Fixing It for Freddie

“Jeeves,” I said, looking in on him one afternoon on my return from the club, “I don’t want to interrupt you.”

“No, sir?”

“But I would like a word with you.”

“Yes, sir?”

He had been packing a few of the Wooster necessaries in the old kit-bag against our approaching visit to the seaside, and he now rose and stood bursting with courteous zeal.

“Jeeves,” I said, “a somewhat disturbing situation has arisen with regard to a pal of mine.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“You know Mr. Bullivant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I slid into the Drones this morning for a bite of lunch, and found him in a dark corner of the smoking-room looking like the last rose of summer. Naturally I was surprised. You know what a bright lad he is as a rule. The life and soul of every gathering he attends.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quite the little lump of fun, in fact.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Well, I made inquiries, and he told me that he had had a quarrel with the girl he’s engaged to. You knew he was engaged to Miss Elizabeth Vickers?”

“Yes, sir. I recall reading the announcement in the Morning Post.”

“Well, he isn’t any longer. What the row was about he didn’t say, but the broad facts, Jeeves, are that she has scratched the fixture. She won’t let him come near her, refuses to talk on the phone, and sends back his letters unopened.”

“Extremely trying, sir.”

“We ought to do something, Jeeves. But what?”

“It is somewhat difficult to make a suggestion, sir.”

“Well, what I’m going to do for a start is to take him down to Marvis Bay with me. I know these birds who have been handed their hat by the girl of their dreams, Jeeves. What they want is complete change of scene.”

“There is much in what you say, sir.”

“Yes. Change of scene is the thing. I heard of a man. Girl refused him. Man went abroad. Two months later girl wired him: ‘Come back, Muriel.’ Man started to write out a reply, suddenly found that he couldn’t remember girl’s surname, so never answered at all, and lived happily ever after. It may well be, Jeeves, that after Freddie Bullivant has had a few weeks of Marvis Bay he will get completely over it.”

“Very possibly, sir.”

“And, if not, it is quite likely that, refreshed by sea air and good simple food, you will get a brainwave and think up some scheme for bringing these two misguided blighters together again.”

“I will do my best, sir.”

“I knew it, Jeeves, I knew it. Don’t forget to put in plenty of socks.”

“No, sir.”

“Also of tennis shirts not a few.”

“Very good, sir.”

I left him to his packing, and a couple of days later we started off for Marvis Bay, where I had taken a cottage for July and August.

I don’t know if you know Marvis Bay? It’s in Dorsetshire, and, while not what you would call a fiercely exciting spot, has many good points. You spend the day there bathing and sitting on the sands, and in the evening you stroll out on the shore with the mosquitoes. At nine p.m. you rub ointment on the wounds and go to bed. It was a simple, healthy life, and it seemed to suit poor old Freddie absolutely. Once the moon was up and the breeze sighing in the trees, you couldn’t drag him from that beach with rope. He became quite a popular pet with the mosquitoes. They would hang round waiting for him to come out, and would give a miss to perfectly good strollers just so as to be in good condition for him.

It was during the day that I found Freddie, poor old chap, a trifle heavy as a guest. I suppose you can’t blame a bloke whose heart is broken, but it required a good deal of fortitude to bear up against this gloom-crushed exhibit during the early days of our little holiday. When he wasn’t chewing a pipe and scowling at the carpet, he was sitting at the piano, playing “The Rosary” with one finger. He couldn’t play anything except “The Rosary,” and he couldn’t play much of that. However firmly and confidently he started off, somewhere around the third bar a fuse would blow out and he would have to start all over again.

He was playing it as usual one morning when I came in from bathing and it seemed to me that he was extracting more hideous melancholy from it even than usual. Nor had my senses deceived me.

“Bertie,” he said in a hollow voice, skidding on the fourth crotchet from the left as you enter the second bar and producing a distressing sound like the death-rattle of a sand-eel, “I’ve seen her!”

“Seen her?” I said. “What, Elizabeth Vickers? How do you mean, you’ve seen her? She isn’t down here.”

