Jeeves and the Greasy Bird

things looked bleak indeed for bertie wooster until the world's most resourceful gentleman's gentleman stepped in and took over

As I closed the front door behind Aunt Dahlia, whom I had been entertaining to lunch at the Wooster apartment, I had rather the feeling you get when parting company with a tigress of the jungle or one of those fiends with hatchet who are always going about the place slaying six. This aunt is my good and deserving aunt and as a rule as genial a soul as ever downed a veal cutlet, but she's apt to get hot under the collar when thwarted, and in the course of the meal which had just concluded I had been compelled to thwart her like a ton of bricks. It was with quite a few beads of persp bedewing the brow that I went back to the dining room where Jeeves was cleaning up the debris.

"Jeeves," I said, brushing away the b. of p. with my cambric handkerchief, "you were offstage toward the end of lunch, but did you happen to drink in any of the conversation that was taking place?"

"From time to time fragments of it penetrated to me in the kitchen, sir. Mrs. Travers has a (continued on page 134)Greasy Bird(continued from page 127) robust voice. I received the impression that she was incensed."

"She was. And why? Because I stoutly refused to portray Santa Claus at the Christmas orgy she's giving at her rural residence to the children of the local yokels. She kept trying to bend me to her will, but she ought to have known that argument would be fruitless. As the wise old saying has it, you can take a horse to the water, but you can't make it put on white whiskers and go around saying 'Ho-ho-ho.' "

"Very true, sir."

"You think I was justified in being adamant?"

"Fully justified, sir."

"Thank you, Jeeves."

I must say I thought it pretty decent of him to give the young master the weight of his support like this, for only that morning I had had to thwart him as inflexibly as I had thwarted the recent aunt. He had been trying to get me to go to Florida after Christmas, because he likes the fishing there and yearns someday to catch a tarpon. Well, I sympathized with his hopes and dreams, but I particularly wanted to be in London for the Drones Club darts tournament, which comes on in February, so I said Florida was out. And the point I'm making is that he might quite easily have exhibited umbrage or dudgeon or whatever you call it when somebody looks puff-faced, but he didn't, and I honored him for this display of the feudal spirit.

I don't know if it's the same with you, but I've always found, after emerging victorious from a battle of the wills, that I get a touch of remorse and feel I ought to do something to bind up the wounds of the poor slob I've had to crush beneath the iron heel, so now it seemed to me that it would be a graceful act to blow a few bob on flowers for Aunt Dahlia. An olive branch, you might call it, or possibly the amende honorable. Luncheon digested, accordingly, I trickled off in quest of the blooms, and I was approaching her door with them, when who should I see legging it up the steps but Madeline, only daughter of Sir Watkyn and the late Lady Bassett, and I halted abruptly, as though I had had it drawn to my attention that I was about to stub my toe on a scorpion.

This Bassett is a girl I particularly dislike, and owing to an unfortunate misunderstanding too complicated to go into now, she is under the impression that I'm pining away for love of her, and she has constantly assured me that, should anything occur to cause her to sever relations with her current betrothed, a tough egg of the name of Roderick Spode, she will switch to me and, as she puts it, make me happy. So naturally it is my unswerving policy to steer clear of her as far as possible. I abandoned, accordingly, my plan of going in and delivering the olive branch, and after an hour or two at the Drones, brushing up my darts game, I returned to chezWooster. And I had scarcely placed umbrella in stand when the phone rang. It was Aunt Dahlia.

"Bertie?"

"Hullo, aged relative."

"I hope you thoroughly understand that after your craven exhibition at lunch I'm not speaking to you."

"Oh, aren't you?"

"Certainly not. I'm treating you with silent contempt. But, after all, you are my late brother's son whom I frequently dandled on my knee as a baby, and a subhuman baby you were if ever I saw one, though I suppose you were more to be pitied than censured if you looked like a ventriloquist's dummy. So when I see you waist-high in the soup and likely to sink without a trace at any moment, my humane instincts come uppermost, I remember that I am an aunt, and I tell myself that I can't let you go unwarned. Weak of me, of course, but there it is."

"Very creditable," I said, though wishing she could make it a bit clearer. She seemed an aunt who spoke in riddles.

"Madeline called this afternoon."

"Yes, I observed her crossing your threshold. I was on my way to bring you a few long-stemmed roses."

