'I didn't. I only wanted Phyllis, but he came along, too.'
     'You should have bunged him out.'
     'I hadn't the heart to.'
     'Weak, very weak.'
     'Besides,  I needed him in my business. He's going to  present  the
prizes  at Market Snodsbury Grammar School. We've been caught short  as
usual,  and somebody has got to make a speech on ideals and  the  great
world  outside to those blasted boys, so he fits in nicely.  I  believe
he's  a very fine speaker. His only trouble is that he's stymied unless
he  has his speech with him and can read it. Calls it referring to  his
notes. Phyllis told me that. She types the stuff for him.'
     'A  thoroughly low trick,' I said severely. 'Even I, who have never
soared  above the Yeoman's Wedding Song at a village concert,  wouldn't
have  the  crust  to  face my public unless I'd taken  the  trouble  to
memorize the words, though actually with the Yeoman's Wedding  Song  it
is  possible to get by quite comfortably by keeping singing "Ding dong,
ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along". In short...'
     I  would have spoken further, but at this point, after urging me to
put a sock in it, and giving me a kindly word of warning not to step on
any banana skins, she rang off.

    2

     I  came  away  from the telephone on what practically  amounted  to
leaden  feet. Here, I was feeling, was a nice bit of box fruit.  Bobbie
Wickham, with her tendency to stir things up and with each new  day  to
discover some new way of staggering civilization, would by herself have
been bad enough. Add Aubrey Upjohn, and the mixture became too rich.  I
don't  know  if Kipper, when I rejoined him, noticed that my  brow  was
sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, as I have heard Jeeves put
it.  Probably not, for he was tucking into toast and marmalade  at  the
moment,  but  it  was. As had happened so often  in  the  past,  I  was
conscious of an impending doom. Exactly what form this would take I was
of  course unable to say - it might be one thing or it might be another
-  but a voice seemed to whisper to me that somehow at some not distant
date Bertram was slated to get it in the gizzard.
     'That was Aunt Dahlia, Kipper,' I said.
     'Bless  her jolly old heart,' he responded. 'One of the very  best,
and  you  can  quote me as saying so. I shall never forget those  happy
days at Brinkley, and shall be glad at any time that suits her to cadge
another invitation. Is she up in London?'
     'Till this afternoon.'
     'We fill her to the brim with rich foods, of course?'
     'No,  she's  got  a  lunch date. She's browsing with  Sir  Roderick
Glossop, the loony-doctor. You don't know him, do you?'
     'Only from hearing you speak of him. A tough egg, I gather.'
     'One of the toughest.'
     'He was the chap, wasn't he, who found the twenty-four cats in your
bedroom?'
     'Twenty-three,' I corrected. I like to get things right. 'They were
not  my  cats. They had been deposited there by my Cousins  Claude  and
Eustace.  But  I  found them difficult to explain. He's  a  rather  bad
listener. I hope I shan't find him at Brinkley, too.'
     'Are you going to Brinkley?'
     'Tomorrow afternoon.'
     'You'll enjoy that.'
     'Well, shall I? The point is a very moot one.'
     'You're crazy. Think of Anatole. Those dinners of his! Is the  name
of  the  Peri  who stood disconsolate at the gate of Eden  familiar  to
you?'
     'I've heard Jeeves mention her.'
     'Well, that's how I feel when I remember Anatole's dinners. When  I
reflect that every night he's dishing them up and I'm not there, I come
within a very little of breaking down. What gives you the idea that you
won't enjoy yourself? Brinkley Court's an earthly Paradise.'
     'In  many  respects,  yes, but life there at  the  moment  has  its
drawbacks.  There's  far too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-
and-only-man-is-vile  stuff buzzing around for my  taste.  Who  do  you
think is staying at the old dosshouse? Aubrey Upjohn.'
     It  was  plain  that  I had shaken him. His eyes  widened,  and  an
astonished piece of toast fell from his grasp.
     'Old Upjohn? You're kidding.'
     'No, he's there. Himself, not a picture. And it seems only yesterday
that  you  were buoying me up by telling me I'd never have to  see  him
again. The storm clouds may lower, you said, if you recollect...'
     'But how does he come to be at Brinkley?'
     'Precisely  what  I  asked  the  aged  relative,  and  she  had  an
explanation that seems to cover the facts. Apparently after we took our
eye off him he married a friend of hers, one Jane Mills, and acquired a
stepdaughter,  Phyllis  Mills,  whose godmother  Aunt  Dahlia  is.  The
ancestor invited the Mills girl to Brinkley, and Upjohn came along  for
the ride.'
