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        P.G.Wodehouse. Jeeves in the offing, 1960

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     Published: Penguin Books, 1963
     OCR: Rojer, 2002
     (more PGW titles to come, http://rojer.bdo.ru/PGW/) ? http://rojer.bdo.ru/PGW/
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        1
     Jeeves placed the sizzling eggs and b. on the breakfast table,  and
Reginald ('Kipper') Herring and I, licking the lips, squared our elbows
and  got down to it. A lifelong buddy of mine, this Herring, linked  to
me   by  what  are  called  imperishable  memories.  Years  ago,   when
striplings,  he  and I had done a stretch together  at  Malvern  House,
Bramley-on-Sea,  the preparatory school conducted  by  that  prince  of
stinkers,  Aubrey Upjohn MA, and had frequently stood side by  side  in
the  Upjohn  study awaiting the receipt of six of the juiciest  from  a
cane of the type that biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder,
as  the fellow said. So we were, you might say, rather like a couple of
old  sweats  who had fought shoulder to shoulder on Crispin's  Day,  if
I've got the name right.
     The  plat du jour having gone down the hatch, accompanied  by  some
fluid  ounces  of strengthening coffee, I was about to  reach  for  the
marmalade, when I heard the telephone tootling out in the hall and rose
to attend to it.
     'Bertram  Wooster's residence, 'I said, having connected  with  the
instrument.  'Wooster in person at this end. Oh hullo, ' I  added,  for
the   voice  that  boomed  over  the  wire  was  that  of  Mrs   Thomas
Portarlington  Travers  of  Brinkley  Court,  Market  Snodsbury,   near
Droitwich  -  or,  putting it another way, my good and  deserving  Aunt
Dahlia.  'A  very hearty pip-pip to you, old ancestor, ' I  said,  well
pleased, for she is a woman with whom it is always a privilege to  chew
the fat.
     'And  a rousing toodle-oo to you, you young blot on the landscape,'
she  replied cordially. 'I'm surprised to find you up as early as this.
Or have you just got in from a night on the tiles?'
     I hastened to rebut this slur.
     'Certainly not. Nothing of that description whatsoever.  I've  been
upping  with  the lark this last week, to keep Kipper Herring  company.
He's  staying  with me till he can get into his new flat. You  remember
old  Kipper?  I brought him down to Brinkley one summer.  Chap  with  a
cauliflower ear.'
     'I know who you mean. Looks like Jack Dempsey.'
     'That's right. Far more, indeed, than Jack Dempsey does. He's on the
staff of the Thursday Review, a periodical of which you may or may  not
be  a  reader, and has to clock in at the office at daybreak. No doubt,
when  I apprise him of your call, he will send you his love, for I know
he  holds  you in high esteem. The perfect hostess, he often  describes
you  as. Well, it's nice to hear your voice again, old flesh-and-blood.
How's everything down Market Snodsbury way?'
     'Oh, we're jogging along. But I'm not speaking from Brinkley. I'm in
London.'
     'Till when?'
     'Driving back this afternoon.'
     'I'll give you lunch.'
     'Sorry,  can't  manage  it. I'm putting on  the  nosebag  with  Sir
Roderick Glossop.'
     This surprised me. The eminent brain specialist to whom she alluded
was  a  man  I would not have cared to lunch with myself, our relations
having  been on the stiff side since the night at Lady Wickham's  place
in  Hertfordshire  when, acting on the advice of my hostess's  daughter
Roberta, I had punctured his hot-water bottle with a darning needle  in
the  small hours of the morning. Quite unintentional, of course. I  had
planned to puncture the h-w-b of his nephew Tuppy Glossop, with whom  I
had  a  feud on, and unknown to me they had changed rooms, fust one  of
those unfortunate misunderstandings.
     'What on earth are you doing that for?'
     'Why shouldn't I? He's paying.'
     I saw her point - a penny saved is a penny earned and all that sort
of  thing  - but I continued surprised. It amazed me that Aunt  Dahlia,
presumably  a  free  agent, should have selected this  very  formidable
loony-doctor to chew the mid-day chop with. However, one of  the  first
lessons  life  teaches  us is that aunts will be  aunts,  so  I  merely
shrugged a couple of shoulders.
     'Well, it's up to you, of course, but it seems a rash act. Did  you
come to London just to revel with Glossop?'
     'No, I'm here to collect my new butler and take him home with me.'
     'New butler? What's become of Seppings?'
     'He's gone.'
     I clicked the tongue. I was very fond of the major-domo in question,
having enjoyed many a port in his pantry, and this news saddened me.
     'No,  really?' I said. 'Too bad. I thought he looked a little frail
when  I  last saw him. Well, that's how it goes. All flesh is grass,  I
often say.'
     'To Bognor Regis, for his holiday.'
     I unclicked the tongue.
     'Oh, I see. That puts a different complexion on the matter. Odd how
all  these  pillars of the home seem to be dashing away on toots  these
days.  It's  like  what  Jeeves was telling me  about  the  great  race
movements  of the Middle Ages. Jeeves starts his holiday this  morning.
He's off to Herne Bay for the shrimping, and I'm feeling like that bird
in  the  poem  who lost his pet gazelle or whatever the animal  was.  I
don't know what I'm going to do without him.'
     'I'll tell you what you're going to do. Have you a clean shirt?'
     'Several.'
     'And a toothbrush?'
     'Two, both of the finest quality.'
     'Then pack them. You're coming to Brinkley tomorrow.'
     The  gloom  which always envelops Bertram Wooster like a  fog  when
Jeeves  is  about  to  take his annual vacation lightened  perceptibly.
There  are  few  things I find more agreeable than a  sojourn  at  Aunt
Dahlia's  rural lair. Picturesque scenery, gravel soil, main  drainage,
company's own water and, above all, the superb French cheffing  of  her
French chef Anatole, God's gift to the gastric juices. A full hand,  as
you might put it.
     'What  an admirable suggestion,' I said. 'You solve all my problems
and  bring the blue bird out of a hat. Rely on me. You will observe  me
bowling up in the Wooster sports model tomorrow afternoon with my  hair
in  a  braid  and  a song on my lips. My presence will,  I  feel  sure,
stimulate Anatole to new heights of endeavour. Got anybody else staying
at the old snake pit?'
     'Five inmates in all.'
     'Five?'  I  resumed my tongue-clicking. 'Golly! Uncle Tom  must  be
frothing  at  the  mouth a bit,' I said, for I knew  the  old  buster's
distaste  for guests in the home. Even a single weekender is  sometimes
enough to make him drain the bitter cup.
     'Tom's not there. He's gone to Harrogate with Cream.'
     'You mean lumbago.'
     'I  don't  mean  lumbago. I mean Cream. Homer Cream.  Big  American
tycoon,  who is visiting these shores. He suffers from ulcers, and  his
medicine man has ordered him to take the waters at Harrogate.  Tom  has
gone with him to hold his hand and listen to him of an evening while he
tells him how filthy the stuff tastes.'
     'Antagonistic.'
     'What?'
     'I mean altruistic. You are probably not familiar with the word, but
it's one I've heard Jeeves use. It's what you say of a fellow who gives
selfless service, not counting the cost.'
     'Selfless service, my foot! Tom's in the middle of a very important
business deal with Cream. If it goes through, he'll make a packet  free
of income tax. So he's sucking up to him like a Hollywood Yes-man.'
     I  gave an intelligent nod, though this of course was wasted on her
because  she  couldn't see me. I could readily understand my  uncle-by-
marriage's mental processes. T. Portarlington Travers is a man who  has
accumulated the pieces of eight in sackfuls, but he is always more than
willing  to  shove a bit extra away behind the brick in the  fireplace,
feeling  - and rightly -that every little bit added to what you've  got
makes just a little bit more. And if there's one thing that's right  up
his  street,  it is not paying income tax. He grudges every  penny  the
Government nicks him for.
     'That is why, when kissing me goodbye, he urged me with tears in his
eyes  to  lush  Mrs  Cream and her son Willie up and  treat  them  like
royalty. So they're at Brinkley, dug into the woodwork.'
     'Willie, did you say?'
     'Short for Wilbert.'
     I mused. Willie Cream. The name seemed familiar somehow. I seemed to
have heard it or seen it in the papers somewhere. But it eluded me.
     'Adela  Cream writes mystery stories. Are you a fan  of  hers?  No?
Well,  start  boning  up  on them, directly you arrive,  because  every
little helps. I've bought a complete set. They're very good.'
     'I shall be delighted to run an eye over her material,' I said, for
I  am  what they call an a-something of novels of suspense. Aficionado,
would that be it? 'I can always do with another corpse or two. We  have
established,  then, that among the inmates are this Mrs Cream  and  her
son Wilbert. Who are the other three?'
     'Well, there's Lady Wickham's daughter Roberta.'
     I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.
     'What! Bobbie Wickham? Oh, my gosh!'
     'Why the agitation? Do you know her?'
     'You bet I know her.'
     'I  begin  to  see  Is she one of the gaggle of girls  you've  been
engaged to?'
     'Not  actually,  no.  We were never engaged. But  that  was  merely
because she wouldn't meet me half-way.'
     'Turned you down, did she?'
     'Yes, thank goodness '
     'Why thank goodness? She's a one-girl beauty chorus '
     'She doesn't try the eyes, I agree.'
     'A pippin, if ever there was one.'
     'Very true, but is being a pippin everything? What price the soul?'
     'Isn't her soul like mother makes?'
     'Far from it. Much below par. What I could tell you ... But no, let
it go Painful subj.'
     I had been about to mention fifty-seven or so of the reasons why the
prudent  operator, if he valued his peace of mind, deemed  it  best  to
stay  well  away  from  the  red-headed menace  under  advisement,  but
realized  that  at  a  moment when I was wanting to  get  back  to  the
marmalade it would occupy too much time. It will be enough to say  that
I  had long since come out of the ether and was fully cognizant of  the
fact  that  in declining to fall in with my suggestion that  we  should
start rounding up clergymen and bridesmaids, the beasel had rendered me
a signal service, and I'll tell you why.
     Aunt  Dahlia,  describing this young blister as a  one-girl  beauty
chorus,  had called her shots perfectly correctly. Her outer crust  was
indeed  of a nature to cause those beholding it to rock back  on  their
heels  with a startled whistle But while equipped with eyes  like  twin
stars,  hair  ruddier than the cherry, oomph, espieglene  and  all  the
fixings,  B.  Wickham had also the disposition and general  outlook  on
life of a ticking bomb In her society you always had the uneasy feeling
that something was likely to go off at any moment with a pop. You never
knew  what she was going to do next or into what murky depths  of  soup
she would carelessly plunge you.
     'Miss  Wickham, sir,' Jeeves had once said to me warningly  at  the
time  when  the  fever  was at its height, 'lacks  seriousness  She  is
volatile and frivolous. I would always hesitate to recommend as a  life
partner a young lady with quite such a vivid shade of red hair.'
     His judgment was sound I have already mentioned how with her subtle
wiles  this  girl  had induced me to sneak into Sir Roderick  Glossop's
sleeping  apartment  and  apply the darning  needle  to  his  hot-water
bottle,  and  that was comparatively mild going for  her.  In  a  word,
Roberta,  daughter  of  the  late Sir  Cuthbert  and  Lady  Wickham  of
Skeldings Hall, Herts, was pure dynamite and better kept at a  distance
by  all  those who aimed at leading the peaceful life The  prospect  of
being  immured  with her in the same house, with all the  facilities  a
country-house affords an enterprising girl for landing her nearest  and
dearest in the mulligatawny, made me singularly dubious about the shape
of things to come.
     And  I  was  tottering  under  this  blow  when  the  old  relative
administered another, and it was a haymaker.
     'And there's Aubrey Upjohn and his stepdaughter Phyllis Mills,' she
said That's the lot What's the matter with you? Got asthma?'
