1
Jeeves Exerts the Old Cerebellum[1]
“Morning, Jeeves,” I said.
“Good morning, sir,” said Jeeves.
He put the good old cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and I took a refreshing sip. Excellent, as usual. Not too hot, not too sweet, not to weak, not too strong, not too much milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer. A wonderful guy, Jeeves. So competent in every respect. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Just for example. Every other valet I’ve ever had entered my room in the morning while I was still asleep, but Jeeves seems to know when I’m awake by a sort of telepathy. He always comes in with the cup exactly two minutes after I come to life.
“How is the weather, Jeeves?”
“Exceptionally clement, sir.”
“Anything in the papers?”
“Some crisis in the Balkans[2], sir. Otherwise, nothing.”
“I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put all my money on Privateer[3] for the two o’clock race this afternoon. How about it?”
“I shall not advise it, sir.”
That was enough for me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn’t say, but he knows. There was a time when I would laugh lightly, and go ahead, and lose everything, but not now.
“By the way,” I said, “have those mauve shirts I ordered arrived yet?”
“Yes, sir. I sent then back.”
“Sent them back?”
“Yes, sir. They would not suit you.”
Well, I must say I bow to superior knowledge. Weak? I don’t know. Most fellows, no doubt, are sure that their valets must only crease trousers and so on; but it’s different with Jeeves. Right from the first day he came to me, I have looked on him as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend.
“Mr. Little[4] rang up on the telephone a few moments ago, sir. I informed him that you were not yet awake.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“No, sir. He mentioned that he had a matter of importance to discuss with you, but gave no details.”
“Oh, well, I expect I shall see him at the club.”
“No doubt, sir.”
To be honest, I wasn’t excited to see him. Bingo[5] Little is a fellow I was at school with, and we see each other often. He’s the nephew of old Mortimer[6] Little, who retired from business recently with a lot of money. Bingo wandered about London, his uncle gave him enough money, and led a fairly unclouded life. I suspected that he had discovered some new brand of cigarette which he wanted me to try, or something like that.
After breakfast I lit a cigarette and went to the open window. It certainly was one a bright day. “Jeeves,” I said.
“Sir?” said Jeeves.
“You were absolutely right about the weather. It is a nice morning.”
“Decidedly, sir.”
“Spring and all that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the spring, Jeeves, flowers grow and birds sing.”
“No doubt, sir.”
“Exactly! Then bring me my cane, my yellowest shoes, and the old green hat. I’m going into the park.”
I don’t know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these days in the end of April and in the beginning of May, when the sky is blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there’s a breeze blowing from the west? Romantic, if you know what I mean. On this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it was rather terrible when I suddenly ran into[7] Bingo Little, in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.
“Hallo, Bertie[8],” said Bingo.
“My God, man!” I gargled. “Your tie! Why? For what reason?”
“Oh, the tie?” He blushed. “I—er—I was given it.”
He seemed embarrassed, so I dropped the subject[9]. We walked a bit, and sat down on a couple of chairs by the Serpentine[10].
“Jeeves tells me you want to talk to me about something,” I said.
“Eh?” said Bingo. “Oh yes, yes. Yes.”
I waited for the news, but he didn’t seem to go on. Conversation languished. He stared straight ahead of him.
“I say, Bertie,” he said, after a pause of about an hour and a quarter.
“Hallo!”
“Do you like the name Mabel[11]?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t think there’s a kind of music in the word, like the wind through the trees?”
“No.”
He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.
“Of course, you wouldn’t. You always were a worm without any soul, weren’t you?”
“Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all.”
For I realized now that poor old Bingo had fallen in love again. Ever since I have known him—and we were at school together—he has been perpetually falling in love with someone, generally in the spring. At school he had the finest collection of actresses’ photographs of his time; and at Oxford he was famous for his romantic nature.
“You’d better come along and meet her at lunch,” he said, looking at his watch.
“Well,” I said. “Where are you meeting her? At the Ritz[12]?”
“Near the Ritz.”
He was geographically accurate. About fifty yards east of the Ritz there is a tea-and-bun shop[13], and into this young Bingo dived like a rabbit. Before I had time to say a word we were at a table, with a pool of coffee left there by a previous client.