     'I see. I don't wonder you're trembling like a leaf.'
     'Not like a leaf, exactly, but... yes, I think you might describe me
as trembling. One remembers that fishy eye of his.'
     'And the wide, bare upper lip. It won't be pleasant having to  gaze
at those across the dinner table. Still, you'll like Phyllis.'
     'Do you know her?'
     'We  met  out in Switzerland last Christmas. Slap her on the  back,
will  you, and give her my regards. Nice girl, though goofy. She  never
told me she was related to Upjohn.'
     'She would naturally keep a thing like that dark.'
     'Yes, one sees that. Just as one would have tried to keep it dark if
one had been mixed up in any way with Palmer the poisoner. What ghastly
garbage  that  was  he  used to fling at us when we  were  serving  our
sentence  at  Malvern House. Remember the sausages on Sunday?  And  the
boiled mutton with caper sauce?'
     'And  the margarine. Recalling this last, it's going to be a strain
having  to  sit  and watch him getting outside pounds of  best  country
butter.  Oh,  Jeeves,' I said, as he shimmered in to clear  the  table,
'you  never went to a preparatory school on the south coast of England,
did you?'
     'No, sir, I was privately educated.'
     'Ah, then you wouldn't understand. Mr Herring and I were discussing
our  former  prep-school beak, Aubrey Upjohn, MA. By the  way,  Kipper,
Aunt  Dahlia  was  telling me something about him which  I  never  knew
before and which ought to expose him to the odium of all thinking  men.
You  remember those powerful end-of-term addresses he used to  make  to
us?  Well,  he couldn't have made them if he hadn't had the  stuff  all
typed out in his grasp, so that he could read it. Without his notes, as
he  calls them, he's a spent force. Revolting, that, Jeeves, don't  you
think?'
     'Many orators are, I believe, similarly handicapped, sir.'
     'Too tolerant, Jeeves, far too tolerant. You must guard against this
lax outlook. However, the reason I mention Upjohn to you is that he has
come  back into my life, or will be so coming in about two ticks.  He's
staying at Brinkley, and I shall be going there tomorrow. That was Aunt
Dahlia  on  the phone just now, and she demands my presence.  Will  you
pack a few necessaries in a suitcase or so?'
     'Very good, sir.'
     'When are you leaving on your Herne Bay jaunt?'
     'I  was  thinking of taking a train this morning, sir, but  if  you
would prefer that I remained till tomorrow -'
     'No, no, perfectly all right. Start as soon as you like. What's the
joke?'  I  asked,  as the door closed behind him, for I  observed  that
Kipper  was chuckling softly. Not an easy thing to do, of course,  when
your mouth's full of toast and marmalade, but he was doing it.
     'I was thinking of Upjohn,' he said.
     I  was amazed. It seemed incredible to me that anyone who had  done
time  at  Malvern  House,  Bramley-on-Sea,  could  chuckle,  softly  or
otherwise,  when letting the mind dwell on that outstanding menace.  It
was like laughing lightly while contemplating one of those horrors from
outer  space  which are so much with us at the moment  on  the  motion-
picture screen.
     'I envy you, Bertie,' he went on, continuing to chuckle. 'You have a
wonderful  treat in store. You are going to be present at the breakfast
table  when  Upjohn opens his copy of this week's Thursday  Review  and
starts  to  skim  through  the pages devoted  to  comments  on  current
literature. I should explain that among the books that recently arrived
at  the  office  was  a  slim  volume from his  pen  dealing  with  the
Preparatory  School  and  giving  it  an  enthusiastic  build-up.   The
formative years which we spent there, he said, were the happiest of our
life.'
     'Gadzooks!'
     'He  little knew that his brain child would be given to one of  the
old  lags of Malvern House to review. I'll tell you something,  Bertie,
that every young man ought to know. Never be a stinker, because if  you
are,  though you may flourish for a time like a green bay tree,  sooner
or later retribution will overtake you. I need scarcely tell you that I
ripped the stuffing out of the beastly little brochure. The thought  of
those  sausages  on  Sunday filled me with  the  righteous  fury  of  a
Juvenal.'
     'Of a who?'
