Thank You, Jeeves

if it is your intention to play that instrument within the narrow confines of a country cottage ..." I drew myself up. " You say ' that instrument,' Jeeves. And you say it in an unpleasant, soupy voice. Am I to understand that you dislike this banjolele ? " " Yes, sir." " You've stood it all right up to now." " With grave difficulty, sir." " And let me tell you that better men than you have stood worse than banjoleles.

Are you aware that a certain Bulgarian, Elia Gospodinoff, once played the bagpipes for twenty-four hours without a stop ? Ripley vouches for this in his * Believe It Or Not.' " " Indeed, sir ? " " Well, do you suppose Gospodinoff's personal attendant kicked ? A laughable idea. They are made of better stuff than that in Bulgaria. I am convinced that he was behind the young master from start to finish of his attempt on the Central European record, and I have no doubt frequently rallied round with ice packs and other restoratives. Be Bulgarian, Jeeves." " No, sir.

I fear I cannot recede from my position." " But, dash it, you say you are receding from your position." ' " I should have said, I cannot abandon the Stand which I have taken."

I mused awhile. " You mean this, Jeeves ? " " Yes, sir." " You have thought it all out carefully, weighing the pros and cons, balancing this against that ? " " Yes, sir." " And you are resolved ? " " Yes, sir. If it is really your intention to continue playing that instrument, I have no option but to leave." The Wooster blood boiled over. Circumstances of recent years have so shaped themselves as to place this blighter in a position which you might describe as that of a domestic Mussolini: but, forgetting this ' and sticking simply to cold fact, what is Jeeves, after all ? A valet. A salaried attendant. And a fellow simply can't go on truckling-do I mean truckling ? I know it begins with a " t "-to his valet for ever. There comes a moment when he must remember that his ancestors did dashed well at the Battle of Crecy and put the old foot down. This moment had now arrived. " Then, leave, dash it'. " " Very good, sir."

CHAPTER II CHUFFY

I CONFESS that it was in sombre mood that I assembled the stick, the hat, and the lemon-coloured some half-hour later and strode out into the streets of London. But though I did not care to think what existence would be like without Jeeves, I had no thought of weakening. As I fumed the corner into Piccadilly, I was a thing of fire and chilled steel; and I think in about another half-jiffy I should have been snorting, if not actually shouting the ancient battle cry of the Woosters, had I not observed on the skyline a familiar form. This familiar form was none other than that of my boyhood friend, the fifth Baron Chuffnell -the chap, if you remember, whose Aunt Myrtle I had seen the previous night hobnobbingwith the hellhound, Glossop. The sight of him reminded me that I was in the market for a country cottage and that here was the very chap to supply same. I wonder if I have ever told you about Chuffy ?

Stop me if I have. He's a fellow I've known more or less all my life, he and self

having been at private school, Eton and Oxford together. We don't see a frightful lot of one another nowadays, however, as he spends most of his time down at Chuffnell Regis on the coast of Somersetshire, where he owns an enormous great place with about a hundred and hfty rooms and miles of rolling parkland. Don't run away, however, on the strength of this, with the impression that Chuffy is one of my wealthier cronies.

He's dashed hard up, poor bloke, like most fellows who own land, and only lives at Chuffnell Hall because he's stuck with it and can't afford to live anywhere else. If somebody came to him and offered to buy the place, he would kiss him on both cheeks. But who wants to buy a house that size in these times ? He can't even let it. So he sticks on there most of the year, with nobody to talk to except the local doctor and parson and his Aunt Myrtle and her twelve-year-old son, Seabury, who live at the Dower House in the park. A pretty mouldy existence for one who at the University gave bright promise of becoming one of the lads.

Chuffy also owns the village of Chuffnell Regis -not that that does him much good, either. I mean to say, the taxes on the estate and all the expenses of repairs and what not come to pretty nearly as much as he gets out of the rents, making the thing more or less of a washout.

Still, he is the landlord, and, as such, would