“Eh?”

  “My hat. I must have dropped it during the scrap. Th

  is man,

  Denman Sturgis, must have found it. It had my name in it!”

  “George,” I said, “you mustn’t waste time. Oh!”

  He jumped a foot in the air.

  “Don’t do it!” he said, irritably. “Don’t bark like that. What’s

  the matter?”

  “Th

  e man!”

  “What man?”

  “A tall, thin man with an eye like a gimlet. He arrived just be-

  fore you did. He’s down in the saloon now, having breakfast. He said he wanted to see you on business, and wouldn’t give his name.

  I didn’t like the look of him from the fi rst. It’s this fellow Sturgis.

  It must be.”

  “No!”

  “I feel it. I’m sure of it.”

  “Had he a hat?”

  “Of course he had a hat.”

  “Fool! I mean mine. Was he carrying a hat?”

  “By Jove, he was carrying a parcel. George, old scout, you must

  get a move on. You must light out if you want to spend the rest of

  your life out of prison. Slugging a Serene Highness is lese-majeste.

  It’s worse than hitting a policeman. You haven’t got a moment to

  waste.”

  88

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “But I haven’t any money. Reggie, old man, lend me a tenner or

  something. I must get over the frontier into Italy at once. I’ll wire my

  uncle to meet me in—”

  “Look out,” I cried; “there’s someone coming!”

  He dived out of sight just as Voules came up the companion-

  way, carrying a letter on a tray.

  “What’s the matter!” I said. “What do you want?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I thought I heard Mr. Lattaker’s voice.

  A letter has arrived for him.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “No, sir. Shall I remove the letter?”

  “No; give it to me. I’ll give it to him when he comes.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Oh, Voules! Are they all still at breakfast? Th

  e gentleman who

  came to see Mr. Lattaker? Still hard at it?”

  “He is at present occupied with a kippered herring, sir.”

  “Ah! Th

  at’s all, Voules.”

  “Th

  ank you, sir.”

  He retired. I called to George, and he came out.

  “Who was it?”

  “Only Voules. He brought a letter for you. Th

  ey’re all at break-

  fast still. Th

  e sleuth’s eating kippers.”

  “Th

  at’ll hold him for a bit. Full of bones.” He began to read his

  letter. He gave a kind of grunt of surprise at the fi rst paragraph.

  “Well, I’m hanged!” he said, as he fi nished.

  “Reggie, this is a queer thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  He handed me the letter, and directly I started in on it I saw why

  he had grunted. Th

  is is how it ran:

  My dear George

  I shall be seeing you to-morrow, I hope; but I think it is better, before

  we meet, to prepare you for a curious situation that has arisen in con-

  nection with the legacy which your father inherited from your Aunt

  Emily, and which you are expecting me, as trustee, to hand over to

  you, now that you have reached your twenty-fi fth birthday. You have

  doubtless heard your father speak of your twin-brother Alfred, who

  was lost or kidnapped – which, was never ascertained – when you

  were both babies. When no news was received of him for so many

  years, it was supposed that he was dead. Yesterday, however, I re-

  89

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  ceived a letter purporting that he had been living all this time in Buenos Ayres as the adopted son of a wealthy South American, and

  has only recently discovered his identity. He states that he is on his

  way to meet me, and will arrive any day now. Of course, like other

  claimants, he may prove to be an impostor, but meanwhile his inter-

  vention will, I fear, cause a certain delay before I can hand over your

  money to you. It will be necessary to go into a thorough examination

  of credentials, etc., and this will take some time. But I will go fully

  into the matter with you when we meet.

  Your aff ectionate uncle,

  Augustus Arbutt.

  I read it through twice, and the second time I had one of those

  ideas I do sometimes get, though admittedly a chump of the premier

  class. I have seldom had such a thoroughly corking brain-wave.

  “Why, old top,” I said, “this lets you out.”

  “Lets me out of half the darned money, if that’s what you mean.

  If this chap’s not an imposter – and there’s no earthly reason to sup-

  pose he is, though I’ve never heard my father say a word about him

  – we shall have to split the money. Aunt Emily’s will left the money

  to my father, or, failing him, his ‘off spring.’ I thought that meant me,

  but apparently there are a crowd of us. I call it rotten work, springing

  unexpected off spring on a fellow at the eleventh hour like this.”

  “Why, you chump,” I said, “it’s going to save you. Th

  is lets you

  out of your spectacular dash across the frontier. All you’ve got to do

  is to stay here and be your brother Alfred. It came to me in a fl ash.”

  He looked at me in a kind of dazed way.

  “You ought to be in some sort of a home, Reggie.”

