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P. G. Wodehouse
My Man Jeeves 05
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V

HELPING FREDDIE


I don't want to bore you, don't you know, and all that sort of rot, but
I must tell you about dear old Freddie Meadowes. I'm not a flier at
literary style, and all that, but I'll get some writer chappie to give
the thing a wash and brush up when I've finished, so that'll be all
right.

Dear old Freddie, don't you know, has been a dear old pal of mine for
years and years; so when I went into the club one morning and found him
sitting alone in a dark corner, staring glassily at nothing, and
generally looking like the last rose of summer, you can understand I
was quite disturbed about it. As a rule, the old rotter is the life and
soul of our set. Quite the little lump of fun, and all that sort of
thing.

Jimmy Pinkerton was with me at the time. Jimmy's a fellow who writes
plays--a deuced brainy sort of fellow--and between us we set to work to
question the poor pop-eyed chappie, until finally we got at what the
matter was.

As we might have guessed, it was a girl. He had had a quarrel with
Angela West, the girl he was engaged to, and she had broken off the
engagement. What the row had been about he didn't say, but apparently
she was pretty well fed up. She wouldn't let him come near her, refused
to talk on the phone, and sent back his letters unopened.

I was sorry for poor old Freddie. I knew what it felt like. I was once
in love myself with a girl called Elizabeth Shoolbred, and the fact
that she couldn't stand me at any price will be recorded in my
autobiography. I knew the thing for Freddie.

"Change of scene is what you want, old scout," I said. "Come with me to
Marvis Bay. I've taken a cottage there. Jimmy's coming down on the
twenty-fourth. We'll be a cosy party."

"He's absolutely right," said Jimmy. "Change of scene's the thing. I
knew 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."

But Freddie wouldn't be comforted. He just went on looking as if he had
swallowed his last sixpence. However, I got him to promise to come to
Marvis Bay with me. He said he might as well be there as anywhere.

Do you know Marvis Bay? It's in Dorsetshire. It isn't what you'd call a
fiercely exciting spot, but it has its 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 gnats. At nine o'clock you rub ointment on
the wounds and go to bed.

It seemed to suit poor old Freddie. Once the moon was up and the breeze
sighing in the trees, you couldn't drag him from that beach with a
rope. He became quite a popular pet with the gnats. They'd hang round
waiting for him to come out, and would give perfectly good strollers
the miss-in-baulk just so as to be in good condition for him.

Yes, it was a peaceful sort of life, but by the end of the first week I
began to wish that Jimmy Pinkerton had arranged to come down earlier:
for as a companion Freddie, poor old chap, wasn't anything to write
home to mother about. 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. Somewhere round about the third bar a fuse would
blow out, and he'd have to start all over again.

He was playing it as usual one morning when I came in from bathing.

"Reggie," he said, in a hollow voice, looking up, "I've seen her."

"Seen her?" I said. "What, Miss West?"

"I was down at the post office, getting the letters, and we met in the
doorway. She cut me!"

He started "The Rosary" again, and side-slipped in the second bar.

"Reggie," he said, "you ought never to have brought me here. I must go
away."

"Go away?" I said. "Don't talk such rot. This is the best thing that
could have happened. 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!"

"Of course she did. But don't mind that. Put this thing in my hands.
I'll see you through. Now, 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----"

"But what's she going to thank me timidly for?"

I thought for a moment.

"Look out for a chance and save her from drowning," I said.

"I can't swim," said Freddie.

That was Freddie all over, don't you know. 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 sprinted for the open.

I strolled out on to the sands and began to think this thing over.
There was no doubt that the brain-work had got to be done by me. Dear
old Freddie had his strong qualities. He was top-hole at polo, and in
happier days I've heard him give an imitation of cats fighting in a
backyard that would have surprised you. But apart from that he wasn't a
man of enterprise.

Well, don't you know, I was rounding some rocks, with my brain whirring
like a dynamo, when I caught sight of a blue dress, and, by Jove, it
was the girl. 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 build a castle.
On a chair close by was an elderly lady reading a novel. I heard the
girl call her "aunt." So, doing the Sherlock Holmes business, I deduced
that the fat child was 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. Personally I couldn't manage it. I don't
think I ever saw a child who made me feel less sentimental. He was one
of those round, bulging kids.

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

Now, fellows, if you ask them, will tell you that I'm a chump. Well, I
don't mind. I admit it. I AM a chump. All the Peppers have been
chumps. But what I do say is that every now and then, when you'd least
expect it, I get a pretty hot brain-wave; and that's what happened now.
I doubt if the idea that came to me then would have occurred to a
single one of any dozen of the brainiest chappies you care to name.

