Read Online Expecting Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse - Free Book Online

authorities.”
    â€œWell, why don’t the policemen in New York dress properly?”
    George took a look at the chewing officer across the room.
    â€œI don’t see anything missing,” he said
    â€œI mean to say, why don’t they wear helmets like they do in London? Why do they look like postmen? It isn’t fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed confusing. I was simply standing on the pavement, looking at things, when a fellow who looked like a postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn’t see why I should have postmen prodding me. Why the dickens should a fellow come three thousand miles to be prodded by postmen?”
    â€œThe point is well taken,” said George. “What did you do?”
    â€œI gave him a shove, you know. I’ve got a frightfully hasty temper, you know. All the Bassington-Bassingtons have got frightfully hasty tempers, don’t you know! And then he biffed me in the eye and lugged me off to this beastly place.”
    â€œI’ll fix it, old son,” I said. And I hauled out the bank-roll and went off to open negotiations, leaving Cyril to talk to George. I don’t mind admitting that I was a bit perturbed. There were furrows in the old brow, and I had a kind of foreboding feeling. As long as this chump stayed in New York, I was responsible for him: and he didn’t give me the impression of being the species of cove a reasonable chappie would care to be responsible for for more than about three minutes.
    I mused with a considerable amount of tensity over Cyril that night, when I had got home and Jeeves had brought me the final whisky. I couldn’t help feeling that this visit of his to America was going to be one of those times that try men’s souls and what not. I hauled out Aunt Agatha’s letter of introduction and reread it, and there was no getting away from the fact that she undoubtedly appeared to be somewhat wrapped up in this blighter and to consider it my mission in life to shield him from harm while on the premises. I was deuced thankful that he had taken such a liking for George Caffyn, old George being a steady sort of cove. After I had got him out of his dungeon-cell, he and old George had gone off together, as chummy as brothers, to watch the afternoon rehearsal of “Ask Dad.” There was some talk, I gathered, of their dining together. I felt pretty easy in my mind while George had his eye on him.
    I had got about as far as this in my meditations, when Jeeves came in with a telegram. At least, it wasn’t a telegram: it was a cable—from Aunt Agatha—and this is what it said:—
    Has Cyril Bassington-Bassington called yet? On no account introduce him into theatrical circles. Vitally important. Letter follows.
    I read it a couple of times.
    â€œThis is rummy, Jeeves!”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œVery rummy and dashed disturbing!”
    â€œWill there be anything further to-night, sir?”
    Of course, if he was going to be as bally unsympathetic as that there was nothing to be done. My idea had been to show him the cable and ask his advice. But if he was letting those purple socks rankle to that extent, the good old
noblesse oblige
of the Woosters couldn’t lower itself to the extent of pleading with the man. Absolutely not. So I gave it a miss.
    â€œNothing more, thanks.”
    â€œGood night, sir.”
    â€œGood night.”
    He floated away, and I sat down to think the thing over. I had been directing the best efforts of the old bean to the problem for a matter of half an hour, when there was a ring at the bell. I went to the door, and there was Cyril, looking pretty festive.
    â€œI’ll come in for a bit if I may,” he said. “Got something rather priceless to tell you.”
    He curveted past me into the sitting-room, and when I got there after shutting the front door I found him reading Aunt Agatha’s cable and giggling in a rummy sort of manner.