Mr. Wooster! I had already arrived independently at the decision of which you speak.
Mr. Wooster, you are a friend of this man—a fact which should in itself have been sufficient warning to me. You will—unlike myself—be seeing him again. Kindly inform him, when you do see him, that he may consider his engagement at an end.”
“Right-ho,” I said, and hurried off after the crowd. It seemed to me that a little bailing-out might be in order.
It was about an hour later that I shoved my way out to where I had parked the car. Jeeves was sitting in the front seat, brooding over the cosmos. He rose courteously as I approached.
“You are leaving, sir?”
“I am.”
“And Sir Roderick, sir?”
“Not coming. I am revealing no secrets, Jeeves, when I inform you that he and I have parted brass-rags. Not on speaking terms now.”
“Indeed, sir? And Mr. Biffen? Will you wait for him?”
“No. He’s in prison.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes. Laden down with chains in the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat. I tried to bail him out, but they decided on second thoughts to coop him up for the night.”
“What was his offence, sir?”
“You remember that girl of his I was telling you about? He found her in a tank at the Palace of Beauty and went after her by the quickest route, which was via a plate-glass window. He was then scooped up and borne off in irons by the constabulary.” I gazed sideways at him. It is difficult to bring off a penetrating glance out of the corner of your eye, but I managed it. “Jeeves,” I said, “there is more in this than the casual observer would suppose. You told Mr. Biffen to go to the Palace of Beauty. Did you know the girl would be there?”
“Yes, sir.”
This was most remarkable and rummy to a degree.
“Dash it, do you know everything?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Jeeves, with an indulgent smile. Humouring the young master.
“Well, how did you know that?”
“I happen to be acquainted with the future Mrs. Biffen, sir.”
“I see. Then you knew all about that business in New York?”
“Yes, sir. And it was for that reason that I was not altogether favourably disposed towards Mr. Biffen when you were first kind enough to suggest that I might be able to offer some slight assistance. I mistakenly supposed that he had been trifling with the girl’s affections, sir. But when you told me the true facts of the case I appreciated the injustice I had done to Mr. Biffen and endeavoured to make amends.”
“Well, he certainly owes you a lot. He’s crazy about her.”
“That is very gratifying, sir.”
“And she ought to be pretty grateful to you, too. Old Biffy’s got fifteen thousand a year, not to mention more cows, pigs, hens, and ducks than he knows what to do with. A dashed useful bird to have in any family.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, Jeeves,” I said, “how did you happen to know the girl in the first place?”
Jeeves looked dreamily out into the traffic.
“She is my niece, sir. If I might make the suggestion, sir, I should not jerk the steering-wheel with quite such suddenness. We very nearly collided with that omnibus.”
Without the Option
The evidence was all in. The machinery of the Law had worked without a hitch. And the beak, having adjusted a pair of pince-nez which looked as though they were going to do a nosedive any moment, coughed like a pained sheep and slipped us the bad news.
“The prisoner Wooster,” he said—and who can paint the shame and agony of Bertram at hearing himself so described?—“will pay a fine of five pounds.”
“Oh, rather,” I said. “Absolutely. Like a shot.”
I was dashed glad to get the thing settled at such a reasonable figure. I gazed across what they call the sea of faces till I picked up Jeeves, sitting at the back. Stout fellow, he had come to see the young master through his hour of trial.
“I say, Jeeves,” I sang out, “have you got a fiver? I’m a bit short.”
“Silence!” bellowed some officious blighter.
“It’s all right,” I said; “just arranging the financial details. Got the stuff, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good egg!”
“Are you a friend of the prisoner?” asked the beak.
“I am in Mr. Wooster’s employment, your worship, in the capacity of gentleman’s personal gentleman.”
“Then pay the fine to the clerk.”
“Very good, your worship.”
The beak gave a coldish nod in my direction, as much as to say that they might now strike the fetters from my wrists; and, having hitched up the pince-nez once more, proceeded to hand poor old Sippy one of the nastiest looks ever seen in Bosher Street Police Court.
“The case of the prisoner Leon Trotsky—which,” he said, giving Sippy the eye again, “I am strongly inclined to think an assumed and fictitious name—is more serious. He has been convicted of a wanton and violent assault upon the police. The evidence of the officer has proved that the prisoner struck him in the abdomen, causing severe internal pain, and in other ways interfered with him in the execution of his duties. I am aware that on the night following the annual aquatic contest between the universities of Oxford and Cambridge a certain licence is traditionally granted by the authorities, but aggravated acts of ruffianly hooliganism like that of the prisoner Trotsky cannot be overlooked or palliated. He will serve a sentence of thirty days in the second division without the option of a fine.”
“No, I say—here!—hi!—dash it all!” protested poor old Sippy.
“Silence!” bellowed the officious blighter.
“Next case,” said the beak.
And that was that.
The whole affair was most unfortunate. Memory is a trifle blurred; but, as far as I can piece together the facts, what happened was more or less this.
Abstemious cove though I am as a general thing, there is one night in the year when, putting all other engagements aside, I am rather apt to let myself go a bit and renew my lost youth, as it were. The night to which I allude is the one following the annual aquatic contest between
