bility does  on
these  occasions is to thank his brave preserver. I  turned  to  do
this,  and  blow  me  tight if the b.p. wasn't Jeeves.  Came  as  a
complete  surprise. I couldn't think what he was doing  there,  and
for  an  instant  the idea occurred to me that this  might  be  his
astral body.
   'Jeeves!'  I  ejaculated.  I'm  pretty  sure  that's  the  word.
Anyway, I'll risk it.
   'Good afternoon, sir. I trust you are not too discommoded.  That
was a somewhat narrow squeak.'
   'It  was indeed. I don't say my whole life passed before me, but
a considerable chunk of it did. But for you -'
   'Not at all, sir.'
   'Yes,  you  and  you only saved me from appearing in  tomorrow's
obituary column.'
   'A pleasure, sir.'
   'It's  amazing  how  you always turn up at the  crucial  moment,
like  the United States Marines. I remember how you did when A.  B.
Filmer and I were having our altercation with that swan, and  there
were  other  occasions  too numerous to  mention.  Well,  you  will
certainly  get a rave notice in my prayers next time I  make  them.
But  how do you happen to be in these parts? Where are we,  by  the
way?'
   'This is Curzon Street, sir.'
   'Of course. I'd have known that if I hadn't been musing.'
   'You were musing, sir?'
   'Deeply.  I'll tell you about it later. This is where your  club
is, isn't it?'
   'Yes,  sir,  just round the corner. In your absence  and  having
completed the packing, I decided to lunch there.'
   'Thank  heaven you did. If you hadn't, I'd have been ...  what's
that gag of yours? Something about wheels.'
   'Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheels, sir.'
   'Or, rather, the cabby's chariot wheels. Why are you looking  at
me with such a searching eye, Jeeves?'
   'I  was  thinking that your misadventure had left  you  somewhat
dishevelled,  sir. If I might suggest it, I think we should  repair
to the Junior Ganymede now.'
   'I see what you mean. You would give me a wash and brush-up?'
   'Just so, sir.'
   'And perhaps a whisky-and-soda?'
   'Certainly, sir.'
   'I  need  one  sorely. Ginger's practically on  the  waggon,  so
there  were  no  cocktails before lunch. And do you know  why  he's
practically  on  the waggon? Because the girl he's engaged  to  has
made  him take that foolish step. And do you know who the girl he's
engaged to is? My cousin Florence Craye.'
   'Indeed, sir?'
   Well,  I  hadn't expected him to roll his eyes and  leap  about,
because he never does no matter how sensational the news item,  but
I  could  see  by  the way one of his eyebrows  twitched  and  rose
perhaps  an eighth of an inch that I had interested him. And  there
was  what  is called a wealth of meaning in that 'Indeed, sir?'  He
was  conveying his opinion that this was a bit of luck for Bertram,
because  a  girl you have once been engaged to is always a  lurking
menace  till she gets engaged to someone else and so cannot  decide
at  any  moment  to  play  a return date. I  got  the  message  and
thoroughly agreed with him, though naturally I didn't say so.
   Jeeves, you see, is always getting me out of entanglements  with
the  opposite sex, and he knows all about the various  females  who
from  time  to time have come within an ace of hauling  me  to  the
altar  rails,  but of course we don't discuss them. To  do  so,  we
feel, would come under the head of bandying a woman's name, and the
Woosters do not bandy women's names. Nor do the Jeeveses.  I  can't
speak for his Uncle Charlie Silversmith, but I should imagine  that
he,  too,  has  his  code of ethics in this respect.  These  things
generally run in families.
   So  I  merely  filled him in about her making Ginger  stand  for
Parliament  and  the canvassing we were going to undertake,  urging
him  to  do  his utmost to make the electors think along the  right
lines,  and  he said 'Yes, sir' and 'Very good, sir' and  'I  quite
understand, sir', and we proceeded to the Junior Ganymede.
   An  extremely cosy club it proved to be. I didn't wonder that he
liked  to  spend  so  much  of his leisure  there.  It  lacked  the
sprightliness of the Drones. I shouldn't think there was much bread
and  sugar thrown about at lunch time, and you would hardly  expect
that  there  would  be  when  you  reflected  that  the  membership
consisted  of elderly butlers and gentlemen's gentlemen  of  fairly
ripe  years,  but  as regards comfort it couldn't be  faulted.  The
purler  I had taken had left me rather tender in the fleshy  parts,
and  it was a relief after I had been washed and brushed up and was
on  the spruce side once more to sink into a well-stuffed chair  in
the smoking-room.
   Sipping  my  whisky-and-s.,  I brought  the  conversation  round
again  to  Ginger and his election, which was naturally  the  front
page stuff of the day.
   'Do you think he has a chance, Jeeves?'
   He  weighed the question for a moment, as if dubious as to where
he would place his money.
   'It  is  difficult to say, sir. Market Snodsbury, like  so  many
English country towns, might be described as straitlaced. It sets a
high value on respectability.'