"You and your long-stemmed roses! It would take more than long-stemmed roses to change my view that you're a contemptible cowardly custard and a disgrace to a proud family," she said haughtily. "Your ancestors fought in the Crusades and were often mentioned in dispatches, and you cringe like a salted snail at the thought of appearing as Santa Claus before an audience of charming children who wouldn't hurt a fly. It's enough to make an aunt turn her face to the wall and give up the struggle. However, we threshed all that out at lunch, so I won't go into it now. You're wanting to hear about Madeline Bassett, so here it comes. She's broken her engagement!"

"What!"

"Yes, she has returned Spode to store and tells me she intends to call on you tomorrow afternoon around the hour of four. She predicted that after she's seen you and told you that your patient love is at last to be rewarded you will go singing about the Drones Club."

I tottered. "But this is frightful!"

"I thought it would make you sit up."

"What shall I do for the best?"

"Don't ask me. Ask Jeeves."

I did so without delay.

"I wonder if you could spare me a moment of your valuable time, Jeeves," I said. "A problem has arisen and I want your advice. I must begin by saying that it's one of those delicate problems where one can't mention names. You see what I mean?"

"I understand you perfectly, sir. You would prefer to term the protagonists A and B."

"Or North and South?"

"A and B is more customary, sir."

"Just as you say. Well, A is female, B, male, and owing to a concatenation of circumstances A has got it firmly into her nut that B's in love with her. But he isn't. He views her with concern. Now, until recently A was engaged to----"

"Shall we call him C, sir?"

"Caesar's as good a name as any, I suppose. Well, as I was saying, until quite recently A was engaged to Caesar and B hadn't a worry in the world. But now the fixture has been scratched and A is talking freely of marrying B, and what I want you to bend your brain to is the problem of how he can oil out of it. Don't get the idea that it's simple, because B is what is known as a preux chevalier, so when A comes to him and says, 'B, I will be yours,' he can't just say, 'You will, will you? That's what you think.' He has his code, and the code rules that he must kid her along and accept the situation. And frankly, Jeeves, he'd rather be dead in a ditch. Anything stirring?"

"Yes, sir."

I was astounded. This was certainly quick service.

"Obviously, sir, A's matrimonial plans would be rendered null and void were B to convey the impression that his affections were engaged elsewhere."

I began to see what he was driving at.

"You mean if I--or, rather, B--were to produce some female and assert that she was betrothed to me--or I should say B--the peril would be averted?"

"Precisely, sir."

I mused. "It's a thought, Jeeves, but there's a dickens of a snag--viz., how to get hold of the party of the second part. You can't rush about London asking girls to pretend they're engaged to you. At least, I suppose you can, but it would be quite a nervous strain."

"I would suggest that B apply to a theatrical agent, sir. Such a person would be in an admirable position to supply some resting artiste who would be glad to cooperate in an innocent deception in return for a moderate fee."

I slapped the brow.

"Jeeves," I ejaculated, if ejaculated is the word, "I believe you've hit it. Those theatrical agents assemble in gangs in the Charing Cross Road, don't they?"

"So I have been given to understand, sir."

"I'll tell B," I said, and bright and early on the following morning I might have been observed entering the premises of Jas. Waterbury in a dingy building about halfway up that thoroughfare.

The reason my choice had fallen on Jas. was not that I had heard glowing reports of him from every side, it was simply because all the other places I tried (continued on page 238)Greasy Bird(continued from page 134) had been full of guys and dolls standing bumper to bumper and it hadn't seemed worth while waiting. Entering the lair of Jas. Waterbury, I found his outer office completely empty. It was as if he had parted company with the human herd. There was a door marked Private, and I rapped on it. I had not expected anything to start into life, but I was wrong. A head popped out.

It was what I would describe as a greasy head. Its upper slopes were moist with hair oil and the face, too, conveyed an impression of greasiness, as though its proprietor after the morning shave had thought fit to rub his cheeks with butter. But I am a broad-minded man and I had no objection to his being greasy, if he liked being greasy. Possibly, I felt, all theatrical agents are.

"Hullo," said this oleaginous character. "Something I can do for you?"

"I want a girl."

"Don't we all? What's your line? Are you running a touring company?"

"No, it's more like amateur theatricals."

"Well, let's have the inside story, cocky."

He proved to be both quick and intelligent. He punctuated my narrative with understanding nods and when I had finished said I had come to the right man, for he had a niece called Trixie who would fill the bill to my complete satisfaction.

