Chapter VIII: Part 8

The words came out rather roopily, for I was feeling a bit on the stunned side. I mean to say, the room being so small and this exhibit so large, I had got that feeling of wanting air. There are some people who don't seem to be intended to be seen close to, and this aunt was one of them. Billowy curves, if you know what I mean. I should think that in her day she must have been a very handsome girl, though even then on the substantial side. By the time she came into my life she had taken on a good deal of excess weight. She looked like a photograph of an opera singer of the 'eighties. Also the orange hair and the magenta dress.

However, she was a friendly soul. She seemed glad to see Bertram. She smiled broadly.

"So here you are at last!" she said.

I couldn't make anything of this.

"Eh?"

"But I don't think you had better see my niece just yet. She's just having a nap."

"Oh, in that case...."

"Seems a pity to wake her, doesn't it?"

"Oh, absolutely," I said, relieved.

"When you get the influenza you don't sleep at night, and then if you doze off in the morning, well, it seems a pity to wake someone, doesn't it?"

"Miss Platt has influenza?"

"That's what we think it is. But, of course, you'll be able to say. But we needn't waste time. Since you're here, you can be taking a look at my knee."

"Your knee?"

I am all for knees at their proper time and, as you might say, in their proper place, but somehow this didn't seem the moment. However, she carried on according to plan.

"What do you think of that knee?" she asked, lifting the seven veils.

Well, of course, one has to be polite.

"Terrific!" I said.

"You wouldn't believe how it hurts me sometimes."

"Really?"

"A sort of shooting pain. It just comes and goes. And I'll tell you a funny thing."

"What's that?" I said, feeling I could do with a good laugh.

"Lately I've been having the same pain just here, at the end of the spine."

"You don't mean it!"

"I do. Like red-hot needles. I wish you'd have a look at it."

"At your spine?"

"Yes."

I shook my head. Nobody is fonder of a bit of fun than myself, and I am all for Bohemian camaraderie and making a party go, and all that. But there is a line, and we Woosters know when to draw it.

"It can't be done," I said austerely. "Not spines. Knees, yes. Spines, no," I said.

She seemed surprised.

"Well," she said, "you're a funny sort of doctor, I must say."

I'm pretty quick, as I said before, and I began to see that something in the nature of a misunderstanding must have arisen.

"Doctor?"

"Well, you call yourself a doctor, don't you?"

"Did you think I was a doctor?"

"Aren't you a doctor?"

"No. Not a doctor."

We had got it straightened out. The scales had fallen from our eyes. We knew where we were.

I had suspected that she was a genial soul. She now endorsed this view. I don't think I have ever heard a woman laugh so heartily.

"Well, that's the best thing!" she said, borrowing my handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "Did you ever! But if you aren't the doctor, who are you?"

"Wooster's the name. I came to see Miss Platt."

"What about?"

This was the moment, of course, when I should have come out with the check and sprung the big effort. But somehow I couldn't make it. You know how it is. Offering people money to release your uncle is a scaly enough job at best, and when the atmosphere's not right the shot simply isn't on the board.

"Oh, just came to see her, you know." I had rather a bright idea. "My uncle heard she was seedy, don't you know, and asked me to look in and make inquiries," I said.

"Your uncle?"

"Lord Yaxley."

"Oh! So you are Lord Yaxley's nephew?"

"That's right. I suppose he's always popping in and out here, what?"

"No. I've never met him."

"You haven't?"

"No. Rhoda talks a lot about him, of course, but for some reason she's never so much as asked him to look in for a cup of tea."

I began to see that this Rhoda knew her business. If I'd been a girl with someone wanting to marry me and knew that there was an exhibit like this aunt hanging around the home, I, too, should have thought twice about inviting him to call until the ceremony was over and he had actually signed on the dotted line. I mean to say, a thoroughly good soul--heart of gold beyond a doubt--but not the sort of thing you wanted to spring on Romeo before the time was ripe.

"I suppose you were all very surprised when you heard about it?" she said.

"'Surprised' is right."

"Of course, nothing is definitely settled yet."

"You don't mean that? I thought...."

"Oh, no. She's thinking it over."

"I see."

"Of course, she feels it's a great compliment. But then sometimes she wonders if he isn't too old."

"My aunt Agatha has rather the same idea."

"Of course, a title _is_ a title."

"Yes, there's that. What do you think about it yourself?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter what I think. There's no doing anything with girls these days, is there?"

"Not much."

"What I often say is, I wonder what girls are coming to. Still, there it is."

"Absolutely."

There didn't seem much reason why the conversation shouldn't go on for ever. She had the air of a woman who has settled down for the day. But at this point the maid came in and said the doctor had arrived.

I got up.

"I'll be tooling off, then."

"If you must."

"I think I'd better."

"Well, pip pip."

"Toodle-oo," I said, and out into the fresh air.

Knowing what was waiting for me at home, I would have preferred to go to the club and spend the rest of the day there. But the thing had to be faced.

"Well?" said Aunt Agatha, as I trickled into the sitting room.

"Well, yes and no," I replied.

"What do you mean? Did she refuse the money?"

"Not exactly."

"She accepted it?"

"Well, there, again, not precisely."

I explained what had happened. I wasn't expecting her to be any too frightfully pleased, and it's as well that I wasn't, because she wasn't. In fact, as the story unfolded, her comments became fruitier and fruitier, and when I had finished she uttered an exclamation that nearly broke a window. It sounded something like "Gor!"--as if she had started to say "Gorblimey!" and had remembered her ancient lineage just in time.

