'
   'Not at all. Well-deserved tribute.'
   I  shot  a  glance  at  the  aged relative.  It  is  notoriously
difficult to change the trend of an aunt's mind when that  mind  is
made up about this or that, but I could see at a g. that Jeeves had
done it. I hadn't expected her to look pleased, and she didn't, but
it  was evident that she had accepted what is sometimes called  the
inevitable. I would describe her as not having a word to  say,  had
she  not  at this moment said one, suitable enough for the  hunting
field but on the strong side for mixed company. I registered it  in
my  memory as something to say to Spode some time, always  provided
it was on the telephone.
   'I  suppose  you're  right,  Jeeves,' she  said,  heavy-hearted,
though bearing up stoutly. 'It seemed a good idea at the time,  but
I  agree with you that it isn't as watertight as I thought it. It's
so often that way with one's golden dreams. The -'
   '  -  best-laid  plans of mice and men gang aft agley,'  I  said
helping  her  out.  'See the poet Burns. I've  often  wondered  why
Scotsmen  say "gang". I asked you once, Jeeves, if you recall,  and
you said they had not confided in you. You were saying, ancestor?'
   'I was about to say -'
   'Or, for that matter, "agley".'
   'I was about to say -'
   'Or "aft" for "often".'
   'I  was about to say,' said the relative, having thrown her  Rex
Stout  at  me, fortunately with a less accurate aim than the  other
time,  'that there's nothing to be done but for me to put the thing
back in Runkle's room where I took it from.'
   'Whence  I  took it' would have been better, but it was  not  to
comment  on her prose style that I interposed. I was thinking  that
if she was allowed to do the putting back, she might quite possibly
change her mind on the way to Runkle's room and decide to stick  to
the  loot after all. Jeeves's arguments had been convincing to  the
last  drop, but you can never be sure that the effect of convincing
arguments won't wear off, especially with aunts who don't know  the
difference between right and wrong, and it might be that she  would
take  the view that if she pocketed the porringer and kept it among
her  souvenirs,  she  would at least be saving something  from  the
wreck.  'Always  difficult  to  know  what  to  give  Tom  for  his
birthday,' she might say to herself. 'This will be just the thing.'
   'I'll do it,' I said. 'Unless you'd rather, Jeeves.'
   'No, thank you, sir.'
   'Only take a minute of your time.'
   'No, thank you, sir.'
   'Then  you  may leave us, Jeeves. Much obliged for  your  Daniel
come to judgmenting.'
   'A pleasure, sir.'
   'Give Uncle Charlie my love.'
   'I will indeed, sir.'
   As  the  door closed behind him, I started to make my plans  and
dispositions,  as  I believe the word is, and  I  found  the  blood
relation  docile and helpful. Runkle's room, she told me,  was  the
one known as the Blue Room, and the porringer should be inserted in
the left top drawer of the chest of drawers, whence she had removed
it.  I  asked if she was sure he was still in the hammock, and  she
said he must be, because on her departure he was bound to have gone
to  sleep  again. Taking a line through the cat Augustus,  I  found
this  plausible.  With these traumatic symplegia  cases  waking  is
never  more than a temporary thing. I have known Augustus to resume
his  slumbers  within fifteen seconds of having had a shopping  bag
containing tins of cat food fall on him. A stifled oath, and he was
off to dreamland once more.
   As  I climbed the stairs, I was impressed by the fact that L. P.
Runkle  had been given the Blue Room, for in this house it amounted
to  getting star billing. It was the biggest and most luxurious  of
the  rooms  allotted  to bachelors. I once suggested  to  the  aged
relative that I be put there, but all she said was 'You?'  and  the
conversation turned to other topics. Runkle having got it in  spite
of  the  presence  on  the premises of a seventh  Earl  showed  how
determined the a. r. had been that no stone should be left unturned
and  no  avenue unexplored in her efforts to soften him up; and  it
seemed  ironical  that all her carefully thought-out  plans  should
have  gone agley. Just shows Burns knew what he was talking  about.
You  can  generally rely on these poets to hit the mark and entitle
themselves to a cigar or coconut according to choice.
   The  old  sweats will remember, though later arrivals will  have
to be told, that this was not the first time I had gone on a secret
mission  to  the Blue Room. That other visit, the old  sweats  will
recall,  had ended in disaster and not knowing which way  to  look,
for  Mrs Homer Cream, the well-known writer of suspense novels, had
found  me on the floor with a chair round my neck, and it  had  not
been easy to explain. This was no doubt why on the present occasion
I approached the door with emotions somewhat similar to those I had
had in the old days when approaching that of Arnold Abney MA at the
conclusion of morning prayers. A voice seemed to whisper in my  ear
that  beyond that door there lurked something that wasn't going  to
do me a bit of good.