   'Well, Ginger's respectable enough.'
   'True, sir, but, as you are aware, he has had a Past.'
   'Not much of one.'
   'Sufficient,  however,  to prejudice  the  voters,  should  they
learn of it.'
   'Which  they can't possibly do. I suppose he's in the club  book
-'
   'Eleven pages, sir.'
   '  -  But you assure me that the contents of the club book  will
never be revealed.'
   'Never, sir. Mr Winship has nothing to fear from that quarter.'
   His words made me breathe more freely.
   'Jeeves,'  I said, 'your words make me breathe more  freely.  As
you  know, I am always a bit uneasy about the club book. Kept under
lock and key, is it?'
   'Not  actually  under  lock  and key,  sir,  but  it  is  safely
bestowed in the secretary's office.'
   'Then there's nothing to worry about.'
   'I  would not say that, sir. Mr Winship must have had companions
in  his escapades, and they might inadvertently make some reference
to them which would get into gossip columns in the Press and thence
into  the  Market Snodsbury journals. I believe there  are  two  of
these,  one rigidly opposed to the Conservative interest  which  Mr
Winship  is  representing.  It is always  a  possibility,  and  the
results  would  be  disastrous. I have no means at  the  moment  of
knowing the identity of Mr Winship's opponent, but he is sure to be
a  model  of  respectability  whose past  can  bear  the  strictest
investigation.'
   'You're   pretty  gloomy,  Jeeves.  Why  aren't  you   gathering
rosebuds? The poet Herrick would shake his head.'
   'I  am  sorry,  sir.  I did not know that  you  were  taking  Mr
Winship's  fortunes  so much to heart, or I would  have  been  more
guarded in my speech. Is victory in the election of such importance
to him?'
   'It's vital. Florence will hand him his hat if he doesn't win.'
   'Surely not, sir?'
   'That's  what  he says, and I think he's right. His observations
on  the subject were most convincing. He says she's a perfectionist
and  has no use for a loser. It is well established that she handed
Percy  Gorringe the pink slip because the play he made of her novel
only ran three nights.'
   'Indeed, sir?'
   'Well-documented fact.'
   'Then let us hope that what I fear will not happen, sir.'
   We  were  sitting  there hoping that what he  feared  would  not
happen,  when a shadow fell on my whisky-and-s. and I saw  that  we
had  been  joined  by  another member of  the  Junior  Ganymede,  a
smallish,  plumpish, Gawd-help-us-ish member wearing  clothes  more
suitable  for  the country than the town and a tie  that  suggested
that he belonged to the Brigade of Guards, though I doubted if this
was the case. As to his manner, I couldn't get a better word for it
at the moment than 'familiar', but I looked it up later in Jeeves's
Dictionary of Synonyms and found that it had been unduly  intimate,
too  free,  forward, lacking in proper reserve,  deficient  in  due
respect,  impudent, bold and intrusive. Well, when I tell you  that
the first thing he did was to prod Jeeves in the lower ribs with an
uncouth forefinger, you will get the idea.
   'Hullo,  Reggie,' he said, and I froze in my chair,  stunned  by
the  revelation that Jeeves's first name was Reginald. It had never
occurred  to  me before that he had a first name. I  couldn't  help
thinking  what embarrassment would have been caused if it had  been
Bertie.
   'Good  afternoon,' said Jeeves, and I could see  that  the  chap
was not one of his inner circle of friends. His voice was cold, and
anyone  less lacking in proper reserve and deficient in due respect
would have spotted this and recoiled.
   The  Gawd-help-us fellow appeared to notice nothing  amiss.  His
manner  continued  to be that of one who has  met  a  pal  of  long
standing.
   'How's yourself, Reggie?'
   'I am in tolerably good health, thank you.'
   'Lost  weight,  haven't you? You ought to live  in  the  country
like  me  and get good country butter.' He turned to me.  'And  you
ought to be more careful, cocky, dancing about in the middle of the
street like that. I was in that cab and I thought you were a goner.
You're Wooster, aren't you?'
   'Yes,'  I  said,  amazed. I hadn't known I  was  such  a  public
figure.
   'Thought  so.  I don't often forget a face. Well, I  can't  stay
chatting  with you. I've got to see the secretary about  something.
Nice to have seen you, Reggie.'
   'Goodbye.'
   'Nice to have seen you, Wooster, old man.'
   I  thanked  him, and he withdrew. I turned to Jeeves, that  wild
surmise  I  was  speaking about earlier functioning on  all  twelve
cylinders.
   'Who was that?'
   He  did  not reply immediately, plainly too ruffled for  speech.
He  had to take a sip of his liqueur brandy before he was master of
himself.  His manner, when he did speak, was that of one who  would
have preferred to let the whole thing drop.
   'The   person  you  mentioned  at  the  breakfast  table,   sir.
Bingley,' he said, pronouncing the name as if it soiled his lips.