"I'm sorry," I said. "And can a man say more? I lost my nerve. The old morale suddenly turned blue on me. It's the sort of thing that might have happened to anyone."

"I never heard of anything so spineless in my life."

I shivered, like a warrior whose old wound hurts him.

"I'd be most awfully obliged, Aunt Agatha," I said, "if you would not use that word 'spine.' It awakens memories."

The door opened. Jeeves appeared.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Jeeves?"

"I thought you called, sir."

"No, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

There are moments when, even under the eye of Aunt Agatha, I can take the firm line. And now, seeing Jeeves standing there with the light of intelligence simply fizzing in every feature, I suddenly felt how perfectly footling it was to give this preëminent source of balm and comfort the go-by simply because Aunt Agatha had prejudices against discussing family affairs with the staff. It might make her say "Gor!" again, but I decided to do as we ought to have done right from the start--put the case in his hands.

"Jeeves," I said, "this matter of Uncle George."

"Yes, sir."

"You know the circs."

"Yes, sir."

"You know what we want."

"Yes, sir."

"Then advise us. And make it snappy. Think on your feet."

I heard Aunt Agatha rumble like a volcano just before it starts to set about the neighbours, but I did not wilt. I had seen the sparkle in Jeeves's eye which indicated that an idea was on the way.

"I understand that you have been visiting the young person's home, sir?"

"Just got back."

"Then you no doubt encountered the young person's aunt?"

"Jeeves, I encountered nothing else but."

"Then the suggestion which I am about to make will, I feel sure, appeal to you, sir. I would recommend that you confronted his lordship with this woman. It has always been her intention to continue residing with her niece after the latter's marriage. Should he meet her, this reflection might give his lordship pause. As you are aware, sir, she is a kind-hearted woman, but definitely of the people."

"Jeeves, you are right! Apart from anything else, that orange hair!"

"Exactly, sir."

"Not to mention the magenta dress."

"Precisely, sir."

"I'll ask her to lunch to-morrow, to meet him. You see," I said to Aunt Agatha, who was still fermenting in the background, "a ripe suggestion first crack out of the box. Did I or did I not tell you----"

"That will do, Jeeves," said Aunt Agatha.

"Very good, madam."

For some minutes after he had gone Aunt Agatha strayed from the point a bit, confining her remarks to what she thought of a Wooster who could lower the prestige of the clan by allowing menials to get above themselves. Then she returned to what you might call the "main issue."

"Bertie," she said, "you will go and see this girl again to-morrow, and this time you will do as I told you."

"But, dash it! With this excellent alternative scheme, based firmly on the psychology of the individual----"

"That is quite enough, Bertie. You heard what I said. I am going. Good-bye."

She buzzed off, little knowing of what stuff Bertram Wooster was made. The door had hardly closed before I was shouting for Jeeves.

"Jeeves," I said, "the recent aunt will have none of your excellent alternative scheme, but none the less I propose to go through with it unswervingly. I consider it a ball of fire. Can you get hold of this female and bring her here for lunch to-morrow?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Meanwhile, I will be phoning Uncle George. We will do Aunt Agatha good despite herself. What is it the poet says, Jeeves?"

"The poet Burns, sir?"

"Not the poet Burns. Some other poet. About doing good by stealth."

"These little acts of unremembered kindness, sir?"

"That's it in a nutshell, Jeeves."

* * * * *

I suppose "doing good by stealth" ought to give one a glow, but I can't say I found myself exactly looking forward to the binge in prospect. Uncle George by himself is a mouldy enough luncheon companion, being extremely apt to collar the conversation and confine it to a description of his symptoms, he being one of those birds who can never be brought to believe that the general public isn't agog to hear about the lining of his stomach. Add the aunt, and you have a little gathering which might well dismay the stoutest. The moment I woke I felt conscious of some impending doom, and the cloud, if you know what I mean, grew darker all the morning. By the time Jeeves came in with the cocktails I was feeling pretty low.

"For two pins, Jeeves," I said, "I would turn the whole thing up and leg it to the Drones'."

"I can readily imagine that this will prove something of an ordeal, sir."

"How did you get to know these people, Jeeves?"

"It was through a young fellow of my acquaintance, sir, Colonel Mainwaring-Smith's personal gentleman's gentleman. He and the young person had an understanding at the time, and he desired me to accompany him to Wistaria Lodge and meet her."

"They were engaged?"

"Not precisely engaged, sir. An understanding."

"What did they quarrel about?"

"They did not quarrel, sir. When his lordship began to pay his addresses the young person, naturally flattered, began to waver between love and ambition. But even now she has not formally rescinded the understanding."

"Then, if your scheme works and Uncle George edges out, it will do your pal a bit of good?"

"Yes, sir, Smethurst--his name is Smethurst--would consider it a consummation devoutly to be wished."

An unseen hand without tootled on the bell, and I braced myself to play the host. The binge was on.

"Mrs. Wilberforce, sir," announced Jeeves.

"And how I'm to keep a straight face with you standing behind my chair and saying 'Madam, can I tempt you with a potato?' is more than I know," said the aunt, sailing in, looking larger and pinker and matier than ever. "I know him, you know," she said, jerking a thumb after Jeeves. "He's been round and taken tea with us."

"So he told me."

She gave the sitting room the once-over.

"You've got a nice place here," she said, "though I like more pink about. It's so cheerful. What's that you've got there? Cocktails?"

"Martini with a spot of absinthe," I said, beginning to pour.

She gave a girlish squeal.

