lanation. I love Magnolia.'
   'I thought you loved Florence.'
   'So did I. But you know how apt one is to make mistakes.'
   'Of course.'
   'When you're looking for the ideal girl, I mean.'
   'Quite.'
   'I dare say you've had the same experience yourself.'
   'From time to time.'
   'Happens to everybody, I expect.'
   'I shouldn't wonder.'
   'Where  one  goes wrong when looking for the ideal  girl  is  in
making  one's  selection  before walking the  full  length  of  the
counter.  You  meet someone with a perfect profile, platinum-blonde
hair  and  a  willowy figure, and you think your  search  is  over.
"Bingo!"  you  say  to  yourself.  "This  is  the  one.  Accept  no
substitutes."  Little knowing that you are linking  your  lot  with
that of a female sergeant-major with strong views on the subject of
discipline, and that if you'd only gone on a bit further you  would
have found the sweetest, kindest, gentlest girl that ever took down
outgoing mail in shorthand, who would love you and cherish you  and
would  never  dream  of  giving  you  hell,  no  matter  what   the
circumstances. I allude to Magnolia Glendennon.'
   'I thought you did.'
   'I can't tell you how I feel about her, Bertie.'
   'Don't try.'
   'Ever since we came down here I've had a lurking suspicion  that
she was the mate for me and that in signing on the dotted line with
Florence  I  had  made the boner of a lifetime. Just  now  my  last
doubts were dispelled.'
   'What happened just now?'
   'She  rubbed  the back of my neck. My interview  with  Florence,
coming on top of that ghastly Chamber of Commerce lunch, had  given
me a splitting headache, and she rubbed the back of my neck. Then I
knew. As those soft fingers touched my skin like dainty butterflies
hovering over a flower -'
   'Right-ho.'
   'It  was  a  revelation,  Bertie. I knew  that  I  had  come  to
journey's  end.  I said to myself, "This is a good thing.  Push  it
along."  I  turned. I grasped her hand. I gazed into her eyes.  She
gazed  into mine. I told her I loved her. She said so she  did  me.
She   fell  into  my  arms.  I  grabbed  her.  We  stood  murmuring
endearments,  and  for a while everything was fine.  Couldn't  have
been  better.  Then a thought struck me. There was a  snag.  You've
probably spotted it.'
   'Florence?'
   'Exactly.  Bossy though she is, plain-spoken though she  may  be
when  anything displeases her, and I wish you could have heard  her
after  that Chamber of Commerce lunch, I am still engaged  to  her.
And  while girls can break engagements till the cows come home, men
can't.'
   I  followed his train of thought. It was evident that  he,  like
me, aimed at being a preux chevalier, and you simply can't be preux
or anything like it if you go about the place getting betrothed and
then  telling the party of the second part it's all off. It  seemed
to  me  that  the snag which had raised its ugly head  was  one  of
formidable  -you might say king-size - dimensions, well  calculated
to  make  the current of whatever he proposed to do about  it  turn
awry and lose the name of action. But when I put this to him with a
sympathetic tremor in my voice, and I'm not sure I didn't clasp his
hand, he surprised me by chuckling like a leaky radiator.
   'That's all right,' he said. 'It would, I admit, appear to be  a
tricky situation, but I can handle it. I'm going to get Florence to
break the engagement.'
   He  spoke with such a gay, confident ring in his voice, so  like
the old ancestor predicting what she was going to do to L.P. Runkle
in  the playing-on-a-stringed-instrument line, that I was loath, if
that's  the  word I want, to say anything to depress him,  but  the
question had to be asked.
   'How?' I said, asking it.
   'Quite  simple. We agreed, I think, that she has no  use  for  a
loser. I propose to lose this election.'
   Well,  it  was  a  thought of course,  and  I  was  in  complete
agreement with his supposition that if the McCorkadale nosed  ahead
of  him  in the voting, Florence would in all probability hand  him
the pink slip, but where it seemed to me that the current went awry
was  that he had no means of knowing that the electorate would  put
him  in  second place. Of course voters are like aunts,  you  never
know what they will be up to from one day to the next, but it was a
thing you couldn't count on.
   I  mentioned this to him, and he repeated his impersonation of a
leaky radiator.
   'Don't  you  worry, Bertie. I have the situation well  in  hand.
Something  happened in a dark corner of the Town Hall  after  lunch
which justifies my confidence.'
   'What happened in a dark corner of the Town Hall after lunch?'
   'Well,  the  first  thing that happened  after  lunch  was  that
Florence got hold of me and became extremely personal. It was  then
that  I  realized  that it would be the act of a fathead  to  marry
her.'
   I  nodded  adhesion to this sentiment. That time  when  she  had
broken her engagement with me my spirits had soared and I had  gone
about singing like a relieved nightingale.
   One  thing  rather puzzled me and seemed to call for explanatory
notes.
   'Why  did Florence draw you into a dark corner when planning  to
become  personal?' I asked. 'I wouldn't have credited her  with  so
much  tact and consideration. As a rule, when she's telling  people
what  she  thinks  of them, an audience seems to stimulate  her.  I
recall  one  occasion when she ticked me off  in  the  presence  of
seventeen Girl Guides, all listening with their ears flapping,  and
she had never spoken more fluently.'
   He  put  me straight on the point I had raised. He said  he  had
misled me.
   'It  wasn't  Florence who drew me into the dark  comer,  it  was
Bingley.'
   'Bingley?'
   'A fellow who worked for me once.'
   'He worked for me once.'
   'Really? It's a small world, isn't it.'
   'Pretty small. Did you know he'd come into money?'
   'He'll soon be coming into some more.'
   'But  you were saying he drew you into the dark corner. Why  did
he do that?'
   'Because  he  had  a  proposition to make to me  which  demanded
privacy. He ... but before going on I must lay a proper foundation.
You  know  in  those  Perry Mason stories how whenever  Perry  says
anything  while  cross-examining a witness, the  District  Attorney
jumps  up  and yells "Objection, your honour. The SOB has  laid  no
proper foundation". Well, then, you must know that this man Bingley
belongs  to  a butlers and valets club in London called the  Junior
Ganymede, and one of the rules there is that members have to record
the doings of their employers in the club book.'
   I  would  have told him I knew all too well about that,  but  he
carried on before I could speak.
   'Such  a  book, as you can imagine, contains a lot  of  damaging
stuff,  and  he  told me he had been obliged to contribute  several
pages about me which, if revealed, would lose me so many votes that
the election would be a gift to my opponent. He added that some men
in his place would have sold it to the opposition and made a lot of
money, but he wouldn't do a thing like that because it would be low
and  in the short time we were together he had come to have a great
affection   for   me.  I  had  never  realized   before   what   an
extraordinarily good chap he was. I had always thought him a bit of
a squirt. Shows how wrong you can be about people.'
   Again  I  would have spoken, but he rolled over me like a  tidal
wave.
   'I  should  have  explained that the  committee  of  the  Junior
Ganymede, recognizing the importance of this book, had entrusted it
to  him  with  instructions to guard it  with  his  life,  and  his
constant  fear was that bad men would get wind of this and  try  to
steal  it.  So what would remove a great burden from his  mind,  he
said,  would be if I took it into my possession. Then  I  could  be
sure  that its contents wouldn't be used against me. I could return
it  to him after the election and slip him a few quid, if I wished,
as  a  token of my gratitude. You can picture me smiling my  subtle
smile as he said this. He little knew that my first act would be to
send  the thing by messenger to the offices of the Market Snodsbury
Argus-Reminder,  thereby handing the election on  a  plate  to  the
McCorkadale  and  enabling  me to free myself  from  my  honourable
obligations to Florence, who would of course, on reading the stuff,
recoil from me in horror. Do you know the Argus-Reminder? Very  far
to the left. Can't stand Conservatives. It had a cartoon of me last
week  showing  me  with my hands dripping with  the  blood  of  the
martyred proletariat. I don't know where they get these ideas. I've
never  spilled  a drop of anybody's blood except when  boxing,  and
then the other chap was spilling mine - wholesome give and take. So
it wasn't long before Bingley and I had everything all fixed up. He
couldn't give me the book then, as he had left it at home,  and  he
wouldn't come and have a drink with me because he had to hurry back
because  he thought Jeeves might be calling and he didn't  want  to
miss  him. Apparently Jeeves is a pal of his - old club crony, that
sort  of thing. We're meeting tomorrow. I shall reward him  with  a
purse of gold, he will give me the book, and five minutes later, if
I  can  find some brown paper and string, it will be on its way  to
the  Argus-Reminder. The material should be in print the day  after
tomorrow.  Allow an hour or so for Florence to get hold of  a  copy
and say twenty minutes for a chat with her after she's read it, and
I  ought to be a free man well before lunch. About how much gold do
you think I should reward Bingley with? Figures were not named, but
I  thought  at least a hundred quid, because he certainly  deserves
something  substantial  for his scrupulous high-mindedness.  As  he
said,  some  men  in  his place would have sold  the  book  to  the
opposition and cleaned up big.'
   By  what  I have always thought an odd coincidence he paused  at
this  point and asked me why I was looking like something  the  cat
brought  in, precisely as the aged relative had asked me  after  my
interview  with Ma McCorkadale. I don't know what cats  bring  into
houses,  but one assumes that it is something not very jaunty,  and
apparently,  when  in  the grip of any strong emotion,  I  resemble
their  treasure trove. I could well understand that I  was  looking
like that now. I find it distasteful to have to shatter a long-time
buddy's hopes and dreams, and no doubt this shows on the surface.
   There  was  no sense in beating about bushes. It was another  of
those  cases  of  if  it were done, then 'twere  well  'twere  done
quickly.
   'Ginger,' I said, 'I'm afraid I have a bit of bad news for  you.
That  book  is  no  longer among those present.  Jeeves  called  on
Bingley,  gave him a Mickey Finn and got it away from him.  He  now
has it among his archives.'
   He didn't get it at first, and I had to explain.
   'Bingley  is not the man of integrity you think him.  He  is  on
the contrary a louse of the first water. You might describe him  as
a  slimy  slinking  slug.  He pinched that  book  from  the  Junior
Ganymede and tried to sell it to the McCorkadale. She sent him away
with a flea in his ear because she was a fair fighter, and he tried
to sell it to you. But meanwhile Jeeves nipped in and obtained it.'
   It  took him perhaps a minute to absorb this, but to my surprise
he wasn't a bit upset.
   'Well,  that's  all  right. Jeeves can take  it  to  the  Argus-
Reminder.'
   I  shook  the loaf sadly, for I knew that this time those  hopes
and dreams of his were really due for a sock in the eye.
   'He  wouldn't do it, Ginger. To Jeeves that club book is sacred.
I've  gone after him a dozen times, urging him to destroy the pages
concerning me, but he always remains as unco-operative as  Balaam's
ass,  who, you may remember, dug his feet in and firmly refused  to
play ball. He'll never let it out of his hands.'
   He  took it, as I had foreseen, big. He spluttered a good  deal.
He  also kicked the table and would have splintered it if it hadn't
been made of marble. It must have hurt like sin, but what disturbed
him,  I  deduced,  was not so much the pain of  a  bruised  toe  as
spiritual anguish. His eyes glittered, his nose wiggled, and if  he
was not gnashing his teeth I don't know a gnashed tooth when I hear
one.
   'Oh,  won't he?' he said, going back into the old cinnamon  bear
routine.  'He  won't,  won't he? We'll see  about  that.  Pop  off,
Bertie. I want to think.'
