My Man Jeeves

on the floor, with old Bill kneeling beside me with a soda siphon.
    "What happened?" I said.
    "I'm awfully sorry, old man," he said. "I hadn't a notion it was you. I came in here, and saw a lantern on the table, and the window open and a chap with a knife in his hand, so I didn't stop to make inquiries. I just let go at his jaw for all I was worth. What on earth do you think you're doing? Were you walking in your sleep?"
    "It was Elizabeth," I said. "Why, you know all about it. She said she had told you."
    "You don't mean——"
    "The picture. You refused to take it on, so she asked me."
    "Reggie, old man," he said. "I'll never believe what they say about repentance again. It's a fool's trick and upsets everything. If I hadn't repented, and thought it was rather rough on Elizabeth not to do a little thing like that for her, and come down here to do it after all, you wouldn't have stopped that sleep–producer with your chin. I'm sorry."
    "Me, too," I said, giving my head another shake to make certain it was still on.
    "Are you feeling better now?"
    "Better than I was. But that's not saying much."
    "Would you like some more soda–water? No? Well, how about getting this job finished and going to bed? And let's be quick about it too. You made a noise like a ton of bricks when you went down just now, and it's on the cards some of the servants may have heard. Toss you who carves."
    "Heads."
    "Tails it is," he said, uncovering the coin. "Up you get. I'll hold the light. Don't spike yourself on that sword of yours."
    It was as easy a job as Elizabeth had said. Just four quick cuts, and the thing came out of its frame like an oyster. I rolled it up. Old Bill had put the lantern on the floor and was at the sideboard, collecting whisky, soda, and glasses.
    "We've got a long evening before us," he said. "You can't burn a picture of that size in one chunk. You'd set the chimney on fire. Let's do the thing comfortably. Clarence can't grudge us the stuff. We've done him a bit of good this trip. To–morrow'll be the maddest, merriest day of Clarence's glad New Year. On we go."
    We went up to my room, and sat smoking and yarning away and sipping our drinks, and every now and then cutting a slice off the picture and shoving it in the fire till it was all gone. And what with the cosiness of it and the cheerful blaze, and the comfortable feeling of doing good by stealth, I don't know when I've had a jollier time since the days when we used to brew in my study at school.
    We had just put the last slice on when Bill sat up suddenly, and gripped my arm.
    "I heard something," he said.
    I listened, and, by Jove, I heard something, too. My room was just over the dining–room, and the sound came up to us quite distinctly. Stealthy footsteps, by George! And then a chair falling over.
    "There's somebody in the dining–room," I whispered.
    There's a certain type of chap who takes a pleasure in positively chivvying trouble. Old Bill's like that. If I had been alone, it would have taken me about three seconds to persuade myself that I hadn't really heard anything after all. I'm a peaceful sort of cove, and believe in living and letting live, and so forth. To old Bill, however, a visit from burglars was pure jam. He was out of his chair in one jump.
    "Come on," he said. "Bring the poker."
    I brought the tongs as well. I felt like it. Old Bill collared the knife. We crept downstairs.
    "We'll fling the door open and make a rush," said Bill.
    "Supposing they shoot, old scout?"
    "Burglars never shoot," said Bill.
    Which was comforting provided the burglars knew it.
    Old Bill took a grip of the handle, turned it quickly, and in he went. And then we pulled up sharp, staring.
    The room was in darkness except for a feeble splash of light at the near end. Standing on a chair in front of Clarence's "Jocund Spring," holding a candle in one hand and reaching up with a knife in the other, was old Mr. Yeardsley, in bedroom slippers and a grey dressing–gown. He had made a final cut just as we rushed in. Turning at the sound, he stopped, and he and the chair and the candle and the picture came down in a heap together. The candle went out.
    "What on earth?" said Bill.
    I felt the same. I picked up the candle and lit it, and then a most fearful thing happened. The old man picked himself up, and suddenly collapsed into a chair and began to cry like a child. Of course, I could see it was only the Artistic Temperament, but still, believe me, it was devilish