It came to me on my return journey. I was walking back along the shore,
when I saw the fat kid meditatively smacking a jelly-fish with a spade.
The girl wasn't with him. In fact, there didn't seem to be any one in
sight. I was just going to pass on when I got the brain-wave. I thought
the whole thing out in a flash, don't you know. 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
heavy-weight for the moment, 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 has found him wandering at large about the country and
practically saved his life, why, the girl's gratitude is bound to make
her chuck hostilities and be friends again. So I gathered in the kid
and made off with him. All the way home I pictured that scene of
reconciliation. I could see it so vividly, don't you know, that, by
George, it gave me quite a choky feeling in my throat.

Freddie, dear old chap, was rather slow at getting on to the fine
points of the idea. When I appeared, carrying the kid, and dumped him
down in our sitting-room, he didn't absolutely effervesce with joy, if
you know what I mean. The kid had started to bellow by this time, and
poor old Freddie seemed to find it rather trying.

"Stop it!" he said. "Do you think nobody's got any troubles except you?
What the deuce is all this, Reggie?"

The kid came back at him with a yell that made the window rattle. I
raced to the kitchen and fetched a jar of honey. It was the right
stuff. The kid stopped bellowing and began to smear his face with the
stuff.

"Well?" said Freddie, when silence had set in. I explained the idea.
After a while it began to strike him.

"You're not such a fool as you look, sometimes, Reggie," he said
handsomely. "I'm bound to say this seems pretty good."

And he disentangled the kid from the honey-jar and took him out, to
scour the beach for Angela.

I don't know when I've felt so happy. I was so fond of dear old Freddie
that to know that he was soon going to be his old bright self again
made me feel as if somebody had left me about a million pounds. I was
leaning back in a chair on the veranda, smoking peacefully, when down
the road I saw the old boy returning, and, by George, the kid was still
with him. And Freddie looked as if he hadn't a friend in the world.

"Hello!" I said. "Couldn't you find her?"

"Yes, I found her," he replied, with one of those bitter, hollow
laughs.

"Well, then----?"

Freddie sank into a chair and groaned.

"This isn't her cousin, you idiot!" he said.

"He's no relation at all. He's just a kid she happened to meet on the
beach. She had never seen him before in her life."

"What! Who is he, then?"

"I don't know. Oh, Lord, I've had a time! Thank goodness you'll
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."

"Tell me all, old boy," I said.

It took him a good long time to tell the story, for he broke off in the
middle of nearly every sentence to call me names, but I gathered
gradually what had happened. She had listened like an iceberg while he
told the story he had prepared, and then--well, she didn't actually
call him a liar, but she gave him to understand in a general sort of
way that if he and Dr. Cook ever happened to meet, and started swapping
stories, it would be about the biggest duel on record. And then he had
crawled away with the kid, licked to a splinter.

"And mind, this is your affair," he concluded. "I'm not mixed up in it
at all. If you want to escape your sentence, you'd better go and find
the kid's parents and return him before the police come for you."

* * * * *

By Jove, you know, till I started to tramp the place with this infernal
kid, I never had a notion it would have been so deuced difficult to
restore a child to its anxious parents. It's a mystery to me how
kidnappers ever get caught. I searched Marvis Bay like a bloodhound,
but nobody came forward to claim the infant. You'd 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 an inspiration, I thought
to ask the sweet-stall man that I found out that his name was Medwin,
and that his parents lived at a place called Ocean Rest, in Beach Road.

I shot off there like an arrow and knocked at the door. Nobody
answered. I knocked again. I could hear movements inside, but nobody
came. I was just going to get to work on that knocker in such a way
that the idea would filter through into 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 from an upper window.

"Hi!" it shouted again.

"What the deuce do you mean by 'Hi'?" I said.

"You can't come in," said the face. "Hello, is that Tootles?"

"My name is not Tootles, and I don't want to come in," I said. "Are you
Mr. Medwin? 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.

"Do you live here?" said the face.

"I'm staying here for a few weeks."

"What's your name?"

"Pepper. But----"

"Pepper? Any relation to Edward Pepper, the colliery owner?"

"My uncle. But----"

"I used to know him well. Dear old Edward Pepper! I wish I was with him
now."

"I wish you were," I said.

He beamed down at me.

"This is most fortunate," he said. "We were wondering what we were to
do with Tootles. You see, we have the mumps here. My daughter Bootles
has just developed mumps. Tootles must not be exposed to the risk of
infection. We could not think what we were to do with him. It was most
fortunate your finding him. He strayed from his nurse. I would hesitate
to trust him to the care of a stranger, but you are different. Any
nephew of Edward Pepper's has my implicit confidence. You must take
Tootles to 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, don't you know, and had headed it off just in time.

I breathed a deep breath and wiped my 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. Be certain to get Bailey's."

