a picture of that size in one chunk. You’d set the chimney on fi re.

  Let’s do the thing comfortably. Clarence can’t grudge us the stuff .

  We’ve done him a bit of good this trip. To-morrow’ll be the mad-

  dest, merriest day of Clarence’s glad New Year. On we go.”

  We went up to my room, and sat smoking and yarning away and

  sipping our drinks, and every now and then cutting a slice off the

  picture and shoving it in the fi re till it was all gone. And what with

  the cosiness of it and the cheerful blaze, and the comfortable feeling

  of doing good by stealth, I don’t know when I’ve had a jollier time

  since the days when we used to brew in my study at school.

  We had just put the last slice on when Bill sat up suddenly, and

  gripped my arm.

  “I heard something,” he said.

  I listened, and, by Jove, I heard something, too. My room was just

  over the dining-room, and the sound came up to us quite distinctly.

  Stealthy footsteps, by George! And then a chair falling over.

  “Th

  ere’s somebody in the dining-room,” I whispered.

  Th

  ere’s a certain type of chap who takes a pleasure in positively

  chivvying trouble. Old Bill’s like that. If I had been alone, it would

  have taken me about three seconds to persuade myself that I hadn’t

  really heard anything after all. I’m a peaceful sort of cove, and be-

  lieve in living and letting live, and so forth. To old Bill, however,

  a visit from burglars was pure jam. He was out of his chair in one

  jump.

  “Come on,” he said. “Bring the poker.”

  I brought the tongs as well. I felt like it. Old Bill collared the

  knife. We crept downstairs.

  “We’ll fl ing the door open and make a rush,” said Bill.

  “Supposing they shoot, old scout?”

  “Burglars never shoot,” said Bill.

  Which was comforting provided the burglars knew it.

  Old Bill took a grip of the handle, turned it quickly, and in he

  went. And then we pulled up sharp, staring.

  Th

  e room was in darkness except for a feeble splash of light at the

  near end. Standing on a chair in front of Clarence’s “Jocund Spring,”

  holding a candle in one hand and reaching up with a knife in the

  110

  MY MAN JEEVES

  other, was old Mr. Yeardsley, in bedroom slippers and a grey dress-

  ing-gown. He had made a fi nal cut just as we rushed in. Turning at

  the sound, he stopped, and he and the chair and the candle and the

  picture came down in a heap together. Th

  e candle went out.

  “What on earth?” said Bill.

  I felt the same. I picked up the candle and lit it, and then a most

  fearful thing happened. Th

  e old man picked himself up, and sud-

  denly collapsed into a chair and began to cry like a child. Of course,

  I could see it was only the Artistic Temperament, but still, believe

  me, it was devilish unpleasant. I looked at old Bill. Old Bill looked at

  me. We shut the door quick, and after that we didn’t know what to

  do. I saw Bill look at the sideboard, and I knew what he was looking

  for. But we had taken the siphon upstairs, and his ideas of fi rst-aid

  stopped short at squirting soda-water. We just waited, and presently

  old Yeardsley switched off , sat up, and began talking with a rush.

  “Clarence, my boy, I was tempted. It was that burglary at Dryden

  Park. It tempted me. It made it all so simple. I knew you would put

  it down to the same gang, Clarence, my boy. I—”

  It seemed to dawn upon him at this point that Clarence was not

  among those present.

  “Clarence?” he said hesitatingly.

  “He’s in bed,” I said.

  “In bed! Th

  en he doesn’t know? Even now – Young men, I throw

  myself on your mercy. Don’t be hard on me. Listen.” He grabbed at

  Bill, who sidestepped. “I can explain everything – everything.”

  He gave a gulp.

  “You are not artists, you two young men, but I will try to make

  you understand, make you realise what this picture means to me. I

  was two years painting it. It is my child. I watched it grow. I loved

  it. It was part of my life. Nothing would have induced me to sell

  it. And then Clarence married, and in a mad moment I gave my

  treasure to him. You cannot understand, you two young men, what

  agonies I suff ered. Th

  e thing was done. It was irrevocable. I saw how

  Clarence valued the picture. I knew that I could never bring myself

  to ask him for it back. And yet I was lost without it. What could I

  do? Till this evening I could see no hope. Th

  en came this story of

  the theft of the Romney from a house quite close to this, and I saw

  my way. Clarence would never suspect. He would put the robbery

  down to the same band of criminals who stole the Romney. Once

  111

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  the idea had come, I could not drive it out. I fought against it, but

  to no avail. At last I yielded, and crept down here to carry out my

  plan. You found me.” He grabbed again, at me this time, and got me

  by the arm. He had a grip like a lobster. “Young man,” he said, “you

  would not betray me? You would not tell Clarence?”

  I was feeling most frightfully sorry for the poor old chap by this

  time, don’t you know, but I thought it would be kindest to give it

  him straight instead of breaking it by degrees.

