Much Obliged, Jeeves

chucking away the advantages his learning gave him. I had half a mind to draw his attention to the Parable of the Talents, with which I had become familiar when doing research for that Scripture Knowledge prize I won at school. Time, however, was getting along, so I passed it up. But I told him I thought he was mistaken. Preliminaries, I maintained, were of the essence. Breaking the ice is what it’s called. I mean, you can’t just barge in on a perfect stranger and get off the mark with an abrupt ‘Hoy there. I hope you’re going to vote for my candidate I ‘ How much better to say ‘Good morning, sir. I can see at a glance that you are a man of culture, probably never happier than when reading your Burke. I wonder if you are familiar with his On The Sublime And Beautiful?’. Then away you go, off to a nice start.
    ‘You must have an approach,’ I said. ‘I myself am all for the jolly, genial. I propose, on meeting my householder, to begin with a jovial “Hullo there, Mr. Whatever-it-is, hullo there”, thus ingratiating myself with him from the kick-off. I shall then tell him a funny story. Then, and only then, will I get to the nub ,— waiting, of course, till he has stopped laughing. I can’t fail.’
    ‘I am sure you will not, sir. The system would not suit me, but it is merely a matter of personal taste.’
    ‘The psychology of the individual, what? ‘
    ‘Precisely, sir. By different methods different men excel.’
    ‘Burke?’
    ‘Charles Churchill, sir, a poet who flourished in the early eighteenth century. The words occur in his Epistle To William Hogarth.’
    We halted. Cutting out a good pace, we had arrived at the door of Number One. I pressed the bell.
    ‘Zero hour, Jeeves,’ I said gravely.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Carry on.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’
    ‘Heaven speed your canvassing.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘And mine.
    ‘ ‘Yes, sir.’
    He pushed along and mounted the steps of Number Two, leaving me feeling rather as I had done in my younger days at a clergyman uncle’s place in Kent when about to compete in the Choir Boys Bicycle Handicap open to all those whose voices had not broken by the first Sunday in Epiphany, - nervous, but full of the will to win. The door opened as I was running phrough the high spots of the laughable story I planned to unleash when I got inside. A maid was standing there, and conceive my emotion when I recognized her as one who had held office under Aunt Dahlia the last time I had enjoyed the latter’s hospitality; the one with whom, the old sweats will recall, I had chewed the fat on the subject of the cat Augustus and his tendency to pass his days in sleep instead of bustling about and catching mice.
    The sight of her friendly face was like a tonic. My morale, which had begun to sag a bit after Jeeves had left me, rose sharply, closing at nearly par. I felt that even if the fellow I was going to see kicked me downstairs, she would be there to show me out and tell me that these things are sent to try us, with the general idea of making us more spiritual.
    ‘Why, hullo! ‘ I said.
    ‘Good morning, sir.’
    ‘We meet again.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘You remember me ? ‘
    ‘Oh yes, sir.’
    ‘And you have not forgotten Augustus?’
    ‘Oh no, sir.’
    ‘He’s still as lethargic as ever. He joined me at breakfast this morning. Just managed to keep awake while getting outside his portion of kipper, then fell into a dreamless sleep at the end of the bed with his head hanging down. So you have resigned your portfolio at Aunt Dahlia’s since we last met. Too bad. We shall all miss you. Do you like it here?’
    ‘Oh yes, sir.’
    ‘That’s the spirit. Well, getting down to business, I’ve come to see your boss on a matter of considerable importance. What sort of chap is he? Not too short-tempered? Not too apt to be cross with callers, I hope?’
    ‘It isn’t a gentleman, sir, it’s a lady. Mrs. McCorkadale.’
    This chipped quite a bit off the euphoria I was feeling. I had been relying on the story I had prepared to put me over with a bang, carrying me safely through the first awkward moments when the fellow you’ve called on without an invitation is staring at you as if wondering to what he owes the honour of this visit, and now it would have to remain untold. It was one I had heard from Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright at the Drones and it was essentially a conte whose spiritual home was the smoking-room of a London club or the men’s washroom on