I had always supposed that playboys didn't give a hoot for anything except blondes and cold bottles. It just showed once again that half the world doesn't know how the other three-quarters lives. There was an eighteenth-century cow-creamer he particularly coveted.
How Right You Are, Jeeves - Audiobook | Listen Instantly!
So keep your eye on that butler. I'm certainly going to keep mine. Well,' said the Cream, rising, 'I must be getting back to my work. I always like to rough out a new chapter before finishing for the day. She legged it, and for a moment silence reigned. Then Bobbie said, 'Phew! There's too much impending doom buzzing around these parts for my taste. Brinkley Court, once a peaceful country-house, has become like something sinister out of Edgar Allan Poe, and it makes my feet cold.
I'm leaving. There has to be some sort of host or hostess here, and I simply must go home tomorrow and see Mother. You'll have to clench your teeth and stick it. I should probably have said something pretty cutting in reply to this, if I could have thought of anything, but as I couldn't I didn't.
I forget how the subject arose, but I remember Jeeves once saying that sleep knits up the ravelled sleave of care. Balm of hurt minds, he described it as. The idea being, I took it, that if things are getting sticky, they tend to seem less glutinous after you've had your eight hours. Apple sauce, in my opinion. It seldom pans out that way with me, and it didn't now. I had retired to rest taking a dim view of the current situation at Brinkley Court and opening my eyes to a new day, as the expression is, I found myself taking an even dimmer.
Who knew, I asked myself as I practically pushed the breakfast egg away untasted, what Ma Cream might not at any moment uncover? And who could say how soon, if I continued to be always at his side, Wilbert Cream would get it up his nose and start attacking me with tooth and claw? Already his manner was that of a man whom the society of Bertram Wooster had fed to the tonsils, and one more sight of the latter at his elbow might quite easily make him decide to take prompt steps through the proper channels. Musing along these lines, I had little appetite for lunch, though Anatole had extended himself to the utmost.
I winced every time the Cream shot a sharp, suspicious look at Pop Glossop as he messed about at the sideboard, and the long, loving looks her son Wilbert kept directing at Phyllis Mills chilled me to the marrow. At the conclusion of the meal he would, I presumed, invite the girl to accompany him again to that leafy glade, and it was idle to suppose that there would not be pique on his part, or even chagrin, when I came along, too.
Fortunately, as we rose from the table, Phyllis said she was going to her room to finish typing Daddy's speech, and my mind was eased for the nonce. Even a New York playboy, accustomed from his earliest years to pursue blondes like a bloodhound, would hardly follow her there and press his suit. Seeming himself to recognize that there was nothing constructive to be done in that direction for the moment, he said in a brooding voice that he would take Poppet for a walk. This, apparently, was his invariable method of healing the stings of disappointment, and an excellent thing of course from the point of view of a dog who liked getting around and seeing the sights.
They headed for the horizon and passed out of view; the hound gambolling, he not gambolling but swishing his stick a good deal in an overwrought sort of manner, and I, feeling that this was a thing that ought to be done, selected one of Ma Cream's books from Aunt Dahlia's shelves and took it out to read in a deck chair on the lawn.
And I should no doubt have enjoyed it enormously, for the Cream unquestionably wielded a gifted pen, had not the warmth of the day caused me to drop off into a gentle sleep in the middle of Chapter Two. Waking from this some little time later and running an eye over myself to see if the ravelled sleave of care had been knitted up — which it hadn't — I was told that I was wanted on the telephone. I hastened to the instrument, and Aunt Dahlia's voice came thundering over the wire. I've been hanging on to this damned receiver a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.
Well, what's all the excitement about? Why did you want me to phone you? Just so that you could hear Auntie's voice? I thought you ought to know about all these lurking perils in the home. From the fact that my ear-drum nearly split in half I deduced that she had laughed a jovial laugh. She can't do anything about it. Anyway, Glossop ought to be leaving in about a week. He told me he didn't think it would take longer than that to make up his mind about Wilbert.
