 CHAPTER XIII. THE GREAT CEREMON HANDICAP After good woods over, I generally find that I get a bit restless. I'm not much of a lad for the birds and the trees, and the great open spaces as, but there's no doubt that London's not at its best in August, and rather tends to give me the pip and make me think of popping down into the country things have bucked up a trifle. London, about a couple of weeks after that spectacular finish of young bingos, which I've just been telling you about, was empty and smelled of burning asphalt. All my pals were away. Most of the theatres were shut, and they were taking off Piccadilly in large spade-falls. It was most infernally hot. As I sat in the old flat one night trying to muster up enough energy to go to bed, I felt I couldn't stand it much longer, and when Jeeves came in with the tissue restores on a tray I put thing to him squarely. Jeeves, I said, wiping the brow and casping like a stranded goldfish, it's beastly hot. The weather is oppressive, sir. Not all the soda, Jeeves. No, sir. I think we've had about enough of the metrop for the time being and require a change. Shift her, I think, Jeeves. What? Just as you say, sir, there is a letter on the tracer. By Jove, Jeeves, that was practically poetry. Rhymed, did you notice? I opened the letter. I say this is rather extraordinary. Sir? You know Twing Hall? Yes, sir. Well, Mr. Little is there. Indeed, sir. Absolutely in the flesh. He's had to take another of those tutoring jobs. After that fearful mix-up at Goodwood, when young Bingo Little, a broken man, had touched me for a tenner and whizzed silently off into the unknown, I had been all over the place, asking mutual friends if they had heard anything of him, but nobody had, and all the time he'd been at Twing Hall. Rummy. And I'll tell you why it was Rummy. Twing Hall belongs to old Lord Wickershamley, a great pal of my governors when he was alive, and I have a standing invitation to pop down there when I like. I generally put in a week or two sometime in the summer, and I was thinking of going there before I read the letter. And what's more, Jeeves? My cousin Claude, and my cousin Eustace, you remember them? Very vividly, sir. Well, they're down there too, reading for some exam or other with a vicar. I used to read with him myself at one time. He's known far and wide as a pretty hot coach for those of fairly feeble intellect. Well, when I tell you he got me through Smalls, you'll gala that he's a bit of a hummer. I call this most extraordinary. I read the letter again. It was from Eustace. Claude and Eustace are twins and more or less generally admitted to be the cuss of the human race. The vicarage. Twing Gloucestershire. Dear Bertie, do you want to make a bit of money? I hear you had a bad good wood, so you probably do. Well, come down here quick and get in on the biggest spotting event of the season. I'll explain when I see you, but you can take it from me. It's all right. Claude and I are with a reading party at Old Hebbensales. There are nine of us, not counting your pal, Bingo Little, who is tutoring the kid up at the hall. Don't miss this golden opportunity, which may never occur again. Come and join us, yours, Eustace. I handed this to Jeeves. He studied it thoughtfully. What do you make of it? A rummy communication what? Very high-spirited young gentleman, sir, Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustace. Up to some game I should be disposed to imagine? Yes, but what game do you think? It's impossible to say, sir. Did you observe that the letter continues over the page? Oh, what? I grabbed the thing. This is what was on the other side of the last page. Sermon handicap, runners and betting probable starters. Reverend Joseph Tucker, Badgerick, Scratch. Reverend Leonard Starkey, Stapleton, Scratch. Reverend Alexander Jones, Upper Bingley, receives three minutes. Reverend W. Dicks, Little-Clickton in the wall, receives five minutes. Reverend Francis Heppenstahl, Twing, receives eight minutes. Reverend Cuthbert Dibble, Boussted Parva, receives nine minutes. Reverend Orlo Hoff, Boussted Magna, receives nine minutes. Reverend J. J. Roberts, Fail by the water, receives 10 minutes. Reverend G. Hayward, Lower Bingley, receives 12 minutes. Reverend James Bates, Gandalf by the hill, receives 15 minutes. The above have arrived. Prices, five to two, Tucker, Starkey, three to one, Jones, nine to two, Dicks, six to one, Heppenstahl, Dibble, Huff, 100 to eight, any other. It baffled me. Do you understand the chiefs? No, sir. Well, I think we ought to have a look into it, anyway, what? Undoubtedly, sir. Right, oh, then! Parva spared Dickie and a toothbrush in a neat brown paper parcel. Send a wire to Lord Wickers Hamley to say we're coming, and buy two tickets on the 510 at Paddington to-morrow. The 510 was late, as usual, and everybody was dressing for dinner when I arrived at the hall. It was only by getting into my evening things in record time and taking the stairs to the dining room in a couple of bounds that I managed to dead-heat with a soup. I slid into the vacant chair, and found I was sitting next to Old Wickers Hamley's youngest daughter, Cynthia. Oh, hello, old thing, I said. Great pals, we've always been. In fact, there was a time when I had an idea. I was in love with Cynthia. However, it blew over. A dashed pretty and lively and attractive girl, mind you, but full of ideals and all that. I may be wronging her, but I have an idea that she's sort of girl who would want a fellow to cough out a career and what not. I know I've heard her speak favourably of Napoleon, so what with one thing and another, the jolly old frenzy sort of petered out and hour-just pals? I think she's a topper, and she thinks me next door to a loonie, so everything's nice and matey. Well, Bertie, so you've arrived. Oh, yes, I've arrived. Yes, here I am. I say I seem to have plunged into the middle of quite a young dinner-party. Who are all these coves? Oh, just people from roundabout. You know most of them. You remember Krud, Willis, and the Spencers? Of course, yes, and there's old Hepinstar, who's the other clergyman next to Mrs Spencer? Mr Hayward from Lower Bingley. What an amazing lot of clergymen there are round here. Why, there's another next to Mrs Willis. That's Mr Bates, Mr Hepinstar's nephew. He's an assistant master at Eaton. He's down here during the summer holidays, acting as locum tenants for Mr Spettigew, director of Gandal by the Hill. I thought I knew his face. He was in his fort here at Oxford when I was a fresher, rather a blood. Got his rowing blue and all that. I took another look round the table and spotted young bingo. Ah, there he is. There's the old egg. There's who? Young bingo little, great pal of mine. He's tutoring your brother, you know. Good gracious, is he a friend of yours? Robba, known him all my life. Then tell me, Bertie, is he at all weak in the head? Weak in the head? I don't mean simply because he's a friend of yours, but he is so strange in his manner. How do you mean? Well, he keeps looking at me so oddly. Oddly how? Give an imitation. I can't in front of all these people. Yes, you can. I'll hold my napkin up. All right, then. Quick, there. Considering that he only had about a second and a half to do it in, I must say it was a jolly fine exhibition. She opened her mouth and eyes pretty wide, and let her jaw drop sideways, and managed to look so like a disceptic calf that I recognized the symptoms immediately. Oh, that's all right, I said. No need to be alarmed. He's simply in love with you. In love with me, don't be absurd. My dear old thing, you don't know young bingo. He can fall in love with anybody. Thank you. Oh, I didn't mean it that way. You know, I don't wonder at his taking to you why I was in love with you myself once. Once? Ah, and all that remains now are the cold ashes. This isn't one of your tactful evenings, Bertie. Well, my dear sweet thing, dash it all. Considering that you gave me the bird and nearly laughed yourself into a permanent state of hiccups