'
   'I  don't know,' I said, for the length of my visits to the  old
ancestor is always uncertain. So much depends on whether she throws
me  out  or not. 'Actually I'm here to canvass for the Conservative
candidate. He's a pal of mine.'
   He   whistled  sharply.  He  had  been  looking  repulsive   and
cheerful;  he  now looked repulsive and grave. Seeming  to  realize
that he had omitted a social gesture, he prodded me in the ribs.
   'You're  wasting  your time, Wooster, old  man,'  he  said.  'He
hasn't an earthly.'
   'No?'  I  quavered. It was simply one man's opinion, of  course,
but  the  earnestness with which he had spoken  was  unquestionably
impressive. 'What makes you think that?'
   'Never you mind what makes me think it. Take my word for it.  If
you're  sensible, you'll phone your bookie and have a  big  bet  on
McCorkadale.  You'll never regret it. You'll come to me  later  and
thank me for the tip with tears in your -'
   At  some point in this formal interchange of thoughts by  spoken
word,  as  Jeeves's Dictionary of Synonyms puts it,  he  must  have
pressed  the bell, for at this moment the door opened  and  my  old
buddy  the maid appeared. Quickly adding the word 'eyes', he turned
to her.
   'Mrs  McCorkadale in, dear?' he asked, and having been responded
to  in  the affirmative he left me, and I headed for home. I ought,
of  course,  to  have carried on along River Row,  taking  the  odd
numbers while Jeeves attended to the even, but I didn't feel in the
vein.
   I  was  uneasy. You might say, if you happened to know the word,
that  the  prognostications of a human wart like  Bingley  deserved
little  credence, but he had spoken with such conviction,  so  like
someone who has heard something, that I couldn't pass them off with
a light laugh.
   Brooding  tensely,  I reached the old homestead  and  found  the
ancestor  lying  on  a chaise longue, doing the Observer  crossword
puzzle.


        9
   There  was  a  time  when  this worthy housewife,  tackling  the
Observer  crossword puzzle, would snort and tear her hair and  fill
the  air  with strange oaths picked up from cronies on the  hunting
field,  but consistent inability to solve more than about an eighth
of  the clues has brought a sort of dull resignation and today  she
merely  sits and stares at it, knowing that however much she  licks
the end of her pencil little or no business will result.
   As  I came in, I heard her mutter, soliloquizing like someone in
Shakespeare,  'Measured tread of saint round St Paul's,  for  God's
sake', seeming to indicate that she had come up against a hot  one,
and  I  think  it  was  a relief to her to become  aware  that  her
favourite nephew was at her side and that she could conscientiously
abandon  her  distasteful task, for she looked up  and  greeted  me
cheerily.  She  wears tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles  for  reading
which  make her look like a fish in an aquarium. She peered  at  me
through these.
   'Hullo, my bounding Bertie.'
   'Good morning, old ancestor.'
   'Up already?'
   'I have been up some time.'
   'Then  why  aren't you out canvassing? And why are  you  looking
like something the cat brought in?'
   I  winced.  I had not intended to disclose the recent past,  but
with  an  aunt's perception she had somehow spotted  that  in  some
manner I had passed through the furnace and she would go on probing
and  questioning  till  I came clean. Any  capable  aunt  can  give
Scotland  Yard  inspectors strokes and bisques  in  the  matter  of
interrogating  a  suspect,  and  I  knew  that  all   attempts   at
concealment would be fruitless. Or is it bootless? I would have  to
check with Jeeves.
   'I  am  looking like something the cat brought in because  I  am
feeling like something the c.b. in,' I said. 'Aged relative, I have
a  strange story to relate. Do you know a local blister of the name
of Mrs McCorkadale?'
   'Who lives in River Row?'
   'That's the one.'
   'She's a barrister.'
   'She looks it.'
   'You've met her?'
   'I've met her.'
   'She's Ginger's opponent in this election.'
   'I know. Is Mr McCorkadale still alive?'
   'Died years ago. He got run over by a municipal tram.'
   'I  don't blame him. I'd have done the same myself in his place.
It's  the only course to pursue when you're married to a woman like
that.'
   'How did you meet her?'
   'I  called  on her to urge her to vote for Ginger,' I said,  and
in a few broken words I related my strange story.
   It  went  well.  In fact, it went like a breeze. Myself,  I  was
unable to see anything humorous in it, but there was no doubt about
it  entertaining  the blood relation. She guffawed  more  liberally
than  I  had ever heard a woman guffaw. If there had been an aisle,
she  would have rolled in it. I couldn't help feeling how  ironical
it  was  that,  having  failed so often to be  well  received  when
telling  a funny story, I should have aroused such gales  of  mirth
with one that was so essentially tragic.
   While  she  was still giving her impersonation of a hyena  which
has  just  heard  a  good one from another hyena,  Spode  came  in,
choosing  the wrong moment as usual. One never wants to see  Spode,
but  least  of  all when someone is having a hearty laugh  at  your
expense.
