Thank You, Jeeves

'Or should I write a brief, civil note?'

'No, sir. I was instructed to bring back a verbal reply.'

'Right ho, then.'

'Very good, sir.'

At seven on the dot, accordingly, I stepped aboard the yacht and handed the hat and light overcoat to a passing salt. It was with mixed feelings that I did so, for conflicting emotions were warring in the bosom. On the one hand, the keen ozone of Chuffnell Regis had given me a good appetite, and I knew from recollections of his hosp. in New York that J. Washburn Stoker did his guests well. On the other, I had never been what you might call tranquil in his society, and I was not looking forward to it particularly now. You might put it like this if you cared to – The fleshly or corporeal Wooster was anticipating the binge with pleasure, but his spiritual side rather recoiled a bit.

In my experience, there are two kinds of elderly American. One, the stout and horn-rimmed, is matiness itself. He greets you as if you were a favourite son, starts agitating the cocktail shaker before you know where you are, slips a couple into you with a merry laugh, claps you on the back, tells you a dialect story about two Irishmen named Pat and Mike, and, in a word, makes life one grand, sweet song.

The other, which runs a good deal to the cold, grey stare and the square jaw, seems to view the English cousin with concern. It is not Elfin. It broods. It says little. It sucks in its breath in a pained way. And every now and again you catch its eye, and it is like colliding with a raw oyster.

Of this latter class or species J. Washburn Stoker had always been the perpetual vice president.

It was with considerable relief, therefore, that I found that to-night he had eased off a bit. While not precisely affable, he gave a distinct impression of being as nearly affable as he knew how.

'I hope you have no objection to a quiet family dinner, Mr Wooster?' he said, having shaken the hand.

'Rather not. Dashed good of you to ask me,' I replied, not to be outdone in the courtesies.

'Just you and Dwight and myself. My daughter is lying down. She has a headache.'

This was something of a jar. In fact, it seemed to me to take what you might describe as the whole meaning out of this expedition.

'Oh?' I said.

'I am afraid she found her exertions last night a little too much for her,' said Pop Stoker, with something of the old fishlike expression in the eye: and, reading between the lines, I rather gathered that Pauline had been sent to bed without her supper, in disgrace. Old Stoker was not one of your broad-minded, modern parents. There was, as I had had occasion to notice before, a distinct touch of the stern and rockbound old Pilgrim Father about him. A man, in short, who, in his dealings with his family, believed in the firm hand.

Observing that eye, I found it a bit difficult to shape the kindly inquiries.

'Then you – er ... she – er—?'

'Yes. You were quite right, Mr Wooster. She had gone for a swim.'

And once more, as he spoke, I caught a flash of the fishlike. I could see that Pauline's stock was far from high this p.m., and I would have liked to put in a word for the poor young blighter. But beyond an idea of saying that girls would be girls, which I abandoned, I could think of nothing.

At this moment, however, a steward of sorts announced dinner, and we pushed in.

I must say that there were moments during that dinner when I regretted that occurrences which could not be overlooked had resulted in the absence from the board of the Hall party. You will question this statement, no doubt, inclining to the view that all a dinner party needs to make it a success is for Sir Roderick Glossop, the Dowager Lady Chuffnell, and the latter's son, Seabury, not to be there. Nevertheless, I stick to my opinion. There was a certain uncomfortable something about the atmosphere which more or less turned the food to ashes in my mouth. If it hadn't been that this man, this Stoker, had gone out of his way to invite me, I should have said that I was giving him a pain in the neck. Most of the time he just sat and champed in a sort of dark silence, like a man with something on his mind. And when he did speak it was with a marked what-d'you-call-it. I mean to say, not actually out of the corner of his mouth, but very near it.

I did my best to promote a flow of conversation. But it was not till young Dwight had left the table and we were lighting the cigars that I seemed to hit on a topic that interested, elevated, and amused.

'A fine boat, this, Mr Stoker,' I said.

For the first time, something approaching animation came into the face.

'Not many better.'

'I've never done much yachting. And, except at Cowes one year, I've never been on a boat this size.'

He puffed at his cigar. An eye came swivelling round in my direction, then pushed off again.

'There are advantages in having a yacht.'

'Oh, rather.'

'Plenty of room to put your friends up.'

'Heaps.'

'And, when you've got 'em, they can't get away so easy as they could ashore.'

It seemed a rummy way of looking at it, but I supposed a man like Stoker would naturally have a difficulty in keeping guests. I mean, I took it that he had had painful experiences in the past. And nothing, of course, makes a host look sillier to have somebody arrive at his country house for a long visit and then to find, round about lunch- time the second day, that he has made a quiet sneak for the railway station.

'Care to look over the boat?' he asked.

'Fine,' I said.

'I'd be glad to show it to you. This is the main saloon we're in.'

'Ah,' I said.

'I'll show you the state-rooms.'

He rose, and we went along passages and things. We came to a door. He opened it and switched on the light.

'This is one of our larger guest-rooms.'

'Very nice, too.'

'Go in and take a look round.'

Well, there wasn't much to see that I couldn't focus from the threshold, but one has to do the civil thing on these occasions. I toddled over and gave the bed a prod.

And, as I did so, the door slammed. And when I nipped round, the old boy had disappeared.

Rather rummy, was my verdict. In fact, distinctly rummy. I went across and gave the handle a twist.

The bally door was locked.

'Hoy!' I called.

No answer.

'Hey!' I said. 'Mr Stoker.'

Only silence, and lots of it.

I went and sat down on the bed. This seemed to me to want thinking out.

12 START SMEARING, JEEVES!

I can't say I liked the look of things. In addition to being at a loss and completely unable to follow the scenario, I was also distinctly on the uneasy side. I don't know if you ever read a book called 'The Masked Seven'? It's one of those goose-fleshers and there's a chap in it, Drexdale Yeats, a private investigator, who starts looking for clues in a cellar one night, and he's hardly collected a couple when – bingo – there's a metallic clang and there he is with the trapdoor shut and someone sniggering nastily on the other side. For a moment his heart stood still, and so did mine. Excluding the nasty snigger (which Stoker might quite well have uttered without my hearing it), it seemed to me that my case was more or less on all fours with his. Like jolly old Drexdale, I sensed some lurking peril.

Of course, mark you, if something on these lines had occurred at some country house where I was staying, and the hand that had turned the key had been that of a pal of mine, a ready explanation would have presented itself. I should have set it down as a spot of hearty humour. My circle of friends is crammed with fellows who would