“Yes, she is. I suppose she’s staying with relations or something. I was down at the post office, seeing if there were any letters, and we met in the doorway.”

“What happened?”

“She cut me dead.”

He started “The Rosary” again, and stubbed his finger on a semiquaver.

“Bertie,” he said, “you ought never to have brought me here. I must go away.”

“Go away? Don’t talk such rot. This is the best thing that could have happened. It’s a most amazing bit of luck, her being down here. This is where you come out strong.”

“She cut me.”

“Never mind. Be a sportsman. Have another dash at her.”

“She looked clean through me.”

“Well, don’t mind that. Stick at it. Now, having got her down here, what you want,” I said, “is to place her under some obligation to you. What you want is to get her timidly thanking you. What you want⁠—”

“What’s she going to thank me timidly for?”

I thought for a while. Undoubtedly he had put his finger on the hub of the problem. For some moments I was at a loss, not to say nonplussed. Then I saw the way.

“What you want,” I said, “is to look out for a chance and save her from drowning.”

“I can’t swim.”

That was Freddie Bullivant all over. A dear old chap in a thousand ways, but no help to a fellow, if you know what I mean.

He cranked up the piano once more, and I legged it for the open.

I strolled out on the beach and began to think this thing over. I would have liked to consult Jeeves, of course, but Jeeves had disappeared for the morning. There was no doubt that it was hopeless expecting Freddie to do anything for himself in this crisis. I’m not saying that dear old Freddie hasn’t got his strong qualities. He is good at polo, and I have heard him spoken of as a coming man at snooker-pool. But apart from this you couldn’t call him a man of enterprise.

Well, I was rounding some rocks, thinking pretty tensely, when I caught sight of a blue dress, and there was the girl in person. I had never met her, but Freddie had sixteen photographs of her sprinkled round his bedroom, and I knew I couldn’t be mistaken. She was sitting on the sand, helping a small, fat child to build a castle. On a chair close by was an elderly female reading a novel. I heard the girl call her “aunt.” So, getting the reasoning faculties to work, I deduced that the fat child must be her cousin. It struck me that if Freddie had been there he would probably have tried to work up some sentiment about the kid on the strength of it. I couldn’t manage this. I don’t think I ever saw a kid who made me feel less sentimental. He was one of those round, bulging kids.

After he had finished his castle he seemed to get bored with life and began to cry. The girl, who seemed to read him like a book, took him off to where a fellow was selling sweets at a stall. And I walked on.

Now, those who know me, if you ask them, will tell you that I’m a chump. My Aunt Agatha would testify to this effect. So would my Uncle Percy and many more of my nearest and⁠—if you like to use the expression⁠—dearest. Well, I don’t mind. I admit it. I am a chump. But what I do say⁠—and I should like to lay the greatest possible stress on this⁠—is that every now and then, just when the populace has given up hope that I will ever show any real human intelligence⁠—I get what it is idle to pretend is not an inspiration. And that’s what happened now. I doubt if the idea that came to me at this juncture would have occurred to a single one of any dozen of the largest-brained blokes in history. Napoleon might have got it, but I’ll bet Darwin and Shakespeare and Thomas Hardy wouldn’t have thought of it in a thousand years.

It came to me on my return journey. I was walking back along the shore, exercising the old bean fiercely, when I saw the fat child meditatively smacking a jellyfish with a spade. The girl wasn’t with him. The aunt wasn’t with him. In fact, there wasn’t anybody else in sight. And the solution of the whole trouble between Freddie and his Elizabeth suddenly came to me in a flash.

From what I had seen of the two, the girl was evidently fond of this kid and, anyhow, he was her cousin, so what I said to myself was this: If I kidnap this young heavyweight for a brief space of time and if, when the girl has got frightfully anxious about where he can have got to, dear old Freddie suddenly appears leading the infant by the hand and telling a story to the effect that he found him wandering at large about the country and practically saved his life, the girl’s gratitude is bound to make her chuck hostilities and be friends again.