   I  was  astounded.  You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a
toothpick.
   'Bingley?   I'd   never  have  recognized  him.   He's   changed
completely. He was quite thin when I knew him, and very gloomy, you
might  say sinister. Always seemed to be brooding silently  on  the
coming  revolution, when he would be at liberty to  chase  me  down
Park Lane with a dripping knife.'
   The  brandy  seemed to have restored Jeeves. He spoke  now  with
his customary calm.
   'I  believe his political views were very far to the left at the
time when he was in your employment. They changed when he became  a
man of property.'
   'A man of property, is he?'
   'An  uncle  of his in the grocery business died and left  him  a
house and a comfortable sum of money.'
   'I  suppose  it  often happens that the views  of  fellows  like
Bingley change when they come into money.'
   'Very  frequently.  They  regard the coming  revolution  from  a
different standpoint.'
   'I  see  what you mean. They don't want to be chased  down  Park
Lane  with  dripping knives themselves. Is he still  a  gentleman's
gentleman?'
   'He   has  retired.  He  lives  a  life  of  leisure  in  Market
Snodsbury.'
   'Market Snodsbury? That's funny.'
   'Sir?'
   'Odd, I mean, that he should live in Market Snodsbury.'
   'Many people do, sir.'
   'But  when that's just where we're going. Sort of a coincidence.
His uncle's house is there, I suppose.'
   'One presumes so.'
   'We may be seeing something of him.'
   'I  hope not, sir. I disapprove of Bingley. He is dishonest. Not
a man to be trusted.'
   'What makes you think so?'
   'It is merely a feeling.'
   Well,  it was no skin off my nose. A busy man like myself hasn't
time  to  go about trusting Bingley. All I demanded of Bingley  was
that  if our paths should cross he would remain sober and keep away
from  carving  knives. Live and let live is the  Wooster  motto.  I
finished my whisky-and-soda and rose.
   'Well,'   I  said,  'there's  one  thing.  Holding  the   strong
Conservative  views he does, it ought to be a snip to  get  him  to
vote  for  Ginger. And now we'd better be getting along. Ginger  is
driving  us down in his car, and I don't know when he'll be  coming
to fetch us. Thanks for your princely hospitality, Jeeves. You have
brought new life to the exhausted frame.'
   'Not at all, sir.'

        5
   Ginger  turned up in due course, and on going out to the  car  I
saw  that  he  had managed to get hold of Magnolia all  right,  for
there was a girl sitting in the back and when he introduced us  his
'Mr Wooster, Miss Glendennon' told the story.

   Nice  girl  she seemed to me and quite nice-looking. I  wouldn't
say  hers was the face that launched a thousand ships, to quote one
of  Jeeves's  gags,  and this was probably all  to  the  good,  for
Florence,  I  imagine, would have had a word to say if  Ginger  had
returned from his travels with something in tow calculated to bring
a  whistle to the lips of all beholders. A man in his position  has
to  exercise considerable care in his choice of secretaries, ruling
out  anything that might have done well in the latest Miss  America
contest.  But  you  could  certainly  describe  her  appearance  as
pleasant.  She gave me the impression of being one of those  quiet,
sympathetic  girls  whom you could tell your  troubles  to  in  the
certain  confidence of having your hand held and your head  patted.
The  sort  of  girl  you  could go to and say  'I  say,  I've  just
committed  a  murder and it's worrying me rather,'  and  she  would
reply,  'There, there, try not to think about it, it's the sort  of
thing  that might happen to anybody.' The little mother, in  short,
with the added attraction of being tops at shorthand and typing.  I
could have wished Ginger's affairs in no better hands.
   Jeeves  brought  out  the suitcases and stowed  them  away,  and
Ginger  asked me to do the driving, as he had a lot of business  to
go  into  with  his new secretary, giving her the low-down  on  her
duties,  I suppose. We set out, accordingly, with me and Jeeves  in
front,  and about the journey down there is nothing of interest  to
report. I was in merry mood throughout, as always when about to get
another  whack  at  Anatole's cooking. Jeeves presumably  felt  the
same,  for  he,  like  me, is one of that master  skillet-wielder's
warmest  admirers,  but whereas I sang a good  deal  as  we  buzzed
along,  he  maintained, as is his custom, the silent reserve  of  a
stuffed frog, never joining in the chorus, though cordially invited
to.
   Arriving at journey's end, we all separated. Jeeves attended  to
the luggage, Ginger took Magnolia Glendennon off to his office, and
I  made  my  way  to the drawing-room, which I found  empty.  There
seemed to be nobody about, as so often happens when you fetch up at
a  country house lateish in the afternoon. No sign of Aunt  Dahlia,
nor  of Uncle Tom, her mate. I toyed with the idea of going to  see
if  the latter was in the room where he keeps his collection of old
silver,  but  thought  better  not.  Uncle  Tom  is  one  of  those
enthusiastic collectors who, if in a position to grab  you,  detain
you for hours, talking about sconces, foliation, ribbon wreaths  in
high  relief and gadroon borders, and one wants as little  of  that
sort of thing as can be managed.