   'I'm  looking  for the notes for my speech tomorrow,'  he  said.
'Hullo, what's the joke?'
   Convulsed  as  she  was, it was not easy  for  the  ancestor  to
articulate, but she managed a couple of words.
   'It's Bertie.'
   'Oh?'  said Spode, looking at me as if he found it difficult  to
believe  that  any word or act of mine could excite mirth  and  not
horror and disgust.
   'He's just been calling on Mrs McCorkadale.'
   'Oh?'
   'And asking her to vote for Ginger Winship.'
   'Oh?'  said Spode again. I have already indicated that he was  a
compulsive  Oh-sayer. 'Well, it is what I would  have  expected  of
him,'  and  with  another look in which scorn  and  animosity  were
nicely  blended  and a word to the effect that he might  have  left
those  notes  in  the  summerhouse  by  the  lake  he  removed  his
distasteful presence.
   That  he  and  I were not on Damon and Pythias terms  seemed  to
have  impressed itself on the aged relative. She switched  off  the
hyena sound effects.
   'Not a bonhomous type, Spode.'
   'No.'
   'He doesn't like you.'
   'No.'
   'And I don't think he likes me.'
   'No,'  I  said,  and  it occurred to me, for  the  Woosters  are
essentially  fairminded, that it was hardly  for  me  to  criticize
Spode's Oh's when my No's were equally frequent. Why beholdest thou
the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam
that is in thine own eye, Wooster? I found myself asking myself, it
having  been  one  of the many good things I had picked  up  in  my
researches when I won that Scripture Knowledge prize.
   'Does  he  like anyone?' said the relative. 'Except, presumably,
Madeline Bassett.'
   'He seems fond of L. P. Runkle.'
   'What makes you think that?'
   'I overheard them exchanging confidences.'
   'Oh?'  said the relative, for these things are catching.  'Well,
I suppose one ought not to be surprised. Birds of a feather -'
   'Flock together?'
   'Exactly. And even the dregs of pond life fraternize with  other
dregs  of  pond  life. By the way, remind me to tell you  something
about L. P. Runkle.'
   'Right ho.'
   'We  will come to L. P. Runkle later. This animosity of Spode's,
is  it  just  the  memory of old Totleigh days, or  have  you  done
anything lately to incur his displeasure?'
   This  time  I had no hesitation in telling her all. I  felt  she
would  be  sympathetic.  I laid the facts  before  her  with  every
confidence that an aunt's condolences would result.
   'There was this gnat.'
   'I don't follow you.'
   'I had to rally round.'
   'You've still lost me.'
   'Spode didn't like it.'
   'So  he  doesn't like gnats either. Which gnat? What gnat?  Will
you  get  on with your story, curse you, starting at the  beginning
and carrying on to the end.'
   'Certainly, if you wish. Here is the scenario.'
   I  told  her  about the gnat in Madeline's eye, the part  I  had
played in restoring her vision to mid-season form and the exception
Spode  had  taken to my well-meant efforts. She whistled.  Everyone
seemed  to  be  whistling  at me today. Even  the  recent  maid  on
recognizing me had puckered up her lips as if about to.
   'I wouldn't do that sort of thing again,' she said.
   'If the necessity arose I would have no option.'
   'Then you'd better get one as soon as possible.
   Because if you keep on taking things out of Madeline's eye,  you
may have to marry the girl.'
   'But  surely  the  peril has passed now that  she's  engaged  to
Spode.'
   'I  don't  know  so much. I think there's some  trouble  between
Spode and Madeline.'
   I  would  be  surprised to learn that in the  whole  W.1  postal
section  of London there is a man more capable than Bertram Wooster
of bearing up with a stiff upper lip under what I have heard Jeeves
call  the  slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;  but  at  these
frightful  words  I confess that I went into my old  aspen  routine
even  more  wholeheartedly than I had done during  my  get-together
with the relict of the late McCorkadale.
   And  not  without reason. My whole foreign policy was  based  on
the  supposition that the solidarity of these two consenting adults
was  something that couldn't be broken or even cracked. He, on  his
own statement, had worshipped her since she was so high, while she,
as  I  have already recorded, would not lightly throw a man of  his
eligibility into the discard. If ever there was a union  which  you
could  have  betted with perfect confidence would  culminate  in  a
golden wedding with all the trimmings, this was the one.
   'Trouble?' I whispered hoarsely. 'You mean there's a what-d'you-
call-it?'
   'What would that be?'
   'A  rift  within the lute which widens soon and makes the  music
mute. Not my own, Jeeves's.'
