The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 2: (Jeeves & Wooster): No. 2 (22 page)

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 innuendos 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 bearded 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 started 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 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 dinnertime.’

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 dinnertime, 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 headmaster, 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 headmaster 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 quite get 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.

Uncle Tom did it, if you remember. So did Gussie. So did Tuppy. So, probably, though I have no data, did Anatole, and I wouldn’t put it past the Bassett. And Aunt Dahlia, I have no doubt, would have done it, too, but for the risk of disarranging the carefully fixed coiffure.

Well, what I am trying to say is that at this juncture I did it myself. Up went the hands and down went the head, and in another jiffy I was clutching as energetically as the best of them.

And it was while I was still massaging the coconut and wondering what the next move was that something barged up against the door like the delivery of a ton of coals.

‘I think this may very possibly be Mr Fink-Nottle himself, sir,’ said Jeeves.

His intuition, however, had led him astray. It was not Gussie but Tuppy. He came in and stood breathing asthmatically. It was plain that he was deeply stirred.

I EYED HIM
narrowly. I didn’t like his looks. Mark you, I don’t say I ever had, much, because Nature, when planning this sterling fellow, shoved in a lot more lower jaw than was absolutely necessary and made the eyes a bit too keen and piercing for one who was neither an Empire builder nor a traffic policeman. But on the present occasion, in addition to offending the aesthetic sense, this Glossop seemed to me to be wearing a distinct air of menace, and I found myself wishing that Jeeves wasn’t always so dashed tactful.

I mean, it’s all very well to remove yourself like an eel sliding into mud when the employer has a visitor, but there are moments – and it looked to me as if this was going to be one of them – when the truer tact is to stick around and stand ready to lend a hand in the free-for-all.

For Jeeves was no longer with us. I hadn’t seen him go, and I hadn’t heard him go, but he had gone. As far as the eye could reach, one noted nobody but Tuppy. And in Tuppy’s demeanour, as I say, there was a certain something that tended to disquiet. He looked to me very much like a man who had come to reopen that matter of my tickling Angela’s ankles.

However, his opening remark told me that I had been alarming myself unduly. It was of a pacific nature, and came as a great relief.

‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I owe you an apology. I have come to make it.’