e  of
horror  and concern to Bertram but now one of my leading  pals.  He
calls  me  Bertie,  I call him Roddy. Tuppy,  too,  is  one  of  my
immediate  circle  of buddies, in spite of the fact  that  he  once
betted  me I couldn't swing myself from end to end of the  swimming
bath at the Drones, and when I came to the last ring I found he had
looped  it back, giving me no option but to drop into the water  in
faultless  evening dress. This had been like a dagger in the  bosom
for a considerable period, but eventually Time the great healer had
ironed things out and I had forgiven him. He has been betrothed  to
Aunt  Dahlia's daughter Angela for ages, and I had never been  able
to  understand  why they hadn't got around to letting  the  wedding
bells get cracking. I had been expecting every day for ever so long
to  be  called on to weigh in with the silver fish-slice,  but  the
summons never came.
   Naturally  I asked if Tuppy was hard up, and she said he  wasn't
begging  his  bread and nosing about in the gutters  for  cigarette
ends, but he hadn't enough to marry on.
   'Thanks to L. P. Runkle. I'll tell you the whole story.'
   'Do.'
   'Did you ever meet Tuppy's late father?'
   'Once.  I remember him as a dreamy old bird of the absent-minded
professor type.'
   'He  was  a  chemical  researcher  or  whatever  they  call  it,
employed by Runkle's Enterprises, one of those fellows you  see  in
the movies who go about in white coats peering into test tubes. And
one  day  he invented what were afterwards known as Runkle's  Magic
Midgets,  small  pills for curing headaches. You've  probably  come
across them.'
   'I  know  them  well. Excellent for a hangover,  though  not  of
course to be compared with Jeeves's patent pick-me-up. They're very
popular  at the Drones. I know a dozen fellows who swear  by  them.
There must be a fortune in them.'
   'There was. They sell like warm winter woollies in Iceland.'
   'Then why is Tuppy short of cash? Didn't he inherit them?'
   'Not by a jugful.'
   'I  don't get it. You speak in riddles, aged relative,' I  said,
and there was a touch of annoyance in my voice, for if there is one
thing that gives me the pip, it is an aunt speaking in riddles. 'If
these ruddy midget things belonged to Tuppy's father -'
   'L.  P.  Runkle claimed they didn't. Tuppy's father was  working
for  him on a salary, and the small print in the contract read that
all  inventions  made  on  Runkle's Enterprises'  time  became  the
property  of  Runkle's Enterprises. So when old  Glossop  died,  he
hadn't  much  to  leave  his  son,  while  L.  P.  Runkle  went  on
flourishing like a green bay tree.'
   I  had  never  seen  a green bay tree, but I gathered  what  she
meant.
   'Couldn't Tuppy sue?'
   'He would have been bound to lose. A contract is a contract.'
   I  saw what she meant. It was not unlike that time when she  was
running  that  weekly  paper  of  hers,  Milady's  Boudoir,  and  I
contributed  to it an article, or piece as it is sometimes  called,
on  What  The Well-Dressed Man Is Wearing. She gave me a packet  of
cigarettes  for  it,  and  it then became her  property.  I  didn't
actually get offers for it from France, Germany, Italy, Canada  and
the  United States, but if I had had I couldn't have accepted them.
My pal Boko Littleworth, who makes a living by his pen, tells me  I
ought  to have sold her only the first serial rights, but I  didn't
think  of it at the time. One makes these mistakes. What one needs,
of course, is an agent.
   All  the  same,  I considered that L. P. Runkle  ought  to  have
stretched a point and let Tuppy's father get something out of it. I
put this to the ancestor, and she agreed with me.
   'Of course he ought. Moral obligation.'
   'It confirms one's view that this Runkle is a stinker.'
   'The  stinker  supreme. And he tells me he has been  tipped  off
that he's going to get a knighthood in the New Year's Honours.'
   'How can they knight a chap like that?'
   'Just  the sort of chap they do knight. Prominent business  man.
Big deals. Services to Britain's export trade.'
   'But a stinker.'
   'Unquestionably a stinker.'
   'Then  what's he doing here? You usually don't go  out  of  your
way to entertain stinkers. Spode, yes. I can understand you letting
him  infest  the premises, much as I disapprove of it. He's  making
speeches  on Ginger's behalf, and according to you doing it  rather
well. But why Runkle?'
   She  said  'Ah!', and when I asked her reason for saying  'Ah!',
she replied that she was thinking of her subtle cunning, and when I
asked  what she meant by subtle cunning, she said 'Ah!'  again.  It
looked  as if we might go on like this indefinitely, but  a  moment
later,  having toddled to the door and opened it and to the  French
window and peered out, she explained.
   'Runkle came here hoping to sell Tom an old silver what not  for
his  collection, and as Tom had vanished and he had come a long way
I  had to put him up for the night, and at dinner I suddenly had an
inspiration.  I thought if I got him to stay on and plied  him  day
and night with Anatole's cooking, he might get into mellowed mood.'