So I gathered up the kid and made off with him.

Freddie, dear old chap, was rather slow at first in getting on to the fine points of the idea. When I appeared at the cottage, carrying the child, and dumped him down in the sitting room, he showed no joy whatever. The child had started to bellow by this time, not thinking much of the thing, and Freddie seemed to find it rather trying.

“What the devil’s all this?” he asked, regarding the little visitor with a good deal of loathing.

The kid loosed off a yell that made the windows rattle, and I saw that this was a time for strategy. I raced to the kitchen and fetched a pot of honey. It was the right idea. The kid stopped bellowing and began to smear his face with the stuff.

“Well?” said Freddie, when silence had set in. I explained the scheme. After a while it began to strike him. The careworn look faded from his face, and for the first time since his arrival at Marvis Bay he smiled almost happily.

“There’s something in this, Bertie.”

“It’s the goods.”

“I think it will work,” said Freddie.

And, disentangling the child from the honey, he led him out.

“I expect Elizabeth will be on the beach somewhere,” he said.

What you might call a quiet happiness suffused me, if that’s the word I want. I was very fond of old Freddie, and it was jolly to think that he was shortly about to click once more. I was leaning back in a chair on the veranda, smoking a peaceful cigarette, when down the road I saw the old boy returning, and, by George, the kid was still with him.

“Hallo!” I said. “Couldn’t you find her?”

I then perceived that Freddie was looking as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

“Yes, I found her,” he replied, with one of those bitter, mirthless laughs you read about.

“Well, then⁠—?”

He sank into a chair and groaned.

“This isn’t her cousin, you idiot,” he said. “He’s no relation at all⁠—just a kid she met on the beach. She had never seen him before in her life.”

“But she was helping him build a sandcastle.”

“I don’t care. He’s a perfect stranger.”

It seemed to me that, if the modern girl goes about building sandcastles with kids she has only known for five minutes and probably without a proper introduction at that, then all that has been written about her is perfectly true. Brazen is the word that seems to meet the case.

I said as much to Freddie, but he wasn’t listening.

“Well, who is this ghastly child, then?” I said.

“I don’t know. O Lord, I’ve had a time! Thank goodness you will probably spend the next few years of your life in Dartmoor for kidnapping. That’s my only consolation. I’ll come and jeer at you through the bars on visiting days.”

“Tell me all, old man,” I said.

He told me all. It took him a good long time to do it, for he broke off in the middle of nearly every sentence to call me names, but I gradually gathered what had happened. The girl Elizabeth had listened like an iceberg while he worked off the story he had prepared, and then⁠—well, she didn’t actually call him a liar in so many words, but she gave him to understand in a general sort of way that he was a worm and an outcast. And then he crawled off with the kid, licked to a splinter.

“And mind,” he concluded, “this is your affair. I’m not mixed up in it at all. If you want to escape your sentence⁠—or anyway get a portion of it remitted⁠—you’d better go and find the child’s parents and return him before the police come for you.”

“Who are his parents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do they live?”

“I don’t know.”

The kid didn’t seem to know, either. A thoroughly vapid and uninformed infant. I got out of him the fact that he had a father, but that was as far as he went. It didn’t seem ever to have occurred to him, chatting of an evening with the old man, to ask him his name and address. So, after a wasted ten minutes, out we went into the great world, more or less what you might call at random.

I give you my word that, until I started to tramp the place with this child, I never had a notion that it was such a difficult job restoring a son to his parents. How kidnappers ever get caught is a mystery to me. I searched Marvis Bay like a bloodhound, but nobody came forward to claim the infant. You would have thought, from the lack of interest in him, that he was stopping there all by himself in a cottage of his own. It wasn’t till, by another inspiration, I thought to ask the sweet-stall man that I got on the track. The sweet-stall man, who seemed to have seen a lot of him, said that the child’s name was Kegworthy, and that his parents lived at a place called Ocean Rest.