   'The  evidence points in that direction. At dinner last night  I
noticed  that he was refusing Anatole's best, while she looked  wan
and  saintlike  and crumbled bread. And talking of Anatole's  best,
what I wanted to tell you about L. P. Runkle was that zero hour  is
approaching.  I  am crouching for my spring and have  strong  hopes
that Tuppy will soon be in the money.'
   I  clicked  the tongue. Nobody could be keener than I on  seeing
Tuppy  dip  into L. P. Runkle's millions, but this was no  time  to
change the subject.
   'Never  mind  about  Tuppy for the moment.  Concentrate  on  the
sticky affairs of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster.'
   'Wilberforce,'  she  murmured,  as  far  as  a  woman   of   her
outstanding lung power could murmur. 'Did I ever tell you  how  you
got that label? It was your father's doing. The day before you were
lugged to the font looking like a minor actor playing a bit part in
a  gangster  film  he  won a packet on an  outsider  in  the  Grand
National called that, and he insisted on you carrying on the  name.
Tough  on you, but we all have our cross to bear. Your Uncle  Tom's
second  name  is Portarlington, and I came within an ace  of  being
christened Phyllis.'
   I  rapped  her  sharply on the top-knot with  a  paper-knife  of
Oriental  design, the sort that people in novels  of  suspense  are
always getting stabbed in the back with.
   'Don't  wander  from  the  res. The fact  that  you  nearly  got
christened  Phyllis  will, no doubt, figure in your  autobiography,
but  we  need not discuss it now. What we are talking about is  the
ghastly peril that confronts me if the Madeline-Spode axis blows  a
fuse.'
   'You  mean that if she breaks her engagement, you will  have  to
fill the vacuum?'
   'Exactly.'
   'She won't. Not a chance.'
   'But you said -'
   'I  only  wanted to emphasize my warning to you not to  keep  on
taking gnats out of Madeline's eyes. Perhaps I overdid it.'
   'You chilled me to the marrow.'
   'Sorry I was so dramatic. You needn't worry. They've only had  a
lovers' tiff such as occurs with the mushiest couples.'
   'What about?'
   'How  do I know? Perhaps he queried her statement that the stars
were God's daisy chain.'
   I  had  to  admit  that  there  was something  in  this  theory.
Madeline's  breach with Gussie Fink-Nottle had been caused  by  her
drawing his attention to the sunset and saying sunsets always  made
her  think of the Blessed Damozel leaning out from the gold bar  of
heaven,  and  he said, 'Who?' and she said, 'The Blessed  Damozel',
and  he  said, 'Never heard of her', adding that sunsets  made  him
sick, and so did the Blessed Damozel. A girl with her outlook would
be bound to be touchy about stars and daisy chains.
   'It's  probably over by now,' said the ancestor. 'All the  same,
you'd better keep away from the girl. Spode's an impulsive man.  He
might slosh you.'
   'He said he would.'
   'He used the word slosh?'
   'No,  but  he assured me he would butter me over the front  lawn
and dance on the remains with hobnailed boots.'
   'Much  the  same  thing. So I would be careful if  I  were  you.
Treat  her with distant civility. If you see any more gnats  headed
in her direction, hold their coats and wish them luck, but restrain
the impulse to mix in.'
   'I will.'
   'I hope I have relieved your fears?'
   'You have, old flesh-and-blood.'
   'Then why the furrows in your brow?'
   'Oh, those? It's Ginger.'
   'What's Ginger?'
   'He's why my brow is furrowed.'
   It   shows  how  profoundly  the  thought  of  Madeline  Bassett
possibly  coming into circulation again had moved me  that  it  was
only  now that I had remembered Bingley and what he had said  about
the certainty of Ginger finishing as an also-ran in the election. I
burned  with  shame  and  remorse that I  should  have  allowed  my
personal  troubles to make me shove him down to  the  foot  of  the
agenda  paper in this scurvy manner. Long ere this I ought to  have
been  inviting Aunt Dahlia's views on his prospects. Not  doing  so
amounted  to  letting a pal down, a thing I pride myself  on  never
being guilty of. Little wonder that I b.'d with s. and r.
   I  hastened to make amends, if those are what you make when  you
have done the dirty on a fellow you love like a brother.
   'Did I ever mention a bloke called Bingley to you?'
   'If you did. I've forgotten.'
   'He  was my personal attendant for a brief space when Jeeves and
I  differed about me playing the banjolele. That time when I had  a
cottage down at Chufnell Regis.'
   'Oh yes, he set it on fire, didn't he?'
   'While  tight as an owl. It was burned to a cinder,  as  was  my
banjolele.'
   'I've got him placed now. What about him?'
   'He  lives  in  Market  Snodsbury. I met him  this  morning  and
happened to mention that I was canvassing for Ginger.'
   'If you can call it canvassing.'
   'And  he told me I was wasting my time. He advised me to have  a
substantial  bet  on  Ma  McCorkadale. He  said  Ginger  hadn't  an
earthly.'
   'He's a fool.'
