My Man Jeeves

claim on your upper lip you've simply got to have a bit of the good old bulldog pluck and defy the blighter.
    "He said that he would call again later, sir."
    "Something must be up, Jeeves."
    "Yes, sir."
    I gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl. It seemed to hurt Jeeves a good deal, so I chucked it.
    "I see by the paper, sir, that Mr. Bickersteth's uncle is arriving on the
Carmantic
."
    "Yes?"
    "His Grace the Duke of Chiswick, sir."
    This was news to me, that Bicky's uncle was a duke. Rum, how little one knows about one's pals! I had met Bicky for the first time at a species of beano or jamboree down in Washington Square, not long after my arrival in New York. I suppose I was a bit homesick at the time, and I rather took to Bicky when I found that he was an Englishman and had, in fact, been up at Oxford with me. Besides, he was a frightful chump, so we naturally drifted together; and while we were taking a quiet snort in a corner that wasn't all cluttered up with artists and sculptors and what–not, he furthermore endeared himself to me by a most extraordinarily gifted imitation of a bull–terrier chasing a cat up a tree. But, though we had subsequently become extremely pally, all I really knew about him was that he was generally hard up, and had an uncle who relieved the strain a bit from time to time by sending him monthly remittances.
    "If the Duke of Chiswick is his uncle," I said, "why hasn't he a title? Why isn't he Lord What–Not?"
    "Mr. Bickersteth is the son of his grace's late sister, sir, who married Captain Rollo Bickersteth of the Coldstream Guards."
    Jeeves knows everything.
    "Is Mr. Bickersteth's father dead, too?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Leave any money?"
    "No, sir."
    I began to understand why poor old Bicky was always more or less on the rocks. To the casual and irreflective observer, if you know what I mean, it may sound a pretty good wheeze having a duke for an uncle, but the trouble about old Chiswick was that, though an extremely wealthy old buster, owning half London and about five counties up north, he was notoriously the most prudent spender in England. He was what American chappies would call a hard–boiled egg. If Bicky's people hadn't left him anything and he depended on what he could prise out of the old duke, he was in a pretty bad way. Not that that explained why he was hunting me like this, because he was a chap who never borrowed money. He said he wanted to keep his pals, so never bit any one's ear on principle.
    At this juncture the door bell rang. Jeeves floated out to answer it.
    "Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster has just returned," I heard him say. And Bicky came trickling in, looking pretty sorry for himself.
    "Halloa, Bicky!" I said. "Jeeves told me you had been trying to get me. Jeeves, bring another glass, and let the revels commence. What's the trouble, Bicky?"
    "I'm in a hole, Bertie. I want your advice."
    "Say on, old lad!"
    "My uncle's turning up to–morrow, Bertie."
    "So Jeeves told me."
    "The Duke of Chiswick, you know."
    "So Jeeves told me."
    Bicky seemed a bit surprised.
    "Jeeves seems to know everything."
    "Rather rummily, that's exactly what I was thinking just now myself."
    "Well, I wish," said Bicky gloomily, "that he knew a way to get me out of the hole I'm in."
    Jeeves shimmered in with the glass, and stuck it competently on the table.
    "Mr. Bickersteth is in a bit of a hole, Jeeves," I said, "and wants you to rally round."
    "Very good, sir."
    Bicky looked a bit doubtful.
    "Well, of course, you know, Bertie, this thing is by way of being a bit private and all that."
    "I shouldn't worry about that, old top. I bet Jeeves knows all about it already. Don't you, Jeeves?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Eh!" said Bicky, rattled.
    "I am open to correction, sir, but is not your dilemma due to the fact that you are at a loss to explain to his grace why you are in New York instead of in Colorado?"
    Bicky rocked like a jelly in a high wind.
    "How the deuce do you know anything about it?"
    "I chanced to meet his grace's butler before we left England. He informed me that he happened to overhear his grace speaking to you on the matter, sir, as he passed the library door."
    Bicky gave a hollow sort of laugh.
    "Well, as everybody seems to know all about it, there's no need to try to keep it dark. The old boy turfed me out, Bertie, because he said I was a brainless nincompoop. The idea was that he would give me a remittance on condition that I dashed out to some blighted locality of the name of Colorado and