It then remained to find Ocean Rest. And eventually, after visiting Ocean View, Ocean Prospect, Ocean Breeze, Ocean Cottage, Ocean Bungalow, Ocean Nook and Ocean Homestead, I trailed it down.

I knocked at the door. Nobody answered. I knocked again. I could hear movements inside, but nobody appeared. I was just going to get to work with that knocker in such a way that it would filter through these people’s heads that I wasn’t standing there just for the fun of the thing, when a voice from somewhere above shouted “Hi!”

I looked up and saw a round, pink face, with grey whiskers east and west of it, staring down at me from an upper window.

“Hi!” it shouted again. “You can’t come in.”

“I don’t want to come in.”

“Because⁠—Oh, is that Tootles?”

“My name is not Tootles. Are you Mr. Kegworthy? I’ve brought back your son.”

“I see him. Peep-bo, Tootles, Dadda can see ’oo.”

The face disappeared with a jerk. I could hear voices. The face reappeared.

“Hi!”

I churned the gravel madly. This blighter was giving me the pip.

“Do you live here?” asked the face.

“I have taken a cottage here for a few weeks.”

“What’s your name?”

“Wooster.”

“Fancy that! Do you spell it W-o-r-c-e-s-t-e-r or W-o-o-s-t-e-r?”

“W-o-o⁠—”

“I ask because I once knew a Miss Wooster, spelled W-o-o⁠—”

I had had about enough of this spelling-bee.

“Will you open the door and take this child in?”

“I mustn’t open the door. This Miss Wooster that I knew married a man named Spenser. Was she any relation?”

“She is my Aunt Agatha,” I replied, and I spoke with a good deal of bitterness, trying to suggest by my manner that he was exactly the sort of man, in my opinion, who would know my Aunt Agatha.

He beamed down at me.

“This is most fortunate. We were wondering what to do with Tootles. You see, we have mumps here. My daughter Booties has just developed mumps. Tootles must not be exposed to the risk of infection. We could not think what to do with him. It was most fortunate, your finding the dear child. He strayed from his nurse. I would hesitate to trust him to a stranger, but you are different. Any nephew of Mrs. Spenser’s has my complete confidence. You must take Tootles into your house. It will be an ideal arrangement. I have written to my brother in London to come and fetch him. He may be here in a few days.”

“May!”

“He is a busy man, of course, but he should certainly be here within a week. Till then Tootles can stop with you. It is an excellent plan. Very much obliged to you. Your wife will like Tootles.”

“I haven’t got a wife!” I yelled, but the window had closed with a bang, as if the man with the whiskers had found a germ trying to escape and had headed it off just in time.

I breathed a deep breath and wiped the old forehead.

The window flew up again.

“Hi!”

A package weighing about a ton hit me on the head and burst like a bomb.

“Did you catch it?” said the face, reappearing. “Dear me, you missed it. Never mind. You can get it at the grocer’s. Ask for Bailey’s Granulated Breakfast Chips. Tootles takes them for breakfast with a little milk. Not cream. Milk. Be sure to get Bailey’s.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

The face disappeared, and the window was banged down again. I lingered a while, but nothing else happened, so, taking Tootles by the hand, I walked slowly away.

And as we turned up the road we met Freddie’s Elizabeth.

“Well, baby?” she said, sighting the kid. “So daddy found you again, did he? Your little son and I made great friends on the beach this morning,” she said to me.

This was the limit. Coming on top of that interview with the whiskered lunatic, it so utterly unnerved me that she had nodded goodbye and was halfway down the road before I caught up with my breath enough to deny the charge of being the infant’s father.

I hadn’t expected Freddie to sing with joy when he saw me looming up with child complete, but I did think he might have showed a little more manly fortitude, a little more of the old British bulldog spirit. He leaped up when we came in, glared at the kid and clutched his head. He didn’t speak for a long time, but, to make up for it, when he began he did not leave off for a long time.

“Well,” he said, when he had finished the body of his remarks, “say something! Heavens, man, why don’t you say something?”

