LITMIR.BIZ

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I want him to be in cheery mood, because if I succeed in signing the Grindle up for my serial, I shall be compelled to get some money from him. These women novelists want millions for their novels. So run away and shake your head at the thing.”

      I am always anxious to help my aunt, but I was compelled to refuse. Morning mixtures of Jeeves are practically magical in their effect, but…

      “I can’t shake my head. Not today.”

      She gazed at me.

      “Oh, so that’s how it is? Well, if your loathsome excesses have left you incapable of headshaking, you can at least curl your lip[23].”

      “Oh, rather.”

      “Then carry on. And try clicking the tongue. Oh, yes, and tell them you think it’s Modern Dutch.”

      “Why?”

      “I don’t know. Apparently it’s something a cow-creamer ought not to be.” She paused, and allowed her eye to roam thoughtfully over my face. “So you were completely drunk last night, my chicken? It’s an extraordinary thing—every time I see you, you appear to be recovering from some debauch. Don’t you ever stop drinking? How about when you are asleep?”

      “You wrong me[24], aunt. I am exceedingly moderate. A couple of cocktails, a glass of wine at dinner and possibly a liqueur with the coffee—that is Bertram Wooster. But last night I gave a small bachelor binge for Gussie Fink-Nottle.”

      “You did, did you?” She laughed—a bit louder than I could endure. “Spink-Bottle, eh? Bless his heart! How was the old newt-fancier?”

      “Pretty roguish.”

      “Did he make a speech at this orgy of yours?”

      “Yes. I was astounded. I was all prepared for a refusal. But no. We drank his health, and he rose to his feet as cool as some cucumbers, as Anatole would say, and held us spellbound.”

      “Tight as a skunk, I suppose?”

      “On the contrary. Absolutely sober.”

      “Well, nice to hear.”

      This Gussie was a fish-faced pal of mine, who had buried himself in the country and devoted himself entirely to the study of newts, keeping the little chaps in a glass tank and observing their habits with a sedulous eye. A confirmed recluse you would have called him, if you had happened to know the word, and you would have been right. But Love will find a way. Meeting Madeline Bassett one day, he had emerged from his retirement and started to woo, and after numerous vicissitudes had been successful. Now he was going to marry that ghastly girl.

      I call her a ghastly girl because she was a ghastly girl. The Woosters are chivalrous, but they can tell the truth. Droopy, soupy, sentimental, with melting eyes and a cooing voice and the most extraordinary views on such things as stars and rabbits. I remember her telling me once that rabbits were gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen and that the stars were God’s daisy chain. Perfect nonsense, of course. They’re nothing of the sort.

      Aunt Dahlia emitted a low, rumbling chuckle.

      “Good old Spink-Bottle[25]! Where is he now?”

      “Staying at the Bassett’s place—Totleigh Towers, Glos[26]. He went back there this morning. They’re having the wedding at the local church.”

      “Are you going to it?”

      “Definitely no.”

      “No, I suppose it would be too painful for you. You were in love with the girl.”

      I stared.

      “In love? With a female who thinks that every time a fairy sneezes a baby is born?”

      “Well, you were certainly engaged to her once.”

      “For about five minutes, yes, and there was no fault of my own. My dear old relative,” I said, “you are perfectly well aware of the inside facts of that frightful affair.”

      I winced. It was an incident in my career which I don’t like to remember. Briefly, what had occurred was this. Gussie had asked me to talk to Madeline Bassett for him. And when I did so, the fat-headed[27] girl thought I was pleading mine. With the result that she had refused Gussie and attached herself to me, and I had no option but to take the rap[28]. Mercifully, things went well and there was a reconciliation between them, but the thought of my peril was one at which I still shuddered.

      “Well, if it is of any interest to you,” said Aunt Dahlia, “I am not proposing to attend that wedding myself. I disapprove of Sir Watkyn Bassett, and don’t think he ought to be encouraged.”

      “You know the old crumb[29], then?” I said, rather surprised. It’s a small world.[30]

      “Yes, I know him. He’s a friend of Tom’s. They both collect old silver and snarl at one another like wolves about it all the time. We had him staying at Brinkley[31] last month. And would you care to hear how he repaid me for all the loving care I lavished on him while he was my guest? Behind my back he tried to steal Anatole!”

      “No!”

      “That’s what he did. Fortunately, Anatole proved staunch—after I had doubled his wages.”

      “Double them again,” I said earnestly. “Keep on doubling them. Pour out money like water rather than lose that superb master of the roasts and hashes.”

      I was visibly affected.

      “Yes,” said Aunt Dahlia, “Sir Watkyn Bassett is a swindler. You had better warn Spink-Bottle to watch out on the wedding day. The slightest relaxation of vigilance, and the old man will probably steal his wedding ring. And now push off. Oh, and give this to Jeeves, when you see him. It’s the “Husbands’ Corner” article. It’s about men’s trousers, and I’d like him to read it. For all I know, it may be Red propaganda. And I can rely on you not to bungle that job? Tell me in your own words what it is you’re supposed to do.”

      “Go to antique shop—”

      “—in the Brompton Road—”

      “—in, as you say, the Brompton Road. Ask to see cow-creamer—”

      “—and sneer. Right. Go away. The door is behind you.”

      It was with a light heart that I went out into the street and caught a cab. I was conscious only of pleasure at the thought that I had it in my power to perform this little act of kindness. Scratch Bertram Wooster[32], I often say, and you find a Boy Scout[33].

      The antique shop in the Brompton Road proved to be an antique shop in the Brompton Road and, like all antique shops, dingy outside and dark and smelly within. I don’t know why it is, but the proprietors of these establishments always seem to be cooking some food in the back room.

      “I say,” I began, entering; then paused as I perceived that the man was attending to two other customers.

      “Oh, sorry,” I was about to add, when the words froze on my lips.

      In spite of the poor light I was able to note that the smaller and elder of these two customers was no stranger to me. It was old Pop Bassett in person. Himself. Not a picture. But I stood firm. After all, I had paid my debt to Society and had nothing to fear from this swindler. So I remained where I was.

      He turned and shot a quick look at me, and then he had been peering at me sideways. It was only a question of time,

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