"Don't you try to make me drink that stuff! Do you know what would happen if I touched one of those things? I'd be racked with pain. What they do to the lining of your stomach!"

"Oh, I don't know."

"I do. If you had been a barmaid as long as I was you'd know, too."

"Oh--er--were you a barmaid?"

"For years, when I was younger than I am. At the Criterion."

I dropped the shaker.

"There!" she said, pointing the moral. "That's through drinking that stuff. Makes your hand wobble. What I always used to say to the boys was: 'Port, if you like. Port's wholesome. I appreciate a drop of port myself. But these new-fangled messes from America, no.' But they would never listen to me."

I was eyeing her warily. Of course, there must have been thousands of barmaids at the Criterion in its time, but still it gave one a bit of a start. It was years ago that Uncle George's dash at a mésalliance had occurred--long before he came into the title--but the Wooster clan still quivered at the name of the Criterion.

"Er--when you were at the Cri.," I said, "did you ever happen to run into a fellow of my name?"

"I've forgotten what it is. I'm always silly about names."

"Wooster."

"Wooster! When you were there yesterday I thought you said 'Foster.' Wooster! Did I run into a fellow named Wooster? Well! Why, George Wooster and me--Piggy, I used to call him--were going off to the registrar's, only his family heard of it and interfered. They offered me a lot of money to give him up, and, like a silly girl, I let them persuade me. If I've wondered once what became of him, I've wondered a thousand times. Is he a relation of yours?"

"Excuse me," I said. "I just want a word with Jeeves." I legged it for the pantry.

"Jeeves!"

"Sir?

"Do you know what's happened?"

"No, sir."

"This female----"

"Sir?"

"She's Uncle George's barmaid!"

"Sir?"

"Oh, dash it, you must have heard of Uncle George's barmaid. You know all the family history. The barmaid he wanted to marry years ago."

"Ah, yes, sir."

"She's the only woman he ever loved. He's told me so a million times. Every time he gets to the second liqueur he always becomes maudlin about this female. What a dashed bit of bad luck! The first thing we know the call of the past will be echoing in his heart. I can feel it, Jeeves. She's just his sort. The first thing she did when she came in was to start talking about the lining of her stomach. You see the hideous significance of that, Jeeves? The lining of his stomach is Uncle George's favourite topic of conversation. It means that he and she are kindred souls. This woman and he will be like...."

"Deep calling to deep, sir?"

"Exactly."

"Most disturbing, sir."

"What's to be done?"

"I could not say, sir."

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do--phone him and say the lunch is off."

"Scarcely feasible, sir. I fancy that is his lordship at the door now."

And so it was. Jeeves let him in, and I followed him as he navigated down the passage to the sitting room. There was a stunned silence as he went in, and then a couple of the startled yelps you hear when old buddies get together after long separation.

"Piggy!"

"Maudie!"

"Well, I never!"

"Well, I'm dashed!"

"Did you ever!"

"Well, bless my soul!"

"Fancy you being Lord Yaxley!"

"Came into the title soon after we parted."

"Just to think!"

"You could have knocked me down with a feather!"

I hung about in the offing, now on this leg, now on that. For all the notice they took of me, I might just as well have been the late Bertram Wooster, disembodied.

"Maudie, you don't look a day older, dash it!"

"Nor do you, Piggy."

"How have you been all these years?"

"Pretty well. The lining of my stomach isn't all it should be."

"Good Gad! You don't say so? I have trouble with the lining of _my_ stomach."

"It's a sort of heavy feeling after meals."

"_I_ get a sort of heavy feeling after meals. What are you trying for it?"

"I've been taking Perkins' Digestine."

"My dear girl, no use! No use at all. Tried it myself for years, and got no relief. Now, if you really want something that is some good..."

I slid away. The last I saw of them, Uncle George was down beside her on the Chesterfield, buzzing hard.

"Jeeves," I said, tottering into the pantry.

"Sir?"

"There will only be two for lunch. Count me out. If they notice I'm not there tell them I was called away by an urgent phone message. The situation has got beyond Bertram, Jeeves. You will find me at the Drones'."

"Very good, sir."

It was latish in the evening when one of the waiters came to me as I played a distrait game of snooker pool and informed me that Aunt Agatha was on the phone.

"Bertie!"

"Hullo?"

I was amazed to note that her voice was that of an aunt who feels that things are breaking right. It had the birdlike trill.

"Bertie, have you that check I gave you?"

"Yes."

"Then tear it up. It will not be needed."

"Eh?"

"I say it will not be needed. Your uncle has been speaking to me on the telephone. He is not going to marry that girl."

"Not?"

"No. Apparently he has been thinking it over and sees how unsuitable it would have been. But what is astonishing is that he _is_ going to be married!"

"He is?"

"Yes, to an old friend of his, a Mrs. Wilberforce. A woman of a sensible age, he gave me to understand. I wonder which Wilberforces that would be. There are two main branches of the family--the Essex Wilberforces and the Cumberland Wilberforces. I believe there is also a cadet branch somewhere in Shropshire."

"And one in East Dulwich," I said.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," I said. "Nothing."

I hung up. Then back to the old flat, feeling a trifle sandbagged.

"Well, Jeeves," I said, and there was censure in the eyes. "So I gather everything is nicely settled?"

"Yes, sir. His lordship formally announced the engagement between the sweets and cheese courses, sir."

"He did, did he?"

"Yes, sir."

I eyed the man sternly.

