The sight of this sleeping beauty had, of course, given me a nasty start, causing my heart to collide rather violently with my front teeth, but it was only for a moment that I was unequal to what I have heard Jeeves call the intellectual pressure of the situation. It is pretty generally recognized in the circles in which I move that Bertram Wooster, though he may be down, is never out, the betting being odds on that, given time to collect his thoughts and stop his head spinning, he will rise on stepping stones of his dead self to higher things, as the fellow said, and it was so now. I would have preferred, of course, to operate in a room wholly free from the presence of L. P. Runkle, but I realized that as long as he remained asleep there was nothing to keep me from carrying on. All that was required was that my activities should be conducted in absolute silence. And it was thus that I was conducting them, more like a spectre or wraith than a chartered member of the Drones Club, when the air was rent, as the expression is, by a sharp yowl such as you hear when a cougar or a snow leopard stubs its toe on a rock, and I became aware that I had trodden on the cat Augustus, who had continued to follow me, still, I suppose, under the mistaken impression that I had kippered herrings on my person and might at any moment start loosening up.
In normal circumstances I would have hastened to make my apologies and to endeavour by tickling him behind the ear to apply balm to his wounded feelings, but at this moment L. P. Runkle sat up, said ‘Wah- wah-wah’, rubbed his eyes, gave me an unpleasant look with them and asked me what the devil I was doing in his room.
It was not an easy question to answer. There had been nothing in our relations since we first swam into each other’s ken to make it seem likely that I had come to smooth his pillow or ask him if he would like a cooling drink, and I did not put forward these explana- tions. I was thinking how right the ancestor had been in predicting that, if aroused suddenly, he would wake up cross. His whole demeanour was that of a man who didn’t much like the human race as a whole but was particularly allergic to Woosters. Not even Spode could have made his distaste for them plainer. I decided to see what could be done with suavity.
It had answered well in the case of Ginger, and there was no saying that it might not help to ease the current situation.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said with an enchanting smile, ‘I’m afraid I woke you.’
‘Yes, you did. And stop grinning at me like a half- witted ape.’
‘Right ho,’ I said. I removed the enchanting smile. It came off quite easily. ‘I don’t wonder you’re annoyed. But I’m more to be pitied than censured. I inadvertently trod on the cat.’
A look of alarm spread over his face. It had a long way to go, but it spread all right.
‘Hat?’ he quavered, and I could see that he feared for the well-being of his Panama with the pink ribbon.
I lost no time in reassuring him.
‘Not hat. Cat.’
‘What cat?’
‘Oh, haven’t you met? Augustus his name is, though for purposes of conversation this is usually shortened to Gus. He and I have been buddies since he was a kitten. He must have been following me when I came in here.’
It was an unfortunate way of putting it, for it brought him back to his original theme.
‘Why the devil did you come in here?’
A lesser man than Bertram Wooster would have been non-plussed, and I don’t mind admitting that I was, too, for about a couple of ticks. But as I stood shuffling the feet and twiddling the fingers I caught sight of that camera of his standing on an adjacent table, and I got one of those inspirations you get occasionally. Shakespeare and Burns and even Oliver Wendell Holmes probably used to have them all the time, but self not so often. In fact, this was the first that had come my way for some weeks.