   I  popped  off,  glad to do so. These displays of naked  emotion
take it out of one.

        14
   The  shortest way to the house was across the lawn, but I didn't
take  it.  Instead, I made for the back door. It was imperative,  I
felt,  that I should see Jeeves without delay and tell him  of  the
passions he had unchained and warn him, until the hot blood had had
time  to  cool, to keep out of Ginger's way. I hadn't at all  liked
the  sound of the latter's 'We'll see about that', nor the clashing
of  those  gnashed teeth. I didn't of course suppose that,  however
much  on  the boil, he would inflict personal violence on Jeeves  -
sock him, if you prefer the expression - but he would certainly say
things  to  him  which  would wound his feelings  and  cause  their
relations,  so pleasant up to now, to deteriorate. And naturally  I
didn't want that to happen.
   Jeeves  was  in  a  deck-chair outside the  back  door,  reading
Spinoza  with  the  cat Augustus on his lap. I had  given  him  the
Spinoza at Christmas and he was constantly immersed in it. I hadn't
dipped into it myself, but he tells me it is good ripe stuff,  well
worth perusal.
   He  would have risen at my approach, but I begged him to  remain
seated, for I knew that Augustus, like L. P. Runkle, resented being
woken suddenly, and one always wants to consider a cat's feelings.
   'Jeeves,'  I said, 'a somewhat peculiar situation has popped  up
out of a trap, and I would be happy to have your comments on it.  I
am  sorry to butt in when you are absorbed in your Spinoza and have
probably  just  got  to  the  part  where  the  second  corpse   is
discovered, but what I have to say is of great pith and moment,  so
listen attentively.'
   'Very good, sir.'
   'The  facts are these,' I said, and without further preamble  or
whatever  they  call  it  I  embarked on my  narrative.  'Such,'  I
concluded  some minutes later, 'is the position of affairs,  and  I
think  you  will  agree  that the problem confronting  us  presents
certain points of interest.'
   'Undeniably, sir.'
   'Somehow Ginger has got to lose the election.'
   'Precisely, sir.'
   'But how?'
   'It  is  difficult  to say on the spur of the moment,  sir.  The
tide  of  popular  opinion appears to be swaying  in  Mr  Winship's
direction. Lord Sidcup's eloquence is having a marked effect on the
electorate and may well prove the deciding factor. Mr Seppings, who
obliged  as  an  extra  waiter at the luncheon,  reports  that  his
lordship's  address to the members of the Market Snodsbury  Chamber
of  Commerce was sensational in its brilliance. He tells  me  that,
owing  entirely  to his lordship, the odds to be  obtained  in  the
various  public houses, which at one time favoured Mrs  McCorkadale
at ten to six, have now sunk to evens.'
   'I don't like that, Jeeves.'
   'No, sir, it is ominous.'
   'Of course, if you were to release the club book ...'
   'I fear I cannot do that, sir.'
   'No,  I  told  Ginger  you regarded it as a sacred  trust.  Then
nothing  can  be  done  except to urge you to  get  the  old  brain
working.'
   'I will certainly do my utmost, sir.'
   'No doubt something will eventually emerge. Keep eating lots  of
fish. And meanwhile stay away from Ginger as much as possible,  for
he is in ugly mood.'
   'I quite understand, sir. Stockish, hard and full of rage.'
   'Shakespeare?'
   'Yes, sir. His merchant of Venice.'
   I  left  him then, pleased at having got one right for a change,
and headed for the drawing-room, hoping for another quiet go at the
Rex  Stout  which  the swirling rush of events  had  forced  me  to
abandon.  I  was, however, too late. The old ancestor  was  on  the
chaise  longue with it in her grasp, and I knew that  I  had  small
chance of wresting it from her. No one who has got his or her hooks
on a Rex Stout lightly lets it go.
   Her  presence  there surprised me. I had supposed that  she  was
still brooding over the hammock and its contents.
   'Hullo,' I said, 'have you finished with Runkle?'
   She  looked  up,  and  I  noted a  trace  of  annoyance  in  her
demeanour. I assumed that Nero Wolfe had come down from the  orchid
room  and told Archie Goodwin to phone Saul Panzar and Orrie what's
his  name  and things were starting to warm up. In which event  she
would  naturally resent the intrusion of even a loved  nephew  whom
she had often dandled on her knee - not recently, I don't mean, but
when I was a bit younger.
   'Oh,  it's  you,'  she  said, which it was  of  course.  'No,  I
haven't  finished  with Runkle. I haven't even  begun.  He's  still
asleep.'
   She  gave  me the impression of being not much in the  mood  for
chit-chat,  but  one  has to say something on  these  occasions.  I
brought  up  a  subject which I felt presented  certain  points  of
interest.
   'Have you ever noticed the remarkable resemblance between L.  P.
Runkle's daily habits and those of the cat Augustus? They  seem  to
spend  all  their time sleeping. Do you think they've got traumatic
symplegia?'
   'What on earth's that?'
   'I  happened to come on it in a medical book I was reading. It's
a  disease that makes you sleep all the time. Has Runkle  shown  no
signs of waking?'
   'Yes,  he  did,  and just as he was beginning to  stir  Madeline
Bassett came along. She said could she speak to me, so I had to let
her. It wasn't easy to follow what she was saying, because she  was
sobbing  all the time, but I got it at last. It was all  about  the
rift with Spode. I told you they had had a tiff. It turns out to be
more serious than that. You remember me telling you he couldn't  be
a  Member  of Parliament because he was a peer. Well, he  wants  to
give up his title so that he will be eligible.'
   'Can  a  fellow with a title give it up? I thought he was  stuck
with it.'
   'He  couldn't  at  one time, at least only by  being  guilty  of
treason,  but they've changed the rules and apparently  it's  quite
the posh thing to do nowadays.'
   'Sounds silly.'
   'That's the view Madeline takes.'
   'Did she say what put the idea into Spode's fat head?'
   'No,  but I can see what did. He has made such a smash hit  with
his  speeches  down  here that he's saying to  himself  "Why  am  I
sweating  like  this on behalf of somebody else? Why  not  go  into
business for myself ?" Who was it said someone was intoxicated with
the exuberance of his own verbosity?'
   'I don't know.'
   'Jeeves  would.  It  was  Bernard Shaw or  Mark  Twain  or  Jack
Dempsey or somebody. Anyway, that's Spode. He's all puffed  up  and
feels he needs a wider scope. He sees himself holding the House  of
Commons spellbound.'
   'Why can't he hold the House of Lords spellbound?'
   'It  wouldn't be the same thing. It would be like playing in the
Market Snodsbury tennis tournament instead of electrifying one  and
all on the centre court at Wimbledon. I can see his point.'
   'I can't.'
   'Nor  can  Madeline. She's all worked up about  it,  and  I  can
understand how she feels. No joke for a girl who thinks she's going
to be the Countess of Sidcup to have the fellow say "April fool, my
little chickadee. What you're going to be is Mrs Spode." If  I  had
been  told  at Madeline's age that Tom had been made a peer  and  I
then learned that he was going to back out of it and I wouldn't  be
able  to  call  myself Lady Market Snodsbury after  all,  I'd  have
kicked like a mule. Titles to a girl are like catnip to a cat.'
   'Can nothing be done?'
   'The  best plan would be for you to go to him and tell  him  how
much  we  all admire him for being Lord Sidcup and what a  pity  it
would be for him to go back to a ghastly name like Spode.'
   'What's the next best plan?'
   'Ah, that wants thinking out.'
   We  fell into a thoughtful silence, on my part an uneasy one.  I
didn't at this juncture fully appreciate the peril that lurked, but
anything in the nature of a rift within the lute between Spode  and
Madeline  was always calculated to make me purse the lips  to  some
extent. I was still trying to hit on some plan which would be  more
to  my taste than telling Spode what a pity it would be for him  to
stop  being the Earl of Sidcup and go back to a ghastly  name  like
his,  when  my reverie was broken by the entry through  the  French
window  of  the cat Augustus, for once awake and in full possession
of  his faculties, such as they were. No doubt in a misty dreamlike
sort  of  way he had seen me when I was talking to Jeeves  and  had
followed  me  on my departure, feeling, after those  breakfasts  of
ours  together, that association with me was pretty well  bound  to
culminate in kippers. A vain hope, of course. The well-dressed  man
does not go around with kippered herrings in his pocket. But one of
the lessons life teaches us is that cats will be cats.
   As  is  my  unvarying policy when closeted  with  one  of  these
fauna, I made chirruping noises and bent down to tickle the back of
the dumb chum's left ear, but my heart was not in the tickling. The
more I mused on the recent conversation, the less I liked what  the
aged  relative had revealed. Telling Augustus that I would be  back
with  him in a moment, I straightened myself and was about  to  ask
her  for further details, when I discovered that she was no  longer
in  my midst. She must suddenly have decided to have another pop at
L.  P.  Runkle  and  was presumably even now putting  Tuppy's  case
before him. Well, best of luck to her, of course, and nice to think
she  had a fine day for it, but I regretted her absence. When  your
mind  is  weighed down with matters of great pith  and  moment,  it
gives  you a sort of sinking feeling to be alone. No doubt the  boy
who  stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled had  this
experience.
   However,  I wasn't alone for long. Scarcely had Augustus  sprung
on  to my lap and started catching up with his sleep when the  door
opened and Spode came in.
   I  leaped to my feet, causing Augustus to fall to earth  I  knew
not  where,  as  the  fellow said. I was a prey  to  the  liveliest
apprehensions.  My  relations with  Spode  had  been  for  long  so
consistently  strained  that I never saw  him  nowadays  without  a
lurking  fear that he was going to sock me in the eye. Obviously  I
wasn't to be blamed if he and Madeline had been having trouble, but
that  wouldn't stop him blaming me. It was like the  story  of  the
chap who was in prison and a friend calls and asks him why and  the
chap tells him and the friend says But they can't put you in prison
for  that and the chap says I know they can't, but they have. Spode
didn't  have  to have logical reasons for setting about  people  he
wasn't fond of, and it might be that he was like Florence and would
work  off  his  grouch  on the first available innocent  bystander.
Putting  it in a nutshell, my frame of mind was approximately  that
of  the  fellows in the hymn who got such a start when they  looked
over  their  shoulders and saw the troops of  Midian  prowling  and
prowling around.
   It  was with profound relief, therefore, that I suddenly got  on
to  it  that his demeanour was free from hostility. He was  looking
like  somebody who has just seen the horse on which he had put  all
his  savings,  plus  whatever he had been able  to  lift  from  his
employer's till, beaten by a short head. His face, nothing to write
home  about at the best of times, was drawn and contorted, but with
pain  rather  than the urge to commit mayhem. And while  one  would
always  prefer  him  not to be present, a drawn-and-contorted-with-
pain  Spode  was  certainly the next best thing.  My  greeting,  in
consequence, had the real ring of cordiality in it.
   'Oh, hullo, Spode, hullo. There you are, what? Splendid.'
   'Can I have a word with you, Wooster?'
   'Of course, of course. Have several.'
   He  did  not  speak for a minute or so, filling in the  time  by
subjecting  me to a close scrutiny. Then he gave a sigh  and  shook
his head.
   'I can't understand it,' he said.
   'What  can't you understand, Spode old man or rather Lord Sidcup
old  man?'  I asked in a kind voice, for I was only too willing  to
help this new and improved Spode solve any little problem that  was
puzzling him.