     I  took  her to be alluding to the sharp gasp which had escaped  my
lips, and I must confess that it had come out not unlike the last words
of a dying duck. But I felt perfectly justified in gasping A weaker man
would  have howled like a banshee. There floated into my mind something
Kipper Herring had once said to me. 'You know, Bertie,' he had said, in
philosophical mood, 'we have much to be thankful for in  this  life  of
ours,  you  and  I  However rough the going, there  is  one  sustaining
thought  to  which  we can hold. The storm clouds  may  lower  and  the
horizon grow dark, we may get a nail in our shoe and be caught  in  the
rain  without an umbrella, we may come down to breakfast and find  that
someone  else  has  taken  the brown egg, but  at  least  we  have  the
consolation  of  knowing  that we shall never see  Aubrey  Gawd-help-us
Upjohn  again. Always remember this in times of despondency,' he  said,
and I always had. And now here the bounder was, bobbing up right in  my
midst.  Enough  to  make the stoutest-hearted go  into  his  dying-duck
routine.
     'Aubrey Upjohn?' I quavered. 'You mean my Aubrey Upjohn?'
     'That's the one. Soon after you made your escape from his chain gang
he  married  Jane  Mills, a friend of mine with a  colossal  amount  of
money.  She  died,  leaving a daughter. I'm the  daughter's  godmother.
Upjohn's retired now and going in for politics. The hot tip is that the
boys  in  the  back  room  are going to run  him  as  the  Conservative
candidate  in  the  Market Snodsbury division at the next  by-election.
What a thrill it'll be for you, meeting him again. Or does the prospect
scare you?'
     'Certainly not. We Woosters are intrepid. But what on earth did you
invite him to Brinkley for?'
     'I didn't. I only wanted Phyllis, but he came along, too.'
     'You should have bunged him out.'
     'I hadn't the heart to.'
     'Weak, very weak.'
     'Besides,  I needed him in my business. He's going to  present  the
prizes  at Market Snodsbury Grammar School. We've been caught short  as
usual,  and somebody has got to make a speech on ideals and  the  great
world  outside to those blasted boys, so he fits in nicely.  I  believe
he's  a very fine speaker. His only trouble is that he's stymied unless
he  has his speech with him and can read it. Calls it referring to  his
notes. Phyllis told me that. She types the stuff for him.'
     'A  thoroughly low trick,' I said severely. 'Even I, who have never
soared  above the Yeoman's Wedding Song at a village concert,  wouldn't
have  the  crust  to  face my public unless I'd taken  the  trouble  to
memorize the words, though actually with the Yeoman's Wedding  Song  it
is  possible to get by quite comfortably by keeping singing "Ding dong,
ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along". In short...'
     I  would have spoken further, but at this point, after urging me to
put a sock in it, and giving me a kindly word of warning not to step on
any banana skins, she rang off.



        2
     I  came  away  from the telephone on what practically  amounted  to
leaden  feet. Here, I was feeling, was a nice bit of box fruit.  Bobbie
Wickham, with her tendency to stir things up and with each new  day  to
discover some new way of staggering civilization, would by herself have
been bad enough. Add Aubrey Upjohn, and the mixture became too rich.  I
don't  know  if Kipper, when I rejoined him, noticed that my  brow  was
sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, as I have heard Jeeves put
it.  Probably not, for he was tucking into toast and marmalade  at  the
moment,  but  it  was. As had happened so often  in  the  past,  I  was
conscious of an impending doom. Exactly what form this would take I was
of  course unable to say - it might be one thing or it might be another
-  but a voice seemed to whisper to me that somehow at some not distant
date Bertram was slated to get it in the gizzard.
     'That was Aunt Dahlia, Kipper,' I said.
     'Bless  her jolly old heart,' he responded. 'One of the very  best,
and  you  can  quote me as saying so. I shall never forget those  happy
days at Brinkley, and shall be glad at any time that suits her to cadge
another invitation. Is she up in London?'
     'Till this afternoon.'
     'We fill her to the brim with rich foods, of course?'
     'No,  she's  got  a  lunch date. She's browsing with  Sir  Roderick
Glossop, the loony-doctor. You don't know him, do you?'
     'Only from hearing you speak of him. A tough egg, I gather.'
     'One of the toughest.'
     'He was the chap, wasn't he, who found the twenty-four cats in your
bedroom?'
     'Twenty-three,' I corrected. I like to get things right. 'They were
not  my  cats. They had been deposited there by my Cousins  Claude  and
Eustace.  But  I  found them difficult to explain. He's  a  rather  bad
listener. I hope I shan't find him at Brinkley, too.'
     'Are you going to Brinkley?'
     'Tomorrow afternoon.'
     'You'll enjoy that.'
     'Well, shall I? The point is a very moot one.'
     'You're crazy. Think of Anatole. Those dinners of his! Is the  name
of  the  Peri  who stood disconsolate at the gate of Eden  familiar  to
you?'
     'I've heard Jeeves mention her.'
     'Well, that's how I feel when I remember Anatole's dinners. When  I
reflect that every night he's dishing them up and I'm not there, I come
within a very little of breaking down. What gives you the idea that you
won't enjoy yourself? Brinkley Court's an earthly Paradise.'
     'In  many  respects,  yes, but life there at  the  moment  has  its
drawbacks.  There's  far too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-
and-only-man-is-vile  stuff buzzing around for my  taste.  Who  do  you
think is staying at the old dosshouse? Aubrey Upjohn.'
     It  was  plain  that  I had shaken him. His eyes  widened,  and  an
astonished piece of toast fell from his grasp.
     'Old Upjohn? You're kidding.'
     'No, he's there. Himself, not a picture. And it seems only yesterday
that  you  were buoying me up by telling me I'd never have to  see  him
again. The storm clouds may lower, you said, if you recollect...'
     'But how does he come to be at Brinkley?'
     'Precisely  what  I  asked  the  aged  relative,  and  she  had  an
explanation that seems to cover the facts. Apparently after we took our
eye off him he married a friend of hers, one Jane Mills, and acquired a
stepdaughter,  Phyllis  Mills,  whose godmother  Aunt  Dahlia  is.  The
ancestor invited the Mills girl to Brinkley, and Upjohn came along  for
the ride.'
     'I see. I don't wonder you're trembling like a leaf.'
     'Not like a leaf, exactly, but... yes, I think you might describe me
as trembling. One remembers that fishy eye of his.'
     'And the wide, bare upper lip. It won't be pleasant having to  gaze
at those across the dinner table. Still, you'll like Phyllis.'
     'Do you know her?'
     'We  met  out in Switzerland last Christmas. Slap her on the  back,
will  you, and give her my regards. Nice girl, though goofy. She  never
told me she was related to Upjohn.'
     'She would naturally keep a thing like that dark.'
     'Yes, one sees that. Just as one would have tried to keep it dark if
one had been mixed up in any way with Palmer the poisoner. What ghastly
garbage  that  was  he  used to fling at us when we  were  serving  our
sentence  at  Malvern House. Remember the sausages on Sunday?  And  the
boiled mutton with caper sauce?'
     'And  the margarine. Recalling this last, it's going to be a strain
having  to  sit  and watch him getting outside pounds of  best  country
butter.  Oh,  Jeeves,' I said, as he shimmered in to clear  the  table,
'you  never went to a preparatory school on the south coast of England,
did you?'
     'No, sir, I was privately educated.'
     'Ah, then you wouldn't understand. Mr Herring and I were discussing
our  former  prep-school beak, Aubrey Upjohn, MA. By the  way,  Kipper,
Aunt  Dahlia  was  telling me something about him which  I  never  knew
before and which ought to expose him to the odium of all thinking  men.
You  remember those powerful end-of-term addresses he used to  make  to
us?  Well,  he couldn't have made them if he hadn't had the  stuff  all
typed out in his grasp, so that he could read it. Without his notes, as
he  calls them, he's a spent force. Revolting, that, Jeeves, don't  you
think?'
     'Many orators are, I believe, similarly handicapped, sir.'
     'Too tolerant, Jeeves, far too tolerant. You must guard against this
lax outlook. However, the reason I mention Upjohn to you is that he has
come  back into my life, or will be so coming in about two ticks.  He's
staying at Brinkley, and I shall be going there tomorrow. That was Aunt
Dahlia  on  the phone just now, and she demands my presence.  Will  you
pack a few necessaries in a suitcase or so?'
     'Very good, sir.'
     'When are you leaving on your Herne Bay jaunt?'
     'I  was  thinking of taking a train this morning, sir, but  if  you
would prefer that I remained till tomorrow -'
     'No, no, perfectly all right. Start as soon as you like. What's the
joke?'  I  asked,  as the door closed behind him, for I  observed  that
Kipper  was chuckling softly. Not an easy thing to do, of course,  when
your mouth's full of toast and marmalade, but he was doing it.
     'I was thinking of Upjohn,' he said.
     I  was amazed. It seemed incredible to me that anyone who had  done
time  at  Malvern  House,  Bramley-on-Sea,  could  chuckle,  softly  or
otherwise,  when letting the mind dwell on that outstanding menace.  It
was like laughing lightly while contemplating one of those horrors from
outer  space  which are so much with us at the moment  on  the  motion-
picture screen.
     'I envy you, Bertie,' he went on, continuing to chuckle. 'You have a
wonderful  treat in store. You are going to be present at the breakfast
table  when  Upjohn opens his copy of this week's Thursday  Review  and
starts  to  skim  through  the pages devoted  to  comments  on  current
literature. I should explain that among the books that recently arrived
at  the  office  was  a  slim  volume from his  pen  dealing  with  the
Preparatory  School  and  giving  it  an  enthusiastic  build-up.   The
formative years which we spent there, he said, were the happiest of our
life.'
     'Gadzooks!'
     'He  little knew that his brain child would be given to one of  the
old  lags of Malvern House to review. I'll tell you something,  Bertie,
that every young man ought to know. Never be a stinker, because if  you
are,  though you may flourish for a time like a green bay tree,  sooner
or later retribution will overtake you. I need scarcely tell you that I
ripped the stuffing out of the beastly little brochure. The thought  of
those  sausages  on  Sunday filled me with  the  righteous  fury  of  a
Juvenal.'
     'Of a who?'
     'Nobody you know. Before your time. I seemed inspired. Normally,  I
suppose,  a book like that would get me a line and a half in the  Other
Recent  Publications  column,  but I  gave  it  six  hundred  words  of
impassioned prose. How extraordinarily fortunate you are  to  be  in  a
position to watch his face as he reads them.'
     'How do you know he'll read them?'
     'He's   a  subscriber.  There  was  a  letter  from  him  on   the
correspondence page a week or two ago, in which he specifically  stated
that he had been one for years.'
     'Did you sign the thing?'
     'No. Ye Ed is not keen on underlings advertising their names.'
     'And it was really hot stuff?'
     'Red  hot.  So  eye him closely at the breakfast  table.  Mark  his
reaction. I confidently expect the blush of shame and remorse to mantle
his cheek.'
     'The only catch is that 1 don't come down to breakfast when I'm  at
Brinkley. Still, I suppose I could make a special effort.'
     'Do so. You will find it well worth while,' said Kipper and shortly
afterwards popped off to resume the earning of the weekly envelope.
     He  had been gone about twenty minutes when Jeeves came in,  bowler
hat  in  hand, to say goodbye. A solemn moment, taxing our self-control
to  the utmost. However, we both kept the upper lip stiff, and after we
had  kidded back and forth for a while he started to withdraw.  He  had
reached  the  door when it suddenly occurred to me that he  might  have
inside  information about this Wilbert Cream of whom  Aunt  Dahlia  had
spoken. I have generally found that he knows everything about everyone.
     'Oh, Jeeves,' I said. 'Half a jiffy.'
     'Sir?'
