Right Ho, Jeeves jaw-5

by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse

  Presently the dust settled down and the plaster stopped falling from the ceiling, and he went on.

  “People who say it isn't a beautiful world don't know what they are talking about. Driving here in the car today to award the kind prizes, I was reluctantly compelled to tick off my host on this very point. Old Tom Travers. You will see him sitting there in the second row next to the large lady in beige.”

  He pointed helpfully, and the hundred or so Market Snods-buryians who craned their necks in the direction indicated were able to observe Uncle Tom blushing prettily.

  “I ticked him off properly, the poor fish. He expressed the opinion that the world was in a deplorable state. I said, 'Don't talk rot, old Tom Travers.' 'I am not accustomed to talk rot,' he said. 'Then, for a beginner,' I said, 'you do it dashed well.' And I think you will admit, boys and ladies and gentlemen, that that was telling him.”

  The audience seemed to agree with him. The point went big. The voice that had said, “Hear, hear” said “Hear, hear” again, and my corn chandler hammered the floor vigorously with a large-size walking stick.

  “Well, boys,” resumed Gussie, having shot his cuffs and smirked horribly, “this is the end of the summer term, and many of you, no doubt, are leaving the school. And I don't blame you, because there's a froust in here you could cut with a knife. You are going out into the great world. Soon many of you will be walking along Broadway. And what I want to impress upon you is that, however much you may suffer from adenoids, you must all use every effort to prevent yourselves becoming pessimists and talking rot like old Tom Travers. There in the second row. The fellow with a face rather like a walnut.”

  He paused to allow those wishing to do so to refresh themselves with another look at Uncle Tom, and I found myself musing in some little perplexity. Long association with the members of the Drones has put me pretty well in touch with the various ways in which an overdose of the blushful Hippocrene can take the individual, but I had never seen anyone react quite as Gussie was doing.

  There was a snap about his work which I had never witnessed before, even in Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps on New Year's Eve.

  Jeeves, when I discussed the matter with him later, said it was something to do with inhibitions, if I caught the word correctly, and the suppression of, I think he said, the ego. What he meant, I gathered, was that, owing to the fact that Gussie had just completed a five years' stretch of blameless seclusion among the newts, all the goofiness which ought to have been spread out thin over those five years and had been bottled up during that period came to the surface on this occasion in a lump—or, if you prefer to put it that way, like a tidal wave.

  There may be something in this. Jeeves generally knows.

  Anyway, be that as it may, I was dashed glad I had had the shrewdness to keep out of that second row. It might be unworthy of the prestige of a Wooster to squash in among the proletariat in the standing-room-only section, but at least, I felt, I was out of the danger zone. So thoroughly had Gussie got it up his nose by now that it seemed to me that had he sighted me he might have become personal about even an old school friend.

  “If there's one thing in the world I can't stand,” proceeded Gussie, “it's a pessimist. Be optimists, boys. You all know the difference between an optimist and a pessimist. An optimist is a man who—well, take the case of two Irishmen walking along Broadway. One is an optimist and one is a pessimist, just as one's name is Pat and the other's Mike.... Why, hullo, Bertie; I didn't know you were here.”

  Too late, I endeavoured to go to earth behind the chandler, only to discover that there was no chandler there. Some appointment, suddenly remembered—possibly a promise to his wife that he would be home to tea—had caused him to ooze away while my attention was elsewhere, leaving me right out in the open.

  Between me and Gussie, who was now pointing in an offensive manner, there was nothing but a sea of interested faces looking up at me.

  “Now, there,” boomed Gussie, continuing to point, “is an instance of what I mean. Boys and ladies and gentlemen, take a good look at that object standing up there at the back—morning coat, trousers as worn, quiet grey tie, and carnation in buttonhole—you can't miss him. Bertie Wooster, that is, and as foul a pessimist as ever bit a tiger. I tell you I despise that man. And why do I despise him? Because, boys and ladies and gentlemen, he is a pessimist. His attitude is defeatist. When I told him I was going to address you this afternoon, he tried to dissuade me. And do you know why he tried to dissuade me? Because he said my trousers would split up the back.”

  The cheers that greeted this were the loudest yet. Anything about splitting trousers went straight to the simple hearts of the young scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School. Two in the row in front of me turned purple, and a small lad with freckles seated beside them asked me for my autograph.

  “Let me tell you a story about Bertie Wooster.”

  A Wooster can stand a good deal, but he cannot stand having his name bandied in a public place. Picking my feet up softly, I was in the very process of executing a quiet sneak for the door, when I perceived that the bearded bloke had at last decided to apply the closure.

  Why he hadn't done so before is beyond me. Spell-bound, I take it. And, of course, when a chap is going like a breeze with the public, as Gussie had been, it's not so dashed easy to chip in. However, the prospect of hearing another of Gussie's anecdotes seemed to have done the trick. Rising rather as I had risen from my bench at the beginning of that painful scene with Tuppy in the twilight, he made a leap for the table, snatched up a book and came bearing down on the speaker.

  He touched Gussie on the arm, and Gussie, turning sharply and seeing a large bloke with a beard apparently about to bean him with a book, sprang back in an attitude of self-defence.