   'How  Madeline can contemplate marrying a man like you. She  has
broken  our engagement and says that's what she's going to do.  She
was quite definite about it. "All is over," she said. "Here is your
ring," she said. "I shall marry Bertie Wooster and make him happy,"
she said. You can't want it plainer than that.'
   I  stiffened from head to f. Even with conditions what they were
in  this  disturbed post-war world I hadn't been  expecting  to  be
turned into a pillar of salt again for some considerable time,  but
this had done it. I don't know how many of my public have ever been
slapped  between the eyes with a wet fish, but those who have  will
appreciate my emotions as the seventh Earl of Sidcup delivered this
devastating  bulletin. Everything started to  go  all  wobbly,  and
through  what  is known as a murky mist I seemed to be  watching  a
quivering-at-the-edges  seventh  Earl  performing   the   sort   of
gyrations travelled friends have told me the Ouled Nail dancers  do
in Cairo.
   I  was stunned. It seemed to me incredible that Madeline Bassett
should  have  blown  the  whistle  on  their  engagement.  Then   I
remembered  that at the time when she had plighted her troth  Spode
was  dangling a countess's coronet before her eyes, and  the  thing
became more understandable. I mean, take away the coronet and  what
had  you  got? Just Spode. Not good enough, a girl would  naturally
feel.
   He,  meanwhile,  was  going on to explain why  he  found  it  so
bizarre  that  Madeline should be contemplating  marrying  me,  and
almost immediately I saw that I had been mistaken in supposing that
he  was not hostile. He spoke from between clenched teeth, and that
always tells the story.
   'As  far  as  I can see, Wooster, you are without attraction  of
any  kind.  Intelligence? No. Looks? No. Efficiency? No. You  can't
even steal an umbrella without getting caught. All that can be said
for  you  is that you don't wear a moustache. They tell me you  did
grow  one  once,  but mercifully shaved it off.  That  is  to  your
credit, but it is a small thing to weigh in the balance against all
your other defects. When one considers how numerous these are,  one
can  only suppose that it is your shady record of stealing anything
you can lay your hands on that appeals to Madeline's romantic soul.
She  is marrying you in the hope of reforming you, and let me  tell
you,  Wooster, that if you disappoint that hope, you will be sorry.
She  may  have rejected me, but I shall always love her as  I  have
done  since she was so high, and I shall do my utmost to  see  that
her  gentle heart is not broken by any sneaking son of a  what  not
who  looks  like a chorus boy in a touring revue playing the  small
towns  and cannot see anything of value without pocketing  it.  You
will  probably think you are safe from me when you are  doing  your
stretch in Wormwood Scrubs for larceny, but I shall be waiting  for
you when you come out and I shall tear you limb from limb. And,' he
added,  for  his was a one-track mind, 'dance on the  fragments  in
hobnailed boots.'
   He  paused,  produced his cigarette case, asked me if  I  had  a
match, thanked me when I gave him one, and withdrew.
   He  left behind him a Bertram Wooster whom the dullest eye could
have spotted as not being at the peak of his form. The prospect  of
being  linked  for life to a girl who would come down to  breakfast
and  put  her hands over my eyes and say 'Guess who' had  given  my
morale a sickening wallop, reducing me to the level of one of those
wee  sleekit  timorous cowering beasties Jeeves tells me  the  poet
Burns  used  to  write about. It is always my policy  in  times  of
crisis to try to look on the bright side, but I make one proviso  -
viz.  that  there has to be a bright side to look on,  and  in  the
present case there wasn't even the sniff of one.
   As  I  sat there draining the bitter cup, there were noises  off
stage and my meditations were interrupted by the return of the  old
ancestor. Well, when I say return, she came whizzing in but  didn't
stop,  just  whizzed through, and I saw, for I am pretty  quick  at
noticing  things,  that  she was upset about  something.  Reasoning
closely,  I deduced that her interview with L. P. Runkle must  have
gone awry or, as I much prefer to put it, agley.
   And  so  it  proved  when she bobbed up again some  little  time
later.  Her  first  observation  was  that  L.  P.  Runkle  was  an
illegitimate  offspring to end all illegitimate offsprings,  and  I
hastened to commiserate with her. I could have done with a  bit  of
commiseration  myself, but Women and Children First is  always  the
Wooster slogan.
   'No luck?' I said.
   'None.'
   'Wouldn't part?'
   'Not a penny.'
   'You  mentioned that without his co-operation Tuppy and Angela's
wedding bells would not ring out?'
   'Of  course I did. And he said it was a great mistake for  young
people to marry before they knew their own minds.'
   'You  could  have  pointed out that Tuppy and Angela  have  been
engaged for two years.'
   'I did.'
   'What did he say to that?'
   'He said "Not nearly long enough".'
   'So what are you going to do?'
   'I've   done  it,'  said  the  old  ancestor.  'I  pinched   his
porringer.'


        15
   I  goggled  at  her, one hundred per cent non-plussed.  She  had
spoken  with  the exuberance of an aunt busily engaged  in  patting
herself  between  the  shoulder-blades for  having  done  something
particularly  clever, but I could make nothing  of  her  statement.
This habit of speaking in riddles seemed to be growing on her.
   'You what?' I said. 'You pinched his what?'
   'His  porringer. I told you about it the day you got here. Don't
you remember? That silver thing he came to try to sell to Tom.'
   She  had  refreshed  my memory. I recalled the  conversation  to
which she referred. I had asked her why she was entertaining in her
home  a  waste product like L. P. Runkle, and she had said that  he
had  come  hoping  to  sell Uncle Tom a silver  something  for  his
collection and she had got him to stay on in order to soften him up
with  Anatole's  cooking  and put to him,  when  softened  up,  her
request for cash for Tuppy.
   'When  he  turned me down just now, it suddenly occurred  to  me
that  if  I got hold of the thing and told him he wouldn't  get  it
back  unless  he  made a satisfactory settlement, I  would  have  a
valuable  bargaining point and we could discuss the matter  further
at any time that suited him.'
   I  was  ap-what-is-it. Forget my own name next. Appalled, that's
the  word,  though  shocked to the core would  be  about  as  good;
nothing  much  in it, really. I hadn't read any of those  etiquette
books  you see all over the place, but I was prepared to  bet  that
the leaders of Society who wrote them would raise an eyebrow or two
at  carrying-ons  of  this description. The  chapter  on  Hints  To
Hostesses  would  be  bound to have a couple of paragraphs  warning
them that it wasn't the done thing to invite people to the home and
having got them settled in to pinch their porringers.
   'But  good  Lord!' I ejaculated, appalled or, if you prefer  it,
shocked to the core.
   'Now what?'
   'The man is under your roof.'
   'Did you expect him to be on it?'
   'He has eaten your salt.'
   'Very  imprudent,  with  blood pressure  like  his.  His  doctor
probably forbids it.'
   'You can't do this.'
   'I  know  I can't, but I have,' she said, just like the chap  in
the  story, and I saw it would be fruitless or bootless  to  go  on
arguing. It rarely is with aunts - if you're their nephew, I  mean,
because they were at your side all through your formative years and
know what an ass you were then and can't believe that anything that
you  may  say later is worth listening to. I shouldn't  be  at  all
surprised if Jeeves's three aunts don't shut him up when he  starts
talking, remembering that at the age of six the child Jeeves didn't
know  the  difference between the poet Burns  and  a  hole  in  the
ground.
   Ceasing to expostulate, therefore, if expostulate is the word  I
want,  I  went to the bell and pressed it, and when she  asked  for
footnotes throwing a light on why I did this, I told her I proposed
to place the matter in the hands of a higher power.
   'I'm ringing for Jeeves.'
   'You'll only get Seppings.'
   'Seppings will provide Jeeves.'
   'And what do you think Jeeves can do?'
   'Make you see reason.'
   'I doubt it.'
   'Well, it's worth a try.'
   Further  chit-chat was suspended till Jeeves arrived and silence
fell  except for the ancestor snorting from time to time  and  self
breathing  more  heavily than usual, for I  was  much  stirred.  It
always  stirs a nephew to discover that a loved aunt does not  know
the  difference between right and wrong. There is a difference  ...
at  my  private  school Arnold Abney MA used to  rub  it  into  the
student  body  both Sundays and weekdays ... but apparently  nobody
had told the aged relative about it, with the result that she could
purloin  people's  porringers without a yip  from  her  conscience.
Shook me a bit, I confess.
   When  Jeeves  blew  in, it cheered me to see the  way  his  head
stuck out at the back, for that's where the brain is, and what  was
needed here was a man with plenty of the old grey matter who  would
put  his  points so that even a fermenting aunt would  have  to  be
guided by him.
   'Well,  here's Jeeves,' said the ancestor. 'Tell him  the  facts
and  I'll  bet  he says I've done the only possible thing  and  can
carry on along the lines I sketched out.'
   I  might have risked a fiver on this at say twelve to eight, but
it  didn't  seem fitting. But telling Jeeves the facts was  a  good
idea,  and  I did so without delay, being careful to lay  a  proper
foundation.
   'Jeeves,' I said.
   'Sir?' he responded.
   'Sorry to interrupt you again. Were you reading Spinoza?'
   'No, sir, I was writing a letter to my Uncle Charlie.'
   'Charlie  Silversmith,' I explained in an aside to the ancestor.
'Butler at Deverill Hall. One of the best.'
   'Thank you, sir.'
   'I  know  few  men  whom I esteem more highly  than  your  Uncle
Charlie.  Well,  we  won't keep you long. It's  just  that  another
problem  presenting certain points of interest has come  up.  In  a
recent  conversation  I revealed to you the situation  relating  to
Tuppy Glossop and L. P. Runkle. You recall?'
   'Yes,  sir. Madam was hoping to extract a certain sum  of  money
from Mr Runkle on Mr Glossop's behalf.'
   'Exactly. Well, it didn't come off.'
   'I am sorry to hear that, sir.'
   'But  not,  I imagine, surprised. If I remember, you  considered
it a hundred to one shot.'
   'Approximately that, sir.'
   'Runkle being short of bowels of compassion.'
   'Precisely, sir. A twenty-minute egg.'
   Here  the  ancestor repeated her doubts with  regard  to  L.  P.
Runkle's  legitimacy, and would, I think, have developed the  theme
had I not shushed her down with a raised hand.
   'She pleaded in vain,' I said. 'He sent her away with a flea  in
her  ear. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he laughed  her  to
scorn.'
   'The   superfatted  old  son  of  a  bachelor,'   the   ancestor
interposed, and once more I shushed her down.
   'Well,  you know what happens when you do that sort of thing  to
a  woman  of spirit. Thoughts of reprisals fill her mind.  And  so,
coming to the nub, she decided to purloin Runkle's porringer. But I
mustn't  mislead you. She did this not as an act of  vengeance,  if
you  know what I mean, but in order to have a bargaining point when
she  renewed her application. "Brass up," she would have said  when
once more urging him to scare the moths out of his pocketbook,  "or
you won't get back your porringer". Do I make myself clear?'
   'Perfectly clear, sir. I find you very lucid.'
   'Now  first it will have to be explained to you what a porringer
is,  and  here  I am handicapped by not having the foggiest  notion
myself, except that it's silver and old and the sort of thing Uncle
Tom  has  in his collection. Runkle was hoping to sell it  to  him.
Could you supply any details?' I asked the aged relative.
   She  knitted the brows a bit, and said she couldn't do  much  in
that direction.
   'All  I  know  is  that it was made in the time of  Charles  the
Second by some Dutchman or other.'