   The  voice  was  perfectly right. It had got its  facts  correct
first  shot. What met my eyes as I entered was L. P. Runkle  asleep
on  the  bed, and with my customary quickness I divined  what  must
have  happened. After being cornered there by the old  ancestor  he
must  have come to the conclusion that a hammock out in the  middle
of  a lawn, with access to it from all directions, was no place for
a  man  who wanted peace and seclusion, and that these were  to  be
obtained  only in his bedroom. Thither, accordingly, he  had  gone,
and there he was.
   Voila  tout,  as one might say if one had made a  study  of  the
French language.
   The  sight  of this sleeping beauty had, of course, given  me  a
nasty  start, causing my heart to collide rather violently with  my
front  teeth,  but it was only for a moment that I was  unequal  to
what  I  have  heard Jeeves call the intellectual pressure  of  the
situation.  It  is pretty generally recognized in  the  circles  in
which  I move that Bertram Wooster, though he may be down, is never
out,  the  betting being odds on that, given time  to  collect  his
thoughts  and  stop  his head spinning, he will  rise  on  stepping
stones  of his dead self to higher things, as the fellow said,  and
it  was so now. I would have preferred, of course, to operate in  a
room  wholly free from the presence of L. P. Runkle, but I realized
that  as  long as he remained asleep there was nothing to  keep  me
from  carrying  on.  All that was required was that  my  activities
should be conducted in absolute silence. And it was thus that I was
conducting  them,  more like a spectre or wraith than  a  chartered
member of the Drones Club, when the air was rent, as the expression
is,  by  a  sharp  yowl such as you hear when a cougar  or  a  snow
leopard  stubs  its toe on a rock, and I became aware  that  I  had
trodden on the cat Augustus, who had continued to follow me, still,
I  suppose,  under  the mistaken impression  that  I  had  kippered
herrings on my person and might at any moment start loosening up.
   In  normal  circumstances  I would  have  hastened  to  make  my
apologies and to endeavour by tickling him behind the ear to  apply
balm  to his wounded feelings, but at this moment L. P. Runkle  sat
up, said 'Wah-wah-wah', rubbed his eyes, gave me an unpleasant look
with them and asked me what the devil I was doing in his room.
   It  was  not an easy question to answer. There had been  nothing
in  our relations since we first swam into each other's ken to make
it  seem likely that I had come to smooth his pillow or ask him  if
he  would  like  a cooling drink, and I did not put  forward  these
explanations.  I was thinking how right the ancestor  had  been  in
predicting  that, if aroused suddenly, he would wake up cross.  His
whole  demeanour was that of a man who didn't much like  the  human
race as a whole but was particularly allergic to Woosters. Not even
Spode could have made his distaste for them plainer.
   I  decided  to  see  what could be done  with  suavity.  It  had
answered  well in the case of Ginger, and there was no saying  that
it might not help to ease the current situation.
   'I'm  sorry,'  I said with an enchanting smile,  'I'm  afraid  I
woke you.'
   'Yes, you did. And stop grinning at me like a half-witted ape.'
   'Right-ho,' I said. I removed the enchanting smile. It came  off
quite  easily. 'I don't wonder you're annoyed. But I'm more  to  be
pitied than censured. I inadvertently trod on the cat.'
   A  look of alarm spread over his face. It had a long way to  go,
but it spread all right.
   'Hat?' he quavered, and I could see that he feared for the well-
being of his Panama with the pink ribbon.
   I lost no time in reassuring him.
   'Not hat. Cat.'
   'What cat?'
   'Oh,  haven't you met? Augustus his name is, though for purposes
of  conversation this is usually shortened to Gus. He  and  I  have
been buddies since he was a kitten. He must have been following  me
when I came in here.'
   It  was  an  unfortunate way of putting it, for it  brought  him
back to his original theme.
   'Why the devil did you come in here?'
   A  lesser  man than Bertram Wooster would have been non-plussed,
and  I don't mind admitting that I was, too, for about a couple  of
ticks.  But as I stood shuffling the feet and twiddling the fingers
I caught sight of that camera of his standing on an adjacent table,
and   I  got  one  of  those  inspirations  you  get  occasionally.
Shakespeare  and Bums and even Oliver Wendell Holmes probably  used
to have them all the time, but self not so often. In fact, this was
the first that had come my way for some weeks.
   'Aunt  Dahlia sent me to ask you if you would come  and  take  a
few photographs of her and the house and all that sort of thing, so
that  she'll have them to look at in the long winter evenings.  You
know how long the winter evenings get nowadays.'
