by Unknown
‘Because of those trousers?’
‘They may have helped, perhaps.’
‘The man’s an ass. Boko’s a writer. He must know that writers are allowed a wide latitude. Besides, though I wouldn’t care to have Jeeves hear me say so, trousers aren’t everything.’
‘But the real reason was that he thought Boko was a butterfly.’
I couldn’t follow her. She had me fogged. Anything less like a butterfly than good old Boko I’ve never set eyes on.
‘A butterfly?’
‘Yes. Flitting from flower to flower and sipping.’
And he doesn’t like butterflies?’
‘Not when they flit and sip.’
‘What on earth has put the extraordinary idea into his head that Boko’s a flitting sipper?’
‘Well, you see, when he arrived in Steeple Bumpleigh, he was engaged to Florence.’
‘What!’
‘It was she who made him settle there. That was what I meant when I said that he couldn’t woo me, as you call it, with any real abandon at first. Being engaged to Florence sort of hampered him.’
I was amazed. I nearly ran over a hen in my emotion.
‘Engaged to Florence? He never told me.’
‘You haven’t seen him for some time.’
‘No, that’s true. Well, I’ll be dashed. Did you know that I was once engaged to Florence?’
‘Of course.’
And now Stilton is.’
‘Yes.’
‘How absolutely extraordinary. It’s like one of those great race movements you read about.’
‘I suppose it’s her profile that does it. She has a lovely profile.’
‘Seen from the left.’
‘Seen from the right, too.’
‘Well, yes, in a measure, seen from the right, too. But would that account for it? I mean, in these busy days you can’t spend your whole time dodging round a girl, trying to see her sideways. I still maintain that this tendency on the part of the populace to get engaged to Florence is inexplicable. And that made Uncle Percy a bit frosty to Boko?’
‘Glacial.’
‘I see. One understands his point of view, of course. He frowns on this in and out running. Florence yesterday, you to-day. I suppose he thinks you are just another of the flowers that Boko is flitting in on for sipping purposes.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And, in addition, he doubts his earning capacity.’
‘Yes.’
I pondered. If Uncle Percy really thought that Boko was a butterfly that might go broke at any moment, Love’s young dream had unquestionably stubbed its toe. I mean, an oofy butterfly is bad enough. But it can at least pay the rent. I could well imagine a man of conservative views recoiling from one which might come asking for handouts for the rest of its life.
A thought occurred to me. With that Wooster knack of looking on the bright side, I saw that all was not yet lost.
‘How old do you have to be before you can marry without Uncle Percy’s kayo?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Well, there you are, then. I knew that if we looked close enough we should find that the sun was still shining. You’ve only got to wait another year, and there you are.’
‘Yes. But Boko leaves for Hollywood next month. I don’t know how you feel about this dream man of mine, but to me, and I have studied his character with loving care, he doesn’t seem the sort of person to be allowed to go to Hollywood without a wife at his side to distract his attention from the local fauna.’
Her outlook shocked me, causing me to put a bit of austere top-spin on my next crack.
‘There can be no love where there is not perfect trust.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Jeeves, I think. It sounds like one of his things.’
‘Well, Jeeves is wrong. There jolly well can be love without perfect trust, and don’t you forget it. I love Boko distractedly, but at the thought of him going to Hollywood without me I come over all faint. He wouldn’t mean to let me down. I don’t suppose he would even know he was doing it. But one morning I should get an apologetic cable saying that he couldn’t quite explain how it had happened, but that he had inadvertently got married last night, and had I anything to suggest. It’s his sweet, impulsive nature. He can’t say No. I believe that’s how he came to get engaged to Florence.’
I frowned meditatively. Now that she had outlined the position of affairs, I could see that the situation was a tricky one.
‘Then what’s the procedure?’
‘I don’t know.’
I frowned another meditative one.
‘Something must be done.’
‘But what?’
I had an idea. It is often like that with the Woosters. They appear baffled, and then suddenly – bingo! – an inspiration.
‘Leave this to me,’ I said.
What had crossed my mind was the thought that by establishing myself at Wee Nooke on his behalf, I was doing Uncle Percy a dashed good turn – so dashed that if he had a spark of gratitude in his composition he ought to be all over me. I could picture him clasping my hand and saying that thanks to me that merger had come off and was there any reward I cared to ask, for he could deny me nothing.
‘What you need here,’ I said, ‘is the suave intervention of a polished man of the world, a silver-tongued orator who will draw Uncle Percy aside and plead your cause, softening his heart and making him take the big, broad view. I’ll attend to it.’
‘You?’
‘In person. Within the next day or two.’
‘Oh, Bertie!’
‘It will be a pleasure to put in a word for you. I anticipate notable results. I shall probably play on the old crumb as on a stringed instrument.’
She registered girlish joy.
‘Bertie, you’re a lamb!’
‘Maybe you’re right. A touch of the lamb, perhaps.’
‘It’s a wonderful idea. You see, you’ve known Boko so long.’
‘Virtually from the egg.’
‘You’ll be able to think of all sorts of things to say about him. Did he ever save your life, when you were a boy?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘You could say he did.’