   'Then  I  think I know the porringer to which you allude,  sir,'
said Jeeves, his face lighting up as much as it ever lights up,  he
for  reasons  of  his own preferring at all times to  preserve  the
impassivity of a waxwork at Madame Tussaud's. 'It was featured in a
Sotheby's  catalogue at which I happened to be  glancing  not  long
ago.  Would it,' he asked the ancestor, 'be a silver-gilt porringer
on  a  circular  moulded foot, the lower part chased with  acanthus
foliage,  with  beaded scroll handles, the cover  surmounted  by  a
foliage  on  a  rosette of swirling acanthus leaves, the  stand  of
tazza  form on circular detachable feet with acanthus border joined
to a multifoil plate, the palin top with upcurved rim?'
   He   paused  for  a  reply,  but  the  ancestor  did  not  speak
immediately,  her aspect that of one who has been  run  over  by  a
municipal  tram. Odd, really, because she must have been  listening
to that sort of thing from Uncle Tom for years. Finally she mumbled
that  she wouldn't be surprised or she wouldn't wonder or something
like that.
   'Your guess is as good as mine,' she said.
   'I  fancy it must be the same, madam. You mentioned a workman of
Dutch  origin.  Would  the  name be Hans Conrael  Brechtel  of  the
Hague?'
   'I  couldn't  tell  you.  I know it wasn't  Smith  or  Jones  or
Robinson, and that's as far as I go. But what's all this in aid  of
? What does it matter if the stand is of tazza form or if the palin
top has an upcurved rim?'
   'Exactly,' I said, thoroughly concurring. 'Or if the credit  for
these  tazza  forms  and palin tops has to be chalked  up  to  Hans
Conrael  Brechtel  of  the Hague. The point, Jeeves,  is  not  what
particular porringer the ancestor has pinched, but how far she  was
justified  in pinching any porringer at all when its  owner  was  a
guest  of hers. I hold that it was a breach of hospitality and  the
thing must be returned. Am I right?'
   'Well, sir ...'
   'Go  on, Jeeves,' said the ancestor. 'Say I'm a crook who  ought
to  be  drummed  out  of  the Market Snodsbury  Ladies  Social  and
Cultural Garden Club.'
   'Not at all, madam.'
   'Then what were you going to say when you hesitated?'
   'Merely  that  in  my opinion no useful end will  be  served  by
retaining the object.'
   'I don't follow you. How about that bargaining point?'
   'It  will,  I fear, avail you little, madam. As I understand  Mr
Wooster, the sum you are hoping to obtain from Mr Runkle amounts to
a good many thousand pounds.'
   'Fifty at least, if not a hundred.'
   'Then  I  cannot  envisage him complying with your  demands.  Mr
Runkle is a shrewd financier -'
   'Born out of wedlock.'
   'Very  possibly you are right, madam, nevertheless he is  a  man
well  versed  in weighing profit and loss. According  to  Sotheby's
catalogue  the  price at which the object was sold at  the  auction
sale  was nine thousand pounds. He will scarcely disburse a hundred
or even fifty thousand in order to recover it.'
   'Of course he won't,' I said, as enchanted with his lucidity  as
he  had  been with mine. It was the sort of thing you have  to  pay
topnotchers at the Bar a king's ransom for. 'He'll simply say "Easy
come,  easy  go"  and  write it off as a  business  loss,  possibly
consulting  his legal adviser as to whether he can deduct  it  from
his  income  tax. Thank you, Jeeves. You've straightened everything
out  in your customary masterly manner. You're a ... what were  you
saying the other day about Daniel somebody?'
   'A Daniel come to judgment, sir?'
   'That was it. You're a Daniel come to judgment.'
   'It is very kind of you to say so, sir.'
   'Not at all. Well-deserved tribute.'
   I  shot  a  glance  at  the  aged relative.  It  is  notoriously
difficult to change the trend of an aunt's mind when that  mind  is
made up about this or that, but I could see at a g. that Jeeves had
done it. I hadn't expected her to look pleased, and she didn't, but
it  was evident that she had accepted what is sometimes called  the
inevitable. I would describe her as not having a word to  say,  had
she  not  at this moment said one, suitable enough for the  hunting
field but on the strong side for mixed company. I registered it  in
my  memory as something to say to Spode some time, always  provided
it was on the telephone.
   'I  suppose  you're  right,  Jeeves,' she  said,  heavy-hearted,
though bearing up stoutly. 'It seemed a good idea at the time,  but
I  agree with you that it isn't as watertight as I thought it. It's
so often that way with one's golden dreams. The -'
   '  -  best-laid  plans of mice and men gang aft agley,'  I  said
helping  her  out.  'See the poet Burns. I've  often  wondered  why
Scotsmen  say "gang". I asked you once, Jeeves, if you recall,  and
you said they had not confided in you. You were saying, ancestor?'
   'I was about to say -'
   'Or, for that matter, "agley".'
   'I was about to say -'
   'Or "aft" for "often".'
   'I  was about to say,' said the relative, having thrown her  Rex
Stout  at  me, fortunately with a less accurate aim than the  other
time,  'that there's nothing to be done but for me to put the thing
back in Runkle's room where I took it from.'
   'Whence  I  took it' would have been better, but it was  not  to
comment  on her prose style that I interposed. I was thinking  that
if she was allowed to do the putting back, she might quite possibly
change her mind on the way to Runkle's room and decide to stick  to
the  loot after all. Jeeves's arguments had been convincing to  the
last  drop, but you can never be sure that the effect of convincing
arguments won't wear off, especially with aunts who don't know  the
difference between right and wrong, and it might be that she  would
take  the view that if she pocketed the porringer and kept it among
her  souvenirs,  she  would at least be saving something  from  the
wreck.  'Always  difficult  to  know  what  to  give  Tom  for  his
birthday,' she might say to herself. 'This will be just the thing.'
   'I'll do it,' I said. 'Unless you'd rather, Jeeves.'
   'No, thank you, sir.'
   'Only take a minute of your time.'
   'No, thank you, sir.'
   'Then  you  may leave us, Jeeves. Much obliged for  your  Daniel
come to judgmenting.'
   'A pleasure, sir.'
   'Give Uncle Charlie my love.'
   'I will indeed, sir.'
   As  the  door closed behind him, I started to make my plans  and
dispositions,  as  I believe the word is, and  I  found  the  blood
relation  docile and helpful. Runkle's room, she told me,  was  the
one known as the Blue Room, and the porringer should be inserted in
the left top drawer of the chest of drawers, whence she had removed
it.  I  asked if she was sure he was still in the hammock, and  she
said he must be, because on her departure he was bound to have gone
to  sleep  again. Taking a line through the cat Augustus,  I  found
this  plausible.  With these traumatic symplegia  cases  waking  is
never  more than a temporary thing. I have known Augustus to resume
his  slumbers  within fifteen seconds of having had a shopping  bag
containing tins of cat food fall on him. A stifled oath, and he was
off to dreamland once more.
   As  I climbed the stairs, I was impressed by the fact that L. P.
Runkle  had been given the Blue Room, for in this house it amounted
to  getting star billing. It was the biggest and most luxurious  of
the  rooms  allotted  to bachelors. I once suggested  to  the  aged
relative that I be put there, but all she said was 'You?'  and  the
conversation turned to other topics. Runkle having got it in  spite
of  the  presence  on  the premises of a seventh  Earl  showed  how
determined the a. r. had been that no stone should be left unturned
and  no  avenue unexplored in her efforts to soften him up; and  it
seemed  ironical  that all her carefully thought-out  plans  should
have  gone agley. Just shows Burns knew what he was talking  about.
You  can  generally rely on these poets to hit the mark and entitle
themselves to a cigar or coconut according to choice.
   The  old  sweats will remember, though later arrivals will  have
to be told, that this was not the first time I had gone on a secret
mission  to  the Blue Room. That other visit, the old  sweats  will
recall,  had ended in disaster and not knowing which way  to  look,
for  Mrs Homer Cream, the well-known writer of suspense novels, had
found  me on the floor with a chair round my neck, and it  had  not
been easy to explain. This was no doubt why on the present occasion
I approached the door with emotions somewhat similar to those I had
had in the old days when approaching that of Arnold Abney MA at the
conclusion of morning prayers. A voice seemed to whisper in my  ear
that  beyond that door there lurked something that wasn't going  to
do me a bit of good.
   The  voice  was  perfectly right. It had got its  facts  correct
first  shot. What met my eyes as I entered was L. P. Runkle  asleep
on  the  bed, and with my customary quickness I divined  what  must
have  happened. After being cornered there by the old  ancestor  he
must  have come to the conclusion that a hammock out in the  middle
of  a lawn, with access to it from all directions, was no place for
a  man  who wanted peace and seclusion, and that these were  to  be
obtained  only in his bedroom. Thither, accordingly, he  had  gone,
and there he was.
   Voila  tout,  as one might say if one had made a  study  of  the
French language.
   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
explanations.  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 Bums 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.
   'Aunt  Dahlia sent me to ask you if you would come  and  take  a
few photographs of her and the house and all that sort of thing, so
that  she'll have them to look at in the long winter evenings.  You
know how long the winter evenings get nowadays.'
   The  moment  I  had  said it I found myself  speculating  as  to
whether the inspiration had been as hot as I had supposed. I  mean,
this  man  had  just had a conference with the old ancestor  which,
unlike those between ministers of state, had not been conducted  in
an atmosphere of the utmost cordiality, and he might be thinking it
odd that so soon after its conclusion she should be wanting him  to
take  photographs of her. But all was well. No doubt he  looked  on
her request as what is known as an olive branch. Anyway, he was all
animation and eagerness to co-operate.
   'I'll be right down,' he said. 'Tell her I'll be right down.'
   Having  hidden the porringer in my room and locked the  door,  I
went  back  to  the  aged relative and found her with  Jeeves.  She
expressed relief at seeing me.
   'Oh,   there  you  are,  my  beautiful  bounding  Bertie.  Thank
goodness  you didn't go to Runkle's room. Jeeves tells me  Seppings
met Runkle on the stairs and he asked him to bring him a cup of tea
in  half an hour. He said he was going to lie down. You might  have
run right into him.'
   I laughed one of those hollow, mirthless ones.
   'Jeeves speaks too late, old ancestor. I did run into him.'
   'You mean he was there?'
   'With his hair in a braid.'
   'What did you do?'
   'I  told  him you had asked me to ask him to come and take  some
photographs.'
   'Quick thinking.'
   'I always think like lightning.'
   'And did he swallow it?'
   'He appeared to. He said he would be right down.'
   'Well, I'm damned if I'm going to smile.'
   Whether  I  would  have pleaded with her to  modify  this  stern
resolve and at least show a portion of her front teeth when  Runkle
pressed the button, I cannot say, for as she spoke my thoughts were
diverted.  A  sudden query presented itself. What, I asked  myself,
was  keeping L. P. Runkle? He had said he would be right down,  but
quite a time had elapsed and no sign of him. I was toying with  the
idea  that  on a warm afternoon like this a man of his build  might
have  had  a fit of some kind, when there came from the stairs  the
sound of clumping feet, and he was with us.
   But  a very different L. P. Runkle from the man who had told  me
he would be right down. Then he had been all sunny and beaming, the
amateur  photographer who was not only going  to  make  a  pest  of
himself by taking photographs but had actually been asked to make a
pest  of  himself in this manner, which seldom happens  to  amateur
photographers. Now he was cold and hard like a picnic egg,  and  he
couldn't  have  looked at me with more loathing  if  I  really  had
trodden on his Panama hat.
   'Mrs Travers!'