"You do not appear to be aware of it, Jeeves," I said, in a cold, level voice, "but this binge has depreciated your stock very considerably. I have always been accustomed to look upon you as a counsellor without equal. I have, so to speak, hung upon your lips. And now see what you have done. All this is the direct consequence of your scheme, based on the psychology of the individual. I should have thought, Jeeves, that, knowing the woman--meeting her socially, as you might say, over the afternoon cup of tea--you might have ascertained that she was Uncle George's barmaid."

"I did, sir."

"What!"

"I was aware of the fact, sir."

"Then you must have known what would happen if she came to lunch and met him."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm dashed!"

"If I might explain, sir. The young man Smethurst, who is greatly attached to the young person, is an intimate friend of mine. He applied to me some little while back in the hope that I might be able to do something to insure that the young person followed the dictates of her heart and refrained from permitting herself to be lured by gold and the glamour of his lordship's position. There will now be no obstacle to their union."

"I see. Little acts of unremembered kindness, what?"

"Precisely, sir."

"And how about Uncle George? You've landed him pretty nicely in the cart."

"No, sir, if I may take the liberty of opposing your view. I fancy that Mrs. Wilberforce should make an ideal mate for his lordship. If there was a defect in his lordship's mode of life, it was that he was a little unduly attached to the pleasures of the table."

"Ate like a pig, you mean?"

"I would not have ventured to put it in quite that way, sir, but the expression does meet the facts of the case. He was also inclined to drink rather more than his medical adviser would have approved of. Elderly bachelors who are wealthy and without occupation tend somewhat frequently to fall into this error, sir. The future Lady Yaxley will check this. Indeed, I overheard her ladyship saying as much as I brought in the fish. She was commenting on a certain puffiness of the face which had been absent in his lordship's appearance in the earlier days of their acquaintanceship, and she observed that his lordship needed looking after. I fancy, sir, that you will find the union will turn out an extremely satisfactory one."

It was--what's the word I want--it was plausible, of course, but still I shook the onion.

"But, Jeeves!"

"Sir?"

"She _is_, as you remarked not long ago, definitely of the people." He looked at me in a reproachful sort of way.

"Sturdy lower-middle-class stock, sir."

"H'm!"

"Sir?"

"I said 'H'm!' Jeeves."

"Besides, sir, remember what the poet Tennyson said. Kind hearts are more than coronets."

"And which of us is going to tell Aunt Agatha that?"

"If I might make the suggestion, sir, I would advise that we omit to communicate with Mrs. Spenser Gregson in any way. I have your suitcase practically packed. It would be a matter of but a few minutes to bring the car round from the garage..."

"And off over the horizon to where men are men?"

"Precisely, sir."

"Jeeves," I said, "I'm not sure that even now I can altogether see eye to eye with you regarding your recent activities. You think you have scattered light and sweetness on every side. I am not so sure. However, with this latest suggestion you have rung the bell. I examine it narrowly and I find no flaw in it. It is the goods. I'll get the car at once."

"Very good, sir."

"Remember what the poet Shakespeare said, Jeeves."

"What was that, sir?"

"Exit hurriedly, pursued by a bear. You'll find it in one of his plays. I remember drawing a picture of it on the side of the page, when I was at school."

Tuppy Changes His Mind

"What ho, Jeeves!" I said, entering the room where he waded knee-deep in suitcases and shirts and winter suitings, like a sea beast among rocks. "Packing?"

"Yes, sir," replied the honest fellow, for there are no secrets between us.

"Pack on!" I said approvingly. "Pack, Jeeves, pack with care. Pack in the presence of the passenjare." And I rather fancy I added the words "Tra-la!" for I was in merry mood.

Every year, starting about the middle of November, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better class of country houses throughout England as to who will get Bertram Wooster's patronage for the Christmas holidays. It may be one, or it may be another. As my aunt Dahlia says, you never know where the blow will fall.

This year, however, I had decided early. It couldn't have been later than November tenth when a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by Sir Reginald Witherspoon, Bart., of Bleaching Court, Upper Bleaching, Hants.

In coming to the decision to give this Witherspoon my custom, I had been actuated by several reasons, not counting the fact that, having married Aunt Dahlia's husband's younger sister Katherine, he is by way of being a sort of uncle of mine. In the first place the Bart. does one extraordinarily well, both browsing and sluicing being above criticism. Then, again, his stables always contain something worth riding, which is a consideration. And thirdly, there is no danger of getting lugged into a party of amateur waits and having to tramp the countryside in the rain singing: "When Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night." Or, for the matter of that: "Noël! Noël!"

All these things counted with me, but what really drew me to Bleaching Court like a magnet was the knowledge that young Tuppy Glossop would be among those present.

I feel sure I have told you before about this black-hearted bird, but I will give you the strength of it once again, just to keep the records straight. He was the fellow, if you remember, who, ignoring a lifelong friendship in the course of which he had frequently eaten my bread and salt, bet me one night at the Drones' that I wouldn't swing myself across the swimming bath by the ropes and rings and then, with almost inconceivable treachery, went and looped back the last ring, causing me to drop into the fluid and ruin one of the nattiest suits of dress clothes in London.

To execute a fitting vengeance on this bloke had been the ruling passion of my life ever since.

"You are bearing in mind, Jeeves," I said, "the fact that Mr. Glossop will be at Bleaching?"

"Yes, sir."

"And, consequently, are not forgetting to put in the Giant Squirt?"

"No, sir."

"Nor the Luminous Rabbit?"

"No, sir."