   'I  must say I've always thought so, but he spoke as if  he  had
inside information.'
   'What  on earth information could he have? An election  isn't  a
horse  race where you get tips from the stable cat. I don't say  it
may not be a close thing, but Ginger ought to win all right. He has
a secret weapon.'
   'Repeat that, if you wouldn't mind. I don't think I got it.'
   'Ginger defies competition because he has a secret weapon.'
   'Which is?'
   'Spode.'
   'Spode?'
   'My lord Sidcup. Have you ever heard him speak?'
   'I did just now.'
   'In public, fool.'
   'Oh, in public. No, I haven't.'
   'He's  a  terrific orator, as I told you, only  you've  probably
forgotten.'
   This seemed likely enough to me. Spode at one time had been  one
of those Dictators, going about at the head of a band of supporters
in footer shorts shouting 'Heil Spode', and to succeed in that line
you have to be able to make speeches.
   'You  aren't  fond of him, nor am I, but nobody  can  deny  that
he's  eloquent.  Audiences hang on his every word,  and  when  he's
finished cheer him to the echo.'
   I  nodded.  I  had had the same experience myself  when  singing
'The  Yeoman's  Wedding  Song' at village concerts.  Two  or  three
encores sometimes, even when I blew up in the words and had to fill
in  with 'Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along'. I  began
to  feel  easier  in my mind. I told her this, and she  said  'Your
what?'
   'You  have put new heart into me, old blood relation,'  I  said,
ignoring  the crack. 'You see, it means everything to  him  to  win
this election.'
   'Is   he  so  bent  on  representing  Market  Snodsbury  in  the
Westminster menagerie?'
   'It  isn't  that  so much. Left to himself, I imagine  he  could
take Parliament or leave it alone. But he thinks Florence will give
him the bum's rush if he loses.'
   'He's probably right. She can't stand a loser.'
   'So he told me. Remember what happened to Percy Gorringe.'
   'And  others. England is strewn with ex-fiances whom she bounced
because they didn't come up to her specifications. Dozens of  them.
I believe they form clubs and societies.'
   'Perhaps calling themselves the Old Florentians.'
   'And having an annual dinner!'
   We  mused on Florence for awhile; then she said she ought to  be
going  to confer with Anatole about dinner tonight, urging  him  to
dish  up something special. It was vital, she said, that he  should
excel his always high standard.
   'I  was  speaking, just now, when you interrupted me and  turned
my thoughts to the name Wilberforce, of L. P. Runkle.'
   'You said you had an idea he might be going to cooperate.'
   'Exactly.  Have you ever seen a python after a series of  hearty
meals?'
   'Not to my knowledge.'
   'It  gets all softened up. It becomes a kindlier, gentler,  more
lovable python. And if I am not greatly mistaken, the same thing is
happening  to L. P. Runkle as the result of Anatole's cooking.  You
saw him at dinner last night.'
   'Sorry,  no,  I  wasn't looking. Every fibre  of  my  being  was
concentrated  on  the foodstuffs. He would have repaid  inspection,
would he? Worth seeing, eh?'
   'He  was  positively beaming. He was too busy to utter,  but  it
was plain that he had become all amiability and benevolence. He had
the  air  of a man who would start scattering largesse if  given  a
word  of  encouragement. It is for Anatole to see to it  that  this
Christmas spirit does not evaporate but comes more and more to  the
boil. And I know that I can rely on him.'
   'Good old Anatole,' I said, lighting a cigarette.
   'Amen,'  said the ancestor reverently; then, touching on another
subject, 'Take that foul cigarette outside, you young hellhound. It
smells like an escape of sewer gas.'
   Always  glad to indulge her lightest whim, I passed through  the
French  window, in a far different mood from that in  which  I  had
entered  the  room.  Optimism now reigned  in  the  Wooster  bosom.
Ginger,  I told myself, was going to be all right, Tuppy was  going
to  be all right, and it would not be long before the laughing love
god straightened things out between Madeline and Spode, even if  he
had talked out of turn about stars and daisy chains.
   Having  finished  the gasper, I was about to return  and  resume
conversation  with the aged relative, when from within  there  came
the  voice of Seppings, now apparently restored to health, and what
he  was  saying  froze  me in every limb. I  couldn't  have  become
stiffer if I had been Lot's wife, whose painful story I had had  to
read up when I won that Scripture Knowledge prize.
   What he was saying ran as follows:
   'Mrs McCorkadale, madam.'


        1O
   Leaning against the side of the house, I breathed rather in  the
manner copyrighted by the hart which pants for cooling streams when
heated  in the chase. The realization of how narrowly I had  missed
having to mingle again with this blockbusting female barrister kept
me  Lot's-wifed for what seemed an hour or so, though I suppose  it
can't have been more than a few seconds. Then gradually I ceased to
be a pillar of salt and was able to concentrate on finding out what
on  earth Ma McCorkadale's motive was in paying us this visit.  The
last  place, I mean to say, where you would have expected  to  find
her.  Considering how she stood in regard to Ginger, it was  as  if
Napoleon  had dropped in for a chat with Wellington on the  eve  of
Waterloo.