   His  voice  had rung out with the clarion note of a costermonger
seeking to draw the attention of the purchasing public to his blood
oranges  and  Brussels sprouts. I saw the ancestor stiffen,  and  I
knew  she  was about to go into her grande dame act. This relative,
though in ordinary circs so genial and matey, can on occasion  turn
in  a  flash  into  a carbon copy of a Duchess of  the  old  school
reducing  an  underling  to  a spot  of  grease,  and  what  is  so
remarkable is that she doesn't have to use a lorgnette,  just  does
it  all  with the power of the human eye. I think girls in her  day
used to learn the trick at their finishing schools.
   'Will  you  kindly not bellow at me, Mr Runkle. I am  not  deaf.
What is it?'
   The  aristocratic  ice in her tone sent a cold  shiver  down  my
spine,  but in L. P. Runkle she had picked a tough customer to  try
to  freeze. He apologized for having bellowed, but briefly and with
no  real contrition. He then proceeded to deal with her query as to
what  it  was, and with a powerful effort forced himself  to  speak
quite quietly. Not exactly like a cooing pigeon, but quietly.
   'I  wonder  if you remember, Mrs Travers, a silver  porringer  I
showed you on my arrival here.'
   'I do.'
   'Very valuable.'
   'So you told me.'
   'I  kept  it in the top left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers
in  my bedroom. It did not occur to me that there was any necessity
to  hide  it. I took the honesty of everybody under your  roof  for
granted.'
   'Naturally.'
   'Even  when I found that Mr Wooster was one of my fellow  guests
I  took  no precautions. It was a fatal blunder. He has just stolen
it.'
   I  suppose  it's pretty much of a strain to keep up that  grande
dame stuff for any length of time, involving as it does rigidity of
the  facial muscles and the spinal column, for at these  words  the
ancestor called it a day and reverted to the Quorn-and-Pytchleyness
of her youth.
   'Don't  be  a  damned fool, Runkle. You're talking  rot.  Bertie
would never dream of doing such a thing, would you, Bertie?'
   'Not in a million years.'
   'The man's an ass.'
   'One might almost say a silly ass.'
   'Comes of sleeping all the time.'
   'I believe that's the trouble.'
   'Addles the brain.'
   'Must,  I imagine. It's the same thing with Gus the cat. I  love
Gus  like  a  brother, but after years of non-stop sleep  he's  got
about as much genuine intelligence as a Cabinet minister.'
   'I   hope  Runkle  hasn't  annoyed  you  with  his  preposterous
allegations?'
   'No,  no,  old  ancestor, I'm not angry, just terribly  terribly
hurt.'
   You'd  have thought all this would have rendered Runkle a  spent
force  and  a  mere shell of his former self, but his eye  was  not
dimmed nor his natural force abated. Turning to the door, he paused
there to add a few words.
   'I  disagree with you, Mrs Travers, in the view you take of your
nephew's honesty. I prefer to be guided by Lord Sidcup, who assures
me  that  Mr Wooster invariably steals anything that is not  firmly
fastened  to  the  floor. It was only by the  merest  chance,  Lord
Sidcup  tells me, that at their first meeting he did not make  away
with an umbrella belonging to Sir Watkyn Bassett, and from there he
has,  as  one  might  put  it,  gone  from  strength  to  strength.
Umbrellas, cow-creamers, amber statuettes, cameras, all  are  grist
to his mill. I was unfortunately asleep when he crept into my room,
and he had plenty of time before I woke to do what he had come for.
It was only some minutes after he had slunk out that it occurred to
me  to look in the top left-hand drawer of my chest of drawers.  My
suspicions  were confirmed. The drawer was empty. He had  got  away
with the swag. But I am a man of action. I have sent your butler to
the  police station to bring a constable to search Wooster's  room.
I,  until he arrives, propose to stand outside it, making sure that
he does not go in and tamper with the evidence.'
   Having  said  which in the most unpleasant of vocal  deliveries,
L. P. Runkle became conspic. by his a., and the ancestor spoke with
considerable  eloquence  on the subject of  fat  slobs  of  dubious
parentage who had the immortal crust to send her butler on errands.
I, too, was exercised by the concluding portion of his remarks.
   'I  don't like that,' I said, addressing Jeeves, who during  the
recent  proceedings  had been standing in the background  giving  a
lifelike impersonation of somebody who wasn't there.
   'Sir?'
   'If the fuzz search my room, I'm sunk.'
   'Have  no  anxiety, sir. A police officer is  not  permitted  to
enter  private  property without authority, nor do the  regulations
allow  him  to  ask  the owner of such property for  permission  to
enter.'
   'You're sure of that?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   Well, that was a crumb of comfort, but it would be deceiving  my
public  if  I  said  that Bertram Wooster was his usual  nonchalant
self.  Too  many things had been happening one on top of the  other
for  him  to be the carefree boulevardler one likes to  see.  If  I
hoped  to clarify the various situations which were giving  me  the
pip  and  erase the dark circles already beginning to form  beneath
the  eyes,  it  would, I saw, be necessary for  me  to  marshal  my
thoughts.
   'Jeeves,' I said, leading him from the room, 'I must marshal  my
thoughts.'
   'Certainly, sir, if you wish.'
   'And   I   can't  possibly  do  it  here  with  crises   turning
handsprings on every side. Can you think of a good excuse for me to
pop  up  to London for the night? A few hours alone in the peaceful
surroundings  of  the  flat are what I need.  I  must  concentrate,
concentrate.'
   'But do you require an excuse, sir?'
   'It's better to have one. Aunt Dahlia is on a sticky wicket  and
would  be hurt if I deserted her now unless I had some good reason.
I can't let her down.'
   'The sentiment does you credit, sir.'
   'Thank you, Jeeves. Can you think of anything?'
   'You have been summoned for jury duty, sir.'
   'Don't they let you have a longish notice for that?'
   'Yes, sir, but when the post arrived containing the letter  from
the authorities, I forgot to give it to you, and only delivered  it
a  moment  ago.  Fortunately it was not  too  late.  Would  you  be
intending to leave immediately?'
   'If not sooner. I'll borrow Ginger's car.'
   'You will miss the debate, sir.'
   'The what?'
   'The  debate between Mr Winship and his opponent. It takes place
tomorrow night.'
   'What time?'
   'It is scheduled for a quarter to seven.'
   'Taking how long?'
   'Perhaps an hour.'
   'Then  expect me back at about seven-thirty. The great thing  in
life, Jeeves, if we wish to be happy and prosperous, is to miss  as
many  political debates as possible. You wouldn't care to come with
me, would you?'
   'No,  thank  you,  sir. I am particularly  anxious  to  hear  Mr
Winship's speech.'
   'He'll probably only say "Er",' I riposted rather cleverly.

        16
   It  was  with a heart-definitely-bowed-down mood and the circles
beneath my eyes darker than ever that I drove back next day in what
is  known as the quiet evenfall. I remember Jeeves saying something
to   me  once  about  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight  of  this
unintelligible  world  ... not his own, I gathered,  but  from  the
works of somebody called Wordsworth, if I caught the name correctly
...  and  it  seemed  to  me rather a good way  of  describing  the
depressing feeling you get when the soup is about to close over you
and  no  life-belt is in sight. I was conscious of this  heavy  and
weary weight some years ago, that time when my cousins Eustace  and
Claude  without  notifying  me inserted  twenty-three  cats  in  my
bedroom, and I had it again, in spades, at the present juncture.
   Consider  the  facts.  I had gone up to  London  to  wrestle  in
solitude with the following problems:
   (a) How am I to get out of marrying Madeline Bassett?
   (b)  How  am  I to restore the porringer to L. P. Runkle  before
the constabulary come piling on the back of my neck?
   (c) How is the ancestor to extract that money from Runkle?
   (d)  How  is Ginger to marry Magnolia Glendennon while betrothed
to Florence?
   and  I  was returning with all four still in status quo.  For  a
night  and  day  I had been giving them the cream  of  the  Wooster
brain,  and for all I had accomplished I might have been  the  aged
relative trying to solve the Observer crossword puzzle.

   Arriving  at  journey's end, I steered the car into  the  drive.
About  half-way along it there was a tricky right-hand turn, and  I
had  slowed  down  to  negotiate this, when a dim  figure  appeared
before me, a voice said, 'Hoy!', and I saw that it was Ginger.
   He  seemed annoyed about something. His 'Hoy!' had had a note of
reproach  in  it,  as  far as it is possible to  get  the  note  of
reproach  into a 'Hoy!', and as he drew near and shoved  his  torso
through the window I received the distinct impression that  he  was
displeased.
   His opening words confirmed this.
   'Bertie, you abysmal louse, what's kept you all this time?  When
I  lent  you my car, I didn't expect you'd come back at two o'clock
in the morning.'
   'It's only half-past seven.'
   He seemed amazed.
   'Is  that  all?  I  thought  it was  later.  So  much  has  been
happening.'
   'What has been happening?'
   'No time to tell you now. I'm in a hurry.'
   It  was at this point that I noticed something in his appearance
which I had overlooked. A trifle, but I'm rather observant.
   'You've got egg in your hair,' I said.
   'Of  course  I've  got  egg in my hair,'  he  said,  his  manner
betraying impatience. 'What did you expect me to have in  my  hair,
Chanel Number Five?'
   'Did somebody throw an egg at you?'
   'Everybody  threw eggs at everybody. Correction.  Some  of  them
threw turnips and potatoes.'
   'You  mean  the meeting broke up in disorder, as the  expression
is?'
   'I  don't suppose any meeting in the history of English politics
has  ever broken up in more disorder. Eggs flew hither and thither.
The air was dark with vegetables of every description. Sidcup got a
black eye. Somebody plugged him with a potato.'
   I  found  myself in two minds. On the one hand I felt a pang  of
regret for having missed what had all the earmarks of having been a
political meeting of the most rewarding kind: on the other, it  was
like  rare and refreshing fruit to hear that Spode had got  hit  in
the  eye with a potato. I was conscious of an awed respect for  the
marksman who had accomplished this feat. A potato, being so  nobbly
in shape, can be aimed accurately only by a master hand.
   'Tell me more,' I said, well pleased.
   'Tell you more be blowed. I've got to get up to London. We  want
to  be  there  bright  and  early  tomorrow  in  order  to  inspect
registrars and choose the best one.'
   This  didn't sound like Florence, who, if she ever gets  through
an  engagement without breaking it, is sure to insist on a  wedding
with  bishops,  bridesmaids, full choral effects, and  a  reception
afterwards.  A  sudden thought struck me, and I think  I  may  have
gasped. Somebody made a noise like a dying soda-water syphon and it
was presumably me.
   'When you say "we", do you mean you and M. Glendennon?'
   'Who else?'
   'But how?'
   'Never mind how.'
   'But  I do mind how. You were Problem (d) on my list, and I want
to  know  how  you  have been solved. I gather  that  Florence  has
remitted your sentence -'
   'She  has,  in words of unmistakable clarity. Get  out  of  that
car.'
   'But why?'
   'Because  if you aren't out of it in two seconds, I'm  going  to
pull you out.'
   'I mean why did she r. your s.?'
   'Ask  Jeeves,' he said, and attaching himself to the  collar  of
my coat he removed me from the automobile like a stevedore hoisting
a  sack  of  grain. He took my place at the wheel, and  disappeared
down  the  drive  to  keep his tryst with  the  little  woman,  who
presumably awaited him at some prearranged spot with the  bags  and
baggage.