“If you’ll give me a chance, I will,” I said, and shot the bad news.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asked. And it would be idle to deny that his manner was peevish.

“What can we do about it?”

“We? What do you mean, we? I’m not going to spend my time taking turns as a nursemaid to this excrescence. I’m going back to London.”

“Freddie!” I cried. “Freddie, old man!” My voice shook. “Would you desert a pal at a time like this?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Freddie,” I said, “you’ve got to stand by me. You must. Do you realise that this child has to be undressed, and bathed, and dressed again? You wouldn’t leave me to do all that single-handed?”

“Jeeves can help you.”

“No, sir,” said Jeeves, who had just rolled in with lunch, “I must, I fear, disassociate myself completely from the matter.” He spoke respectfully but firmly. “I have had little or no experience with children.”

“Now’s the time to start,” I urged.

“No, sir, I am sorry to say that I cannot involve myself in any way.”

“Then you must stand by me, Freddie.”

“I won’t.”

“You must. Reflect, old man! We have been pals for years. Your mother likes me.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Well, anyway, we were at school together and you owe me a tenner.”

“Oh, well,” he said in a resigned sort of voice.

“Besides, old thing,” I said, “I did it all for your sake, you know.”

He looked at me in a curious way, and breathed rather hard for some moments.

“Bertie,” he said, “one moment. I will stand a good deal, but I will not stand being expected to be grateful.”

Looking back at it, I can see that what saved me from Colney Hatch in this crisis was my bright idea in buying up most of the contents of the local sweet-shop. By serving out sweets to the kid practically incessantly we managed to get through the rest of that day pretty satisfactorily. At eight o’clock he fell asleep in a chair; and, having undressed him by unbuttoning every button in sight and, where there were no buttons, pulling till something gave, we carried him up to bed.

Freddie stood looking at the pile of clothes on the floor with a sort of careworn wrinkle between his eyes, and I knew what he was thinking. To get the kid undressed had been simple⁠—a mere matter of muscle. But how were we to get him into his clothes again? I stirred the heap with my foot. There was a long linen arrangement which might have been anything. Also a strip of pink flannel which was like nothing on earth. All most unpleasant.

But in the morning I remembered that there were children in the next bungalow but one, and I went there before breakfast and borrowed their nurse. Women are wonderful, by Jove they are! This nurse had all the spare parts assembled and in the right places in about eight minutes, and there was the kid dressed and looking fit to go to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. I showered wealth upon her, and she promised to come in morning and evening. I sat down to breakfast almost cheerful again. It was the first bit of silver lining that had presented itself to date.

“And, after all,” I said, “there’s lots to be argued in favour of having a child about the place, if you know what I mean. Kind of cosy and domestic, what?”

Just then the kid upset the milk over Freddie’s trousers, and when he had come back after changing he lacked sparkle.

It was shortly after breakfast that Jeeves asked if he could have a word in my ear.

Now, though in the anguish of recent events I had rather tended to forget what had been the original idea in bringing Freddie down to this place, I hadn’t forgotten it altogether; and I’m bound to say that, as the days went by, I had found myself a little disappointed in Jeeves. The scheme had been, if you recall, that he should refresh himself with sea-air and simple food and, having thus got his brain into prime working order, evolve some means of bringing Freddie and his Elizabeth together again.

And what had happened? The man had eaten well and he had slept well, but not a step did he appear to have taken towards bringing about the happy ending. The only move that had been made in that direction had been made by me, alone and unaided, and, though I freely admit that it had turned out a good deal of a bloomer, still the fact remains that I had shown zeal and enterprise. Consequently I received him with a bit of hauteur when he blew in. Slightly cold. A trifle frosty.

“Yes, Jeeves?” I said. “You wished to speak to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say on, Jeeves,” I said.

“Thank you, sir. What I desired to say, sir, was this: I attended a performance at the local cinema last night.”

I raised the eyebrows. I was surprised at the man. With life in the home so frightfully tense and the young master up against it to such a fearful extent, I disapproved of him coming toddling in and prattling about his amusements.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” I said in rather a nasty manner.

