It was a fine and sunlit afternoon at the Drones Club, where the chaps were lounging about, discussing the usual trifles—such as whether it was bad form to steal a policeman’s helmet twice in the same evening. Bertie Wooster, resplendent in a suit of gentle checks, had just settled into a comfortable chair when a most unusual disturbance threatened to upset the delicate social ecosystem.
The first sign of approaching calamity was the unmistakable bellow of a man who had, by all appearances, been born mid-argument and never quite found his way out of it.
“I’VE GOT A LOT OF PROBLEMS WITH YOU PEOPLE!” roared Frank Costanza, stomping into the club’s lounge as if it were a battlefield, brandishing a finger at no one in particular but seemingly prepared to take umbrage at the first thing to cross his path.
Before Bertie could so much as blink, a second figure appeared—shorter, broader, and possessed of a moustache that looked as if it had been declared an enemy of the state in several territories. He was dressed like a character from a Western play, complete with hat, boots, and a general air of wishing to shoot holes in things.
“CONSARN IT, VARMINT! I’M FIXIN’ TO PUT A BULLET RIGHT THROUGH YER GOL-DURNED GIZZARD!” bellowed Yosemite Sam, making a lunge for Costanza with a remarkable display of energy, considering his diminutive stature.
The club, naturally, responded as any respectable establishment would to such a display—by immediately descending into a state of refined and dignified chaos. Silverware clattered, monocles popped from faces like champagne corks, and the venerable old Major Plank took refuge behind a potted plant, convinced the Bolsheviks had finally arrived.
Bertie, ever the man of action in times of crisis, attempted diplomacy. “Now, look here, gentlemen,” he began, raising a placatory hand. “I say, there’s no need for—”
But this was a matter far beyond the scope of Woosterian mediation.
“I’VE NEVER LIKED YOU TYPES WITH YOUR SOFT HANDS AND YOUR LITTLE SPOONS!” bellowed Frank, evidently taking umbrage at the sheer existence of upper-crust cutlery.
“WHY, I OUGHTA TAKE YER PANCAKE-EATIN’ FACE AND STRETCH IT CLEAN ACROSS THAT THERE WINDOW!” howled Sam, producing two revolvers and letting loose a volley of shots into the ceiling, causing Jeeves—who had just arrived with a perfectly prepared pot of Darjeeling—to raise a single, eloquent eyebrow.
At this point, the club’s esteemed chairman, Lord Bittlesham, emerged from behind an upturned Chesterfield and attempted to salvage matters. “Gentlemen,” he quavered, “we have rules about firearms in the smoking room.”
“RULES?! I INVENTED A HOLIDAY SPECIFICALLY TO COMPLAIN ABOUT RULES!” Frank thundered, his face rapidly assuming the shade of an overripe tomato. “AND ANOTHER THING—YOU CALL THIS A LOUNGE? WHERE’S THE RECLINER? WHERE’S THE KNICK-KNACKS?”
“RECLINER?! WHY, YA YELLA-BELLIED CITY SLICKER, I OUGHTA TAN YER HIDE FOR EVEN UTTERIN’ SUCH A LOW-DOWN, NO-GOOD WORD!” screeched Sam, his moustache vibrating with rage.
At this juncture, Jeeves, with the quiet confidence of a man who has seen worse and solved it, took precisely three steps forward and produced from his pocket a small flask of restorative brandy, which he set upon a table with an air of calm inevitability. He then gave Bertie a glance that suggested all would soon be well.And indeed, it was. For no sooner had Frank and Sam each downed a generous tot than a miraculous transformation took place. Frank’s permanent state of indignation melted into an affable grumble, and Sam’s hands, still twitching from the urge to shoot something, came to rest upon his belt.
“I gotta admit,” Frank muttered, with the tone of a man struggling against a lifetime of being contrary, “this is a nice drink.”
“DANG TOOTIN’,” Sam grunted, holstering his pistols. “MIGHT JUST HOLSTER THESE HERE IRON PEASHOOTERS FOR A SPELL.”
The club, sensing that disaster had been averted, quietly resumed its previous state of leisure. Bertie, feeling the immediate need to flee to Aunt Dahlia’s country estate before anything further befell him, took Jeeves aside.
“I say, Jeeves, that was rather like pouring oil on the troubled waters, what?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And how, may I ask, did you know that would work?”
Jeeves gave a slight, knowing incline of the head. “Experience, sir.”
And with that, the storm passed, leaving the Drones Club forever changed, though perhaps ever so slightly more wary of visitors from across the pond.
