Jeeves Stories · Without the Option (1/3)

Without the Option

The evidence was all in. The machinery of the Law had worked without a hitch. And the beak, having adjusted a pair of pince-nez which looked as though they were going to do a nosedive any moment, coughed like a pained sheep and slipped us the bad news.

“The prisoner Wooster,” he said⁠—and who can paint the shame and agony of Bertram at hearing himself so described?⁠—“will pay a fine of five pounds.”

“Oh, rather,” I said. “Absolutely. Like a shot.”

I was dashed glad to get the thing settled at such a reasonable figure. I gazed across what they call the sea of faces till I picked up Jeeves, sitting at the back. Stout fellow, he had come to see the young master through his hour of trial.

“I say, Jeeves,” I sang out, “have you got a fiver? I’m a bit short.”

“Silence!” bellowed some officious blighter.

“It’s all right,” I said; “just arranging the financial details. Got the stuff, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good egg!”

“Are you a friend of the prisoner?” asked the beak.

“I am in Mr. Wooster’s employment, your worship, in the capacity of gentleman’s personal gentleman.”

“Then pay the fine to the clerk.”

“Very good, your worship.”

The beak gave a coldish nod in my direction, as much as to say that they might now strike the fetters from my wrists; and, having hitched up the pince-nez once more, proceeded to hand poor old Sippy one of the nastiest looks ever seen in Bosher Street Police Court.

“The case of the prisoner Leon Trotsky⁠—which,” he said, giving Sippy the eye again, “I am strongly inclined to think an assumed and fictitious name⁠—is more serious. He has been convicted of a wanton and violent assault upon the police. The evidence of the officer has proved that the prisoner struck him in the abdomen, causing severe internal pain, and in other ways interfered with him in the execution of his duties. I am aware that on the night following the annual aquatic contest between the universities of Oxford and Cambridge a certain licence is traditionally granted by the authorities, but aggravated acts of ruffianly hooliganism like that of the prisoner Trotsky cannot be overlooked or palliated. He will serve a sentence of thirty days in the second division without the option of a fine.”

“No, I say⁠—here!⁠—hi!⁠—dash it all!” protested poor old Sippy.

“Silence!” bellowed the officious blighter.

“Next case,” said the beak.

And that was that.

The whole affair was most unfortunate. Memory is a trifle blurred; but, as far as I can piece together the facts, what happened was more or less this.

Abstemious cove though I am as a general thing, there is one night in the year when, putting all other engagements aside, I am rather apt to let myself go a bit and renew my lost youth, as it were. The night to which I allude is the one following the annual aquatic contest between the universities of Oxford and Cambridge⁠—or, putting it another way, Boat-Race Night. Then, if ever, you will see Bertram under the influence. And on this occasion, I freely admit, I had been doing myself rather juicily, with the result that when I ran into old Sippy opposite the Empire I was in quite fairly bonhomous mood. This being so, it cut me to the quick to perceive that Sippy, generally the brightest of revellers, was far from being his usual sunny self. He had the air of a man with a secret sorrow.

“Bertie,” he said, as we strolled along towards Piccadilly Circus, “the heart bowed down by weight of woe to weakest hope will cling.” Sippy is by way of being an author, though mainly dependent for the necessaries of life on subsidies from an old aunt who lives in the country, and his conversation often takes a literary turn. “But the trouble is that I have no hope to cling to, weak or otherwise. I am up against it, Bertie.”

“In what way, laddie?”

“I’ve got to go tomorrow and spend three weeks with some absolutely dud⁠—I will go further, some positively scaly friends of my Aunt Vera. She has fixed the thing up, and may a nephew’s curse blister every bulb in her garden.”

“Who are these hounds of hell?” I asked sympathetically.

“Some people named Pringle. I haven’t seen them since I was ten, but I remember them at that time striking me as England’s premier warts.”

“Tough luck. No wonder you’ve lost your morale.”

“The world,” said Sippy, “is very grey. How can I shake off this awful depression?”

It was then that I got one of those bright ideas one does get round about eleven-thirty on Boat-Race night.

“What you want, old man,” I said, “is a policeman’s helmet.”

“Do I, Bertie?”

“If I were you, I’d just step straight across the street and get that one over there.”

“But there’s a policeman inside it. You can see him distinctly.”

“What does that matter?” I said. I simply couldn’t follow his reasoning.

Sippy stood for a moment in thought.

“I believe you’re absolutely right,” he said at last. “Funny I never thought of it before. You really recommend me to get that helmet?”

“I do indeed.”

“Then I will,” said Sippy, brightening up in the most remarkable manner.

So there you have the posish, and you can see why, as I left the dock, a free man, remorse gnawed at my vitals. In his twenty-fifth year, with life opening out before him and all that sort of thing, Oliver Randolph Sipperley had become a jailbird, and it was all my fault. It was I who had dragged that fine spirit down into the mire, so to speak, and the question now arose, What could I do to atone?