when I asked you, oh, I'm not reproaching you. No doubt there were faults on both sides. He's very good-looking, isn't he? Good-looking? Bingo? Bingo? Good-looking? No, I say, come now, really. I mean, compared with some people, said Cynthia. Sometime after this, Lady Wickhamersley gave the signal for the females of species to leg it and they duly stampeded. I didn't get a chance of talking to young Bingo when they'd gone, and later, in the drawing room, he didn't show up. I found him eventually in his room, lying on the bed with his feet on the rail, smoking a tufa. There was a notebook on the counter-pane beside him. Hello, old scream, I said. Hello, Bertie. He replied in what seemed to me rather a moody district sort of manner. Remy finding you down here? I take it your uncle cut off your allowance after that good-wood binge and you had to take this tutoring job to keep the woofer from the door. Correct, said young Bingo Tarsley. Well, you might have let your pals know where you were. He frowned darkly. I didn't want them to know where I was. I wanted to creep away and hide myself. I've been through a bad time, Bertie, these last weeks. The sun ceased to shine. That's curious. We've had gorgeous weather in London. The birds ceased to sing. What birds? What the devil doesn't matter what birds, said young Bingo with some asperity. Any birds? The birds round here. You don't expect me to specify them by their pet name, do you? I tell you, Bertie, it hit me hard at first, very hard. What hit you? I simply couldn't follow the blighter. Charlotte's calculated callousness. Ah, I've seen poor old Bingo do so many unsuccessful love affairs that I'd almost forgotten there was a girl mixed up with that good-wood business. Of course. Charlotte called a robotom. And she had given him the rouseberry, I remembered, and gone off with comrade Butt. I went through torments. Recently, however, I've, er, fucked up a bit. Tell me, Bertie, what are you doing down here? I didn't know you knew these people. Me? I've known them since I was a kid. Young Bingo put his feet down with a thud. Do you mean to say you've known Lady Cynthia all that time? Rather, she can't have been seven when I met her first. Good Lord! said young Bingo. He looked at me for the first time as though I amounted to something, and swallowed a mouthful of smoke the wrong way. I love that girl, Bertie. He went on when he'd finished coughing. Yes, nice girl, of course. He eyed me with pretty deep loathing. Don't speak of her in that horrible, casual way. She's an angel. An angel? Oh, was she talking about me at all, at dinner, Bertie? Oh, yes. What did she say? I remember one thing. She said she thought you were good-looking. Young Bingo clothed his eyes in a sort of ecstasy. Then he picked up the notebook. Pop off now, old man. There's a good job. He said in a hushed, faraway voice. I've got a bit of writing to do. Writing? Poetry, if you must know. I wish the Dickens, said young Bingo, not without some bitterness. She had been christened something except Cynthia. There isn't a damn word in the language it rhymes with. He guards. How I could have spread myself if she had only been called Jane. Brought in early the next morning as I lay in bed blinking at the sunlight on the dressing table and wondering when cheese was going to show up with a cup of tea. A heavy weight descended on my toes, and the voice of young Bingo polluted the air. The blighter had apparently risen with a lark. Leave me, I said. I would be alone. I can't see anybody till I've had my tea. When Cynthia smiles, said young Bingo, the skies are blue. The world takes on a rosy hue. Birds in the garden, trill and sing. And joy is keen of everything when Cynthia smiles. He coughed, changing gears. When Cynthia frowns, what the devil are you talking about? I'm reading you my poem, the one I wrote to Cynthia last night. I'll go on, shall I? No, no! No, I haven't had my tea. At this moment, Jeeves came in with a good old beverage, and I sprang on it with a glad cry. After a couple of sips, things looked a bit brighter. Even young Bingo didn't offend the eye to quite such an extent. By the time I'd finished the first cup, I was a new man, so much so that I not only permitted, but encouraged the poor fish to read the rest of the valley thing, and even worked so far as to criticise the scansion of the fourth line, the fifth verse. We were still arguing the point when the door burst open in blue clod and Eustace. One of the things which discouraged me about rural life is the frightful earliness with which events begin to break loose. I've stayed at places in the country where they've jerked me out of the dreamless, at about six thirty, to go for a jolly swim in the lake. At twinger thing, heaven, they know me, and let me breakfast in bed. The twins seemed pleased to see me. Good old Bertie, said Claude. Stout fellow, said Eustace. The Rev told us you had arrived. I thought that letter of mine would fetch you. You can always beckon Bertie, said Claude. A sportsman to the fingertips. Well, has Bingo told you about it? Not a word. He's been, we've been talking, said Bingo hastily, of other matters. Claude pinced the last slice of thin bread and butter, and Eustace poured himself out a cup of tea. It's like this Bertie, said Eustace, settling down cosily, as I told you in my letter. There are nine of us marooned in this desert spot, reading with old Heppenstall. Well, of course, nothing is jollier than sweating up the classics. When it's a hundred in the shade, but there does come a time when you begin to feel the need of a little relaxation, and by Jove there are absolutely no facilities for relaxation in this place, whatever. And then Stegels got this idea. Stegels is one of our reading-party, and between ourselves, rather a worm as a general thing, still you have to give him credit for getting this idea. What idea? Well, you know how many Parsons there are round here. There are about a dozen Hamlets within a radius of six miles, and each Hamlet has a church, and each church has a Parson, and each Parson preaches a sermon every Sunday. Tomorrow week, Sunday the 23rd, we are running off the great sermon handicap. Stegels is making the book. Each Parson is to be clocked by a reliable steward of the course, and the one that preaches the longest sermon wins. Did you study the race card I sent you? I couldn't understand what it was all about. Why, you chomp, it gives the handicaps and the current odds on each starter. I've got another one here in case you've lost yours. Take a careful look at it. It gives you the thing in a nutshell. Jeeves, old son, do you want a sporting flutter? Sir, said Jeeves, who I just meandered in with my breakfast. Claude explained the scheme. Amazing the way Jeeves grasped it right off! But he merely smiled in a paternal sort of way. Thank you, sir, I think not. Well, you're with us, Bertie, aren't you? Said Claude, sneaking a roll and a slice of bacon. Have you studied that card? Well, tell me, does anything strike you about it? Of course it did. It had struck me the moment I looked at it. Why, it's a sitter for old Heppenstall, I said. He's got the event sewed up in a parcel. There isn't a parson in the land who could give him eight minutes. Your pal Steggles must be an ass, giving him a handicap like that. Why, in the days when I was with him, Old Heppenstall never used to preach under half an hour, and there was one sermon of his unbrotherly love, which lasted forty-five minutes if it lasted a second. Has he lost his vim lately, or what is it? Not a bit of it, said Eustace. Tell him what happened, Claude. Why, said Claude, the first Sunday we were here, we all went to tween church. And Old Heppenstall preached a sermon that was well under twenty minutes. This is what happened. Steggles didn't notice it, and the Rev didn't notice it himself, but Eustace and I both spotted that he had dropped a chunk of at least half a dozen pages out of this sermon case as he was walking up to the pulpit. He sort of flittered