Part 15 (1/2)
”I've a dashed good mind to come down and spank that little brute!”
”What!”
”A dashed good mind!”
Old Blumenfield swelled like a pumped-up tyre. He got rounder than ever.
”See here, mister--I don't know your darn name----!”
”My name's Ba.s.sington-Ba.s.sington, and the jolly old Ba.s.sington-Ba.s.singtons--I mean the Ba.s.sington-Ba.s.singtons aren't accustomed----”
Old Blumenfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Ba.s.sington-Ba.s.singtons and what they weren't accustomed to. The whole strength of the company rallied round to enjoy his remarks. You could see them jutting out from the wings and protruding from behind trees.
”You got to work good for my pop!” said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly at Cyril.
”I don't want any bally cheek from you!” said Cyril, gurgling a bit.
”What's that?” barked old Blumenfield. ”Do you understand that this boy is my son?”
”Yes, I do,” said Cyril. ”And you both have my sympathy!”
”You're fired!” bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more.
”Get out of my theatre!”
About half-past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the sitting-room.
”How does he look, Jeeves?”
”Sir?”
”What does Mr. Ba.s.sington-Ba.s.sington look like?”
”It is hardly my place, sir, to criticise the facial peculiarities of your friends.”
”I don't mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and what not?”
”Not noticeably, sir. His manner is tranquil.”
”That's rum!”
”Sir?”
”Nothing. Show him in, will you?”
I'm bound to say I had expected to see Cyril showing a few more traces of last night's battle. I was looking for a bit of the overwrought soul and the quivering ganglions, if you know what I mean. He seemed pretty ordinary and quite fairly cheerful.
”Hallo, Wooster, old thing!”
”Cheero!”