  “I won’t say a word to Clarence, Mr. Yeardsley,” I said. “I quite

  understand your feelings. Th

  e Artistic Temperament, and all that

  sort of thing. I mean – what? I know. But I’m afraid – Well, look!”

  I went to the door and switched on the electric light, and there,

  staring him in the face, were the two empty frames. He stood gog-

  gling at them in silence. Th

  en he gave a sort of wheezy grunt.

  “Th

  e gang! Th

  e burglars! Th

  ey have been here, and they have

  taken Clarence’s picture!” He paused. “It might have been mine!

  My Venus!” he whispered It was getting most fearfully painful, you

  know, but he had to know the truth.

  “I’m awfully sorry, you know,” I said. “But it was.”

  He started, poor old chap.

  “Eh? What do you mean?”

  “Th

  ey did take your Venus.”

  “But I have it here.”

  I shook my head.

  “Th

  at’s Clarence’s ‘Jocund Spring,’” I said.

  He jumped at it and straightened it out.

  “What! What are you talking about? Do you think I don’t know

  my own picture – my child – my Venus. See! My own signature in

  the corner. Can you read, boy? Look: ‘Matthew Yeardsley.’ Th

  is is

  my picture!”

  And – well, by Jove, it was, don’t you know!

  %

  Well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal Venus, and we

  settled down to take a steady look at the position of aff airs. Bill said

  it was my fault for getting hold of the wrong picture, and I said it

  was Bill’s fault for fetching me such a crack on the jaw that I couldn’t

  be expected to see what I was getting hold of, and then there was a

  pretty massive silence for a bit.

  112

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “Reggie,” said Bill at last, “how exactly do you feel about facing

  Clarence and Elizabeth at breakfast?”

  “Old scout,” I said. “I was thinking much the same myself.”

  “Reggie,” said Bill, “I happen to know there’s a milk-train leav-

  ing Midford at three-fi fteen. It isn’t what you’d call a fl ier. It gets to London at about half-past nine. Well – er – in the circumstances,

  how about it?”

  The Aunt and the Sluggard

  Now that it’s all over, I may as well admit that there was a time dur-

  ing the rather funny aff air of Rockmetteller Todd when I thought

  that Jeeves was going to let me down. Th

  e man had the appearance

  of being baffl

  ed.

  Jeeves is my man, you know. Offi

  cially he pulls in his weekly

  wages for pressing my clothes and all that sort of thing; but actually

  he’s more like what the poet Johnnie called some bird of his acquain-

  tance who was apt to rally round him in times of need – a guide,

  don’t you know; philosopher, if I remember rightly, and – I rather

  fancy – friend. I rely on him at every turn.

  So naturally, when Rocky Todd told me about his aunt, I didn’t

  hesitate. Jeeves was in on the thing from the start.

  Th

  e aff air of Rocky Todd broke loose early one morning of spring.

  I was in bed, restoring the good old tissues with about nine hours of

  the dreamless, when the door fl ew open and somebody prodded me

  in the lower ribs and began to shake the bedclothes. After blinking

  a bit and generally pulling myself together, I located Rocky, and my

  fi rst impression was that it was some horrid dream.

  Rocky, you see, lived down on Long Island somewhere, miles

  away from New York; and not only that, but he had told me himself

  more than once that he never got up before twelve, and seldom ear-

  lier than one. Constitutionally the laziest young devil in America,

  he had hit on a walk in life which enabled him to go the limit in

  that direction. He was a poet. At least, he wrote poems when he did

  anything; but most of his time, as far as I could make out, he spent

  in a sort of trance. He told me once that he could sit on a fence,

  watching a worm and wondering what on earth it was up to, for

  hours at a stretch.

  113

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  He had his scheme of life worked out to a fi ne point. About once

  a month he would take three days writing a few poems; the other

  three hundred and twenty-nine days of the year he rested. I didn’t

  know there was enough money in poetry to support a chappie, even

  in the way in which Rocky lived; but it seems that, if you stick to

  exhortations to young men to lead the strenuous life and don’t shove

  in any rhymes, American editors fi ght for the stuff . Rocky showed

  me one of his things once. It began:

  Be! Be!

  Th

  e past is dead.

  To-morrow is not born.

  Be to-day!

  To-day!

  Be with every nerve,

  With every muscle,

  With every drop of your red blood!

  Be!

  It was printed opposite the frontispiece of a magazine with a sort

  of scroll round it, and a picture in the middle of a fairly-nude chap-

  pie, with bulging muscles, giving the rising sun the glad eye. Rocky

  said they gave him a hundred dollars for it, and he stayed in bed till

  four in the afternoon for over a month.

