PSMITH ENGAGES A VALET
§ 1
F
ROM out of the of the big on the lawn in of the Psmith looked at the flower-beds, and in the sun; then he looked at Eve, in every feature.
“I must have you. Surely,” he said in a voice with reproach, “you do not to work in weather like this?”
“I must. I’ve got a conscience. They aren’t paying me a salary—a salary—to about in deck-chairs.”
“But you only came yesterday.”
“Well, I ought to have yesterday.”
“It to me,” said Psmith, “the nearest thing to that I have struck. I had hoped, that had gone off and left us alone, that we were going to a happy and together under the of this tree, talking of this and that. Is it not to be?”
“No, it is not. It’s lucky you’re not the one who’s to be this library. It would finished.”
“And why, as your would say, should it? He has the opinion times in my that the library has along for a great number of years without being catalogued. Why shouldn’t it go on like that indefinitely?”
“It’s no good trying to me. There’s nothing I should like than to here for hours and hours, but what would Mr. Baxter say when he got and out?”
“It is clear to me each day that I in this place,” said Psmith moodily, “that Comrade Baxter is little of a on the community. Tell me, how do you on with him?”
“I don’t like him much.”
“Nor do I. It is on these of taste that life-long are built. Sit and let us on the of Baxter.”
Eve laughed.
“I won’t. You’re trying to me into out here and my duty. I must be off now. You have no idea what a of work there is to be done.”
“You are my afternoon.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve got a book. What is it?”
Psmith up the brightly-jacketed and at it.
“The Man With The Missing Toe. Comrade Threepwood it to me. He has a store of this type of narrative. I he will be wanting you to his library next.”
“Well, it looks interesting.”
“Ah, but what it teach? How long do you to up in that evil-smelling library?”
“An hour or so.”
“Then I shall on your at the end of that period. We might go for another on the lake.”
“All right. I’ll come and you when I’ve finished.”
Psmith her into the house, then seated himself once more in the long chair under the cedar. A of him. He gave one look at The Man With The Missing Toe, and, having rejected the it offered, gave himself up to meditation.
Blandings Castle in the like a Palace of Sleep. There had been an of its after lunch, when Lord Emsworth, Lady Constance, Mr. Keeble, Miss Peavey, and the Efficient Baxter had left for the town of Bridgeford in the big car, with the Hon. Freddie in its wake in a two-seater. Psmith, who had been to them, had on the that he to a poem. He but a in the afternoon’s programme, which was to of the by his of the to the late Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., for so many years Member of Parliament for the Bridgeford and Shifley Division of Shropshire. Not the of Lord Emsworth—clad, not without and weak grumbling, in a hat, coat, and sponge-bag trousers—deliver a speech, had been to him from the grounds.
But at the moment when he had his refusal, the ill-concealed of Lord Emsworth and his son Freddie, the also an celebrant, he had that his would be by Eve. This of hers, this for work, had left him at a end. The time and the place were above criticism, but, as so often in this life of ours, he had been let by the girl.
But, though he for awhile, it was not long the peace of the to a upon him. With the of the that with their misguided energy among the flowers and an occasional which past in the sunshine, all nature to be taking a siesta. Somewhere out of a lawn-mower had to the with its whir. A telegraph-boy on a red passed up the drive to the door, and to have some in with the staff—from which Psmith that Beach, the butler, like a good opportunist, was taking of the of authority to a in some of his own. Eventually a appeared, the and (apparently) a from the boy, and the passed out of sight, and peace once more.
The minds are not proof against of this kind. Psmith’s closed, opened, closed again. And presently his regular breathing, by an occasional snore, was added to the of the small of the afternoon.
The of the was longer when he with that start which sleep in a garden-chair. A at his watch told him that it was close on five o’clock, a which was a moment later by the of the who had answered the of the telegraph-boy. She appeared to be the of the little world that had its centre in the servants’ hall. A of female Casabianca.
“I have put your tea in the hall, sir.”
“You have performed no or more task,” Psmith her; and, having a of by means of massage, in. It to him that Eve, though she was, might have off in order to keep him company.
The proved vain. A single cup on the tray. Either Eve was to the for tea or she was having hers up in the library. Filled with something of the which he had at the of the bees, Psmith on his meal, at the which girls work when there was no one to watch them.
It was very here in the of the hall. The great door of the was open, and through it he had a view of in a thirst-provoking sunlight. Through the green-baize door to his left, which to the servants’ quarters, an occasional gave of the presence of humanity, but from that he might have been alone in the world. Once again he into a meditation, and there is little to that he would have himself by asleep for the second time in a single afternoon, when he was to by the of a in the open doorway. Against the of light a black had itself.
The of which ran through Psmith’s like an electric shock, him to like some wild in the woods, was to the that the new-comer was the local vicar, of powers he had had on the second day of his visit. Another him that he had been too pessimistic. This was not the vicar. It was someone he had before—a and man with a dark, face, who in the light of the with not yet to the of sunshine. Greatly relieved, Psmith rose and approached him.
“Hallo!” said the new-comer. “I didn’t see you. It’s dark in here after outside.”
“The light is dim,” Psmith.