when he got to the gap in the manuscript, but carried on all right. And Steggles went away with the impression that twenty minutes or a bit under was his usual form. The next Sunday we heard Tucker and Starkey, and they both went well over the thirty-five minutes. So Steggles arranged the handicapping as you see on the card. You must come into this burty. You see, the trouble is I haven't been, and Eustace hasn't been, and being a little hasn't been, so you'll have to finance the syndicate. Don't weaken. It's just putting money in all our pockets. Well, we'll have to be getting back now. Think the thing over, and phone me later in the day. And if let us down, burty. May our cousins curse. Come on, Claude, old thing. The more I studied the scheme, the better it looked. How about it, Gives, I said. Gives smiled gently and drifted out. Gives has no sporting blood, said Bingo. Well, I have. I'm coming into this. Claude's quite right. It's like finding money by the wayside. Good man, said Bingo. Now I can see daylight. Say I have a tenner on heaven stall and cop. That'll give me a bit in hand to back a pink pill with. I did two o'clock at Gatwick the week after next. Come on, that. Put the pile on muskrat for the one-thirty at Luce, and there I am with a nice little sum-detector, Alexander Parr, on September the 10th, when I've got a tip straight from the stable. It sounded like a bit out of smile's self-help. And then, said young Bingo, I'll read a position to go to my uncle and beat him in his lair somewhat. He's quite a bit of a snob, you know, and when he hears that I'm going to marry the daughter of an earl, I say, old man, I couldn't help saying, aren't you looking ahead rather far? Oh, that's all right. It's true nothing's actually settled yet, but she practically told me the other day she was fond of me. What? Well, she said that the sort of man she liked was the self-reliant, manly man with strength, good looks, character, ambition, and initiative. Leave me, laddie, I said. Leave me to my fried egg. Directly I got up, I went to the phone, snatched Eustace away from his morning's work, and instructed him to put a tenner on the twin-flyer, a current odds, for each of the syndicate, and after lunch Eustace rang me up to say that he had done business at a snappy seven-to-one, the odds having lengthened owing to a rumour in knowledgeable circles, that the rev was subject to hay fever, and was taking big chances strolling the paddock behind the vicarage in the early mornings, and it was dashed lucky, I thought the next day, that we had managed to get the money on in time, for on Sunday morning, old Hebenstahl fairly took the bit between his teeth, and gave us thirty-six solid minutes on certain popular superstitions. I was sitting next to Steckels in the pew, and I saw him bled visibly. He was a little rat-faced fellow, with shifty eyes, and a suspicious nature. The first thing he did when we emerged into the open air was to announce formally, that anyone who fancied the rev could now be accommodated at fifteen to eight on, and he added, in a rather nasty manner, that if he had his way, this sort of in-and-out running would be brought to the attention of the jockey club, but that he supposed that there was nothing to be done about it. This ruinous price checked the punters at once, and there was little money in sight. And so matters stood till just after lunch on Tuesday afternoon, when, as I was strolling up and down in front of the house with a cigarette, Claude and Eustace came bursting up the drive on bicycles, dripping with momentous news. Bertie said, Claude deeply agitated, unless we take immediate action, and do a bit of quick thinking here in the cart. What's the matter? Gee, hey, what's the matter? said Eustace Morosly, the lower bingly starter. We never even considered him, said Claude. Somehow or other he got overlooked. It's always the way. Steckles overlooked him, we all overlooked him, but Eustace and I happened by the nearest fluke to be riding through lower bingly this morning, and there was a wedding on at the church, and it suddenly struck us that it wouldn't be a bad move to get a line on G. Hayward's form, in case he might be a dark horse. And it was jolly lucky we did, said Eustace. He delivered an address of 26 minutes by Claude's stopwatch. At a village wedding, Mark you, what'll he do when he really extends himself? There's only one thing to be done, Bertie, said Claude. You must bring some more funds, so that we can hedge on Hayward and save ourselves. But, well, it's the only way out. But I say, you know, I hate the idea of all that money we put on happens to all being chucked away. What else can you suggest? You don't suppose the Rev can give this absolute marble a handicap and win, do you? I've got it, I said. What? I see a way by which we can make it safe for our nominee. I'll pop over this afternoon and ask him as a personal favour to preach that sermon of his own brotherly love on Sunday. Claude and Eustace looked at each other like those chappies in the poem with the wild surmise. It's a scheme, said Claude. A jolly brainy scheme, said Eustace. I didn't think you had it in you, Bertie. But even so, said Claude, fizzier as that sermon no doubt is, will it be good enough in the face of a four-minute handicap? Duh, I said. When I told you it lasted forty-five minutes, I was probably understating it. I should call it, from my recollection of the thing, near fifty. Then carry on, said Claude. I told over in the evening and fixed the thing up. Old heaven stall was most decent about the whole affair. He seemed pleased and touched that I should have remembered the sermon all these years, and said he had once or twice had an idea of preaching it again, only it had seemed to him on reflection that it was perhaps a trifle long for a rustic congregation. In these restless times, my dear Wooster, he said, I fear that brevity in the pulpit is becoming more and more desiderated by even the bucolic churchgoer who one might have supposed would be less afflicted with the spirit of hurry and impatience than his metropolitan brother. I have had many arguments on the subject with my nephew Young Bates, who is taking my old friend's spitty youth cure over at Gandal by the hill. His view is that a sermon nowadays should be a bright risk straight from the shoulder address, never lasting more than ten or twelve minutes. Long, I said, why, my goodness, you never call that brotherly love sermon of yours long, do you? It takes fully fifteen minutes to deliver. Surely not! Your incredulity, my dear Wooster, is extremely flattering, far more flattering, of course, than I deserve. Nevertheless, the facts are as I have stated. You are sure that I would not be well advised to make certain excisions and eliminations? You do not think it would be a good thing to cut, to prune? I might, for example, delete the rather exhaustive excursus into the family life of the early Assyrians. Don't touch a word of it, or you'll spoil the whole thing, I said, honestly. I am delighted to hear you say so, and I shall preach the sermon without fail next Sunday morning. What I have always said and what I always shall say is that this anti-post betting is a mistake and error and a mug's game. You never can tell what's going to happen. If fellows would only stick to the good old SP, there would be fewer young men go wrong. I'd hardly finish my breakfast on the Saturday morning, when Gives came to my bedside to say that Eustace wanted me on the telephone. Long, Gives, what's the matter, do you think? I'm bound to say I was beginning to get a bit chumpy by this time. Mr Eustace did not confide in me, sir. Has he got the wind up? Somewhat vertically, sir, to judge by his voice. Do you know what I think, Gives? Something's gone wrong with the favourite. Which is the favourite, sir? Mr Hepenstahl, he's gone to Orzahn. He was intending to preach a sermon on brotherly love which would have brought him home by length. I wonder if anything's happened to him. You could