     'Something  I want to ask you. It seems that among my fellow-guests
at  Brinkley will be a Mrs Homer Cream, wife of an American big  butter
and  egg  man, and her son Wilbert, commonly known as Willie,  and  the
name Willie Cream seemed somehow to touch a chord. Rightly or wrongly I
associate  it  with  trips  we have taken to  New  York,  but  in  what
connection I haven't the vaguest. Does it ring a bell with you?'
     'Why  yes,  sir.  References to the gentleman are frequent  in  the
tabloid newspapers of New York, notably in the column conducted  by  Mr
Walter  Winchell.  He is generally alluded to under  the  sobriquet  of
Broadway Willie.'
     'Of course! It all comes back to me. He's what they call a playboy.'
     'Precisely, sir. Notorious for his escapades.'
     'Yes, I've got him placed now. He's the fellow who likes to let off
stink  bombs  in  night clubs, which rather falls  under  the  head  of
carrying  coals  to Newcastle and seldom cashes a cheque  at  his  bank
without producing a gat and saying, "This is a stick-up."'
     'And...  No,  sir, I regret that it has for the moment  escaped  my
memory.'
     'What has?'
     'Some  other  little something, sir, that I was told  regarding  Mr
Cream. Should I recall it, I will communicate with you.'
     'Yes, do. One wants the complete picture. Oh, gosh!'
     'Sir?'
     'Nothing,  Jeeves. Just a thought has floated  into  my  mind.  All
right, push off, or you'll miss your train. Good luck to your shrimping
net.'
     I'll tell you what the thought was that had floated. I have already
indicated  my  qualms at the prospect of being cooped up  in  the  same
house  with Bobbie Wickham and Aubrey Upjohn, for who could  tell  what
the harvest might be? If in addition to these two heavies I was also to
be cheek by jowl with a New York playboy apparently afflicted with bats
in  the belfry, it began to look as if this visit would prove too  much
for  Bertram's frail strength, and for an instant I toyed with the idea
of sending a telegram of regret and oiling out.
     Then I remembered Anatole's cooking and was strong again. Nobody who
has  once  tasted them would wantonly deprive himself of that  wizard's
smoked  offerings.  Whatever spiritual agonies  I  might  be  about  to
undergo  at Brinkley Court, Market Snodsbury, near Droitwich, residence
there  would at least put me several Supremes de fois gras au champagne
and Mignonettes de Poulet Petit Duc ahead of the game. Nevertheless, it
would  be  paltering with the truth to say that I was at my ease  as  I
thought  of what lay before me in darkest Worcestershire, and the  hand
that lit the after-breakfast gasper shook quite a bit.
     At this moment of nervous tension the telephone suddenly gave tongue
again, causing me to skip like the high hills, as if the Last Trump had
sounded. I went to the instrument all of a twitter.
     Some species of butler appeared to be at the other end.
     'Mr Wooster?'
     'On the spot.'
     'Good  morning,  sir. Her ladyship wishes to  speak  to  you.  Lady
Wickham, sir. Here is Mr Wooster, m'lady.'
     And Bobbie's mother came on the air.
     I should have mentioned, by the way, that during the above exchange
of  ideas  with  the  butler I had been aware of  a  distant  sound  of
sobbing, like background music, and it now became apparent that it  was
from  the  larynx of the relict of the late Sir Cuthbert  that  it  was
proceeding.  There was a short intermission before she  got  the  vocal
cords working, and while I was waiting for her to start the dialogue  I
found  myself  wrestling with two problems that presented themselves  -
the  first, What on earth is this woman ringing me up for?, the second,
Having got the number, why does she sob?
     It  was Problem A that puzzled me particularly, for ever since that
hot-water-bottle episode my relations with this parent of Bobbie's  had
been  on  the  strained side. It was, indeed, an open  secret  that  my
standing  with  her was practically that of a rat of the underworld.  I
had  had this from Bobbie, whose impersonation of her mother discussing
me  with sympathetic cronies had been exceptionally vivid, and  I  must
confess that I wasn't altogether surprised. No hostess, I mean to  say,
extending her hospitality to a friend of her daughter's, likes to  have
the  young  visitor  going about the place puncturing  people's  water-
bottles  and  leaving at three in the morning without stopping  to  say
good-bye. Yes, I could see her side of the thing all right, and I found
it  extraordinary that she should be seeking me out on the telephone in
this  fashion.  Feeling as she did so allergic to Bertram,  I  wouldn't
have thought she'd have phoned me with a ten-foot pole.
     However, there beyond a question she was.
     'Mr Wooster?'
     'Oh, hullo, Lady Wickham.'
     'Are you there?'
     I  put  her  straight on this point, and she took time out  to  sob
again.  She  then  spoke  in  a hoarse, throaty  voice,  like  Tallulah
Bankhead after swallowing a fish bone the wrong way.
     'Is this awful news true?'
     'Eh?'
     'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!'
     'I don't quite follow.'
     'In this morning's Times.'
     I'm  pretty shrewd, and it seemed to me, reading between the lines,
that there must have been something in the issue of The Times published
that  morning that for some reason had upset her, though why she should
have  chosen  me  to  tell her troubles to was a mystery  not  easy  to
fathom.  I  was about to institute inquiries in the hope of spearing  a
solution, when in addition to sobbing she started laughing in a hyaena-
esque  manner,  making it clear to my trained ear that she  was  having
hysterics. And before I could speak there was a dull thud suggestive of
some  solid  body  falling to earth, I knew not  where,  and  when  the
dialogue was resumed, I found that the butler had put himself on as  an
understudy.
     'Mr Wooster?'
     'Still here.'
     'I regret to say that her ladyship has fainted.'
     'It was she I heard going bump?'
     'Precisely, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Good-bye.'
     He  replaced the receiver and went about his domestic duties, these
no  doubt  including the loosening of the stricken woman's corsets  and
burning  feathers under her nose, leaving me to chew on  the  situation
without further bulletins from the front.
     It  seemed to me that the thing to do here was to get hold  of  The
Times and see what it had to offer in the way of enlightenment. It's  a
paper  I  don't  often  look at, preferring for breakfast  reading  the
Mirror  and  the  Mail, but Jeeves takes it in and I have  occasionally
borrowed his copy with a view to having a shot at the crossword puzzle.
It  struck me as a possibility that he might have left today's issue in
the kitchen, and so it proved. I came back with it, lowered myself into
a  chair,  lit another cigarette and proceeded to cast an  eye  on  its
contents.
     At a cursory glance what might be called swoon material appeared to
be  totally absent from its columns. The Duchess of something had  been
opening a bazaar at Wimbledon in aid of a deserving charity, there  was
an  article  on salmon fishing on the Wye, and a Cabinet  Minister  had
made a speech about conditions in the cotton industry, but I could  see
nothing  in these items to induce a loss of consciousness. Nor  did  it
seem  probable that a woman would have passed out cold on reading  that
Herbert Robinson (26) of Grove Road, Ponder's End, had been jugged  for
stealing a pair of green and yellow checked trousers. I turned  to  the
cricket  news.  Had  some friend of hers failed  to  score  in  one  of
yesterday's county matches owing to a doubtful l.b.w. decision?
     It  was  just after I had run the eye down the Births and Marriages
that  I happened to look at the Engagements, and a moment later  I  was
shooting  out of my chair as if a spike had come through its  cushioned
seat and penetrated the fleshy parts.
     'Jeeves!' I yelled, and then remembered that he had long since gone
with the wind. A bitter thought, for if ever there was an occasion when
his advice and counsel were of the essence, this occ. was that occ. The
best  I  could do, tackling it solo, was to utter a hollow g. and  bury
the  face in the hands. And though I seem to hear my public tut-tutting
in  disapproval  of  such neurotic behaviour, I think  the  verdict  of
history will be that the paragraph on which my gaze had rested was more
than enough to excuse a spot of face-burying.
     It ran as follows:
        FORTHCOMING MARRIAGES
     The  engagement  is  announced between Bertram Wilberforce  Wooster  of
Berkeley  Mansions, W.1, and Roberta, daughter of the late Sir Cuthbert
Wickham and Lady Wickham of Skeldings Hall, Herts.


        3
     Well, as I was saying, I had several times when under the influence
of  her  oomph taken up with Roberta Wickham the idea of such a merger,
but - and here is the point I would stress - I could have sworn that on
each  occasion  she had declined to co-operate, and that  in  a  manner
which left no room for doubt regarding her views. I mean to say, when a
girl, offered a good man's heart, laughs like a bursting paper bag  and
tells him not to be a silly ass, the good man is entitled, I think,  to
assume  that  the whole thing is off. In the light of this announcement
in  The  Times  I  could only suppose that on one of  these  occasions,
unnoticed  by me possibly because my attention had wandered,  she  must
have  drooped  her  eyes and come through with a  murmured  'Right-ho.'
Though when this could have happened, I hadn't the foggiest.
     It was, accordingly, as you will readily imagine, a Bertram Wooster
with  dark circles under his eyes and a brain threatening to come apart
at  the seams who braked the sports model on the following afternoon at
the front door of Brinkley Court - a Bertram, in a word, who was asking
himself  what the dickens all this was about. Non-plussed more or  less
sums  it up. It seemed to me that my first move must be to get hold  of
my  fiancee  and see if she had anything to contribute in  the  way  of
clarifying the situation.
     As  is  generally the case at country-houses on a fine  day,  there
seemed  to be nobody around. In due season the gang would assemble  for
tea  on the lawn, but at the moment I could spot no friendly native  to
tell  me  where  I might find Bobbie. I proceeded, therefore,  to  roam
hither  and  thither about the grounds and messuages  in  the  hope  of
locating her, wishing that I had a couple of bloodhounds to aid  me  in
my  task,  for the Travers demesne is a spacious one and  there  was  a
considerable  amount of sunshine above, though none,  I  need  scarcely
mention, in my heart.
     And  I was tooling along a mossy path with the brow a bit wet  with
honest  sweat,  when  there came to my ears the unmistakable  sound  of
somebody reading poetry to someone, and the next moment I found  myself
confronting a mixed twosome who had dropped anchor beneath a shady tree
in what is known as a leafy glade.
     They  had scarcely swum into my ken when the welkin started ringing
like billy-o. This was due to the barking of a small dachshund, who now
advanced on me with the apparent intention of seeing the colour  of  my
insides.  Milder  counsels,  however, prevailed,  and  on  arriving  at
journey's  end he merely rose like a rocket and licked me on the  chin,
seeming  to convey the impression that in Bertram Wooster he had  found
just  what  the  doctor ordered. I have noticed  before  in  dogs  this
tendency  to form a beautiful friendship immediately on getting  within
sniffing  distance  of  me.  Something  to  do,  no  doubt,  with   the
characteristic Wooster smell, which for some reason seems to  speak  to
their deeps. I tickled him behind the right ear and scratched the  base
of  his  spine  for a moment or two: then, these civilities  concluded,
switched my attention to the poetry group.
     It was the male half of the sketch who had been doing the reading, a
willowy  bird  of about the tonnage and general aspect of  David  Niven
with  ginger  hair and a small moustache. As he was unquestionably  not
Aubrey  Upjohn,  I  assumed that this must  be  Willie  Cream,  and  it
surprised  me  a  bit  to find him dishing out verse.  One  would  have
expected  a New York playboy, widely publicized as one of the lads,  to
confine himself to prose, and dirty prose, at that. But no doubt  these
playboys have their softer moments.
     His companion was a well-stacked young featherweight, who could  be
none  other than the Phyllis Mills of whom Kipper had spoken. Nice  but
goofy,  Kipper  had said, and a glance told me that he was  right.  One
learns,  as one goes through life, to spot goofiness in the  other  sex
with  an  unerring  eye, and this exhibit had a sort  of  mild,  Soul's
Awakening kind of expression which made it abundantly clear that, while
not  a  super-goof like some of the female goofs I'd met, she was quite
goofy  enough to be going on with. Her whole aspect was that of a  girl
who at the drop of a hat would start talking baby talk.
