thing we can settle for ourselves,” I said, gravely. “We must put our trust in a higher power. Jeeves is the man we must consult.”
And, having collected a few of the necessary data, I shook his hand, patted him on the back, and tooled off home.
“Jeeves,” I said, when I had climbed outside the pick-me-up which he had thoughtfully prepared against my coming, “I’ve got something to tell you. Something important. Something that vitally affects one whom you have always regarded with—one whom you have always looked upon—one whom you have—well, to cut a long story short, as I’m not feeling quite myself— Mr. Sipperley.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Jeeves, Mr. Souperley is in the sip.”
“Sir?”
“I mean, Mr. Sipperley is in the soup.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“And all owing to me. It was I who, in a moment of mistaken kindness, wishing only to cheer him up and give him something to occupy his mind, recommended him to pinch that policeman’s helmet.”
“Is that so, sir?”
“Do you mind not intoning the responses, Jeeves?” I said. “This is a most complicated story for a man with a headache to have to tell, and if you interrupt you’ll make me lose the thread. As a favour to me, therefore, don’t do it. Just nod every now and then to show you’re following.”
I closed my eyes and marshalled the facts.
“To start with, then, Jeeves, you may