   I  might  have  gone  to pay my respects to Anatole,  but  there
again  I  thought  better not. He, too, is  inclined  to  the  long
monologue when he gets you in his power, his pet subject the  state
of  his  interior. He suffers from bouts of what he  calls  mal  au
foie,  and  his  conversation would be of  greater  interest  to  a
medical man than to a layman like myself. I don't know why  it  is,
but  when somebody starts talking to me about his liver I never can
listen with real enjoyment.
   On  the  whole, the thing to do seemed to be to go for a saunter
in the extensive grounds and messuages.
   It  was one of those heavy, sultry afternoons when Nature  seems
to  be saying to itself 'Now shall I or shall I not scare the pants
off these people with a hell of a thunderstorm?', but I decided  to
risk  it.  There's a small wooded bit not far from the house  which
I've  always been fond of, and thither I pushed along. This  wooded
bit contains one or two rustic benches for the convenience of those
who wish to sit and meditate, and as I hove alongside the first  of
these I saw that there was an expensive-looking camera on it.
   It  surprised  me somewhat, for I had no idea that  Aunt  Dahlia
had  taken to photography, but of course you never know what  aunts
will  be  up  to  next.  The thought that  occurred  to  me  almost
immediately  was  that if there was going to be a thunderstorm,  it
would  be accompanied by rain, and rain falling on a camera doesn't
do it any good. I picked the thing up, accordingly, and started off
with it to take it back to the house, feeling that the old relative
would  thank me for my thoughtfulness, possibly with tears  in  her
eyes, when there was a sudden bellow and an individual emerged from
behind  a  clump of bushes. Startled me considerably, I don't  mind
telling you.
   He  was an extremely stout individual with a large pink face and
a  Panama hat with a pink ribbon. A perfect stranger to me,  and  I
wondered  what he was doing here. He didn't look the sort of  crony
Aunt  Dahlia would have invited to stay, and still less Uncle  Tom,
who is so allergic to guests that when warned of their approach  he
generally makes a bolt for it and disappears, leaving not  a  wrack
behind as I have heard Jeeves put it. However, as I was saying, you
never  know what aunts will be up to next and no doubt the ancestor
had had some good reason for asking the chap to come and mix, so  I
beamed  civilly  and opened the conversation with a  genial  'Hullo
there'.
   'Nice  day,'  I said, continuing to beam civilly.  'Or,  rather,
not   so  frightfully  nice.  Looks  as  if  we  were  in   for   a
thunderstorm.'
   Something seemed to have annoyed him. The pink of his  face  had
deepened to about the colour of his Panama hat ribbon, and both his
chins trembled slightly.
   'Damn  thunderstorms!' he responded - curtly, I  suppose,  would
be  the  word - and I said I didn't like them myself.  It  was  the
lightning, I added, that I chiefly objected to.
   'They say it never strikes twice in the same place, but then  it
hasn't got to.'
   'Damn the lightning! What are you doing with my camera?'
   This naturally opened up a new line of thought.
   'Oh, is this your camera?'
   'Yes, it is.'
   'I was taking it to the house.'
   'You were, were you?'
   'I didn't want it to get wet.'
   'Oh? And who are you?'
   I  was  glad he had asked me that. His whole manner had made  it
plain  to  a  keen mind like mine that he was under the  impression
that  he  had caught me in the act of absconding with his property,
and   I  was  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  presenting   my
credentials. I could see that if we were ever to have a good  laugh
together over this amusing misunderstanding, there would have to be
a certain amount of preliminary spadework.
   'Wooster  is the name,' I said. 'I'm my aunt's nephew. I  mean,'
I went on, for those last words seemed to me not to have rung quite
right, 'Mrs Travers is my aunt.'
   'You are staying in the house?'
   'Yes. Just arrived.'
   'Oh?'  he  said again, but this time in what you  might  call  a
less hostile tone.
   'Yes,' I said, rubbing it in.
   There  followed a silence, presumably occupied by him in turning
things  over in his mind in the light of my statement and examining
them in depth and then he said 'Oh?' once more and stumped off.
   I  made  no move to accompany him. What little I had had of  his
society  had been ample. As we were staying in the same  house,  we
would no doubt meet occasionally, but not, I resolved, if I saw him
first. The whole episode reminded me of my first encounter with Sir
Watkyn  Bassett  and the misunderstanding about his umbrella.  That
had  left  me shaken, and so had this. I was glad to have a  rustic
bench handy, so that I could sit and try to bring my nervous system
back into shape. The sky had become more and more inky I suppose is
the  word I want and the odds on a thunderstorm shorter than  ever,
but  I  still  lingered. It was only when there came from  above  a
noise  like  fifty-seven trucks going over a wooden bridge  that  I
felt  that  an immediate move would be judicious. I rose  and  soon
gathered speed, and I had reached the French window of the drawing-
room  and  was  on the point of popping through, when  from  within
there  came  the sound of a human voice. On second thoughts  delete
the  word  'human', for it was the voice of my recent  acquaintance
with whom I had chatted about cameras.
