A Man of Means.
By P. G. Wodehouse.
Illustrated by T. Victor Hall.
Sir Godfrey Tanner, K.C.M.G., was dining alone in his chambers at the Albany. Before him a plate of soup, so clear and serene that it seemed wrong to ruffle its surface, relieved the snowy whiteness of the tablecloth. Subdued lights shone on costly and tasteful furniture. Behind him Jevons, for the last fifteen years his faithful servant, wrestled decorously with a bottle of hock.
A peaceful scene.
The thought passed through Sir Godfrey's mind as he allowed his spoon to volplane slowly down into the golden lake that life was very pleasant. He had ample means. As a Colonial governor he had just that taste of power and authority which is enough for the sensible man; more might have spoiled him for the simpler pleasures of life; less would have left him restless and unsatisfied. He had had exactly enough, and was now ready to dream away the rest of his life in this exceedingly comfortable hermit's cell, supported by an excellent digestion, ministered to by the faithful Jevons.
A muffled pop behind him occurred here almost as if there had been a stage direction for it. The sound seemed to emphasize the faithfulness of Jevons, working unseen in his master's interests. It filled Sir Godfrey with a genial glow of kindliness. What a treasure Jevons was! What a model of what a gentleman's servant should be! Existence without Jevons would be unthinkable.
As he mused Jevons silently manifested himself, bottle in hand. He filled Sir Godfrey's glass.
"A little ice, Jevons."
"Very good, Sir Godfrey."
Sir Godfrey addressed himself once more to his soup. He glowed with benevolence. What an admirable fellow Jevons was! How long was it that they had been together? Fifteen years! And in all that time
"Wow!" shrieked Sir Godfrey, and leaped from his chair with an agility highly creditable in one who strained his tailor's tact almost to breaking-point every time he had to submit himself to the tape-measure.
For one moment he doubted his senses. It was incredible that that should have happened which had happened. Jevons was Jevons. An archbishop might have done this thing, but not Jevons.
But the evidence was incontrovertible. It was—at present—solid, not to be brushed aside.
Facts were facts, even if they seemed to outrage the fundamental laws of Nature.
Jevons, for fifteen years paragon of every possible virtue, had put a piece of ice down the back of his neck!
Sir Godfrey turned like a wounded lion. There was a terrible pause.
Jevons was certainly wonderful.
He met his employer's gaze with grave solicitude.
"I think it would be wise, Sir Godfrey," he said, "if you were to change your upper garments. The night is mild, but it is unwise to risk a chill. I will go and lay out another shirt."
He disappeared silently into the bedroom, leaving Sir Godfrey staring at the spot where he had been.
Sir Godfrey received the clean shirt from his hands without a word. He had not intended the episode to proceed on these lines, but the practical sense of Jevons was too strong for him. Already the thaw had set in in earnest, and his back was both clammy and cold.
In fearful silence he changed his clothes. Then he wheeled round upon his companion of fifteen years.
"Now then!" he snorted.
"I am extremely sorry that this should have happened, Sir Godfrey. I regret it exceedingly."
"You do, eh? You'll regret it more in a minute."
"Just so, Sir Godfrey."
There was something in the man's imperturbability which ruined the speech which the ex-governor had intended to deliver. He had meant, when he once began, to go on for about ten minutes. But somehow Jevons's attitude made it impossible to begin.