   She had ceased to speak in riddles. This time I followed her.
   'So  that you would be able to talk him into slipping Tuppy some
of his ill-gotten gains?'
   'Exactly.  I'm  biding my time. When the moment comes,  I  shall
act  like lightning. I told him Tom would be back in a day or  two,
not  that he will, because he won't come within fifty miles of  the
place till I blow the All Clear, so Runkle consented to stay on.'
   'And how's it working out?'
   'The  prospects  look  good. He mellows more  with  every  meal.
Anatole gave us his Mignonette de poulet Petit Duc last night,  and
he  tucked into it like a tapeworm that's been on a diet for weeks.
There was no mistaking the gleam in his eyes as he downed the  last
mouthful. A few more dinners ought to do the trick.'
   She  left  me shortly after this to go and dress for dinner.  I,
strong in the knowledge that I could get into the soup-and-fish  in
ten minutes, lingered on, plunged in thought.
   Extraordinary  how I kept doing that as of even  date.  It  just
shows  what  life is like now. I don't suppose in the  old  days  I
would have been plunged in thought more than about once a month.

        7
   I  need scarcely say that Tuppy's hard case, as outlined by  the
old  blood relation, had got right in amongst me. You might suppose
that  a  fellow capable of betting you you couldn't swing  yourself
across  the Drones swimming-bath by the rings and looping the  last
ring back deserved no consideration, but as I say the agony of that
episode  had  long  since  abated  and  it  pained  me  deeply   to
contemplate  the  spot  he was in. For though  I  had  affected  to
consider  that the ancestor's scheme for melting L. P.  Runkle  was
the  goods,  I didn't really believe it would work. You  don't  get
anywhere  filling with rich foods a bloke who wears  a  Panama  hat
like his: the only way of inducing the L. P. Runkle type of man  to
part with cash is to kidnap him, take him to the cellar beneath the
lonely  mill and stick lighted matches between his toes.  And  even
then he would probably give you a dud cheque.
   The  revelation  of  Tuppy's hard-upness had  come  as  quite  a
surprise.  You  know how it is with fellows you're seeing  all  the
time;  if you think about their finances at all, you sort of assume
they  must  be  all right. It had never occurred to me  that  Tuppy
might be seriously short of doubloons, but I saw now why there  had
been  all this delay in assembling the bishop and assistant  clergy
and  getting the show on the road. I presumed Uncle Tom would brass
up  if  given  the  green light, he having  the  stuff  in  heaping
sackfuls, but Tuppy has his pride and would quite properly  jib  at
the idea of being supported by a father-in-law. Of course he really
oughtn't to have gone and signed Angela up with his bank balance in
such  a  rocky condition, but love is love. Conquers  all,  as  the
fellow said.
   Having  mused  on Tuppy for about five minutes, I changed  gears
and  started musing on Angela, for whom I had always had a cousinly
affection. A definitely nice young prune and just the sort to be  a
good wife, but of course the catch is that you can't be a good wife
if  the other half of the sketch hasn't enough money to marry  you.
Practically all you can do is hang around and twiddle your  fingers
and  hope  for the best. Weary waiting about sums it  up,  and  the
whole  lay-out, I felt, must be g. and wormwood for Angela, causing
her to bedew her pillow with many a salty tear.
   I  always  find when musing that the thing to do is to bury  the
face in the hands, because it seems to concentrate thought and keep
the  mind  from wandering off elsewhere. I did this  now,  and  was
getting along fairly well, when I suddenly had that uncanny feeling
that  I  was  not alone. I sensed a presence, if you  would  prefer
putting  it  that  way, and I had not been mistaken.  Removing  the
hands and looking up, I saw that Madeline Bassett was with me.
   It  was  a  nasty shock. I won't say she was the last  person  I
wanted to see, Spode of course heading the list of starters with L.
P. Runkle in close attendance, but I would willingly have dispensed
with  her  company. However, I rose courteously, and I don't  think
there  was anything in my manner to suggest that I would have liked
to  hit her with a brick, for I am pretty inscrutable at all times.
Nevertheless,  behind  my calm front there  lurked  the  uneasiness
which always grips me when we meet.
   Holding the mistaken view that I am hopelessly in love with  her
and  more  or  less pining away into a decline, this Bassett  never
fails  to  look at me, when our paths cross, with a sort of  tender
pity, and she was letting me have it now. So melting indeed was her
gaze  that  it  was only by reminding myself that  she  was  safely
engaged  to  Spode  that I was able to preserve my  equanimity  and
sangfroid.  When she had been betrothed to Gussie Fink-Nottle,  the
peril  of her making a switch had always been present, Gussie being
the  sort of spectacled newt-collecting freak a girl might  at  any
moment  get  second  thoughts about, but  there  was  something  so
reassuring  in  her being engaged to Spode. Because,  whatever  you
might  think of him, you couldn't get away from it that he was  the
seventh  Earl  of  Sidcup, and no girl who has managed  to  hook  a
seventh  Earl with a castle in Shropshire and an income  of  twenty
thousand pounds per annum is lightly going to change her mind about
him.