   I  halted.  There was a song I used to sing in my  bath  at  one
time,  the  refrain  or burthen of which began with  the  words  'I
stopped and I looked and I listened', and this was what I did  now,
except  for  the  looking. It wasn't raining,  nor  was  there  any
repetition of the trucks-going-over-a-wooden-bridge noise.  It  was
as  though  Nature  had said to itself 'Oh to  hell  with  it'  and
decided  that it was too much trouble to have a thunderstorm  after
all.  So  I  wasn't getting struck by lightning or even wet,  which
enabled me to remain in status quo.
   The  camera  bloke  was speaking to some unseen  companion,  and
what he said was;
   'Wooster, his name is. Says he's Mrs Travers's nephew.'
   It   was  plain  that  I  had  arrived  in  the  middle   of   a
conversation.  The  words  must have  been  preceded  by  a  query,
possibly  'Oh,  by  the way, do you happen  to  know  who  a  tall,
slender, good-looking - I might almost say fascinating - young  man
I  was  talking  to  outside there would  be?',  though  of  course
possibly  not. That, at any rate, must have been the  gist,  and  I
suppose  the  party of the second part had replied  'No,  sorry,  I
can't  place  him', or words to that effect. Whereupon  the  camera
chap  had  spoken as above. And as he spoke as above a  snort  rang
through  the  quiet room; a voice, speaking with every evidence  of
horror and disgust, exclaimed 'Wooster!'; and I quivered from hair-
do  to shoe sole. I may even have gasped, but fortunately not  loud
enough to be audible beyond the French window.
   For  it  was  the voice of Lord Sidcup - or, as I  shall  always
think  of  him,  no matter how many titles he may  have  inherited,
Spode. Spode, mark you, whom I had thought and hoped I had seen the
last  of after dusting the dust of Totleigh Towers from the Wooster
feet;  Spode, who went about seeking whom he might devour and  from
early  boyhood  had  been a hissing and a  by-word  to  all  right-
thinking men. Little wonder that for a moment everything seemed  to
go  black  and I had to clutch at a passing rose bush to keep  from
falling.
   This Spode, I must explain for the benefit of the newcomers  who
have  not  read the earlier chapters of my memoirs, was a character
whose  path had crossed mine many a time and oft, as the expression
is,  and always with the most disturbing results. I have spoken  of
the  improbability of a beautiful friendship ever getting under way
between  me  and the camera chap, but the likelihood  of  any  such
fusion  of  souls, as I have heard Jeeves call it, between  me  and
Spode  was even more remote. Our views on each other were definite.
His was that what England needed if it was to become a land fit for
heroes to live in was fewer and better Woosters, while I had always
felt that there was nothing wrong with England that a ton of bricks
falling from a height on Spode's head wouldn't cure.
   'You know him?' said the camera chap.
   'I'm  sorry  to  say I do,' said Spode, speaking  like  Sherlock
Holmes asked if he knew Professor Moriarty. 'How did you happen  to
meet him?'
   'I found him making off with my camera.'
   'Ha!'
   'Naturally I thought he was stealing it. But if he's really  Mrs
Travers's nephew, I suppose I was mistaken.'
   Spode  would  have  none  of this reasoning,  though  it  seemed
pretty  sound to me. He snorted again with even more follow-through
than the first time.
   'Being  Mrs Travers's nephew means nothing. If he was the nephew
of  an  archbishop he would behave in a precisely  similar  manner.
Wooster would steal anything that was not nailed down, provided  he
could do it unobserved. He couldn't have known you were there?'
   'No. I was behind a bush.'
   'And your camera looks a good one.'
   'Cost me a lot of money.'
   'Then  of  course  he was intending to steal it.  He  must  have
thought  he  had dropped into a bit of good luck. Let me  tell  you
about  Wooster. The first time I met him was in an antique shop.  I
had gone there with Sir Watkyn Bassett, my future father-in-law. He
collects  old  silver. And Sir Watkyn had propped his  umbrella  up
against a piece of furniture. Wooster was there, but lurking, so we
didn't see him.'
   'In a dark corner, perhaps?'
   'Or  behind something. The first we saw of him, he was  sneaking
off with Sir Watkyn's umbrella.'
   'Pretty cool.'
   'Oh, he's cool all right. These fellows have to be.'
   'I suppose so. Must take a nerve of ice.'
   To  say that I boiled with justifiable indignation would not  be
putting it too strongly. As I have recorded elsewhere, there was  a
ready  explanation  of  my behaviour. I had  come  out  without  my
umbrella  that morning, and, completely forgetting that I had  done
so,  I  had  grasped  old Bassett's, obeying the primeval  instinct
which makes a man without an umbrella reach out for the nearest one
in  sight, like a flower groping towards the sun. Unconsciously, as
it were.