Obviously, the first move must be to get in touch with Sippy and see if he had any last messages, and whatnot. I pushed about a bit, making inquiries, and presently found myself in a little dark room with whitewashed walls and a wooden bench. Sippy was sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.

“How are you, old lad?” I asked in a hushed, bedside voice.

“I’m a ruined man,” said Sippy, looking like a poached egg.

“Oh, come,” I said, “it’s not so bad as all that. I mean to say, you had the swift intelligence to give a false name. There won’t be anything about you in the papers.”

“I’m not worrying about the papers. What’s bothering me is, How can I go and spend three weeks with the Pringles, starting today, when I’ve got to sit in a prison cell with a ball and chain on my ankle?”

“But you said you didn’t want to go.”

“It isn’t a question of wanting, fathead. I’ve got to go. If I don’t, my aunt will find out where I am. And if she finds out that I am doing thirty days without the option in the lowest dungeon beneath the castle moat⁠—well, where shall I get off?”

I saw his point.

“This is not a thing we can settle for ourselves,” I said, gravely. “We must put our trust in a higher power. Jeeves is the man we must consult.”

And, having collected a few of the necessary data, I shook his hand, patted him on the back, and tooled off home.

“Jeeves,” I said, when I had climbed outside the pick-me-up which he had thoughtfully prepared against my coming, “I’ve got something to tell you. Something important. Something that vitally affects one whom you have always regarded with⁠—one whom you have always looked upon⁠—one whom you have⁠—well, to cut a long story short, as I’m not feeling quite myself⁠—Mr. Sipperley.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Jeeves, Mr. Souperley is in the sip.”

“Sir?”

“I mean, Mr. Sipperley is in the soup.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“And all owing to me. It was I who, in a moment of mistaken kindness, wishing only to cheer him up and give him something to occupy his mind, recommended him to pinch that policeman’s helmet.”

“Is that so, sir?”

“Do you mind not intoning the responses, Jeeves?” I said. “This is a most complicated story for a man with a headache to have to tell, and if you interrupt you’ll make me lose the thread. As a favour to me, therefore, don’t do it. Just nod every now and then to show you’re following.”

I closed my eyes and marshalled the facts.

“To start with, then, Jeeves, you may or may not know that Mr. Sipperley is practically dependent on his Aunt Vera.”

“Would that be Miss Sipperley of the Paddock, Beckley-on-the-Moor, in Yorkshire, sir?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you know her?”

“Not personally, sir. But I have a cousin residing in the village who has some slight acquaintance with Miss Sipperley. He has described her to me as an imperious and quick-tempered old lady⁠ ⁠… But I beg your pardon, sir, I should have nodded.”

“Quite right, you should have nodded. Yes, Jeeves, you should have nodded. But it’s too late now.”

I nodded myself. I hadn’t had my eight hours the night before, and what you might call a lethargy was showing a tendency to steal over me from time to time.

“Yes, sir?” said Jeeves.

“Oh⁠—ah⁠—yes,” I said, giving myself a bit of a hitch up. “Where had I got to?”

“You were saying that Mr. Sipperley is practically dependent upon Miss Sipperley, sir.”

“Was I?”

“You were, sir.”

“You’re perfectly right. So I was. Well, then, you can readily understand, Jeeves, that he has got to take jolly good care to keep in with her. You get that?”

Jeeves nodded.

“Now mark this closely: The other day she wrote to old Sippy, telling him to come down and sing at her village concert. It was equivalent to a royal command, if you see what I mean, so Sippy couldn’t refuse in so many words. But he had sung at her village concert once before and had got the bird in no uncertain manner, so he wasn’t playing any return dates. You follow so far, Jeeves?”

Jeeves nodded.

“So what did he do, Jeeves? He did what seemed to him at the moment a rather brainy thing. He told her that, while he would have been delighted to sing at her village concert, by a most unfortunate chance an editor had commissioned him to write a series of articles on the Colleges of Cambridge, and he was obliged to pop down there at once and would be away for quite three weeks. All clear up to now?”

Jeeves inclined the coconut.

“Whereupon, Jeeves, Miss Sipperley wrote back saying that she quite realized that work must come before pleasure⁠—pleasure being her loose way of describing the act of singing songs at the Beckley-on-the-Moor concert and getting the laugh from the local toughs; but that, if he was going to Cambridge, he must certainly stay with her friends, the Pringles, at their house just outside the town. And she dropped them a line telling them to expect him on the twenty-eighth, and they dropped another line saying right-ho, and the thing was settled. And now, Mr. Sipperley is in the jug, and what will be the ultimate outcome or upshot? Jeeves, it is a problem worthy of your great intellect. I rely on you.”

“I will do my best to justify your confidence, sir.”