“Is Lord Emsworth about?”
“I not. He has it, by the entire household, to the of a at Bridgeford to—if my memory me rightly—the late Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., M.P. Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, I’ve come to stay, you know.”
“Indeed?”
“Lady Constance me to pay a visit as soon as I England.”
“Ah! Then you have come from parts?”
“Canada.”
Psmith started slightly. This, he perceived, was going to matters. The last thing he was the to the Blandings circle of one familiar with Canada. Nothing would against his peace of mind more than the of a man who would want to with him views on that country.
“Oh, Canada?” he said.
“I wired,” the other, “but I it came after had left. Ah, that must be my on that table over there. I walked up from the station.” He was about the after the fashion of one new ground. He paused at an occasional table, the one where, when taking after-dinner coffee, Miss Peavey was to sit. He up a book, and a laugh. “One of my little things,” he said.
“One of what?” said Psmith.
“This book. Songs of Squalor. I it.”
“You it!”
“Yes. My name’s McTodd. Ralston McTodd. I you have them speak of me?”
§ 2
The mind of a man who has a mission as as Psmith’s at Blandings Castle is necessarily alert. Ever since he had into the five o’clock train at Paddington, when his might have been said to have started, Psmith had walked warily, like one in a on and might out at any moment. This from the man, therefore, though it him, did not him of his faculties. On the contrary, it them. His action was to step to the table on which the the return of Lord Emsworth, his second was to the into his pocket. It was that McTodd should not about while he was the of the castle.
This done, he the man.
“Come, come!” he said with severity.
He was to a Providence which had that this should take place at a time when nobody but himself was in the house.
“You say that you are Ralston McTodd, the author of these poems?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then what,” said Psmith incisively, “is a of Joy?”
“Er—what?” said the new-comer in an voice. There was in his now a marked nervousness.
“And here is another,” said Psmith. “‘The——’ Wait a minute, I’ll it soon. Yes. ‘The sibilant, that where we sat.’ Could you me with a of that one?”
“I—I—— What are you talking about?”
Psmith out a long arm and him almost on the shoulder.
“It’s lucky you met me you had to the others,” he said. “I that you this little without yourself. They would have your in the minute.”
“What do you mean—imposture? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Psmith his at him reproachfully.
“My dear Comrade, I may as well tell you at once that the McTodd is an old and dear friend of mine. I had a long and with him only a days ago. So that, I think we may assert, is that. Or am I wrong?”
“Oh, hell!” said the man. And, into a chair, he his in and collapse.
Silence for awhile.
“What,” the visitor, a that in the light, “are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, Comrade—by the way, what is your name?”
“Cootes.”
“Nothing, Comrade Cootes. Nothing whatever. You are free to leg it hence you disposed. In fact, the sooner you do so, the I shall be pleased.”
“Say! That’s good of you.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“You’re an ace——”
“Oh, hush!” Psmith modestly. “But you go tell me one or two things. I take it that your object in here was to have a at Lady Constance’s necklace?”
“Yes.”
“I as much. And what you that the McTodd would not be here when you arrived?”
“Oh, that was all right. I over with that guy McTodd on the boat, and saw a good of him when we got to London. He was full of how he’d been here, and I got it out of him that no one here him by sight. And then one I met him in the Strand, all up. Madder than a hornet. Said he’d been and wouldn’t come to this place if they came and him on their knees. I couldn’t make out what it was all about, but he had met Lord Emsworth and hadn’t been right. He told me he was going off to Paris.”
“And did he?”
“Sure. I saw him off myself at Charing Cross. That’s why it such a here of him. It’s just my luck that the man I into is a friend of his. How was I to know that he had any friends this side? He told me he’d been in England before.”
“In this life, Comrade Cootes,” said Psmith, “we must always the Unlikely and the Impossible. It was unlikely, as you say, that you would meet any friend of McTodd’s in this out-of-the-way spot; and you ordered your movements on the that it was impossible. With what result? The goes the Underworld, ‘Poor old Cootes has a bloomer!’”
“You needn’t it in.”
“I am only doing so for your good. It is my that you will this lesson to and profit by it. Who that it may not be the turning-point in your career? Years hence, when you are a white-haired and man of leisure, having retired from the with a fortune, you may look on your of to-day and that it was the means of starting you on the road to Success. You will on it when you are for the Weekly Burglar on ‘How I Began’ . . . But, talking of starting on roads, I think that it would be as well if you now had a at the one leading to the railway-station. The may be returning at any moment now.”
“That’s right,” the visitor.
“I think so,” said Psmith. “I think so. You will be when you are away from here. Once the precincts, a great weight will roll off your mind. A little fresh air will put the roses in your cheeks. You know your way out?”
He the man to the door and with a push started him on his way. Then with long he ran to the library to Eve.
* * * * *
At about the same moment, on the of Market Blandings station, Miss Aileen Peavey was from the train which had left Bridgeford some an hour earlier. A headache, the fruit of about in the sun, had her to the of Lord Emsworth deliver his speech: and she had on a train with the of and resting. Finding, on Market Blandings, that her was much better, and the of the being now over, she started to walk to the castle, by a which had up from the west. She left the town at almost the exact time when the Mr. Cootes was out of the big gates at the end of the drive.