"Good! I am rather pinning my faith on the Luminous Rabbit, Jeeves. I hear excellent reports of it on all sides. You wind it up and put it in somebody's room in the night watches, and it shines in the dark and jumps about, making odd, squeaking noises. The whole performance being, I should imagine, well calculated to scare young Tuppy into a decline."

"Very possibly, sir."

"Should that fail, there is always the Giant Squirt. We must leave no stone unturned to put it across the man somehow," I said. "The Wooster honour is at stake."

I would have spoken further on this subject, but just then the front doorbell buzzed.

"I'll answer it," I said. "I expect it's Aunt Dahlia. She phoned that she would be calling this morning."

It was not Aunt Dahlia. It was a telegraph boy with telegram. I opened it, read it, and carried it back to the bedroom, the brow a bit knitted.

"Jeeves," I said, "a rummy communication has arrived. From Mr. Glossop."

"Indeed, sir?"

"I will read it to you. Handed in at Upper Bleaching. Message runs as follows:

"WHEN YOU COME TO-MORROW BRING MY FOOTBALL BOOTS ALSO, IF HUMANLY
POSSIBLE IRISH WATER SPANIEL URGENT REGARDS TUPPY

What do you make of that, Jeeves?"

"As I interpret the document, sir, Mr. Glossop wishes you, when you come to-morrow, to bring his football boots. Also, if humanly possible, an Irish water spaniel. He hints that the matter is urgent, and sends his regards."

"Yes, that's how I read it, too. But why football boots?"

"Perhaps Mr. Glossop wishes to play football, sir."

I considered this.

"Yes," I said. "That may be the solution. But why would a man, staying peacefully at a country house, suddenly develop a craving to play football?"

"I could not say, sir."

"And why an Irish water spaniel?"

"There again I fear I can hazard no conjecture, sir."

"What _is_ an Irish water spaniel?"

"A water spaniel of a variety bred in Ireland, sir."

"You think so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, perhaps you're right. But why should I toil about the place collecting dogs--of whatever nationality--for young Tuppy? Does he think I'm Santa Claus? Is he under the impression that my feelings toward him, after that Drones' Club incident, are those of kindly benevolence? Irish water spaniels, indeed! Pshaw!"

"Sir?"

"Pshaw, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

The front doorbell buzzed again.

"Our busy morning, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"All right. I'll go."

This time it was Aunt Dahlia. She charged in with the air of a woman with something on her mind, giving tongue, in fact, while actually on the very doormat.

"Bertie," she boomed, in that ringing voice of hers which cracks window panes and upsets vases, "I've come about that young hound, Glossop."

"It's quite all right, Aunt Dahlia," I replied soothingly. "I have the situation well in hand. The Giant Squirt and the Luminous Rabbit are even now being packed."

"I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't for a moment suppose you do, either," said the relative, somewhat brusquely, "but if you'll kindly stop gibbering for a moment I'll tell you what I mean. I have had a most disturbing letter from Katherine. About this reptile. Of course, I haven't breathed a word to Angela. She'd hit the ceiling."

This Angela is Aunt Dahlia's daughter. She and young Tuppy are generally supposed to be more or less engaged, though nothing definitely _Morning Post_-ed yet.

"Why?" I said.

"Why what?"

"Why would Angela hit the ceiling?"

"Well, wouldn't you, if you were practically engaged to a fiend in human shape and somebody told you he had gone off to the country and was flirting with a dog-girl?"

"With a--what was that once again?"

"A dog-girl. One of these dashed open-air flappers in thick boots and tailor-made tweeds who infest the rural districts and go about the place followed by packs of assorted dogs. I used to be one of them myself in my younger days, so I know how dangerous they are. Her name is Dalgleish. Old Colonel Dalgleish's daughter. They live near Bleaching."

I saw a gleam of daylight.

"Then that must be what his telegram was about. He's just wired, asking me to bring down an Irish water spaniel. A Christmas present for this girl, no doubt."

"Probably. Katherine tells me he seems to be infatuated with her. She says he follows her about like one of her dogs, looking like a tame cat and bleating like a sheep."

"Quite the private zoo, what?"

"Bertie," said Aunt Dahlia, and I could see her generous nature was stirred to its depths, "one more crack like that out of you, and I shall forget that I am an aunt and hand you one."

I became soothing. I gave her the old oil.

"I shouldn't worry," I said. "There's probably nothing in it. Whole thing no doubt much exaggerated."

"You think so, eh? Well, you know what he's like. You remember the trouble we had when he ran after that singing woman."

I recollected the case. You will find it elsewhere in the archives. Cora Bellinger was the female's name. She was studying for opera, and young Tuppy thought highly of her. Fortunately, however, she punched him in the eye during Beefy Bingham's clean, bright entertainment in Bermondsey East, and love died.

"Besides," said Aunt Dahlia, "there's something I haven't told you. Just before he went to Bleaching he and Angela quarrelled."

"They did?"

"Yes. I got it out of Angela this morning. She was crying her eyes out, poor angel. It was something about her last hat. As far as I could gather, he told her it made her look like a Pekingese, and she told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next. And he said 'Right ho!' and breezed off.

"I can see what has happened. This dog-girl has caught him on the rebound, and unless something is done quick, anything may happen. So place the facts before Jeeves, and tell him to take action the moment you get down there."

I am always a little piqued, if you know what I mean, at this assumption on the relative's part that Jeeves is so dashed essential on these occasions. My manner, therefore, as I replied, was a bit on the crisp side.

"Jeeves's services will not be required," I said. "I can handle this business. The programme which I have laid out will be quite sufficient to take young Tuppy's mind off love making. It is my intention to insert the Luminous Rabbit in his room at the first opportunity that presents itself.

