Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit by P.G. Wodehouse Page B

having
the crust to come barging in here! That, Jeeves, is serving it up with cream
sauce. I don’t want to be harsh, but there is only one word for D’Arcy
Cheesewright — the word “uncouth”. What are you goggling at?’ I asked, noticing
that his gaze was fixed upon me in a meaning manner.
    He
spoke with quiet severity.
    ‘Your
tie, sir. It will not, I fear, pass muster.’
    ‘Is
this a time to talk of ties?’
    ‘Yes,
sir. One aims at the perfect butterfly shape, and this you have not achieved.
With your permission, I will adjust it.’
    He did
so, and I must say made a very fine job of it, but I continued to chafe.
    ‘Do you
realize, Jeeves, that my life is in peril?’
    ‘Indeed,
sir?’
    ‘I
assure you. That hunk of boloney … I allude to G. D’Arcy Cheesewright … has
formally stated his intention of breaking my spine in five places.’
    ‘Indeed,
sir? Why is that?’
    I gave
him the facts, and he expressed the opinion that the position of affairs was
disturbing.
    I shot
one of my looks at him.
    ‘You
would go so far as that, Jeeves?’
    ‘Yes,
sir. Most disturbing.’
    ‘Ho!’ I
said, borrowing a bit of Stilton’s stuff, and was about to tell him that if he
couldn’t think of a better word than that to describe what was probably the
ghastliest imbroglio that had ever broken loose in the history of the human
race, I would be glad to provide him with a Roget’s Thesaurus at my
personal expense, when the gong went and I had to leg it for the trough.
     
    I do not look back to that
first dinner at Brinkley Court as among the pleasantest functions which I have
attended. Ironically, considering the circumstances, Anatole, that wizard of
the pots and pans, had come through with one of his supremest efforts. He had
provided the company with, if memory serves me correctly,
     
    Le Caviar Frais
    Le Consommé aux Pommes d’Amour
    Les Sylphides à la crème d’Écrevisses
    Les Fried Smelts
    Le Bird of some kind with chipped potatoes
    Le Ice Cream
     
    and, of course, les fruits
and le café, but for all its effect on the Wooster soul it might have been
corned beef hash. I don’t say I pushed it away untasted, as Aunt Dahlia had
described Percy doing with his daily ration, but the successive courses turned
to ashes in my mouth. The sight of Stilton across the table blunted appetite.
    I
suppose it was just imagination, but he seemed to have grown quite a good deal
both upwards and sideways since I had last seen him, and the play of expression
on his salmon-coloured face showed only too clearly the thoughts that were
occupying his mind, if you could call it that. He gave me from eight to ten
dirty looks in the course of the meal, but except for a remark at the outset to
the effect that he was hoping to have a word with me later, did not address me.
    Nor,
for the matter of that, did he address anyone. His demeanour throughout was
that of a homicidal deaf mute. The Trotter female, who sat on his right,
endeavoured to entertain him with a saga about Mrs. Alderman Blenkinsop’s
questionable behaviour at a recent church bazaar, but he confined his response
to gaping at her like some dull, half-witted animal, as Percy would have said,
and digging silently into the foodstuffs.
    Sitting
next to Florence, who spoke little, merely looking cold and proud and making
bread pills, I had ample leisure for thought during the festivities, and by the
time the coffee came round I had formed my plans and perfected my strategy.
When eventually Aunt Dahlia blew the whistle for the gentler sex to buzz off
and leave the men to their port, I took advantage of their departure to execute
a quiet sneak through the french windows into the garden, being well in the
open before the first of the procession had crossed the threshold. Whether or
not this clever move brought a hoarse cry to Stilton’s lips, I cannot say for
certain, but I fancied I heard something that sounded like the howl of a timber
wolf that has stubbed its toe on a