In the autumn of the year in which Yorkshire Pudding won the Manchester
November Handicap, the fortunes of my old pal Richard ("Bingo") Little
seemed to have reached their--what's the word I want? He was, to all
appearances, absolutely on plush.
He ate well, slept well, was happily married; and, his uncle
Wilberforce having at last handed in his dinner pail, respected by all,
had come into possession of a large income and a fine old place in the
country about thirty miles from Norwich. Buzzing down there for a brief
visit, I came away convinced that if ever a bird was sitting on top of
the world that bird was Bingo.
I had to come away because the family were shooting me off to Harrogate
to chaperon my uncle George, whose liver had been giving him the elbow
again. But as we sat pushing down the morning meal on the day of my
departure, I readily agreed to play a return date as soon as ever I
could fight my way back to civilization.
"Come in time for the Lakenham races," urged young Bingo. He took
aboard a second dollop of sausages and bacon, for he had always been a
good trencherman and the country air seemed to improve his appetite.
"We're going to motor over with a luncheon basket and more or less
revel."
I was just about to say that I would make a point of it, when Mrs.
Bingo, who was opening letters behind the coffee apparatus, suddenly
uttered a pleased yowl.
"Oh, sweetie-lambkin!" she cried.
Mrs. B., if you remember, before her marriage was the celebrated female
novelist, Rosie M. Banks, and it is in some such ghastly fashion that
she habitually addresses the other half of the sketch. She had got that
way, I take it, from a lifetime of writing for the masses.
Bingo doesn't seem to mind. I suppose, seeing that the little woman is
the author of such outstanding bilge as _Mervyn Keene_, _Clubman_ and
_Only a Factory Girl_, he is thankful it isn't anything worse.
"Oh, sweetie-lambkin, isn't that lovely?"
"What?"
"Laura Pyke wants to come here."
"Who?"
"You must have heard me speak of Laura Pyke. She was my dearest friend
at school. I simply worshiped her. She always had such a wonderful
mind. She wants us to put her up for a week or two."
"Right ho. Bung her in."
"You're sure you don't mind?"
"Of course not. Any pal of yours----"
"Darling!" said Mrs. Bingo, blowing him a kiss.
"Angel!" said Bingo, going on with the sausages.
All very charming, in fact. Pleasant domestic scene, I mean. Cheery
give-and-take in the home and all that. I said as much to Jeeves as we
drove off.
"In these days of unrest, Jeeves," I said, "with wives yearning to
fulfill themselves and husbands slipping round the corner to do what
they shouldn't, and the home, generally speaking, in the melting pot,
as it were, it is nice to find a thoroughly united couple."
"Decidedly agreeable, sir."
"I allude to the Bingos--Mr. and Mrs. What was it the poet said of
couples like the Bingeese?"
"Two minds with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one, sir."
"A dashed good description, Jeeves."
"It has, I believe, given uniform satisfaction, sir."
And yet if I had only known, what I had been listening to that A.
M. was the first faint rumble of the coming storm. Unseen, in the
background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing glove.
* * * * *
I managed to give Uncle George a miss at a fairly early date and,
leaving him wallowing in the waters, sent a wire to the Bingos
announcing my return. It was a longish drive and I fetched up at my
destination only just in time to dress for dinner. I had done a quick
dash into the soup-and-fish and was feeling pretty good at the prospect
of a cocktail and the well-cooked, when the door opened and Bingo
appeared.
"Hello, Bertie," he said. "Ah, Jeeves."
He spoke in one of those toneless voices; and, catching Jeeves's eye
as I adjusted the old cravat, I exchanged a questioning glance with
it. From its expression I gathered that the same thing had struck him
that had struck me: viz., that our host, the young squire, was none too
chirpy. The brow was furrowed, the eye lacked that hearty sparkle, and
the general bearing and demeanour were those of a body discovered after
being several days in the water.
"Anything up, Bingo?" I asked, with the natural anxiety of a boyhood
friend. "You have a mouldy look. Are you sickening for some sort of
plague?"
"I've got it."
"Got what?"
"The plague."
"What do you mean?"
"She's on the premises now," said Bingo, and laughed in an unpleasant,
hacking manner, as if he were missing on one tonsil.