“Yes, sir, thank you. The management was presenting a super-super-film in seven reels, dealing with life in the wilder and more feverish strata of New York Society, featuring Bertha Blevitch, Orlando Murphy and Baby Bobbie. I found it most entertaining, sir.”

“That’s good,” I said. “And if you have a nice time this morning on the sands with your spade and bucket, you will come and tell me all about it, won’t you? I have so little on my mind just now that it’s a treat to hear all about your happy holiday.”

Satirical, if you see what I mean. Sarcastic. Almost bitter, as a matter of fact, if you come right down to it.

“The title of the film was Tiny Hands, sir. And the father and mother of the character played by Baby Bobbie had unfortunately drifted apart⁠—”

“Too bad,” I said.

“Although at heart they loved each other still, sir.”

“Did they really? I’m glad you told me that.”

“And so matters went on, sir, till came a day when⁠—”

“Jeeves,” I said, fixing him with a dashed unpleasant eye, “what the dickens do you think you’re talking about? Do you suppose that, with this infernal child landed on me and the peace of the home practically shattered into a million bits, I want to hear⁠—”

“I beg your pardon, sir I would not have mentioned this cinema performance were it not for the fact that it gave me an idea, sir.”

“An idea!”

“An idea that will, I fancy, sir, prove of value in straightening out the matrimonial future of Mr. Bullivant. To which end, if you recollect, sir, you desired me to⁠—”

I snorted with remorse. “Jeeves,” I said, “I wronged you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Yes, I did. I wronged you. I had a notion that you had given yourself up entirely to the pleasures of the seaside and had chucked that business altogether. I might have known better. Tell me all, Jeeves.”

He bowed in a gratified manner. I beamed. And, while we didn’t actually fall on each other’s necks, we gave each other to understand that all was well once more.

“In this super-super-film, Tiny Hands, sir,” said Jeeves, “the parents of the child had, as I say, drifted apart.”

“Drifted apart,” I said, nodding. “Right! And then?”

“Came a day, sir, when their little child brought them together again.”

“How?”

“If I remember rightly, sir, he said, ‘Dadda, doesn’t ’oo love mummie no more?’ ”

“And then?”

“They exhibited a good deal of emotion. There was what I believe is termed a cutback, showing scenes from their courtship and early married life and some glimpses of Lovers Through the Ages, and the picture concluded with a closeup of the pair in an embrace, with the child looking on with natural gratification and an organ playing ‘Hearts and Flowers’ in the distance.”

“Proceed, Jeeves,” I said. “You interest me strangely. I begin to grasp the idea. You mean⁠—?”

“I mean, sir, that, with this young gentleman on the premises, it might be possible to arrange a denouement of a somewhat similar nature in regard to Mr. Bullivant and Miss Vickers.”

“Aren’t you overlooking the fact that this kid is no relation of Mr. Bullivant or Miss Vickers?”

“Even with that handicap, sir, I fancy that good results might ensue. I think that, if it were possible to bring Mr. Bullivant and Miss Vickers together for a short space of time in the presence of the child, sir, and if the child were to say something of a touching nature⁠—”

“I follow you absolutely, Jeeves,” I cried with enthusiasm. “It’s big. This is the way I see it. We lay the scene in this room. Child, centre. Girl, l.c. Freddie up stage, playing the piano. No, that won’t do. He can only play a little of ‘The Rosary’ with one finger, so we’ll have to cut out the soft music. But the rest’s all right. Look here,” I said. “This inkpot is Miss Vickers. This mug with ‘A Present from Marvis Bay’ on it is the child. This penwiper is Mr. Bullivant. Start with dialogue leading up to child’s line. Child speaks line, let us say, ‘Boofer lady, does ’oo love dadda?’ Business of outstretched hands. Hold picture for a moment. Freddie crosses l. takes girl’s hand. Business of swallowing lump in throat. Then big speech ‘Ah, Elizabeth, has not this misunderstanding of ours gone on too long? See! A little child rebukes us!’ And so on. I’m just giving you the general outline. Freddie must work up his own part. And we must get a good line for the child. ‘Boofer lady, does ’oo love dadda?’ isn’t definite enough. We want something more⁠—”

“If I might make the suggestion, sir⁠—?”

