certainly recommend the scheme, sir.”
“All right, then. Toddle round to your aunt’s tomorrow and grab a couple of the fruitiest. We can but have a dash at it.”
“Precisely, sir.”
Bingo reported three days later that Rosie M. Banks was the goods and beyond a question the stuff to give the troops. Old Little had jibbed somewhat at first at the proposed change of literary diet, he not being much of a lad for fiction and having stuck hitherto exclusively to the heavier monthly reviews: but Bingo had got chapter one of All for Love past his guard before he knew what was happening, and after that there was nothing to it. Since then they had finished A Red, Red Summer Rose, Madcap Myrtle, and Only a Factory Girl, and were half-way through The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick.
Bingo told me all this in a husky voice over an egg beaten up in sherry. The only blot on the thing from his point of view was that it wasn’t doing a bit of good to the old vocal cords, which were beginning to show signs of cracking under the strain. He had been looking his symptoms up in a medical dictionary and he thought he had got clergyman’s throat. But against this you had to set the fact that he was making an undoubted hit in the right quarter, and also that after the evening’s reading he always stayed on to dinner; and, from what he told me, the dinners turned out by old Little’s cook had to be tasted to be believed. There were tears in the blighter’s eyes as he got on the subject of the clear soup. I suppose to a fellow who for weeks had been tackling macaroons and limado it must have been like Heaven.
Old Little wasn’t able to give any practical assistance at these banquets, but Bingo said that he came to the table and had his whack of arrowroot and sniffed the dishes and told stories of entrées he had had in the past and sketched out scenarios of what he was going to do to the bill of fare in the future, when the doctor put him in shape, so I suppose he enjoyed himself too in a way. Anyhow, things seemed to be buzzing along quite satisfactorily, and Bingo said he had got an idea which, he thought, was going to clinch the thing. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he said it was a pippin.
“We make progress, Jeeves,” I said.
“That is very satisfactory, sir.”
“Mr. Little tells me that when he came to the big scene in Only a Factory Girl, his uncle gulped like a stricken bull pup.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Where Lord Claude takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says . . .”
“I am familiar with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It was a great favorite of my aunt’s.”
“I think we’re on the right track.”
“It would seem so, sir.”
“In fact, this looks like being another of your successes. I’ve always said and I always shall say that for sheer brain, Jeeves, you stand alone. All the other great thinkers of the age are simply in the crowd, watching you go by.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I endeavor to give satisfaction.”
About a week after this, Bingo blew in with the news that his uncle’s gout had ceased to trouble him and that on the morrow he would be back at the old stand working away with knife and fork as before.
“And, by the way,” said Bingo, “he wants you to lunch with him tomorrow.”
“Me? Why me? He doesn’t know I exist.”
“Oh yes, he does! I’ve told him about you.”
“What have you told him?”
“Oh, various things! Anyhow, he wants to meet you. And take my tip, laddie—you go! I should think lunch tomorrow would be something special.”
I don’t know why it was, but even then it struck me that there was something dashed odd—almost sinister, if you know what I mean—about young Bingo’s manner. The old egg had the air of one who has something up his sleeve.
“There is more in this than meets the eye,” I said. “Why should your uncle ask a fellow to lunch whom he’s never seen?”
“My dear old fathead, haven’t I just said that I’ve been telling him all about you—that you’re my best pal—at school together, and all that sort of thing?”
“But even then . . . . And another thing. Why are you so dashed keen on my going?”
Bingo hesitated for a moment.
“Well, I told you I’d got an idea. This is it. I want you to spring the news on him. I haven’t the nerve myself.”
“What! I’m hanged if I do.”
“And you call yourself a pal of mine!”
“Yes, I know, but there are limits . . .”
“Bertie,” said Bingo reproachfully, “I saved your life once.”
“When?”
“Didn’t I? It must have been some other fellow, then. Well, anyway, we were boys together and all that. You can’t let me down.”
“Oh, all right!” I said. “But, when you say you haven’t nerve enough for any dashed thing in the world, you misjudge yourself. A fellow who . . .”
“Cheerio!” said young Bingo. “One-thirty tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
I’m bound to say that the more I contemplated the binge, the less I liked it. Being a weak-minded sort of blighter, I’m pretty used to being landed with rotten jobs by my pals. They slide up to me with beaming faces and suggest my doing all sorts of foul things for their benefit, and I simply haven’t the heart to give them the firm raspberry. But this consignment of young Bingo’s struck me as the unsurpassable limit. Here was I, going to butt into the private affairs of a perfect stranger, and what would the harvest be? It was all very well for Bingo to say that I was slated for a magnificent lunch; but what good is the best possible lunch to a fellow if he is slung out into the street on his ear during the soup course? However, the word of a Wooster is his bond and all that sort of rot, so at one-thirty next day I tottered up the steps of No. 16 Pounceby Gardens and punched the bell. And half a minute later I was up in the drawing room, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in my life.
The motto of the Little family was evidently “variety.” Young Bingo is long and thin and hasn’t had a superfluous ounce on him since we first met, but the uncle restored the average and a bit over. The hand which grasped mine wrapped it round and enfolded it till I began to wonder if I’d ever get it out without excavating machinery.
For when I say grasped, I mean grasped. It wasn’t one of the ordinary hullo-how-are-you handshakes. He grabbed the old fin and hung on as if he wanted to keep it as a souvenir, gazing at me the while as though I was what he had been looking for all these weary years.
“Mr. Wooster, I am gratified . . . I am proud . . . I am honored.”
It seemed to me that young Bingo must have boosted me to some purpose.
“Oh, ah!” I said.
He stepped back a bit, still hanging on to the good right hand.
“You are very young to have accomplished so much!”
I couldn’t follow the train of thought. The family, especially my Aunt Agatha who has savaged me incessantly from childhood up, have always rather made a point of the fact that mine is a wasted life and that, since I won the prize at my first school for the best collection of wildflowers made during the summer holidays, I haven’t done a damn thing to land me on the nation’s scroll of fame. I was wondering if he couldn’t have got me mixed up with some one else, when the telephone bell rang outside in the hall, and the maid came in to say that I was wanted. I buzzed down, and found it was young Bingo.
“Hullo!” said young Bingo. “So you’ve got there? Good man! I knew I could rely on you. I say, old crumpet, did my uncle seem pleased to see you?”
“Absolutely