"The Luminous Rabbit shines in the dark and jumps about, making odd, squeaking noises. It will sound to young Tuppy like the Voice of Conscience, and I anticipate that a single treatment will make him retire into a nursing home for a couple of weeks or so. At the end of which period he will have forgotten all about the bally girl."

"Bertie," said Aunt Dahlia, with a sort of frozen calm, "you are the Abysmal Chump. Listen to me. It's simply because I am fond of you and have influence with the lunacy commissioners that you weren't put in a padded cell years ago. Bungle this business, and I withdraw my protection. Can't you understand that this thing is far too serious for any fooling about? Angela's whole happiness is at stake. Do as I tell you, and put it up to Jeeves."

"Just as you say, Aunt Dahlia," I said stiffly.

"All right, then. Do it now."

I went back to the bedroom.

"Jeeves," I said, and I did not trouble to conceal my chagrin, "you need not pack the Luminous Rabbit."

"Very good, sir."

"Nor the Giant Squirt."

"Very good, sir."

"They have been subjected to destructive criticism, and the zest has gone. Oh, and Jeeves."

"Sir?"

"Mrs. Travers wishes you, on arriving at Bleaching Court, to disentangle Mr. Glossop from a dog-girl."

"Very good, sir. I will attend to the matter and will do my best to give satisfaction."

That Aunt Dahlia had not exaggerated the perilous nature of the situation was made clear to me on the following afternoon. Jeeves and I drove down to Bleaching in the two-seater, and we were tooling along about halfway between the village and the court when suddenly there appeared ahead of us a sea of dogs and in the middle of it young Tuppy frisking round one of those largish, corn-fed girls.

He was bending toward her in a devout sort of way, and even at a considerable distance I could see that his ears were pink. His attitude, in short, was unmistakably that of a man endeavouring to push a good thing along; and when I came closer and noted that the girl wore tailor-made tweeds and thick boots, I had no further doubts.

"You observe, Jeeves?" I said in a low, significant voice.

"Yes, sir."

"The girl, what?"

"Yes, sir."

I tootled amiably on the horn and yodelled a bit. They turned--Tuppy, I fancied, not any too pleased.

"Oh, hullo, Bertie," he said.

"Hullo," I said.

"My friend Bertie Wooster," said Tuppy to the girl, in what seemed to me rather an apologetic manner. You know--as if he would have preferred to hush me up.

"Hullo," said the girl.

"Hullo," I said.

"Hullo, Jeeves," said Tuppy.

"Good-afternoon, sir," said Jeeves.

There was a somewhat constrained silence.

"Well, good-bye, Bertie," said young Tuppy. "You'll be wanting to push along, I expect."

We Woosters can take a hint as well as the next man.

"See you later," I said.

"Oh, rather," said Tuppy.

I set the machinery in motion again, and we rolled off.

"Sinister, Jeeves," I said. "You noticed that the subject was looking like a stuffed frog?"

"Yes, sir."

"And gave no indication of wanting us to stop and join the party?"

"No, sir."

"I think Aunt Dahlia's fears are justified. The thing seems serious."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, strain the brain, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

It wasn't till I was dressing for dinner that night that I saw young Tuppy again. He trickled in just as I was arranging the tie.

"Hullo!" I said.

"Hullo!" said Tuppy.

"Who was the girl?" I asked, in that casual, snaky way of mine. Offhand, I mean.

"A Miss Dalgleish," said Tuppy, and I noticed that he blushed a spot.

"Staying here?"

"No. She lives in that house just before you come to the gates of this place. Did you bring my football boots?"

"Yes. Jeeves has got them somewhere."

"And the water spaniel?"

"Sorry. No water spaniel."

"Dashed nuisance. She's set her heart on an Irish water spaniel."

"Well, what do you care?"

"I wanted to give her one."

"Why?"

Tuppy became a trifle haughty. Frigid. The rebuking eye.

"Colonel and Mrs. Dalgleish," he said, "have been very kind to me since I got here. They have entertained me. I naturally wish to make some return for their hospitality. I don't want them to look upon me as one of those ill-mannered modern young men you read about in the papers, who grab everything they can lay their hooks on and never buy back. If people ask you to lunch and tea and what not, they appreciate it if you make them some little present in return."

"Well, give them your football boots. In passing, why did you want the bally things?"

"I'm playing in a match next Thursday."

"Down here?"

"Yes. Upper Bleaching _versus_ Hockley-cum-Meston. Apparently it's the big game of the year."

"How did you get roped in?"

"I happened to mention in the course of conversation the other day that, when in London, I generally turn out on Saturdays for the Old Austinians, and Miss Dalgleish seemed rather keen that I should help the village."

"Which village?"

"Upper Bleaching, of course."

"Ah, then you're going to play for Hockley?"

"You needn't be funny, Bertie. You may not know it, but I'm pretty hot stuff on the football field. Oh, Jeeves."

"Sir?" said Jeeves, entering right centre.

"Mr. Wooster tells me you have my football boots."

"Yes, sir. I have placed them in your room."

"Thanks. Jeeves, do you want to make a bit of money?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then put a trifle on Upper Bleaching for the annual encounter with Hockley-cum-Meston next Thursday," said Tuppy, exiting with swelling bosom.

"Mr. Glossop is going to play on Thursday," I explained, as the door closed.

"So I was informed in the Servants' Hall, sir."

"Oh? And what's the general feeling there about it?"

"The impression I gathered, sir, was that the Servants' Hall considers Mr. Glossop ill advised."

