat of the

  moment I raised my voice.”

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t raise the roof. Who was that with

  you?”

  “Miss Pilbeam, sir; Mrs. Vanderley’s maid.”

  “What was all the trouble about?”

  “I was breaking our engagement, sir.”

  I couldn’t help gaping. Somehow one didn’t associate Voules

  with engagements. Th

  en it struck me that I’d no right to butt in on

  his secret sorrows, so I switched the conversation.

  “I think I’ll get up,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  84

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “I can’t wait to breakfast with the rest. Can you get me some

  right away?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  So I had a solitary breakfast and went up on deck to smoke. It

  was a lovely morning. Blue sea, gleaming Casino, cloudless sky, and

  all the rest of the hippodrome. Presently the others began to trickle

  up. Stella Vanderley was one of the fi rst. I thought she looked a bit

  pale and tired. She said she hadn’t slept well. Th

  at accounted for it.

  Unless you get your eight hours, where are you?

  “Seen George?” I asked.

  I couldn’t help thinking the name seemed to freeze her a bit.

  Which was queer, because all the voyage she and George had been

  particularly close pals. In fact, at any moment I expected George to

  come to me and slip his little hand in mine, and whisper: “I’ve done

  it, old scout; she loves muh!”

  “I have not seen Mr. Lattaker,” she said.

  I didn’t pursue the subject. George’s stock was apparently low

  that a.m.

  Th

  e next item in the day’s programme occurred a few minutes

  later when the morning papers arrived.

  Mrs. Vanderley opened hers and gave a scream.

  “Th

  e poor, dear Prince!” she said.

  “What a shocking thing!” said old Marshall.

  “I knew him in Vienna,” said Mrs. Vanderley. “He waltzed

  divinely.”

  Th

  en I got at mine and saw what they were talking about. Th

  e

  paper was full of it. It seemed that late the night before His Serene

  Highness the Prince of Saxburg-Leignitz (I always wonder why

  they call these chaps “Serene”) had been murderously assaulted in

  a dark street on his way back from the Casino to his yacht. Appar-

  ently he had developed the habit of going about without an escort,

  and some rough-neck, taking advantage of this, had laid for him

  and slugged him with considerable vim. Th

  e Prince had been found

  lying pretty well beaten up and insensible in the street by a passing

  pedestrian, and had been taken back to his yacht, where he still lay

  unconscious.

  “Th

  is is going to do somebody no good,” I said. “What do you

  get for slugging a Serene Highness? I wonder if they’ll catch the

  fellow?”

  85

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “‘Later,’” read old Marshall, “‘the pedestrian who discovered

  His Serene Highness proves to have been Mr. Denman Sturgis, the

  eminent private investigator. Mr. Sturgis has off ered his services to

  the police, and is understood to be in possession of a most important

  clue.’ Th

  at’s the fellow who had charge of that kidnapping case in

  Chicago. If anyone can catch the man, he can.”

  About fi ve minutes later, just as the rest of them were going to

  move off to breakfast, a boat hailed us and came alongside. A tall,

  thin man came up the gangway. He looked round the group, and

  fi xed on old Marshall as the probable owner of the yacht.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I believe you have a Mr. Lattaker on

  board – Mr. George Lattaker?”

  “Yes,” said Marshall. “He’s down below. Want to see him?

  Whom shall I say?”

  “He would not know my name. I should like to see him for a

  moment on somewhat urgent business.”

  “Take a seat. He’ll be up in a moment. Reggie, my boy, go and

  hurry him up.”

  I went down to George’s state-room.

  “George, old man!” I shouted.

  No answer. I opened the door and went in. Th

  e room was empty.

  What’s more, the bunk hadn’t been slept in. I don’t know when I’ve

  been more surprised. I went on deck.

  “He isn’t there,” I said.

  “Not there!” said old Marshall. “Where is he, then? Perhaps he’s

  gone for a stroll ashore. But he’ll be back soon for breakfast. You’d

  better wait for him. Have you breakfasted? No? Th

  en will you join

  us?”

  Th

  e man said he would, and just then the gong went and they

  trooped down, leaving me alone on deck.

  I sat smoking and thinking, and then smoking a bit more, when

  I thought I heard somebody call my name in a sort of hoarse whis-

  per. I looked over my shoulder, and, by Jove, there at the top of the

  gangway in evening dress, dusty to the eyebrows and without a hat,

  was dear old George.

  “Great Scot!” I cried.

  wSh!” he whispered. “Anyone about?”

  “Th

  ey’re all down at breakfast.”

  86

  MY MAN JEEVES

  He gave a sigh of relief, sank into my chair, and closed his eyes.

  I regarded him with pity. Th

  e poor old boy looked a wreck.

  “I say!” I said, touching him on the shoulder.

  He leaped out of the chair with a smothered yell.

  “Did you do that? What did you do it for? What’s the sense of

  it? How do you suppose you can ever make yourself popular if you

  go about touching people on the shoulder? My nerves are sticking a

  yard out of my body this morning, Reggie!”

  “Yes, old boy?”

  “I did a murder last night.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the sort of thing that might happen to anybody. Directly

  Stella Vanderley broke off our engagement I—”

  “Broke off your engagement? How long were you engaged?”

  “About two minutes. It may have been less. I hadn’t a stop-watch.

  I proposed to her at ten last night in the saloon. She accepted me. I

  was just going to kiss her when we heard someone coming. I went

  out. Coming along the corridor was that infernal what’s-her-name

  – Mrs. Vanderley’s maid – Pilbeam. Have you ever been accepted by

  the girl you love, Reggie?”

  “Never. I’ve been refused dozens—”

  “Th

  en you won’t understand how I felt. I was off my head with

  joy. I hardly knew what I was doing. I just felt I had to kiss the near-

  est thing handy. I couldn’t wait. It might have been the ship’s cat. It

  wasn’t. It was Pilbeam.”

  “You kissed her?”

  “I kissed her. And just at that moment the door of the saloon

  opened and out came Stella.”

  “Great Scott!”

  “Exactly what I said. It fl ashed across me that to Stella, dear

  girl, not knowing the circumstances, the thing might seem a little

  odd. It did. She broke off the engagement, and I got out the dinghy

  and rowed off . I was mad. I didn’t care what became of me. I simply

  wanted to forget. I went ashore. I – It’s just on the cards that I may

  have drowned my sorrows a bit. Anyhow, I don’t remember a thing,

  except that I can recollect having the deuce of a scrap with some-

  body in a dark street and somebody falling, and myself falling, and

  myself legging it for all I was worth. I woke up this morning in the

  Casino gardens. I’ve lost my hat.”

  87

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  I dived for the paper.

  “Read,” I said. “It’s all there.”

  He read.

  “Good heavens!” he said.

  “You didn’t do a thing to His Serene Nibs, did you?”

  “Reggie, this is awful.”

  “Cheer up. Th

  ey say he’ll recover.”

  “Th

  at doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to him.”

  He read the paper again.

  “It says they’ve a clue.”

  “Th

  ey always say that.”

  “But – My hat!”

 

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