- Hasonló könyvek címkék alapján.
- Drug Toxicity in Embryonic Development II: Advances in Understanding Mechanisms of Birth Defects: Mechanistic Understanding of Human Developmental Toxicants.
- Wodehouse P G -.
- How to Talk to Your Kids About Really Important Things: Specific Questions and Answers and Useful Things to Say.
- Communication and Interpersonal Skills in Social Work (Transforming Social Work Practice Series)!
Adela Cream doesn't worry me. That's important. Did young Bobbie Wickham tell you that you'd got to stick to Wilbert closer than —'. She explained the position of affairs? Having given the situation the best of the Wooster brain for some considerable time, I had the res all clear in my mind. I proceeded to decant it. Has it occurred to you to put yourself in Wilbert Cream's place and ask yourself how he's going to feel, being followed around all the time?
It isn't as if he was Mary. Mary, as I remember, enjoyed the experience of being tailed up. I was alluding to the child who had a little lamb with fleece as white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go. Now I'm not saying that I have fleece as white as snow, but I am going everywhere that Wilbert Cream goes, and one speculates with some interest as to what the upshot will be.
He resents my constant presence. What I'm driving at is that if I persist in this porous plastering, a time must inevitably come when, feeling that actions speak louder than words, he will haul off and bop me one. In which event, I shall have no alternative but to haul off and bop him one. The Woosters have their pride. And when I bop them, they stay bopped till nightfall. Don't you dare to start mixing it with that man, or I'll tattoo my initials on your chest with a meat axe. Turn the other cheek, you poor fish. If my nephew socked her son, Adela Cream would never forgive me. She would go running to her husband —'.
That's the very point I'm trying to make. If Wilbert Cream is bust by anyone, it must be by somebody having no connection with the Travers family. You must at once engage a substitute for Bertram. No, not that, but you must invite Kipper Herring down here.
Kipper is the man you want. He will spring to the task of dogging Wilbert's footsteps, and if Wilbert bops him and he bops Wilbert, it won't matter, he being outside talent. Not that I anticipate that Wilbert will dream of doing so, for Kipper's mere appearance commands respect.
The muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands, and he has a cauliflower ear. There was a silence of some moments, and it was not difficult to divine that she was passing my words under review, this way and that dividing the swift mind, as I have heard Jeeves put it. When she spoke, it was in quite an awed voice. You've hit it. I never thought of young Herring. Do you think he could come? Anatole's cooking is green in his memory. She rang off, and I was about to draft the communication, when, as so often happens to one on relaxing from a great strain, I became conscious of an imperious desire for a little something quick.
Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, as Jeeves would have said. I pressed the bell, accordingly, and sank into a chair, and presently the door opened and a circular object with a bald head and bushy eyebrows manifested itself, giving me quite a start. I had forgotten that ringing bells at Brinkley Court under prevailing conditions must inevitably produce Sir Roderick Glossop. It's always a bit difficult to open the conversation with a blend of brain specialist and butler, especially if your relations with him in the past have not been too chummy, and I found myself rather at a loss to know how to set the ball rolling.
I yearned for that drink as the hart desireth the water-brook, but if you ask a butler to bring you a whisky-and-soda and he happens to be a brain specialist, too, he's quite apt to draw himself up and wither you with a glance. All depends on which side of him is uppermost at the moment. It was a relief when I saw that he was smiling a kindly smile and evidently welcoming this opportunity of having a quiet chat with Bertram.
So long as we kept off the subject of hot-water bottles, it looked as if all would be well. I had been hoping for a word with you in private. But perhaps Miss Wickham has already explained the circumstances? She has? Then that clears the air, and there is no danger of you incautiously revealing my identity.