   Having  given  me the look, she spoke, and her  voice  was  like
treacle pouring out of a jug.
   'Oh, Bertie, how nice to see you again. How are you?'
   'I'm fine. How are you?'
   'I'm fine.'
   'That's fine. How's your father?'
   'He's fine.'
   I  was  sorry to hear this. My relations with Sir Watkyn Bassett
were such that a more welcome piece of news would have been that he
had contracted bubonic plague and wasn't expected to recover.
   'I heard you were here,' I said.
   'Yes, I'm here.'
   'So I heard. You're looking well.'
   'Oh, I'm very, very well, and oh so happy.'
   'That's good.'
   'I  wake  up each morning to the new day, and I know it's  going
to be the best day that ever was. Today I danced on the lawn before
breakfast, and then I went round the garden saying good morning  to
the  flowers.  There was a sweet black cat asleep  on  one  of  the
flower beds. I picked it up and danced with it.'
   I  didn't tell her so, but she couldn't have made a worse social
gaffe.  If  there  is  one thing Augustus,  the  cat  to  whom  she
referred,  hates,  it's having his sleep disturbed.  He  must  have
cursed freely, though probably in a drowsy undertone. I suppose she
thought he was purring.
   She  had paused, seeming to expect some comment on her fatheaded
behaviour, so I said:
   'Euphoria.'
   'I what?'
   'That's what it's called, Jeeves tells me, feeling like that.'
   'Oh, I see. I just call it being happy, happy, happy.'
   Having said which, she gave a start, quivered and put a hand  up
to  her face as if she were having a screen test and had been  told
to register remorse.
   'Oh, Bertie!'
   'Hullo?'
   'I'm so sorry.'
   'Eh?'
   'It  was so tactless of me to go on about my happiness. I should
have remembered how different it was for you. I saw your face twist
with pain as I came in and I can't tell you how sorry I am to think
that it is I who have caused it. Life is not easy, is it?'
   'Not very.'
   'Difficult.'
   'In spots.'
   'The only thing is to be brave.'
   'That's about it.'
   'You  must  not  lose  courage. Who knows?  Consolation  may  be
waiting for you somewhere. Some day you will meet someone who  will
make  you forget you ever loved me. No, not quite that. I  think  I
shall  always be a fragrant memory, always something deep  in  your
heart  that  will be with you like a gentle, tender  ghost  as  you
watch  the  sunset on summer evenings while the little  birds  sing
their off-to-bed songs in the shrubbery.'
   'I  wouldn't be surprised,' I said, for one simply  has  to  say
the  civil  thing.  'You look a bit damp,' I  added,  changing  the
subject. 'Was it raining when you were out?'
   'A  little,  but I didn't mind. I was saying good-night  to  the
flowers.'
   'Oh, you say good-night to them, too?'
   'Of  course. Their poor little feelings would be so  hurt  if  I
didn't.'
   'Wise of you to come in. Might have got lumbago.'
   'That  was not why I came in. I saw you through the window,  and
I had a question to ask you. A very, very serious question.'
   'Oh, yes?'
   'But  it's so difficult to know how to put it. I shall  have  to
ask it as they do in books. You know what they say in books.'
   'What who say in books?'
   'Detectives  and  people  like  that.  Bertie,  are  you   going
straight now?'
   'I beg your pardon?'
   'You know what I mean. Have you given up stealing things?'
   I laughed one of those gay debonair ones.
   'Oh, absolutely.'
   'I'm  so  glad.  You  don't  feel  the  urge  any  more?  You've
conquered the craving? I told Daddy it was just a kind of  illness.
I said you couldn't help yourself.'
   I  remembered her submitting this theory to him ... I was hiding
behind  a  sofa  at the time, a thing I have been compelled  to  do
rather oftener than I could wish ... and Sir Watkyn had replied  in
what  I  thought dubious taste that it was precisely  my  habit  of
helping  myself to everything I could lay my hands on that  he  was
criticizing.
   Another  girl  might have left it at that, but not  M.  Bassett.
She was all eager curiosity.
   'Did you have psychiatric treatment? Or was it will power?'
   'Just will power.'
   'How  splendid.  I'm  so  proud of you.  It  must  have  been  a
terrible struggle.'
   'Oh, so-so.'
   'I shall write to Daddy and tell him -'
   Here  she paused and put a hand to her left eye, and it was easy
for  a  man of my discernment to see what had happened. The  French
window  being open, gnats in fairly large numbers had  been  coming
through  and  flitting to and fro. It's a thing one always  has  to
budget  for  in  the  English countryside.  In  America  they  have
screens,   of  course,  which  make  flying  objects  feel   pretty
nonplussed, but these have never caught on in England and the gnats
have  it more or less their own way. They horse around and now  and
then get into people's eyes. One of these, it was evident, had  now
got into Madeline's.