“Carry on, then. And, meanwhile, pull down the blinds and bring a couple more cushions and heave that small chair this way so that I can put my feet up, and then go away and brood and let me hear from you in⁠—say⁠—a couple of hours. Or, maybe, three. And if anybody calls and wants to see me, inform them that I am dead.”

“Dead, sir?”

“Dead. You won’t be so far wrong.”

It must have been well towards evening when I woke up with a crick in my neck, but otherwise somewhat refreshed. I pressed the bell.

“I looked in twice, sir,” said Jeeves, “but on each occasion you were asleep and I did not like to disturb you.”

“The right spirit, Jeeves.⁠ ⁠… Well?”

“I have been giving close thought to the little problem which you indicated, sir, and I can see only one solution.”

“One is enough. What do you suggest?”

“That you go to Cambridge in Mr. Sipperley’s place, sir.”

I stared at the man. Certainly I was feeling a good deal better than I had been a few hours before, but I was far from being in a fit condition to have rot like this talked to me.

“Jeeves,” I said, sternly, “pull yourself together. This is mere babble from the sickbed.”

“I fear I can suggest no other plan of action, sir, which will extricate Mr. Sipperley from his dilemma.”

“But think! Reflect! Why, even I, in spite of having had a disturbed night and a most painful morning with the minions of the Law, can see that the scheme is a loony one. To put the finger on only one leak in the thing, it isn’t me these people want to see, it’s Mr. Sipperley. They don’t know me from Adam.”

“So much the better, sir. For what I am suggesting is that you go to Cambridge affecting actually to be Mr. Sipperley.”

This was too much.

“Jeeves,” I said, and I’m not half sure there weren’t tears in my eyes, “surely you can see for yourself that this is pure banana-oil. It is not like you to come into the presence of a sick man and gibber.”

“I think the plan I have suggested would be practicable, sir. While you were sleeping I was able to have a few words with Mr. Sipperley, and he informed me that Professor and Mrs. Pringle have not set eyes upon him since he was a lad of ten.”

“No, that’s true. He told me that. But, even so, they would be sure to ask him questions about my aunt⁠—or, rather, his aunt. Where would I be then?”

“Mr. Sipperley was kind enough to give me a few facts respecting Miss Sipperley, sir, which I jotted down. With these, added to what my cousin has told me of the lady’s habits, I think you would be in a position to answer any ordinary question.”

There is something dashed insidious about Jeeves. Time and again since we first came together he has stunned me with some apparently drivelling suggestion or scheme or ruse or plan of campaign, and after about five minutes has convinced me that it is not only sound, but fruity. It took nearly a quarter of an hour to reason me into this particular one, it being considerably the weirdest to date; but he did it. I was holding out pretty firmly, when he suddenly clinched the thing.

“I would certainly suggest, sir,” he said, “that you left London as soon as possible and remained hid for some little time in some retreat where you would not be likely to be found.”

“Eh? Why?”

“During the last hour Mrs. Spencer has been on the telephone three times, sir, endeavouring to get into communication with you.”

“Aunt Agatha!” I cried, paling beneath my tan.

“Yes, sir. I gathered from her remarks that she had been reading in the evening paper a report of this morning’s proceedings in the police court.”

I hopped from the chair like a jackrabbit of the prairie. If Aunt Agatha was out with her hatchet, a move was most certainly indicated.

“Jeeves,” I said, “this is a time for deeds, not words. Pack⁠—and that right speedily.”

“I have packed, sir.”

“Find out when there is a train for Cambridge.”

“There is one in forty minutes, sir.”

“Call a taxi.”

“A taxi is at the door, sir.”

“Good!” I said. “Then lead me to it.”

The Maison Pringle was quite a bit of a way out of Cambridge, a mile or two down the Trumpington Road; and when I arrived everybody was dressing for dinner. So it wasn’t till I had shoved on the evening raiment and got down to the drawing-room that I met the gang.

“Hullo-ullo!” I said, taking a deep breath and floating in.

I tried to speak in a clear and ringing voice, but I wasn’t feeling my chirpiest. It is always a nervous job for a diffident and unassuming bloke to visit a strange house for the first time; and it doesn’t make the thing any better when he goes there pretending to be another fellow. I was conscious of a rather pronounced sinking feeling, which the appearance of the Pringles did nothing to allay.

Sippy had described them as England’s premier warts, and it looked to me as if he might be about right. Professor Pringle was a thinnish, baldish, dyspeptic-lookingish cove with an eye like a haddock, while Mrs. Pringle’s aspect was that of one who had had bad news round about the year 1900 and never really got over it. And I was just staggering under the impact of these two when I found myself being introduced to a couple of ancient females with shawls all over them.

“No doubt you remember my mother?” said Professor Pringle, mournfully, indicating Exhibit A.

“Oh, ah!” I said, achieving a bit of a beam.