She impressed it upon you that Mrs Cream must have no inkling of why I am here? Secrecy and silence, what? If she knew you were observing her son with a view to finding out if he was foggy between the ears, there would be umbrage on her part, or even dudgeon. It is most unusual for me not to be able to make up my mind after even a single talk with the person I am observing, but in young Cream's case I remain uncertain. On the one hand, we have his record. And a number of other things which one would say pointed to a mental unbalance. Unquestionably Wilbert Cream is eccentric.
That might be significant. Well, to return to what I was saying, the young man's record appears to indicate some deep-seated neurosis, if not actual schizophrenia, but against this must be set the fact that he gives no sign of this in his conversation. I was having quite a long talk with him yesterday morning, and found him most intelligent. He is interested in old silver, and spoke with a great deal of enthusiasm of an eighteenth-century cow-creamer in your uncle's collection.
Lulling you into security. Bound to break out sooner or later in some direction or other. Very cunning, these fellows with deep-seated neuroses. We must keep an open mind. Nothing is ever gained by not pausing to weigh the evidence. You may remember that at one time I reached a hasty judgment regarding your sanity. Those twenty-three cats in your bedroom.
I flushed hotly. The incident had taken place several years previously, and it would have been in better taste, I considered, to have let the dead past bury its dead. I was shown to be in error. And that is why I say I must not form an opinion prematurely in the case of Wilbert Cream. I must wait for further evidence. I will bring it immediately. I was wondering, as he melted away, if I ought to tell him that Mrs Cream, too, was doing a bit of evidence-weighing, and about him, but decided on the whole better not.
No sense in disturbing his peace of mind. It seemed to me that having to answer to the name of Swordfish was enough for him to have to cope with for the time being. Given too much to think about, he would fret and get pale. When he returned, he brought with him not only the beaker full of the warm south, on which I flung myself gratefully, but a letter which he said had just come for me by the afternoon post.
Having slaked the thirst, I glanced at the envelope and saw that it was from Jeeves. I opened it without much of a thrill, expecting that he would merely be informing me that he had reached his destination safely and expressing a hope that this would find me in the pink as it left him at present. In short, the usual guff. It wasn't the usual guff by a mile and a quarter. One glance at its contents and I was Gosh-ing sharply, causing Pop Glossop to regard me with a concerned eye.
It's front-page stuff, all right. This is from Jeeves, my man, now shrimping at Herne Bay, and it casts a blinding light on the private life of Wilbert Cream. Cream came up in the home, Aunt Dahlia having told me he was one of the inmates here, and we discussed him at some length. I said this, if you see what I mean, and Jeeves said that, if you follow me. Well, just before Jeeves pushed off, he let fall that significant remark I mentioned just now, the one about having heard something about Wilbert and having forgotten it.
If it came back to him, he said, he would communicate with me. And he has, by Jove! Do you know what he says in this missive? Give you three guesses. Well, he says that Wilbert Cream is a … what's the word? Does any thought occur to you? He would have had difficulty in getting away with those. To reach the collection room was not the work of an instant with us, for Pop Glossop was built for stability rather than speed, but we fetched up there in due course and my first emotion on giving it the once-over was one of relief, all the junk appearing to be in statu quo.
It was only after Pop Glossop had said 'Woof! This cow-creamer, in case you're interested, was a silver jug or pitcher or whatever you call it shaped, of all silly things, like a cow with an arching tail and a juvenile-delinquent expression on its face, a cow that looked as if it were planning, next time it was milked, to haul off and let the milkmaid have it in the lower ribs.
Its back opened on a hinge and the tip of the tail touched the spine, thus giving the householder something to catch hold of when pouring. Why anyone should want such a revolting object had always been a mystery to me, it ranking high up on the list of things I would have been reluctant to be found dead in a ditch with, but apparently they liked that sort of jug in the eighteenth century and, coming down to more modern times, Uncle Tom was all for it and so, according to the evidence of the witness Glossop, was Wilbert.