   I  would  be  the  last  to deny that Bertram  Wooster  has  his
limitations, but in one field of endeavour I am pre-eminent. In the
matter of taking things out of eyes I yield to no one. I know  what
to say and what to do.
   Counselling her not to rub it, I advanced handkerchief in hand.
   I  remember going into the technique of operations of this  kind
with  Gussie Fink-Nottle at Totleigh when he had removed a fly from
the eye of Stephanie Byng, now the Reverend Mrs Stinker Pinker, and
we were in agreement that success could be achieved only by placing
a  hand under the patient's chin in order to steady the head.  Omit
this  preliminary  and your efforts are bootless.  My  first  move,
accordingly, was to do so and it was characteristic of  Spode  that
he  should have chosen this moment to join us, just when  we  twain
were in what you might call close juxtaposition.
   I  confess that there have been times when I have felt  more  at
my ease. Spode, in addition to being constructed on the lines of  a
rather  oversized gorilla, has a disposition like that of a  short-
tempered  tiger of the jungle and a nasty mind which leads  him  to
fall  a  ready prey to what I have heard Jeeves call the green-eyed
monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on - viz. jealousy.  Such
a  man,  finding you steadying the head of the girl  he  loves,  is
always extremely likely to start trying to ascertain the colour  of
your insides, and to avert this I greeted him with what nonchalance
I could muster.
   'Oh,  hullo, Spode old chap, I mean Lord Sidcup old  chap.  Here
we  all  are,  what. Jeeves told me you were here, and Aunt  Dahlia
says  you've  been knocking the voting public base over  apex  with
your oratory in the Conservative interest. Must be wonderful to  be
able  to  do  that.  It's a gift, of course.  Some  have  it,  some
haven't. I couldn't address a political meeting to please  a  dying
grandmother.  I  should stand there opening and shutting  my  mouth
like a goldfish. You, on the other hand, just clear your throat and
the  golden  words  come  pouring out  like  syrup.  I  admire  you
enormously.'
   Conciliatory,  I think you'll agree. I could hardly  have  given
him  the  old  salve with a more liberal hand, and one  might  have
expected  him to simper, shuffle his feet and mumble 'Awfully  nice
of you to say so' or something along those lines. Instead of which,
all  he did was come back at me with a guttural sound like an opera
basso choking on a fishbone, and I had to sustain the burden of the
conversation by myself.
   'I've just been taking a gnat out of Madeline's eye.'
   'Oh?'
   'Dangerous devils, these gnats. Require skilled handling.'
   'Oh?'
   'Everything's back to normal now, I think.'
   'Yes, thank you ever so much, Bertie.'
   It  was Madeline who said this, not Spode. He continued to  gaze
at me bleakly. She went on harping on the thing.
   'Bertie's so clever.'
   'Oh?'
   'I don't know what I would have done without him.'
   'Oh?'
   'He showed wonderful presence of mind.'
   'Oh?'
   'I feel so sorry, though, for the poor little gnat.'
   'It  asked  for  it,' I pointed out. 'It was unquestionably  the
aggressor.'
   'Yes,   I  suppose  that's  true,  but...'  The  clock  on   the
mantelpiece  caught  her now de-gnatted eye,  and  she  uttered  an
agitated squeak. 'Oh, my goodness, is that the time? I must rush.'
   She  buzzed off, and I was on the point of doing the same,  when
Spode detained me with a curt 'One moment'. There are all sorts  of
ways  of  saying  'One moment'. This was one of the  nastier  ones,
spoken with an unpleasant rasping note in the voice.
   'I want a word with you, Wooster.'
   I  am  never anxious to chat with Spode, but if I had been  sure
that  he  merely  wanted to go on saying 'Oh?', I would  have  been
willing  to listen. Something, however, seemed to tell me  that  he
was  about  to  give evidence of a wider vocabulary,  and  I  edged
towards the door.
   'Some other time, don't you think?'
   'Not some ruddy other time. Now.'
   'I shall be late for dinner.'
   'You  can't  be  too  late for me. And if  you  get  your  teeth
knocked  down  your  throat,  as  you  will  if  you  don't  listen
attentively  to what I have to say, you won't be able  to  eat  any
dinner.'
   This  seemed  plausible. I decided to lend him an  ear,  as  the
expression is. 'Say on,' I said, and he said on, lowering his voice
to  a  sort  of rumbling growl which made him difficult to  follow.
However, I caught the word 'read' and the word 'book' and perked up
a bit. If this was going to be a literary discussion, I didn't mind
exchanging views.
   'Book?' I said.
   'Book.'