“Yes?”

“I would advocate the words ‘Kiss Freddie!’ It is short, readily memorised, and has what I believe is technically termed the punch.”

“Genius, Jeeves!”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“ ‘Kiss Freddie!’ it is, then. But, I say, Jeeves, how the deuce are we to get them together in here? Miss Vickers cuts Mr. Bullivant. She wouldn’t come within a mile of him.”

“It is awkward, sir.”

“It doesn’t matter. We shall have to make it an exterior set instead of an interior. We can easily corner her on the beach somewhere, when we’re ready. Meanwhile, we must get the kid word-perfect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right! First rehearsal for lines and business at eleven sharp tomorrow morning.”

Poor old Freddie was in such a gloomy frame of mind that I decided not to tell him the idea till we had finished coaching the child. He wasn’t in the mood to have a thing like that hanging over him. So we concentrated on Tootles. And pretty early in the proceedings we saw that the only way to get Tootles worked up to the spirit of the thing was to introduce sweets of some sort as a sub-motive so to speak.

“The chief difficulty, sir,” said Jeeves, at the end of the first rehearsal, “is, as I envisage it, to establish in the young gentleman’s mind a connection between the words we desire him to say and the refreshment.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Once the blighter has grasped the basic fact that those two words, clearly spoken, result automatically in chocolate nougat, we have got a success.”

I’ve often thought how interesting it must be to be one of those animal-trainer blokes⁠—to stimulate the dawning intelligence and all that. Well, this was every bit as exciting. Some days success seemed to be staring us in the eyeball, and the kid got out the line as if he had been an old professional. And then he would go all to pieces again. And time was flying.

“We must hurry up, Jeeves,” I said. “The kid’s uncle may arrive any day now and take him away.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“And we have no understudy.”

“Very true, sir.”

“We must work! I must say this child is a bit discouraging at times. I should have thought a deaf-mute would have learned his part by now.”

I will say this for the kid, though: he was a trier. Failure didn’t damp him. Whenever there was any kind of sweet in sight he had a dash at his line, and kept saying something till he had got what he was after. His chief fault was his uncertainty. Personally, I would have been prepared to risk opening in the act and was ready to start the public performance at the first opportunity, but Jeeves said no.

“I would not advocate undue haste, sir,” he said. “As long as the young gentleman’s memory refuses to act with any certainty, we are running grave risks of failure. Today, if you recollect, sir, he said ‘Kick Freddie!’ That is not a speech to win a young lady’s heart, sir.”

“No. And she might do it, too. You’re right. We must postpone production.”

But, by Jove, we didn’t! The curtain went up the very next afternoon.

It was nobody’s fault⁠—certainly not mine. It was just fate. Jeeves was out, and I was alone in the house with Freddie and the child. Freddie had just settled down at the piano, and I was leading the kid out of the place for a bit of exercise, when, just as we’d got on to the veranda, along came the girl Elizabeth on her way to the beach. And at the sight of her the kid set up a matey yell, and she stopped at the foot of the steps.

“Hallo, baby,” she said. “Good morning,” she said to me. “May I come up?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She just hopped on to the veranda. She seemed to be that sort of girl. She started fussing over the child. And six feet away, mind you, Freddie smiting the piano in the sitting room. It was a dashed disturbing situation, take it from Bertram. At any minute Freddie might take it into his head to come out on the veranda, and I hadn’t even begun to rehearse him in his part.

I tried to break up the scene.

“We were just going down to the beach,” I said.

“Yes?” said the girl. She listened for a moment. “So you’re having your piano tuned?” she said. “My aunt has been trying to find a tuner for ours. Do you mind if I go in and tell this man to come on to us when he has finished here?”

I mopped the brow.