No accounting for tastes is the way one has to look at these things, one man's caviar being another man's major-general, as the old saw says. However, be that as it may and whether you liked the bally thing or didn't, the point was that it had vanished, leaving not a wrack behind, and I was about to apprise Pop Glossop of this and canvass his views, when we were joined by Bobbie Wickham.
She had doffed the shirt and Bermuda-shorts which she had been wearing and was now dressed for her journey home. One would not be far out in describing it as Uncle Tom's ewe lamb. He loves it dearly. The still summer air was disturbed by a sound like beer coming out of a bottle. It was Pop Glossop gurgling. His eyes were round, his nose wiggled, and one could readily discern that this news item had come to him not as rare and refreshing fruit but more like a buffet on the base of the skull with a sock full of wet sand.
From the look on Bobbie's face, as she stood listening to our cross— talk act, I could see that the inner gist was passing over her head. Cryptic, she seemed to be registering it as. He's a klep— whatever-it-is,' I said, and thrust Jeeves's letter on her. She perused it with an interested eye and having mastered its contents said, 'Cor chase my Aunt Fanny up a gum tree,' adding that you never knew what was going to happen next these days. There was, however, she said, a bright side.
A pause ensued during which Pop Glossop appeared to be weighing this, possibly thinking back to coots he had met in the course of his professional career and trying to estimate their dippiness as compared with that of W. You must tell Mrs Travers that when she gets back. It'll put her in a strong position to cope with Upjohn in this matter of Wilbert and Phyllis.
With this under her belt, she'll be able to forbid the banns in no uncertain manner. So everything's fine. She looked at me, and I said I didn't know, and then she looked at Pop Glossop, and he said he didn't know. Mrs Travers impressed it upon me with all the emphasis at her disposal that the greatest care must be exercised to prevent Mr and Mrs Cream taking —'. I mean, however well they know that Wilbert is a pincher, they don't want to have it rubbed in.
I quivered like a startled what-d'you-call-it.
Jeeves In the Offing
She had spoken with a cheery ring in her voice that told an experienced ear like mine that she was about to start something. In a matter of seconds by Shrewsbury clock, as Aunt Dahlia would have said, I could see that she was going to come out with one of those schemes or plans of hers that not only stagger humanity and turn the moon to blood but lead to some unfortunate male — who on the present occasion would, I strongly suspected, be me —getting immersed in what Shakespeare calls a sea of troubles, if it was Shakespeare. I had heard that ring in her voice before, to name but one time, at the moment when she was pressing the darning needle into my hand and telling me where I would find Sir Roderick Glossop's hot-water bottle.
Many people are of the opinion that Roberta, daughter of the late Sir Cuthbert and Lady Wickham of Skeldings Hall, Herts, ought not to be allowed at large. I string along with that school of thought. Pop Glossop, having only a sketchy acquaintance with this female of the species and so not knowing that from childhood up her motto had been 'Anything goes', was all animation and tell-me-more.
That's right. And it's obvious who the people's choice is. You're elected, Bertie. Well, I wasn't surprised. As I say, I had seen it coming. I don't know why it is, but whenever there's dirty work to be undertaken at the crossroads, the cry that goes round my little circle is always 'Let Wooster do it. But though I hadn't much hope that any words of mine would accomplish anything in the way of averting the doom, I put in a rebuttal. Stands to reason. You'll enjoy it,' said Bobbie, though where she got that idea I was at a loss to understand.
You'll have the time of your life. What did you say? Mrs Cream is working on her book. Phyllis is in her room, typing Upjohn's speech. Wilbert's gone for a walk. Upjohn isn't here. The only character who could pop in would be the Brinkley Court ghost. If it does, give it a cold look and walk through it. That'll teach it not to come butting in where it isn't wanted, ha ha. I thought their mirth ill-timed and in dubious taste, and I let them see it by my manner as I strode off.