   I  have  had  occasion to mention earlier the  advantages  as  a
listening-post afforded by the just-outside-the-French-window  spot
where  I  was standing. Invisible to those within, I could take  in
all  they  were saying, as I had done with Spode and L. P.  Runkle.
Both  had come through loud and clear, and neither had had a notion
that Bertram Wooster was on the outskirts, hearing all.
   As  I  could  hardly step in and ask her to repeat  any  of  her
remarks  which  I  didn't quite catch, it was  fortunate  that  the
McCorkadale's voice was so robust, while Aunt Dahlia's, of  course,
would  be  audible  if  you were at Hyde Park  Corner  and  she  in
Piccadilly Circus. I have often thought that the deaf adder I  read
about  when I won my Scripture Knowledge prize would have  got  the
message  right  enough if the aged relative had  been  one  of  the
charmers.  I was able to continue leaning against the side  of  the
house in full confidence that I shouldn't miss a syllable of either
protagonist's words.
   The  proceedings  started with a couple of Good  mornings,  Aunt
Dahlia's  the  equivalent  of  'What  the  hell?',  and  then   the
McCorkadale, as if aware that it was up to her to offer a  word  of
explanation, said she had called to see Mr Winship on a  matter  of
great importance.
   'Is he in?'
   Here  was  a chance for the ancestor to get one up by  retorting
that  he jolly well would be after the votes had been counted,  but
she  let  it  go,  merely  saying No, he  had  gone  out,  and  the
McCorkadale said she was sorry.
   'I  would have preferred to see him in person, but you,  I  take
it, are his hostess, so I can tell you and you will tell him.'
   This  seemed  fair  enough to me, and I remember  thinking  that
these barristers put things well, but it appeared to annoy the aged
relative.
   'I  am afraid I do not understand you,' she said, and I knew she
was  getting  steamed up, for if she had been her  calm  self,  she
would have said 'Sorry, I don't get you.'
   'If  you  will allow me to explain. I can do so in a few  simple
words. I have just had a visit from a slimy slinking slug.'
   I  drew  myself up haughtily. Not much good, of course,  in  the
circs,  but the gesture seemed called for. One does not  object  to
fair  criticism, but this was mere abuse. I could think of  nothing
in our relations which justified such a description of me. My views
on barristers and their way of putting things changed sharply.
   Whether  or  not  Aunt Dahlia bridled, as the expression  is,  I
couldn't  say, but I think she must have done, for her  next  words
were straight from the deep freeze.
   'Are you referring to my nephew Bertram Wooster?'
   The  McCorkadale  did  much to remove  the  bad  impression  her
previous  words had made on me. She said her caller had  not  given
his  name,  but  she was sure he could not have been Mrs  Travers's
nephew.
   'He  was  a  very common man,' she said, and with the  quickness
which  is so characteristic of me I suddenly got on to it that  she
must be alluding to Bingley, who had been ushered into her presence
immediately after I had left. I could understand her applying those
derogatory  adjectives to Bingley. And the noun slug,  just  right.
Once again I found myself thinking how well barristers put things.
   The  old  ancestor,  too, appeared - what's the  word  beginning
with m and meaning less hot under the collar? Mollified, that's it.
The  suggestion that she could not have a nephew capable  of  being
described as a common man mollified her. I don't say that even  now
she  would have asked Ma McCorkadale to come on a long walking tour
with her, but her voice was definitely matier.
   'Why  do  you  call him a slug?' she asked, and the  McCorkadale
had her answer to that.
   'For the same reason that I call a spade a spade, because it  is
the  best  way  of conveying a verbal image of him. He  made  me  a
disgraceful proposition.'
   'WHAT?' said Aunt Dahlia rather tactlessly.
   I  could  understand her being surprised. It  was  difficult  to
envisage  a  man  so  eager  to collect girl  friends  as  to  make
disgraceful  propositions to Mrs McCorkadale.  It  amazed  me  that
Bingley  could  have done it. I had never liked  him,  but  I  must
confess  to  a  certain  admiration for his  temerity.  Our  humble
heroes, I felt.
   'You're pulling my leg,' said the aged relative.
   The McCorkadale came back at her briskly.
   'I  am  doing  nothing of the kind. I am telling  you  precisely
what  occurred. I was in my drawing-room going over  the  speech  I
have  prepared  for the debate tomorrow, when I was interrupted  by
the  incursion of this man. Naturally annoyed, I asked him what his
business  was, and he said with a most offensive leer that  he  was
Father Christmas bringing me manna in the wilderness and tidings of
great joy. I was about to ring the bell to have him shown out,  for
of  course I assumed that he was intoxicated, when he made me  this
extraordinary  proposition. He had contrived to obtain  information
to  the detriment of my opponent, and this he wished to sell to me.