   Spode  resumed. They had taken a moment off, no doubt  in  order
to  brood on my delinquency. His voice now was that of one about to
come to the high spot in his narrative.
   'You'll  hardly believe this, but soon after that he  turned  up
at Totleigh Towers, Sir Watkyn's house in Gloucestershire.'
   'Incredible!'
   'I thought you'd think so.'
   'Disguised, of course? A wig? A false beard? His cheeks  stained
with walnut juice?'
   'No, he came quite openly, invited by my future wife. She has  a
sort of sentimental pity for him. I think she hopes to reform him.'
   'Girls will be girls.'
   'Yes, but I wish they wouldn't.'
   'Did you rebuke your future wife?'
   'I wasn't in a position to then.'
   'Probably  a  wise  thing, anyway. I once  rebuked  the  girl  I
wanted to marry, and she went off and teamed up with a stockbroker.
So what happened?'
   'He  stole  a  valuable piece of silver. A sort of silver  cream
jug. A cow-creamer, they call it.'
   'My doctor forbids me cream. You had him arrested, of course?'
   'We couldn't. No evidence.'
   'But you knew he had done it?'
   'We were certain.'
   'Well, that's how it goes. See any more of him after that?'
   'This you will not believe. He came to Totleigh Towers again!'
   'Impossible!'
   'Once more invited by my future wife.'
   'Would that be the Miss Bassett who arrived last night?'
   'Yes, that was Madeline.'
   'Lovely  girl.  I  met  her in the garden before  breakfast.  My
doctor  recommends a breath of fresh air in the early morning.  Did
you know she thinks those bits of mist you see on the grass are the
elves' bridal veils?'
   'She has a very whimsical fancy.'
   'And  nothing  to  be  done about it, I suppose.  But  you  were
telling me about this second visit of Wooster's to Totleigh Towers.
Did he steal anything this time?'
   'An amber statuette worth a thousand pounds.'
   'He  certainly  gets  around,' said  the  camera  chap  with,  I
thought,  a  sort  of  grudging admiration. 'I  hope  you  had  him
arrested?'
   'We  did. He spent the night in the local gaol. But next morning
Sir Watkyn weakened and let him off.'
   'Mistaken kindness.'
   'So I thought.'
   The  camera chap didn't comment further on this, though  he  was
probably thinking that of all the soppy families introduced to  his
notice the Bassetts took the biscuit.
   'Well,  I'm very much obliged to you,' he said, 'for telling  me
about  this man Wooster and putting me on my guard. I've brought  a
very valuable bit of old silver with me. I am hoping to sell it  to
Mr  Travers.  If  Wooster learns of this, he is  bound  to  try  to
purloin  it, and I can tell you, that if he does and I  catch  him,
there  will be none of this nonsense of a single night in gaol.  He
will  get  the stiffest sentence the law can provide. And now,  how
about a quick game of billiards before dinner? My doctor advises  a
little gentle exercise.'
   'I should enjoy it.'
   'Then let us be getting along.'
   Having given them time to remove themselves, I went in and  sank
down  on a sofa. I was profoundly stirred, for if you think fellows
enjoy  listening to the sort of thing Spode had been  saying  about
me,  you're  wrong. My pulse was rapid and my brow wet with  honest
sweat,  like  the  village blacksmith's. I was  badly  in  need  of
alcoholic refreshment, and just as my tongue was beginning to stick
out  and  blacken at the roots, shiver my timbers if Jeeves  didn't
enter  left  centre  with a tray containing  all  the  makings.  St
Bernard  dogs, you probably know, behave in a similar  way  in  the
Alps and are well thought of in consequence.
   Mingled  with the ecstasy which the sight of him aroused  in  my
bosom  was  a  certain surprise that he should be  acting  as  cup-
bearer.  It  was  a job that should rightly have  fallen  into  the
province of Seppings, Aunt Dahlia's butler.
   'Hullo, Jeeves!' I ejaculated.
   'Good  evening, sir. I have unpacked your effects.  Can  I  pour
you a whisky-and-soda?'
   'You  can  indeed.  But  what  are  you  doing,  buttling?  This
mystifies me greatly. Where's Seppings?'
   'He  has  retired  to  bed, sir, with an attack  of  indigestion
consequent  upon  a  too liberal indulgence in  Monsieur  Anatole's
cooking at lunch. I am undertaking his duties for the time being.'
   'Very  white  of you, and very white of you to pop  up  at  this
particular moment. I have had a shock, Jeeves.'
   'I am sorry to hear that, sir.'
   'Did you know Spode was here?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'And Miss Bassett?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'We might as well be at Totleigh Towers.'
   'I  can  appreciate  your dismay, sir,  but  fellow  guests  are
easily avoided.'
