The Mating Call Of The Northeastern Screech Owl - Chapter 4 - cuddyclothes (original) (raw)

Chapter Text

The next days were a strain on the legendary Wooster goodwill. While Jeeves performed his duties with his customary efficiency, our cheery bonhomie was but a memory.

With the tact for which Wooster is widely admired, I airily mentioned the Watson binge once in a great while. “Is my dinner jacket cleaned and pressed, Jeeves?” I asked while pretending to read a magazine.

“Yes, sir.”

I glanced up. Did I see a nostril flair, or was it my imagination? No, both nostrils were firmly at their usual stands.

“Very good, Jeeves.”

Or: “Jeeves, I do hope you know we’re not to wear white tie. It’s informal wear.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You know, in case you laid out the wrong garb for the big bash. Not that you would, Jeeves, but one cannot be too careful, eh?”

“Indeed, sir.”

One should have been satisfied with the man’s responses, but one was not. Indeed, one suspected sabotage.

My good and devoted Aunt Dahlia had given me a pair of gold cufflinks for my birthday, with my initials tastefully engraved. Jeeves did not dare turn up his nose at the gift. The aged r. had me promise that I would wear them whenever I visited her in town. There came the morning of the day I was to meet Aunt Dahlia for luncheon at Quag’s.

“Where are those cufflinks, Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“The engraved ones. You know, gold colored, the initials B.W. in spiffy scrolled script. Ha! Trying saying that five times fast, Jeeves!”

“I think not, sir.”

“Be that as it may, Jeeves, the cufflinks must be located instanter.”

After some rummaging about in places where one would assumedly keep baubles of the men’s better jewelry, Jeeves turned to me. “Sir, I regret to say that I cannot locate them.”

“Well, then, find another pair. Aunt Dahlia’s getting on, her eyesight won’t be able to tell one set of gold colored cuff-links from another, eh? I’ll keep my hands under the table as much as possible.”

He rummaged again, turning back to me with a sorrowful look about the dial. “Sir, I regret to say that I cannot locate any other gold colored cuff-links either.”

“Indeed? That’s rummy. All lost?”

“I shall endeavor to search for them, sir. They have undoubtedly been misplaced.” He opened his hand. “These will go well with your attire, sir.”

I let the blighter fasten the cuff-links to the shirt. It was only when I picked up my napkin in front of Aunt Dahlia that I saw that they were blue mother of pearl. Now, at any other time they would have been quite attractive, with the way they caught the light and all. At this time, however, the blue mother of pearl cuff-links were not the object of appreciation but rather disapprobation. Their owner was also the subject of such loud and lengthy disapprobation from an angered a. that the retreat was sounded and I ended up back at the flat without having eaten. Jeeves, the fiend, seemed to know what had happened and had a plate of sandwiches and a half bot waiting! He professed innocence. But I suspected otherwise.

Friday night I returned home from a delightful musical show, to find Jeeves awaiting me. The telephone tootled as he took my coat and hat. He floated to the device and picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Wooster’s residence.” There was a pause. Then, in a completely different voice, he said, “Good evening, Mr. Lilley! And how are you doing on this fine night?”

I stared at Jeeves and raised the eyebrows. Then it hit me—Jeeves was imitating Mr. Coneybear! Despite his antagonism, Jeeves had enough feudal spirit to keep the young master from humiliation.

“You’re in luck, Mr. Lilley. Mr. Wooster’s right here. You want to talk to him?”

It wasn’t just birds that Jeeves could imitate, by Jove. He handed me the receiver.

“Bobby, old chum!” I greeted him.

“Bertie! Say, listen, I had a great idea! You get a limo, Jeeves drives it and we get to the party in high style! What d’ya say?”

“Eh?”

“We’ve got to make an impression, pal! Instead of my old tin can or a taxi, we drive up in a fancy limo. Wissy’s got enough presence that he’ll make us look great!”

“But—Bobby, old prune—“

“Say, you wouldn’t hold out on a friend, would you? Don't tell me you're that type of guy, Bertie!”

“But I say—“

“Not a friend who’s given you the swankiest hat in New York City!”

“Oh, all right, dash it!”

“You’d better get on it quick, Wooster, the party’s tomorrow night! I’m counting on you!”

I hung up the receiver. “There has been a spanner tossed into the workings, Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“Bobby has demanded we arrive in a limousine. Driven by you—or rather, you, as played by Mr. Coneybear.” I bowed the head. “We’re in the clam chowder, Jeeves.”

“Not yet, sir,” he responded. “I shall hire a limousine and speak to Mr. Coneybear. Doubtless he will appreciate the addition to his pay packet.”

“You’re a wonder, Jeeves. Thank you for putting your personal feelings aside. I’m proud of you!”

“Very good, sir.” The look he favored me with had nothing to do with gratitude.