   The  moment  I  had  said it I found myself  speculating  as  to
whether the inspiration had been as hot as I had supposed. I  mean,
this  man  had  just had a conference with the old ancestor  which,
unlike those between ministers of state, had not been conducted  in
an atmosphere of the utmost cordiality, and he might be thinking it
odd that so soon after its conclusion she should be wanting him  to
take  photographs of her. But all was well. No doubt he  looked  on
her request as what is known as an olive branch. Anyway, he was all
animation and eagerness to co-operate.
   'I'll be right down,' he said. 'Tell her I'll be right down.'
   Having  hidden the porringer in my room and locked the  door,  I
went  back  to  the  aged relative and found her with  Jeeves.  She
expressed relief at seeing me.
   'Oh,   there  you  are,  my  beautiful  bounding  Bertie.  Thank
goodness  you didn't go to Runkle's room. Jeeves tells me  Seppings
met Runkle on the stairs and he asked him to bring him a cup of tea
in  half an hour. He said he was going to lie down. You might  have
run right into him.'
   I laughed one of those hollow, mirthless ones.
   'Jeeves speaks too late, old ancestor. I did run into him.'
   'You mean he was there?'
   'With his hair in a braid.'
   'What did you do?'
   'I  told  him you had asked me to ask him to come and take  some
photographs.'
   'Quick thinking.'
   'I always think like lightning.'
   'And did he swallow it?'
   'He appeared to. He said he would be right down.'
   'Well, I'm damned if I'm going to smile.'
   Whether  I  would  have pleaded with her to  modify  this  stern
resolve and at least show a portion of her front teeth when  Runkle
pressed the button, I cannot say, for as she spoke my thoughts were
diverted.  A  sudden query presented itself. What, I asked  myself,
was  keeping L. P. Runkle? He had said he would be right down,  but
quite a time had elapsed and no sign of him. I was toying with  the
idea  that  on a warm afternoon like this a man of his build  might
have  had  a fit of some kind, when there came from the stairs  the
sound of clumping feet, and he was with us.
   But  a very different L. P. Runkle from the man who had told  me
he would be right down. Then he had been all sunny and beaming, the
amateur  photographer who was not only going  to  make  a  pest  of
himself by taking photographs but had actually been asked to make a
pest  of  himself in this manner, which seldom happens  to  amateur
photographers. Now he was cold and hard like a picnic egg,  and  he
couldn't  have  looked at me with more loathing  if  I  really  had
trodden on his Panama hat.
   'Mrs Travers!'
   His  voice  had rung out with the clarion note of a costermonger
seeking to draw the attention of the purchasing public to his blood
oranges  and  Brussels sprouts. I saw the ancestor stiffen,  and  I
knew  she  was about to go into her grande dame act. This relative,
though in ordinary circs so genial and matey, can on occasion  turn
in  a  flash  into  a carbon copy of a Duchess of  the  old  school
reducing  an  underling  to  a spot  of  grease,  and  what  is  so
remarkable is that she doesn't have to use a lorgnette,  just  does
it  all  with the power of the human eye. I think girls in her  day
used to learn the trick at their finishing schools.
   'Will  you  kindly not bellow at me, Mr Runkle. I am  not  deaf.
What is it?'
   The  aristocratic  ice in her tone sent a cold  shiver  down  my
spine,  but in L. P. Runkle she had picked a tough customer to  try
to  freeze. He apologized for having bellowed, but briefly and with
no  real contrition. He then proceeded to deal with her query as to
what  it  was, and with a powerful effort forced himself  to  speak
quite quietly. Not exactly like a cooing pigeon, but quietly.
   'I  wonder  if you remember, Mrs Travers, a silver  porringer  I
showed you on my arrival here.'
   'I do.'
   'Very valuable.'
   'So you told me.'
   'I  kept  it in the top left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers
in  my bedroom. It did not occur to me that there was any necessity
to  hide  it. I took the honesty of everybody under your  roof  for
granted.'
   'Naturally.'
   'Even  when I found that Mr Wooster was one of my fellow  guests
I  took  no precautions. It was a fatal blunder. He has just stolen
it.'
   I  suppose  it's pretty much of a strain to keep up that  grande
dame stuff for any length of time, involving as it does rigidity of
the  facial muscles and the spinal column, for at these  words  the
ancestor called it a day and reverted to the Quorn-and-Pytchleyness
of her youth.
   'Don't  be  a  damned fool, Runkle. You're talking  rot.  Bertie
would never dream of doing such a thing, would you, Bertie?'
   'Not in a million years.'
   'The man's an ass.'
   'One might almost say a silly ass.'
   'Comes of sleeping all the time.'
   'I believe that's the trouble.'
   'Addles the brain.'