§ 3
The which Mr. Cootes like a as he his walk to the town of Market Blandings, and which not the dispel, was primarily, of course, to that of which a man high have been at the very when success has in sight. Once or twice in the life of every man there to his something which can only be as a soft snap, and it had to Mr. Cootes that this of his to Blandings Castle came into that category. He had, like most members of his profession, had his and in the past, but at last, he told himself, the Fortune had him something on a plate with it. Once in the castle, there would have been a hundred opportunities of the of Lady Constance’s necklace: and it had looked as though all he had to do was to walk in, himself, and be as the guest. As he the that the road to Market Blandings, Edward Cootes the that only those know plans have been by the hundredth chance.
But this was not all. In to the of hope, he was also the of memories. Not only was the Present him, but the Past had come to life and jumped out and him. A sorrow’s of is things, and this was what Edward Cootes was doing now. It is at moments like this that a man needs a woman’s care, and Mr. Cootes had the only woman in he have his grief, the only woman who would have and sympathised.
We have been to Mr. Cootes at a point in his career when he was upon land; but that was not his environment. Until a months his had upon waters. The salt of the sea was in his blood. To put it more exactly, he had been by a card-sharper on the Atlantic liners; and it was this period that he had loved and lost. For three years and more he had in perfect with the lady who, though she a of names for purposes of travel, was to her circle as Smooth Lizzie. He had been the practitioner, she the decoy, and theirs had been one of those which one so meets with in a world of and mistrust. Comradeship had into something and more sacred, and it was all settled them that when they next touched New York, Mr. Cootes, if still at liberty, should to the City Hall for a marriage-licence; when they had quarrelled—quarrelled over one of those points over which lovers do quarrel. Some as to the proper of the from a on their last had their dreams. One word had to another. The lady, after woman’s habit, had the last of the series, and Mr. Cootes was to admit that it was a pippin. She had spoken it on the at New York, and then passed out of his life. And with her had gone all his luck. It was as if her going had a upon him. On the very next he had had an with an from the Middle West, who, at what he considered—not unreasonably—the of kings and in the hands which Mr. Cootes had been himself, his by off the joint of the other’s right finger—thus an end to a career. For it was on this that Mr. Cootes for the almost which he was to produce with a pack of cards after a little shuffling.
With an of what might have been he now of his Lizzie. Regretfully he to himself that she had always been the of the firm. A manual he had no possessed, but it was Lizzie who had been for the work. If they had still been partners, he that she have some way of the which had themselves now himself and the necklace of Lady Constance Keeble. It was in a and that Edward Cootes on his way to Market Blandings.
* * * * *
Miss Peavey, meanwhile, who, it will be remembered, was moving slowly along the road from the Market Blandings end, was her walk and enjoyable. There were moments, it has to be recorded, when the of her and her hostess’s relations was something of a to Miss Peavey; and she was to be alone. Her had disappeared, and she in the hush. About now, if she had not had the to herself from the platoon, she would, she reflected, be to Lord Emsworth’s speech on the of the late Hartley Reddish, J.P., M.P.: a which the of might have failed to gripping. And what she of her gave her little in his powers of oratory.
Yes, she was well out of it. The played upon her face. Her in the from the hedgerows. Somewhere out of a was singing. And so moved was Miss Peavey by the peace and of it all that she, too, to sing.
Had those who the of her at Blandings Castle been that Miss Peavey was about to sing, they would have themselves on ground if called upon to make a as to the type of song which she would select. Something quaint, dreamy, a little . . . that would have been the . . . some old-world ballad, possibly . . .
What Miss Peavey actually sang—in a soft, voice like that of a to a new dawn—was that as “The Beale Street Blues.”
As she the last line, she off abruptly. She was, she perceived, no longer alone. Down the road toward her, walking like one with a sorrow, a man was approaching; and for an instant, as she the corner, something in his to catch her by the and her came sharply.
“Gee!” said Miss Peavey.
She was herself again the next moment. A had her. She not see the man’s face, for his was bent, but how was it possible . . .
And then, when he was close, he his head, and the of Shropshire, as as it was visible to her eyes, a and dance. Trees up and down, like a Broadway chorus; and from out of the of the country-side a voice spoke.
“Liz!”
“Eddie!” Miss Peavey faintly, and sat in a on a bank.
§ 4
“Well, for goodness’ sake!” said Miss Peavey.
Shropshire had once more. She at him, wide-eyed.
“Can you tie it!” said Miss Peavey.
She ran her over him once again from to foot.
“Well, if this ain’t the cat’s whiskers!” said Miss Peavey. And with this final she rose from her bank, restored, and herself to the of up old threads.
“Wherever,” she inquired, “did you from, Ed?”
There was nothing but in her voice. Her was that of a mother her long-lost child. The past was past and a new had begun. In the past she had been to this man as a of and to the opinion that his was such as to him to at will a staircase; but now, in the of this reunion, all these views were forgotten. This was Eddie Cootes, her old side-kick, come to her after many days, and only now was it in upon her what a in her life his going had made. She herself into his arms with a cry.
