The Greatest Works of P. G. Wodehouse. P. G. Wodehouse
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At this point Bingo fell into a species of trance, and only came out of it to wrap himself round the pie and macaroon.
“Bertie,” he said, “I want your advice.”
“Carry on.”
“At least, not your advice, because that wouldn’t be much good to anybody. I mean, you’re a pretty consummate old ass, aren’t you? Not that I want to hurt your feelings, of course.”
“No, no, I see that.”
“What I wish you would do is to put the whole thing to that fellow Jeeves of yours and see what he suggests. You’ve often told me that he has helped other pals of yours out of messes. From what you tell me, he’s by way of being the brains of the family.”
“He’s never let me down yet.”
“Then put my case to him.”
“What case?”
“My problem.”
“What problem?”
“Why, you poor fish, my uncle, of course. What do you think my uncle’s going to say to all this? If I sprang it on him cold, he’d tie himself in knots on the hearth rug.”
“One of these emotional johnnies, eh?”
“Somehow or other his mind has got to be prepared to receive the news. But how?”
“Ah!”
“That’s a lot of help, that ‘Ah!’ You see, I’m pretty well dependent on the old boy. If he cut off my allowance, I should be very much in the soup. So you put the whole binge to Jeeves and see if he can’t scare up a happy ending somehow. Tell him my future is in his hands, and that, if the wedding bells ring out, he can rely on me, even unto half my kingdom. Well, call it ten quid. Jeeves would exert himself with ten quid on the horizon, what?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
I wasn’t in the least surprised at Bingo’s wanting to lug Jeeves into his private affairs like this. It was the first thing I would have thought of doing myself if I had been in any hole of any description. Most fellows, no doubt, are all for having their valets confine their activities to creasing trousers and what not without trying to run the home, but it’s different with Jeeves. Almost from the first day he came to me I have looked on him as a sort of guide, philosopher and friend. Whether his parents fed him almost entirely on fish in his youth, I don’t know; but the fact remains that he is a bird of the ripest intellect, full of bright ideas. If anybody could fix things for poor old Bingo, he could.
Jeeves, I want your adviceI stated the case to him that night after dinner.
“Jeeves.”
“Sir?”
“Are you busy just now?”
“No, sir.”
“I mean, not doing anything in particular?”
“No, sir. It is my practice at this hour to read some improving book, but, if you desire my services, this can easily be postponed, or, indeed, abandoned altogether.”
“Well, I want your advice. It’s about Mr. Little.”
“Young Mr. Little, sir, or the elder Mr. Little, his uncle, who lives in Pounceby Gardens?”
Jeeves seems to know everything. Most amazing thing. I’d been pally with Bingo practically all my life, and yet I didn’t remember ever having heard that his uncle lived anywhere in particular.
“How did you know he lived in Pounceby Gardens?” I said.
“I am on terms of some intimacy with the elder Mr. Little’s cook, sir. In fact, there is an understanding.”
I’m bound to say that this gave me a bit of a start. Somehow I’d never thought of Jeeves going in for that sort of thing.
“Do you mean you’re engaged?”
“It may be said to amount to that, sir.”
“Well, well!”
“She is a remarkably excellent cook, sir,” said Jeeves as though he felt called on to give some explanation. “What was it you wished to ask me about Mr. Little?”
I sprang the details on him.
“And that’s how the matter stands, Jeeves,” I said. “I think we ought to rally round a trifle and help poor old Bingo put the thing through. Tell me about old Mr. Little. What sort of a chap is he?”
“A somewhat curious character, sir. Since retiring from business he has become a great recluse, and now devotes himself almost entirely to the pleasures of the table.”
“Greedy hog, you mean?”
“I would not, perhaps, take the liberty of describing him in precisely those terms, sir. He is what is usually called a gourmet. Very particular about what he eats, and for that reason sets a high value on Miss Watson’s services.”
“The cook?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it looks to me as though our best plan would be to shoot young Bingo in on him after dinner one night. Melting mood, I mean to say, and all that.”
“The difficulty is, sir, that at the moment Mr. Little is on a diet, owing to an attack of gout.”
“Things begin to look wobbly.”
“No, sir, I fancy that the elder Mr. Little’s misfortune may be turned to the younger Mr. Little’s advantage. I was speaking the other day to Mr. Little’s valet, and he was telling me that it has become his principal duty to read to Mr. Little in the evenings. If I were in your place, sir, I should send young Mr. Little to read to his uncle.”
“Nephew’s devotion, you mean? Old man touched by kindly action, what?”
“Partly that, sir. But I would rely more on young Mr. Little’s choice of literature.”
“That’s no good. Jolly old Bingo has a kind face, but when it comes to literature he stops at the Sporting Times.”
“That difficulty may be overcome. I would be happy to select books for Mr. Little to read. Perhaps I might explain my idea further?”
“I can’t say I quite grasp it yet.”
“The method which I advocate is what, I believe, the advertisers call direct suggestion, sir, consisting as it does of driving an idea home by constant repetition. You may have had experience of the system?”
“You mean they keep on telling you that some soap or other is the best, and after a bit you come under the influence and charge round the corner and buy a cake?”
“Exactly, sir. The same method was the basis of all the most valuable propaganda during the recent war. I see no reason why it should not be adopted to bring about the desired result with regard to the subject’s views on class distinctions. If young Mr. Little were to read day after day to his uncle a series of narratives in which marriage with young persons of an inferior social status was held up as both feasible and admirable, I fancy it would prepare the elder Mr. Little’s mind for the reception of the information that his nephew wishes to marry a waitress in a tea shop.”
“Are there any books of that sort nowadays? The only ones I ever see mentioned in the papers are about married couples who find life gray and can’t stick each other at any price.”
“Yes, sir, there are a great many, neglected by the reviewers but widely read. You have never encountered All for Love, by Rosie M. Banks?”
“No.”
“Nor A Red, Red Summer Rose by the same author?”
“No.”
“I have an aunt, sir, who owns an almost complete set of Rosie