ascertain, sir, by speaking to Mr Eustace on the telephone. He is holding the wire. By Jove, yes. I shoved on a dressing gown and flew downstairs like a mighty rushing wind. The moment I heard Eustace's voice, I knew we were for it. It had a croak of agony in it. Bertie. Here I am. Deuce of a time you've been, Bertie was sunk, the favourites blown up. No. Yes, covering in his stable all last night. What? Absolutely. Hey, fever. Oh, my sacred heart. The doctor's with him now, and it's only a question of minutes before he's officially scratched. That means that the curate will show over the post instead, and he's no good at all. He's being offered at a hundred to six, but no, take us. What shall we do? I had to grapple with the thing for a moment in silence. Eustace, hello. What can you get on, gee hayward? Only four to one now. I think there's been a leak, and Stegels has heard something. The odds shortened late last night in a significant manner. Well, four to one will clear us. Put another five or all round on gee hayward for the syndicate. That'll bring us out on the right side of the letter, if he wins. Well, what do you mean? I thought you'd considered him assert by happenstile. I'm beginning to wonder, said Eustace Goomily, if there's such a thing as assert in this word. I'm told Reverend Joseph Tucker did an extraordinarily fine trial-gallop at a mother's meeting over at Badgerwick yesterday. However, it seems our only chance. So long. Not being one of the official stewards, I had my choice of churches next morning, and naturally I didn't hesitate. The only drawback in going to Lower Bingley was that it was ten miles away. Which meant an early start, but I borrowed a bicycle from one of the grooms and tooled off. I had only Eustace's word for it that gee hayward was such a stayer, and it might have been that he had shown too flattering form at the wedding where the twins had heard him preach. But any misgivings I may have had disappeared. The moment he got into the pulpit, Eustace had been right. The man was a tryer. He was a tall, pinch-looking grey-beard. And he went off from start with a nice easy action, passing and clearing his throat at the end of each sentence. And it wasn't five minutes before I realised that here was the winner, his habit of stopping dead, and looking round the church at intervals was worth minutes to us. And in the home stretch we gained no little advantage owing to his dropping his pin snare and having to grope for them. At the twenty-minute mark he had merely settled down. Twenty-five minutes saw him going strong. And when he finally finished with a good bust, the clock showed thirty-five minutes fourteen seconds. With the handicap which he had been given, this seemed to me to make the event easy for him. And it was with much bonnoumi and goodwill to all men that I hopped on to the old bike and started back to the hall for lunch. Bingo was talking on the phone when I arrived. Fine, splendid, topping, he was saying. Eh, oh, we didn't worry about him, right, oh, I'll tell Bertie. He hung up to receive her and got sight of me. Oh, hello, Bertie. I was just talking to Eustace. It's all right, old man. The report from Lowe Bingley has just got in. G. Hayward robs home. I knew he would. I've just come from there. Eh, were you there? I went to Badgwick. Tucker ran a splendid race, but the handicap was too much for him. Starkey had a sore throat and was nowhere. Roberts, of fail by the water, ran third. Could oh, G. Hayward, said Bingo affectionately, and we strolled up onto the terrace. Are all the returns in then, I asked? All except Gandal by the hill. But we needn't worry about Bates. He never had a chance. By the way, for our Jeeves loses his tenor, silly ass. Jeeves, how do you mean? He came to me this morning just after you had left and asked me to put a tenor on Bates for him. I told him he was a chump and begged him not to throw his money away, but he would do it. I beg your pardon, sir. This note arrived for you just after you'd left the house this morning. Jeeves had materialised from nowhere and was standing at my elbow. Eh, what note? The reverend Mr. Hepenstahl's butler brought it over from the vicarage, sir. It came too late to be delivered to you at the moment. Young Bingo was talking to Jeeves like a father on the subject of betting against the formwork. The yell I gave made him bite his tongue in the middle of a sentence. What the dickens is the matter, he asked. Not a little peeved. We're dished. Listen to this. I read him the note. The vicarage twing, Gloucestershire. My dear Worcester, as you may have heard, circumstances over which I have no control will prevent my preaching the sermon on brotherly love, for which you made such a flattering request. I am unwilling, however, that you shall be disappointed. So, if you will attend divine service, it gambled by the hill this morning. You will hear my sermon, preached by Young Bates, my nephew. I have lent him the manuscript at his urgent desire. For between ourselves there are wheels within wheels. My nephew is one of the candidates for the head-mastership of a well-known public school, and the choice has narrowed down between him and one rival. Late yesterday evening, James received private information that the head of the board of governors of the school proposed to sit under him this Sunday in order to judge the merits of his preaching, a most important item in swing the board's choice. I acceded to his plea that I lend him my sermon on brotherly love, of which, like you, he apparently retains a vivid recollection. It would have been too late for him to compose a sermon of suitable length. In place of the brief address which, mistakenly in my opinion, he had designed to deliver to his rustic flock, and I wish to help the boy. Trusting that his preaching of the sermon will supply you with as pleasant memories as you say you have of mine, I remain whole for yours if heaven's stall. P.S. The hay fever has rendered my eyes unpleasantly weak for the time being, so I am dictating this letter to my butler, Brookfield, who will convey it to you. I don't know when I have experienced a more massive silence, than the one that followed my reading of this chivvy epistle. Young Bingo gulped once or twice, and practically every known emotion came and went on his face. Jeeves coughed one assault low, gentle cough, like a sheep, with a blade of grass stuck in its throat, and then stood gazing serenely at the landscape. Finally Young Bingo spoke. Great scout! he whispered horsey, an SP job. I believe that is the technical term, sir, said Jeeves. So you had inside information, dash it, said Young Bingo. Why yes, sir, said Jeeves. Brookfield happened to mention the contents of the note to me when he brought it. We are old friends. Bingo whispered grief, anguish, rage, despair, and resentment. Well, all I can say, he cried, is that it's a bit thick. Preaching another man's sermon? Do you call that honest? Do you call that playing? The game? Well, my dear old thing, I said be fair. It's quite within the rules. Clared to men do it all the time, but I aren't expected always to make up the summons they preach. Jeeves coughed again, and fixed me with an expressionless eye. And in the present case, sir, if I may be permitted to take the liberty of making the observation, I think we should make allowances. We should remember that securing of this head-mastership meant everything to the young couple. Young couple? What young couple? The Reverend James Bates, sir, and the Lady Cynthia. I am informed by her ladyships made that they have been engaged to be married for some weeks, provisionally, so to speak. And his lordship made his consent conditional on Mr. Bates, securing a really important and remunerative position. Young bingo turned a light green, and he'd to be married? Yes, sir. There was a silence. I think I'll go for a walk, said bingo. But my dear old thing, I said, it's just lunchtime. The gong will be going any minute now. I don't want any lunch, said bingo. End of