Mr. Cootes, who had not been this of esteem, a at the impact, but himself to return the with something of his warmth. He was at this cordiality, but also surprised. The memory of the lady’s on the occasion of their last meeting was still green, and he had not how and forgive, and how a girl, by some injury, may address a man as a pie-faced and yet in her all the old love and affection. He Miss Peavey fondly.
“Liz,” he said with fervour, “you’re than ever.”
“Now you behave,” Miss Peavey coyly.
The of a of sheep, by a dog and by a of the local peasantry, an in these exchanges; and by the time the had moved off the road they were in a more of mind to and in a practical spirit, to notes, and to up the blanks.
“Wherever,” Miss Peavey again, “did you from, Ed? You of me with a when I saw you along the road. I couldn’t have it was you, this from the ocean. What are you doing like this? Taking a vacation, or aren’t you the any more?”
“No, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes sadly. “I’ve had to give that up.”
And he the where an of his had been and told his painful tale. His companion’s was to his soul.
“The of the profession, of course,” said Mr. Cootes moodily, the in order to place his arm about her waist. “Still, it’s done me in. I once or twice, but I couldn’t to make the cards no more, so I quit. Ah, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes with feeling, “you can take it from me that I’ve had no luck since you left me. Regular there’s been on me. If I’d walked under a on a Friday to a over the of a black cat I couldn’t have had it tougher.”
“You boy!”
Mr. Cootes sombrely.
“Tough,” he agreed, “but there it is. Only this my the game for me and a into the little you of . . . But let’s not talk about my troubles. What are you doing now, Liz?”
“Me? Oh, I’m near here.”
Mr. Cootes started.
“Not married?” he in alarm.
“No!” Miss Peavey with vehemence, and a up at his face. “And I you know why, Ed.”
“You don’t . . . you hadn’t me?”
“As if I you, Eddie! There’s only one on my mantelpiece.”
“But it me . . . it of to me as a that, when we saw each other last, you were a with your Eddie . . .”
It was the either of them had to the past unpleasantness, and it a to Miss Peavey’s soft cheek.
“Oh, shucks!” she said. “I’d all about that next day. I was good and at the time, I’ll allow, but if only you’d called me up next morning, Ed . . .”
There was a silence, as they on what might have been.
“What are you doing, here?” asked Mr. Cootes after a pause. “Have you retired?”
“No, sir. I’m in at a game with stakes. But, it,” said Miss Peavey regretfully, “I’m if it isn’t too big for me to put through alone. Oh, Eddie, if only there was some way you and me work it together like in the old days.”
“What is it?”
“Diamonds, Eddie. A necklace. I’ve only had one look at it so far, but that was enough. Some of the best ice I’ve saw in years, Ed. Worth every of a hundred thousand berries.”
The from Mr. Cootes a exclamation.
“A necklace!”
“Listen, Ed, while I you the low-down. And, say, if you the it was to me talking good United States again! Like taking off a pair of tight shoes. I’m doing the high-toned for the moment. Soulful. You remember, like I used to once or twice in the old days. Just after you and me had that little of ours I I’d take another in the old Atlantic—force of or something, I guess. Anyway, I sailed, and we weren’t two days out from New York when I the biggest of a with the this necklace to. Seemed to take a to me right away . . .”
“I don’t her!” Mr. Cootes devotedly.
“Now don’t you interrupt,” said Miss Peavey, a slap. “Where was I? Oh yes. This here now Lady Constance Keeble I’m telling you about . . .”
“What!”
“What’s the now?”
“Lady Constance Keeble?”
“That’s the name. She’s Lord Emsworth’s sister, who at a big place up the road. Blandings Castle it’s called. She didn’t like she was able to let me out of her sight, and I’ve been with her off and on since we landed. I’m visiting at the now.”
A sigh, like the of some great in travail, itself from Mr. Cootes’s lips.
“Well, wouldn’t that you!” he of space. “Of all the lucky ones! into the place like that, with the playing and a red for you to walk on! Gee, if you a well, Liz, you’d come up with the bucket. You’re a horseshoe, that’s what you are. Say, listen. Lemme-tell-ya-sumf’n. Do you know what I’ve been doing this afternoon? Only trying to into the dam’ place myself and the air two minutes after I was past the door.”
“What! You, Ed?”
“Sure. You’re not the only one that’s of that of ice.”
“Oh, Ed!” Bitter in Miss Peavey’s voice. “If only you have it! Me and you partners again! It to think of it. What was the you to you in?”
Mr. Cootes so himself in his of as to at a frog. And in this enterprise failure him. He missed the frog, which into the with a cold look of disapproval.
“Me?” said Mr. Cootes. “I I’d got it smooth. I’d up with a who had been to the place and had it over and not to go, so I said to myself what’s the with going there of him. A called McTodd this was, a poet, and none of the had set on him, the old man, who’s too short-sighted to see anyone, so . . .”
Miss Peavey interrupted.
“You don’t to tell me, Ed Cootes, that you you into the by to be Ralston McTodd?”