He said it would make my victory in the election certain. It would,
as he phrased it, 'be a snip'.
   I  stirred  on  my  base. If I hadn't been  afraid  I  might  be
overheard, I would have said 'Aha!' Had circs been other than  they
were,  I  would have stepped into the room, tapped the ancestor  on
the  shoulder  and said 'Didn't I tell you Bingley had information?
Perhaps  another  time you'll believe me'. But as this  would  have
involved  renewing  my acquaintance with a  woman  of  whom  I  had
already  seen sufficient to last a lifetime, it was not within  the
sphere of practical politics. I remained, accordingly, where I was,
merely  hitching my ears up another couple of notches in order  not
to miss the rest of the dialogue.
   After  the ancestor had said 'For heaven's sake!' or 'Gorblimey'
or  whatever it was, indicating that her visitor's story interested
her  strongly, the McCorkadale resumed. And what she resumed  about
unquestionably put the frosting on the cake. Words of doom  is  the
only way I can think of to describe the words she spoke as.
   'The  man, it appeared, was a retired valet, and he belonged  to
a  club for butlers and valets in London, one of the rules of which
was  that  all  members were obliged to record  in  the  club  book
information about their employers. My visitor explained that he had
been  at  one  time in the employment of Mr Winship  and  had  duly
recorded  a number of the latter's escapades which if made  public,
would  be  certain to make the worst impression on  the  voters  of
Market Snodsbury.'
   This  surprised me. I hadn't had a notion that Bingley had  ever
worked  for Ginger. It just shows the truth of the old saying  that
half the world doesn't know how the other three-quarters live.
   'He  then  told me without a blush of shame that on  his  latest
visit  to London he had purloined this book and now had it  in  his
possession.'
   I  gasped  with horror. I don't know why, but the  thought  that
Bingley  must have been pinching the thing at the very moment  when
Jeeves and I were sipping our snootfuls in the next room seemed  to
make  it  so particularly poignant. Not that it wouldn't have  been
pretty  poignant anyway. For years I had been haunted by  the  fear
that  the  Junior  Ganymede club book, with  all  the  dynamite  it
contained, would get into the wrong hands, and the hands it had got
into  couldn't  have  been more the sort of hands  you  would  have
wished it hadn't. I don't know if I make myself clear, but what I'm
driving  at  is that if I had been picking a degraded character  to
get  away  with that book, Bingley was the last character  I  would
have picked. I remember Jeeves speaking of someone who was fit  for
treasons, stratagems and spoils, and that was Bingley all over. The
man was wholly without finer feelings, and when you come up against
someone without finer feelings, you've had it.
   The  aged  relative was not blind to the drama of the situation.
She  uttered an awed 'Lord love a duck!', and the McCorkadale  said
she  might  well  say  'Lord love a duck', though  it  was  not  an
expression she would have used herself.
   'What  did  you  do?'  the ancestor asked,  all  agog,  and  the
McCorkadale gave that sniffing snort of hers. It was partly like an
escape  of  steam  and partly like two or three  cats  unexpectedly
encountering two or three dogs, with just a suggestion of  a  cobra
waking up cross in the morning. I wondered how it had affected  the
late  Mr  McCorkadale. Probably made him feel that there are  worse
things than being run over by a municipal tram.
   'I  sent  him  away with a flea in his ear. I  pride  myself  on
being a fair fighter, and his proposition revolted me. If you  want
to have him arrested, though I am afraid I cannot see how it can be
done,  he  lives at 5 Ormond Crescent. He appears to have asked  my
maid  to look in and see his etchings on her afternoon off, and  he
gave  her  his address. But, as I say, there would seem not  to  be
sufficient  evidence  for an arrest. Our conversation  was  without
witnesses, and he would simply have to deny possession of the book.
A  pity. I would have enjoyed seeing a man like that hanged,  drawn
and quartered.'
   She  snorted again, and the ancestor, who always knows what  the
book  of  etiquette  would advise, came across  with  the  soothing
syrup. She said Ma McCorkadale deserved a medal.
   'Not at all.'
   'It was splendid of you to turn the man down.'
   'As I said, I am a fair fighter.'
   'Apart  from  your revulsion at his proposition,  it  must  have
been  very annoying for you to be interrupted when you were working
on your speech.'
   'Especially as a few moments before this person appeared  I  had
been  interrupted by an extraordinary young man  who  gave  me  the
impression of being half-witted.'
   'That would have been my nephew, Bertram Wooster.'
   'Oh, I beg your pardon.'
   'Quite all right.'
   'I  may  have  formed  a wrong estimate of  his  mentality.  Our
interview  was very brief. I just thought it odd that he should  be
trying to persuade me to vote for my opponent.'
