Read Online Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit by P.G. Wodehouse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P.G. Wodehouse
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the
after—breakfast cigarette, and I eyed it with something of the nervous
discomfort of one confronted with a ticking bomb. Telegrams have so often been
the heralds or harbingers or whatever they’re called of sharp crises in my
affairs that I have come to look on them askance, wondering if something is
going to pop out of the envelope and bite me in the leg. It was with a
telegram, it may be recalled, that Fate teed off in the sinister episode of Sir
Watkyn Bassett, Roderick Spode and the silver cow-creamer which I was
instructed by Aunt Dahlia to pinch from the first-named’s collection at
Totleigh Towers.
Little
wonder, then, that as I brooded over this one — eyeing it, as I say, askance —
I was asking myself if Hell’s foundations were about to quiver again.
Still,
there the thing was, and it seemed to me, weighing the pros and cons, that only
one course lay before me — viz, to open it.
I did
so. Handed in at Brinkley-cum-Snodsfield-in-the-Marsh, it was signed ‘Travers’,
this revealing it as the handiwork either of Aunt Dahlia or Thomas P. Travers,
her husband, a pleasant old bird whom she had married at her second pop some
years earlier. From the fact that it started with the words ‘Bertie, you worm’
I deduced that it was the former who had taken post-office pen in hand. Uncle
Tom is more guarded in his speech than the female of the species. He generally
calls me ‘Me boy’.
This
was the substance of the communication:
Bertie, you worm, your early presence
desired. Drop everything and come
down here pronto, prepared for lengthy
visit. Urgently need you to buck up
a blighter with whiskers. Love. Travers.
I
brooded over this for the rest of the morning, and on my way to lunch at the
Drones shot off my answer, a brief request for more light:
Did you say whiskers or whisky? Love. Wooster.
I found
another from her on returning:
Whiskers, ass. The son of a what-not
has short but distinct side-whiskers.
Love. Travers.
It’s an
odd thing about memory, it so often just fails to spear the desired object. At
the back of my mind there was dodging about a hazy impression that somewhere at
some time I heard someone mention short side-whiskers in some connection, but I
couldn’t pin it down. It eluded me. So, pursuing the sound old policy of going
to the fountain-head for information, I stepped out and dispatched the
following:
What short side-whiskered son of a what-not
would this be, and why does he need bucking up?
Wire full details, as at present fogged,
bewildered and mystified. Love. Wooster.
She
replied with the generous warmth which causes so many of her circle to hold on
to their hats when she lets herself go:
Listen, you foul blot. What’s the idea of making
me spend a fortune on telegrams like this?
Do you think I am made of money? Never you
mind what short side-whiskered son of a
what-not it is or why he needs bucking up.
You just come as I tell you and look slippy
about it. Oh, and by the way, go to Aspinall’s in
Bond Street and get pearl necklace of mine they
have there and bring it down with you. Have
you got that? Aspinall’s. Bond Street. Pearl
necklace. Shall expect you tomorrow. Love. Travers.
A
little shaken but still keeping the flag flying, I responded with the ensuing:
Fully grasp all that Aspinall’s-Bond-Street-
pearl-necklace stuff, but what you are overlooking
is that coming to Brinkley at present juncture not
so jolly simple as you seem to think. There are
complications and what not. Wheels within
wheels, if you get what I mean. Whole thing calls
for deep thought. Will weigh matter carefully
and let you know decision. Love. Wooster.
You
see, though Brinkley Court is a home from home and gets five stars in Baedeker
as the headquarters of Monsieur Anatole, Aunt Dahlia’s French cook — a place,
in short, to which in ordinary circs I race, when invited, with a whoop and a
holler — it had
after—breakfast cigarette, and I eyed it with something of the nervous
discomfort of one confronted with a ticking bomb. Telegrams have so often been
the heralds or harbingers or whatever they’re called of sharp crises in my
affairs that I have come to look on them askance, wondering if something is
going to pop out of the envelope and bite me in the leg. It was with a
telegram, it may be recalled, that Fate teed off in the sinister episode of Sir
Watkyn Bassett, Roderick Spode and the silver cow-creamer which I was
instructed by Aunt Dahlia to pinch from the first-named’s collection at
Totleigh Towers.
Little
wonder, then, that as I brooded over this one — eyeing it, as I say, askance —
I was asking myself if Hell’s foundations were about to quiver again.
Still,
there the thing was, and it seemed to me, weighing the pros and cons, that only
one course lay before me — viz, to open it.
I did
so. Handed in at Brinkley-cum-Snodsfield-in-the-Marsh, it was signed ‘Travers’,
this revealing it as the handiwork either of Aunt Dahlia or Thomas P. Travers,
her husband, a pleasant old bird whom she had married at her second pop some
years earlier. From the fact that it started with the words ‘Bertie, you worm’
I deduced that it was the former who had taken post-office pen in hand. Uncle
Tom is more guarded in his speech than the female of the species. He generally
calls me ‘Me boy’.
This
was the substance of the communication:
Bertie, you worm, your early presence
desired. Drop everything and come
down here pronto, prepared for lengthy
visit. Urgently need you to buck up
a blighter with whiskers. Love. Travers.
I
brooded over this for the rest of the morning, and on my way to lunch at the
Drones shot off my answer, a brief request for more light:
Did you say whiskers or whisky? Love. Wooster.
I found
another from her on returning:
Whiskers, ass. The son of a what-not
has short but distinct side-whiskers.
Love. Travers.
It’s an
odd thing about memory, it so often just fails to spear the desired object. At
the back of my mind there was dodging about a hazy impression that somewhere at
some time I heard someone mention short side-whiskers in some connection, but I
couldn’t pin it down. It eluded me. So, pursuing the sound old policy of going
to the fountain-head for information, I stepped out and dispatched the
following:
What short side-whiskered son of a what-not
would this be, and why does he need bucking up?
Wire full details, as at present fogged,
bewildered and mystified. Love. Wooster.
She
replied with the generous warmth which causes so many of her circle to hold on
to their hats when she lets herself go:
Listen, you foul blot. What’s the idea of making
me spend a fortune on telegrams like this?
Do you think I am made of money? Never you
mind what short side-whiskered son of a
what-not it is or why he needs bucking up.
You just come as I tell you and look slippy
about it. Oh, and by the way, go to Aspinall’s in
Bond Street and get pearl necklace of mine they
have there and bring it down with you. Have
you got that? Aspinall’s. Bond Street. Pearl
necklace. Shall expect you tomorrow. Love. Travers.
A
little shaken but still keeping the flag flying, I responded with the ensuing:
Fully grasp all that Aspinall’s-Bond-Street-
pearl-necklace stuff, but what you are overlooking
is that coming to Brinkley at present juncture not
so jolly simple as you seem to think. There are
complications and what not. Wheels within
wheels, if you get what I mean. Whole thing calls
for deep thought. Will weigh matter carefully
and let you know decision. Love. Wooster.
You
see, though Brinkley Court is a home from home and gets five stars in Baedeker
as the headquarters of Monsieur Anatole, Aunt Dahlia’s French cook — a place,
in short, to which in ordinary circs I race, when invited, with a whoop and a
holler — it had
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