   He  left  me  in  a  condition which can best  be  described  as
befogged, bewildered, mystified, confused and perplexed. All I  had
got out of him was (a) that the debate had not been conducted in an
atmosphere  of  the utmost cordiality, (b) that at  its  conclusion
Florence  had forbidden the banns and (c) that if I wanted  further
information Jeeves would supply it. A little more than the charmers
got  out  of the deaf adder, but not much. I felt like a barrister,
as  it  might  be  Ma  McCorkadale, who  has  been  baffled  by  an
unsatisfactory witness.
   However,  he had spoken of Jeeves as a fount of information,  so
my first move on reaching the drawing-room and finding no one there
was to put forefinger to bell button and push.
   Seppings  answered the summons. He and I have been buddies  from
boyhood  -  mine, of course, not his - and as a rule when  we  meet
conversation flows like water, mainly on the subject of the weather
and  the  state  of  his lumbago, but this was  no  time  for  idle
chatter.
   'Seppings,' I said, 'I want Jeeves. Where is he?'
   'In the Servants' Hall, sir, comforting the parlourmaid.'
   I  took  him  to  allude to the employee whose gong-work  I  had
admired on my first evening, and, pressing though my business  was,
it  seemed only humane to offer a word of sympathy for whatever her
misfortunes might be.
   'Had bad news, has she?'
   'No, sir, she was struck by a turnip.'
   'Where?'
   'In the lower ribs, sir.'
   'I mean where did this happen?'
   'At the Town Hall, sir, in the later stages of the debate.'
   I  drew in the breath sharply. More and more I was beginning  to
realize  that the meeting I had missed had been marked by  passions
which recalled the worst excesses of the French Revolution.
   'I  myself,  sir,  narrowly escaped being hit by  a  tomato.  It
whizzed past my ear.'
   'You  shock me profoundly, Seppings. I don't wonder you're  pale
and  trembling.'  And indeed he was, like a badly  set  blancmange.
'What caused all this turmoil?'
   'Mr Winship's speech, sir.'
   This  surprised me. I could readily believe that any  speech  of
Ginger's would be well below the mark set by Demosthenes,  if  that
really was the fellow's name, but surely not so supremely lousy  as
to start his audience throwing eggs and vegetables; and I was about
to  institute further enquiries, when Seppings sidled to the  door,
saying  that he would inform Mr Jeeves of my desire to confer  with
him. And in due season the hour produced the man, as the expression
is.
   'You wished to see me, sir?' he said.
   'You can put it even stronger, Jeeves. I yearned to see you.'
   'Indeed, sir?'
   'Just now I met Ginger in the drive.'
   'Yes, sir, he informed me that he was going there to await  your
return.'
   'He  tells me he is no longer betrothed to Miss Craye, being now
affianced to Miss Glendennon. And when I asked him how this  switch
had come about, he said that you would explain.'
   'I shall be glad to do so, sir. You wish a complete report?'
   'That's right. Omit no detail, however slight.'
   He  was  silent for a space. Marshalling his thoughts, no doubt.
Then he got down to it.
   'The  importance attached by the electorate to the  debate,'  he
began,  'was  very  evident. An audience of considerable  size  had
assembled  in the Town Hall. The Mayor and Corporation were  there,
together  with the flower of Market Snodsbury's aristocracy  and  a
rougher  element in cloth caps and turtleneck sweaters  who  should
never have been admitted.'
   I had to rebuke him at this point.
   'Bit  snobbish,  that,  Jeeves,  what?  You  are  a  little  too
inclined to judge people by their clothes. Turtleneck sweaters  are
royal raiment when they're worn for virtue's sake, and a cloth  cap
may  hide an honest heart. Probably frightfully good chaps, if  one
had got to know them.'
   'I  would  prefer  not  to  know them,  sir.  It  was  they  who
subsequently threw eggs, potatoes, tomatoes and turnips.'
   I had to concede that he had a point there.
   'True,'  I  said.  'I  was forgetting that. All  right,  Jeeves.
Carry on.'
   'The  proceedings opened with a rendering of the national anthem
by the boys and girls of Market Snodsbury element
   ary school.'
   'Pretty ghastly, I imagine?'
   'Somewhat revolting, sir.'
   'And then?'
   'The  Mayor  made a short address, introducing the  contestants,
and Mrs McCorkadale rose to speak. She was wearing a smart coat  in
fine  quality  repp over a long-sleeved frock of  figured  marocain
pleated at the sides and finished at the neck with -'
   'Skip all that, Jeeves.'
   'I  am  sorry,  sir. I thought you wished every detail,  however
slight.'
   'Only when they're ... what's the word?'
   'Pertinent, sir?'
   'That's  right. Take the McCorkadale's outer crust as read.  How
was her speech?'
   'Extremely telling, in spite of a good deal of heckling.'
   'That wouldn't put her off her stroke.'
   'No,  sir.  She  impressed me as being of a singularly  forceful
character.'
   'Me, too.'
   'You have met the lady, sir?'
   'For  a few minutes - which, however, were plenty. She spoke  at
some length?'
   'Yes,  sir. If you would care to read her remarks? I  took  down
both speeches in shorthand.'
   'Later on, perhaps.'
   'At any time that suits you, sir.'
   'And how was the applause? Hearty? Or sporadic?'
   'On  one  side of the hall extremely hearty. The rougher element
appeared to be composed in almost equal parts of her supporters and
those of Mr Winship. They had been seated at opposite sides of  the
auditorium,  no  doubt  by  design.  Her  supporters  cheered,   Mr
Winship's booed.'
   'And when Ginger got up, I suppose her lot booed him?'
   'No  doubt they would have done so, had it not been for the tone
of  his  address. His appearance was greeted with a certain modicum
of  hostility,  but  he had scarcely begun to  speak  when  he  was
rapturously received.'
   'By the opposition?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Strange.'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Can you elucidate?'
   'Yes,  sir. If I might consult my notes for a moment.  Ah,  yes.
Mr  Winship's  opening words were, "Ladies and  gentlemen,  I  come
before  you a changed man." A Voice: "That's good news."  A  second
Voice: "Shut up, you bleeder." A third Voice...'
   'I think we might pass lightly over the Voices, Jeeves.'
   'Very  good, sir. Mr Winship then said, "I should like to  begin
with a word to the gentleman in the turtleneck sweater in that seat
over  there who kept calling my opponent a silly old geezer. If  he
will kindly step on to this platform. I shall be happy to knock his
ugly block off. Mrs McCorkadale is not a silly old geezer." A Voice
.  . . Excuse me, sir, I was forgetting. "Mrs McCorkadale is not  a
silly  old  geezer," Mr Winship said, "but a lady of  the  greatest
intelligence  and  grasp  of  affairs.  I  admire  her   intensely.
Listening  to  her  this  evening has changed  my  political  views
completely. She has converted me to hers, and I propose,  when  the
polls  are opened, to cast my vote for her. I advise all of you  to
do the same. Thank you." He then resumed his seat.'
   'Good Lord, Jeeves!'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'He really said that?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'No wonder his engagement's off.'
   'I must confess it occasioned me no surprise, sir.'
   I  continued  amazed. It seemed incredible  that  Ginger,  whose
long  suit  was  muscle  rather than brain,  should  have  had  the
ingenuity  and  know-how  to think up such  a  scheme  for  freeing
himself from Florence's clutches without forfeiting his standing as
a  fairly preux chevalier. It seemed to reveal him as possessed  of
snakiness  of a high order, and I was just thinking that you  never
can  tell about a fellow's hidden depths, when one of those  sudden
thoughts of mine came popping to the surface.
   'Was this you, Jeeves?'
   'Sir?'
   'Did you put Ginger up to doing it?'
   'It  is conceivable that Mr Winship may have been influenced  by
something  I said, sir. He was very much exercised with  regard  to
his  matrimonial  entanglements  and  he  did  me  the  honour   of
consulting me. It is quite possible that I may have let  fall  some
careless  remark  that turned his thoughts in  the  direction  they
took.'
   'In other words, you told him to go to it?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   I  was silent for a space. I was thinking how jolly it would  be
if  he could dish up something equally effective with regard to  me
and  M.  Bassett.  The thought also occurred to me  that  what  had
happened,  while  excellent for Ginger,  wasn't  so  good  for  his
backers and supporters and the Conservative cause in general.
   I mentioned this.
   'Tough on the fellows who betted on him.'
   'Into each life some rain must fall, sir.'
   'Though  possibly a good thing. A warning to them in  future  to
keep  their  money in the old oak chest and not risk it on  wagers.
May  prove a turning point in their lives. What really saddens  one
is  the  thought  that  Bingley will now clean  up.  He'll  make  a
packet.'
   'He told me this afternoon that he was expecting to do so.'
   'You mean you've seen him?'
   'He came here at about five o'clock, sir.'
   'Stockish, hard and full of rage, I suppose?'
   'On  the  contrary, sir, extremely friendly. He made no allusion
to  the  past. I gave him a cup of tea, and we chatted for  perhaps
half an hour.'
   'Strange.'
   'Yes,  sir.  I  wondered if he might not have  had  an  ulterior
motive in approaching me.'
   'Such as?'
   'I  must  confess I cannot think of one. Unless  he  entertained
some  hope of inducing me to part with the club book, but  that  is
hardly likely. Would there be anything further, sir?'
   'You want to get back to the stricken parlourmaid?'
   'Yes, sir. When you rang, I was about to see what a little  weak
brandy and water would do.'
   I  sped  him  on his errand of mercy and sat down to brood.  You
might  have  supposed that the singular behaviour of Bingley  would
have occupied my thoughts. I mean, when you hear that a chap of his
well-established  crookedness has been acting oddly,  your  natural
impulse  is to say 'Aha!' and wonder what his game is. And  perhaps
for  a  minute or two I did ponder on this. But I had so many other
things  to ponder on that Bingley soon got shoved into the discard.
If  I  remember rightly, it was as I mused on Problem (b), the  one
about  restoring the porringer to L. P. Runkle, and  again  drew  a
blank,  that my reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the  old
ancestor.
   She  was  wearing the unmistakable look of an aunt who has  just
been  having  the time of her life, and this did not  surprise  me.
Hers since she sold the weekly paper she used to run, the one I did
that  piece on What The Well-Dressed Man Will Wear for, has been  a
quiet  sort  of existence, pleasant enough but lacking in  incident
and  excitement.  A really sensational event such as  the  egg-and-
vegetable-throwing get-together she had just been present  at  must
have bucked her up like a week at the seaside.
   Her  greeting could not have been more cordial. An  aunt's  love
oozed out from every syllable.
   'Hullo, you revolting object,' she said. 'So you're back.'
   'Just arrived.'
   'Too   bad  you  had  that  jury  job.  You  missed  a  gripping
experience.'
   'So Jeeves was telling me.'
   'Ginger finally went off his rocker.'
   With  the  inside  information  which  had  been  placed  at  my
disposal I was able to correct this view.
   'It  was  no rocker that he went off, aged relative. His actions
were  motivated  by  the  soundest good sense.  He  wanted  to  get
Florence  out  of  his hair without actually telling  her  to  look
elsewhere for a mate.'
   'Don't be an ass. He loves her.'
   'No longer. He's switched to Magnolia Glendennon.'
   'You mean that secretary of his?'
   'That identical secretary.'
   'How do you know?'
   'He told me so himself.'
   'Well,  I'll  be  blowed. He finally got fed up with  Florence's
bossiness, did he?'
   'Yes,  I think it must have been coming on for some time without
him  knowing  it,  subconsciously  as  Jeeves  would  say.  Meeting
Magnolia brought it to the surface.'