I pursed my lips a bit dubiously. I was asking myself if an uncle's love might not have made him give the above Trixie too enthusiastic a build-up.

"You're sure she'll be equal to the job? It calls for considerable histrionic skill. Don't you think we ought to have a seasoned professional?"

"Trix is a seasoned professional. Been playing fairy queens in panto for years. Never got a shop in London owing to jealousy in high places, but ask them in Leeds and Wigan what they think of her. Ask them in Hull. Ask them in Huddersfield."

I said I would, if I happened to come across them, and he carried on.

"Don't you fret yourself. Trix'll give you your money's worth. And talking of that, how much does the part pay?"

"I was thinking of a fiver."

"Make it twenty. That way you'll get every ounce of zest and cooperation."

I was in no mood to haggle. I dished out the 20, told him to be at the Wooster residence at four sharp on the morrow, complete with fairy queen, and, sure enough, at precisely that hour the front doorbell rang.

I answered it, for it was Jeeves' afternoon off. Once a week he downs tools at midday and goes to a butlers' club in Curzon Street. The Junior Ganymede, it's called, and he plays bridge there. I flung wide the gates and Jas. and his niece came in, and I started like a nymph surprised while bathing. For an instant you might say I was spellbound.

Not having attended the performance of a pantomime since childhood, I had forgotten how substantial fairy queens were, and the sight of Trixie Waterbury was like a blow from a blunt instrument. She stood about five feet, eleven, and all of her that wasn't billowy curves was flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. It was some moments before I was able to say Good afternoon.

"Afternoon," said Jas. Waterbury. "This is Mr. Wooster, Trix. You call him Bertie."

The fairy queen said wouldn't "sweetie pie" be better, and Jas. Waterbury nodded approvingly.

"Much more box office," he agreed. "I told you she'd be right for the part, cocky. You can rely on her to give a smooth West End performance. When do you expect your ladyfriend?"

"Any moment now."

"Then we'd better dress the stage. You be sitting on his lap, Trixie."

"What!"

He seemed to sense the consternation in my voice, for he frowned a little under the grease.

"We're all working for the good of the show," he reminded me austerely. "You want the scene to carry conviction, don't you?"

I could see there was much in what he said. I sat down, and Wigan's favorite fairy queen descended on my lap with a bump that made the stout chair tremble like an aspen. And scarcely had she started to nestle when the doorbell rang. And who should come in but Roderick Spode, the last caller I was expecting.

This Spode is not one of my inner circle of buddies. From the outset of our acquaintance he has shown himself allergic to Woosters. Far too often he addresses me as "You worm" and on more than one occasion has expressed a wish to tear me into shreds with his bare hands. These things do not make for easy camaraderie.

"Oh, hullo, Spode," I said. "Come along in. I don't think you've met Mr. Waterbury, have you? Mr. Spode, Mr. Jas. Waterbury. And Miss Trixie Waterbury, my fiancée."

Naturally Jas. Waterbury, having been anticipating the entrance of the female star and observing coming on left center a character who wasn't a member of the cast at all, was disconcerted. He appeared to feel that as the act had been shot to pieces like this, there was no sense in hanging around.

"Well, Trix," he said, "your Bertie'll be wanting to talk to his gentleman friend, so give him a kiss and we'll be getting along." And with a greasy smile he led the fairy queen from the room.

Spode, who had been goggling from the outset, continued to goggle.

"What's all this, Wooster? Who on earth is that female?"

"I told you. My fiancée. She plays fairy queens in pantomime."

"She looks like a hippopotamus."

"I suppose fairy queens have to, if they hope to get by in towns like Leeds and Huddersfield. Those audiences up north want lots for their money."

"You're really engaged to her?"

"Yes, all fixed up."

He snorted in a relieved sort of manner.

"Well, this will be good news for Madeline. She and I have had a complete reconciliation. Our engagement is on again, and the poor child was afraid to come and tell you herself. She said she couldn't bear to see the awful dumb agony in your eyes. She has such a tender heart. Gosh!" said Spode with all the polished tact I have learned to expect from him. "What a merciful escape she's had! Just imagine that sweet girl married to an ass like you! It doesn't bear thinking of."