My spirit was broken, if you know what I mean. I accepted the situation.
Taking Tootles by the hand, I walked slowly away. Napoleon's retreat
from Moscow was a picnic by the side of it.

As we turned up the road we met Freddie's Angela.

The sight of her had a marked effect on the kid Tootles. He pointed at
her and said, "Wah!"

The girl stopped and smiled. I loosed the kid, and he ran to her.

"Well, baby?" she said, bending down to him. "So father found you
again, did he? Your little son and I made 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, don't you know, that she had nodded
good-bye and was half-way 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 dear old Freddie to sing with joy when he found out
what had happened, but I did think he might have shown a little more
manly fortitude. He leaped up, glared at the kid, and clutched his
head. He didn't speak for a long time, but, on the other hand, when he
began he did not leave off for a long time. He was quite emotional,
dear old boy. It beat me where he could have picked up such
expressions.

"Well," he said, when he had finished, "say something! Heavens! man,
why don't you say something?"

"You don't give me a chance, old top," I said soothingly.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What can we do about it?"

"We can't spend our time acting as nurses to this--this exhibit."

He got up.

"I'm going back to London," he said.

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

"I would. This is your business, and you've got to manage it."

"Freddie," I said, "you've got to stand by me. You must. Do you realize
that this child has to be undressed, and bathed, and dressed again? You
wouldn't leave me to do all that single-handed? Freddie, old scout, we
were at school together. Your mother likes me. You owe me a tenner."

He sat down again.

"Oh, well," he said resignedly.

"Besides, old top," I said, "I did it all for your sake, don't you
know?"

He looked at me in a curious way.

"Reggie," he said, in a strained voice, "one moment. I'll stand a good
deal, but I won't stand for being expected to be grateful."

Looking back at it, I see that what saved me from Colney Hatch in that
crisis was my bright idea of 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 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 pile 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. We looked at each other and smiled wanly.

But in the morning I remembered that there were children at the next
bungalow but one. We went there before breakfast and borrowed their
nurse. Women are wonderful, by George they are! She had that kid
dressed and looking fit for anything in about eight minutes. I showered
wealth on 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 there had been to the cloud up to date.

"And after all," I said, "there's lots to be said for having a
child about the house, 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 his clothes he began to talk about what a
much-maligned man King Herod was. The more he saw of Tootles, he said,
the less he wondered at those impulsive views of his on infanticide.

Two days later Jimmy Pinkerton came down. Jimmy took one look at the
kid, who happened to be howling at the moment, and picked up his
portmanteau.

"For me," he said, "the hotel. I can't write dialogue with that sort of
thing going on. Whose work is this? Which of you adopted this little
treasure?"

I told him about Mr. Medwin and the mumps. Jimmy seemed interested.

"I might work this up for the stage," he said. "It wouldn't make a bad
situation for act two of a farce."

"Farce!" snarled poor old Freddie.

"Rather. Curtain of act one on hero, a well-meaning, half-baked sort of
idiot just like--that is to say, a well-meaning, half-baked sort of
idiot, kidnapping the child. Second act, his adventures with it. I'll
rough it out to-night. Come along and show me the hotel, Reggie."

As we went I told him the rest of the story--the Angela part. He laid
down his portmanteau and looked at me like an owl through his glasses.

"What!" he said. "Why, hang it, this is a play, ready-made. It's the
old 'Tiny Hand' business. Always safe stuff. Parted lovers. Lisping
child. Reconciliation over the little cradle. It's big. Child, centre.
Girl L.C.; Freddie, up stage, by the piano. Can Freddie play the
piano?"

"He can play a little of 'The Rosary' with one finger."

Jimmy shook his head.

"No; we shall have to cut out the soft music. But the rest's all right.
Look here." He squatted in the sand. "This stone is the girl. This bit
of seaweed's the child. This nutshell is Freddie. Dialogue leading up
to child's line. Child speaks like, '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, Marie,' or whatever her name is--Jane--Agnes--Angela? Very
well. 'Ah, Angela, has not this gone on too long? A little child rebukes
us! Angela!' And so on. Freddie must work up his own part. I'm just
giving you the general outline. And we must get a good line for the
child. 'Boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?' isn't definite enough. We
want something more--ah! 'Kiss Freddie,' that's it. Short, crisp, and
has the punch."

"But, Jimmy, old top," I said, "the only objection is, don't you know,
that there's no way of getting the girl to the cottage. She cuts
Freddie. She wouldn't come within a mile of him."

Jimmy frowned.

"That's awkward," he said. "Well, 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 letter-perfect. First
rehearsal for lines and business eleven sharp to-morrow."