   'You  want me to recommend you a good book? Well, of course,  it
depends  on  what you like. Jeeves, for instance, is never  happier
than when curled up with his Spinoza or his Shakespeare. I, on  the
other  hand,  go in mostly for who-dun-its and novels of  suspense.
For  the  who-dun-it Agatha Christie is always a safe bet. For  the
novel of suspense ...'
   Here  I  paused,  for he had called me an opprobrious  name  and
told  me  to  stop  babbling, and it is always my  policy  to  stop
babbling  when  a  man  eight  foot six  in  height  and  broad  in
proportion  tells me to. I went into the silence, and he  continued
to say on.
   'I  said that I could read you like a book, Wooster. I know what
your game is.'
   'I don't understand you, Lord Sidcup.'
   'Then  you must be as big an ass as you look, which is saying  a
good  deal. I am referring to your behaviour towards my fiancee.  I
come into this room and I find you fondling her face.'
   I  had  to  correct  him here. One likes  to  get  these  things
straight.
   'Only her chin.'
   'Pah!' he said, or something that sounded like that.
   'And  I  had  to get a grip on it in order to extract  the  gnat
from her eye. I was merely steadying it.'
   'You were steadying it gloatingly.'
   'I wasn't!'
   'Pardon  me.  I have eyes and can see when a man is steadying  a
chin gloatingly and when he isn't. You were obviously delighted  to
have an excuse for soiling her chin with your foul fingers.'
   'You are wrong, Lord Spodecup.'
   'And,  as  I  say, I know what your game is. You are  trying  to
undermine  me,  to win her from me with your insidious  guile,  and
what  I  want  to  impress upon you with all  the  emphasis  at  my
disposal is that if anything of this sort is going to occur  again,
you  would  do well to take out an accident policy with  some  good
insurance company at the earliest possible date. You probably think
that  being a guest in your aunt's house I would hesitate to butter
you  over  the  front lawn and dance on the fragments in  hobnailed
boots, but you are mistaken. It will be a genuine pleasure.  By  an
odd coincidence I brought a pair of hobnailed boots with me!'
   So  saying, and recognizing a good exit line when he saw one, he
strode  out, and after an interval of tense meditation  I  followed
him.  Repairing  to  my  bedroom, I  found  Jeeves  there,  looking
reproachful.  He knows I can dress for dinner in ten  minutes,  but
regards  haste askance, for he thinks it results in  a  tie  which,
even if adequate, falls short of the perfect butterfly effect.
   I  ignored the silent rebuke in his eyes. After meeting  Spode's
eyes, I was dashed if I was going to be intimidated by Jeeves's.
   'Jeeves,'  I  said, 'you're fairly well up in Hymns Ancient  and
Modern, I should imagine. Who were the fellows in the hymn who used
to prowl and prowl around?'
   'The troops of Midian, sir.'
   'That's right. Was Spode mentioned as one of them?'
   'Sir?'
   'I  ask  because he's prowling around as if Midian was his  home
town. Let me tell you all about it.'
   'I fear it will not be feasible, sir. The gong is sounding.'
   'So it is. Who's sounding it? You said Seppings was in bed.'
   'The parlourmaid, sir, deputizing for Mr Seppings.'
   'I like her wrist work. Well, I'll tell you later.'
   'Very good, sir. Pardon me, your tie.'
   'What's wrong with it?'
   'Everything, sir. If you will allow me.'
   'All  right,  go ahead. But I can't help asking myself  if  ties
really matter at a time like this.'
   There is no time when ties do not matter, sir.'
   My  mood  was  sombre as I went down to dinner. Anatole,  I  was
thinking, would no doubt give us of his best, possibly his  Timbale
de   ris   de  veau  Toulousaine  or  his  Sylphides  a  la   creme
d'ecrevisses, but Spode would be there and Madeline would be  there
and Florence would be there and L. P. Runkle would be there.
   There was, I reflected, always something.

        8
   It  has been well said of Bertram Wooster that when he sets  his
hand  to  the plough he does not stop to pick daisies and  let  the
grass  grow  under  his  feet.  Many men  in  my  position,  having
undertaken  to canvass for a friend anxious to get into Parliament,
would  have waited till after lunch next day to get rolling, saying
to themselves Oh, what difference do a few hours make and going off
to  the  billiard-room for a game or two of snooker.  I,  in  sharp
contradistinction as I have heard Jeeves call it,  was  on  my  way
shortly  after  breakfast. It can't have  been  much  more  than  a
quarter  to  eleven when, fortified by a couple of kippers,  toast,
marmalade  and  three cups of coffee, I might  have  been  observed
approaching a row of houses down by the river to which someone with
a  flair  for the mot juste had given the name of River  Row.  From
long  acquaintance with the town I knew that this was  one  of  the
posher parts of Market Snodsbury, stiff with householders likely to
favour  the Conservative cause, and it was for that reason  that  I
was  making it my first port of call. No sense, I mean, in starting
off  with  the  less highly priced localities where  everybody  was
bound  to  vote Labour and would not only turn a deaf ear to  one's
reasoning but might even bung a brick at one. Ginger no doubt had a
special posse of tough supporters, talking and spitting out of  the
side  of  their  mouths, and they would attend to the brick-bunging
portion of the electorate.