“Sure I did. Why not? It didn’t like there was anything to it. A cinch, that’s what it looked like. And the guy I meet in the joint is a who this McTodd well. We had a of words, and I it. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“But, Ed! Ed! What do you mean? Ralston McTodd is at the now, this very moment.”
“How’s that?”
“Sure. Been there days and more. Long, thin bird with an eyeglass.”
Mr. Cootes’s mind was in a whirl. He make nothing of this matter.
“Nothing like it! McTodd’s not so tall or so thin, if it comes to that. And he didn’t wear no all the time I was with him. This . . .” He off sharply. “My gosh! I wonder!” he cried. “Liz! How many men are there in the joint right now?”
“Only four Lord Emsworth. There’s a big party for the County Ball, but that’s all there is at present. There’s Lord Emsworth’s son, Freddie . . .”
“What he look like?”
“Sort of a with back. Then there’s Mr. Keeble. He’s with a red face.”
“And?”
“And Baxter. He’s Lord Emsworth’s secretary. Wears spectacles.”
“And that’s the lot?”
“That’s all there is, not this here McTodd and the help.”
Mr. Cootes his hand with a report on his leg. The look which had been a of his his with Psmith had now, its place taken by one of an malevolence.
“And I let him me out as if I was a pup!” he through teeth. “Of all the games!”
“What are you talking about, Ed?”
“And I thanked him! Thanked him!” Edward Cootes, at the memory. “I thanked him for me go!”
“Eddie Cootes, are you . . . ?”
“Listen, Liz.” Mr. Cootes his with a effort. “I into that joint and met this with the eyeglass, and he told me he McTodd well and that I wasn’t him. And, from what you tell me, this must be the very guy that’s himself off as McTodd! Don’t you see? This must have started on the same lines I did. Got to know McTodd, he wasn’t to the castle, and came of him, same as me. Only he got there first, him! Wouldn’t that give you a pain in the neck!”
Amazement Miss Peavey for an instant. Then she spoke.
“The big stiff!” said Miss Peavey.
Mr. Cootes, of a lady’s presence, in his censure.
“I had a from the that there was something not on the level about that guy!” said Miss Peavey. “Gee! He must be after that necklace too.”
“Sure he’s after the necklace,” said Mr. Cootes impatiently. “What did you think he’d come for? A of air?”
“But, Ed! Say! Are you going to let him away with it?”
“Am I going to let him away with it!” said Mr. Cootes, by the question. “Wake me up in the night and ask me!”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Do!” said Mr. Cootes. “Do! I’ll tell you what I’m going to . . .” He paused, and the that in his to flicker. “Say, what the am I going to do?” he on weakly.
“You won’t anything by the wise that he’s a fake. That would be the of him, but it wouldn’t you anywhere.”
“No,” said Mr. Cootes.
“Wait a minute while I think,” said Miss Peavey.
There was a pause. Miss Peavey sat with brows.
“How would it be . . . ?” Mr. Cootes.
“Cheese it!” said Miss Peavey.
Mr. Cootes it. The minutes on.
“I’ve got it,” said Miss Peavey. “This guy’s ace-high with Lady Constance. You’ve got to him alone right away and tell him he’s got to you to the place as a friend of his.”
“I you’d think of something, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes, almost humbly. “You always were a wonder like that. How am I to him alone?”
“I can that. I’ll ask him to come for a with me. He’s not what you’d call about me, but he can’t very well if I keep after him. We’ll go the drive. You’ll be in the bushes—I’ll you the place. Then I’ll send him to me a or something, and while I walk on he’ll come past where you’re hiding, and you jump out at him.”
“Liz,” said Mr. Cootes, in admiration, “when it comes to out a scheme, you’re the snake’s eyebrows!”
“But what are you going to do if he just you down?”
Mr. Cootes a laugh, and from the of his produced a little revolver.
“He won’t turn me down!” he said.
§ 5
“Fancy!” said Miss Peavey. “If I had not had a and come early, we should have had this little chat!”
She up at Psmith in her gentle, way as they started together the drive. A timid, little thing she looked.
“No,” said Psmith.
It was not a reply, but he was not at his sunniest. The idea that Miss Peavey might return from Bridgeford in of the main had not to him. As he would have said himself, he had the Unlikely with the Impossible. And the result had been that she had him of as he sat in his garden-chair and of Eve Halliday, who on their return from the had been with a fresh of and had gone to the library to put in another hour’s work dinner. To Miss Peavey’s to her the drive in order to see if there were any of those who had been doing to the late Hartley Reddish, M.P., had been out of the question. But Psmith, though he went, without pleasure. Every moment he in her to him more and more in the opinion that Miss Peavey was the of the species.
“And I have been so longing,” his companion, “to have a nice, long talk. All these days I have that I haven’t been able to as near you as I should wish.”
“Well, of course, with the others always about . . .”
“I meant in a sense, of course.”
“I see.”
“I wanted so much to discuss your with you. You haven’t so much as mentioned your work since you came here. Have you!”
“Ah, but, you see, I am trying to keep my mind off it.”
“Really? Why?”
“My medical me that I had been a too much. He offered me the choice, in fact, a complete and the loony-bin.”
“The what, Mr. McTodd?”