Chapter 13, Recording by Lynn Jarrow Chapter 14 of Inevitable Jeeves This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Fanno Giangiri The Inevitable Jeeves by P. G. Wothouse Chapter 14, The Purity of the Turf After that, love at Twing jogged long pretty peacefully for a bit. Twing is one of those places where there isn't a frightful lot to do know any very hectic excitement to look forward to. In fact, the only event of any importance on the horizon as far as I could sustain was the annual village school treat. One simply filled in the time by loathing about the gowns, playing a bit of tennis and avoiding young bingo as far as was humanly possible. This loss was a very necessary move if you wanted a happy life for the Cynthia author had jawed the unfortunate mutt to such an extent that he was always relaying one and decanting his anguished soul. And when one morning he blew into my bedroom while I was towing with a bit of breakfast, I decided to take a firm line from the start. I could stand having him moaning all over me after dinner and even after lunch, but at breakfast no. We woosters our amiability itself, but there is a limit. Now look here old friend, I said. I know your body heart is broken and all that, and at some future time I shall be delighted to hear all about it, but I didn't come to talk about that. Oh, good egg. The past, said young bingo, is dead, let us say no more about it. Right though, I have been wounded to the very depths of my soul, but don't speak about it. I won't. I ignored it, forget it. Absolutely. I hadn't seen him so dashed reasonable for days. What I came to see you about this morning, Bertie, he said, fishing a sheet of paper out of his pocket, was to ask if you would care to come in on another little flutter. If there is one thing we woosters are simply dripping with at his spouting blood, I bolted the rest of my sausage and set up and took notice. Proceed, I said. You interest me strangely, old Bert. Bingo laid the paper on the bed. On Monday week, he said, you may or may not know the annual village school trade takes place. Lord Wikimersley lends the whole grounds for the purpose. There will be games and a conjurer and coconut shies until you attend an also sports. I know Cynthia was telling me. Young bingo winced. Would you mind not mentioning that name? I'm not made of marble. Sorry. Well, as I was saying, this jamboree is stated for Monday week. The question is, are we on? How do you mean are we on? I am referring to the sports, Stegels did so well out of the sermon handicap that he has decided to make a book on these sports. Punters can be accommodated at anti-posts, arts or starting price according to their preference. I think we ought to look into it, said young bingo. I pressed the bell. I can't hold Jeeves. I don't watch any sporting proposition without his advice. Jeeves, I said as he drifted in, rallied out. So, Stand by. We want your advice. Very good, sir. State your case, bingo. Bingo stated his case. What about the Jeeves? I said. Do we go win? Jeeves pondered to some extent. I'm inclined to favour the idea, sir. That was good enough for me. Right, I said. Then we will foam a syndicate and bust a ring. I supplied them money. You supplied the brains and bingo. What do you supply, bingo? If you will carry me and let me settle up later, said young bingo, I think I can put you in the way of winning a parcel on the Mother's Sacrace. All right. We will put you down as inside information. Now, what are the events? Bingo reached for his paper and consulted it. Girls on the 1450-yard dash seems to open the proceedings. Anything to say about that, Jeeves? No, sir. I have no information. What's next? Boys and girls mixed animal potato race. All ages. This was a new one to me. I had never heard of it at any of the big meetings. What's that? Are there sportings, said young bingo? The competition nerves enter in couples, each couple being assigned an animal cry and a potato. For instance, let's suppose that you and Jeeves entered. Jeeves with the standard of fixed point holding a potato. You would have your head in a sack, and you would grope about trying to farm Jeeves and making a nose like a cat. Jeeves also making a nose like a cat. Other competitors would be making noses like cows and pigs and dogs and so on, and groping about for their potato holes as who would also be making noses like cows and pigs and dogs and so on. I stopped the poo fish. Jolly, if you were found of animals, I said. But on the whole, precisely, sir, said Jeeves, I wouldn't touch it. To open what? Exactly, sir. Very hard to estimate for. Carry on, Miko. Where do we go from there? Mother's sacrifice. Oh, that's better. This is where you know something. A gift for Mrs. Pondworthy, the tobaccoist's wife, said bingo confidently. I was in at her shop yesterday, borrowing cigarettes, and she told me she had won three times at first in Worcestershire. She only moved to these parts a short time ago, so nobody knows about her. She promised me she would keep her soft dog, and I think we could get a good price. Risk a ton of each wagey, is what? I think so, sir. Gales open egg and spoon raise, red bingo. How about that? I doubt if it would be worthwhile to invest, sir, said Jeeves. I am told it is a certainty for last year's winner, Sada Mills, who will doubt loss of stout and oddson on the favourites. Go, did she? They told me in the village that she carries a beautiful ox, sir. Then there is the obstacle raise, said bingo. Risky, in my opinion, like betting on the Grand National. Fathers had three main contests and other speculative events, that's all, except for the quiet bow's hundred-yard handicap. For a pooter mug, presented by a wicker, open to O whose voices have not broken before the second Sunday in Epiphany. Willy Chambers won last year, in a canter receiving 15 yards. This time he will probably be handicapped out of the race. I don't know what to advise. If I might make a suggestion, sir. I argue with interest. I don't know that I'd ever seen him look so nearly excited. You've got something up your sleeve? I have, sir. Red hot? That precisely describes it, sir. I think I may confidently assert that we have the winner of the quiet bow's handicap under this very roof, sir. Harold the page-boy. Page-boy? Do you mean the top of the chopping buttons one sees bubbling about here and there? Why, dashy jeevs, nobody has a greater respect for your knowledge of form than I have, but I'm hanged if I can see Harold catching the judge's eye. It's particularly circular. And every time I've seen him, he's been leaning up against something, half asleep. He received 30 yards, sir, and could win from a scratch. The boy is a flyer. How do you know? Jeves coughed, and there was a dreamy look in his eye. I was as much astonished at yourself, sir. When I first became aware of the last capabilities, I happened to pursue him one morning with the intention of fetching him a clip on the side of the head. Great skull, Jeves, you? Yes, sir. The boy is often outspoken disposition, and had made an appropriate remark respecting my personal appearance. What did he say about your appearance? I have forgotten, sir, said Jeves with a touch of austerity, but it was... appropriate. I endeavour to correct him, but he outdistanced me by yours and made good his scape. But I say, Jeves, this is sensational, and yet if he's such a sprinter, or he hasn't anybody in the village found it out, surely he plays with other boys? No, sir, as his low sheep's pageboy Harold does not mix with the village lads. But that was not what. He is somewhat accurately alive to the existence of class distinctions, sir. You're absolutely certain he's such a wonder, said Bingo. I mean, it wouldn't do to plunge unless you're sure. If you desire to also turn the boys' home by personal inspection, sir, it will be a simple matter to arrange a secret trial. I'm bound to say, I should feel easier in my mind, I said. Then if I may take a shilling from the money on your dressing table, what