   'She seems a nice girl.'
   'Very nice, according to Ginger.'
   'I must congratulate him.'
   'You'll have to wait a bit. They've gone up to London.'
   'So  have  Spode and Madeline. And Runkle ought  to  be  leaving
soon.  It's  like one of those great race movements of  the  Middle
Ages  I  used  to  read about at school. Well, this  is  wonderful.
Pretty  soon  it'll be safe for Tom to return to the nest.  There's
still  Florence, of course, but I doubt if she will be staying  on.
My  cup  runneth over, young Bertie. I've missed Tom sorely. Home's
not  home without him messing about the place. Why are you  staring
at me like a halibut on a fishmonger's slab?'
   I  had  not been aware that I was conveying this resemblance  to
the  fish  she  mentioned, but my gaze had certainly  been  on  the
intent side, for her opening words had stirred me to my depths.
   'Did  you  say,' I - yes, I suppose, vociferated  would  be  the
word, 'that Spode and Madeline Bassett had gone to London?'
   'Left half an hour ago.'
   'Together?'
   'Yes, in his car.'
   'But Spode told me she had given him the push.'
   'She  did, but everything's all right again. He's not  going  to
give up his title and stand for Parliament. Getting hit in the  eye
with  that  potato changed his plans completely. It made  him  feel
that  if that was the sort of thing you have to go through  to  get
elected  to the House of Commons, he preferred to play it safe  and
stick to the House of Lords. And she, of course, assured that there
was  going  to be no funny business and that she would  become  the
Countess  of Sidcup all right, withdrew her objections to  marrying
him.  Now  you're puffing like Tom when he goes upstairs too  fast.
Why is this?'
   Actually,  I had breathed deeply, not puffed, and certainly  not
like Uncle Tom when he goes upstairs too fast, but I suppose to  an
aunt  there  isn't much difference between a deep-breathing  nephew
and  a  puffing nephew, and anyway I was in no mood to discuss  the
point.
   'You  don't  know who it was who threw that potato, do  you?'  I
asked.
   'The  one  that hit Spode? I don't. It sort of came out  of  the
void. Why?'
   'Because  if  I  knew  who it was, I would send  camels  bearing
apes, ivory and peacocks to his address. He saved me from the  fate
that  is  worse than death. I allude to marriage with  the  Bassett
disaster.'
   'Was she going to marry you?'
   'According to Spode.'
   A look almost of awe came into the ancestor's face.
   'How right you were,' she said, 'when you told me once that  you
had  faith  in  your star. I've lost count of the number  of  times
you've been definitely headed for the altar with apparently no hope
of  evading the firing squad, and every time something has happened
which enabled you to wriggle out of it. It's uncanny.'
   She  would,  I  think,  have gone deeper into  the  matter,  for
already she had begun to pay a marked tribute to my guardian angel,
who,  she said, plainly knew his job from soup to nuts, but at this
moment  Seppings appeared and asked her if she would  have  a  word
with Jeeves, and she went out to have it.
   And  I  had  just  put my feet up on the chaise longue  and  was
starting  to muse ecstatically on the astounding bit of luck  which
had  removed the Bassett menace from my life, when my mood of  what
the  French call bien etre was given the sleeve across the windpipe
by  the  entrance of L. P. Runkle, the mere sight  of  whom,  circs
being what they were, was enough to freeze the blood and make  each
particular  hair  stand  on  end  like  quills  upon  the   fretful
porpentine, as I have heard Jeeves put it.
   I wasn't glad to see him, but he seemed glad to see me.
   'Oh,  there  you are,' he said. 'They told me you  had  skipped.
Very sensible of you to come back. It's never any good going on the
run, because the police are sure to get you sooner or later, and it
makes it all the worse for you if you've done a bolt.'
   With  cold  dignity  I said I had had to  go  up  to  London  on
business.  He  paid  no attention to this. He was  scrutinizing  me
rather  in  the manner of the halibut on the fishmonger's  slab  to
which the ancestor had referred in our recent conversation.
   'The  odd  thing  is,' he said, continuing to scan  me  closely,
'that you haven't a criminal face. It's a silly, fatuous face,  but
not  criminal. You remind me of one of those fellows who do  dances
with the soubrette in musical comedy.'
   Come,  come,  I  said  to  myself, this  is  better.  Spode  had
compared  me  to a member of the ensemble. In the  view  of  L.  P.
Runkle  I was at any rate one of the principals. Moving up  in  the
world.
   'Must  be  a  great help to you in your business.  Lulls  people
into  a  false security. They think there can't be any danger  from
someone  who  looks like you, they're off their  guard,  and  wham!
you've got away with their umbrellas and cameras. No doubt you  owe
all  your successes to this. But you know the old saying about  the
pitcher going too often to the well. This time you're for it.  This
time -'
   He  broke  off, not because he had come to an end  of  his  very
offensive  remarks  but because Florence had  joined  us,  and  her
appearance  immediately claimed his attention.  She  was  far  from
being  dapper. It was plain that she had been in the  forefront  of
the  late  battle, for whereas Ginger had merely  had  egg  in  his
hair',  she  was, as it were, festooned in egg. She  had  evidently
been  right in the centre of the barrage. In all political meetings
of  the stormier kind these things are largely a matter of luck.  A
escapes unscathed, B becomes a human omelette.
   A  more tactful man than L. P. Runkle would have affected not to
notice  this, but I don't suppose it ever occurred to him to affect
not to notice things.
   'Hullo!' he said. 'You've got egg all over you.'
   Florence replied rather acidly that she was aware of this.
   'Better change your dress.'
   'I  intend  to. Would you mind, Mr Runkle, if I had a word  with
Mr Wooster alone?'
   I  think Runkle was on the point of saying 'What about?', but on
catching  her eye he had prudent second thoughts. He lumbered  off,
and she proceeded to have . the word she had mentioned.
   She  kept  it  crisp. None of the 'Er' stuff which  was  such  a
feature  of  Ginger's  oratory. Even Demosthenes  would  have  been
slower  in  coming  to the nub, though he, of  course,  would  been
handicapped by having to speak in Greek.
   'I'm glad I found you, Bertie.'
   A civil 'Oh, ah' was all the reply I could think of.
   'I  have been thinking things over, and I have made up my  mind.
Harold Winship is a mere lout, and I am having nothing more  to  do
with him. I see now that I made a great mistake when I broke off my
engagement  to  you.  You have your faults,  but  they  are  easily
corrected.  I have decided to marry you, and I think  we  shall  be
very happy.'
   'But  not  immediately,'  said L. P.  Runkle,  rejoining  us.  I
described  him a moment ago as lumbering off, but a man  like  that
never lumbers far if there is a chance of hearing what somebody has
to  say  to  somebody else in private. 'He'll first have  to  do  a
longish stretch in prison.'
   His  reappearance  had  caused  Florence  to  stiffen.  She  now
stiffened  further, her aspect similar to that of the old  ancestor
when about to go into her grande dame act.
   'Mr Runkle!'
   'I'm here.'
   'I thought you had gone.'
   'I hadn't.'
   'How dare you listen to a private conversation!'
   'They're  the only things worth listening to. I owe much  of  my
large fortune to listening to private conversations.'
   'What is this nonsense about prison?'
   'Wooster  won't  find  it nonsense. He has  sneaked  a  valuable
silver porringer of mine, a thing I paid nine thousand pounds  for,
and  I  am  expecting  a man any minute now who  will  produce  the
evidence necessary to convict. It's an open and shut case.'
   'Is  this  true, Bertie?' said Florence with that touch  of  the
prosecuting District Attorney I remembered so vividly,  and  all  I
could say was 'Well... I... er ... well.'
   With  a  guardian  angel  like mine  working  overtime,  it  was
enough. She delivered judgment instantaneously.
   'I shall not marry you,' she said, and went off haughtily to de-
egg herself.
   'Very sensible of her,' said L. P. Runkle. 'The right course  to
take.  A  man like you, bound to be in and out of prison,  couldn't
possibly  be  a good husband. How is a wife to make her  plans  ...
dinner  parties, holidays, Christmas treats for the  children,  the
hundred and one things a woman has to think of ... when she doesn't
know from one day to another whether the head of the house won't be
telephoning  to say he's been arrested again and no  bail  allowed?
Yes?'  said  Runkle, and I saw that Seppings had  appeared  in  the
offing.
   'A Mr Bingley has called to see you, sir.'
   'Ah, yes, I was expecting him.'
   He  popped  off,  and  scarcely had he  ceased  to  pollute  the
atmosphere when the old ancestor blew in.
   She  was  plainly  agitated, the resemblance to  a  cat  on  hot
bricks being very marked. She panted a good deal, and her face  had
taken  on  the rather pretty mauve colour it always does  when  the
soul is not at rest.
   'Bertie,'  she  boomed, 'when you went away yesterday,  did  you
leave the door of your bedroom unlocked?'
   'Of course I didn't.'
   'Well, Jeeves says it's open now.'
   'It can't be.'
   'It  is.  He  thinks Runkle or some minion of his has  skeleton-
keyed the lock. Don't yell like that, curse you.'
   I  might have retorted by asking her what she expected me to  do
when  I  suddenly  saw all, but I was too busy  seeing  all  to  be
diverted into arguments about my voice production. The awful  truth
had hit me as squarely between the eyes as if it had been an egg or
a turnip hurled by one of the Market Snodsbury electorate.
   'Bingley!' I ejaculated.
   'And don't sing.'
   'I   was   not   singing,  I  was  ejaculating  "Bingley!",   or
vociferating "Bingley!" if you prefer it. You remember Bingley, the
fellow who stole the club book, the chap you were going to take  by
the  throat and shake like a rat. Aged relative, we are up  against
it in no uncertain manner. Bingley is the Runkle minion you alluded
to.
   Jeeves  says  he dropped in to tea this afternoon. What  simpler
for  him, having had his cuppa, than to nip upstairs and search  my
room?  He  used to be Runkle's personal attendant, so Runkle  would
turn  to  him naturally when he needed an accomplice. Yes, I  don't
wonder  you're  perturbed,' I added, for she  had  set  the  welkin
ringing  with  one of those pungent monosyllables so often  on  her
lips  in  the  old  Quorn-and-Pytchley days.  'And  I'll  tell  you
something else which will remove your last doubts, if you had  any.
He's  just turned up again, and Runkle has gone out to confer  with
him.  What do you suppose they're conferring about? Give you  three
guesses.'
   The  Quorn trains its daughters well. So does the Pytchley.  She
did not swoon, as many an aunt would have done in her place, merely
repeated  the  monosyllable in a slightly lower tone - meditatively
as  it were, like some aristocrat of the French Revolution on being
informed that the tumbril waited.
   'This  tears  it,' she said, the very words such  an  aristocrat
would have used, though speaking of course in French. 'I'll have to
confess that I took his foul porringer.'
   'No, no, you mustn't do that.'
   'What  else  is  there  for me to do? I  can't  let  you  go  to
chokey.'
   'I don't mind.'
   'I do. I may have my faults -'
   'No, no.'
   'Yes,  yes.  I  am  quite aware that there are blemishes  in  my
spiritual  make-up  which  ought  to  have  been  corrected  at  my
finishing  school, but I draw the line at letting my  nephew  do  a
stretch  for  pinching  porringers which I pinched  myself.  That's
final.'
   I  saw what she meant, of course. Noblesse oblige, and all that.
And  very  creditable, too. But I had a powerful  argument  to  put
forward, and I lost no time in putting it.