     This  she  now  proceeded to do, asking me if I didn't  think  that
Poppet,  the  dachshund, was a sweet little doggie. I  assented  rather
austerely, for I prefer the shorter form more generally used,  and  she
said she supposed I was Mrs Travers's nephew Bertie Wooster, which,  as
we knew, was substantially the case.
     'I heard you were expected today. I'm Phyllis Mills,' she said, and
I said I had divined as much and that Kipper had told me to slap her on
the back and give her his best, and she said, 'Oh, Reggie Herring? He's
a  sweetie-pie,  isn't he?' and I agreed that Kipper  was  one  of  the
sweetie-pies  and  not the worst of them, and she said,  'Yes,  he's  a
lambkin.'
     This  duologue had, of course, left Wilbert Cream a bit out of  it,
just  painted  on the backdrop as you might say, and for some  moments,
knitting  his brow, plucking at his moustache, shuffling the  feet  and
allowing the limbs to twitch, he had been giving abundant evidence that
in  his  opinion three was a crowd and that what the leafy glade needed
to  make it all that a leafy glade should be was a complete absence  of
Woosters. Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, he said:
     'Are you looking for someone?'
     I replied that I was looking for Bobbie Wickham.
     'I'd go on looking, if I were you. Bound to find her somewhere.'
     'Bobbie?' said Phyllis Mills. 'She's down at the lake, fishing.'
     'Then what you do,' said Wilbert Cream, brightening, 'is follow this
path,  bend right, sharp left, bend right again and there you are.  You
can't miss. Start at once, is my advice.'
     I  must  say I felt that, related as I was by ties of blood,  in  a
manner  of  speaking, to this leafy glade, it was  a  bit  thick  being
practically bounced from it by a mere visitor, but Aunt Dahlia had made
it  clear that the Cream family must not be thwarted or put upon in any
way, so I did as he suggested, picking up the feet without anything  in
the  nature  of back chat. As I receded, I could hear in  my  rear  the
poetry breaking out again.
     The  lake at Brinkley calls itself a lake, but when all the returns
are  in it's really more a sort of young pond. Big enough to mess about
on  in a punt, though, and for the use of those wishing to punt a boat-
house has been provided with a small pier or landing stage attached  to
it.  On  this, rod in hand, Bobbie was seated, and it was with  me  the
work of an instant to race up and breathe down the back of her neck.
     'Hey!' I said.
     'Hey  to  you with knobs on,' she replied. 'Oh, hullo, Bertie.  You
here?'
     'You never spoke a truer word. If you can spare me a moment of your
valuable time, young Roberta -'
     'Half a second, I think I've got a bite. No, false alarm. What were
you saying?'
     'I was saying -'
     'Oh, by the way, I heard from Mother this morning.'
     'I heard from her yesterday morning.'
     'I  was  kind  of expecting you would. You saw that  thing  in  The
Times?'
     'With the naked eye.'
     'Puzzled you for a moment, perhaps?'
     'For several moments.'
     'Well,  I'll  tell you all about that. The idea came  to  me  in  a
flash.'
     'You mean it was you who shoved that communique in the journal?'
     'Of course.'
     'Why?' I said, getting right down to it in my direct way.
     I thought I had her there, but no.
     'I was paving the way for Reggie.'
     I passed a hand over my fevered brow.
     'Something seems to have gone wrong with my usually keen hearing,' I
said.  'It sounds just as if you were saying "I was paving the way  for
Reggie."'
     'I  was. I was making his path straight. Softening up Mother on his
behalf.'
     I passed another hand over my f.b.
     'Now you seem to be saying "Softening up Mother on his behalf."'
     'That's  what I am saying. It's perfectly simple. I'll  put  it  in
words of one syllable for you. I love Reggie. Reggie loves me.'
     'Reggie,' of course, is two syllables, but I let it go.
     'Reggie who?'
     'Reggie Herring.'
     I was amazed.
     'You mean old Kipper?'
     'I wish you wouldn't call him Kipper.'
     'I  always  have. Dash it,' I said with some warmth, 'if  a  fellow
shows up at a private school on the south coast of England with a  name
like  Herring, what else do you expect his playmates to call  him?  But
how do you mean you love him and he loves you? You've never met him.'
     'Of  course  I've met him. We were in the same hotel in Switzerland
last  Christmas. I taught him to ski,' she said, a dreamy  look  coming
into  her  twin starlikes. 'I shall never forget the day I  helped  him
unscramble  himself after he had taken a toss on the beginners'  slope.
He  had  both  legs wrapped round his neck. I think that is  when  love
dawned. My heart melted as I sorted him out.'
     'You didn't laugh?'
     'Of course I didn't laugh. I was all sympathy and understanding.'
     For  the first time the thing began to seem plausible to me. Bobbie
is a fun-loving girl, and the memory of her reaction when in the garden
at  Skeldings  I had once stepped on the teeth of a rake  and  had  the
handle  jump up and hit me on the tip of the nose was still  laid  away
among  my  souvenirs. She had been convulsed with mirth. If, then,  she
had  refrained  from guffawing when confronted with  the  spectacle  of
Reginald  Herring with both legs wrapped round his neck,  her  emotions
must have been very deeply involved.
     'Well,  all right,' I said. 'I accept your statement that  you  and
Kipper are that way. But why, that being so, did you blazon it forth to
the  world, if blazoning forth is the expression I want, that you  were
engaged to me?'
     'I told you. It was to soften Mother up.'
     'Which sounded to me like delirium straight from the sick bed.'
     'You don't get the subtle strategy?'
     'Not by several parasangs.'
     'Well, you know how you stand with Mother.'
     'Our relations are a bit distant.'
     'She  shudders  at the mention of your name. So I  thought  if  she
thought I was going to marry you and then found I wasn't, she'd  be  so
thankful for the merciful escape I'd had that she'd be ready to  accept
anyone  as a son-in-law, even someone like Reggie, who, though a wonder
man,  hasn't got his name in Debrett and isn't any too hot financially.
Mother's idea of a mate for me has always been a well-to-do millionaire
or a Duke with a large private income. Now do you follow?'
     'Oh  yes,  I follow all right. You've been doing what Jeeves  does,
studying  the  psychology of the individual. But  do  you  think  it'll
work?'
     'Bound to. Let's take a parallel case. Suppose your Aunt Dahlia read
in the paper one morning that you were going to be shot at sunrise.'
     'I couldn't be. I'm never up so early.'
     'But  suppose she did? She'd be pretty worked up about it, wouldn't
she?'
     'Extremely, one imagines, for she loves me dearly. I'm  not  saying
her  manner  toward  me  doesn't verge at  times  on  the  brusque.  In
childhood days she would occasionally clump me on the side of the head,
and since I have grown to riper years she has more than once begged  me
to  tie  a brick around my neck and go and drown myself in the pond  in
the  kitchen garden. Nevertheless, she loves her Bertram,  and  if  she
heard I was to be shot at sunrise, she would, as you say, be as sore as
a gum-boil. But why? What's that got to do with it?'
     'Well, suppose she then found out it was all a mistake and it wasn't
you but somebody else who was to face the firing squad. That would make
her happy, wouldn't it?'
     'One can picture her dancing all over the place on the tips of  her
toes.'
     'Exactly.  She'd be so all over you that nothing you did  would  be
wrong  in  her eyes. Whatever you wanted to do would be all right  with
her. Go to it, she would say. And that's how Mother will feel when  she
learns that I'm not marrying you after all. She'll be so relieved.'
     I agreed that the relief would, of course, be stupendous.
     'But you'll be giving her the inside facts in a day or two?' I said,
for  I  was  anxious to have assurance on this point.  A  man  with  an
Engagement notice in The Times hanging over him cannot but feel uneasy.
     'Well, call it a week or two. No sense in rushing things.'
     'You want me to sink in?'
     'That's the idea.'
     'And meanwhile what's the drill? Do I kiss you a good deal from time
to time?'
     'No, you don't.'
     'Right-ho. I just want to know where I stand.'
     'An occasional passionate glance will be ample.'
     'It  shall be attended to. Well, I'm delighted about you and Kipper
or,  as you would prefer to say, Reggie. There's nobody I'd rather  see
you centre-aisle-ing with.'
     'It's very sporting of you to take it like this.'
     'Don't give it a thought.'
     'I'm awfully fond of you, Bertie.'
     'Me, too, of you.'
     'But I can't marry everybody, can I?'
     'I wouldn't even try. Well, now that we've got all that straight, I
suppose I'd better be going and saying "Come aboard" to Aunt Dahlia.'
     'What's the time?'
     'Close on five.'
     'I  must run like a hare. I'm supposed to be presiding at  the  tea
table.'
     'You? Why you?'
     'Your  aunt's  not  here. She found a telegram when  she  got  back
yesterday saying that her son Bonzo was sick of a fever at his  school,
and  dashed off to be with him. She asked me to deputy-hostess for  her
till  her  return, but I shan't be able to for the next few days.  I've
got to dash back to Mother. Ever since she saw that thing in The Times,
she's  been wiring me every hour on the hour to come home for a  round-
table conference. What's a guffin?'
     'I don't know. Why?'
     'That's  what  she  calls you in her latest 'gram.  Quote.  "Cannot
understand  how  you can be contemplating marrying that guffin."  Close
quote.  I suppose it's more of less the same as a gaby, which  was  how
you figured in one of her earlier communications.'
     'That sounds promising.'
     'Yes, I think the thing's in the bag. After you, Reggie will come to
her  like rare and refreshing fruit. She'll lay down the red carpet for
him.'
     And  with a brief 'Whoopee!' she shot off in the direction  of  the
house  at forty or so m.p.h. I followed more slowly, for she had  given
me much food for thought, and I was musing.
     Strange,  I  was feeling, this strong pro-Kipper sentiment  in  the
Wickham  bosom. I mean, consider the facts. What with that  espieglerie
of  hers, which was tops, she had been pretty extensively wooed in  one
quarter and another for years, and no business had resulted, so that it
was  generally assumed that only something extra special in the way  of
suitors  would meet her specifications and that whoever eventually  got
his  nose  under  the wire would be a king among men  and  pretty  warm
stuff. And she had gone and signed up with Kipper Herring.
     Mind you, I'm not saying a word against old Kipper. The salt of the
earth.  But  nobody could have called him a knock-out  in  the  way  of
looks. Having gone in a lot for boxing from his earliest years, he  had
the  cauliflower  ear  of which I had spoken  to  Aunt  Dahlia  and  in
addition to this a nose which some hidden hand had knocked slightly out
of  the  straight. He would, in short, have been an unsafe  entrant  to
have backed in a beauty contest, even if the only other competitors had
been Boris Karloff, King Kong and Oofy Prosser of the Drones.
     But  then,  of course, one had to remind oneself that looks  aren't
everything. A cauliflower ear can hide a heart of gold, as in  Kipper's
case  it  did,  his being about as gold as they come. His  brain,  too,
might  have  helped to do the trick. You can't hold down  an  editorial
post  on  an  important London weekly paper without being  fairly  well
fixed  with the little grey cells, and girls admire that sort of thing.
And one had to remember that most of the bimbos to whom Roberta Wickham
had  been  giving the bird through the years had been of  the  huntin',
shootin' and fishin' type, fellows who had more or less shot their bolt
after  saying  'Eh, what?' and slapping their leg with a hunting  crop.
Kipper must have come as a nice change.
     Still, the whole thing provided, as I say, food for thought, and  I
was  in  what  is  called a reverie as I made my way to  the  house,  a
reverie  so profound that no turf accountant would have given  any  but
the  shortest  odds against my sooner or later bumping into  something.