   'Must,  I imagine. It's the same thing with Gus the cat. I  love
Gus  like  a  brother, but after years of non-stop sleep  he's  got
about as much genuine intelligence as a Cabinet minister.'
   'I   hope  Runkle  hasn't  annoyed  you  with  his  preposterous
allegations?'
   'No,  no,  old  ancestor, I'm not angry, just terribly  terribly
hurt.'
   You'd  have thought all this would have rendered Runkle a  spent
force  and  a  mere shell of his former self, but his eye  was  not
dimmed nor his natural force abated. Turning to the door, he paused
there to add a few words.
   'I  disagree with you, Mrs Travers, in the view you take of your
nephew's honesty. I prefer to be guided by Lord Sidcup, who assures
me  that  Mr Wooster invariably steals anything that is not  firmly
fastened  to  the  floor. It was only by the  merest  chance,  Lord
Sidcup  tells me, that at their first meeting he did not make  away
with an umbrella belonging to Sir Watkyn Bassett, and from there he
has,  as  one  might  put  it,  gone  from  strength  to  strength.
Umbrellas, cow-creamers, amber statuettes, cameras, all  are  grist
to his mill. I was unfortunately asleep when he crept into my room,
and he had plenty of time before I woke to do what he had come for.
It was only some minutes after he had slunk out that it occurred to
me  to look in the top left-hand drawer of my chest of drawers.  My
suspicions  were confirmed. The drawer was empty. He had  got  away
with the swag. But I am a man of action. I have sent your butler to
the  police station to bring a constable to search Wooster's  room.
I,  until he arrives, propose to stand outside it, making sure that
he does not go in and tamper with the evidence.'
   Having  said  which in the most unpleasant of vocal  deliveries,
L. P. Runkle became conspic. by his a., and the ancestor spoke with
considerable  eloquence  on the subject of  fat  slobs  of  dubious
parentage who had the immortal crust to send her butler on errands.
I, too, was exercised by the concluding portion of his remarks.
   'I  don't like that,' I said, addressing Jeeves, who during  the
recent  proceedings  had been standing in the background  giving  a
lifelike impersonation of somebody who wasn't there.
   'Sir?'
   'If the fuzz search my room, I'm sunk.'
   'Have  no  anxiety, sir. A police officer is  not  permitted  to
enter  private  property without authority, nor do the  regulations
allow  him  to  ask  the owner of such property for  permission  to
enter.'
   'You're sure of that?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   Well, that was a crumb of comfort, but it would be deceiving  my
public  if  I  said  that Bertram Wooster was his usual  nonchalant
self.  Too  many things had been happening one on top of the  other
for  him  to be the carefree boulevardler one likes to  see.  If  I
hoped  to clarify the various situations which were giving  me  the
pip  and  erase the dark circles already beginning to form  beneath
the  eyes,  it  would, I saw, be necessary for  me  to  marshal  my
thoughts.
   'Jeeves,' I said, leading him from the room, 'I must marshal  my
thoughts.'
   'Certainly, sir, if you wish.'
   'And   I   can't  possibly  do  it  here  with  crises   turning
handsprings on every side. Can you think of a good excuse for me to
pop  up  to London for the night? A few hours alone in the peaceful
surroundings  of  the  flat are what I need.  I  must  concentrate,
concentrate.'
   'But do you require an excuse, sir?'
   'It's better to have one. Aunt Dahlia is on a sticky wicket  and
would  be hurt if I deserted her now unless I had some good reason.
I can't let her down.'
   'The sentiment does you credit, sir.'
   'Thank you, Jeeves. Can you think of anything?'
   'You have been summoned for jury duty, sir.'
   'Don't they let you have a longish notice for that?'
   'Yes, sir, but when the post arrived containing the letter  from
the authorities, I forgot to give it to you, and only delivered  it
a  moment  ago.  Fortunately it was not  too  late.  Would  you  be
intending to leave immediately?'
   'If not sooner. I'll borrow Ginger's car.'
   'You will miss the debate, sir.'
   'The what?'
   'The  debate between Mr Winship and his opponent. It takes place
tomorrow night.'
   'What time?'
   'It is scheduled for a quarter to seven.'
   'Taking how long?'
   'Perhaps an hour.'
   'Then  expect me back at about seven-thirty. The great thing  in
life, Jeeves, if we wish to be happy and prosperous, is to miss  as
many  political debates as possible. You wouldn't care to come with
me, would you?'
   'No,  thank  you,  sir. I am particularly  anxious  to  hear  Mr
Winship's speech.'
   'He'll probably only say "Er",' I riposted rather cleverly.

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

   Arriving  at  journey's end, I steered the car into  the  drive.
About  half-way along it there was a tricky right-hand turn, and  I
had  slowed  down  to  negotiate this, when a dim  figure  appeared
before me, a voice said, 'Hoy!', and I saw that it was Ginger.