‘I doubt if it would go well. Uncle Percy was none too keen on me at that epoch. It would be more likely to strike a chord if I told him that Boko had repeatedly tried to assassinate me, when I was a boy. However, leave it to me. I’ll find words.’
All this while, of course, the old two-seater had been humming along towards Steeple Bumpleigh with the needle in the sixties, and at this point Nobby notified me that we were approaching our destination.
‘Those chimneys through the trees are the Hall. You see that little lane to the left. You go down it, and you come to Boko’s place. Yours is about half a mile beyond it, up another sort of side turning. You really will plead with Uncle Percy?’
‘Like billy-o.’
You won’t weaken?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Of course, it’s just possible that you may not have to. You see, I thought that if Boko and Uncle Percy could really get together, Uncle Percy might learn to love him. So, though it wasn’t easy, I arranged that Boko should give him lunch to-day. I do hope everything has gone all right. A lot depends on how Boko behaved. I mean, up till now, whenever they have met, he has always been so stiffin his manner. I begged him with tears in my eyes to let himself go and be bright and genial, and he promised he would try. So I’m hoping for the best.’
‘Me, too,’ I said, and – if I remember correctly – patted her little hand. I then drove to the Hall and decanted her at its gates, assuring her that, even if Boko had failed to fascinate at the midday meal, I would see to it that everything came out all right. With a final cheery wave of the hand, I backed the car and headed for the lane of which she had spoken.
All this talking had, of c
ourse, left me with a well defined thirst, and it seemed to me, despite a householder’s natural desire to take possession as soon as possible, that my first move had better be to stop off at Boko’s and touch him for the needful. I assumed that the whitewashed cottage standing on the river bank must be the Bokeries, for Nobby had indicated that I had to pass it on my way to Wee Nooke.
I hove to alongside, accordingly, and noting that one of the windows at the side was open I approached it and whistled.
A hoarse shout from within and a small china ornament whizzing past my head informed me that my old friend was at home.
CHAPTER 7
The passing of the china ornament, which had come within an ace of copping me on the napper, drew from my lips a sharp ‘Oi!’ and as if in answer to the cry Boko now appeared at the window. His hair was disordered and his face flushed, presumably with literary composition. In appearance, as I have indicated, this man of letters is a cross between a comedy juggler and a parrot that has been dragged through a hedge backwards, and you never catch him at his nattiest in the workshop. I took it that I had interrupted him at a difficult point in a chapter.
He had been glaring at me through horn-rimmed spectacles, but now, as he perceived who it was that stood without, the flame faded behind the lenses, to be replaced by a look of astonishment.
‘Good Lord, Bertie! Is that you?’
I assured him that such was the case, and he apologized for having bunged china ornaments at me.
‘Why did you imitate the note of the lesser screech owl?’ he said, rebukingly. ‘I thought you were young Edwin. He comes sneaking round here, trying to do me acts of kindness, and that is always how he announces his presence. I am never without a certain amount of ammunition handy on the desk. Where on earth did you spring from?’
‘The metropolis. I’ve just arrived.’
‘Well, you might have had the sense to send a wire. I’d have killed the fatted calf.’
I saw that he was under a misapprehension.
‘I haven’t come to stay with you. I’m hanging out at a cottage which they tell me is a little farther down the road.’
‘Wee Nooke?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you taken Wee Nooke?’
‘Yes.’
‘What made you suddenly decide to do that?’
I had foreseen that some explanation of my presence might be required, and was ready with my story. My lips being sealed, of course, on the real reason which had brought me to Steeple Bumpleigh, it was necessary to dissemble.
‘Jeeves thought he would like to do a bit of fishing. And,’ I added, making the thing more plausible, ‘they tell me a fancy dress dance is breaking out in these parts to-morrow night. Well, you know me when I hear rumours of these entertainments. The war horse and the bugle. And now,’ I said, licking the lips, ‘how about a cooling drink? The journey has left me a little parched.’
I climbed through the window, and sank into a chair, while he went off to fetch the ingredients. Presently he returned with the jingling tray, and after we had done a bit of stag-at-eve-ing and exchanged some desultory remarks about this and that, I did the civil thing by congratulating him on his engagement.
‘I was saying to Nobby, whom I drove down here in my car, how extraordinary it was that any girl should have fallen in love with you at first sight. I wouldn’t have thought it could be done.’
‘It came as quite a surprise to me, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.’
‘I don’t wonder. Still, all sorts of unlikely people do seem to excite the spark of passion. Look at my Aunt Agatha.’
Ah.’
And Stilton.’
‘You know about Stilton?’
‘I ran into him in a jeweller’s, buying the ring, and he told me of his fearful predicament.’
‘Sooner him than me.’
‘Just how I feel. Nobby thinks it’s Florence’s profile that does it.’
‘Quite possibly.’
There was a silence, broken only by the musical sound of us having another go at the elixir. Then he heaved a sigh and said that life was rummy, to which I assented that in many respects it was very rummy.
‘Take my case,’ he said. ‘Did Nobby tell you what the position was?’
