Well—I mean to say—what? And Nietzsche, from all accounts, a lot worse than that!
“Jeeves,” I said, when he came in with my morning tea, “I’ve been thinking it over. You’re engaged again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I sucked down a cheerful mouthful. A great respect for this bloke’s judgment began to soak through me.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said; “about that check suit.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is it really a frost?”
“A trifle too bizarre, sir, in my opinion.”
“But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.”
“Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.”
“He’s supposed to be one of the best men in London.”
“I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.”
I hesitated a bit. I had a feeling that I was passing into this chappie’s clutches, and that if I gave in now I should become just like poor old Aubrey Fothergill, unable to call my soul my own. On the other hand, this was obviously a cove of rare intelligence, and it would be a comfort in a lot of ways to have him doing the thinking for me. I made up my mind.
“All right, Jeeves,” I said. “You know! Give the bally thing away to somebody!”
He looked down at me like a father gazing tenderly at the wayward child.
“Thank you, sir. I gave it to the under-gardener last night. A little more tea, sir?”
DISENTANGLING OLD DUGGIE
Doesn’t some poet or philosopher fellow say that it’s when our intentions are best that we always make the worst breaks? I can’t put my hand on the passage, but you’ll find it in Shakespeare or somewhere, I’m pretty certain.
At any rate, it’s always that way with me. And the affair of Douglas Craye is a case in point.
I had dined with Duggie (a dear old pal of mine) one night at his club, and as he was seeing me out he said: “Reggie, old top”—my name’s Reggie Pepper—”Reggie, old top, I’m rather worried.”
“Are you, Duggie, old pal?” I said.
“Yes, Reggie, old fellow,” he said, “I am. It’s like this. The Booles have asked me down to their place for the weekend, and I don’t know whether to go or not. You see, they have early breakfast, and besides that there’s a frightful risk of music after dinner. On the other hand, young Roderick Boole thinks he can play piquet.”
“I should go,” I said.
“But I’m not sure Roderick’s going to be there this time.”
It was a problem, and I didn’t wonder poor old Dug had looked pale and tired at dinner.
Then I had the idea which really started all the trouble.
“Why don’t you consult a palmist?” I said.
“That sounds a good idea,” said Duggie.
“Go and see Dorothea in Forty-second Street. She’s a wonder. She’ll settle it for you in a second. She’ll see from your lines that you are thinking of making a journey, and she’ll either tell you to get a move on, which will mean that Roderick will be there, or else to keep away because she sees disaster.”
“You seem to be next to the game all right.”
“I’ve been to a good many of them. You’ll like Dorothea.”
“What did you say her name was—Dorothea? What do I do? Do I just walk in? Shan’t I feel a fearful chump? How much do I give her?”
“Five bucks. You’d better write and make a date.”
“All right,” said Duggie. “But I know I shall look a frightful fool.”
About a week later I ran into him between the acts at the Knickerbocker. The old boy was beaming.
“Reggie,” he said, “you did me the best turn anyone’s ever done me, sending me to Mrs. Darrell.”
“Mrs. Darrell?”
“You know. Dorothea. Her real name’s Darrell. She’s a widow. Her husband was in some regiment, and left her without a penny. It’s a frightfully pathetic story. Haven’t time to tell you now. My boy, she’s a marvel. She had hardly looked at my hand, when she said: ‘You will prosper in any venture you undertake.’ And next day, by George, I went down to the Booles’ and separated young Roderick from seventy dollars. She’s a wonderful woman. Did you ever see just that shade of hair?”