     'Nobody you know. Before your time. I seemed inspired. Normally,  I
suppose,  a book like that would get me a line and a half in the  Other
Recent  Publications  column,  but I  gave  it  six  hundred  words  of
impassioned prose. How extraordinarily fortunate you are  to  be  in  a
position to watch his face as he reads them.'
     'How do you know he'll read them?'
     'He's   a  subscriber.  There  was  a  letter  from  him  on   the
correspondence page a week or two ago, in which he specifically  stated
that he had been one for years.'
     'Did you sign the thing?'
     'No. Ye Ed is not keen on underlings advertising their names.'
     'And it was really hot stuff?'
     'Red  hot.  So  eye him closely at the breakfast  table.  Mark  his
reaction. I confidently expect the blush of shame and remorse to mantle
his cheek.'
     'The only catch is that 1 don't come down to breakfast when I'm  at
Brinkley. Still, I suppose I could make a special effort.'
     'Do so. You will find it well worth while,' said Kipper and shortly
afterwards popped off to resume the earning of the weekly envelope.
     He  had been gone about twenty minutes when Jeeves came in,  bowler
hat  in  hand, to say goodbye. A solemn moment, taxing our self-control
to  the utmost. However, we both kept the upper lip stiff, and after we
had  kidded back and forth for a while he started to withdraw.  He  had
reached  the  door when it suddenly occurred to me that he  might  have
inside  information about this Wilbert Cream of whom  Aunt  Dahlia  had
spoken. I have generally found that he knows everything about everyone.
     'Oh, Jeeves,' I said. 'Half a jiffy.'
     'Sir?'
     'Something  I want to ask you. It seems that among my fellow-guests
at  Brinkley will be a Mrs Homer Cream, wife of an American big  butter
and  egg  man, and her son Wilbert, commonly known as Willie,  and  the
name Willie Cream seemed somehow to touch a chord. Rightly or wrongly I
associate  it  with  trips  we have taken to  New  York,  but  in  what
connection I haven't the vaguest. Does it ring a bell with you?'
     'Why  yes,  sir.  References to the gentleman are frequent  in  the
tabloid newspapers of New York, notably in the column conducted  by  Mr
Walter  Winchell.  He is generally alluded to under  the  sobriquet  of
Broadway Willie.'
     'Of course! It all comes back to me. He's what they call a playboy.'
     'Precisely, sir. Notorious for his escapades.'
     'Yes, I've got him placed now. He's the fellow who likes to let off
stink  bombs  in  night clubs, which rather falls  under  the  head  of
carrying  coals  to Newcastle and seldom cashes a cheque  at  his  bank
without producing a gat and saying, "This is a stick-up."'
     'And...  No,  sir, I regret that it has for the moment  escaped  my
memory.'
     'What has?'
     'Some  other  little something, sir, that I was told  regarding  Mr
Cream. Should I recall it, I will communicate with you.'
     'Yes, do. One wants the complete picture. Oh, gosh!'
     'Sir?'
     'Nothing,  Jeeves. Just a thought has floated  into  my  mind.  All
right, push off, or you'll miss your train. Good luck to your shrimping
net.'
     I'll tell you what the thought was that had floated. I have already
indicated  my  qualms at the prospect of being cooped up  in  the  same
house  with Bobbie Wickham and Aubrey Upjohn, for who could  tell  what
the harvest might be? If in addition to these two heavies I was also to
be cheek by jowl with a New York playboy apparently afflicted with bats
in  the belfry, it began to look as if this visit would prove too  much
for  Bertram's frail strength, and for an instant I toyed with the idea
of sending a telegram of regret and oiling out.
     Then I remembered Anatole's cooking and was strong again. Nobody who
has  once  tasted them would wantonly deprive himself of that  wizard's
smoked  offerings.  Whatever spiritual agonies  I  might  be  about  to
undergo  at Brinkley Court, Market Snodsbury, near Droitwich, residence
there  would at least put me several Supremes de fois gras au champagne
and Mignonettes de Poulet Petit Duc ahead of the game. Nevertheless, it
would  be  paltering with the truth to say that I was at my ease  as  I
thought  of what lay before me in darkest Worcestershire, and the  hand
that lit the after-breakfast gasper shook quite a bit.
     At this moment of nervous tension the telephone suddenly gave tongue
again, causing me to skip like the high hills, as if the Last Trump had
sounded. I went to the instrument all of a twitter.
     Some species of butler appeared to be at the other end.
     'Mr Wooster?'