  “Ass!” I cried. “Don’t you understand? Have you ever heard of

  twin-brothers who weren’t exactly alike? Who’s to say you aren’t Al-

  fred if you swear you are? Your uncle will be there to back you up

  that you have a brother Alfred.”

  “And Alfred will be there to call me a liar.”

  “He won’t. It’s not as if you had to keep it up for the rest of your

  life. It’s only for an hour or two, till we can get this detective off the yacht. We sail for England to-morrow morning.”

  At last the thing seemed to sink into him. His face brightened.

  “Why, I really do believe it would work,” he said.

  “Of course it would work. If they want proof, show them your

  mole. I’ll swear George hadn’t one.”

  90

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “And as Alfred I should get a chance of talking to Stella and mak-

  ing things all right for George. Reggie, old top, you’re a genius.”

  “No, no.”

  “You are.”

  “Well, it’s only sometimes. I can’t keep it up.”

  And just then there was a gentle cough behind us. We spun

  round.

  “What the devil are you doing here, Voules,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I have heard all.”

  I looked at George. George looked at me.

  “Voules is all right,” I said. “Decent Voules! Voules wouldn’t give

  us away, would you, Voules?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, Voules, old man,” I said, “be sensible. What would you

  gain by it?”

  “Financially, sir, nothing.”

  “Whereas, by keeping quiet” – I tapped him on the chest – ”by

  holding your tongue, Voules, by saying nothing about it to anybody,

  Voules, old fellow, you might gain a considerable sum.”

  “Am I to understand, sir, that, because you are rich and I am

  poor, you think that you can buy my self-respect?”

  “Oh, come!” I said.

  “How much?” said Voules.

  So we switched to terms. You wouldn’t believe the way the man

  haggled. You’d have thought a decent, faithful servant would have

  been delighted to oblige one in a little matter like that for a fi ver. But not Voules. By no means. It was a hundred down, and the promise of

  another hundred when we had got safely away, before he was satis-

  fi ed. But we fi xed it up at last, and poor old George got down to his

  state-room and changed his clothes.

  He’d hardly gone when the breakfast-party came on deck.

  “Did you meet him?” I asked.

  “Meet whom?” said old Marshall.

  “George’s twin-brother Alfred.”

  “I didn’t know George had a brother.”

  “Nor did he till yesterday. It’s a long story. He was kidnapped

  in infancy, and everyone thought he was dead. George had a let-

  91

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  ter from his uncle about him yesterday. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s

  where George has gone, to see his uncle and fi nd out about it. In the

  meantime, Alfred has arrived. He’s down in George’s state-room

  now, having a brush-up. It’ll amaze you, the likeness between them.

  You’ll think it is George at fi rst. Look! Here he comes.”

  And up came George, brushed and clean, in an ordinary yacht-

  ing suit.

  Th

  ey were rattled. Th

  ere was no doubt about that. Th

  ey stood

  looking at him, as if they thought there was a catch somewhere, but

  weren’t quite certain where it was. I introduced him, and still they

  looked doubtful.

  “Mr. Pepper tells me my brother is not on board,” said George.

  “It’s an amazing likeness,” said old Marshall.

  “Is my brother like me?” asked George amiably.

  “No one could tell you apart,” I said.

  “I suppose twins always are alike,” said George. “But if it ever

  came to a question of identifi cation, there would be one way of dis-

  tinguishing us. Do you know George well, Mr. Pepper?”

  “He’s a dear old pal of mine.”

  “You’ve been swimming with him perhaps?”

  “Every day last August.”

  “Well, then, you would have noticed it if he had had a mole like

  this on the back of his neck, wouldn’t you?” He turned his back and

  stooped and showed the mole. His collar hid it at ordinary times. I

  had seen it often when we were bathing together.

  “Has George a mole like that?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Oh, no.”

  “You would have noticed it if he had?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said George. “It would be a nuisance not to be

  able to prove one’s own identity.”

  Th

  at seemed to satisfy them all. Th

  ey couldn’t get away from it.

  It seemed to me that from now on the thing was a walk-over. And I

  think George felt the same, for, when old Marshall asked him if he

  had had breakfast, he said he had not, went below, and pitched in as

  if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Everything went right till lunch-time. George sat in the shade

  on the foredeck talking to Stella most of the time. When the gong

  92

  MY MAN JEEVES

  went and the rest had started to go below, he drew me back. He was

  beaming.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “What did I tell you?”

  “What did you tell me?”

  “Why, about Stella. Didn’t I say that Alfred would fi x things for

  George? I told her she looked worried, and got her to tell me what

  the trouble was. And then—”

  “You must have shown a fl ash of speed if you got her to confi de

  in you after knowing you for about two hours.”

  “Perhaps I did,” said George modestly, “I had no notion, till I

  became him, what a persuasive sort of chap my brother Alfred was.