And  this, to cut a long story s., I did. It might have been a tree,  a
bush  or  a  rustic  seat. In actual fact it turned out  to  be  Aubrey
Upjohn.  I came on him round a comer and rammed him squarely  before  I
could  put the brakes on. I clutched him round the neck and he clutched
me  about  the  middle, and for some moments we tottered  to  and  fro,
linked in a close embrace. Then, the mists clearing from my eyes, I saw
who it was that I had been treading the measure with.
     Seeing him steadily and seeing him whole, as I have heard Jeeves put
it,  I was immediately struck by the change that had taken place in his
appearance  since  those get-togethers in his study at  Malvern  House,
Bramley-on-Sea, when with a sinking heart I had watched him  reach  for
the  whangee  and start limbering up the shoulder muscles  with  a  few
trial  swings.  At  that  period of our acquaintance  he  had  been  an
upstanding  old gentleman about eight feet six in height  with  burning
eyes,  foam-flecked lips and flame coming out of both nostrils. He  had
now  shrunk  to a modest five foot seven or there-abouts, and  I  could
have felled him with a single blow.
     Not that I did, of course. But I regarded him without a trace of the
old trepidation. It seemed incredible that I could ever have considered
this human shrimp a danger to pedestrians and traffic.
     I  think this was partly due to the fact that at some point in  the
fifteen years since our last meeting he had grown a moustache.  In  the
Malvern  House  epoch what had always struck a chill into  the  plastic
mind had been his wide, bare upper lip, a most unpleasant spectacle  to
behold,  especially  when  twitching.  I  wouldn't  say  the  moustache
softened his face, but being of the walrus or soup-strainer type it hid
some of it, which was all to the good. The up-shot was that instead  of
quailing,  as  I  had  expected to do when we  met,  I  was  suave  and
debonair, possibly a little too much so.
     'Oh, hullo, Upjohn!' I said. 'Yoo-hoo!'
     'Who you?' he responded, making it sound like a reverse echo.
     'Wooster is the name.'
     'Oh,  Wooster?'  he  said, as if he had been  hoping  it  would  be
something  else, and one could understand his feelings, of  course.  No
doubt  he,  like  me, had been buoying himself up for  years  with  the
thought  that  we should never meet again and that, whatever  brickbats
life  might have in store for him, he had at least got Bertram  out  of
his system. A nasty jar it must have been for the poor bloke having  me
suddenly pop up from a trap like this.
     'Long time since we met,' I said.
     'Yes,' he agreed in a hollow voice, and it was so plain that he was
wishing it had been longer that conversation flagged, and there  wasn't
much in the way of feasts of reason and flows of the soul as we covered
the hundred yards to the lawn where the tea table awaited us. I think I
may  have  said 'Nice day, what?' and he may have grunted, but  nothing
more.
     Only Bobbie was present when we arrived at the trough. Wilbert  and
Phyllis were presumably still in the leafy glade, and Mrs Cream, Bobbie
said,  worked in her room every afternoon on her new spine-freezer  and
seldom  knocked  off  for  a cuppa. We seated ourselves  and  had  just
started sipping, when the butler came out of the house bearing  a  bowl
of fruit and hove to beside the table with it.
     Well,  when I say 'butler', I use the term loosely. He was  dressed
like  a  butler  and he behaved like a butler, but in the  deepest  and
truest sense of the word he was not a butler.
     Reading from left to right, he was Sir Roderick Glossop.


        4
     At the Drones Club and other places I am accustomed to frequent you
will  often  hear  comment on Bertram Wooster's  self-control  or  sang
froid,  as it's sometimes called, and it is generally agreed that  this
is  considerable. In the eyes of many people, I suppose, I seem one  of
those men of chilled steel you read about, and I'm not saying I'm  not.
But  it is possible to find a chink in my armour, and this can be  done
by  suddenly  springing eminent loony-doctors on me  in  the  guise  of
butlers.
     It  was  out of the q. that I could have been mistaken in supposing
that  it was Sir Roderick Glossop who, having delivered the fruit,  was
now  ambling  back to the house. There could not be two men  with  that
vast bald head and those bushy eyebrows, and it would be deceiving  the
customers  to  say that I remained unshaken. The effect the  apparition
had  on me was to make me start violently, and we all know what happens
when  you start violently while holding a full cup of tea. The contents
of mine flew through the air and came to rest on the trousers of Aubrey
Upjohn,  MA,  moistening  them to no little extent.  Indeed,  it  would
scarcely  be  distorting the facts to say that he was now not  so  much
wearing trousers as wearing tea.
     I could see the unfortunate man felt his position deeply, and I was
surprised  that he contented himself with a mere 'Ouch!' But I  suppose
these  solid citizens have to learn to curb the tongue. Creates  a  bad
impression, I mean, if they start blinding and stiffing as  those  more
happily placed would be.
     But  words are not always needed. In the look he now shot at  me  I
seemed  to read a hundred unspoken expletives. It was the sort of  look
the  bucko  mate  of  a tramp steamer would have given  an  able-bodied
seaman who for one reason or another had incurred his displeasure.
     'I  see  you  have not changed since you were with  me  at  Malvern
House,'  he  said in an extremely nasty voice, dabbing at the  trousers
with  a  handkerchief. 'Bungling Wooster we used to call him,' he  went
on, addressing his remarks to Bobbie and evidently trying to enlist her
sympathy.  'He could not perform the simplest action such as holding  a
cup  without spreading ruin and disaster on all sides. It was an  axiom
at  Malvern  House that if there was a chair in any room  in  which  he
happened  to  be, Wooster would trip over it. The child,'  said  Aubrey
Upjohn, 'is the father of the man.'
     'Frightfully sorry,' I said.
     'Too  late  to be sorry now. A new pair of trousers ruined.  It  is
doubtful  if  anything can remove the stain of tea from white  flannel.
Still, one must hope for the best.'
     Whether  I was right or wrong at this point in patting him  on  the
shoulder and saying 'That's the spirit!' I find it difficult to decide.
Wrong,  probably, for it did not seem to soothe. He gave me another  of
those looks and strode off, smelling strongly of tea.
     'Shall  I  tell you something, Bertie?' said Bobbie, following  him
with  a  thoughtful eye. 'That walking tour Upjohn was going to  invite
you to take with him is off. You will get no Christmas present from him
this  year,  and  don't  expect him to come and  tuck  you  up  in  bed
tonight.'
     I upset the milk jug with an imperious wave of the hand.
     'Never mind about Upjohn and Christmas presents and walking  tours.
What is Pop Glossop doing here as the butler?'
     'Ah! I thought you might be going to ask that. I was meaning to tell
you some time.'
     'Tell me now.'
     'Well, it was his idea.'
     I eyed her sternly. Bertram Wooster has no objection to listening to
drivel,  but it must not be pure babble from the padded cell,  as  this
appeared to be.
     'His idea?'
     'Yes.'
     'Are you asking me to believe that Sir Roderick Glossop got up  one
morning,  gazed  at himself in the mirror, thought  he  was  looking  a
little  pale  and said to himself, "I need a change. I think  I'll  try
being a butler for awhile"?'
     'No, not that, but... I don't know where to begin.'
     'Begin at the beginning. Come on now, young B. Wickham, smack  into
it,' I said, and took a piece of cake in a marked manner.
     The austerity of my tone seemed to touch a nerve and kindle the fire
that  always slept in this vermilion-headed menace to the common  weal,
for  she  frowned a displeased frown and told me for heaven's  sake  to
stop goggling like a dead halibut.
     'I  have every right to goggle like a dead halibut,' I said coldly,
'and  I  shall  continue to do so as long as I see fit. I  am  under  a
considerable nervous s. As always seems to happen when you are mixed up
in  the  doings,  life has become one damn thing after another,  and  I
think  I  am  justified  in  demanding an  explanation.  I  await  your
statement.'
     'Well, let me marshal my thoughts.'
     She did so, and after a brief intermission, during which I finished
my piece of cake, proceeded.
     'I'd  better  begin  by telling you about Upjohn,  because  it  all
started  through him. You see, he's egging Phyllis on to marry  Wilbert
Cream.'
     'When you say egging -'
     'I  mean  egging. And when a man like that eggs, something  has  to
give,  especially when the girl's a pill like Phyllis, who always  does
what Daddy tells her.'
     'No will of her own?'
     'Not  a smidgeon. To give you an instance, a couple of days ago  he
took  her  to Birmingham to see the repertory company's performance  of
Chekhov's Seagull, because he thought it would be educational. I'd like
to  catch  anyone trying to make me see Chekhov's Seagull, but  Phyllis
just bowed her head and said, "Yes, Daddy." Didn't even attempt to  put
up a fight. That'll show you how much of a will of her own she's got.'
     It  did indeed. Her story impressed me profoundly. I knew Chekhov's
Seagull.  My  Aunt  Agatha had once made me take  her  son  Thos  to  a
performance of it at the Old Vic, and what with the strain of trying to
follow  the  cock-eyed goings-on of characters called Zarietchnaya  and
Medvienko  and  having to be constantly on the alert  to  prevent  Thos
making  a  sneak  for  the great open spaces,  my  suffering  had  been
intense. I needed no further evidence to tell me that Phyllis Mills was
a girl whose motto would always be 'Daddy knows best'. Wilbert had only
got  to  propose  and she would sign on the dotted line because  Upjohn
wished it.
     'Your aunt's worried sick about it.'
     'She doesn't approve?'
     'Of course she doesn't approve. You must have heard of Willie Cream,
going over to New York so much.'
     'Why yes, news of his escapades has reached me. He's a playboy.'
     'Your aunt thinks he's a screwball.'
     'Many  playboys  are,  I  believe. Well, that  being  so,  one  can
understand why she doesn't want those wedding bells to ring out.  But,'
I  said, putting my finger on the res in my unerring way, 'that doesn't
explain where Pop Glossop comes in.'
     'Yes, it does. She got him here to observe Wilbert.'
     I found myself fogged.
     'Cock an eye at him, you mean? Drink him in, as it were? What good's
that going to do?'
     She snorted impatiently.
     'Observe  in  the  technical  sense.  You  know  how  these  brain
specialists  work. They watch the subject closely. They engage  him  in
conversation. They apply subtle tests. And sooner or later -'
     'I begin to see. Sooner or later he lets fall an incautious word to
the  effect that he thinks he's a poached egg, and then they've got him
where they want him.'
     'Well, he does something which tips them off. Your aunt was moaning
to  me  about  the  situation, and I suddenly had this  inspiration  of
bringing Glossop here. You know how I get sudden inspirations.'
     'I do. That hot-water-bottle episode.'
     'Yes, that was one of them.'
     'Ha!'
     'What did you say?'
     'Just "Ha!"'
     'Why "Ha!"?'
     'Because  when I think of that night of terror, I feel like  saying
"Ha!"'
     She  seemed  to see the justice of this. Pausing merely  to  eat  a
cucumber sandwich, she proceeded.
     'So  I said to your aunt, "I'll tell you what to do," I said.  "Get
Glossop here," I said, "and have him observe Wilbert Cream. Then you'll
be in a position to go to Upjohn and pull the rug from under him."'
     Again  I  was  not  abreast. There had been,  as  far  as  I  could
recollect, no mention of any rug.
     'How do you mean?'
     'Well, isn't it obvious? "Rope in old Glossop," I said, "and let him
observe.  Then you'll be in a position," I said, "to go to  Upjohn  and
tell  him  that Sir Roderick Glossop, the greatest alienist in England,
is  convinced that Wilbert Cream is round the bend and to ask him if he
proposes  to marry his stepdaughter to a man who at any moment  may  be
marched  off  and added to the membership list of Colney  Hatch."  Even
Upjohn  would shrink from doing a thing like that. Or don't  you  think
so?'
     I weighed this.
     'Yes,'  I  said, 'I should imagine you were right.  Quite  possibly
Upjohn  has human feelings, though I never noticed them when I  was  in
statu  pupillari,  as I believe the expression is.  One  sees  now  why
Glossop is at Brinkley Court. What one doesn't see is why one finds him
buttling.'