     'On the spot.'
     'Good  morning,  sir. Her ladyship wishes to  speak  to  you.  Lady
Wickham, sir. Here is Mr Wooster, m'lady.'
     And Bobbie's mother came on the air.
     I should have mentioned, by the way, that during the above exchange
of  ideas  with  the  butler I had been aware of  a  distant  sound  of
sobbing, like background music, and it now became apparent that it  was
from  the  larynx of the relict of the late Sir Cuthbert  that  it  was
proceeding.  There was a short intermission before she  got  the  vocal
cords working, and while I was waiting for her to start the dialogue  I
found  myself  wrestling with two problems that presented themselves  -
the  first, What on earth is this woman ringing me up for?, the second,
Having got the number, why does she sob?
     It  was Problem A that puzzled me particularly, for ever since that
hot-water-bottle episode my relations with this parent of Bobbie's  had
been  on  the  strained side. It was, indeed, an open  secret  that  my
standing  with  her was practically that of a rat of the underworld.  I
had  had this from Bobbie, whose impersonation of her mother discussing
me  with sympathetic cronies had been exceptionally vivid, and  I  must
confess that I wasn't altogether surprised. No hostess, I mean to  say,
extending her hospitality to a friend of her daughter's, likes to  have
the  young  visitor  going about the place puncturing  people's  water-
bottles  and  leaving at three in the morning without stopping  to  say
good-bye. Yes, I could see her side of the thing all right, and I found
it  extraordinary that she should be seeking me out on the telephone in
this  fashion.  Feeling as she did so allergic to Bertram,  I  wouldn't
have thought she'd have phoned me with a ten-foot pole.
     However, there beyond a question she was.
     'Mr Wooster?'
     'Oh, hullo, Lady Wickham.'
     'Are you there?'
     I  put  her  straight on this point, and she took time out  to  sob
again.  She  then  spoke  in  a hoarse, throaty  voice,  like  Tallulah
Bankhead after swallowing a fish bone the wrong way.
     'Is this awful news true?'
     'Eh?'
     'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!'
     'I don't quite follow.'
     'In this morning's Times.'
     I'm  pretty shrewd, and it seemed to me, reading between the lines,
that there must have been something in the issue of The Times published
that  morning that for some reason had upset her, though why she should
have  chosen  me  to  tell her troubles to was a mystery  not  easy  to
fathom.  I  was about to institute inquiries in the hope of spearing  a
solution, when in addition to sobbing she started laughing in a hyaena-
esque  manner,  making it clear to my trained ear that she  was  having
hysterics. And before I could speak there was a dull thud suggestive of
some  solid  body  falling to earth, I knew not  where,  and  when  the
dialogue was resumed, I found that the butler had put himself on as  an
understudy.
     'Mr Wooster?'
     'Still here.'
     'I regret to say that her ladyship has fainted.'
     'It was she I heard going bump?'
     'Precisely, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Good-bye.'
     He  replaced the receiver and went about his domestic duties, these
no  doubt  including the loosening of the stricken woman's corsets  and
burning  feathers under her nose, leaving me to chew on  the  situation
without further bulletins from the front.
     It  seemed to me that the thing to do here was to get hold  of  The
Times and see what it had to offer in the way of enlightenment. It's  a
paper  I  don't  often  look at, preferring for breakfast  reading  the
Mirror  and  the  Mail, but Jeeves takes it in and I have  occasionally
borrowed his copy with a view to having a shot at the crossword puzzle.
It  struck me as a possibility that he might have left today's issue in
the kitchen, and so it proved. I came back with it, lowered myself into
a  chair,  lit another cigarette and proceeded to cast an  eye  on  its
contents.
     At a cursory glance what might be called swoon material appeared to
be  totally absent from its columns. The Duchess of something had  been
opening a bazaar at Wimbledon in aid of a deserving charity, there  was
an  article  on salmon fishing on the Wye, and a Cabinet  Minister  had
made a speech about conditions in the cotton industry, but I could  see
nothing  in these items to induce a loss of consciousness. Nor  did  it
seem  probable that a woman would have passed out cold on reading  that
Herbert Robinson (26) of Grove Road, Ponder's End, had been jugged  for
stealing a pair of green and yellow checked trousers. I turned  to  the
cricket  news.  Had  some friend of hers failed  to  score  in  one  of
yesterday's county matches owing to a doubtful l.b.w. decision?