   Jeeves was at my side, but whereas I had selected Number One  as
my  objective, his intention was to push on to Number Two. I  would
then  give  Number Three the treatment, while he did  the  same  to
Number Four. Talking it over, we had decided that if we made  it  a
double  act  and  blew into a house together,  it  might  give  the
occupant  the  impression that he was receiving a  visit  from  the
plain  clothes police and excite him unduly. Many of  the  men  who
live in places like River Row have a tendency to apoplectic fits as
the  result of high living, and a voter expiring on the floor  from
shock  means a voter less on the voting list. One has to  think  of
these things.
   'What  beats me, Jeeves,' I said, for I was in thoughtful  mood,
'is  why people don't object to somebody they don't know from  Adam
muscling into their homes without a ... without a what? It's on the
tip of my tongue.'
   'A With-your-leave or a By-your-leave, sir?'
   'That's right. Without a With-your-leave or a By-your-leave  and
telling  them  which way to vote. Taking a liberty, it  strikes  me
as.'
   'It  is  the custom at election time, sir. Custom reconciles  us
to everything, a wise man once said.'
   'Shakespeare?'
   'Burke,  sir. You will find the apothegm in his On  The  Sublime
And  Beautiful. I think the electors, conditioned by many years  of
canvassing, would be disappointed if nobody called on them.'
   'So  we  shall  be  bringing a ray of sunshine into  their  drab
lives?'
   'Something on that order, sir.'
   'Well,  you may be right. Have you ever done this sort of  thing
before?'
   'Once or twice, sir, before I entered your employment.'
   'What were your methods?'
   'I  outlined  as  briefly as possible  the  main  facets  of  my
argument, bade my auditors goodbye, and withdrew.'
   'No preliminaries?'
   'Sir?'
   'You  didn't  make a speech of any sort before getting  down  to
brass tacks? No mention of Burke or Shakespeare or the poet Burns?'
   'No, sir. It might have caused exasperation.'
   I  disagreed  with him. I felt that he was on  the  wrong  track
altogether and couldn't expect anything in the nature of a  triumph
at  Number Two. There is probably nothing a voter enjoys more  than
hearing  the  latest  about  Burke  and  his  On  The  Sublime  And
Beautiful,  and  here  he  was,  deliberately  chucking  away   the
advantages  his learning gave him. I had half a mind  to  draw  his
attention  to the Parable of the Talents, with which I  had  become
familiar when doing research for that Scripture Knowledge  prize  I
won at school. Time, however, was getting along, so I passed it up.
But  I  told  him  I  thought  he was  mistaken.  Preliminaries,  I
maintained,  were  of the essence. Breaking the ice  is  what  it's
called.  I mean, you can't just barge in on a perfect stranger  and
get off the mark with an abrupt 'Hoy there. I hope you're going  to
vote  for my candidate!' How much better to say 'Good morning, sir.
I can see at a glance that you are a man of culture, probably never
happier  than when reading your Burke. I wonder if you are familiar
with his On The Sublime And Beautiful?' Then away you go, off to  a
nice start.
   'You  must have an approach,' I said. 'I myself am all  for  the
jolly, genial. I propose, on meeting my householder, to begin  with
a  jovial  "Hullo  there,  Mr Whatever-it-is,  hullo  there",  thus
ingratiating myself with him from the kick-off. I shall  then  tell
him  a  funny story. Then, and only then, will I get to the  nub  -
waiting, of course, till he has stopped laughing. I can't fail.'
   'I  am sure you will not, sir. The system would not suit me, but
it is merely a matter of personal taste.'
   'The psychology of the individual, what?'
   'Precisely, sir. By different methods different men excel.'
   'Burke?'
   'Charles  Churchill,  sir, a poet who flourished  in  the  early
eighteenth  century.  The words occur in  his  Epistle  To  William
Hogarth.'
   We  halted. Cutting out a good pace, we had arrived at the  door
of Number One. I pressed the bell.
   'Zero hour, Jeeves,' I said gravely.
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Carry on.'
   'Very good, sir.'
   'Heaven speed your canvassing.'
   'Thank you, sir.'
   'And mine.'
   'Yes, sir.'
   He  pushed along and mounted the steps of Number Two, leaving me
feeling  rather  as I had done in my younger days  at  a  clergyman
uncle's  place  in  Kent when about to compete in  the  Choir  Boys
Bicycle  Handicap open to all those whose voices had not broken  by
the  first  Sunday in Epiphany - nervous, but full of the  will  to
win.