“Er⁠—I shouldn’t go in just now,” I said. “Not just now, while he’s working, if you don’t mind. These fellows can’t bear to be disturbed when they’re at work. It’s the artistic temperament. I’ll tell him later.”

“Very well. Ask him to call at Pine Bungalow. Vickers is the name⁠ ⁠… Oh, he seems to have stopped. I suppose he will be out in a minute now. I’ll wait.”

“Don’t you think⁠—shouldn’t you be getting on to the beach?” I said.

She had started talking to the kid and didn’t hear. She was feeling in her bag for something. “The beach,” I babbled.

“See what I’ve got for you, baby,” said the girl. “I thought I might meet you somewhere, so I bought some of your favourite sweets.”

And, by Jove, she held up in front of the kid’s bulging eyes a chunk of toffee about the size of the Albert Memorial!

That finished it. We had just been having a long rehearsal, and the kid was all worked up in his part. He got it right first time.

“Kiss Fweddie!” he shouted.

And the French windows opened and Freddie came out on to the veranda, for all the world as if he had been taking a cue.

“Kiss Fweddie!” shrieked the child.

Freddie looked at the girl, and the girl looked at him. I looked at the ground, and the kid looked at the toffee.

“Kiss Fweddie!” he yelled. “Kiss Fweddie!”

“What does this mean?” said the girl, turning on me.

“You’d better give it him,” I said. “He’ll go on till you do, you know.”

She gave the kid the toffee and he subsided. Freddie, poor ass, still stood there gaping, without a word.

“What does it mean?” said the girl again. Her face was pink, and her eyes were sparkling in the sort of way, don’t you know, that makes a fellow feel as if he hadn’t any bones in him, if you know what I mean. Yes, Bertram felt filleted. Did you ever tread on your partner’s dress at a dance⁠—I’m speaking now of the days when women wore dresses long enough to be trodden on⁠—and hear it rip and see her smile at you like an angel and say, “Please don’t apologise. It’s nothing,” and then suddenly meet her clear blue eyes and feel as if you had stepped on the teeth of a rake and had the handle jump up and hit you in the face? Well, that’s how Freddie’s Elizabeth looked.

“Well?” she said, and her teeth gave a little click.

I gulped. Then I said it was nothing. Then I said it was nothing much. Then I said, “Oh, well, it was this way.” And I told her all about it. And all the while Idiot Freddie stood there gaping, without a word. Not one solitary yip had he let out of himself from the start.

And the girl didn’t speak, either. She just stood listening.

And then she began to laugh. I never heard a girl laugh so much. She leaned against the side of the veranda and shrieked. And all the while Freddie, the World’s Champion Dumb Brick, standing there, saying nothing.

Well, I finished my story and sidled to the steps. I had said all I had to say, and it seemed to me that about here the stage-direction “exit cautiously” was written in my part. I gave poor old Freddie up in despair. If only he had said a word it might have been all right. But there he stood, speechless.

Just out of sight of the house I met Jeeves, returning from his stroll.

“Jeeves,” I said, “all is over. The thing’s finished. Poor dear old Freddie has made a complete ass of himself and killed the whole show.”

“Indeed, sir? What has actually happened?”

I told him.

“He fluffed in his lines,” I concluded. “Just stood there saying nothing, when if ever there was a time for eloquence, this was it. He⁠ ⁠… Great Scott! Look!”

We had come back within view of the cottage, and there in front of it stood six children, a nurse, two loafers, another nurse, and the fellow from the grocer’s. They were all staring. Down the road came galloping five more children, a dog, three men and a boy, all about to stare. And on our porch, as unconscious of the spectators as if they had been alone in the Sahara, stood Freddie and his Elizabeth, clasped in each other’s arms.

“Great Scott!” I said.

“It would appear, sir,” said Jeeves, “that everything has concluded most satisfactorily, after all.”

“Yes. Dear old Freddie may have been fluffy in his lines,” I said, “but his business certainly seems to have gone with a bang.”

“Very true, sir,” said Jeeves.