   He  seemed annoyed about something. His 'Hoy!' had had a note of
reproach  in  it,  as  far as it is possible to  get  the  note  of
reproach  into a 'Hoy!', and as he drew near and shoved  his  torso
through the window I received the distinct impression that  he  was
displeased.
   His opening words confirmed this.
   'Bertie, you abysmal louse, what's kept you all this time?  When
I  lent  you my car, I didn't expect you'd come back at two o'clock
in the morning.'
   'It's only half-past seven.'
   He seemed amazed.
   'Is  that  all?  I  thought  it was  later.  So  much  has  been
happening.'
   'What has been happening?'
   'No time to tell you now. I'm in a hurry.'
   It  was at this point that I noticed something in his appearance
which I had overlooked. A trifle, but I'm rather observant.
   'You've got egg in your hair,' I said.
   'Of  course  I've  got  egg in my hair,'  he  said,  his  manner
betraying impatience. 'What did you expect me to have in  my  hair,
Chanel Number Five?'
   'Did somebody throw an egg at you?'
   'Everybody  threw eggs at everybody. Correction.  Some  of  them
threw turnips and potatoes.'
   'You  mean  the meeting broke up in disorder, as the  expression
is?'
   'I  don't suppose any meeting in the history of English politics
has  ever broken up in more disorder. Eggs flew hither and thither.
The air was dark with vegetables of every description. Sidcup got a
black eye. Somebody plugged him with a potato.'
   I  found  myself in two minds. On the one hand I felt a pang  of
regret for having missed what had all the earmarks of having been a
political meeting of the most rewarding kind: on the other, it  was
like  rare and refreshing fruit to hear that Spode had got  hit  in
the  eye with a potato. I was conscious of an awed respect for  the
marksman who had accomplished this feat. A potato, being so  nobbly
in shape, can be aimed accurately only by a master hand.
   'Tell me more,' I said, well pleased.
   'Tell you more be blowed. I've got to get up to London. We  want
to  be  there  bright  and  early  tomorrow  in  order  to  inspect
registrars and choose the best one.'
   This  didn't sound like Florence, who, if she ever gets  through
an  engagement without breaking it, is sure to insist on a  wedding
with  bishops,  bridesmaids, full choral effects, and  a  reception
afterwards.  A  sudden thought struck me, and I think  I  may  have
gasped. Somebody made a noise like a dying soda-water syphon and it
was presumably me.
   'When you say "we", do you mean you and M. Glendennon?'
   'Who else?'
   'But how?'
   'Never mind how.'
   'But  I do mind how. You were Problem (d) on my list, and I want
to  know  how  you  have been solved. I gather  that  Florence  has
remitted your sentence -'
   'She  has,  in words of unmistakable clarity. Get  out  of  that
car.'
   'But why?'
   'Because  if you aren't out of it in two seconds, I'm  going  to
pull you out.'
   'I mean why did she r. your s.?'
   'Ask  Jeeves,' he said, and attaching himself to the  collar  of
my coat he removed me from the automobile like a stevedore hoisting
a  sack  of  grain. He took my place at the wheel, and  disappeared
down  the  drive  to  keep his tryst with  the  little  woman,  who
presumably awaited him at some prearranged spot with the  bags  and
baggage.
   He  left  me  in  a  condition which can best  be  described  as
befogged, bewildered, mystified, confused and perplexed. All I  had
got out of him was (a) that the debate had not been conducted in an
atmosphere  of  the utmost cordiality, (b) that at  its  conclusion
Florence  had forbidden the banns and (c) that if I wanted  further
information Jeeves would supply it. A little more than the charmers
got  out  of the deaf adder, but not much. I felt like a barrister,
as  it  might  be  Ma  McCorkadale, who  has  been  baffled  by  an
unsatisfactory witness.
   However,  he had spoken of Jeeves as a fount of information,  so
my first move on reaching the drawing-room and finding no one there
was to put forefinger to bell button and push.
   Seppings  answered the summons. He and I have been buddies  from
boyhood  -  mine, of course, not his - and as a rule when  we  meet
conversation flows like water, mainly on the subject of the weather
and  the  state  of  his lumbago, but this was  no  time  for  idle
chatter.
   'Seppings,' I said, 'I want Jeeves. Where is he?'
   'In the Servants' Hall, sir, comforting the parlourmaid.'
   I  took  him  to  allude to the employee whose gong-work  I  had
admired on my first evening, and, pressing though my business  was,
it  seemed only humane to offer a word of sympathy for whatever her
misfortunes might be.
   'Had bad news, has she?'
   'No, sir, she was struck by a turnip.'