For of course I did stride off. These clashings of will with the opposite sex always end with Bertram Wooster bowing to the inev. But I was not in jocund mood, and when Bobbie, speeding me on my way, called me her brave little man and said she had known all along I had it in me, I ignored the remark with a coldness which must have made itself felt.
It was a lovely afternoon, replete with blue sky, beaming sun, buzzing insects and what not, an afternoon that seemed to call to one to be out in the open with God's air playing on one's face and something cool in a glass at one's side, and here was I, just to oblige Bobbie Wickham, tooling along a corridor indoors on my way to search a comparative stranger's bedroom, this involving crawling on floors and routing under beds and probably getting covered with dust and fluff.
The thought was a bitter one, and I don't suppose I have ever come closer to saying 'Faugh! Too bally chivalrous for our own good, we Woosters, and always have been. As I reached Wilbert's door and paused outside doing a bit of screwing the courage to the sticking point, as I have heard Jeeves call it, I found the proceedings reminding me of something, and I suddenly remembered what. I was feeling just as I had felt in the old Malvem House epoch when I used to sneak down to Aubrey Upjohn's study at dead of night in quest of the biscuits he kept there in a tin on his desk, and there came back to me the memory of the occasion when, not letting a twig snap beneath my feet, I had entered his sanctum in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, to find him seated in his chair, tucking into the biscuits himself.
A moment fraught with embarrassment. The What-does— this-mean-Wooster-ing that ensued and the aftermath next morning — six of the best on the old spot — had always remained on the tablets of my mind, if that's the expression I want. Except for the tapping of a typewriter in a room along the corridor, showing that Ma Cream was hard at her self-appointed task of curdling the blood of the reading public, all was still. I stood outside the door for a space, letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would', as Jeeves tells me cats do in adages, then turned the handle softly, pushed — also softly — and, carrying on into the interior, found myself confronted by a girl in housemaid's costume who put a hand to her throat like somebody in a play and leaped several inches in the direction of the ceiling.
I'm looking for Mr Cream. So I brought Augustus,' she said, and indicated a large black cat who until then had escaped my notice. I recognized him as an old crony with whom I had often breakfasted, I wading into the scrambled eggs, he into the saucer of milk. Now, right from the start, as may readily be imagined, I had been wondering how this housemaid was to be removed, for of course her continued presence would render my enterprise null and void.
You can't search rooms with the domestic staff standing on the sidelines, but on the other hand it was impossible for anyone with any claim to be a preux chevalier to take her by the slack of her garment and heave her out. For a while the thing had seemed an impasse, but this statement of hers that Augustus would teach the mouse gave me an idea.
My own acquaintance with him is a longstanding one, and I have come to know his psychology from soup to nuts. He hasn't caught a mouse since he was a slip of a kitten. Except when eating, he does nothing but sleep. Lethargic is the word that springs to the lips. If you cast an eye on him, you will see that he's asleep now. There's a scientific name for it. Trau— something. Traumatic symplegia, that's it. This cat has traumatic symplegia. In other words, putting it in simple language adapted to the lay mind, where other cats are content to get their eight hours, Augustus wants his twenty-four.
If you will be ruled by me, you will abandon the whole project and take him back to the kitchen. You're simply wasting your time here. My eloquence was not without its effect. She said 'Coo! The first thing I noticed when at leisure to survey my surroundings was that the woman up top, carrying out her policy of leaving no stone unturned in the way of sucking up to the Cream family, had done Wilbert well where sleeping accommodation was concerned.
What he had drawn when clocking in at Brinkley Court was the room known as the Blue Room, a signal honour to be accorded to a bachelor guest, amounting to being given star billing, for at Brinkley, as at most country-houses, any old nook or cranny is considered good enough for the celibate contingent. My own apartment, to take a case in point, was a sort of hermit's cell in which one would have been hard put to it to swing a cat, even a smaller one than Augustus, not of course that one often wants to do much cat-swinging.