for? I propose to bribe the lad to speak slightly of the second footman's squinch, sir. Charles is somewhat sensitive on the point, and should undoubtedly make the lad extend himself. If you will be at her full-flow passage window overlooking the back door in half an hour's time. I don't know when I'd thrust in such a hurry as a rule I'm what you might call a slow and careful dresser. I like to linger over the tie and see that the trousers are just so, but this morning I was all walked up. I just shoved on my things anyhow, and joined Bingo at the window with a quarter of an hour to spare. The passage window looked down onto the broad sort of paved courtyard, which ended after about 20 yards in an archway through a high wall. Beyond this archway, you got onto a strip of the drive, which curved round for another 30 yards or so, till it was those behind the thick shrubbery. I put myself in the stripling's place and thought what steps I would take with the second footman after me. There was only one thing to do. Leg it for the shrubbery and take cover, which meant that at least 50 yards would have to be covered, an excellent test. If good old Harrow could fight off the second footman's challenge long enough to allow him to reach the bushes, that wasn't the choir bowing England who could give him 30 yards in the 100. I waited all of the Twitter for what seemed ours, and then suddenly there was a confused noise without, and something round and blue and botany shot through the back door and buzzed for the archway like a monster, and about two seconds later I outcame the second footman, going his hardest. There was nothing to it, absolutely nothing. The field never had a chance. Long before the footman reached the halfway mark, Harrow was in the bushes, throwing stones. I came away from the window, thrilled to the marrow, and when I met Jeeves on the stairs, I was so moved that I nearly grasped his head. Jeeves, I said, no discussion. The wooster share goes to this boy. Very good, sir, said Jeeves. The worst of these country meetings is that you can't plunge as heavily as you would, Larkman. You get a good think, because it alarms the ring. Steggles though pimpled was, as I have indicated, no trump, and if I had invested all I wanted to, he would have put two and three together. I managed to get a good solid bet down for the syndicate, however, though it did make him look thoughtful. I heard in the next few days that he had been making such inquiries in the village concerning Harold, but nobody could tell him anything, and eventually he came to the conclusion, I suppose, that I must be having a long shot on the strength of that 30-yard start. Public opinion wayward between Jimmy Goode, receiving 10 yards at 7-2-2 and Alexander Bartlett with 6 yards a start at 11-2-4. Willy Chambers' scratch was offered to the public at 2-1, but found no takers. We were taking no chances on the big events, and directly we had got all money on at 900-12. Harold was put into strict training, he was a wearying business, and I can understand now why most of the big trainers are grim, silent men who look as though they had suffered. The kid wanted constant watching, it was no good talking to him about honor and glory, and how proud his mother would be when he wrote and told her he had won a real cup. The moment Blighted Harold discovered that training meant knocking off pottery, taking exercise and keeping away from the cigarettes, he was old against it, and it was only by unceasing vigilance that we managed to keep him in any shape at all. It was the diet that was the stumbling block, this was his excitement, we could generally arrange for a sharp dash every morning with the assistance of the second footman. He ran into money of course, but that couldn't be helped. Still, when a kid has simply to wait till the bottle's back is turned to have the run of the pantry and has only to nip into the smoking room to collect a handful of the best Turkish, training becomes a rocky jar. We could only hope that on the day his natural stamina would pull him through. And then, one evening, Young Bingo came back from the links with a disturbing story. He had been in the habit of giving Harold marred exercise in the afternoons by taking him out as a caddie. At first he seemed to think it humorous to fool Trump, he bubbled over with many mouth as he began his state. I rather say funny this afternoon, he said, you are to have seen the stuggle's face. See the stuggle's face, what for? When he saw Young Harold sprint I mean, I was full with a grim foreboding of an earful doom. Good heavens, you did not let Harold sprint in front of a stuggle. Young Bingo's jar dropped. I never thought of that, he said gloomily. It wasn't my fault, I was playing around with the stuggles and after we'd finished we went into the clubhouse for a drink, leaving Harold with the club's outside. In about five minutes we came out and there was the kid on the gravel, practicing swings with the stuggle's driver and stone. When he saw us coming, the kid dropped the club and was over the horizon like a streak. The stuggles was absolutely dumbfounded, and I must say it was a revelation even to me. The kid certainly gave off his best, of course it's a nuisance in a way, but I don't see on second thoughts, said Bingo brightening up. What it matters? We're on at the good price, we're nothing to lose by the kid's form becoming known, I take it he will start odds on, but that doesn't affect us. I looked at Jeeves, Jeeves looked at me. It affects us all right if he doesn't start at all, pretty suchly sir. What do you mean? asked Bingo. If you ask me, I said, I think the stuggles would try to know about him before the race. Good Lord, I never thought of that. Bingo blanched. You don't think he would really do it? I think he would have a jolly good try, as stuggles is a bad man from now on. Jeeves, we must watch Harold like hawks. Undoubtedly sir. Seasless vision as what? Precisely sir. He wouldn't care to sleep in his room Jeeves. No sir, I should not. No, nor would I. If it comes to that spot dash it all, I said. We're letting ourselves get rattled, we're losing our nerve. This won't do. How can a stuggles possibly get at Harold even if he wants to? There was no cheer in young Bingo up. He's one of those birds who simply leap at a moment with you if you give them half a chance. There are all sorts of ways of nubbling favorites. He said in a sort of deathbed voice, you ought to read some of these racing novels. In peeped on the post, Lord Chasper Mulliverer, as near as a toucher, outed Bunny Betsy by bribing the head lad to slipper. Cobra into his stable the night before the derby. What are the chances of a cobra biting Harold, Jeeves? Slight, I should imagine sir, and in such an event, knowing the boy as intimately as I do, my anxiety would be entirely for the snake. Still, uncausing vigilance, Jeeves, most certainly, sir. I must say I got a bit fed with young Bingo in the next few days. He's all very well for a fellow with a big winner in his stable to exercise proper care. But in my opinion, Bingo overdid it. The blighters might appear to be absolutely saturated with the racing fiction, and in the stories of that car and as far as I could make out, no horse is ever allowed to start in a race without at least a dozen attempts to put it out of action. He's stuck to Harold like a plaster. Never let the unfortunate kid out of his sight. Of course, it meant a lot to the poor old egg if he could collect on this race, because it would give him enough money to chuck his tutoring job and get back to London. But all the same, he needn't. Have woken me up at three in the morning twice running, once to tell me we outcook Harold's food ourselves to prevent doping. The other time to say that he had heard mysterious noises in the shrubbery, but he reached a limit in my opinion when he insisted on my going to evening service on Sunday, the day before the spores. Why on earth, I said, never being much of a lad for even song? While I can't