About Uncle Percy gumming the works, you mean? Oh, rather.’
A nice bit of box fruit, what?’
‘So it struck me. Decidedly. The heart bled.’
‘Fancy having to get anyone’s consent to your getting married in this enlightened age! The thing’s an anachronism. Why, you can’t use it as a motive for a story even in a woman’s magazine nowadays. Doesn’t your Aunt Dahlia run some sort of women’s rag?’
‘“Milady’s Boudoir”. Sixpence weekly. I once contributed an article to it on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing.’
‘Well, I’ve never read “Milady’s Boudoir”, but I have no doubt it is the lowest dregs of the publishing world. Yet if I were to submit a story to your aunt about a girl who couldn’t marry a fellow without some blasted head of the family’s consent, she would hoot at it. That is to say, I am not allowed to turn an honest penny by using this complication in my work, but it is jolly well allowed to come barging in and ruining my life. A pretty state of things!’
‘What happens if you go ahead regardless?’
‘I believe I get jugged. Or is that only when you marry a ward in Chancery without the Lord Chancellor hoisting the All Right flag?’
‘You have me there. We could ask Jeeves.’
‘Yes, Jeeves would know. Have you brought him?’
‘He’s following with the heavy luggage.’
‘How is he these days?’
‘Fine.’
‘Brain all right?’
‘Colossal.’
‘Then he may be able to think of some way out of this mess.’
‘We shan’t need Jeeves. I am handling the whole thing. I’m going to get hold of Uncle Percy and plead your cause.’
‘You?’
‘Oddly enough, that’s what Nobby said. In the same surprised tone.’
‘But I thought the man scared you stiff.’
‘He does. But I’ve been able to do him a good turn, and my drag with him is now substantial.’
‘Well, that’s fine,’ he said, brightening. ‘Snap into it, Bertie. But,’ he added, coming unbrightened again, ‘you’ve got a tough job.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘I do. After what happened at lunch to-day.’
I was conscious of a sudden, quick concern.
‘Your lunch with Uncle Percy?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Didn’t it go well?’
‘Not too well.’
‘Nobby was anticipating that it would bring home the bacon.’
‘Ha! God bless her optimistic little soul.’
I gave him one of my keen looks. There was a sombre expression on his map. The nose was wiggling in an overwrought way. It was easy to perceive that pain and anguish racked the brow.
‘Tell me all,’ I said.
He unshipped a heavy sigh.
‘You know, Bertie, the whole idea was a mistake from the start. She should never have brought us together. And, if she had to bring us together, she ought not to have told me to be bright and genial. You know about her wanting me to be bright and genial?’
Yes. She said you were inclined to be a bit stiff in your manner with Uncle Percy.’
‘I am always stiff in my manner with elderly gentlemen who snort like foghorns when I appear and glare at me as if I were somebody from Moscow distributing Red propaganda. It’s the sensitive, highly strung artist in me. Old Hardened Arteries does not like me.’
‘So Nobby said. She thinks it’s because he regards you as a butterfly. My personal view is that it’s those grey flannel bags of yours.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘The patch on the knee, principally. It creates a bad impr
ession. Haven’t you another pair?’
‘Who do you think I am? Beau Brummel?’
I forbore to pursue the subject.
‘Well, go on.’
‘Where was I?’
‘You were saying you made a bloomer in trying to be bright and genial.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s right. I did. And this is how it came about. You see, the first thing a man has to ask himself, when he is told to be bright and genial, is “How bright? How genial?” Shall he, that is to say, be just a medium ray of sunshine, or shall he go all out and shoot the works? I thought it over, and decided to bar nothing and be absolutely rollicking. And that, I see now, is where I went wrong.’
He paused, and remained for a space in thought. I could see that some painful memory was engaging his attention.
‘I wonder, Bertie,’ he said, coming to the surface at length, ‘if you were present one day at the Drones when Freddie Widgeon sprang those Joke Goods on the lunchers there?’
‘Joke Goods?’
‘The things you see advertised in toy-shop catalogues as handy for breaking the ice and setting the table in a roar. You know. The Plate Lifter. The Dribble Glass. The Surprise Salt Shaker.’
‘Oh, those?’
I laughed heartily. I remembered the occasion well. Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright was suffering from a hangover at the moment, and I shall not readily forget his emotion when he picked up his roll and it squeaked and a rubber mouse ran out of it. Strong men had to rally round with brandy.
And then I stopped laughing heartily. The frightful significance of his words hit me, and I started as if somebody had jabbed a red-hot skewer through the epidermis.
‘You aren’t telling me you worked those off on Uncle Percy?’
Yes, Bertie. That is what I did.’
‘Golly!’
‘That about covers it.’
I groaned a hollow one. The heart had sunk. One has, of course, to make allowances for writers, all of them being more or less loony. Look at Shakespeare, for instance. Very unbalanced. Used to go about stealing ducks. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help feeling that in springing Joke Goods on the guardian of the girl he loved Boko had carried an author’s natural goofiness too far. Even Shakespeare might have hesitated to go to such lengths.