  “Perhaps, as time is getting on, Mr. Fink-Nottle, we had better—”

  “Oh, ah,” said Gussie, getting the trend. He relaxed. “The prizes, eh? Of course, yes. Right-ho. Yes, might as well be shoving along with it. What's this one?”

  “Spelling and dictation—P.K. Purvis,” announced the bearded bloke.

  “Spelling and dictation—P.K. Purvis,” echoed Gussie, as if he were calling coals. “Forward, P.K. Purvis.”

  Now that the whistle had been blown on his speech, it seemed to me that there was no longer any need for the strategic retreat which I had been planning. I had no wish to tear myself away unless I had to. I mean, I had told Jeeves that this binge would be fraught with interest, and it was fraught with interest. There was a fascination about Gussie's methods which gripped and made one reluctant to pass the thing up provided personal innuendoes were steered clear of. I decided, accordingly, to remain, and presently there was a musical squeaking and P.K. Purvis climbed the platform.

  The spelling-and-dictation champ was about three foot six in his squeaking shoes, with a pink face and sandy hair. Gussie patted his hair. He seemed to have taken an immediate fancy to the lad.

  “You P.K. Purvis?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “It's a beautiful world, P.K. Purvis.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Ah, you've noticed it, have you? Good. You married, by any chance?”

  “Sir, no, sir.”

  “Get married, P.K. Purvis,” said Gussie earnestly. “It's the only life ... Well, here's your book. Looks rather bilge to me from a glance at the title page, but, such as it is, here you are.”

  P.K. Purvis squeaked off amidst sporadic applause, but one could not fail to note that the sporadic was followed by a rather strained silence. It was evident that Gussie was striking something of a new note in Market Snodsbury scholastic circles. Looks were exchanged between parent and parent. The bearded bloke had the air of one who has drained the bitter cup. As for Aunt Dahlia, her demeanour now told only too clearly that her last doubts had been resolved and her verdict was in. I saw her whisper to the Bassett, who sat on her right, and the Bassett nodded sadly and looked like a fairy about to shed a tear and add
another star to the Milky Way.

  Gussie, after the departure of P.K. Purvis, had fallen into a sort of daydream and was standing with his mouth open and his hands in his pockets. Becoming abruptly aware that a fat kid in knickerbockers was at his elbow, he started violently.

  “Hullo!” he said, visibly shaken. “Who are you?”

  “This,” said the bearded bloke, “is R.V. Smethurst.”

  “What's he doing here?” asked Gussie suspiciously.

  “You are presenting him with the drawing prize, Mr. Fink-Nottle.”

  This apparently struck Gussie as a reasonable explanation. His face cleared.

  “That's right, too,” he said.... “Well, here it is, cocky. You off?” he said, as the kid prepared to withdraw.

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Wait, R.V. Smethurst. Not so fast. Before you go, there is a question I wish to ask you.”

  But the beard bloke's aim now seemed to be to rush the ceremonies a bit. He hustled R.V. Smethurst off stage rather like a chucker-out in a pub regretfully ejecting an old and respected customer, and starting paging G.G. Simmons. A moment later the latter was up and coming, and conceive my emotion when it was announced that the subject on which he had clicked was Scripture knowledge. One of us, I mean to say.

  G.G. Simmons was an unpleasant, perky-looking stripling, mostly front teeth and spectacles, but I gave him a big hand. We Scripture-knowledge sharks stick together.

  Gussie, I was sorry to see, didn't like him. There was in his manner, as he regarded G.G. Simmons, none of the chumminess which had marked it during his interview with P.K. Purvis or, in a somewhat lesser degree, with R.V. Smethurst. He was cold and distant.

  “Well, G.G. Simmons.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “What do you mean—sir, yes, sir? Dashed silly thing to say. So you've won the Scripture-knowledge prize, have you?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Gussie, “you look just the sort of little tick who would. And yet,” he said, pausing and eyeing the child keenly, “how are we to know that this has all been open and above board? Let me test you, G.G. Simmons. What was What's-His-Name—the chap who begat Thingummy? Can you answer me that, Simmons?”

  “Sir, no, sir.”

  Gussie turned to the bearded bloke.

  “Fishy,” he said. “Very fishy. This boy appears to be totally lacking in Scripture knowledge.”

  The bearded bloke passed a hand across his forehead.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Fink-Nottle, that every care was taken to ensure a correct marking and that Simmons outdistanced his competitors by a wide margin.”

  “Well, if you say so,” said Gussie doubtfully. “All right, G.G. Simmons, take your prize.”

  “Sir, thank you, sir.”

  “But let me tell you that there's nothing to stick on side about in winning a prize for Scripture knowledge. Bertie Wooster—”

  I don't know when I've had a nastier shock. I had been going on the assumption that, now that they had stopped him making his speech, Gussie's fangs had been drawn, as you might say. To duck my head down and resume my edging toward the door was with me the work of a moment.