   'Where?'
   'In the lower ribs, sir.'
   'I mean where did this happen?'
   'At the Town Hall, sir, in the later stages of the debate.'
   I  drew in the breath sharply. More and more I was beginning  to
realize  that the meeting I had missed had been marked by  passions
which recalled the worst excesses of the French Revolution.
   'I  myself,  sir,  narrowly escaped being hit by  a  tomato.  It
whizzed past my ear.'
   'You  shock me profoundly, Seppings. I don't wonder you're  pale
and  trembling.'  And indeed he was, like a badly  set  blancmange.
'What caused all this turmoil?'
   'Mr Winship's speech, sir.'
   This  surprised me. I could readily believe that any  speech  of
Ginger's would be well below the mark set by Demosthenes,  if  that
really was the fellow's name, but surely not so supremely lousy  as
to start his audience throwing eggs and vegetables; and I was about
to  institute further enquiries, when Seppings sidled to the  door,
saying  that he would inform Mr Jeeves of my desire to confer  with
him. And in due season the hour produced the man, as the expression
is.
   'You wished to see me, sir?' he said.
   'You can put it even stronger, Jeeves. I yearned to see you.'
   'Indeed, sir?'
   'Just now I met Ginger in the drive.'
   'Yes, sir, he informed me that he was going there to await  your
return.'
   'He  tells me he is no longer betrothed to Miss Craye, being now
affianced to Miss Glendennon. And when I asked him how this  switch
had come about, he said that you would explain.'
   'I shall be glad to do so, sir. You wish a complete report?'
   'That's right. Omit no detail, however slight.'
   He  was  silent for a space. Marshalling his thoughts, no doubt.
Then he got down to it.
   'The  importance attached by the electorate to the  debate,'  he
began,  'was  very  evident. An audience of considerable  size  had
assembled  in the Town Hall. The Mayor and Corporation were  there,
together  with the flower of Market Snodsbury's aristocracy  and  a
rougher  element in cloth caps and turtleneck sweaters  who  should
never have been admitted.'
   I had to rebuke him at this point.
   'Bit  snobbish,  that,  Jeeves,  what?  You  are  a  little  too
inclined to judge people by their clothes. Turtleneck sweaters  are
royal raiment when they're worn for virtue's sake, and a cloth  cap
may  hide an honest heart. Probably frightfully good chaps, if  one
had got to know them.'
   'I  would  prefer  not  to  know them,  sir.  It  was  they  who
subsequently threw eggs, potatoes, tomatoes and turnips.'
   I had to concede that he had a point there.
   'True,'  I  said.  'I  was forgetting that. All  right,  Jeeves.
Carry on.'
   'The  proceedings opened with a rendering of the national anthem
by the boys and girls of Market Snodsbury element
   ary school.'
   'Pretty ghastly, I imagine?'
   'Somewhat revolting, sir.'
   'And then?'
   'The  Mayor  made a short address, introducing the  contestants,
and Mrs McCorkadale rose to speak. She was wearing a smart coat  in
fine  quality  repp over a long-sleeved frock of  figured  marocain
pleated at the sides and finished at the neck with -'
   'Skip all that, Jeeves.'
   'I  am  sorry,  sir. I thought you wished every detail,  however
slight.'
   'Only when they're ... what's the word?'
   'Pertinent, sir?'
   'That's  right. Take the McCorkadale's outer crust as read.  How
was her speech?'
   'Extremely telling, in spite of a good deal of heckling.'
   'That wouldn't put her off her stroke.'
   'No,  sir.  She  impressed me as being of a singularly  forceful
character.'
   'Me, too.'
   'You have met the lady, sir?'
   'For  a few minutes - which, however, were plenty. She spoke  at
some length?'
   'Yes,  sir. If you would care to read her remarks? I  took  down
both speeches in shorthand.'
   'Later on, perhaps.'
   'At any time that suits you, sir.'
   'And how was the applause? Hearty? Or sporadic?'
   'On  one  side of the hall extremely hearty. The rougher element
appeared to be composed in almost equal parts of her supporters and
those of Mr Winship. They had been seated at opposite sides of  the
auditorium,  no  doubt  by  design.  Her  supporters  cheered,   Mr
Winship's booed.'
   'And when Ginger got up, I suppose her lot booed him?'
   'No  doubt they would have done so, had it not been for the tone
of  his  address. His appearance was greeted with a certain modicum
of  hostility,  but  he had scarcely begun to  speak  when  he  was
rapturously received.'
   'By the opposition?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Strange.'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Can you elucidate?'
   'Yes,  sir. If I might consult my notes for a moment.  Ah,  yes.