     'I  told you that was his idea. He thought he was such a celebrated
figure  that  it would arouse Mrs Cream's suspicions if  he  came  here
under his own name.'
     'I  see  what you mean. She would catch him observing  Wilbert  and
wonder why-'
     ' - and eventually put two and two together -'
     ' - and start Hey-what's-the-big-idea-ing.'
     'Exactly. No mother likes to find that her hostess has got a  brain
specialist  down to observe the son who is the apple  of  her  eye.  It
hurts her feelings.'
     'Whereas, if she catches the butler observing him, she merely  says
to  herself, "Ah, an observant butler." Very sensible. With  this  deal
Uncle  Tom's got on with Homer Cream, it would be fatal to risk  giving
her  the pip in any way. She would kick to Homer, and Homer would  draw
himself up and say "After what has occurred, Travers, I would prefer to
break off the negotiations," and Uncle Tom would lose a packet. What is
this deal they've got on, by the way? Did Aunt Dahlia tell you?'
     'Yes, but it didn't penetrate. It's something to do with some  land
your  uncle owns somewhere, and Mr Cream is thinking of buying  it  and
putting   up  hotels  and  things.  It  doesn't  matter,  anyway.   The
fundamental  thing, the thing to glue the eye on,  is  that  the  Cream
contingent have to be kept sweetened at any cost. So not a  word  to  a
soul.'
     'Quite.  Bertram Wooster is not a babbler. No spiller of the  beans
he.  But why are you so certain that Wilbert Cream is loopy? He doesn't
look loopy to me.'
     'Have you met him?'
     'Just for a moment. He was in a leafy glade, reading poetry to  the
Mills girl.'
     She took this big.
     'Reading poetry? To Phyllis?'
     'That's right. I thought it odd that a chap like him should be doing
such a thing. Limericks, yes. If he had been reciting limericks to her,
I  could have understood it. But this was stuff from one of those books
they bind in limp purple leather and sell at Christmas. I wouldn't care
to swear to it, but it sounded to me extremely like Omar Khayyam.'
     She continued to take it big.
     'Break it up, Bertie, break it up! There's not a moment to be lost.
You must go and break it up immediately.'
     'Who, me? Why me?'
     'That's what you're here for. Didn't your aunt tell you? She  wants
you  to follow Wilbert Cream and Phyllis about everywhere and see  that
he doesn't get a chance of proposing.'
     'You  mean that I'm to be a sort of private eye or shamus,  tailing
them up? I don't like it,' I said dubiously.
     'You don't have to like it,' said Bobbie. 'You just do it.'


        5
     Wax in the hands of the other sex, as the expression is, I went and
broke  it up as directed, but not blithely. It is never pleasant for  a
man  of  sensibility  to find himself regarded as  a  buttinski  and  a
trailing  arbutus, and it was thus, I could see at a g.,  that  Wilbert
Cream  was  pencilling  me  in. At the moment  of  my  arrival  he  had
suspended  the  poetry  reading and had taken Phyllis's  hand  in  his,
evidently  saying or about to say something of an intimate  and  tender
nature. Hearing my 'What ho', he turned, hurriedly released the fin and
directed  at me a look very similar to the one I had recently  received
from  Aubrey  Upjohn.  He  muttered something under  his  breath  about
someone,  whose name I did not catch, apparently having  been  paid  to
haunt the place.
     'Oh, it's you again,' he said.
     Well, it was, of course. No argument about that.
     'Kind  of  at  a  loose end?' he said. 'Why don't you  settle  down
somewhere with a good book?'
     I explained that I had just popped in to tell them that tea was now
being  served  on  the main lawn, and Phyllis squeaked  a  bit,  as  if
agitated.
     'Oh, dear!' she said. 'I must run. Daddy doesn't like me to be late
for tea. He says it's not respectful to my elders.'
     I  could see trembling on Wilbert Cream's lips a suggestion  as  to
where Daddy could stick himself and his views on respect to elders, but
with a powerful effort he held it back.
     'I  shall  take  Poppet  for a walk,' he said,  chirruping  to  the
dachshund,  who  was sniffing at my legs, filling his  lungs  with  the
delicious Wooster bouquet.
     'No tea?' I said.
     'No.'
     'There are muffins.'
     'Tchah!' he ejaculated, if that's the word, and strode off, followed
by the low-slung dog, and it was borne in upon me that here was another
source  from  which I could expect no present at Yule-Tide.  His  whole
demeanour  made  it plain that I had not added to my little  circle  of
friends.  Though  going  like a breeze with dachshunds,  I  had  failed
signally to click with Wilbert Cream.
     When  Phyllis and I reached the lawn, only Bobbie was  at  the  tea
table, and this surprised us both.
     'Where's Daddy?' Phyllis asked.
     'He suddenly decided to go to London,' said Bobbie.
     'To London?'
     'That's what he said.'
     'Why?'
     'He didn't tell me.'
     'I must go and see him,' said Phyllis, and buzzed off.
     Bobbie seemed to be musing.
     'Do you know what I think, Bertie?'
     'What?'
     'Well, when Upjohn came out just now, he was all of a doodah, and he
had  this  week's  Thursday Review in his hand. Came by  the  afternoon
post,  I suppose. I think he had been reading Reggie's comment  on  his
book.'
     This seemed plausible. I number several authors among my aquaintance
-  the  name of Boko Fittleworth is one that springs to the mind -  and
they invariably become all of a doodah when they read a stinker in  the
press about their latest effort.
     'Oh, you know about that thing Kipper wrote?'
     'Yes,  he  showed  it  to  me one day when  we  were  having  lunch
together.'
     'Very mordant, I gathered from what he told me. But I don't see why
that should make Upjohn bound up to London.'
     'I  suppose he wants to ask the editor who wrote the thing, so that
he can horsewhip him on the steps of his club. But of course they won't
tell him, and it wasn't signed so ... Oh, hullo, Mrs Cream.'
     The woman she was addressing was tall and thin with a hawk-like face
that  reminded me of Sherlock Holmes. She had an ink spot on her  nose,
the  result  of  working  on  her novel of suspense.  It  is  virtually
impossible  to  write  a novel of suspense without  getting  a  certain
amount of ink on the beezer. Ask Agatha Christie or anyone.
     'I finished my chapter a moment ago, so I thought I would stop for a
cup of tea,' said this literateuse. 'No good overdoing it.'
     'No.  Quit when you're ahead of the game, that's the idea. This  is
Mrs  Travers's  nephew  Bertie  Wooster,'  said  Bobbie  with  what   I
considered  a far too apologetic note in her voice. If Roberta  Wickham
has  one fault more pronounced than another, it is that she is inclined
to  introduce me to people as if I were something she would  much  have
preferred  to  hush  up. 'Bertie loves your books,'  she  added,  quite
unnecessarily, and the Cream started like a Boy Scout at the sound of a
bugle.
     'Oh, do you?'
     'Never  happier  than when curled up with one  of  them,'  I  said,
trusting that she wouldn't ask me which one of them I liked best.
     'When I told him you were here, he was overcome.'
     'Well, that certainly is great. Always glad to meet the fans. Which
of my books do you like best?'
     And I had got as far as 'Er' and was wondering, though not with much
hope, if 'All of them' would meet the case, when Pop Glossop joined  us
with  a  telegram for Bobbie on a salver. From her mother, I  presumed,
calling  me  some  name which she had forgotten to insert  in  previous
communications.  Or,  of  course, possibly  expressing  once  more  her
conviction  that I was a guffin, which, I thought, having had  time  to
ponder  over  it, would be something in the nature of a bohunkus  or  a
hammerhead.
     'Oh, thank you, Swordfish,' said Bobbie, taking the 'gram.
     It was fortunate that I was not holding a tea cup as she spoke, for
hearing Sir Roderick thus addressed I gave another of my sudden  starts
and,  had  I  had such a cup in my hand, must have strewn its  contents
hither and thither like a sower going forth sowing. As it was, I merely
sent a cucumber sandwich flying through the air.
     'Oh,  sorry,'  I  said, for it had missed the  Cream  by  a  hair's
breadth.
     I  could have relied on Bobbie to shove her oar in. The girl had no
notion of passing a thing off.
     'Excuse it, please,' she said. 'I ought to have warned you.  Bertie
is  training  for  the Jerk The Cucumber Sandwich  event  at  the  next
Olympic Games. He has to be practising all the time.'
     On  Ma  Cream's brow there was a thoughtful wrinkle, as though  she
felt  unable to accept this explanation of what had occurred.  But  her
next  words showed that it was not on my activities that her  mind  was
dwelling but on the recent Swordfish. Having followed him with  a  keen
glance as he faded from view, she said:
     'This butler of Mrs Travers's. Do you know where she got him,  Miss
Wickham?'
     'At the usual pet shop, I think.'
     'Had he references?'
     'Oh,  yes.  He was with Sir Roderick Glossop, the brain specialist,
for years. I remember Mrs Travers saying Sir Roderick gave him a super-
colossal reference. She was greatly impressed.'
     Ma Cream sniffed.
     'References can be forged.'
     'Good gracious! Why do you say that?'
     'Because I am not at all easy in my mind about this man. He  has  a
criminal face.'
     'Well, you might say that about Bertie.'
     'I feel that Mrs Travers should be warned. In my Blackness at Night
the  butler  turned out to be one of a gang of crooks, planted  in  the
house  to  make  it easy for them to break in. The inside  stand,  it's
called.  I  strongly suspect that this is why this Swordfish  is  here,
though  of course it is quite possible that he is working on  his  own.
One thing I am sure of, and that is that he is not a genuine butler.'
     'What  makes  you  think that?' I asked, handkerchiefing  my  upper
slopes, which had become considerably bedewed. I didn't like this  line
of  talk at all. Let the Cream get firmly in her nut the idea that  Sir
Roderick  Glossop was not the butler, the whole butler and nothing  but
the  butler,  and  disaster, as I saw it, loomed. She would  probe  and
investigate,  and  before you could say 'What  ho'  would  be  in  full
possession  of  the  facts. In which event, bim would  go  Uncle  Tom's
chance  of  scooping in a bit of easy money. And ever since I've  known
him  failure to get his hooks on any stray cash that's floating  around
has  always put him out of touch with the blue bird. It isn't that he's
mercenary. It's just that he loves the stuff.
     Her manner suggested that she was glad I had asked her that.
     'I'll tell you what makes me think it. He betrays his amateurishness
in  a  hundred  ways.  This  very morning I found  him  having  a  long
conversation with Wilbert. A real butler would never do that. He  would
feel it was a liberty.'
     I contested this statement.
     'Now  there,' I said, 'I take issue with you, if taking issue means
what  I  think  it  means. Many of my happiest hours have  been  passed
chatting  with butlers, and it has nearly always happened that  it  was
they  who  made the first advances. They seek me out and tell me  about
their rheumatism. Swordfish looks all right to me.'
     'You  are not a student of criminology, as I am. I have the trained
eye, and my judgment is never wrong. That man is here for no good.'
     I  could see that all this was making Bobbie chafe, but her  better
self  prevailed and she checked the heated retort. She is very fond  of
T.  Portarlington Travers, who, she tells me, is the living image of  a
wire-haired terrier now residing with the morning stars but at one time
very dear to her, and she remembered that for his sake the Cream had to
be deferred to and handled with gloves. When she spoke, it was with the
mildness of a cushat dove addressing another cushat dove from  whom  it
was hoping to borrow money.
     'But  don't  you  think,  Mrs Cream,  that  it  may  be  just  your
imagination? You have such a wonderful imagination. Bertie  was  saying
only  the other day that he didn't know how you did it. Write all those
frightfully imaginative books, I mean. Weren't you, Bertie?'
     'My very words.'
     'And if you have an imagination, you can't help imagining. Can you,
Bertie?'
     'Dashed difficult.'