  “Bertie Wooster won the Scripture-knowledge prize at a kids' school we were at together, and you know what he's like. But, of course, Bertie frankly cheated. He succeeded in scrounging that Scripture-knowledge trophy over the heads of better men by means of some of the rawest and most brazen swindling methods ever witnessed even at a school where such things were common. If that man's pockets, as he entered the examination-room, were not stuffed to bursting-point with lists of the kings of Judah—”

  I heard no more. A moment later I was out in God's air, fumbling with a fevered foot at the self-starter of the old car.

  The engine raced. The clutch slid into position. I tooted and drove off.

  My ganglions were still vibrating as I ran the car into the stables of Brinkley Court, and it was a much shaken Bertram who tottered up to his room to change into something loose. Having donned flannels, I lay down on the bed for a bit, and I suppose I must have dozed off, for the next thing I remember is finding Jeeves at my side.

  I sat up. “My tea, Jeeves?”

  “No, sir. It is nearly dinner-time.”

  The mists cleared away.

  “I must have been asleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nature taking its toll of the exhausted frame.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And enough to make it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now it's nearly dinner-time, you say? All right. I am in no mood for dinner, but I suppose you had better lay out the clothes.”

  “It will not be necessary, sir. The company will not be dressing tonight. A cold collation has been set out in the dining-room.”

  “Why's that?”

  “It was Mrs. Travers's wish that this should be done in order to minimize the work for the staff, who are attending a dance at Sir Percival Stretchley-Budd's residence tonight.”

  “Of course, yes. I remember. My Cousin Angela told me. Tonight's the night, what? You going, Jeeves?”

  “No, sir. I am not very fond of this form of entertainment in the rural districts, sir.”

  “I know what you mean. These country binges are all the same. A piano, one fiddle, and a floor like sandpaper. Is Anatole going? Angela hinted not.”

  “Miss Angela was correct, sir. Monsieur Anatole is in bed.”

  “Temperamental blighters, these Frenchmen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, Jeeves,” I said, “it was certainly one of those afternoons, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I cannot recall one more packed with incident. And I left before the finish.”

  “Yes, sir. I observed your departure.”

  “You couldn't blame me for withdrawing.”

  “No, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle had undoubtedly become embarrassingly personal.”

  “Was there much more of it after I went?”

  “No, sir. The proceedings terminated very shortly. Mr. Fink-Nottle's remarks with reference to Master G.G. Simmons brought about an early closure.”

  “But he had finished his remarks about G.G. Simmons.”

  “Only temporarily, sir. He resumed them immediately after your departure. If you recollect, sir, he had already proclaimed himself suspicious of Master Simmons's bona fides, and he now proceeded to deliver a violent verbal attack upon the young gentleman, asserting that it was impossible for him to have won the Scripture-knowledge prize without systematic cheating on an impressive scale. He went so far as to suggest that Master Simmons was well known to the police.”

  “Golly, Jeeves!”

  “Yes, sir. The words did create a considerable sensation. The reaction of those present to this accusation I should describe as mixed. The young students appeared pleased and applauded vigorously, but Master Simmons's mother rose from her seat and addressed Mr. Fink-Nottle in terms of strong protest.”

  “Did Gussie seem taken aback? Did he recede from his position?”

  “No, sir. He said that he could see it all now, and hinted at a guilty liaison between Master Simmons's mother and the head master, accusing the latter of having cooked the marks, as his expression was, in order to gain favour with the former.”

  “You don't mean that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Egad, Jeeves! And then—”

  “They sang the national anthem, sir.”

  “Surely not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At a moment like that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you were there and you know, of course, but I should have thought the last thing Gussie and this woman would have done in the circs. would have been to start singing duets.”

  “You misunderstand me, sir. It was the entire company who sang. The head master turned to the organist and said something to him in a low
tone. Upon which the latter began to play the national anthem, and the proceedings terminated.”

  “I see. About time, too.”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Simmons's attitude had become unquestionably menacing.”

  I pondered. What I had heard was, of course, of a nature to excite pity and terror, not to mention alarm and despondency, and it would be paltering with the truth to say that I was pleased about it. On the other hand, it was all over now, and it seemed to me that the thing to do was not to mourn over the past but to fix the mind on the bright future. I mean to say, Gussie might have lowered the existing Worcestershire record for goofiness and definitely forfeited all chance of becoming Market Snodsbury's favourite son, but you couldn't get away from the fact that he had proposed to Madeline Bassett, and you had to admit that she had accepted him.

  I put this to Jeeves.

  “A frightful exhibition,” I said, “and one which will very possibly ring down history's pages. But we must not forget, Jeeves, that Gussie, though now doubtless looked upon in the neighbourhood as the world's worst freak, is all right otherwise.”

  “No, sir.”

  I did not get quite this.

  “When you say 'No, sir,' do you mean 'Yes, sir'?”

  “No, sir. I mean 'No, sir.'“

  “He is not all right otherwise?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But he's betrothed.”

  “No longer, sir. Miss Bassett has severed the engagement.”

  “You don't mean that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I wonder if you have noticed a rather peculiar thing about this chronicle. I allude to the fact that at one time or another practically everybody playing a part in it has had occasion to bury his or her face in his or her hands. I have participated in some pretty glutinous affairs in my time, but I think that never before or since have I been mixed up with such a solid body of brow clutchers.