   'It's  the  sort  of  thing that would seem  a  bright  idea  to
Bertie.  He's like that. Whimsical. Moving in a mysterious way  his
wonders  to  perform. But he ought not to have butted in  when  you
were busy with your speech. Is it coming out well?'
   'I am satisfied with it.'
   'Good for you. I suppose you're looking forward to the debate?'
   'Very  keenly.  I  am  greatly in favour of  it.  It  simplifies
things  so much if the two opponents face one another on  the  same
platform  and  give  the voters a chance to  compare  their  views.
Provided, of course, that both observe the decencies of debate. But
I really must be getting back to my work.'
   'Just  a  moment.' No doubt it was the word 'observe'  that  had
rung  a  bell with the ancestor. 'Do you do the Observer  crossword
puzzle by any chance?'
   'I solve it at breakfast on Sunday mornings.'
   'Not the whole lot?'
   'Oh yes.'
   'Every clue?'
   'I have never failed yet. I find it ridiculously simple.'
   'Then  what's  all that song and dance about the measured  tread
of saints round St Paul's?'
   'Oh,  I  guessed  that immediately. The answer,  of  course,  is
pedometer.  You  measure tread with a pedometer. Dome,  meaning  St
Paul's, comes in the middle and Peter, for St Peter, round it. Very
simple.'
   'Oh,  very.  Well, thank you. You have taken a great weight  off
my  mind,' said Aunt Dahlia, and they parted in complete  amity,  a
thing I wouldn't have thought possible when Ma McCorkadale was  one
of the parters.
   For  perhaps  a  quarter of a minute after I  had  rejoined  the
human  herd,  as represented by my late father's sister  Dahlia,  I
wasn't able to get a word in, the old ancestor being fully occupied
with  saying  what  she  thought of the compiler  of  the  Observer
crossword   puzzle,  with  particular  reference   to   domes   and
pedometers.  And  when she had said her say  on  that  subject  she
embarked on a rueful tribute to the McCorkadale, giving it  as  her
opinion  that against a woman with a brain like that Ginger  hadn't
the meagre chance of a toupee in a high wind. Though, she added  in
more  hopeful vein, now that the menace of the Ganymede  Club  book
had  been  squashed there was just a possibility that the eloquence
of Spode might get his nose in front.
   All  this  while  I had been trying to cut in  with  my  opening
remark,  which was to the effect that the current situation  was  a
bit  above the odds, but it was only when I had repeated  this  for
the third time that I succeeded in obtaining her attention.
   'This  is  a  bit  thick,  what,' I said,  varying  my  approach
slightly.
   She seemed surprised as if the idea had not occurred to her.
   'Thick?'
   'Well, isn't it?'
   'Why?  If  you were listening, you heard her say that,  being  a
fair fighter, she had scorned the tempter and sent him away with  a
flea  in his ear, which must be a most uncomfortable thing to have.
Bingley was baffled.'
   'Only for the nonce.'
   'Nonsense.'
   'Not  nonsense, nonce, which isn't at all the same thing. I feel
that  Bingley, though crushed to earth, will rise again. How  about
if  he  sells that book with all its ghastly contents to the Market
Snodsbury Argus-Reminder?'
   I  was alluding to the powerful bi-weekly sheet which falls over
itself  in its efforts to do down the Conservative cause,  omitting
no  word or act to make anyone with Conservative leanings feel like
a  piece  of  cheese. Coming out every Wednesday and Saturday  with
proofs  of Ginger's past, I did not see how it could fail  to  give
his candidature the sleeve across the windpipe.
   I  put  this to the old blood relation in no uncertain terms.  I
might have added that that would wipe the silly smile off her face,
but there was no necessity. She saw at once that I spoke sooth, and
a crisp hunting-field expletive escaped her. She goggled at me with
all the open dismay of an aunt who has inadvertently bitten into  a
bad oyster.
   'I never thought of that!'
   'Give it your attention now.'
   'Those Argus-Reminder hounds stick at nothing.'
   'The sky is notoriously their limit.'
   'Did you tell me Ginger had done time?'
   'I  said  he was always in the hands of the police on Boat  Race
night. And, of course, on Rugger night.'
   'What's Rugger night?'
   'The  night  of the annual Rugby football encounter between  the
universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Many blithe spirits get  even
more  effervescent then than when celebrating the Boat Race. Ginger
was one of them.'
   'He really got jugged?'
   'Invariably.  His  practice  of  pinching  policemen's   helmets
ensured  this.  Released next morning on payment  of  a  fine,  but
definitely after spending the night in a dungeon cell.'
   There  was  no doubt that I had impressed on her the gravity  of
the  situation.  She  gave a sharp cry like that  of  a  stepped-on
dachshund, and her face took on the purple tinge it always  assumes
in moments of strong emotion.
   'This does it!'