     Her  honeyed words were wasted. The Cream continued to dig her toes
in like Balaam's ass, of whom you have doubtless heard.
     'I'm not imagining that that butler is up to something fishy,'  she
said tartly. 'And I should have thought it was pretty obvious what that
something  was. You seem to have forgotten that Mr Travers has  one  of
the finest collections of old silver in England.'
     This was correct. Owing possibly to some flaw in his mental make-up,
Uncle  Tom  has been collecting old silver since I was so high,  and  I
suppose the contents of the room on the ground floor where he parks the
stuff  are  worth a princely sum. I knew all about that  collection  of
his,  not  only  because I had had to listen to him for  hours  on  the
subject  of  sconces,  foliation, ribbon wreaths  in  high  relief  and
gadroon  borders,  but  because I had what you might  call  a  personal
interest  in  it, once having stolen an eighteenth-century  cow-creamer
for  him.  (Long  story. No time to go into it now. You  will  find  it
elsewhere in the archives.)
     'Mrs  Travers was showing it to Willie the other day,  and  he  was
thrilled. Willie collects old silver himself.'
     With each hour that passed I was finding it more and more difficult
to  get  a  toe-hold  on  the  character of  W.  Cream.  An  in-and-out
performer,  if ever there was one. First all that poetry, I  mean,  and
now  this. I had always supposed that playboys didn't give a  hoot  for
anything  except  blondes and cold bottles. It just showed  once  again
that half the world doesn't know how the other three-quarters lives.
     'He  says there are any number of things in Mr Travers's collection
that  he would give his back teeth for. There was an eighteenth-century
cow-creamer  he particularly coveted. So keep your eye on that  butler.
I'm  certainly  going to keep mine. Well,' said the Cream,  rising,  'I
must  be  getting  back to my work. I always like to rough  out  a  new
chapter before finishing for the day.'
     She  legged it, and for a moment silence reigned. Then Bobbie said,
'Phew!' and I agreed that 'Phew!' was the mot juste.
     'We'd better get Glossop out of here quick,' I said.
     'How can we? It's up to your aunt to do that, and she's away.'
     'Then  I'm  jolly  well going to get out myself. There's  too  much
impending doom buzzing around these parts for my taste. Brinkley Court,
once  a peaceful country-house, has become like something sinister  out
of Edgar Allan Poe, and it makes my feet cold. I'm leaving.'
     'You  can't till your aunt gets back. There has to be some sort  of
host  or  hostess  here,  and I simply must go home  tomorrow  and  see
Mother. You'll have to clench your teeth and stick it.'
     'And the severe mental strain to which I am being subjected doesn't
matter, I suppose?'
     'Not a bit. Does you good. Keeps your pores open.'
     I  should probably have said something pretty cutting in  reply  to
this, if I could have thought of anything, but as I couldn't I didn't.
     'What's Aunt Dahlia's address?' I said.
     'Royal Hotel, Eastbourne. Why?'
     'Because,' I said, taking another cucumber sandwich, 'I'm going  to
wire her to ring me up tomorrow without fail, so that I can apprise her
of what's going on in this joint.'


        6
     I  forget how the subject arose, but I remember Jeeves once  saying
that sleep knits up the ravelled sleave of care. Balm of hurt minds, he
described it as. The idea being, I took it, that if things are  getting
sticky,  they tend to seem less glutinous after you've had  your  eight
hours.
     Apple sauce, in my opinion. It seldom pans out that way with me, and
it  didn't now. I had retired to rest taking a dim view of the  current
situation  at Brinkley Court and opening my eyes to a new day,  as  the
expression is, I found myself taking an even dimmer. Who knew, I  asked
myself as I practically pushed the breakfast egg away untasted, what Ma
Cream might not at any moment uncover? And who could say how soon, if I
continued to be always at his side, Wilbert Cream would get it  up  his
nose and start attacking me with tooth and claw? Already his manner was
that  of  a  man  whom the society of Bertram Wooster had  fed  to  the
tonsils,  and  one  more sight of the latter at his elbow  might  quite
easily  make  him  decide  to  take prompt  steps  through  the  proper
channels.
     Musing  along these lines, I had little appetite for lunch,  though
Anatole  had  extended himself to the utmost. I winced every  time  the
Cream  shot a sharp, suspicious look at Pop Glossop as he messed  about
at  the  sideboard,  and the long, loving looks her  son  Wilbert  kept
directing  at Phyllis Mills chilled me to the marrow. At the conclusion
of  the  meal  he would, I presumed, invite the girl to  accompany  him
again  to that leafy glade, and it was idle to suppose that there would
not be pique on his part, or even chagrin, when I came along, too.
     Fortunately, as we rose from the table, Phyllis said she was  going
to  her room to finish typing Daddy's speech, and my mind was eased for
the  nonce. Even a New York playboy, accustomed from his earliest years
to  pursue blondes like a bloodhound, would hardly follow her there and
press his suit.
     Seeming himself to recognize that there was nothing constructive to
be  done in that direction for the moment, he said in a brooding  voice
that  he  would  take  Poppet  for a walk. This,  apparently,  was  his
invariable  method  of  healing the stings of  disappointment,  and  an
excellent  thing of course from the point of view of a  dog  who  liked
getting  around and seeing the sights. They headed for the horizon  and
passed  out  of  view;  the hound gambolling,  he  not  gambolling  but
swishing his stick a good deal in an overwrought sort of manner, and I,
feeling that this was a thing that ought to be done, selected one of Ma
Cream's books from Aunt Dahlia's shelves and took it out to read  in  a
deck  chair  on  the  lawn.  And I should  no  doubt  have  enjoyed  it
enormously, for the Cream unquestionably wielded a gifted pen, had  not
the  warmth of the day caused me to drop off into a gentle sleep in the
middle of Chapter Two.
     Waking  from this some little time later and running  an  eye  over
myself  to  see if the ravelled sleave of care had been  knitted  up  -
which  it  hadn't  - I was told that I was wanted on the  telephone.  I
hastened  to  the  instrument, and Aunt Dahlia's voice came  thundering
over the wire.
     'Bertie?'
     'Bertram it is.'
     'Why  the devil have you been such a time? I've been hanging on  to
this damned receiver a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.'
     'Sorry.  I came on winged feet, but I was out on the lawn when  you
broke loose.'
     'Sleeping off your lunch, I suppose?'
     'My eyes may have closed for a moment.'
     'Always eating, that's you.'
     'It  is customary, I believe, to take a little nourishment at about
this hour,' I said rather stiffly. 'How's Bonzo?'
     'Getting along.'
     'What was it?'
     'German  measles,  but he's out of danger.  Well,  what's  all  the
excitement  about? Why did you want me to phone you? Just so  that  you
could hear Auntie's voice?'
     'I  am  always glad to hear Auntie's voice, but I had a deeper  and
graver  reason.  I  thought you ought to know about all  these  lurking
perils in the home.'
     'What lurking perils?'
     'Ma Cream for one. She's hotting up. She entertains suspicions.'
     'What of ?'
     'Pop Glossop. She doesn't like his face.'
     'Well, hers is nothing to write home about.'
     'She thinks he isn't a real butler.'
     From the fact that my ear-drum nearly split in half I deduced  that
she had laughed a jovial laugh.
     'Let her think.'
     'You aren't perturbed?'
     'Not a bit. She can't do anything about it. Anyway, Glossop ought to
be  leaving  in about a week. He told me he didn't think it would  take
longer than that to make up his mind about Wilbert. Adela Cream doesn't
worry me.'
     'Well, if you say so, but I should have thought she was a menace.'
     'She doesn't seem so to me. Anything else on your mind?'
     'Yes, this Wilbert-Cream-Phyllis-Mills thing.'
     'Ah, now you're talking. That's important. Did young Bobbie Wickham
tell you that you'd got to stick to Wilbert closer than -'
     'A brother?'
     'I  was going to say porous plaster, but have it your own way.  She
explained the position of affairs?'
     'She  did, and it's precisely that that I want to thresh  out  with
you.'
     'Do what out?'
     'Thresh.'
     'All right, start threshing.'
     Having  given the situation the best of the Wooster brain for  some
considerable  time, I had the res all clear in my mind. I proceeded  to
decant it.
     'As  we  go through this life, my dear old ancestor,' I  said,  'we
should  always strive to see the other fellow's side of  a  thing,  the
other  fellow in the case under advisement being Wilbert Cream. Has  it
occurred  to  you  to  put yourself in Wilbert Cream's  place  and  ask
yourself how he's going to feel, being followed around all the time? It
isn't as if he was Mary.'
     'What did you say?'
     'I  said it wasn't as if he was Mary. Mary, as I remember,  enjoyed
the experience of being tailed up.'
     'Bertie, you're tight.'
     'Nothing of the kind.'
     'Say "British constitution."'
     I did so.
     'And now "She sells sea shells by the sea shore."'
     I reeled it off in a bell-like voice.
     'Well, you seem all right,' she said grudgingly. 'How do you mean he
isn't Mary? Mary who?'
     'I  don't think she had a surname, had she? I was alluding  to  the
child  who  had  a  little  lamb with fleece  as  white  as  snow,  and
everywhere  that Mary went the lamb was sure to go. Now I'm not  saying
that  I  have  fleece as white as snow, but I am going everywhere  that
Wilbert  Cream goes, and one speculates with some interest as  to  what
the upshot will be. He resents my constant presence.'
     'Has he said so?'
     'Not yet. But he gives me nasty looks.'
     'That's all right. He can't intimidate me.'
     I saw that she was missing the gist.
     'Yes, but don't you see the peril that looms?'
     'I thought you said it lurked.'
     'And looms. What I'm driving at is that if I persist in this porous
plastering,  a  time  must inevitably come when, feeling  that  actions
speak  louder  than words, he will haul off and bop me  one.  In  which
event, I shall have no alternative but to haul off and bop him one. The
Woosters  have their pride. And when I bop them, they stay bopped  till
nightfall.'
     She bayed like a foghorn, showing that she was deeply stirred.
     'You'll  do nothing of the sort, unless you want to have an  aunt's
curse  delivered on your doorstep by special messenger. Don't you  dare
to  start mixing it with that man, or I'll tattoo my initials  on  your
chest  with  a  meat axe. Turn the other cheek, you poor  fish.  If  my
nephew socked her son, Adela Cream would never forgive me. She would go
running to her husband -'
     ' - and Uncle Tom's deal would be dished. That's the very point I'm
trying  to  make. If Wilbert Cream is bust by anyone,  it  must  be  by
somebody having no connection with the Travers family. You must at once
engage a substitute for Bertram.'
     'Are you suggesting that I hire a private detective?'
     '"Eye"  is  the more usual term. No, not that, but you must  invite
Kipper Herring down here. Kipper is the man you want. He will spring to
the task of dogging Wilbert's footsteps, and if Wilbert bops him and he
bops  Wilbert,  it won't matter, he being outside talent.  Not  that  I
anticipate  that  Wilbert will dream of doing  so,  for  Kipper's  mere
appearance commands respect. The muscles of his brawny arms are  strong
as iron bands, and he has a cauliflower ear.'
     There  was  a silence of some moments, and it was not difficult  to
divine  that she was passing my words under review, this way  and  that
dividing the swift mind, as I have heard Jeeves put it. When she spoke,
it was in quite an awed voice.
     'Do  you  know, Bertie, there are times - rare, yes,  but  they  do
happen - when your intelligence is almost human. You've hit it. I never
thought of young Herring. Do you think he could come?'
     'He was saying to me only the day before yesterday that his dearest
wish  was  to  cadge an invitation. Anatole's cooking is green  in  his
memory.'
     'Then send him a wire. You can telephone it to the post office. Sign
it with my name.'
     'Right-ho.'
     'Tell him to drop everything and come running.'