     It  was  just after I had run the eye down the Births and Marriages
that  I happened to look at the Engagements, and a moment later  I  was
shooting  out of my chair as if a spike had come through its  cushioned
seat and penetrated the fleshy parts.
     'Jeeves!' I yelled, and then remembered that he had long since gone
with the wind. A bitter thought, for if ever there was an occasion when
his advice and counsel were of the essence, this occ. was that occ. The
best  I  could do, tackling it solo, was to utter a hollow g. and  bury
the  face in the hands. And though I seem to hear my public tut-tutting
in  disapproval  of  such neurotic behaviour, I think  the  verdict  of
history will be that the paragraph on which my gaze had rested was more
than enough to excuse a spot of face-burying.
     It ran as follows:

    FORTHCOMING MARRIAGES

     The  engagement  is  announced between Bertram Wilberforce  Wooster  of
Berkeley  Mansions, W.1, and Roberta, daughter of the late Sir Cuthbert
Wickham and Lady Wickham of Skeldings Hall, Herts.

    3

     Well, as I was saying, I had several times when under the influence
of  her  oomph taken up with Roberta Wickham the idea of such a merger,
but - and here is the point I would stress - I could have sworn that on
each  occasion  she had declined to co-operate, and that  in  a  manner
which left no room for doubt regarding her views. I mean to say, when a
girl, offered a good man's heart, laughs like a bursting paper bag  and
tells him not to be a silly ass, the good man is entitled, I think,  to
assume  that  the whole thing is off. In the light of this announcement
in  The  Times  I  could only suppose that on one of  these  occasions,
unnoticed  by me possibly because my attention had wandered,  she  must
have  drooped  her  eyes and come through with a  murmured  'Right-ho.'
Though when this could have happened, I hadn't the foggiest.
     It was, accordingly, as you will readily imagine, a Bertram Wooster
with  dark circles under his eyes and a brain threatening to come apart
at  the seams who braked the sports model on the following afternoon at
the front door of Brinkley Court - a Bertram, in a word, who was asking
himself  what the dickens all this was about. Non-plussed more or  less
sums  it up. It seemed to me that my first move must be to get hold  of
my  fiancee  and see if she had anything to contribute in  the  way  of
clarifying the situation.
     As  is  generally the case at country-houses on a fine  day,  there
seemed  to be nobody around. In due season the gang would assemble  for
tea  on the lawn, but at the moment I could spot no friendly native  to
tell  me  where  I might find Bobbie. I proceeded, therefore,  to  roam
hither  and  thither about the grounds and messuages  in  the  hope  of
locating her, wishing that I had a couple of bloodhounds to aid  me  in
my  task,  for the Travers demesne is a spacious one and  there  was  a
considerable  amount of sunshine above, though none,  I  need  scarcely
mention, in my heart.
     And  I was tooling along a mossy path with the brow a bit wet  with
honest  sweat,  when  there came to my ears the unmistakable  sound  of
somebody reading poetry to someone, and the next moment I found  myself
confronting a mixed twosome who had dropped anchor beneath a shady tree
in what is known as a leafy glade.
     They  had scarcely swum into my ken when the welkin started ringing
like billy-o. This was due to the barking of a small dachshund, who now
advanced on me with the apparent intention of seeing the colour  of  my
insides.  Milder  counsels,  however, prevailed,  and  on  arriving  at
journey's  end he merely rose like a rocket and licked me on the  chin,
seeming  to convey the impression that in Bertram Wooster he had  found
just  what  the  doctor ordered. I have noticed  before  in  dogs  this
tendency  to form a beautiful friendship immediately on getting  within
sniffing  distance  of  me.  Something  to  do,  no  doubt,  with   the
characteristic Wooster smell, which for some reason seems to  speak  to
their deeps. I tickled him behind the right ear and scratched the  base
of  his  spine  for a moment or two: then, these civilities  concluded,
switched my attention to the poetry group.
     It was the male half of the sketch who had been doing the reading, a
willowy  bird  of about the tonnage and general aspect of  David  Niven
with  ginger  hair and a small moustache. As he was unquestionably  not
Aubrey  Upjohn,  I  assumed that this must  be  Willie  Cream,  and  it
surprised  me  a  bit  to find him dishing out verse.  One  would  have
expected  a New York playboy, widely publicized as one of the lads,  to
confine himself to prose, and dirty prose, at that. But no doubt  these
playboys have their softer moments.