go myself, I shan't be here. I've got to go to London today with young Egbert. Egbert was Lord Wikimersley's son, the one bingo was Teutrach. He's going for a visit down in Kent, and I've got to see him off at Cheren Cross. It's an infernal nuisance. I shan't be back till Monday afternoon. In fact, I shall miss most of the spores. I expect everything therefor depends on you, Bertie. But why should all your pass go to evening services? As Harold all sings in the choir, doesn't he? What about it? I can't stop him dislocating his neck over the high note, if that's what you're afraid of. Fool, let's take our sings in the choir, too. There may be dirty work after the service. What absolute rot! Is it? said young bingo. Well, let me tell you that in Jenny, the girl jockey, the villain kidnapped a boy who was to write a favorite the night before the big race, and he was the only one who understood and could control the horse, and if the heroine hadn't dressed up in writing things and... Alright, alright, but if there's any danger, it seems to me the simplest thing would be for Harold not to turn out on Sunday evening. He must turn out. You seem to think the infernal kid is a monument of rectitude, beloved by all. He's got the shakiest reputation of any kid in the village. His name is as nearer being mud as it can jolly well stick. He's played hockey from the choir so often that the wicker told him if one more thing happened, he would fire him out. Nice chumps, we should look, if he was scratched the night before the race. Well, of course, that being so, there was nothing for it but to tunnel along. There's something about the evening service in a country church that makes a fellow feel doused in peaceful, sort of end of a perfect day feeling. Old Haberstahl was up in the pulpit, and he has a kind of regular bleeding delivery to this start. They had left the door open, and the air was full of a mixed scent of trees and honeysuckle, and mildew and villagers Sunday clothes. As far as the eye could reach, you could see farmers propped up in restful attitude, breathing heavily, and the children in the congregation who had fidgeted during the earlier part of the proceedings were now lying back in a surfered assault of Kuma. The last rays of the setting sun, shown through the stained glass windows, birds were twittering in the trees, the women's dresses crackled gently in the stillness. Peace, all that's what I'm driving at. I felt peaceful, everybody felt peaceful, and that is why explosion, when it came, sounded like the end of all things. I called it an explosion, because that was what it seemed like when it broke loose. One moment, the dreamy hush was all over the place, broken only by old hampathisa, talking about her duty to our neighbours, and then suddenly a sort of piercing, shrieking squeal that got you right between the eyes and ran all the way down your spine, and out of the soles of the feet. It sounded like about 600 tex having the taste twisted simultaneously, what was simply the kid Harold, who appeared to be having some species of fit. He was jumping up and down and slapping at the back of his neck. In about every other second, he would take a deep breath and give out another of its squeals. Well I mean, you can't do that sort of thing in the middle of the sermon during evening service without exciting remark. The congregation came out of its chance with a jerk, and climbed on the pews to get a better view. All happenstalls stopped in the middle of a sentence and spun around, and a couple of vergers, with great presence of mind, bounded up this aisle, luck lepers, collected Harold's seal squealing and marched him out. They disappeared into the vestry, and I grabbed my hat and legged it down to the stage door full of apprehension and whatnot. I couldn't think what the deuce could have happened, but somewhere deeply behind the proceeding, there seemed to me to lack the hand of the blighter's stiggles. By the time I got there and managed to get someone to open the door, which was locked, the service seemed to be over. All happenstalls was standing in the middle of a crowd of choir boys, and vergers and sections of what's not, putting their wretched Harold through it with no little whim. I had come in at the tail end of what must have been a fairly fruity oration. Ratched bow, how dare you? I've got a sensitive skin. This is no time to talk out your skin. Somebody put a beetle down my back. Upset. I felt it wriggling. Nonsense. Sounds pretty thin, doesn't it? Saw someone at my side. It was a sugar stashing, clad in a snowy surplus of cassock, or whatever they called it and wearing an expression of grave concern. The blighter had the cold cynical cross to look at me in the eyeball without a blink. Did you put a beetle down his neck? I cried. Me? Said the stiggles. Me. All happenstalls was putting on the black cap. I do not credit the word of your story, wretched boy. I have warned you before and now the time has come to act. You see, it's from this moment to be a member of my choir. Go, miserable child. Stiggles plucked at my sleeve. In that case, he said, Those belts, you know, I'm afraid you lose your money, dear old boy. It's a pity you didn't put it on speed. I always think speed is the only safe way. I gave him one look, not a bit of good, of course. And they talk about the purity of the turf, I said. And I meant it to sting by Jove. Jeeves received the news bravely. But I think the man was a bit rattled beneath the surface. An ingenious young gentleman, Mr. Seagull, sir. A bully swindler, you mean? Perhaps that would be a more exact description. However, these things will happen on the turf. It is useless to complain. I wish I had your Sunday disposition, Jeeves. Jeeves bowed. We now rely then, it would seem so, almost entirely, on Mrs. Penworthy. Should she justify Mr. Little's incomiums and show real class in the Mother Sacrace, a gaze will just balance our losses. Yes, but that's not much consolation when you've been looking forward to a big win. It is just possible that we may still find ourselves on the right side of the ledger, after all, sir. Before Mr. Little left, I persuaded him to invest a small sum for the syndicate of which you were kind enough to make me a member, sir, on the girls' egg and spoon race. On salamiers? No, sir. On the long price outsider, Little Prudence backstabbed, sir, the child of his lowship's head gardener. Her father assures me she has a very steady hand. She is accustomed to bring him his mug of beer from the cottage each afternoon, and he informs me she has never spilled a drop. Well, that sounded as though young Prudence's control was good, but how about a speed? With seasoned performers like Salamiers interred, their thing practically amounted to a classic race, and in these big events you must have a speed. I am aware that it is what is termed a long shot, sir, still I thought it judicious. You backed her for a place, too, of course. Yes, sir, each way. Well, I suppose it's all right. Although I know you make a blume yet. Thank you very much, sir. I'm bound to say that, as a general rule, my idea of a lodge afternoon would be to keep as far away from the village school threat as possible. Stick a business, but with such grave issues to it, if you know what I mean, I sank my prejudices on this occasion and rolled up. I found the proceedings about as scaly as I had expected. It was a warm day and the whole grounds were dense, practically liquid mass of peasantry. Kids seeth, too, and fro. One of them, a small girl of so's, grabbed my hand and hung on, tweed as I clove my way through the jam to where the Mother Sacrace was to finish. We hadn't been introduced, but she seemed to think I would do as well as anyone else to talk to about the ruck-doll she had wound in the lucky dip, and she rather spread herself on the topic. I'm going to call it Grittrude, she said, and I shall undress it every night and put it on to bed. I wake it up in the morning undress it and put it to bed at night, and wake it up