Suddenly round the corner there came a fox-terrier, and Bingo quivered like an aspen. Then there appeared a small boy, and he shook like a jelly. Finally, a girl appeared. Bingo’s face got very red.
He was just raising his fingers to his cap when he suddenly saw that the girl wasn’t alone. A fellow in clerical costume was also present. His face got redder and his nose bluer.
The girl bowed, the curate said, “Ah, Little. Bad weather,” the dog barked, and then they walked on and the entertainment was over.
The curate was a new factor in the situation to me. I told about him to Jeeves. Of course, Jeeves knew all about it already.
“That is the Reverend Mr Wingham[197], Mr Heppenstall’s new curate, sir. I learned from Brookfield that he is Mr Little’s rival, and at the moment the young lady appears to favour him. Mr Wingham has the advantage: he and the young lady play duets after dinner.”
“He’s lost his courage. Why, when we met her just now, he hadn’t even the common manly courage to say ‘Good evening’! Well, how shall we help a man when he’s such a rabbit as that? Have you anything to suggest? I shall be seeing him after dinner, and he’s sure to ask first thing what you advise.”
“In my opinion, sir, the most judicious course for Mr Little to pursue would be to concentrate on the young gentleman.”
“The small brother? What do you mean?”
“Make a friend of him, sir—take him for walks and so forth.”
“It doesn’t sound one of your brightest ideas. I must say I expected something more interesting than that.”
“It would be a beginning, sir, and might lead to better things.”
“Well, I’ll tell him. I liked the look of her, Jeeves.”
“A thoroughly estimable young lady, sir.”
I told Bingo these words that night, and was glad to observe that it seemed to cheer him up.
“Jeeves is always right,” he said. “I’ll start in tomorrow.”
The brother was forming a bond that was stronger than the curate’s duets. She and Bingo used to take him for walks together. I asked Bingo what they talked about on these occasions, and he said—Wilfred’s future. The girl hoped that Wilfred would one day become a curate, but Bingo said no, there was something about curates he didn’t quite like.
The day we left, Bingo came to see us off with Wilfred. The last I saw of them, Bingo was buying him chocolates. A scene of peace and goodwill. Not bad, I thought.
But about a fortnight later his telegram arrived. As follows:
Bertie old man
I say Bertie could you possibly come down here at once.
Everything gone wrong.
Dash it Bertie you simply must come.
I am in a state of absolute despair and heartbroken.
Would you mind sending another hundred of those cigarettes.
Bring Jeeves when you come Bertie.
You simply must come Bertie.
I rely on you.
Don’t forget to bring Jeeves.
“How about it, Jeeves?” I said. “I’m getting a bit tired. I can’t go every second week to Twing to see young Bingo.”
“If you are not against it, sir, I should be glad to run down and investigate.”
“Oh, dash it! Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done. After all, you’re the fellow he wants. All right, carry on.”
Jeeves got back late the next day.
“Well?” I said.
“I have done what I could, sir,” said Jeeves, “but I fear Mr Little’s chances do not appear bright. Since our last visit, sir, there has been a sinister development.”
“Oh, what’s that?’
“You may remember Mr Steggles, sir—the young gentleman who was studying for an examination with Mr Heppenstall at the Vicarage?”
“What’s Steggles got to do with it?” I asked.
“I learned from Brookfield, sir, who overheard a conversation, that Mr Steggles is interesting himself in the affair.”
“Good Lord!”
“Sir, he is against Mr Little, whose chances he does not value much.”
“I don’t like that, Jeeves.”
“No, sir. It is sinister.”
“From what I know of Steggles there will be dirty work[198].”
“It has already occurred, sir.”
“Already?”
“Yes, sir. Once Mr Little escorted Master Burgess to the church bazaar, and there met Mr Steggles, who was in the company of young Master Heppenstall, the Reverend Mr Heppenstal’s second son. The encounter took place in the room, where Mr Steggles was at that moment entertaining Master Heppenstall. To cut a long story short, sir, the two gentlemen became extremely interested in the manner in which the lads were fortifying themselves; and Mr Steggles offered to organize an eating contest against Master Burgess for a pound a side. Mr Little’s sporting blood was too much for him and he agreed to the contest. Both lads exhibited the utmost willingness and enthusiasm, and eventually Master Burgess won. Next day both contestants were in considerable pain; inquiries were made, and Mr Little—I learn from Brookfield, who happened to be near the door of the drawing-room at the moment—had an extremely unpleasant interview with the young lady, which ended in her desiring him never to speak to her again.”
“Jeeves,” I said. “Steggles worked the whole thing on purpose. It’s his old game.”
“There would seem to be no doubt about that, sir.”
“Well, he seems to have dished poor old Bingo all right. I don’t see what there is to do. If Bingo is such a chump—”
“I recommended him to busy himself with good works, sir.”
“Good works?’
“About the village, sir. Reading to the bedridden—chatting with the sick—that sort of thing, sir. And good results will ensue.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said doubtfully. “But, by gosh, if I was a sick man I’d hate to have a loony like young Bingo coming and gibbering at my bedside.”
I didn’t hear a word from Bingo for a couple of weeks. And then, one night not long before Christmas, I came back to the flat pretty late, having been out dancing at the Embassy. I was tired, I tottered to my room and switching on the light, I observed the foul features of young Bingo all over the pillow. In my bed! The blighter had appeared from nowhere and was in my bed, sleeping like an infant with a sort of happy, dreamy smile.
I hove a shoe, and Bingo sat up, gurgling.
“What’s matter?” said young Bingo.
“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” I said.
“Oh, hallo, Bertie! So there you are!”
“Yes, here I am. What are you doing in my bed?”
“I came up to town for the night on business.”
“Yes, but what are you doing in my bed?”
“Dash it all, Bertie,” said young Bingo, “don’t keep talking about your beastly bed. There’s another bed in the spare room. I saw Jeeves make it with my own eyes. I think he meant it for me, but I knew what a perfect host you were, so I just turned in here. I say, Bertie, old man,” said Bingo, apparently tired after the discussion about beds, “I see daylight.”
“Well, it’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“I was speaking figuratively, you ass. I meant the hope about Mary Burgess, you know. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I won’t. I’m going to sleep.”
“To begin with,” said young Bingo, settling himself comfortably against the pillows and helping himself to a cigarette from my private box, “I must once again pay a tribute to good old Jeeves. A modern Solomon[199]. About a couple of days ago she smiledwhen I ran into her outside the Vicarage. And yesterdayI say, you remember that curate chap, Wingham? Fellow with a long nose.”
“Of course I remember him. Your rival.”
“Rival?” Bingo raised his eyebrows. “Oh, well, I suppose you could have called him that at one time. Though it sounds a little wrong.”