"True, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I see what you mean. If young
Bingo has a fault, it is that, when in the society of a sandwich, he is
apt to get a bit rough. I've picnicked with him before, many a time and
oft, and his method of approach to the ordinary tongue or ham sandwich
rather resembles that of the lion, the king of beasts, tucking into an
antelope. Add lobster and cold chicken, and I admit the spectacle might
have been something of a jar for the little woman. Still.... All the
same.... Nevertheless...."
"And there is another aspect of the matter, sir."
"What's that?"
"A day spent without nourishment in the keen autumnal air may induce in
Mrs. Little a frame of mind not altogether in sympathy with Miss Pyke's
view on diet."
"You mean, hunger will gnaw and she'll be apt to bite at the Pyke when
she talks about how jolly it is for the gastric juices to get a day
off?"
"Exactly, sir."
I shook the head. I hated to damp the man's enthusiasm, but it had to
be done.
"Abandon the idea, Jeeves," I said. "I fear you have not studied the
sex as I have. Missing her lunch means little or nothing to the female
of the species. The feminine attitude toward lunch is notoriously airy
and casual.
"Where you have made your bloomer is in confusing lunch with tea. Hell,
it is well known, has no fury like a woman who wants her tea and can't
get it. At such times the most amiable of the sex become mere bombs
which a spark may ignite. But lunch, Jeeves, no. I should have thought
you would have known that--a bird of your established intelligence."
"No doubt you are right, sir."
"If you could somehow arrange for Mrs. Little to miss her tea.... But
these are idle dreams, Jeeves. By tea time she will be back at the old
home, in the midst of plenty. It only takes an hour to do the trip. The
last race is over shortly after four. By five o'clock Mrs. Little will
have her feet tucked under the table and will be revelling in buttered
toast. I am sorry, Jeeves, but your scheme was a washout from the
start. No earthly. A dud."
"I appreciate the point you have raised, sir. What you say is extremely
true."
"Unfortunately. Well, there it is. The only thing to do seems to be to
get back to the course and try to skin a bookie or two and forget."
Well, the long day wore on, so to speak. I can't say I enjoyed myself
much. I was distrait, if you know what I mean. Preoccupied. From
time to time assorted clusters of spavined local horses clumped down
the course with farmers on top of them, but I watched them with a
languid eye. To get into the spirit of one of these rural meetings,
it is essential that the subject have a good fat luncheon inside him.
Subtract the luncheon, and what ensues? Ennui.
Not once but many times during the afternoon I found myself thinking
hard thoughts about Jeeves. The man seemed to me to be losing his grip.
A child could have told him that that footling scheme of his would not
get him anywhere.
I mean to say, when you reflect that the average woman considers she
has lunched luxuriously if she swallows a couple of macaroons, half a
chocolate éclair, and a raspberry vinegar, is she going to be peevish
because you do her out of a midday sandwich? Of course not. Perfectly
ridiculous. Too silly for words. All that Jeeves had accomplished by
his bally trying to be clever was to give me a feeling as if foxes were
gnawing my vitals and a strong desire for home.
It was a relief, therefore, when, as the shades of evening were
beginning to fall, Mrs. Bingo announced her intention of calling it a
day and shifting.
"Would you mind very much missing the last race, Mr. Wooster?" she
asked.
"I am all for it," I replied cordially. "The last race means little or
nothing in my life. Besides, I am a shilling and sixpence ahead of the
game, and the time to stop is when you're winning."
"Laura and I thought we would go home. I feel I should like an early
cup of tea. Bingo says he will stay on. So I thought you could drive
our car, and he would follow later in yours, with Jeeves."
"Right ho."
"You know the way?"
"Oh, yes. Main road to that turning by the pond, and then across
country."
"I can direct you from there."
I sent Jeeves to fetch the car, and presently we were bowling off in
good shape. The short afternoon had turned into a rather chilly, misty
sort of evening, the kind of evening that sends a fellow's thoughts
straying off in the direction of hot Scotch and water with a spot of
lemon in it. I put the foot firmly on the accelerator, and we did the
five or six miles of main road in quick time.
Turning eastward at the pond, I had to go a bit slower, for we had
struck a wildish stretch of country where the going wasn't so good.
I don't know any part of England where you feel so off the map as on
the byroads of Norfolk. Occasionally we would meet a cow or two, but
otherwise we had the world pretty much to ourselves.
I began to think about that drink again, and the more I thought the
better it looked. It's rummy how people differ in this matter of
selecting the beverage that is to touch the spot. It's what Jeeves
would call the "psychology of the individual."
Some fellows in my position might have voted for a tankard of ale, and
the Pyke's idea of a refreshing snort was, as I knew from what she
had told me on the journey out, a cupful of tepid pip-and-peel water,
or, failing that, what she called the "fruit liquor." You make this,
apparently, by soaking raisins in cold water and adding the juice of a
melon. After which, I suppose, you invite some old friends in and have
an orgy, burying the bodies in the morning.
Personally, I had no doubts. I never wavered. Hot Scotch and water was
the stuff for me--stressing the Scotch, if you know what I mean, and
going fairly easy on the H_{2}O. I seemed to see the beaker smiling at
me across the misty fields, beckoning me on, as it were, and saying,
"Courage, Bertram! It will not be long now!" And with renewed energy
I bunged the old foot down on the accelerator and tried to send the
needle up to sixty.
Instead of which, if you follow my drift, the bally thing flickered for
a moment to thirty-five, and then gave the business up as a bad job.
Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, no one more surprised than myself, the
car let out a faint gurgle like a sick moose and stopped in its tracks.
And there we were, somewhere in Norfolk, with darkness coming on and a
cold wind that smelled of guano and dead mangel-wurzels playing about
the spinal column.
The back-seat drivers gave tongue. "What's the matter? What has
happened? Why don't you go on? What are you stopping for?"