   'Yes,  and  if  you avoid them, what do they do? They  go  about
telling  men in Panama hats you're a sort of cross between  Raffles
and  one  of  those fellows who pinch bags at railway stations,'  I
said,  and  in  a  few crisp words I gave him a resume  of  Spode's
remarks.
   'Most disturbing, sir.'
   'Very.  You  know  and  I know how sound  my  motives  were  for
everything I did at Totleigh, but what if Spode tells Aunt Agatha?'
   'An unlikely contingency, sir.'
   'I suppose it is.'
   'But  I  know just how you feel, sir. Who steals my purse steals
trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'twas mine, 'tis his, and has  been
slave to thousands. But he who filches from me my good name robs me
of that which not enriches him and makes me poor indeed.'
   'Neat, that. Your own?'
   'No, sir. Shakespeare's.'
   'Shakespeare said some rather good things.'
   'I  understand  that  he  has given uniform  satisfaction,  sir.
Shall I mix you another?'
   'Do just that thing, Jeeves, and with all convenient speed.'
   He  had  completed his St Bernard act and withdrawn, and  I  was
sipping my second rather more slowly than the first, when the  door
opened  and  Aunt  Dahlia  bounded  in,  all  joviality  and   rosy
complexion.


        6
   I  never  see this relative without thinking how odd it is  that
one  sister - call her Sister A - can be so unlike another  sister,
whom  we will call Sister B. My Aunt Agatha, for instance, is  tall
and  thin and looks rather like a vulture in the Gobi desert, while
Aunt  Dahlia is short and solid, like a scrum half in the  game  of
Rugby  football.  In  disposition, too, they  differ  widely.  Aunt
Agatha is cold and haughty, though presumably unbending a bit  when
conducting human sacrifices at the time of the full moon, as she is
widely rumoured to do, and her attitude towards me has always  been
that  of an austere governess, causing me to feel as if I were  six
years  old  and she had just caught me stealing jam  from  the  jam
cupboard;  whereas  Aunt Dahlia is as jovial  and  bonhomous  as  a
pantomime dame in a Christmas pantomime. Curious.

   I  welcomed her with a huge 'Hello', in both syllables of  which
a  nephew's love and esteem could be easily detected, and  went  so
far  as to imprint an affectionate kiss on her brow. Later I  would
take  her  roundly to task for filling the house  with  Spodes  and
Madeline  Bassetts and bulging bounders in Panama  hats,  but  that
could wait.
   She  returned my greeting with one of her uncouth hunting  cries
-  'Yoicks', if I remember correctly. Apparently, when you've  been
with  the  Quorn and the Pytchley for some time, you drop into  the
habit of departing from basic English.
   'So here you are, young Bertie.'
   'You  never spoke a truer word. Up and doing, with a  heart  for
any fate.'
   'As  thirsty  as  ever, I observe. I thought I  would  find  you
tucking into the drinks.'
   'Purely medicinal. I've had a shock.'
   'What gave you that?'
   'Suddenly becoming apprised of the fact that the blighter  Spode
was my fellow guest,' I said, feeling that I couldn't have a better
cue  for getting down to my recriminations. 'What on earth was  the
idea  of  inviting a fiend in human shape like that here?' I  said,
for  I  knew  she shared my opinion of the seventh Earl of  Sidcup.
'You have told me many a time and oft that you consider him one  of
Nature's gravest blunders. And yet you go out of your way to  court
his  society, if court his society is the expression  I  want.  You
must have been off your onion, old ancestor.'
   It  was  a  severe ticking-off, and you would have expected  the
blush of shame to have mantled her cheeks, not that you would  have
noticed  it much, her complexion being what it was after all  those
winters in the hunting field, but she was apparently imp-something,
impervious, that's the word, to remorse. She remained what  Anatole
would have called as cool as some cucumbers.
   'Ginger  asked me to. He wanted Spode to speak for him  at  this
election. He knows him slightly.'
   'Far the best way of knowing Spode.'
   'He  needs  all the help he can get, and Spode's  one  of  those
silver-tongued orators you read about. Extraordinary  gift  of  the
gab  he  has.  He  could get into Parliament  without  straining  a
sinew.'
   I  dare say she was right, but I resented any praise of Spode. I
made clear my displeasure by responding curtly:
   'Then why doesn't he?'
   'He can't, you poor chump. He's a lord.'
   'Don't they allow lords in?'
   'No, they don't.'
   'I  see,' I said, rather impressed by this proof that the  House
of  Commons drew the line somewhere. 'Well, I suppose you aren't so
much to blame as I had thought. How do you get on with him?'
   'I avoid him as much as possible.'
   'Very  shrewd.  I  shall do the same. We now  come  to  Madeline
Bassett. She's here, too. Why?'
   'Oh,  Madeline came along for the ride. She wanted  to  be  near
Spode.  An extraordinary thing to want, I agree. Morbid, you  might
call  it.  Florence  Craye, of course, has come  to  help  Ginger's
campaign.'