I've put you in the Blue Room, where I am sure you will be comfortable. There was a four-poster bed, a chunky dressing-table, a massive writing table, divers chairs, pictures on the walls of fellows in cocked hats bending over females in muslin and ringlets and over at the far side a cupboard or armoire in which you could have hidden a dozen corpses. In short, there was so much space and so many things to shove things behind that most people, called on to find a silver cow— creamer there, would have said 'Oh, what's the use?
But where I had the bulge on the ordinary searcher was that I am a man of wide reading. Starting in early boyhood, long before they were called novels of suspense, I've read more mystery stories than you could shake a stick at, and they have taught me something —viz. My first move, accordingly, was to take a chair and prop it against the armoire, and I had climbed on this and was preparing to subject the top to a close scrutiny, when Bobbie Wickham, entering on noiseless feet and speaking from about eighteen inches behind me, said:.
Really, one sometimes despairs of the modern girl. You'd have thought that this Wickham would have learned at her mother's knee that the last thing a fellow in a highly nervous condition wants, when he's searching someone's room, is a disembodied voice in his immediate ear asking him how he's getting on. The upshot, I need scarcely say, was that I came down like a sack of coals. The pulse was rapid, the blood pressure high, and for awhile the Blue Room pirouetted about me like an adagio dancer.
When Reason returned to its throne, I found that Bobbie, no doubt feeling after that resounding crash that she was better elsewhere, had left me and that I was closely entangled in the chair, my position being in some respects similar to that of Kipper Herring when he got both legs wrapped round his neck in Switzerland. It seemed improbable that I would ever get loose without the aid of powerful machinery. However, by pulling this way and pushing that, I made progress, and I'd just contrived to de-chair myself and was about to rise, when another voice spoke.
She was looking at me, as Sir Roderick Glossop had recently looked at Bobbie, with a wild surmise, her whole air that of a woman who is not abreast. This time, I noticed, she had an ink spot on her chin. Well, there's nothing much you can say in reply to 'Mr Wooster! It is frequently said of Bertram Wooster that he is a man who can think on his feet, and if the necessity arises he can also use his loaf when on all fours.
On the present occasion I was fortunate in having had that get-together with the housemaid and the cat Augustus, for it gave me what they call in France a point d'appui. Removing a portion of chair which had got entangled in my back hair, I said with a candour that became me well:. If she had replied, 'Ah, yes, indeed. I understand now. A mouse, to be sure. Quite,' everything would have been nice and smooth, but she didn't. Well, of course, if she didn't know what a mouse was, there was evidently a good deal of tedious spadework before us, and one would scarcely have known where to start.
It was a relief when her next words showed that that 'What do you mean? When people say 'Well' to you like that, it usually means that they think you are outstaying your welcome and that the time has come to call it a day. She felt, I could see, that Woosters were not required in her son's sleeping apartment, and realizing that there might be something in this, I rose, dusted the knees of the trousers, and after a courteous word to the effect that I hoped the spine-freezer on which she was engaged was coming out well, left the presence.
Happening to glance back as I reached the door, I saw her looking after me, that wild surmise still functioning on all twelve cylinders. It was plain that she considered my behaviour odd, and I'm not saying it wasn't. The behaviour of those who allow their actions to be guided by Roberta Wickham is nearly always odd. The thing I wanted most at this juncture was to have a heart-to— heart talk with that young femme fatale, and after roaming hither and thither for a while I found her in my chair on the lawn, reading the Ma Cream book in which I had been engrossed when these doings had started.
She greeted me with a bright smile, and said:. With a strong effort I mastered my emotion and replied curtly but civilly that the answer was in the negative. Again I was compelled to pause and remind myself that an English gentleman does not slosh a sitting redhead, no matter what the provocation. I was impeded in my movements by half-witted females sneaking up behind me and asking how I was getting on. How art thou fallen from heaven, oh Lucifer, son of the morning, I said to myself.