Mr  Winship's  opening words were, "Ladies and  gentlemen,  I  come
before  you a changed man." A Voice: "That's good news."  A  second
Voice: "Shut up, you bleeder." A third Voice...'
   'I think we might pass lightly over the Voices, Jeeves.'
   'Very  good, sir. Mr Winship then said, "I should like to  begin
with a word to the gentleman in the turtleneck sweater in that seat
over  there who kept calling my opponent a silly old geezer. If  he
will kindly step on to this platform. I shall be happy to knock his
ugly block off. Mrs McCorkadale is not a silly old geezer." A Voice
.  . . Excuse me, sir, I was forgetting. "Mrs McCorkadale is not  a
silly  old  geezer," Mr Winship said, "but a lady of  the  greatest
intelligence  and  grasp  of  affairs.  I  admire  her   intensely.
Listening  to  her  this  evening has changed  my  political  views
completely. She has converted me to hers, and I propose,  when  the
polls  are opened, to cast my vote for her. I advise all of you  to
do the same. Thank you." He then resumed his seat.'
   'Good Lord, Jeeves!'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'He really said that?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'No wonder his engagement's off.'
   'I must confess it occasioned me no surprise, sir.'
   I  continued  amazed. It seemed incredible  that  Ginger,  whose
long  suit  was  muscle  rather than brain,  should  have  had  the
ingenuity  and  know-how  to think up such  a  scheme  for  freeing
himself from Florence's clutches without forfeiting his standing as
a  fairly preux chevalier. It seemed to reveal him as possessed  of
snakiness  of a high order, and I was just thinking that you  never
can  tell about a fellow's hidden depths, when one of those  sudden
thoughts of mine came popping to the surface.
   'Was this you, Jeeves?'
   'Sir?'
   'Did you put Ginger up to doing it?'
   'It  is conceivable that Mr Winship may have been influenced  by
something  I said, sir. He was very much exercised with  regard  to
his  matrimonial  entanglements  and  he  did  me  the  honour   of
consulting me. It is quite possible that I may have let  fall  some
careless  remark  that turned his thoughts in  the  direction  they
took.'
   'In other words, you told him to go to it?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   I  was silent for a space. I was thinking how jolly it would  be
if  he could dish up something equally effective with regard to  me
and  M.  Bassett.  The thought also occurred to me  that  what  had
happened,  while  excellent for Ginger,  wasn't  so  good  for  his
backers and supporters and the Conservative cause in general.
   I mentioned this.
   'Tough on the fellows who betted on him.'
   'Into each life some rain must fall, sir.'
   'Though  possibly a good thing. A warning to them in  future  to
keep  their  money in the old oak chest and not risk it on  wagers.
May  prove a turning point in their lives. What really saddens  one
is  the  thought  that  Bingley will now clean  up.  He'll  make  a
packet.'
   'He told me this afternoon that he was expecting to do so.'
   'You mean you've seen him?'
   'He came here at about five o'clock, sir.'
   'Stockish, hard and full of rage, I suppose?'
   'On  the  contrary, sir, extremely friendly. He made no allusion
to  the  past. I gave him a cup of tea, and we chatted for  perhaps
half an hour.'
   'Strange.'
   'Yes,  sir.  I  wondered if he might not have  had  an  ulterior
motive in approaching me.'
   'Such as?'
   'I  must  confess I cannot think of one. Unless  he  entertained
some  hope of inducing me to part with the club book, but  that  is
hardly likely. Would there be anything further, sir?'
   'You want to get back to the stricken parlourmaid?'
   'Yes, sir. When you rang, I was about to see what a little  weak
brandy and water would do.'
   I  sped  him  on his errand of mercy and sat down to brood.  You
might  have  supposed that the singular behaviour of Bingley  would
have occupied my thoughts. I mean, when you hear that a chap of his
well-established  crookedness has been acting oddly,  your  natural
impulse  is to say 'Aha!' and wonder what his game is. And  perhaps
for  a  minute or two I did ponder on this. But I had so many other
things  to ponder on that Bingley soon got shoved into the discard.
If  I  remember rightly, it was as I mused on Problem (b), the  one
about  restoring the porringer to L. P. Runkle, and  again  drew  a
blank,  that my reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the  old
ancestor.
   She  was  wearing the unmistakable look of an aunt who has  just
been  having  the time of her life, and this did not  surprise  me.
Hers since she sold the weekly paper she used to run, the one I did
that  piece on What The Well-Dressed Man Will Wear for, has been  a
quiet  sort  of existence, pleasant enough but lacking in  incident
and  excitement.  A really sensational event such as  the  egg-and-
vegetable-throwing get-together she had just been present  at  must
have bucked her up like a week at the seaside.
   Her  greeting could not have been more cordial. An  aunt's  love
oozed out from every syllable.
