'Whereupon, Jeeves, Miss Sipperley wrote back, saying that she quite realized that work must come before pleasure—pleasure being her loose way of describing the act of singing songs at the Beckley-on-the-Moor concert and getting the laugh from the local toughs; but that, if he was going to Cambridge, he must certainly stay with her friends, the Pringles, at their house just outside the town. And she dropped them a line telling them to expect him on the twenty-eighth, and they dropped another line saying right-ho, and the thing was settled. And now Mr Sipperley is in the jug, and what will be the ultimate outcome or upshot? Jeeves, it is a problem worthy of your great intellect. I rely on you.'
'I will do my best to justify your confidence, sir.'
'Carry on, then. And meanwhile pull down the blinds and bring a couple more cushions and heave that small chair this way so that I can put my feet up, and then go away and brood and let me hear from you in—say, a couple of hours, or maybe three. And if anybody calls and wants to see me, inform them that I am dead.'
'Dead, sir?'
'Dead. You won't be so far wrong.'
It must have been well towards evening when I woke up with a crick in my neck but otherwise somewhat refreshed. I pressed the bell.
'I looked in twice, sir,' said Jeeves, 'but on each occasion you were asleep and I did not like to disturb you.'
'The right spirit, Jeeves.... Well?'
'I have been giving close thought to the little problem which you indicated, sir, and I can see only one solution.'
'One is enough. What do you suggest?'