My Man Jeeves (Unabridged). P. G. Wodehouse

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СКАЧАТЬ the solution of the difficulty. In the heat of the moment he compared the portrait to an extract from a coloured comic supplement. I consider the suggestion a very valuable one, sir. Mr. Corcoran's portrait may not have pleased Mr. Worple as a likeness of his only child, but I have no doubt that editors would gladly consider it as a foundation for a series of humorous drawings. If Mr. Corcoran will allow me to make the suggestion, his talent has always been for the humorous. There is something about this picture—something bold and vigorous, which arrests the attention. I feel sure it would be highly popular."

      Corky was glaring at the picture, and making a sort of dry, sucking noise with his mouth. He seemed completely overwrought.

      And then suddenly he began to laugh in a wild way.

      "Corky, old man!" I said, massaging him tenderly. I feared the poor blighter was hysterical.

      He began to stagger about all over the floor.

      "He's right! The man's absolutely right! Jeeves, you're a life-saver! You've hit on the greatest idea of the age! Report at the office on Monday! Start at the bottom of the business! I'll buy the business if I feel like it. I know the man who runs the comic section of the Sunday Star. He'll eat this thing. He was telling me only the other day how hard it was to get a good new series. He'll give me anything I ask for a real winner like this. I've got a gold-mine. Where's my hat? I've got an income for life! Where's that confounded hat? Lend me a fiver, Bertie. I want to take a taxi down to Park Row!"

      Jeeves smiled paternally. Or, rather, he had a kind of paternal muscular spasm about the mouth, which is the nearest he ever gets to smiling.

      "If I might make the suggestion, Mr. Corcoran—for a title of the series which you have in mind—'The Adventures of Baby Blobbs.'"

      Corky and I looked at the picture, then at each other in an awed way. Jeeves was right. There could be no other title.

      "Jeeves," I said. It was a few weeks later, and I had just finished looking at the comic section of the Sunday Star. "I'm an optimist. I always have been. The older I get, the more I agree with Shakespeare and those poet Johnnies about it always being darkest before the dawn and there's a silver lining and what you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts. Look at Mr. Corcoran, for instance. There was a fellow, one would have said, clear up to the eyebrows in the soup. To all appearances he had got it right in the neck. Yet look at him now. Have you seen these pictures?"

      "I took the liberty of glancing at them before bringing them to you, sir. Extremely diverting."

      "They have made a big hit, you know."

      "I anticipated it, sir."

      I leaned back against the pillows.

      "You know, Jeeves, you're a genius. You ought to be drawing a commission on these things."

      "I have nothing to complain of in that respect, sir. Mr. Corcoran has been most generous. I am putting out the brown suit, sir."

      "No, I think I'll wear the blue with the faint red stripe."

      "Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

      "But I rather fancy myself in it."

      "Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

      "Oh, all right, have it your own way."

      "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

      Of course, I know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then Jeeves is always right. You've got to consider that, you know. What?

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