Free Expecting Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse

improve a great deal on acquaintance. I had a kind of feeling that I was about as popular with him as a cold Welsh rabbit.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he asked.
    â€œMy name? Oh, Wooster, don’t you know, and what not.”
    â€œMy pop’s richer than you are!”
    That seemed to be all about me. The child having said his say, started in on the jam again. I turned to Jeeves.
    â€œI say, Jeeves, can you spare a moment? I want to show you something.”
    â€œVery good, sir.” We toddled into the sitting-room.
    â€œWho is your little friend, Sidney the Sunbeam, Jeeves?”
    â€œThe young gentleman, sir?”
    â€œIt’s a loose way of describing him, but I know what you mean.”
    â€œ I trust I was not taking a liberty in entertaining him, sir?”
    â€œNot a bit. If that’s your idea of a large afternoon, go ahead.”
    â€œI happened to meet the young gentleman taking a walk with his father’s valet, sir, whom I used to know somewhat intimately in London, and I ventured to invite them both to join me here.”
    â€œWell, never mind about him, Jeeves. Read this letter.”
    He gave it the up-and-down.
    â€œVery disturbing, sir!” was all he could find to say.
    â€œWhat are we going to do about it?”
    â€œTime may provide a solution, sir.”
    â€œOn the other hand, it mayn’t, what?”
    â€œExtremely true, sir.”
    We’d got as far as this, when there was a ring at the door. Jeeves shimmered off, and Cyril blew in, full of good cheer and blitheringness.
    â€œI say, Wooster, old thing,” he said, “I want your advice. You know this jolly old part of mine. How ought I to dress it? What I mean is, the first act scene is laid in an hotel of sorts, at about three in the afternoon. What ought I to wear, do you think?”
    I wasn’t feeling fit for a discussion of gent’s suitings.
    â€œYou’d better consult Jeeves,” I said.
    â€œA hot and by no means unripe idea! Where is he?”
    â€œGone back to the kitchen, I suppose.”
    â€œI’ll smite the good old bell, shall I? Yes? No?”
    â€œRight-o!”
    Jeeves poured silently in.
    â€œOh, I say, Jeeves,” began Cyril, “I just wanted to have a syllable or two with you. It’s this way-Hallo, who’s this?”
    I then perceived that the stout stripling had trickled into the room after Jeeves. He was standing near the door looking at Cyril as if his worst fears had been realised. There was a bit of a silence. The child remained there, drinking Cyril in for about half a minute; then he gave his verdict:
    â€œFish-face!”
    â€œEh? What?” said Cyril.
    The child, who had evidently been taught at his mother’s knee to speak the truth, made his meaning a trifle clearer.
    â€œYou’ve a face like a fish!”
    He spoke as if Cyril was more to be pitied than censured, which I am bound to say I thought rather decent and broadminded of him. I don’t mind admitting that, whenever I looked at Cyril’s face, I always had a feeling that he couldn’t have got that way without its being mostly his own fault. I found myself warming to this child. Absolutely, don’t you know. I liked his conversation.
    It seemed to take Cyril a moment or two really to grasp the thing, and then you could hear the blood of the Bassington-Bassingtons begin to sizzle.
    â€œWell, I’m dashed!” he said. “I’m dashed if I’m not!”
    â€œI wouldn’t have a face like that,” proceeded the child, with a good deal of earnestness, “not if you gave me a million dollars.” He thought for a moment, then corrected himself. “Two million dollars!” he added.
    Just what occurred then I couldn’t exactly say, but the next few minutes were a bit exciting. I take it that Cyril must have made a dive for the infant. Anyway, the air seemed pretty well congested with arms and legs