“The asylum, he meant. These medical men themselves oddly.”
“But surely, then, you ought not to of trying to if it is as as that? And you told Lord Emsworth that you to at home this to a poem.”
Her nothing but solicitude, but Miss Peavey was telling herself that that would him for awhile.
“True,” said Psmith, “true. But you know what Art is. An mistress. The came, and I that I must take the risk. But it has left me weak, weak.”
“You BIG STIFF!” said Miss Peavey. But not aloud.
They walked on a steps.
“In fact,” said Psmith, with another inspiration, “I’m not sure I ought not to be going and now.”
Miss Peavey a of some dozen yards the drive. They were slightly, as though they some body; and Miss Peavey, was to be impatient, registered a to tell Edward Cootes that, if he couldn’t a without dancing about like a cat on bricks, he had give up his and take to selling eels. In which, it may be mentioned, she her old friend. He had been as still as a until a moment before, when a large and had the space his and his neck, an which might well have the woodsman.
“Oh, don’t go in yet,” said Miss Peavey. “It is such a evening. Hark to the music of the in the tree-tops. So soothing. Like a far-away harp. I wonder if it is to the birds.”
Psmith to her into this region of speculation, and they walked past the in silence.
Some little on, however, Miss Peavey to relent.
“You are looking tired, Mr. McTodd,” she said anxiously. “I am you have been your strength. Perhaps after all you had go and down.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it. I will just on to the gates and see if the car is in sight.”
“I that I am you.”
“Oh, please!” said Miss Peavey deprecatingly.
With something of the of a long-sentence on his in jail, Psmith his steps. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Miss Peavey had a in the drive; and he paused to light a cigarette. He had just away the match and was walking on, well with life, when a voice him said “Hey!” and the well-remembered of Mr. Edward Cootes out of the bushes.
“See this?” said Mr. Cootes, his revolver.
“I do indeed, Comrade Cootes,” Psmith. “And, if it is not an question, what is the idea?”
“That,” said Mr. Cootes, “is just in case you try any business.” And, the in a pocket, he to at the region his blades. He also with not a little animation.
Psmith these manœuvres gravely.
“You did not stop me at the pistol’s point to watch you go through your Swedish exercises?” he said.
Mr. Cootes paused for an instant.
“Got a or something my back,” he curtly.
“Ah? Then, as you will naturally wish to be alone in such a sad moment, I will be you a good and on.”
“No, you don’t!”
“Don’t I?” said Psmith resignedly. “Perhaps you are right, you are right.” Mr. Cootes replaced the once more. “I take it, then, Comrade Cootes, that you would have speech with me. Carry on, old friend, and it off your diaphragm. What to be on your mind?”
A lucky appeared to have Mr. Cootes’s beetle, and he was able to give his full attention to the in hand. He at Psmith with distaste.
“I’m on to you, Bill!” he said.
“My name is not Bill,” said Psmith.
“No,” Mr. Cootes, his by this time very manifest. “And it’s not McTodd.”
Psmith looked at his thoughtfully. This was an complication, and for the moment he would have that he saw no way of it. That the other was in no of mind him the on his would have showed, if his had not been of the fact. Mr. Cootes, having of his and being now at to his whole attention on Psmith, was that man with a which he did not attempt to conceal.
“Shall we be on?” Psmith. “Walking may thought. At the moment I am free to that you have opened up a which me some perplexity. I think, Comrade Cootes, having the position of a examination, that we may say that the next move is with you. What do you to do about it?”
“I’d like,” said Mr. Cootes with asperity, “to your off.”
“No doubt. But . . .”
“I’d like to you for a goal!”
Psmith these Utopian with a of the hand.
“I can it,” he said courteously. “But, to keep the of practical politics, what is the move which you contemplate? You me, no doubt, to my host, but I cannot see how that would profit you.”
“I know that. But you can I’ve got that up my in case you try any business.”
“You in on that possibility, Comrade Cootes. The idea to be an with you. I can you that I no such thing. What, to return to the point, do you to do?”
They had the opposite the door, where the drive, from being a river, spread out into a of gravel. Psmith stopped.
“You’ve got to me into this joint,” said Mr. Cootes.
“I that that was what you were about to suggest. In my position I have naturally no choice but to to out your wishes. Any attempt not to do so would, I imagine, so a as as ‘funny business.’ But how can I you into what you as ‘this joint’?”
“You can say I’m a friend of yours and ask them to me.”
Psmith his gently.
“Not one of your suggestions, Comrade Cootes. Tactfully from the point that an of my would should it be that you were a friend of mine, I will mention that, being myself a guest in this home of England, I can go about my here for visits. No, we must another way. . . . You’re sure you want to stay? Quite so, so, I asked. . . . Now, let us think.”
Through the of which out from one of the a at this point itself visible, moving high and in the direction of the premises. It was Beach, the butler, returning from the in which he had himself on the of his and the of the party. Revived by some hours in the open air, Beach was returning to duty. And with the of him there came to Psmith a of the problem him.
“Oh, Beach,” he called.