"Why's that?"

"I am informed by Mr. Mulready, Sir Reginald's butler, sir, that this contest differs in some respects from the ordinary football game. Owing to the fact that there has existed for many years considerable animus between the two villages, the struggle is conducted, it appears, on somewhat looser and more primitive lines than is usually the case when two teams meet in friendly rivalry. The primary object of the players, I am given to understand, is not so much to score points as to inflict violence."

"Good Lord, Jeeves!"

"Such appears to be the case, sir. The game is one that would have a great interest for the antiquarian. It was played first in the reign of King Henry the Eighth, when it lasted from noon till sundown over an area covering several square miles. Seven deaths resulted on that occasion."

"Seven!"

"Not inclusive of two of the spectators, sir. In recent years, however, the casualties appear to have been confined to broken limbs and other minor injuries. The opinion of the Servants' Hall is that it would be more judicious on Mr. Glossop's part were he to refrain from mixing himself up in the affair."

I was more or less aghast. I mean to say, while I had made it my mission in life to get back at young Tuppy for that business at the Drones', there still remained certain faint vestiges, if "vestiges" is the word I want, of the old friendship and esteem.

Besides, there are limits to one's thirst for vengeance. Deep as my resentment was for the ghastly outrage he had perpetrated on me, I had no wish to see him toddle unsuspiciously into the arena and get all chewed up by wild villagers.

A Tuppy scared stiff by a Luminous Rabbit--yes. Excellent business. The happy ending, in fact. But a Tuppy carried off on a stretcher in half a dozen pieces--no. Quite a different matter. All wrong. Not to be considered for a moment.

Obviously, then, a kindly word of warning while there was yet time was indicated. I buzzed off to his room forthwith, and found him toying dreamily with the football boots.

I put him in possession of the facts.

"What you had better do--and the Servants' Hall thinks the same," I said--"is fake a sprained ankle on the eve of the match."

He looked at me in an odd sort of way.

"You suggest that, when Miss Dalgleish is trusting me, relying on me, looking forward with eager, girlish enthusiasm to seeing me help her village on to victory, I should let her down with a thud?"

I was pleased with his ready intelligence.

"That's the idea," I said.

"Faugh!" said Tuppy--the only time I've ever heard the word.

"How do you mean, 'Faugh'?" I asked.

"Bertie," said Tuppy, "what you tell me merely makes me all the keener for the fray. A warm game is what I want. I welcome this sporting spirit on the part of the opposition. I shall enjoy a spot of roughness. It will enable me to give of my best.

"Do you realize," said young Tuppy, vermilion to the gills, "that she will be looking on? And do you know how that will make me feel? It will make me feel like some knight of old jousting under the eyes of his lady. Do you suppose that Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad, when there was a tourney scheduled for the following Thursday, went and pretended they had sprained their ankles just because the thing was likely to be a bit rough?"

"Don't forget that in the reign of King Henry the Eighth----"

"Never mind about the reign of King Henry the Eighth. All I care about is that it's Upper Bleaching's turn this year to play in colours, so I shall be able to wear my old Austinian shirt. Light blue, Bertie, with broad orange stripes. I shall look like something, I tell you."

"But what?"

"Bertie," said Tuppy, now becoming purely gaga, "I may as well tell you that I'm in love at last. This is the real thing. I have found my mate. All my life I have dreamed of meeting some sweet open-air girl with all the glory of the English countryside in her eyes, and I have found her.

"How different she is, Bertie, from these hothouse, artificial London girls! Would they stand in the mud on a winter afternoon watching a football match? Would they know what to give an Alsatian for fits? Would they tramp ten miles a day across the fields and come back as fresh as paint? No!"

"Well, why should they?"

"Bertie, I'm staking everything on this game on Thursday. At the moment, I have an idea that she looks on me as something of a weakling, simply because I got a blister on my foot the other afternoon and had to take the bus back from Hockley. But when she sees me going through the rustic opposition like a devouring flame, will that make her think a bit? Will that open her eyes? What?"

"What?"

"I said 'What?'"

"So did I."

"I meant, Won't it?"

"Oh, rather."

Here the dinner gong sounded, not before I was ready for it.

Judicious inquiries during the next couple of days convinced me that the Servants' Hall at Bleaching Court, in advancing the suggestion that young Tuppy, born and bred in the gentler atmosphere of the metropolis, would do well to keep out of local disputes and avoid the football field on which these were to be settled, had not spoken idly. It had weighed its words and said the sensible thing. Feeling between the two villages undoubtedly ran high, as they say.

You know how it is in these remote rural districts. Life tends at times to get a bit slow. There's nothing much to do in the long winter evenings but listen to the radio and brood on what a tick your neighbour is. You find yourself remembering how Farmer Giles did you down over the sale of your pig, and Farmer Giles finds himself remembering that it was your son, Ernest, who bunged the half brick at his horse on the second Sunday before Septuagesima. And so on and so forth.

How this particular feud had started, I don't know, but the season of peace and good will found it in full blast. The only topic of conversation in Upper Bleaching was Thursday's game, and the citizenry seemed to be looking forward to it in a spirit that can only be described as ghoulish. And it was the same in Hockley-cum-Meston.

I paid a visit to Hockley-cum-Meston on the Wednesday, being rather anxious to take a look at the inhabitants and see how formidable they were. I was shocked to observe that practically every second male might have been the Village Blacksmith's big brother. The muscles on their brawny arms were obviously strong as iron bands, and the way the company at the Green Pig, where I looked in incognito for a spot of beer, talked about the forthcoming sporting contest was enough to chill the blood of anyone who had a pal who proposed to fling himself into the fray. It sounded rather like Attila and a few of his Huns sketching out their next campaign.