Poor old Freddie was in such a gloomy state of mind that we decided not
to tell him the idea till we had finished coaching the kid. 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," said Jimmy Pinkerton at the end of the first
rehearsal, "is to establish a connection in the kid's mind between his
line and the sweets. Once he has grasped the basic fact that those two
words, clearly spoken, result automatically in acid-drops, we have got
a success."

I've often thought, don't you know, how interesting it must be to be
one of those animal-trainer Johnnies: to stimulate the dawning
intelligence, and that sort of thing. Well, this was every bit as
exciting. Some days success seemed to be staring us in the eye, and the
kid got the line out as if he'd been an old professional. And then he'd
go all to pieces again. And time was flying.

"We must hurry up, Jimmy," I said. "The kid's uncle may arrive any day
now and take him away."

"And we haven't an understudy," said Jimmy. "There's something in that.
We must work! My goodness, that kid's a bad study. I've known deaf-mutes
who would have learned the part quicker."

I will say this for the kid, though: he was a trier. Failure didn't
discourage him. Whenever there was any kind of sweet near he had a dash
at his line, and kept on saying something till he got what he was
after. His only fault was his uncertainty. Personally, I would have
been prepared to risk it, and start the performance at the first
opportunity, but Jimmy said no.

"We're not nearly ready," said Jimmy. "To-day, for instance, he said
'Kick Freddie.' That's not going to win any girl's heart. And she might
do it, too. No; we must postpone production awhile yet."

But, by George, we didn't. The curtain went up the very next afternoon.

It was nobody's fault--certainly not mine. It was just Fate. Freddie
had settled down at the piano, and I was leading the kid out of the
house to exercise it, when, just as we'd got out to the veranda, along
came the girl Angela on her way to the beach. The kid set up his usual
yell at the sight of her, and she stopped at the foot of the steps.

"Hello, baby!" she said. "Good morning," she said to me. "May I come
up?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She just came. She seemed to be that
sort of girl. She came up on the veranda and started fussing over the
kid. And six feet away, mind you, Freddie smiting the piano in the
sitting-room. It was a dash disturbing situation, don't you know. At
any minute Freddie might take it into his head to come out on to the
veranda, and we 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's finished here?"

"Er--not yet!" I said. "Not yet, if you don't mind. He can't bear to be
disturbed when he's working. It's the artistic temperament. I'll tell
him later."

"Very well," she said, getting up to go. "Ask him to call at Pine
Bungalow. West 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 we be going on to the beach?" I said.

She had started talking to the kid and didn't hear. She was feeling in
her pocket for something.

"The beach," I babbled.

"See what I've brought for you, baby," she said. And, by George, don't
you know, she held up in front of the kid's bulging eyes a chunk of
toffee about the size of the Automobile Club.

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

He 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!"

The girl was still holding up the toffee, and the kid did what Jimmy
Pinkerton would have called "business of outstretched hands" towards
it.

"Kiss Fweddie!" he shrieked.

"What does this mean?" said the girl, turning to me.

"You'd better give it to him, don't you know," I said. "He'll go on
till you do."

She gave the kid his toffee, and he subsided. Poor old Freddie 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.
Did you ever tread on your partner's dress at a dance and tear it, and
see her smile at you like an angel and say: "PLEASE don't apologize.
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 Angela 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, after a few brief
remarks about Jimmy Pinkerton, I told her all about it. And all the
while Idiot Freddie stood there gaping, without a word.

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 Chump, stood there, saying nothing.

Well I sidled towards the steps. I had said all I had to say, and it
seemed to me that about here the stage-direction "exit" 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.
What can a fellow do with a fellow like that?

Just out of sight of the house I met Jimmy Pinkerton.

"Hello, Reggie!" he said. "I was just coming to you. Where's the kid?
We must have a big rehearsal to-day."

"No good," I said sadly. "It's all over. The thing's finished. Poor
dear old Freddie has made an ass of himself and killed the whole show."

"Tell me," said Jimmy.

I told him.

"Fluffed in his lines, did he?" said Jimmy, nodding thoughtfully. "It's
always the way with these amateurs. We must go back at once. Things
look bad, but it may not be too late," he said as we started. "Even now
a few well-chosen words from a man of the world, and----"

"Great Scot!" I cried. "Look!"

In front of the cottage stood six children, a nurse, and the fellow
from the grocer's staring. From the windows of the houses opposite
projected about four hundred heads of both sexes, staring. Down the
road came galloping five more children, a dog, three men, and a boy,
about to stare. And on our porch, as unconscious of the spectators as
if they had been alone in the Sahara, stood Freddie and Angela, clasped
in each other's arms.

* * * * *

Dear old Freddie may have been fluffy in his lines, but, by George, his
business had certainly gone with a bang!


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