You're so terribly neurotic, Bertie. You must try to be less jumpy. What you need is a good nerve tonic. I'm sure Sir Roderick would shake you up one, if you asked him. And meanwhile? How about your Uncle Tom's grief and agony when he learns of his bereavement? And so, young Bobbie, when you speak of having another bash, I merely laugh bitterly,' I said, doing so. Not for a million pounds sterling, cash down in small notes. She made what I believe, though I wouldn't swear to it, is called a moue. Putting the lips together and shoving them out, if you know what I mean.
The impression I got was that she was disappointed in Bertram, having expected better things, and this was borne out by her next words. Don't spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. I'll help you this time. Nothing can possibly go wrong if we work together. Mrs Cream won't show up this time.
Lightning never strikes twice in the same place. You go in and start searching, and I'll stand outside the door. Don't you get it? When you hear me burst into song, you'll know there's peril afoot and you'll have plenty of time to nip out of the window. There's a balcony outside the Blue Room. I've seen Wilbert Cream standing on it, doing his Daily Dozen. He breathes deeply and ties himself into a lovers' knot and —'.
The point is that there is a balcony and once on it you're home. There's a water pipe at the end of it. You just slide down that and go on your way, singing a gypsy song. You aren't going to tell me that you have any objection to sliding down water pipes. Jeeves says you're always doing it. It was true that I had slid down quite a number of water pipes in my time.
Circumstances had often so moulded themselves as to make such an action imperative. It was by that route that I had left Skeldings Hall at three in the morning after the hot-water-bottle incident. So while it would be too much, perhaps, to say that I am never happier than when sliding down water pipes, the prospect of doing so caused me little or no concern. I began to see that there was something in this plan she was mooting, if mooting is the word I want.
What tipped the scale was the thought of Uncle Tom. His love for the cow-creamer might be misguided, but you couldn't get away from the fact that he was deeply attached to the beastly thing, and one didn't like the idea of him coming back from Harrogate and saying to himself 'And now for a refreshing look at the old cow-creamer' and finding it was not in residence. It would blot the sunshine from his life, and affectionate nephews hate like the dickens to blot the sunshine from the lives of uncles.
I could not forget that when I was at Malvern House, Bramley-on-Sea, this relative by marriage had often sent me postal orders sometimes for as much as ten bob. He, in short, had done the square thing by me, and it was up to me to do the s. And so it came about that some five minutes later I stood once more outside the Blue Room with Bobbie beside me, not actually at the moment singing in the wilderness but prepared so to sing if Ma Cream, modelling her strategy on that of the Assyrian, came down like a wolf on the fold.
The nervous system was a bit below par, of course, but not nearly so much so as it might have been. Knowing that Bobbie would be on sentry-go made all the difference. Any gangster will tell you that the strain and anxiety of busting a safe are greatly diminished if you've a look-out man ready at any moment to say 'Cheese it, the cops! Just to make sure that Wilbert hadn't returned from his hike, I knocked on the door. Nothing stirred. The coast seemed c. I mentioned this to Bobbie, and she agreed that it was as c.
The dear old room was just as I'd left it, nothing changed, and my first move, of course, was to procure another chair and give the top of the armoire the once-over. It was a set-back to find that the cow— creamer wasn't there. I suppose these kleptomaniacs know a thing or two and don't hide the loot in the obvious place. There was nothing to be done but start the exhaustive search elsewhere, and I proceeded to do so, keeping an ear cocked for any snatch of song. None coming, it was with something of the old debonair Wooster spirit that I looked under this and peered behind that, and I had just crawled beneath the dressing-table in pursuance of my researches, when one of those disembodied voices which were so frequent in the Blue Room spoke, causing me to give my head a nasty bump.
