The Greatest Works of P. G. Wodehouse. P. G. Wodehouse
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me away from the sporting page of the Morning Post and directed my attention to an announcement in the engagements and marriages column.
It was a brief statement that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between the Hon. and Rev. Hubert Wingham, third son of the Right Hon. the Earl of Sturridge, and Mary, only daughter of the late Matthew Burgess, of Weatherly Court, Hants.
“Of course,” I said, after I had given it the east-to-west, “I expected this, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She would never forgive him what happened that night.”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” I said, as I took a sip of the fragrant and steaming, “I don’t suppose it will take old Bingo long to get over it. It’s about the hundred and eleventh time this sort of thing has happened to him. You’re the man I’m sorry for.”
“Me, sir?”
“Well, dash it all, you can’t have forgotten what a deuce of a lot of trouble you took to bring the thing off for Bingo. It’s too bad that all your work should have been wasted.”
“Not entirely wasted, sir.”
“Eh?”
“It is true that my efforts to bring about the match between Mr. Little and the young lady were not successful, but still I look back upon the matter with a certain satisfaction.”
“Because you did your best, you mean?”
“Not entirely, sir, though of course that thought also gives me pleasure. I was alluding more particularly to the fact that I found the affair financially remunerative.”
“Financially remunerative? What do you mean?”
“When I learned that Mr. Steggles had interested himself in the contest, sir, I went shares with my friend Brookfield and bought the book which had been made on the issue by the landlord of the Cow and Horses. It has proved a highly profitable investment. Your breakfast will be ready almost immediately, sir. Kidneys on toast and mushrooms. I will bring it when you ring.”
The Delayed Exit of Claude and Eustace
The feeling I had when Aunt Agatha trapped me in my lair that morning and spilled the bad news was that my luck had broken at last. As a rule, you see, I’m not lugged into family rows. On the occasions when aunt is calling to aunt like bellowing mastodons across primeval swamps and Uncle James’s letter about Cousin Mabel’s peculiar behavior is being shot round the family circle (“Please read this carefully and send it on to Jane”) the clan has a tendency to ignore me. It’s one of the advantages I get from being a bachelor—and, according to my nearest and dearest, practically a half witted bachelor at that. “It’s no good trying to get Bertie to take the slightest interest” is more or less the slogan, and I’m bound to say I’m all for it. A quiet life is what I like. And that’s why I felt that the curse had come upon me, so to speak, when Aunt Agatha sailed into my sitting room while I was having a placid cigarette, and started to tell me about Claude and Eustace.
I rather fancy I’ve touched on Claude and Eustace before in these little reminiscences of mine. My cousins, if you remember. Was at school with them when they were kids, and saved them from being sacked on no fewer than three separate occasions. Since they’ve been up at Oxford I haven’t seen so much of them, but what I have seen has been quite tolerably sufficient. Bright lads, mind you, but a trifle too much for a fellow like me who wants to jog along peacefully through life.
“Thank goodness,” said Aunt Agatha, “arrangements have at last been made about Eustace and Claude.”
“Arrangements?” I said, not having the foggiest.
“They sail on Friday for South Africa. Mr. Van Alstyne, a friend of poor Emily’s, has given them berths in his firm at Johannesburg, and we are hoping that they will settle down there and do well.”
I didn’t get the thing at all.
“Friday? The day after tomorrow, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“For South Africa?”
“Yes. They leave on the Edinburgh Castle.”
“But what’s the idea? I mean, aren’t they in the middle of their term at Oxford?”
Aunt Agatha looked at me coldly.
“Do you positively mean to tell me, Bertie, that you take so little interest in the affairs of your nearest relatives that you are not aware that Claude and Eustace were expelled from Oxford over a fortnight ago?”
“No, really?”
“You are hopeless, Bertie. I should have thought that even you . . .”
“Why were they sent down?”
“They poured lemonade on the Junior Dean of their college . . . I see nothing amusing in the outrage, Bertie.”
“No, no, rather not,” I said hurriedly. “I wasn’t laughing. Choking. Got something stuck in my throat, you know.”
“Poor Emily,” went on Aunt Agatha, “being one of those doting mothers who are the ruin of their children, wished to keep the boys in London. She suggested that they might cram for the army. But I was firm. The Colonies are the only place for wild youths like Eustace and Claude. So they sail on Friday. They have been staying for the last two weeks with your Uncle Clive in Worcestershire. They will spend tomorrow night in London and catch the boat train on Friday morning.”
“Bit risky, isn’t it? I mean, aren’t they apt to cut loose a bit tomorrow night if they’re left all alone in London?”
“They will not be alone. They will be in your charge.”
“Mine!”
“Yes. I wish you to put them up in your flat for the night, and see that they do not miss the train in the morning.”
Aunt Agatha makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine ought to be“Oh, I say, no!”
“Bertie!”
“Well, I mean, quite jolly coves both of them, but I don’t know . . . They’re rather nuts, you know . . . Always glad to see them, of course, but when it comes to putting them up for the night . . .”
“Bertie, if you are so sunk in callous self-indulgence that you cannot even put yourself to this trifling inconvenience for the sake of . . .”
“Oh, all right!” I said. “All right.”
It was no good arguing, of course. Aunt Agatha always makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine ought to be. She’s one of those forceful females. I should think Queen Elizabeth must have been something like her. When she holds me with her glittering eye and says “Jump to it, my lad” or words to that effect, I make it so without further discussion.
When she had gone, I rang for Jeeves to break the news to him.
“Oh, Jeeves!” I said. “Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustace will be staying here tomorrow night.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’m glad you think so. To me the outlook seems black and scaly. You know what those two lads are!”
“Very high spirited young gentlemen, sir.”
“Blisters, Jeeves. Undeniable blisters. It’s a bit thick!”
“Would there be anything further, sir?”
At that, I’m bound to say, I drew myself up a trifle haughtily. We Woosters freeze like the dickens when we seek sympathy and meet with cold reserve. I knew what was up,