   'Fairly serious, I agree.'
   'Fairly  serious! The merest whisper of such goings-on  will  be
enough to alienate every voter in the town. Ginger's done for.'
   'You  don't  think they might excuse him because his  blood  was
young at the time?'
   'Not  a hope. They won't be worrying about his ruddy blood.  You
don't  know  what these blighters here are like. Most of  them  are
chapel folk with a moral code that would have struck Torquemada  as
too rigid.'
   'Torquemada?'
   'The Spanish Inquisition man.'
   'Oh, that Torquemada.'
   'How many Torquemadas did you think there were?'
   I admitted that it was not a common name, and she carried on.
   'We must act!'
   'But how?'
   'Or,  rather, you must act. You must go to this man  and  reason
with him.'
   I  h'med  a  bit  at  this.  I doubted  whether  a  fellow  with
Bingley's lust for gold would listen to reason.
   'What shall I say?'
   'You'll know what to say.'
   'Oh, shall I?'
   'Appeal to his better instincts.'
   'He hasn't got any.'
   'Now  don't  make  difficulties, Bertie. That's  your  besetting
sin, always arguing. You want to help Ginger, don't you?'
   'Of course I do.'
   'Very well, then.'
   When an aunt has set her mind on a thing, it's no use trying  to
put in a nolle prosequi. I turned to the door.
   Half-way there a thought occurred to me. I said:
   'How about Jeeves?'
   'What about him?'
   'We  ought  to  spare  his  feelings  as  far  as  possible.   I
repeatedly warned him that that club book was high-level  explosive
and  ought  not to be in existence. What if it fell into the  wrong
hands, I said, and he said it couldn't possibly fall into the wrong
hands. And now it has fallen into about the wrongest hands it could
have  fallen into. I haven't the heart to say "I told you  so"  and
watch  him  writhe with shame and confusion. You see, up  till  now
Jeeves  has always been right. His agony on finding that he has  at
last  made  a floater will be frightful. I shouldn't wonder  if  he
might not swoon. I can't face him. You'll have to tell him.'
   'Yes, I'll do it.'
   'Try to break it gently.'
   'I  will. When you were listening outside, did you get this  man
Bingley's address?'
   'I got it.'
   'Then off you go.'
   So off I went.


        11
   Considering how shaky was his moral outlook and how  marked  his
tendency  to weave low plots at the drop of a hat, you  would  have
expected  Bingley's headquarters to have been one of those sinister
underground  dens lit by stumps of candles stuck in the  mouths  of
empty  beer  bottles  such  as abound, I believe,  in  places  like
Whitechapel and Limehouse. But no. Number 5 Ormond Crescent  turned
out  to be quite an expensive-looking joint with a nice little  bit
of  garden in front of it well supplied with geraniums, bird  baths
and  terracotta gnomes, the sort of establishment that  might  have
belonged  to  a blameless retired Colonel or a saintly stockbroker.
Evidently  his late uncle hadn't been just an ordinary  small  town
grocer, weighing out potted meats and raisins to a public that  had
to  watch  the  pennies, but something on a  much  more  impressive
scale.  I learned later that he had owned a chain of shops, one  of
them as far afield as Birmingham, and why the ass had gone and left
his  money  to  a chap like Bingley is more than I  can  tell  you,
though the probability is that Bingley, before bumping him off with
some  little-known  Asiatic poison, had  taken  the  precaution  of
forging the will.

   On  the  threshold I paused. I remember in my early days at  the
private  school  where I won my Scripture Knowledge  prize,  Arnold
Abney  MA, the headmaster, would sometimes announce that he  wished
to  see  Wooster in his study after morning prayers, and  I  always
halted  at  the  study door, a prey to uneasiness and apprehension,
not liking the shape of things to come. It was much the same now. I
shrank from the impending interview. But whereas in the case of  A.
Abney  my disinclination to get things moving had been due  to  the
fear  that the proceedings were going to lead up to six of the best
from a cane that stung like an adder, with Bingley it was a natural
reluctance to ask a favour of a fellow I couldn't stand  the  sight
of. I wouldn't say the Woosters were particularly proud, but we  do
rather jib at having to grovel to the scum of the earth.
   However, it had to be done, and, as I heard Jeeves say once,  if
it  were done, then 'twere well 'twere done quickly. Stiffening the
sinews  and  summoning up the blood, to quote another his  gags,  I
pressed the bell.
   If  I  had any doubts as to Bingley now being in the chips,  the
sight  of the butler who opened the door would have dispelled them.
In  assembling his domestic staff, Bingley had done himself  proud,
sparing  no expense. I don't say his butler was quite in the  class
of  Jeeves's Uncle Charlie Silversmith, but he came so near it that
the  breath was taken. And like Uncle Charlie he believed  in  pomp
and  ceremony when buttling. I asked him if I could see Mr Bingley,
and he s