Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit by P.G. Wodehouse

Worship’s
ready wit, but he shushed me again, and His Worship came to the surface once
more.
    ‘However,’
he went on, adjusting his pince-nez, ‘in consideration of your youth I will
exercise clemency.’
    ‘Oh,
fine!’ I said.
    ‘Fine,’
replied the other half of the cross—talk act, who seemed to know all the
answers, ‘is right. Ten pounds. Next case.’
    I paid
my debt to Society, and pushed off.
    Jeeves
was earning the weekly envelope by busying himself at some domestic task when I
reached the old home. He cocked an inquiring eye at me, and I felt that an
explanation was due to him. It would have surprised him, of course, to discover
that my room was empty and my bed had not been slept in.
    ‘A
little trouble last night with the minions of the Law, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Quite
a bit of that Eugene-Aram-walked-between-with-gyves-upon-his-wrists stuff.’
    ‘Indeed,
sir? Most vexing.’
    ‘Yes, I
didn’t like it very much, but the magistrate — with whom I have just been
threshing the thing out — had a wonderful time. I brought a ray of sunshine
into his drab life all right. Did you know that these magistrates were expert
comedians?’
    ‘No,
sir. The fact had not been drawn to my attention.
    ‘Think
of Groucho Marx and you will get the idea. One gag after another, and all at my
expense. I was just the straight man, and I found the experience most
unpleasant, particularly as I had had no breakfast that any conscientious
gourmet could call breakfast. Have you ever passed the night in chokey,
Jeeves?’
    ‘No,
sir. I have been fortunate in that respect.’
    ‘It
renders the appetite unusually keen. So rally round, if you don’t mind, and
busy yourself with the skillet. We have eggs on the premises, I presume?’
    ‘Yes,
sir.’
    ‘I
shall need about fifty, fried, with perhaps the same number of pounds of bacon.
Toast, also. Four loaves will probably be sufficient, but stand by to weigh in
with more if necessary. And don’t forget the coffee — say sixteen pots.’
    ‘Very
good, sir.’
    ‘And
after that,’ I said with a touch of bitterness, ‘I suppose you will go racing
round to the Junior Ganymede to enter this spot of bother of mine in the club
book.’
    ‘I fear
I have no alternative, sir. Rule Eleven is very strict.’
    ‘Well,
if you must, you must, I suppose. I wouldn’t want you to be hauled up in a
hollow square of butlers and have your buttons snipped off. That club book,
Jeeves. You’re absolutely sure there’s nothing in it in the C’s under “Cheesewright”?’
    ‘Nothing
but what I outlined last night, sir.’
    ‘And a
lot of help that is!’ I said moodily. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Jeeves, that
this Cheesewright has become a menace.’
    ‘Indeed,
sir?’
    ‘And I
had hoped that you might have found something in the club book which would have
enabled me to spike his guns. Still, if you can’t, you can’t, of course. All
right, rush along and dish up that breakfast.’
    I had
slept but fitfully on the plank bed which was all that Vinton Street Gestapo
had seen their way to provide for the use of clients, so after partaking of a
hearty meal I turned in between the sheets. Like Rollo Beaminster, I wanted to
forget. It must have been well after the luncheon hour when the sound of the
telephone jerked me out of the dreamless. Feeling a good deal refreshed, I
shoved on a dressing-gown and went to the instrument.
    It was
Florence.
    ‘Bertie?’
she yipped.
    ‘Hullo?
I thought you said you were going to Brinkley today.’
    ‘I’m
just starting. I rang up to ask how you got on after I left last night.’
    I
laughed a mirthless laugh.
    ‘Not so
frightfully well,’ I replied. ‘I was scooped in by the constabulary.’
    ‘What!
You told me they didn’t arrest you.’
    ‘They
don’t. But they did.’
    ‘Are
you all right now?’
    ‘Well,
I have a pinched look.’
    ‘But I
don’t understand. Why did they arrest you?’
    ‘It’s a
long story. Cutting it down