  As regarded the future he was pretty solid, owing to the fact

  that he had a moneyed aunt tucked away somewhere in Illinois; and,

  as he had been named Rockmetteller after her, and was her only

  nephew, his position was pretty sound. He told me that when he did

  come into the money he meant to do no work at all, except perhaps

  an occasional poem recommending the young man with life open-

  ing out before him, with all its splendid possibilities, to light a pipe

  and shove his feet upon the mantelpiece.

  And this was the man who was prodding me in the ribs in the

  grey dawn!

  “Read this, Bertie!” I could just see that he was waving a letter or

  something equally foul in my face. “Wake up and read this!”

  I can’t read before I’ve had my morning tea and a cigarette. I

  groped for the bell.

  Jeeves came in looking as fresh as a dewy violet. It’s a mystery to

  me how he does it.

  114

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “Tea, Jeeves.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He fl owed silently out of the room – he always gives you the im-

  pression of being some liquid substance when he moves; and I found

  that Rocky was surging round with his beastly letter again.

  “What is it?” I said. “What on earth’s the matter?”

  “Read it!”

  “I can’t. I haven’t had my tea.”

  “Well, listen then.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “My aunt.”

  At this point I fell asleep again. I woke to hear him saying:

  “So what on earth am I to do?”

  Jeeves trickled in with the tray, like some silent stream mean-

  dering over its mossy bed; and I saw daylight.

  “Read it again, Rocky, old top,” I said. “I want Jeeves to hear it.

  Mr. Todd’s aunt has written him a rather rummy letter, Jeeves, and

  we want your advice.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He stood in the middle of the room, registering devotion to the

  cause, and Rocky started again:

  My Dear Rockmetteller,

  I have been thinking things over for a long while, and I have come

  to the conclusion that I have been very thoughtless to wait so long

  before doing what I have made up my mind to do now.”

  “What do you make of that, Jeeves?”

  “It seems a little obscure at present, sir, but no doubt it becomes

  cleared at a later point in the communication.”

  “It becomes as clear as mud!” said Rocky.

  “Proceed, old scout,” I said, champing my bread and butter.

  You know how all my life I have longed to visit New York and see

  for myself the wonderful gay life of which I have read so much. I fear

  that now it will be impossible for me to fulfi l my dream. I am old and

  worn out. I seem to have no strength left in me.

  “Sad, Jeeves, what?”

  “Extremely, sir.”

  115

  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “Sad nothing!” said Rocky. “It’s sheer laziness. I went to see her

  last Christmas and she was bursting with health. Her doctor told

  me himself that there was nothing wrong with her whatever. But

  she will insist that she’s a hopeless invalid, so he has to agree with

  her. She’s got a fi xed idea that the trip to New York would kill her;

  so, though it’s been her ambition all her life to come here, she stays

  where she is.”

  “Rather like the chappie whose heart was ‘in the Highlands a-

  chasing of the deer,’ Jeeves?”

  “Th

  e cases are in some respects parallel, sir.”

  “Carry on, Rocky, dear boy.”

  So I have decided that, if I cannot enjoy all the marvels of the city

  myself, I can at least enjoy them through you. I suddenly thought of

  this yesterday after reading a beautiful poem in the Sunday paper

  about a young man who had longed all his life for a certain thing and

  won it in the end only when he was too old to enjoy it. It was very sad,

  and it touched me.”

  “A thing,” interpolated Rocky bitterly, “that I’ve not been able to

  do in ten years.”

  As you know, you will have my money when I am gone; but until now

  I have never been able to see my way to giving you an allowance. I

  have now decided to do so – on one condition. I have written to a fi rm

  of lawyers in New York, giving them instructions to pay you quite

  a substantial sum each month. My one condition is that you live in

  New York and enjoy yourself as I have always wished to do. I want

  you to be my representative, to spend this money for me as I should

  do myself. I want you to plunge into the gay, prismatic life of New

  York. I want you to be the life and soul of brilliant supper parties.

  Above all, I want you – indeed, I insist on this – to write me letters

  at least once a week giving me a full description of all you are doing

  and all that is going on in the city, so that I may enjoy at second-hand

  what my wretched health prevents my enjoying for myself. Remem-

  ber that I shall expect full details, and that no detail is too trivial to interest.

  Your aff ectionate Aunt,

  Isabel

  Rockmetteller

  “What about it?” said Rocky.

  116

  MY MAN JEEVES

  “What about it?” I said.

  “Yes. What on earth am I going to do?”

  It was only then that I really got on to the extremely rummy

  attitude of the chappie, in view of the fact that a quite unexpected

  mess of the right stuff had suddenly descended on him from a blue

  sky. To my mind it was an occasion for the beaming smile and the

  joyous whoop; yet here the man was, looking and talking as if Fate

  had swung on his solar plexus. It amazed me.

  “Aren’t you bucked?” I said.

  “Bucked!”

  “If I were in your place I should be frightfully braced. I consider

  this pretty soft for you.”

 

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