  Anyway, she told me all about it, and I started in to show her that

  George was a pretty good sort of fellow on the whole, who oughtn’t

  to be turned down for what was evidently merely temporary insan-

  ity. She saw my point.”

  “And it’s all right?”

  “Absolutely, if only we can produce George. How much longer

  does that infernal sleuth intend to stay here? He seems to have taken

  root.”

  “I fancy he thinks that you’re bound to come back sooner or

  later, and is waiting for you.”

  “He’s an absolute nuisance,” said George.

  We were moving towards the companion way, to go below for

  lunch, when a boat hailed us. We went to the side and looked over.

  “It’s my uncle,” said George.

  A stout man came up the gangway.

  “Halloa, George!” he said. “Get my letter?”

  “I think you are mistaking me for my brother,” said George.

  “My name is Alfred Lattaker.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I am George’s brother Alfred. Are you my Uncle Augustus?”

  Th

  e stout man stared at him.

  “You’re very like George,” he said.

  “So everyone tells me.”

  “And you’re really Alfred?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d like to talk business with you for a moment.”

  He cocked his eye at me. I sidled off and went below.

  At the foot of the companion-steps I met Voules,

  93

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Voules. “If it would be convenient

  I should be glad to have the afternoon off .”

  I’m bound to say I rather liked his manner. Absolutely normal.

  Not a trace of the fellow-conspirator about it. I gave him the after-

  noon off .

  I had lunch – George didn’t show up – and as I was going out I

  was waylaid by the girl Pilbeam. She had been crying.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but did Mr. Voules ask you for the

  afternoon?”

  I didn’t see what business if was of hers, but she seemed all

  worked up about it, so I told her.

  “Yes, I have given him the afternoon off .”

  She broke down – absolutely collapsed. Devilish unpleasant

  it was. I’m hopeless in a situation like this. After I’d said, “Th

  ere,

  there!” which didn’t seem to help much, I hadn’t any remarks to

  make.

  “He s-said he was going to the tables to gamble away all his

  savings and then shoot himself, because he had nothing left to live

  for.”

  I suddenly remembered the scrap in the small hours outside my

  state-room door. I hate mysteries. I meant to get to the bottom of

  this. I couldn’t have a really fi rst-class valet like Voules going about

  the place shooting himself up. Evidently the girl Pilbeam was at the

  bottom of the thing. I questioned her. She sobbed.

  I questioned her more. I was fi rm. And eventually she yielded

  up the facts. Voules had seen George kiss her the night before; that

  was the trouble.

  Th

  ings began to piece themselves together. I went up to interview

  George. Th

  ere was going to be another job for persuasive Alfred.

  Voules’s mind had got to be eased as Stella’s had been. I couldn’t af-

  ford to lose a fellow with his genius for preserving a trouser-crease.

  I found George on the foredeck. What is it Shakespeare or

  somebody says about some fellow’s face being sicklied o’er with the

  pale cast of care? George’s was like that. He looked green.

  “Finished with your uncle?” I said.

  He grinned a ghostly grin.

  “Th

  ere isn’t any uncle,” he said. “Th

  ere isn’t any Alfred. And

  there isn’t any money.”

  “Explain yourself, old top,” I said.

  94

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “It won’t take long. Th

  e old crook has spent every penny of the

  trust money. He’s been at it for years, ever since I was a kid. When

  the time came to cough up, and I was due to see that he did it, he

  went to the tables in the hope of a run of luck, and lost the last

  remnant of the stuff . He had to fi nd a way of holding me for a while

  and postponing the squaring of accounts while he got away, and

  he invented this twin-brother business. He knew I should fi nd out

  sooner or later, but meanwhile he would be able to get off to South

  America, which he has done. He’s on his way now.”

  “You let him go?”

  “What could I do? I can’t aff ord to make a fuss with that man

  Sturgis around. I can’t prove there’s no Alfred when my only chance

  of avoiding prison is to be Alfred.”

  “Well, you’ve made things right for yourself with Stella Vander-

  ley, anyway,” I said, to cheer him up.

  “What’s the good of that now? I’ve hardly any money and no

  prospects. How can I marry her?”

  I pondered.

  “It looks to me, old top,” I said at last, “as if things were in a bit

  of a mess.”

  “You’ve guessed it,” said poor old George.

  I spent the afternoon musing on Life. If you come to think of

  it, what a queer thing Life is! So unlike anything else, don’t you

  know, if you see what I mean. At any moment you may be strolling

  peacefully along, and all the time Life’s waiting around the corner

  to fetch you one. You can’t tell when you may be going to get it. It’s

  all dashed puzzling. Here was poor old George, as well-meaning a

  fellow as ever stepped, getting swatted all over the ring by the hand

 

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