I went back to Jeeves with my mind made up.

"Jeeves," I said, "you, who had the job of drying and pressing those dress clothes of mine, are aware that I have suffered much at young Tuppy Glossop's hands. By rights, I suppose, I ought to be welcoming the fact that the Wrath of Heaven is now hovering over him in this fearful manner.

"But the view I take of it is that Heaven looks like overdoing it. Heaven's idea of a fitting retribution is not mine. In my most unrestrained moments I never wanted the poor blighter assassinated. And the idea in Hockley-cum-Meston seems to be that a good opportunity has arisen of making it a bumper Christmas for the local undertaker.

"There was a fellow with red hair at the Green Pig this afternoon who might have been the undertaker's partner, the way he talked. We must act, and speedily, Jeeves. We must put a bit of a jerk in it and save young Tuppy in spite of himself."

"What course would you advocate, sir?"

"I'll tell you. He refuses to do the sensible thing and slide out, because the girl will be watching the game and he imagines, poor lizard, that he is going to shine and impress her. So we must employ guile. You must go up to London to-day, Jeeves, and to-morrow morning you will send a telegram, signed 'Angela,' which will run as follows. Jot it down. Ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"'So sorry----'" I pondered. "What would a girl say, Jeeves, who, having had a row with the bird she was practically engaged to, because he told her she looked like a Pekingese in her new hat, wanted to extend the olive branch?"

"'So sorry I was cross,' sir, would, I fancy, be the expression."

"Strong enough, do you think?"

"Possibly the addition of the word 'darling' would give the necessary verisimilitude, sir."

"Right. Resume the jotting. 'So sorry I was cross, darling.' No; wait, Jeeves. Scratch that out. I see where we have gone off the rails. I see where we are missing a chance to make this the real Tabasco. Sign the telegram not 'Angela' but 'Travers.'"

"Very good, sir."

"Or, rather, 'Dahlia Travers.' And this is the body of the communication. 'Please return at once.'"

"'Immediately' would be more economical, sir. Only one word. And it has a stronger ring."

"True. Jot on, then. 'Please return immediately. Angela in a hell of a state.'"

"I would suggest 'Seriously ill,' sir."

"All right. 'Seriously ill.' 'Angela seriously ill. Keeps calling for you and says you were quite right about hat.'"

"If I might suggest, sir----?"

"Well, go ahead."

"I fancy the following would meet the case. 'Please return immediately. Angela seriously ill. High fever and delirium. Keeps calling your name piteously and saying something about a hat and that you were quite right. Please catch earliest possible train. Dahlia Travers.'"

"That sounds all right."

"Yes, sir."

"You like that 'piteously'? You don't think 'incessantly'?"

"No, sir. 'Piteously' is the _mot juste_."

"All right. You know. Well, send it off in time to get here at two-thirty."

"Yes, sir."

"Two-thirty, Jeeves; you see the devilish cunning?"

"No, sir."

"I will tell you. If the telegram arrived earlier he would get it before the game. By two-thirty, however, he will have started for the grounds. I shall hand it to him the moment there is a lull in the battle. By that time he will have begun to get some idea of what a football match between Upper Bleaching and Hockley-cum-Meston is like, and the thing ought to work like magic. I can't imagine anyone who has been sporting awhile with those thugs I saw yesterday not welcoming any excuse to call it a day. You follow me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

* * * * *

You can always rely on Jeeves. Two-thirty, I had said, and two-thirty it was. The telegram arrived almost on the minute. I was going to my room to change into something warmer at the moment, and I took it up with me. Then into the heavy tweeds and off in the car to the field of play. I got there just as the two teams were lining up, and half a minute later the whistle blew and the war was on.

What with one thing and another--having been at a school where they didn't play it and so forth--Rugby football is a game I can't claim absolutely to understand in all its niceties, if you know what I mean. I can follow the broad, general principles, of course.

I mean to say, I know that the main scheme is to work the ball down the field somehow and deposit it over the line at the other end, and that, in order to squelch this programme, each side is allowed to put in a certain amount of assault and battery and do things to its fellow man which, if done elsewhere, would result in fourteen days without the option, coupled with some strong remarks from the Bench. But there I stop. What you might call the "science" of the thing is to Bertram Wooster a sealed book. However, I am informed by experts that on this occasion there was not enough science for anybody to notice.

There had been a good deal of rain in the last few days, and the going appeared to be a bit sticky. In fact, I have seen swamps that were drier than this particular bit of ground. The red-haired bloke whom I had encountered in the pub paddled up and kicked off amidst cheers from the populace, and the ball went straight to where Tuppy was standing, a pretty colour scheme in light blue and orange. Tuppy caught it neatly and hoofed it back, and it was at this point that I understood that an Upper Bleaching _versus_ Hockley-cum-Meston game had certain features not usually seen on the football field.

For Tuppy, having done his bit, was just standing there looking modest, when there was a thunder of large feet and the red-haired bird, galloping up, seized him by the neck, hurled him to earth, and fell on him. I had a glimpse of Tuppy's face, as it registered horror, dismay, and a general suggestion of stunned dissatisfaction with the scheme of things, and then he disappeared.

By the time he had come to the surface a sort of mob warfare was going on at the other side of the field. Two assortments of sons-of-the-soil had got their heads down and were shoving earnestly against each other, with the ball somewhere in the middle.