Expecting Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse

justice of this objection. He became more definite.
    â€œThe ugly one.”
    â€œWhich ugly one? That one?” said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril.
    â€œYep! He’s rotten!”
    â€œI thought so myself.”
    â€œHe’s a pill!”
    â€œYou’re dead right, my boy. I’ve noticed it for some time.”
    Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the footlights. Even from where I was sitting, I could see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassington family pride a frightful wallop. He started to get pink in the ears, and then in the nose, and then in the cheeks, till in about a quarter of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery on a sunset evening.
    â€œWhat the deuce do you mean?”
    â€œWhat the deuce do you mean?” shouted old Blumenfield. “Don’t yell at me across the footlights!”
    â€œI’ve a dashed good mind to come down and spank that little brute!”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œA dashed good mind!”
    Old Blumenfield swelled like a pumped-up tyre. He got rounder than ever.
    â€œSee here, mister—I don’t know your darn name—!”
    â€œMy name’s Bassington-Bassington, and the jolly old Bassington-Bassingtons—I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons aren’t accustomed—”
    Old Blumenfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Bassington-Bassingtons 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.
    â€œYou got to work good for my pop!” said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly at Cyril.
    â€œ I don’t want any bally cheek from you!” said Cyril, gurgling a bit.
    â€œWhat’s that?” barked old Blumenfield. “Do you understand that this boy is my son?”
    â€œYes, I do,” said Cyril. “And you both have my sympathy!”
    â€œYou’re fired!” bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more. “Get out of my theatre!”
    âˆ—
    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.
    â€œHow does he look, Jeeves?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œWhat does Mr. Bassington-Bassington look like?”
    â€œIt is hardly my place, sir, to criticise the facial peculiarities of your friends.”
    â€œI don’t mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and what not?”
    â€œNot noticeably, sir. His manner is tranquil.”
    â€œThat’s rum!”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œNothing. 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.
    â€œHallo, Wooster, old thing!”
    â€œCheero!”
    â€œI just looked in to say good-bye.”
    â€œGood-bye?”
    â€œYes. I’m off to Washington in an hour.” He sat down on the bed. “You know, Wooster, old top,” he went on, “I’ve been thinking it all over, and really it doesn’t seem quite fair to the jolly old guv’nor, my going on the stage and so forth. What do you think?”
    â€œI see what you mean.”
    â€œ I mean to say, he sent me over here to broaden my jolly old mind and words to that effect, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking it would be a bit of a jar for the old boy if I gave him the bird and went on the stage instead. I don’t know if you understand me, but what I mean to say is, it’s a sort of question of conscience.”
    â€œCan you leave the show