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I know that London is a biggish city, but, believe me, it isn't half big enough for any fellow to live in with Aunt Agatha when she's after him with the old hatchet. And so I'm bound to say I looked on this chump Bassington-Bassington, when he arrived, more or less as a Dove of Peace, and was all for him.
Even from where I was sitting, I could see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassington family pride a frightful wallop. He started to get pink in the ears, and then in the nose, and then in the cheeks, till in about a quarter of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery on a sunset evening. "What the deuce do you mean?"
I don't mind admitting that in the first flush of the thing, so to speak, when Jeeves told me this would be about three weeks after I'd landed in America that a blighter called Cyril Bassington-Bassington had arrived and I found that he had brought a letter of introduction to me from Aunt Agatha ... where was I? Oh, yes ... I don't mind admitting, I was saying, that just at first I was rather bucked.
"It is possible that young Master Blumenfield may have gathered from casual remarks of mine that I did not consider the stage altogether a suitable sphere for Mr. Bassington-Bassington." "I say, Jeeves, you know, you're a bit of a marvel." "I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir." "And I'm frightfully obliged, if you know what I mean.
I had got about as far as this in my meditations, when Jeeves came in with a telegram. At least, it wasn't a telegram: it was a cable from Aunt Agatha and this is what it said: Has Cyril Bassington-Bassington called yet? On no account introduce him into theatrical circles. Vitally important. Letter follows. I read it a couple of times. "This is rummy, Jeeves!" "Yes, sir."
What I mean to say is, if you've just finished exercising the old bean, it's probably in mid-season form for tackling problems. Jeeves, Mr. Bassington-Bassington is going on the stage!" "Indeed, sir?" "Ah! The thing doesn't hit you! You don't get it properly! Here's the point. All his family are most fearfully dead against his going on the stage.
"Did you put that pie-faced infant up to bally-ragging Mr. Bassington-Bassington?" "Sir?" "Oh, you know what I mean. Did you tell him to get Mr. Bassington-Bassington sacked from the 'Ask Dad' company?" "I would not take such a liberty, sir." He started to put out my clothes.
There are three branches of the Bassington-Bassington family the Shropshire Bassington-Bassingtons, the Hampshire Bassington-Bassingtons, and the Kent Bassington-Bassingtons." "England seems pretty well stocked up with Bassington-Bassingtons." "Tolerably so, sir." "No chance of a sudden shortage, I mean, what?" "Presumably not, sir." "And what sort of a specimen is this one?"
"You're fired!" bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more. "Get out of my theatre!" About half-past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the sitting-room. "How does he look, Jeeves?" "Sir?" "What does Mr. Bassington-Bassington look like?"
We had just reached the coffee, when the waiter came up and said that Jeeves wanted to see me. Jeeves was in the waiting-room. He gave the socks one pained look as I came in, then averted his eyes. "Mr. Bassington-Bassington has just telephoned, sir." "Oh?" "Yes, sir." "Where is he?" "In prison, sir." I reeled against the wallpaper.
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