   The  door opened as I was running through the high spots of  the
laughable story I planned to unleash when I got inside. A maid  was
standing  there, and conceive my emotion when I recognized  her  as
one  who  had  held office under Aunt Dahlia the last  time  I  had
enjoyed the latter's hospitality; the one with whom, the old sweats
will  recall,  I  had  chewed the fat on the  subject  of  the  cat
Augustus  and  his  tendency to pass his days in sleep  instead  of
bustling about and catching mice.
   The  sight  of  her friendly face was like a tonic.  My  morale,
which  had  begun  to  sag a bit after Jeeves  had  left  me,  rose
sharply,  closing at nearly par. I felt that even if the  fellow  I
was  going to see kicked me downstairs, she would be there to  show
me  out and tell me that these things are sent to try us, with  the
general idea of making us more spiritual.
   'Why, hullo!' I said.
   'Good morning, sir.'
   'We meet again.'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'You remember me?'
   'Oh yes, sir.'
   'And you have not forgotten Augustus?'
   'Oh no, sir.'
   'He's  still  as  lethargic as ever. He joined me  at  breakfast
this morning, fust managed to keep awake while getting outside  his
portion of kipper, then fell into a dreamless sleep at the  end  of
the  bed  with  his  head hanging down. So you have  resigned  your
portfolio at Aunt Dahlia's since we last met. Too bad. We shall all
miss you. Do you like it here?'
   'Oh yes, sir.'
   'That's  the spirit. Well, getting down to business,  I've  come
to  see your boss on a matter of considerable importance. What sort
of chap is he? Not too short-tempered? Not too apt to be cross with
callers, I hope?'
   'It isn't a gentleman, sir, it's a lady. Mrs McCorkadale.'
   This  chipped quite a bit off the euphoria I was feeling. I  had
been  relying  on the story I had prepared to put me  over  with  a
bang, carrying me safely through the first awkward moments when the
fellow you've called on without an invitation is staring at you  as
if  wondering to what he owes the honour of this visit, and now  it
would  have to remain untold. It was one I had heard from  Catsmeat
Potter-Pirbright at the Drones and it was essentially a conte whose
spiritual  home was the smoking-room of a London club or the  men's
wash-room on an American train - in short, one by no means  adapted
to  the ears of the gentle sex; especially a member of that sex who
probably ran the local Watch Committee.
   It  was,  consequently, a somewhat damped Bertram  Wooster  whom
the  maid ushered into the drawing-room, and my pep was in  no  way
augmented by the first sight I had of mine hostess. Mrs McCorkadale
was  what I would call a grim woman. Not so grim as my Aunt Agatha,
perhaps, for that could hardly be expected, but certainly  well  up
in  the  class of Jael the wife of Heber and the Madame Whoever-it-
was  who used to sit and knit at the foot of the guillotine  during
the  French Revolution. She had a beaky nose, tight thin lips,  and
her eye could have been used for splitting logs in the teak forests
of  Borneo.  Seeing  her  steadily and seeing  her  whole,  as  the
expression  is, one marvelled at the intrepidity of Mr  McCorkadale
in marrying her - a man obviously whom nothing could daunt.
   However, I had come there to be jolly and genial, and jolly  and
genial  I  was resolved to be. Actors will tell you that  on  these
occasions,  when the soul is a-twitter and the nervous  system  not
like  mother makes it, the thing to do is to take a deep breath.  I
took three, and immediately felt much better.
   'Good  morning,  good  morning, good  morning,'  I  said.  'Good
morning,' I added, rubbing it in, for it was my policy to let there
be no stint.
   'Good  morning,' she replied, and one might have  totted  things
up as so far, so good. But if I said she said it cordially, I would
be  deceiving my public. The impression I got was that the sight of
me hurt her in some sensitive spot. The woman, it was plain, shared
Spode's  view  of what was needed to make England a  land  fit  for
heroes to live in.
   Not  being able to uncork the story and finding the way her  eye
was going through me like a dose of salts more than a little trying
to my already dented sangfroid, I might have had some difficulty in
getting the conversation going, but fortunately I was full of  good
material just waiting to be decanted. Over an after-dinner smoke on
the  previous  night  Ginger had filled me in  on  what  his  crowd
proposed to do when they got down to it. They were going, he  said,
to cut taxes to the bone, straighten out our foreign policy, double
our  export trade, have two cars in the garage and two chickens  in
the  pot for everyone and give the pound the shot in the arm it had
been  clamouring for for years. Than which, we both agreed, nothing
could  be  sweeter,  and  I  saw no  reason  to  suppose  that  the
McCorkadale  gargoyle would not feel the same. I began,  therefore,
by asking her if she had a vote, and she said Yes, of course, and I
said  Well, that was fine, because if she hadn't had, the point  of
my arguments would have been largely lost.
   'An  excellent  thing,  I've always thought,  giving  women  the
vote,'  I  proceeded  heartily, and she said  -rather  nastily,  it
seemed  to me - that she was glad I approved. 'When you cast yours,
if  cast  is the word I want, I strongly advise you to cast  it  in
favour of Ginger Winship.'
