The inimitable Jeeves

his youthful joie-de-vivre go a bit groggy at the knees.
    In the middle of it Aunt Agatha’s letter arrived. It took her about six pages to do justice to Cyril’s father’s feelings in regard to his going on the stage and about six more to give me a kind of sketch of what she would say, think, and do if I didn’t keep him clear of injurious influences while he was in America. The letter came by the afternoon mail, and left me with a pretty firm conviction that it wasn’t a thing I ought to keep to myself. I didn’t even wait to ring the bell: I whizzed for the kitchen, bleating for Jeeves, and butted into the middle of a regular tea-party of sorts. Seated at the table were a depressed-looking cove who might have been a valet or something, and a boy in a Norfolk suit. The valet-chappie was drinking a whisky and soda, and the boy was being tolerably rough with some jam and cake.
    ‘Oh, I say, Jeeves!’ I said. ‘Sorry to interrupt the feast of reason and flow of soul and so forth, but -‘
    At this juncture the small boy’s eye hit me like a bullet and stopped me in my tracks. It was one of those cold, clammy, accusing sort of eyes - the kind that makes you reach up to see if your tie is straight: and he looked at me as if I were some sort of unnecessary product which Cuthbert the Cat had brought in after a ramble among the local ash-cans. He was a stoutish infant with a lot of freckles and a good deal of jam on his face.
    ‘Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!’ I said. ‘What?’ There didn’t seem much else to say.
    The stripling stared at me in a nasty sort of way through the jam. He may have loved me at first sight, but the impression he gave me was that he didn’t think a lot of me and wasn’t betting much that I would improve a great deal on acquaintance. I had a kind of feeling that I was about as popular with him as a cold Welsh rarebit.
    ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
    ‘My name? Oh, Wooster, don’t you know, and what not.’
    ‘My pop’s richer than you are!’
    That seemed to be all about me. The child having said his say, started in on the jam again. I turned to Jeeves:
    ‘I say, Jeeves, can you spare a moment? I want to show you something.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’ We toddled into the sitting-room.
    ‘Who is your little friend, Sidney the Sunbeam, Jeeves?’
    ‘The young gentleman, sir?’
    ‘It’s a loose way of describing him, but I know what you mean.’
    ‘I trust I was not taking a liberty in entertaining him, sir?’
    ‘Not a bit. If that’s your idea of a large afternoon, go ahead.’
    ‘I happened to meet the young gentleman taking a walk with his father’s valet, sir, whom I used to know somewhat intimately in London, and I ventured to invite them both to join me here.’
    ‘Well, never mind about him, Jeeves. Read this letter.’
    He gave it the up-and-down.
    ‘Very disturbing, sir!’ was all he could find to say.
    ‘What are we going to do about it?’
    ‘Time may provide a solution, sir.’
    ‘On the other hand, it mayn’t, what?’
    ‘Extremely true, sir.’
    We’d got as far as this, when there was a ring at the door. Jeeves shimmered off, and Cyril blew in, full of good cheer and blitheringness.
    ‘I say, Wooster, old thing,’ he said, ‘I want your advice. You know
    this jolly old part of mine. How ought I to dress it? What I mean is, the first act scene is laid in an hotel of sorts, at about three in the afternoon. What ought I to wear, do you think?’
    I wasn’t feeling fit for a discussion of gent’s suitings.
    ‘You’d better consult Jeeves,’ I said.
    ‘A hot and by no means unripe idea! Where is he?’
    ‘Gone back to the kitchen, I suppose.’
    Til smite the good old bell, shall I? Yes. No?’
    ‘Right-o!’
    Jeeves poured silently in.
    ‘Oh, I say, Jeeves,’ began Cyril, ‘I just wanted to have a syllable or two with you. It’s this way - Hallo, who’s this?’
    I then perceived that the stout stripling had trickled into the room after Jeeves. He was standing near the door looking at Cyril as if his worst fears had been realized. There was a bit of a silence. The child remained there, drinking Cyril in for about half a minute; then he gave his verdict:
    ‘Fish-face!’
    ‘Eh? What?’ said Cyril.
    The child, who had evidently been taught at his mother’s knee to speak the truth, made his meaning a trifle clearer.
    ‘You’ve a face like a fish!’
    He spoke as if Cyril was more to be pitied than censured, which I am bound to say I