“Sir?” a voice. There was a pause while the into the open. He the which he had for his excursion, and Psmith in a pop-eyed but not gaze. A of country-house humanity, he had long since that he of Psmith. Since Lady Constance had to offer the of the to the and world, he had been by some of the and who had their and their ill-cut at the dinner-table over which he presided; and Psmith had come as a surprise.
“Sorry to trouble you, Beach.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“This,” said Psmith, Mr. Cootes, who was the with a and eye, an for any of business, “is my man. My valet, you know. He has just from town. I had to him to the of a aunt. Your aunt was when you came away, Cootes?” he graciously.
Mr. Cootes this question as a with to his views on this new development, and to accept the situation. True, he had to enter the in a higher than that of a gentleman’s personal gentleman, but he was an old campaigner. Once in, as he put it to himself with common sense, he would be in.
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Capital,” said Psmith. “Capital. Then will you look after Cootes, Beach.”
“Very good, sir,” said the in a voice of approval. The only point he had to at in Psmith had been removed; for it had him a little that a with so a taste in as that guest should have on a visit to such a place as Blandings Castle without a personal attendant. Now all was and, as as Beach was concerned, forgiven. He to Mr. Cootes to the rear. They the rhododendrons.
They had gone when a came to Psmith as he sat once more in the of the hall. He pressed the bell. Strange, he reflected, how one these things. That was how battles.
“Sir?” said Beach, appearing through the green door.
“Sorry to trouble you again, Beach.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“I you will make Cootes comfortable. I think you will like him. His, when you to know him, is a very personality.”
“He a fellow, sir.”
“Oh, by the way, Beach. You might ask him if he my from town with him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Beach, who would have to if it had been a Lewis gun.
“I think I saw it out of his pocket. You might it to me, will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
Beach retired, to return a moment later. On the which he the was reposing.
“Your revolver, sir,” said Beach.
“Thank you,” said Psmith.
§ 6
For some moments after the had in his pigeon-toed way through the green door, Psmith in his chair with the that something attempted, something done, had a night’s repose. He was not so as to that he had actually an of Mr. Cootes’s by the act of a from his possession; but there was no the that the of the thing in his pocket a satisfaction. The little he had of Mr. Cootes had been to him that the other was a man who was off without an pistol. There was an about his which did not go well with the of fire-arms.
Psmith’s had taken him thus when they were by an voice.
“Hey!”
Only one person of Psmith’s was in the of opening his in this manner. It was no to him to Mr. Edward Cootes at his elbow.
“Hey!”
“All right, Comrade Cootes,” said Psmith with a touch of austerity, “I you the time. And may I you that this of yours of out from places and saying ‘Hey!’ is one which should be overcome. Valets are to wait till for. At least, I think so. I must that until this moment I have had a valet.”
“And you wouldn’t have one now if I help it,” Mr. Cootes.
Psmith his eyebrows.
“Why,” he inquired, surprised, “this peevishness? Don’t you like being a valet?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You me. I should have you would have gone about the house. Have you that the of such a position you into the of Comrade Beach, than it would be difficult to a more companion?”
“Old stiff!” said Mr. Cootes sourly. “If there’s one thing that makes me tired, it’s a guy that talks about his all the time.”
“I your pardon?”
“The Beach gook,” Mr. Cootes, “has got something with the of his stomach, and if I hadn’t my he’d be talking about it yet.”
“If you fail to and in first-hand about Comrade Beach’s stomach, you must be hard to please. I am to take it, then, that you came out here, my daydreams, in order to my sympathy?”
Mr. Cootes upon him with a eye.
“I came to tell you I you think you’re smart.”
“And very of you, too,” said Psmith, touched. “A compliment, for which I am not ungrateful.”
“You got that gun away from me smoothly, didn’t you?”
“Since you mention it, yes.”
“And now I you think you’re going to in ahead of me and away with that necklace? Well, say, listen, tell you it’ll take someone than a half-baked string-bean like you to put one over on me.”
“I seem,” said Psmith, pained, “to a into your tone. Surely we can be without this of hostility. My you is one of tolerance.”
“Even if you it, where do you think you’re going to it? And, me, it’ll take some hiding. Say, tell you something. I’m your valet, ain’t I? Well, then, I can come into your room and be up I please, can’t I? Sure I can. I’ll tell the world I can do just that little thing. And you take it from me, Bill . . .”
“You in the that my name is William . . .”
“You take it from me, Bill, that if that necklace and it isn’t me that’s done the disappearing, you’ll me up in a way that’ll make you dizzy. I’ll go through that room of yours with a fine-tooth comb. So on that, will you?”
And Edward Cootes, moving across the hall, a exit. The mood of was still to come, when he would that, in his to what he would have as a one, he had a little in his enemy on his guard. All he was now was that his sketch of the position of would have the of Psmith’s a trifle. He had, he himself, over something that be as a jolt.
Nor was he in this view. The of the on which he had touched was one that had not presented itself to Psmith: and, on it as he himself in his chair, he see that it food for thought. As the of the necklace, should it come into his possession, he had no plan. He had that he would it until the of the slackened, and it was only now that he the of a hiding-place his bedroom. Yes, it was a on which, as Mr. Cootes had suggested, he would do well to chew. For ten minutes, accordingly, he did so. And—it being to keep a good man down—at the end of that period he was with an idea. He rose from his chair and pressed the bell.
