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said that he didn't think he had ever seen such a fine day, and whacked his leg with his stick. Jeeves had projected himself into the background, and he didn't notice him.

      "Well, Bruce, my boy; so the portrait is really finished, is it—really finished? Well, bring it out. Let's have a look at it. This will be a wonderful surprise for your aunt. Where is it? Let's——"

      And then he got it—suddenly, when he wasn't set for the punch; and he rocked back on his heels.

      "Oosh!" he exclaimed. And for perhaps a minute there was one of the scaliest silences I've ever run up against.

      "Is this a practical joke?" he said at last, in a way that set about sixteen draughts cutting through the room at once.

      I thought it was up to me to rally round old Corky.

      "You want to stand a bit farther away from it," I said.

      "You're perfectly right!" he snorted. "I do! I want to stand so far away from it that I can't see the thing with a telescope!" He turned on Corky like an untamed tiger of the jungle who has just located a chunk of meat. "And this—this—is what you have been wasting your time and my money for all these years! A painter! I wouldn't let you paint a house of mine! I gave you this commission, thinking that you were a competent worker, and this—this—this extract from a comic coloured supplement is the result!" He swung towards the door, lashing his tail and growling to himself. "This ends it! If you wish to continue this foolery of pretending to be an artist because you want an excuse for idleness, please yourself. But let me tell you this. Unless you report at my office on Monday morning, prepared to abandon all this idiocy and start in at the bottom of the business to work your way up, as you should have done half a dozen years ago, not another cent—not another cent—not another—Boosh!"

      Then the door closed, and he was no longer with us. And I crawled out of the bombproof shelter.

      "Corky, old top!" I whispered faintly.

      Corky was standing staring at the picture. His face was set. There was a hunted look in his eye.

      "Well, that finishes it!" he muttered brokenly.

      "What are you going to do?"

      "Do? What can I do? I can't stick on here if he cuts off supplies. You heard what he said. I shall have to go to the office on Monday."

      I couldn't think of a thing to say. I knew exactly how he felt about the office. I don't know when I've been so infernally uncomfortable. It was like hanging round trying to make conversation to a pal who's just been sentenced to twenty years in quod.

      And then a soothing voice broke the silence.

      "If I might make a suggestion, sir!"

      It was Jeeves. He had slid from the shadows and was gazing gravely at the picture. Upon my word, I can't give you a better idea of the shattering effect of Corky's uncle Alexander when in action than by saying that he had absolutely made me forget for the moment that Jeeves was there.

      "I wonder if I have ever happened to mention to you, sir, a Mr. Digby Thistleton, with whom I was once in service? Perhaps you have met him? He was a financier. He is now Lord Bridgnorth. It was a favourite saying of his that there is always a way. The first time I heard him use the expression was after the failure of a patent depilatory which he promoted."

      "Jeeves," I said, "what on earth are you talking about?"

      "I mentioned Mr. Thistleton, sir, because his was in some respects a parallel case to the present one. His depilatory failed, but he did not despair. He put it on the market again under the name of Hair-o, guaranteed to produce a full crop of hair in a few months. It was advertised, if you remember, sir, by a humorous picture of a billiard-ball, before and after taking, and made such a substantial fortune that Mr. Thistleton was soon afterwards elevated to the peerage for services to his Party. It seems to me that, if Mr. Corcoran looks into the matter, he will find, like Mr. Thistleton, that there is always a way. Mr. Worple himself suggested the solution of the difficulty. In the heat of the moment he compared the portrait to an extract from a coloured comic supplement. I consider the suggestion a very valuable one, sir. Mr. Corcoran's portrait may not have pleased Mr. Worple as a likeness of his only child, but I have no doubt that editors would gladly consider it as a foundation for a series of humorous drawings. If Mr. Corcoran will allow me to make the suggestion, his talent has always been for the humorous. There is something about this picture—something bold and vigorous, which arrests the attention. I feel sure it would be highly popular."

      Corky was glaring at the picture, and making a sort of dry, sucking noise with his mouth. He seemed completely overwrought.

      And then suddenly he began to laugh in a wild way.

      "Corky, old man!" I said, massaging him tenderly. I feared the poor blighter was hysterical.

      He began to stagger about all over the floor.

      "He's right! The man's absolutely right! Jeeves, you're a life-saver! You've hit on the greatest idea of the age! Report at the office on Monday! Start at the bottom of the business! I'll buy the business if I feel like it. I know the man who runs the comic section of the Sunday Star. He'll eat this thing. He was telling me only the other day how hard it was to get a good new series. He'll give me anything I ask for a real winner like this. I've got a gold-mine. Where's my hat? I've got an income for life! Where's that confounded hat? Lend me a fiver, Bertie. I want to take a taxi down to Park Row!"

      Jeeves smiled paternally. Or, rather, he had a kind of paternal muscular spasm about the mouth, which is the nearest he ever gets to smiling.

      "If I might make the suggestion, Mr. Corcoran—for a title of the series which you have in mind—'The Adventures of Baby Blobbs.'"

      Corky and I looked at the picture, then at each other in an awed way. Jeeves was right. There could be no other title.

      "Jeeves," I said. It was a few weeks later, and I had just finished looking at the comic section of the Sunday Star. "I'm an optimist. I always have been. The older I get, the more I agree with Shakespeare and those poet Johnnies about it always being darkest before the dawn and there's a silver lining and what you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts. Look at Mr. Corcoran, for instance. There was a fellow, one would have said, clear up to the eyebrows in the soup. To all appearances he had got it right in the neck. Yet look at him now. Have you seen these pictures?"

      "I took the liberty of glancing at them before bringing them to you, sir. Extremely diverting."

      "They have made a big hit, you know."

      "I anticipated it, sir."

      I leaned back against the pillows.

      "You know, Jeeves, you're a genius. You ought to be drawing a commission on these things."

      "I have nothing to complain of in that respect, sir. Mr. Corcoran has been most generous. I am putting out the brown suit, sir."

      "No, I think I'll wear the blue with the faint red stripe."

      "Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

      "But I rather fancy myself in it."

      "Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

      "Oh, all right, have it your own way."

      "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

      Of course, I know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then Jeeves is always right. You've got to consider that, you know. What?

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