He shuddered strongly and took his departure, leaving me, as I need scarcely tell you, feeling like a million dollars and in a mood to do spring dances all over the apartment. It was as if a great weight had rolled off me. Well, it had of course in one sense, for the fairy queen must have clocked in at fully 160 pounds ringside, but what I mean is that a colossal burden had been lifted from the Wooster soul. The storm clouds had called it a day and the sun had come smiling through.

The only thing that kept joy from being absolutely unconfined was that Jeeves wasn't there to share my hour of triumph. I felt I had to tell the good news to someone, and the thought of Aunt Dahlia presented itself. True, we had parted on steamed-up terms, she foaming at the mouth, self-wet with honest sweat, but it might be that by this time she had come off the boil, so I commended my soul to God, left a note for Jeeves saying where I'd gone and hared off to her address in a swift taxi.

My hardihood was rewarded. I don't say her face lit up when she saw me, but she didn't throw the Perry Mason she was reading at me and she only called me two new names, so I felt that the atmosphere, if not one of the utmost cordiality, was near enough to it for me to spill the good news, and I was about to do so when the telephone rang. The instrument was on a table near her chair, and she reached for it.

"Who?" she boomed. She handed me the receiver. "One of your foul friends wants you. Says his name's Waterbury."

Jas. Waterbury, placed in communication with me, seemed perplexed. In rather an awed voice he asked:

"Where are you, cocky? At the zoo?"

"I don't follow you, Jas. Waterbury."

"A lion just roared at me."

"Oh, that was my aunt."

"Sooner yours than mine. I thought the top of my head had come off."

"She has a robust voice."

"I'll say she has. She could make a good living as a barrow boy. Well, cully, I'm sorry I had to disturb her at feeding time, but I thought you'd like to know that Trix and I have been talking it over and we both think a simple wedding at the registrar's would be best. No need for a lot of fuss and expense. And she says she'd like Brighton for the honeymoon. She's always been fond of Brighton."

I was at something of a loss to know what on earth he was talking about, but reading between the lines, I gathered that the fairy queen was thinking of getting married. I asked if this was so, and he chuckled greasily.

"You will have your joke, Bertie. You know she's getting married."

"I hadn't a notion. Who to?"

"Why, who else but you? Didn't you introduce her to your gentleman friend as your fiancée?"

"But that was just a ruse. I'm sorry, Jas. Waterbury, but you'll have to break it to Miss Waterbury that those wedding bells will not ring out."

"You don't want to marry Trix?"

"I wouldn't marry her with a barge pole."

An astonished "Lord love a duck" came over the wire.

"If that isn't the most remarkable coincidence," said Jas. Waterbury. "Those were the very words employed by two other fellows, one in Hull and the other in Leeds, when refusing to marry Trix after announcing their betrothal before witnesses. Shows what a small world it is. 'Well,' I said to them, 'if that's your attitude, I suppose we'll have to put it on a business basis. You've heard of breach-of-promise actions,' I said to them. They were both gentlemen in every sense of the word and they quite realized that it was their duty to see that Trix got her little bit of heart balm, because there was her despair and desolation to be taken into account, and after a certain amount of argle-bargle back and forth we settled on two thousand quid apiece. And that's what I'd advise doing in your case. I can talk Trixie into accepting that. Nothing, mind you, will ever make life seem anything but a dreary desert for her now she's lost you, but two thousand quid will help. I'll come and see you tomorrow."

I would have preferred, of course, after this exceedingly unpleasant conversation to have gone off into a quiet corner and sat there with my head between my hands, but Aunt Dahlia was now making her wish for explanatory footnotes so manifest that I had to give her my attention. In a broken voice I supplied her with the facts and was surprised to find her sympathetic and understanding.

"There's only one thing to do," she said. "Ring Jeeves up and tell him to come here at once."

"He won't be home yet. He's playing bridge at his club."

"Give him a buzz, anyway."

I did so, and was surprised when I heard a measured voice say, "Mr. Wooster's residence."

"Why, hullo, Jeeves," I said. "I didn' expect you home so early."

"I left in advance of my usual hour, sir. I did not find my bridge game enjoyable. The Duke of Hammersmith's butler twice took me out of business doubles and I had not the heart to continue."

"Well, will you hasten to Aunt Dahlia's place. Your presence is sorel' needed."

"Very good, sir."

"Is he coming?" said Aunt Dahlia.

"Like the wind. Just putting on his bowler hat."

"Then you pop off."

"You don't need me for the conference?"

"No."

