Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit by P.G. Wodehouse Page B

roots
of the soul through rimless pince-nez, with the latter you got the eye nude.
    For a
moment I was under the impression that my visitor’s emotion was due to his
having found me at this advanced hour in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, a costume
which, if worn at three o’clock in the afternoon, is always liable to start a
train of thought. But it seemed that this was not so. More serious matters were
on the agenda paper.
    ‘Wooster,’
he said, in a rumbling voice like the Cornish express going through a tunnel,
‘where were you last night?’
    I own
the question rattled me. For an instant, indeed, I rocked on my base. Then I
reminded myself that nothing could be proved against me, and was strong again.
    ‘Ah,
Stilton,’ I said cheerily, ‘come in, come in. Oh, you are in, aren’t you? Well,
take a seat and tell me all your news. A lovely day, is it not? You’ll find a
lot of people who don’t like July in London, but I am all for it myself. It
always seems to me there’s a certain sort of something about it.’
    He
appeared to be one of those fellows who are not interested in July in London,
for he showed no disposition to pursue the subject, merely giving one of those
snorts of his.
    ‘Where
were you last night, you blighted louse?’ he said, and I noticed that the face
was suffused, the cheek muscles twitching and the eyes, like stars, starting
from their spheres.
    I had a
pop at being cool and nonchalant.
    ‘Last
night?’ I said, musing. ‘Let me see, that would be the night of July the
twenty-second, would it not? H’m. Ha. The night of —‘
    He
swallowed a couple of times.
    ‘I see
you have forgotten. Let me assist your memory. You were in a low night club
with Florence Craye, my fiancée.’
    ‘Who,
me?’
    ‘Yes,
you. And this morning you were in the dock at Vinton Street police court.’
    ‘You’re
sure you mean me?’
    ‘Quite
sure. I had the information from my uncle, who is the magistrate there. He came
to lunch at my flat today, and as he was leaving he caught sight of your
photograph on the wall.’
    ‘I
didn’t know you kept my photograph on your wall, Stilton. I’m touched.’
    He
continued to ferment.
    ‘It was
a group photograph,’ he said curtly, ‘and you happened to be in it. He looked
at it, sniffed sharply and said “Do you know this young man?” I explained that
we belonged to the same club, so it was not always possible to avoid you, but
that was the extent of our association. I was going on to say that, left to myself,
I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole, when he proceeded. Still sniffing,
he said he was glad I was not a close friend of yours, because you weren’t at
all the sort of fellow he liked to think of any nephew of his being matey with.
He said you had been up before him this morning, charged with assaulting a
policeman, who stated that he had arrested you for tripping him up while he was
chasing a girl with platinum hair in a night club.’
    I
pursed the lips. Or, rather, I tried to, but something seemed to have gone
wrong with the machinery. Still, I spoke boldly and with spirit.
    ‘Indeed?’
I said. ‘Personally I would be inclined to attach little credence to the word
of the sort of policeman who spends his time chasing platinum-haired girls in
night clubs. And as for this uncle of yours, with his wild stories of me having
been up before him — well, you know what magistrates are. The lowest form of
pond life. When a fellow hasn’t the brains and initiative to sell jellied eels,
they make him a magistrate.’
    ‘You
mean that when he said that about your photograph he was deceived by some
slight resemblance?’
    I waved
a hand.
    ‘Not
necessarily a slight resemblance. London’s full of chaps who look like me. I’m
a very common type. People have told me that there is a fellow called Ephraim
Gadsby — one of the Streatham Common Gadsbys — who is positively my double. I
shall, of course, take this into consideration when weighing the