“Ah, Beach,” he said affably, as the green door open, “I must once more for you. I keep ringing, don’t I?”
“No trouble at all, sir,” the paternally. “But if you were to your personal attendant, I he is not available. He left me a moments ago. I was not aware that you would be his services until the dressing-gong sounded, or I would have him.”
“Never mind. It was you I to see. Beach,” said Psmith, “I am about you. I learn from my man that the of your is not all it should be.”
“That is true, sir,” Beach, an into his eyes. He slightly, as might a war-horse at the of the bugle. “I do have trouble with the of my stomach.”
“Every has a lining.”
“Sir?”
“I said, tell me all about it.”
“Well, really, sir . . .” said Beach wistfully.
“To me,” Psmith.
“Well, sir, it is of you to take an interest. It with a pain on the right of the from twenty minutes to an hour after the of a meal. The . . .”
There was nothing but in Psmith’s as he to what like an eyewitness’s account of the San Francisco earthquake, but he was that his see his way to making it a and snappier. However, all come to an end. Even the river to the sea. With a moving period, the his narrative.
“Parks’ Pepsinine,” said Psmith promptly.
“Sir?”
“That’s what you want. Parks’ Pepsinine. It would set you right in no time.”
“I will make a note of the name, sir. The has not come to my notice until now. And, if I may say so,” added Beach, with a but look at his benefactor, “I should like to my for your kindness.”
“Not at all, Beach, not at all. Oh, Beach,” he said, as the other started to manœuvre the door, “I’ve just remembered. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I it might be as well to speak to you about it Lady Constance. The is, Beach, I am cramped.”
“Indeed, sir? I to mention that one of the from which I is a cramp.”
“Too bad. But let us, if you do not mind, for the moment the of your and its ailments. When I say I am cramped, I spiritually. Have you poetry, Beach?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! Then it may be a little difficult for you to my feelings. My trouble is this. Out in Canada, Beach, I to doing my work in the most surroundings. You that passage in my Songs of Squalor which ‘Across the of Joy . . .’?”
“I fear, sir . . .”
“You missed it? Tough luck. Try to of it some time. It’s a bird. Well, that passage was in a on the banks of the Saskatchewan, miles away from habitation. I am like that, Beach. I need the of the great open spaces. When I am by my fellows, and dies. You know how it is when there are people about. Just as you are starting in to a nifty, someone comes and on the and talking about himself. Every time you going nicely, in some and the Muse goes blooey. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, sir,” said Beach, slightly.
“Well, that is why for a man like me in Blandings Castle has its drawbacks. I have got to a place where I can be alone, Beach—alone with my and visions. Some little on the of Time. . . . In other words, do you know of an empty on the where I myself when in the mood and a without any possibility of being interrupted?”
“A little cottage, sir?”
“A little cottage. With over the door, and Old Mister Moon up above the trees. A cottage, Beach, where I can meditate, where I can turn the key in the door and the world go by. Now that the is going to be full of all these people who are for the County Ball, it is that I such a haven. Otherwise, a of will be to for ever.”
“You desire,” said Beach, his way cautiously, “a small where you can poetry, sir?”
“You me like a leopard. Do you know of such a one?”
“There is an gamekeeper’s in the west wood, sir, but it is an place.”
“Be it so humble, it will do for me. Do you think Lady Constance would be if I were to ask for the of it for a days?”
“I that her would the with equanimity, sir. She is used to . . . She is not . . . Well, I can only say, sir, that there was a visiting the last who a to take sun-baths in the garden each breakfast. In the nood, sir. And, me to the maids, her no in the way of the of his wishes. So . . .”
“So a like mine isn’t likely to a heart-attack? Admirable! You don’t know what it means to me to that I shall soon have a little of my own, to which I can and be in solitude.”
“I can that it must be gratifying, sir.”
“Then I will put the motion the Board directly Lady Constance returns.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I should like to it on the record once more, Beach, that I am much to you for your and in this matter. I you would not fail me.”
“Not at all, sir. I am only too to have been able to be of assistance.”
“Oh, and, Beach . . .”
“Sir?”
“Just one other thing. Will you be Cootes, my valet, again shortly?”
“Quite shortly, sir, I should imagine.”
“Then would you mind just him in the . . .”
“Sir?” Beach, out of his calm. He a little convulsively. For eighteen months and more, since Lady Constance Keeble had to her and over the water of the world and its on to the of Blandings Castle, Beach had had his of eccentricity. But until this moment he had that Psmith was going to prove an from the of which had been and going all that time. And lo! Psmith’s name all the rest. Even the man who had come for a week in April and had wanted to eat with his fish in comparison.
“Prod him in the ribs, sir?” he quavered.
“Prod him in the ribs,” said Psmith firmly. “And at the same time in his ear the word ‘Aha!’” Beach his lips.
“Aha, sir?”
“Aha! And say it came from me.”
“Very good, sir. The shall be to,” said Beach. And with a that was a sigh, a death-rattle, he through the green-baize door.