   'Hullo, you revolting object,' she said. 'So you're back.'
   'Just arrived.'
   'Too   bad  you  had  that  jury  job.  You  missed  a  gripping
experience.'
   'So Jeeves was telling me.'
   'Ginger finally went off his rocker.'
   With  the  inside  information  which  had  been  placed  at  my
disposal I was able to correct this view.
   'It  was  no rocker that he went off, aged relative. His actions
were  motivated  by  the  soundest good sense.  He  wanted  to  get
Florence  out  of  his hair without actually telling  her  to  look
elsewhere for a mate.'
   'Don't be an ass. He loves her.'
   'No longer. He's switched to Magnolia Glendennon.'
   'You mean that secretary of his?'
   'That identical secretary.'
   'How do you know?'
   'He told me so himself.'
   'Well,  I'll  be  blowed. He finally got fed up with  Florence's
bossiness, did he?'
   'Yes,  I think it must have been coming on for some time without
him  knowing  it,  subconsciously  as  Jeeves  would  say.  Meeting
Magnolia brought it to the surface.'
   'She seems a nice girl.'
   'Very nice, according to Ginger.'
   'I must congratulate him.'
   'You'll have to wait a bit. They've gone up to London.'
   'So  have  Spode and Madeline. And Runkle ought  to  be  leaving
soon.  It's  like one of those great race movements of  the  Middle
Ages  I  used  to  read about at school. Well, this  is  wonderful.
Pretty  soon  it'll be safe for Tom to return to the nest.  There's
still  Florence, of course, but I doubt if she will be staying  on.
My  cup  runneth over, young Bertie. I've missed Tom sorely. Home's
not  home without him messing about the place. Why are you  staring
at me like a halibut on a fishmonger's slab?'
   I  had  not been aware that I was conveying this resemblance  to
the  fish  she  mentioned, but my gaze had certainly  been  on  the
intent side, for her opening words had stirred me to my depths.
   'Did  you  say,' I - yes, I suppose, vociferated  would  be  the
word, 'that Spode and Madeline Bassett had gone to London?'
   'Left half an hour ago.'
   'Together?'
   'Yes, in his car.'
   'But Spode told me she had given him the push.'
   'She  did, but everything's all right again. He's not  going  to
give up his title and stand for Parliament. Getting hit in the  eye
with  that  potato changed his plans completely. It made  him  feel
that  if that was the sort of thing you have to go through  to  get
elected  to the House of Commons, he preferred to play it safe  and
stick to the House of Lords. And she, of course, assured that there
was  going  to be no funny business and that she would  become  the
Countess  of Sidcup all right, withdrew her objections to  marrying
him.  Now  you're puffing like Tom when he goes upstairs too  fast.
Why is this?'
   Actually,  I had breathed deeply, not puffed, and certainly  not
like Uncle Tom when he goes upstairs too fast, but I suppose to  an
aunt  there  isn't much difference between a deep-breathing  nephew
and  a  puffing nephew, and anyway I was in no mood to discuss  the
point.
   'You  don't  know who it was who threw that potato, do  you?'  I
asked.
   'The  one  that hit Spode? I don't. It sort of came out  of  the
void. Why?'
   'Because  if  I  knew  who it was, I would send  camels  bearing
apes, ivory and peacocks to his address. He saved me from the  fate
that  is  worse than death. I allude to marriage with  the  Bassett
disaster.'
   'Was she going to marry you?'
   'According to Spode.'
   A look almost of awe came into the ancestor's face.
   'How right you were,' she said, 'when you told me once that  you
had  faith  in  your star. I've lost count of the number  of  times
you've been definitely headed for the altar with apparently no hope
of  evading the firing squad, and every time something has happened
which enabled you to wriggle out of it. It's uncanny.'
   She  would,  I  think,  have gone deeper into  the  matter,  for
already she had begun to pay a marked tribute to my guardian angel,
who,  she said, plainly knew his job from soup to nuts, but at this
moment  Seppings appeared and asked her if she would  have  a  word
with Jeeves, and she went out to have it.
   And  I  had  just  put my feet up on the chaise longue  and  was
starting  to muse ecstatically on the astounding bit of luck  which
had  removed the Bassett menace from my life, when my mood of  what
the  French call bien etre was given the sleeve across the windpipe
by  the  entrance of L. P. Runkle, the mere sight  of  whom,  circs
being what they were, was enough to freeze the blood and make  each
particular  hair  stand  on  end  like  quills  upon  the   fretful
porpentine, as I have heard Jeeves put it.
   I wasn't glad to see him, but he seemed glad to see me.
   'Oh,  there  you are,' he said. 'They told me you  had  skipped.
Very sensible of you to come ba