   'On what do you base that advice?'
   She  couldn't have given me a better cue. She had handed  it  to
me on a plate with watercress round it. Like a flash I went into my
sales talk, mentioning Ginger's attitude towards taxes, our foreign
policy,  our export trade, cars in the garage, chickens in the  pot
and first aid for the poor old pound, and was shocked to observe an
entire absence of enthusiasm on her part. Not a ripple appeared  on
the  stern  and  rockbound coast of her map. She looked  like  Aunt
Agatha  listening  to  the boy Wooster trying  to  explain  away  a
drawing-room window broken by a cricket ball.
   I pressed her closely, or do I mean keenly.
   'You want taxes cut, don't you?'
   'I do.'
   'And our foreign policy bumped up?'
   'Certainly.'
   'And  our exports doubled and a stick of dynamite put under  the
pound?  I'll bet you do. Then vote for Ginger Winship, the man  who
with  his hand on the helm of the ship of state will steer  England
to  prosperity and happiness, bringing back once more the  spacious
days  of Good Queen Bess.' This was a line of talk that Jeeves  had
roughed out for my use. There was also some rather good stuff about
this  sceptred isle and this other Eden, demi-something, but I  had
forgotten it. 'You can't say that wouldn't be nice,' I said.
   A  moment  before, I wouldn't have thought it possible that  she
could  look more like Aunt Agatha than she had been doing, but  she
now  achieved this breathtaking feat. She sniffed, if not  snorted,
and spoke as follows:
   'Young  man, don't be idiotic. Hand on the helm of the  ship  of
state,  indeed! If Mr Winship performs the miracle of winning  this
election,  which  he  won't, he will be an  ordinary  humble  back-
bencher,  doing nothing more notable than saying "Hear, hear"  when
his  superiors  are  speaking  and "Oh"  and  "Question"  when  the
opposition have the floor. As,' she went on, 'I shall if I win this
election, as I intend to.'
   I  blinked. A sharp 'Whatwasthatyousaid?' escaped my  lips,  and
she proceeded to explain or, as Jeeves would say, elucidate.
   'You  are not very quick at noticing things, are you? I  imagine
not,  or  you  would have seen that Market Snodsbury  is  liberally
plastered with posters bearing the words "Vote for McCorkadale". An
abrupt  way of putting it, but one that is certainly successful  in
conveying its meaning.'
   It  was  a  blow,  I confess, and I swayed beneath  it  like  an
aspen, if aspens are those things that sway. The Woosters can  take
a  good  deal,  but only so much. My most coherent thought  at  the
moment was that it was just like my luck, when I sallied forth as a
canvasser,  to  collide first crack out of the box with  the  rival
candidate.  I  also  had the feeling that if Jeeves  had  taken  on
Number  One instead of Number Two, he would probably have persuaded
Ma McCorkadale to vote against herself.
   I  suppose if you had asked Napoleon how he had managed  to  get
out  of Moscow, he would have been a bit vague about it, and it was
the  same  with me. I found myself on the front steps with  only  a
sketchy notion of how I had got there, and I was in the poorest  of
shapes.  To  try to restore the shattered system I lit a  cigarette
and  had begun to puff, when a cheery voice hailed me and I  became
aware  that some foreign substance was sharing my doorstep. 'Hullo,
Wooster old chap' it was saying and, the mists clearing from before
my eyes, I saw that it was Bingley.
   I  gave  the blighter a distant look. Knowing that this blot  on
the  species  resided in Market Snodsbury, I had  foreseen  that  I
might  run into him sooner or later, so I was not surprised to  see
him. But I certainly wasn't pleased. The last thing I wanted in the
delicate  state  to  which  the  McCorkadale  had  reduced  me  was
conversation  with a man who set cottages on fire  and  chased  the
hand that fed him hither and thither with a carving knife.
   He   was  as  unduly  intimate,  forward,  bold,  intrusive  and
deficient in due respect as he had been at the Junior Ganymede.  He
gave my back a cordial slap and would, I think, have prodded me  in
the  ribs if it had occurred to him. You wouldn't have thought that
carving knives had ever come between us.
   'And what are you doing in these parts, cocky?' he asked.
   I  said  I was visiting my aunt Mrs Travers, who had a house  in
the  vicinity, and he said he knew the place, though he  had  never
met the old geezer to whom I referred.
   'I've seen her around. Red-faced old girl, isn't she?'
   'Fairly vermilion.'
   'High blood pressure, probably.'
   'Or caused by going in a lot for hunting. It chaps the cheeks.'
   'Different from a barmaid. She cheeks the chaps.'
   If he had supposed that his crude humour would get so much as  a
simper  out  of  me,  he  was disappointed. I  preserved  the  cold
aloofness of a Wednesday matinee audience, and he proceeded.
   'Yes, that might be it. She looks a sport. Making a long stay?