"Three heads are better than two."

"Not when one of them is solid ivory from the neck up," said the aged relative, reverting to something more like her customary form.

I slept fitfully, as the expression is, that night. It was past 11 when I presented myself at the breakfast table.

"I take it, Jeeves," I said as I started to pick at a moody kippered herring, "that Aunt Dahlia has told you all?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Travers was most communicative."

"My predicament is ... how would you put it?"

"One of some gravity, sir."

I leaped from the table, the kippered herring frozen on my lips. The front doorbell had rung.

"Here he is, Jeeves!"

"Yes, sir."

"I can't possibly face him as early in the morning as this."

"In that case it might be advisable, sir, if you were to conceal yourself while I conduct the negotiations. Behind the piano suggests itself as a suitable locale."

To say that I found it comfortable behind the piano would be to deceive my public, but I secured privacy, and privacy was just what I was after. The facilities, too, for keeping in touch with what was going on in the great world outside were excellent. I heard the door opening, and then Jas. Waterbury's voice.

"Wooster in, cocky?"

"No, sir, he has just stepped out."

"That's odd. He was expecting me."

"You are Mr. Waterbury?"

"That's me. Where's he gone?"

"I think it was his intention to visit his pawnbroker, sir."

"What!"

"He mentioned something about hoping to obtain a few pounds on his watch."

"Are you kidding? What's he want to pop his watch for?"

"Mr. Wooster's means are extremely straitened."

"You mean he's broke?"

"One might certainly describe him as fiscally crippled."

Jas. Waterbury's voice had a sort of tremolo in it, as if he'd just begun to realize that life wasn't the thing of roses and sunshine he'd been supposing it. I knew how he must be feeling. There is no anguish like that of the man who, thinking he has found the pot of gold behind the rainbow, suddenly learns from a reliable source that he hasn't, if you know what I mean.

"But how can he be broke? He slipped me twenty quid yesterday."

"Mr. Wooster is generous to a fault."

"And what about this place of his?"

"Sir?"

"He didn't get this for nothing. And you don't get a valet for nothing."

"Sir?"

"You're his valet, aren't you?"

"Oh, no, sir. His aunt, Mrs. Travers, supposes me to be holding that position, but I represent Messrs. Wilson and Bunting, wine merchants, goods supplied to the value of three hundred and four pounds, fifteen shillings and elevenpence, a bill which Mr. Wooster is unable to settle. I am what is technically known as the man in possession."

This appeared to have got right in among Jas. Waterbury.

"You mean you're a broker's man?"

"Precisely, sir."

"You don't look like one."

"No, sir?"

"Or talk like one."

"There is a ready explanation, sir. I was at one time a gentleman's personal gentleman, but I am sorry to say I have come down in the world and my present situation was the only one I could secure. But while not what I have been accustomed to, it has its compensations. Mr. Wooster is a very pleasant young gentleman and takes my intrusion in an amiable spirit. Our relations have indeed become so cordial that he has confided his financial position to me. It appears that he is entirely dependent on the bounty of his aunt, a Mrs. Travers, a lady of uncertain temper who has several times threatened, unless he curbs his extravagance, to cancel his allowance and send him to Canada on a small monthly remittance. Should she learn of my official status and the reason for my being here, I do not like to envisage the outcome."

There was another pregnant silence, occupied, I should imagine, by Jas. Waterbury in wiping his brow.

Finally he said, "Gorblimey!"

He may have been intending to amplify the remark, but, if so, the words were dashed from his lips. There was a sound like a mighty rushing wind and I became aware that Aunt Dahlia was with us. As the bell hadn't rung, I took it that in letting Jas. Waterbury in Jeeves must have omitted to close the door.

Her eye seemed to have passed lightly over Jas. Waterbury, for it was to Jeeves that she addressed herself.

"Jeeves," she boomed, "can you look me in the face?"

"Certainly, madam, if you wish."

"Well, I'm surprised you can. I've just found out that you're a broker's man in valet's clothing. Can you deny it?"

"No, madam. Concealment, I fear, is useless. I represent Messrs. Wilson and Bunting, wines, spirits and liqueurs supplied to the value of three hundred and four pounds, fifteen shillings and elevenpence."

"Good God! What does young Bertie do--bathe in the stuff? Three hundred and four pounds, fifteen shillings and elevenpence! And in the red to that extent he's planning, I hear, to marry the fat woman in a circus."