   'But  wait, old ancestor. There's another aspect of the  matter.
If  it's ... what's the expression? ... if it's bruited abroad that
I'm  merely  an  as-pure-as-the-driven-snow innocent bystander,  my
engagement to Florence will be on again.'
   'Your  what to who?' It should have been 'whom', but  I  let  it
go. 'Are you telling me that you and Florence ...'
   'She  proposed  to me ten minutes ago and I had  to  accept  her
because one's either preux or one isn't, and then Runkle butted  in
and  pointed  out to her the disadvantages of marrying someone  who
would  shortly be sewing mailbags in Wormwood Scrubs, and she broke
it off.'
   The  relative  seemed stunned, as if she had come  on  something
abstruse in the Observer crossword puzzle.
   'What  is it about you that fascinates the girls? First Madeline
Bassett,  now Florence, and dozens of others in the past. You  must
have a magnetic personality.'
   'That  would  seem  to be the explanation,' I  agreed.  'Anyway,
there  it is. One whisper that there isn't a stain on my character,
and  I  haven't a hope. The Bishop will be notified, the  assistant
clergy  and  bridesmaids  rounded  up,  the  organist  will   start
practising "The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden", and the limp figure
you  see  drooping  at the altar rails will be Bertram  Wilberforce
Wooster.  I implore you, old blood relation, to be silent  and  let
the  law take its course. If it's a choice between serving  a  life
sentence  under Florence and sewing a mailbag or two, give  me  the
mailbags every time.'
   She nodded understandingly, and said she saw what I meant.
   'I thought you would.'
   'There  is much in what you say.' She mused awhile. 'As a matter
of  fact,  though, I doubt if it will get as far as  mailbags.  I'm
pretty  sure what's going to happen. Runkle will offer to drop  the
whole thing if I let him have Anatole.'
   'Good God!'
   'You  may well say "Good God!" You know what  Anatole means  to
Tom.'
   She  did  not  need to labour the point. Uncle  Tom  combines  a
passionate love of food with a singular difficulty in digesting it,
and Anatole is the only chef yet discovered who can fill him up  to
the Plimsoll mark without causing the worst sort of upheaval in his
gastric juices.
   'But would Anatole go to Runkle?'
   'He'd go to anyone if the price was right.'
   'None of that faithful old retainer stuff ?'
   'None.  His outlook is entirely practical. That's the French  in
him.'
   'I  wonder  you've been able to keep him so long. He  must  have
had other offers.'
   'I've  always  topped  them. If it was simply  another  case  of
outbidding the opposition, I wouldn't be worrying.'
   'But when Uncle Tom comes back and finds Anatole conspicuous  by
his absence, won't the home be a bit in the melting pot?'
   'I don't like to think of it.'
   But she did think of it. So did I. And we were both thinking  of
it,  when  our  musings were interrupted by the  return  of  L.  P.
Runkle, who waddled in and fixed us with a bulging eye.
   I  suppose  if  he had been slenderer, one might have  described
him  as  a  figure of doom, but even though so badly in need  of  a
reducing  diet he was near enough to being one to make my  interior
organs  do a quick shuffle-off-to-Buffalo as if some muscular  hand
had  stirred them up with an egg-whisk. And when he began to speak,
he  was certainly impressive. These fellows who have built up large
commercial  empires  are  always what  I  have  heard  Jeeves  call
orotund.   They   get   that  way  from  dominating   meetings   of
shareholders.  Having  started off with 'Oh,  there  you  are,  Mrs
Travers',  he went into his speech, and it was about as orotund  as
anything  that  has ever come my way. It ran, as nearly  as  I  can
remember, as follows:
   'I   was   hoping  to  see  you,  Mrs  Travers.  In  a  previous
conversation,  you will recall that I stated uncompromisingly  that
your  nephew Mr Wooster had purloined the silver porringer which  I
brought  here  to  sell to your husband, whose  absence  I  greatly
deplore.  That  this  was  no mere suspicion  has  now  been  fully
substantiated. I have a witness who is prepared to testify on  oath
in court that he found it in the top drawer of the chest of drawers
in  Mr  Wooster's bedroom, unskilfully concealed behind  socks  and
handkerchiefs.'
   Here  if  it had been a shareholders meeting, he would  probably
have been reminded of an amusing story which may be new to some  of
you present this afternoon, but I suppose in a private conversation
he saw no need for it. He continued, still orotund.
   'The  moment I report this to the police and acquaint them  with
the   evidence  at  my  disposal,  Wooster's  arrest  will   follow
automatically, and a sharp sentence will be the inevitable result.'
   It  was an unpleasant way of putting it, but I was compelled  to
admit  that  it covered the facts like a bedspread. Dust  off  that
cell, Wormwood Scrubs, I was saying to myself, I shall soon be with
you.
   'Such is the position. But I am not a vindictive man, I have  no
wish, if it can be avoided, to give pain to a hostess who has  been
to such trouble to make my visit enjoyable.'
   He  paused  for  a moment to lick his lips, and I  knew  he  was
tasting  again  those master-dishes of Anatole's.  And  it  was  on
Anatole that he now touched.
   'While   staying  here  as  your  guest,  I  have  been  greatly
impressed by the skill and artistry of your chef. I will agree  not
to  press  charges against Mr Wooster provided you consent  to  let
this gifted man leave your employment and enter mine.'
   A  snort  rang  through the room, one of the ancestor's  finest.
You might almost have called it orotund. Following it with the word
'Ha!', she turned to me with a spacious wave of the hand.
   'Didn't  I  tell you, Bertie? Wasn't I right? Didn't I  say  the
child of unmarried parents would blackmail me?'
   A  fellow  with  the  excess weight of L.  P.  Runkle  finds  it
difficult  to  stiffen all over when offended, but he stiffened  as
far  as he could. It was as if some shareholder at the meeting  had
said the wrong thing.
   'Blackmail?'
   'That's what I said.'
   'It is not blackmail. It is nothing of the sort.'
   'He   is  quite  right,  madam,'  said  Jeeves,  appearing  from
nowhere.  I'll  swear he hadn't been there half  a  second  before.
'Blackmail  implies  the extortion of money. Mr  Runkle  is  merely
extorting a cook.'
   'Exactly.   A   purely  business  transaction,'   said   Runkle,
obviously considering him a Daniel come to judgment.
   'It  would  be very different,' said Jeeves, 'were  somebody  to
try to obtain money from him by threatening to reveal that while in
America he served a prison sentence for bribing a juror in  a  case
in which he was involved.'
   A  cry  broke from L. P. Runkle's lips, somewhat similar to  the
one  the cat Gus had uttered when the bag of cat food fell on  him.
He  tottered and his face would, I think, have turned ashy white if
his  blood pressure hadn't been the sort that makes it pretty tough
going  for a face to turn ashy white. The best it could manage  was
something Florence would have called sallow.
   The  ancestor,  on the other hand, had revived like  a  floweret
beneath  the watering-can. Not that she looks like a floweret,  but
you know what I mean.
   'What!' she ejaculated.
   'Yes,  madam,  the  details are all in the  club  book.  Bingley
recorded  them very fully. His views were very far to the  left  at
the  time,  and  I think he derived considerable satisfaction  from
penning an expose of a gentleman of Mr Runkle's wealth. It is  also
with  manifest gusto that he relates how Mr Runkle, in grave danger
of  a  further  prison sentence in connection with  a  real  estate
fraud,  forfeited  the money he had deposited as security  for  his
appearance in court and disappeared.'
   'Jumped his bail, you mean?'
   'Precisely, madam. He escaped to Canada in a false beard.'
   The  ancestor  drew  a deep breath. Her eyes were  glowing  more
like  twin stars than anything. Had not her dancing days been  long
past,  I think she might have gone into a brisk buck-and-wing.  The
lower limbs twitched just as if she were planning to.
   'Well,'  she  said,  'a  nice bit of news  that'll  be  for  the
fellows who dole out knighthoods. "Runkle?" they'll say. "That  old
lag?  If we made a man like that a knight, we'd never hear the last
of  it. The boys on the Opposition benches would kid the pants  off
us."  We  were discussing, Runkle, yesterday that little matter  of
the  money you ought to have given Tuppy Glossop years ago. If  you
will  step  into  my  boudoir, we will go  into  it  again  at  our
leisure.'

        17
   The  following day dawned bright and clear, at least  I  suppose
it  did, but I wasn't awake at the time. When eventually I came  to
life,  the sun was shining, all Nature appeared to be smiling,  and
Jeeves  was  bringing in the breakfast tray. Gus the cat,  who  had
been  getting  his  eight hours on an adjacent  armchair,  stirred,
opened an eye and did a sitting high jump on to the bed, eager  not
to miss anything that was going.
   'Good morning, Jeeves.'
   'Good morning, sir.'
   'Weather looks all right.'
   'Extremely clement, sir.'
   'The  snail's on the wing and the lark's on the thorn, or rather
the  other  way round, as I've sometimes heard you say.  Are  those
kippers I smell?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Detach  a portion for Gus, will you. He will probably  like  to
take it from the soap dish, reserving the saucer for milk.'
   'Very good, sir.'
   I  sat  up and eased the spine into the pillows. I was conscious
of a profound peace.
   'Jeeves,' I said, 'I am conscious of a profound peace. I  wonder
if  you remember me telling you a few days ago that I was having  a
sharp attack of euphoria?'
   'Yes,  sir.  I  recall your words clearly.  You  said  you  were
sitting on top of the world with a rainbow round your shoulder.'
   'Similar  conditions prevail this morning. I thought  everything
went off very well last night, didn't you?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Thanks to you.'
   'It is very kind of you to say so, sir.'
   'I  take it the ancestor came to a satisfactory arrangement with
Runkle?'
   'Most  satisfactory,  sir. Madam has just informed  me  that  Mr
Runkle was entirely co-operative.'
   'So  Tuppy  and  Angela will be joined in holy wedlock,  as  the
expression is?'
   'Almost immediately, I understood from Madam.'
   'And  even  now  Ginger  and  M.  Glendennon  are  probably   in
conference with the registrar of their choice.'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'And  Spode has got a black eye, which one hopes is painful.  In
short,  on  every  side one sees happy endings popping  up  out  of
traps.  A pity that Bingley is flourishing like a green what-is-it,
but one can't have everything.'
   'No,  sir. Medio de fonte leporum surgit amari aliquid in  ipsis
floribus angat.'
   'I don't think I quite followed you there, Jeeves.'
   'I  was  quoting  from the Roman poet Lucretius,  sir.  A  rough
translation  would be "From the heart of this fountain of  delights
wells up some bitter taste to choke them even among the flowers".'
   'Who did you say wrote that?'
   'Lucretius, sir, 99-55 bc.'
   'Gloomy sort of bird.'
   'His outlook was perhaps somewhat sombre, sir.'
   'Still,  apart from Bingley, one might describe joy as  reigning
supreme.'
   'A very colourful phrase, sir.'
   'Not  my  own.  I  read it somewhere. Yes, I think  we  may  say
everything's  more  or less oojah-cum-spiff.  With  one  exception,
Jeeves,'  I said, a graver note coming into my voice as I gave  Gus
his second helping of kipper. 'There remains a fly in the ointment,
a familiar saying meaning ... well, I don't quite know what it does
mean. It seems to imply a state of affairs at which one is supposed
to  look  askance,  but why, I ask myself, shouldn't  flies  be  in
ointment? What harm do they do? And who wants ointment, anyway? But
you get what I'm driving at. The Junior Ganymede club book is s