She was standing there, looking down at me with a what-the— hell expression on her finely chiselled face, and I didn't blame her. Gives a woman a start, naturally, to come into her son's bedroom and observe an alien trouser-seat sticking out from under the dressing— table. I thought I saw it run under there, and I was about to deal with it regardless of its age or sex. I must consult my psychiatrist when I get back to New York. I'm sure he will tell me that this mouse— fixation is a symbol of something. Your head feels funny, doesn't it? A sort of burning sensation, I imagine.
Now you do just as I tell you. Go to your room and lie down. Try to get a little sleep. Perhaps a cup of strong tea would help.
And … I'm trying to think of the name of that alienist I've heard people over here speak so highly of. Miss Wickham mentioned him yesterday. Glossop, that's it, Sir Roderick Glossop. I think you ought to consult him. A friend of mine is at his clinic now, and she says he's wonderful. Cures the most stubborn cases. Meanwhile, rest is the thing. Go and have a good rest. At an early point in these exchanges I had started to sidle to the door, and I now sidled through it, rather like a diffident crab on some sandy beach trying to avoid the attentions of a child with a spade.
But I didn't go to my room and relax, I went in search of Bobbie, breathing fire. I wanted to take up with her the matter of that absence of the burst of melody. I mean, considering that a mere couple of bars of some popular song hit would have saved me from an experience that had turned the bones to water and whitened the hair from the neck up, I felt entitled to demand an explanation of why those bars had not emerged.
A first UK edition, second issueof this novel by P. This is the first edition, second issue with the half title page reading Jeeves in the OffingJeeves in theOffingis the eighth of eleven novels featuring Bertie Wooster and his valet Jeeves,and is one of the stories to feature Bertie Wooster'svisits to his Aunt Dahlia at Brinkley Court. Condition: In a cloth binding in original unclipped dustwrapper in protective Brodart wraps. Externally, very smart with some minor shelfwear. Bookslightly cocked. Dustwrapper smart with edgewear, spotting and wear to head of spine.
Slight loss to front wrap. Internally, firmly bound. Pages bright with patches of spotting. Features P. Wodehouse's enduring characters; Bertie Wooster and his capable Valet Jeeves Please Email for further details.. Not Signed or Inscribed. First Edition. Red Cloth.
UK: Herbert Jenkins, Completely free of any inscriptions, toning or foxing - appearing unread. A fine copy in original near fine first state dust jacket. Not price clipped and with no fading to spine. An excellent copy. Folio Society. Near Fine with no dust jacket. No Dust Jacket. Buy with confidence. Money Back Guarantee. Expedite Shipping Available. International shipment available. Ships with Tracking Number! Buy with confidence, excellent customer service! London: Herbert Jenkins, First edition. Hard cover in dust jacket.
Published London: Herbert Jenkins, An attractive copy.. May not contain Access Codes or Supplements. May be ex-library. Jeeves in the Offing Arena Books P. Wodehouse London: Herbert Jenkins, . First U. And off we go. Jeeves is set to go on holiday, off to Herne Bay for the shrimping and to judge a bathing beauty contest. Bertie is invited by Aunt Dahlia down to Brinkley Court, Market Snodsbury to be there confronted with various and sundry dilemmas and romantic entanglements of the type that only a Wooster could become involved in.
All the Wodehousian cast are there: a domineering young female of unusual beauty, and a rather goofy girl who goes ga-ga over romantic poetry read aloud in the garden, a former schoolmaster of unpleasing aspect, a nerve specialist disguised as a butler, visiting Americans of dubious sanity, the afore-mentioned Kipper to whose assistance Bertie is bound by the Code of the Woosters, and even Jeeves himself, who must cut short his holiday to come to the rescue of the hapless Bertie.
At the end of the book, I was left chuckling softly, with only a mild melancholy to send me to bed. No matter. The medicine works just as well whether its already been taken before or not. I'm a Christian, the homeschooling mom of eight yes, all mine children, married to a NASA engineer, and a confirmed bookaholic.
I like old books, conservative politics, and new and interesting ideas.