"A portrayer of fairy queens in pantomime, madam."

"Same thing. I know those fairy queens. Starchy foods and stout in the dressing room. Roderick Spode says she looks like a hippopotamus."

I couldn't see him, but I imagine Jas. Waterbury drew himself to his full height at this description of his flesh and blood. No uncle likes criticism directed at a niece's embonpoint.When he spoke, his voice was stiff and offended.

"That's my niece you're talking about. And he's going to marry her or else get sued for breach."

It's just a guess, but I think Aunt Dahlia must have drawn herself to her full height, too. For the first time, she seemed to recognize that Jas. was among those present.

"Who are you?"

"Waterbury's the name."

"This fairy queen is your niece?"

"That's right, and she's engaged to Wooster. He announced it before witnesses."

"And she thinks of suing him for breach of promise?"

"That's right."

"Well, she'll have to go to Canada to do it, because that's where Bertie Wooster'll be off to on the next boat. And he won't have money to throw away on breach-of-promise actions. It'll be as much as he can do to keep body and soul together on what I'm going to allow him. If he gets a meat meal every third day, he'll be lucky. You tell that niece of yours to forget Bertie and go and marry the demon king."

Experience has taught me that except in vital matters like playing Santa Claus at Christmas parties, it's impossible to defy Aunt Dahlia, and apparently Jas. Waterbury thought the same, for a moment later I heard the front door slam. He had gone without a cry.

Aunt Dahlia spoke:

"These emotional scenes take it out of one, Jeeves. Can you get me a drop of something sustaining?"

"Certainly, madam."

"How was I? All right?"

"Superb, madam."

"I think I was in good voice."

"Very sonorous, madam."

"Well, it's nice to feel that our efforts were crowned with success. This will relieve young Bertie's mind. I use the word mind loosely. When do you expect him back?"

"Mr. Wooster is in residence, madam. You will find him behind the piano."

I was already emerging, and my first act was to pay them both a marked tribute. Jeeves accepted it gracefully, Aunt Dahlia with a snort.

"Easy enough to hand out the soft soap, young Bertie, but what I'd like to see from you is less guff and more action. If you were really grateful, you would play Santa Claus at my Christmas party."

I could see her point. It was well taken. I clenched the hands. I set the jaw. I made the great decision.

"Very well, aged relative."

"You will?"

"I will."

"That's my boy. What's there to be afraid of? All those kids'll do is rub chocolate on your whiskers."

"Chocolate?" I said in a low voice.

"Or strawberry jam. Pay no attention, by the way, to stories you may have heard of them setting fire to the curate's beard last year. It was purely accidental."

I had begun to tremble, again like an aspen, when Jeeves spoke:

"Pardon me, madam."

"Yes, Jeeves?"

"If I might offer the suggestion, I think that perhaps a maturer artist than Mr. Wooster would give a more convincing performance."

"Don't tell me you're thinking of volunteering?"

"No, madam. The artist I had in mind was Mr. Spode. He has a fine presence and a somewhat deeper voice than Mr. Wooster. His Ho-ho-ho would be more dramatically effective, and I am sure that if you approached her, Miss Bassett would persuade him to undertake the role."

Aunt Dahlia pondered.

"I believe you're right, Jeeves. I'll go and see her now. It's tough on those children, for it will mean robbing them of the laugh of a lifetime, but they can't expect life to be one round of pleasure."

She exited smiling, and I turned to Jeeves, deeply moved. He had saved me from the fate that is worse than death, for I hadn't believed for a moment the aged r.'s story of the blaze in the curate's beard being an accident. The younger element had probably sat up nights planning it out.

"Jeeves," I said, "you were saying something not long ago about pushing off to Florida after Christmas."

"It was merely a suggestion, sir."

"You hope to catch a tarpon, do you not?"

"I confess that it is my ambition, sir."

I sighed. It wasn't so much that it pained me to think of some tarpon, perhaps a wife and mother, being jerked from the society of its loved ones on the end of a hook. What gashed me like a knife was the thought of missing the Drones Club darts tournament, for which I would have been a snip this year. But what would you do? I fought down my regret.

"Will you see to booking the tickets. We might leave directly after Christmas."

"Very good, sir."

I struck a graver note.

"Heaven help the tarpon that tries to pit its feeble cunning against you, Jeeves," I said. "It will be a one-sided contest."