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 five, 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?'