   I  started visibly. In fact, I jumped about six inches, as if  a
skewer or knitting-needle had come through the seat of my chair.
   'You don't mean Florence is here as well?'
   'With bells on. You seem perturbed.'
   'I'm  all of a twitter. It never occurred to me that when I came
here I would be getting into a sort of population explosion.'
   'Who ever told you about population explosions?'
   'Jeeves. They are rather a favourite subject of his. He says  if
something isn't done pretty soon -'
   'I'll  bet  he said, If steps are not taken shortly through  the
proper channels.'
   'He  did,  as  a matter of fact. He said, If steps aren't  taken
shortly  through the proper channels, half the world will  soon  be
standing on the other half's shoulders.'
   'All right if you're one of the top layer.'
   'Yes, there's that, of course.'
   'Though  even  then it would be uncomfortable.  Tricky  sort  of
balancing act.'
   'True.'
   'And  difficult to go for a stroll if you wanted to stretch  the
legs. And one wouldn't get much hunting.'
   'Not much.'
   We  mused  for  awhile on what lay before  us,  and  I  remember
thinking that present conditions, even with Spode and Madeline  and
Florence  on the premises, suited one better. From this to thinking
of  Uncle  Tom  was but a step. It seemed to me that the  poor  old
buster  must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Even a  single
guest is sometimes too much for him.
   'How,' I asked, 'is Uncle Tom bearing up under this invasion  of
his cabin?'
   She stared incredibly or rather incredulously.
   'Did  you  expect to find him here playing his  banjo?  My  poor
halfwitted child, he was off to the south of France the  moment  he
learned  that danger threatened. I had a picture postcard from  him
yesterday. He's having a wonderful time and wishes I was there.'
   'And don't you mind all these blighters overrunning the place?'
   'I  would  prefer it if they went elsewhere, but  I  treat  them
with saintly forbearance because I feel it's all helping Ginger.'
   'How do things look in that direction?'
   'An  even  bet, I would say. The slightest thing might turn  the
scale. He and his opponent are having a debate in a day or two, and
a good deal, you might say everything, depends on that.'
   'Who's the opponent?'
   'Local talent. A barrister.'
   'Jeeves  says Market Snodsbury is very straitlaced, and  if  the
electors  found out about Ginger's past they would  heave  him  out
without even handing him his hat.'
   'Has he a past?'
   'I  wouldn't call it that. Pure routine, I'd describe it as.  In
the days before he fell under Florence's spell he was rather apt to
get slung out of restaurants for throwing eggs at the electric fan,
and  he  seldom  escaped unjugged on Boat Race night  for  pinching
policemen's helmets. Would that lose him votes?'
   'Lose  him  votes?  If  it  was brought  to  Market  Snodsbury's
attention, I doubt if he would get a single one. That sort of thing
might  be overlooked in the cities of the plain, but not in  Market
Snodsbury.  So  for  heaven's sake don't go babbling  about  it  to
everyone you meet.'
   'My dear old ancestor, am I likely to?'
   'Very likely, I should say. You know how fat your head is.'
   I   would   have  what-d'you-call-it-ed  this  slur,  and   with
vehemence, but the adjective she had used reminded me that  we  had
been  talking all this time and I hadn't enquired about the  camera
chap.
   'By the way,' I said, 'who would a fat fellow be?'
   'Someone  fond  of starchy foods who had omitted  to  watch  his
calories,  I  imagine. What on earth, if anything, are you  talking
about?'
   I  saw  that  my  question had been too abrupt.  I  hastened  to
clarify it.
   'Strolling  in the grounds and messuages just now I  encountered
an  obese  bird  in  a Panama hat with a pink  ribbon,  and  I  was
wondering who he was and how he came to be staying here. He  didn't
look  the sort of bloke for whom you would be putting out mats with
"Welcome" on them. He gave me the impression of being a thug of the
first order.'
   My  words  seemed  to have touched a chord. Rising  nimbly,  she
went  to  the  door  and opened it, then to the French  window  and
looked out, plainly in order to ascertain that nobody - except  me,
of course - was listening. Spies in spy stories do the same kind of
thing  when  about to make communications which are for  your  ears
only.
   'I suppose I'd better tell you about him,' she said.
   I intimated that I would be an attentive audience.
   'That's  L. P. Runkle, and I want you to exercise your charm  on
him, such as it is. He has to be conciliated and sucked up to.'
   'Why, is he someone special?'
   'You  bet  he's someone special. He's a big financier,  Runkle's
Enterprises. Loaded with money.'
   It   seemed  to  me  that  these  words  could  have   but   one
significance.
   'You're hoping to touch him?'
   'Such  is  indeed my aim. But not for myself. I want  to  get  a
round sum out of him for Tuppy Glossop.'
   Her  allusion  was  to the nephew of Sir Roderick  Glossop,  the
well-known  nerve  specialist and loony doctor, once  a  sourc