future like this for anything under five hundred o’ goblins a year—what?”
A look of anguish passed over old Chiswick’s face, then he seemed to be resigned to it. “Very well, my boy,” he said.
“What-o!” said Bicky. “All right, then.”
“Jeeves,” I said. Bicky had taken the old boy off to dinner to celebrate, and we were alone. “Jeeves, this has been one of your best efforts.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It beats me how you do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The only trouble is you haven’t got much out of it—what!”
“I fancy Mr. Bickersteth intends—I judge from his remarks—to signify his appreciation of anything I have been fortunate enough to do to assist him, at some later date when he is in a more favourable position to do so.”
“It isn’t enough, Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
It was a wrench, but I felt it was the only possible thing to be done.
“Bring my shaving things.”
A gleam of hope shone in the chappie’s eye, mixed with doubt.
“You mean, sir?”
“And shave off my moustache.”