     She rang off, and I was about to draft the communication, when,  as
so  often  happens  to one on relaxing from a great  strain,  I  became
conscious of an imperious desire for a little something quick. Oh,  for
a  beaker full of the warm south, as Jeeves would have said. I  pressed
the  bell, accordingly, and sank into a chair, and presently  the  door
opened  and  a  circular  object with a bald head  and  bushy  eyebrows
manifested  itself,  giving  me quite a start.  I  had  forgotten  that
ringing  bells  at  Brinkley  Court under  prevailing  conditions  must
inevitably produce Sir Roderick Glossop.
     It's always a bit difficult to open the conversation with a blend of
brain  specialist and butler, especially if your relations with him  in
the  past have not been too chummy, and I found myself rather at a loss
to  know how to set the ball rolling. I yearned for that drink  as  the
hart  desireth the water-brook, but if you ask a butler to bring you  a
whisky-and-soda  and  he happens to be a brain  specialist,  too,  he's
quite  apt to draw himself up and wither you with a glance. All depends
on which side of him is uppermost at the moment. It was a relief when I
saw  that  he  was smiling a kindly smile and evidently welcoming  this
opportunity of having a quiet chat with Bertram. So long as we kept off
the subject of hot-water bottles, it looked as if all would be well.
     'Good afternoon, Mr Wooster. I had been hoping for a word with  you
in  private.  But  perhaps  Miss  Wickham  has  already  explained  the
circumstances?  She  has? Then that clears the air,  and  there  is  no
danger of you incautiously revealing my identity. She impressed it upon
you that Mrs Cream must have no inkling of why I am here?'
     'Oh,  rather.  Secrecy and silence, what?  If  she  knew  you  were
observing  her  son with a view to finding out if he was foggy  between
the ears, there would be umbrage on her part, or even dudgeon.'
     'Exactly.'
     'And how's it coming along?'
     'I beg your pardon?'
     'The observing. Have you spotted any dippiness in the subject?'
     'If by that expression you mean have I formed any definite views on
Wilbert Cream's sanity, the answer is no. It is most unusual for me not
to  be able to make up my mind after even a single talk with the person
I  am  observing, but in young Cream's case I remain uncertain. On  the
one hand, we have his record.'
     'The stink bombs?'
     'Exactly.'
     'And the cheque-cashing with levelled gat?'
     'Precisely. And a number of other things which one would say pointed
to a mental unbalance. Unquestionably Wilbert Cream is eccentric.'
     'But  you  feel the time has not yet come to measure  him  for  the
strait waistcoat?'
     'I would certainly wish to observe further.'
     'Jeeves told me there was something about Wilbert Cream that someone
had told him when we were in New York. That might be significant.'
     'Quite possibly. What was it?'
     'He couldn't remember.'
     'Too  bad.  Well, to return to what I was saying, the  young  man's
record  appears to indicate some deep-seated neurosis,  if  not  actual
schizophrenia, but against this must be set the fact that he  gives  no
sign  of this in his conversation. I was having quite a long talk  with
him yesterday morning, and found him most intelligent. He is interested
in  old  silver,  and  spoke  with a great deal  of  enthusiasm  of  an
eighteenth-century cow-creamer in your uncle's collection.'
     'He didn't say he was an eighteenth-century cow-creamer?'
     'Certainly not.'
     'Probably just wearing the mask.'
     'I beg your pardon?'
     'I  mean  crouching for the spring, as it were.  Lulling  you  into
security.  Bound  to  break out sooner or later in  some  direction  or
other. Very cunning, these fellows with deep-seated neuroses.'
     He shook his head reprovingly.
     'We  must not judge hastily, Mr Wooster. We must keep an open mind.
Nothing  is ever gained by not pausing to weigh the evidence.  You  may
remember  that  at one time I reached a hasty judgment  regarding  your
sanity. Those twenty-three cats in your bedroom.'
     I  flushed  hotly.  The  incident had  taken  place  several  years
previously,  and it would have been in better taste, I  considered,  to
have let the dead past bury its dead.
     'That was explained fully.'
     'Exactly. I was shown to be in error. And that is why I say I  must
not  form an opinion prematurely in the case of Wilbert Cream.  I  must
wait for further evidence.'
     'And weigh it?'
     'And,  as  you  say, weigh it. But you rang, Mr Wooster.  Is  there
anything I can do for you?'
     'Well, as a matter of fact, I wanted a whisky-and-soda, but I  hate
to trouble you.'
     'My  dear Mr Wooster, you forget that I am, if only temporarily,  a
butler and, I hope, a conscientious one. I will bring it immediately.'
     I was wondering, as he melted away, if I ought to tell him that Mrs
Cream,  too, was doing a bit of evidence-weighing, and about  him,  but
decided  on the whole better not. No sense in disturbing his  peace  of
mind.  It  seemed to me that having to answer to the name of  Swordfish
was  enough for him to have to cope with for the time being. Given  too
much to think about, he would fret and get pale.
     When  he returned, he brought with him not only the beaker full  of
the  warm south, on which I flung myself gratefully, but a letter which
he  said had just come for me by the afternoon post. Having slaked  the
thirst,  I  glanced at the envelope and saw that it was from Jeeves.  I
opened  it without much of a thrill, expecting that he would merely  be
informing  me that he had reached his destination safely and expressing
a  hope  that this would find me in the pink as it left him at present.
In short, the usual guff.
     It wasn't the usual guff by a mile and a quarter. One glance at its
contents  and I was Gosh-ing sharply, causing Pop Glossop to regard  me
with a concerned eye.
     'No bad news, I trust, Mr Wooster?'
     'It  depends  what  you call bad news. It's front-page  stuff,  all
right. This is from Jeeves, my man, now shrimping at Herne Bay, and  it
casts a blinding light on the private life of Wilbert Cream.'
     'Indeed? This is most interesting.'
     'I must begin by saying that when Jeeves was leaving for his annual
vacation,  the  subject of W. Cream came up in the  home,  Aunt  Dahlia
having told me he was one of the inmates here, and we discussed him  at
some length. I said this, if you see what I mean, and Jeeves said that,
if you follow me. Well, just before Jeeves pushed off, he let fall that
significant  remark  I mentioned just now, the one about  having  heard
something  about Wilbert and having forgotten it. If it  came  back  to
him, he said, he would communicate with me. And he has, by Jove! Do you
know what he says in this missive? Give you three guesses.'
     'Surely this is hardly the time for guessing games?'
     'Perhaps  you're right, though they're great fun, don't you  think?
Well,  he says that Wilbert Cream is a ... what's the word?' I referred
to  the letter. 'A kleptomaniac,' I said. 'Which means, if the term  is
not  familiar  to  you,  a chap who flits hither and  thither  pinching
everything he can lay his hands on.'
     'Good gracious!'
     'You might even go so far as "Lor' lumme!"'
     'I never suspected this.'
     'I told you he was wearing a mask. I suppose they took him abroad to
get him away from it all.'
     'No doubt.'
     'Overlooking the fact that there are just as many things to pinch in
England as in America. Does any thought occur to you?'
     'It most certainly does. I am thinking of your uncle's collection of
old silver.'
     'Me, too.'
     'It presents a grave temptation to the unhappy young man.'
     'I  don't  know  that I'd call him unhappy. He probably  thoroughly
enjoys lifting the stuff.'
     'We  must  go  to  the collection room immediately.  There  may  be
something missing.'
     'Everything except the floor and ceiling, I expect. He  would  have
had difficulty in getting away with those.'
     To reach the collection room was not the work of an instant with us,
for  Pop  Glossop  was built for stability rather than  speed,  but  we
fetched  up there in due course and my first emotion on giving  it  the
once-over was one of relief, all the junk appearing to be in statu quo.
It  was only after Pop Glossop had said 'Woof!' and was starting to dry
off the brow, for the going had been fast, that I spotted the hiatus.
     The cow-creamer was not among those present.


        7
     This  cow-creamer, in case you're interested, was a silver  jug  or
pitcher or whatever you call it shaped, of all silly things, like a cow
with  an arching tail and a juvenile-delinquent expression on its face,
a  cow that looked as if it were planning, next time it was milked,  to
haul  off  and  let the milkmaid have it in the lower  ribs.  Its  back
opened  on  a  hinge and the tip of the tail touched  the  spine,  thus
giving  the  householder something to catch hold of when  pouring.  Why
anyone should want such a revolting object had always been a mystery to
me,  it  ranking  high  up  on the list of things  I  would  have  been
reluctant  to be found dead in a ditch with, but apparently they  liked
that  sort  of jug in the eighteenth century and, coming down  to  more
modern  times,  Uncle  Tom  was all for it and  so,  according  to  the
evidence of the witness Glossop, was Wilbert. No accounting for  tastes
is  the  way  one has to look at these things, one man's  caviar  being
another man's major-general, as the old saw says.
     However, be that as it may and whether you liked the bally thing or
didn't, the point was that it had vanished, leaving not a wrack behind,
and  I  was about to apprise Pop Glossop of this and canvass his views,
when  we  were joined by Bobbie Wickham. She had doffed the  shirt  and
Bermuda-shorts which she had been wearing and was now dressed  for  her
journey home.
     'Hullo,  souls,' she said. 'How goes it? You look  a  bit  hot  and
bothered, Bertie. What's up?'
     I made no attempt to break the n. gently.
     'I'll tell you what's up. You know that cow-creamer of Uncle Tom's?'
     'No, I don't. What is it?'
     'Sort  of  cream jug kind of thing, ghastly but very valuable.  One
would not be far out in describing it as Uncle Tom's ewe lamb. He loves
it dearly.'
     'Bless his heart.'
     'It's all right blessing his heart, but the damn thing's gone.'
     The still summer air was disturbed by a sound like beer coming  out
of a bottle. It was Pop Glossop gurgling. His eyes were round, his nose
wiggled, and one could readily discern that this news item had come  to
him not as rare and refreshing fruit but more like a buffet on the base
of the skull with a sock full of wet sand.
     'Gone?'
     'Gone.'
     'Are you sure?'
     I said that sure was just what I wasn't anything but.
     'It is not possible that you may have overlooked it?'
     'You can't overlook a thing like that.'
     He re-gurgled.
     'But this is terrible.'
     'Might be considerably better, I agree.'
     'Your uncle will be most upset.'
     'He'll have kittens.'
     'Kittens?'
     'That's right.'
     'Why kittens?'
     'Why not?'
     From the look on Bobbie's face, as she stood listening to our cross-
talk  act,  I could see that the inner gist was passing over her  head.
Cryptic, she seemed to be registering it as.
     'I don't get this,' she said. 'How do you mean it's gone?'
     'It's been pinched.'
     'Things don't get pinched in country-houses.'
     'They  do if there's a Wilbert Cream on the premises. He's a  klep-
whatever-it-is,' I said, and thrust Jeeves's letter on her. She perused
it  with an interested eye and having mastered its contents said,  'Cor
chase my Aunt Fanny up a gum tree,' adding that you never knew what was
going to happen next these days. There was, however, she said, a bright
side.
     'You'll be able now to give it as your considered opinion that  the
man is as loony as a coot, Sir Roderick.'
     A  pause  ensued during which Pop Glossop appeared to  be  weighing
this,  possibly thinking back to coots he had met in the course of  his
professional career and trying to estimate their dippiness as  compared
with that of W. Cream.
     'Unquestionably  his metabolism is unduly susceptible  to  stresses
resulting  from the interaction of external excitations,' he said,  and
Bobbie patted him on the shoulder in a maternal sort of way, a thing  I
wouldn't have cared to do myself though our relations were, as  I  have
indicated, more cordial than they had been at one time, and told him he
had said a mouthful.
     'That's how I like to hear you talk. You must tell Mrs Travers that
when  she  gets back. It'll put her in a strong position to  cope  with
Upjohn in this matter of Wilbert and Phyllis. With this under her belt,
she'll be able to forbid the banns in no uncertain manner. "What  price
his  metabolism?" she'll say, and Upjohn won't know wh