next morning undress it. I say all thing, I said. I don't want to hurry you and all that, but you couldn't condense it a bit, could you? I'm rather anxious to see the finish of this race. The worths of fortunes are by way of hanging on it. I'm going to run in a race soon, she said, shoving the doll from the nuns, and descending to ordinary chitchat. He asked, I said, this trait if you know what I mean, and trying to peer through the chinks in the crowd. What race is that? Egg and Spoon No, really, are you salary mills? No. Registring scone and prudence facts, though. Naturally, this put our relation on a different footing. I gaze at her with considerable interest. One of the stable, I must say, she didn't look much of a flyer. She was children realm, bit out of condition, I thought. I say, I said, that being so you mustn't dash about in the hot sun and take the edge off yourself. You must conserve your energies, old friend, sit down here in the shade. Don't want to sit down? Well, take it easy, anyhow. That could flitter to another topic like a butterfly hovering from flower to flower. I'm a good girl, she said. I bet you are. Oh, you're a good egg and spoon racer, too. Harold, bad boy. Harold's squeal in church and isn't allowed to come to the treed, I'm glad. Continue with this ornament of her sex, wrinkling her nose virtuously. Because he's a bad boy, he pulled my hair Friday. Harold isn't coming to the treed. Harold isn't coming to the treed. Harold isn't coming to the treed. She chanted, making a regular song of it. Don't rub it in, my dear gold gardener's daughter. I plead it. You don't know about your head on rather a painful subject. Oh, Wooster, my dear fellow. So you have made friends with this little lady. It was all happenstile, beaming pretty profusely, life and soul of the party. I am delighted, my dear Wooster, he went on. Quite delighted at the way you young men are throwing yourself into the spread of this little festivity of ours. Oh, yes, I said. Oh, yes. Even Rupert Steggers, I must confess, that my opinion of Rupert Steggers as materially altered for the better this afternoon. Mine hadn't, but I didn't say so. I've always considered Rupert Steggers between ourselves the raddles of centred youth, but by no means the kind who would put himself out to further the enjoyment of his fellows. A year twice within the last half hour I have observed him scouting Mrs. Penworthy, our worthy tobacconist wife to the refreshment aunt. I left him a study. I shook off the clutching hand of the backer kid and hurried rapidly to the spot where the mother Sacreus was just finishing. I had a horrid presentiment that there had been more there to work at the crossroads. The first person I ran into was Young Bingo. I grabbed him by the arm. Who won? I don't know, I didn't notice. There was bitterness in the chap's voice. It wasn't Mrs. Penworthy that shall bear thee, that Hound Steggers is nothing more or nor less than one of our leading snakes. I don't know how he heard about her, but he must have got unto it that she was dangerous. Do you know what he did? He lured that miserable woman into the refreshment tent five minutes before the race and brought her out so weighed down with cake and tea that she blew up in the first 20 yards. Just rolled over and later. Well, thank goodness we still have Harold. I gave that a pooch arm. Harold, how would you hurt? Hurt? Bingo turned a delicate green. Hurt what? I haven't heard anything. I only arrived five minutes ago, came here straight from the station. What has happened? Tell me. I slept him the information. He has stared at me for a moment and the gas is all the way. Then with a hollow groan, totalled away and was lost in the crowd and lost in the knock pooch app, I didn't blame him for being upset. They were clearing the decks now for the egg and spoon race and I thought I might as well stay where I was and watch the finish. Not that I had much hope. Young Prudence was a good confidant of this, but she didn't seem to me to be a built up winner. As well as I could see through the mob, they got off to the good start. Shouldered hair child was making the running with a freckled blonde second and Sarah means lying up on an easy third. Unominy was straggling along with the field well behind the leaders. It was not hard, even as early as this, to spot the winner. There was a craze of practice precision in the way. Sarah means holding a spoon that told its own story. She was cutting out a good pace and her egg didn't even wobble. A natural goodened spooner if ever there was one. Class will tell. Third yards from the tape and red hair kid tripped over her feet and shot her egg onto the turf. The freckled blonde fought gamely, but she had run herself out halfway down the street and Sarah means came past an home on a tight rain by several lengths and a popular winner. The blonde was second. A sniffing female in blue gingam beat, a pie faced skid in pink for the place money, and Prudence backs her Jeeves long shot was either fifth or sixth. I couldn't see which. And then I was carried along with a crowd to where all happenstall was going to present the prizes. I found myself standing next to the man's tickles. Hello, old chap. He's felt very bright and cheery. You've had a bad day, I'm afraid. I looked at him with a silent skull, lost on the blighter, of course. It's not been a good meeting for any of the big punters, he went on. Poor old bingo little went down badly. Oh, that egg and spoon days. I hadn't been meaning to chat with a fellow but I was startled. How do you mean badly? I said. We, he only had a small bet on. I don't know what you call small. He had 30 quid each way on the back circuit. The landscape wriggled before me. What? 30 quid at 10 to 1. I thought he must have heard something, but apparently not. The race went by the phone book all right. I was trying to do something in my head. I was just in the middle of working out the syndicate losses. When all happened, Star's voice came sort of faintly to me out of the distance. He had been pretty fatherly and debonair when laddling out the prizes for the other events, but now he had suddenly grown all pained and grieved. He peered sorrowfully at the multitude. With regard to their grails egg and spoon race, which has just concluded, he said, I have a painful duty to perform. Circumstances have a reason which it is impossible to ignore. It is not too much to say that I am stunned. He gave the populace about five seconds to wonder why he was stunned, and then went on. Three years ago, as you were aware, I was compelled to expunge from the list of events. At this annual festival, the Fowler's quarter mile, owing to repose coming to my ears of wagers, taken and given on the result of the villageing and a strong suspicion that on at least one occasion the race had actually been sold by the speediest runner, that unfortunate occurrence shook my faith in human nature, I admit, but still there was one event at least which I confidently expected to remain untainted by the miasma of professionalism. I alluded to the girl's egg and spoon race, it seems, alas, that I was too sanguine. He stopped again and wrestled with his feelings. I will not vary you with the unpleasant details. I will merely say that before the race was run, a stranger in our midst, the man servant of one of the guests at the hall, I will not specify with more particularity, approach several of the competitors and present each of them with five shillings and condition that they are finished. A belated sense of remorse had led him to confess to me what he did, but it is too late. The evil is accomplished and retribution must take its course. It is no time to halve measures. I must be firm. I rule that Sarah Means, Jane Parker, Bessie Craig and Rosie Jukes, the first four to pass the winning post, have fought with the amateur status and are disqualified, and this handsome walk-back presented by Lord Becomersley goes in consequence to Prudence Baxter. Prudence, step forward. End of chapter 14