"Yes," I said. "That may be the solution. But why would a man, staying
peacefully at a country house, suddenly develop a craving to play
football?"
"I could not say, sir."
"And why an Irish water spaniel?"
"There again I fear I can hazard no conjecture, sir."
"What _is_ an Irish water spaniel?"
"A water spaniel of a variety bred in Ireland, sir."
"You think so?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, perhaps you're right. But why should I toil about the place
collecting dogs--of whatever nationality--for young Tuppy? Does he
think I'm Santa Claus? Is he under the impression that my feelings
toward him, after that Drones' Club incident, are those of kindly
benevolence? Irish water spaniels, indeed! Pshaw!"
"Sir?"
"Pshaw, Jeeves."
"Very good, sir."
The front doorbell buzzed again.
"Our busy morning, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir."
"All right. I'll go."
This time it was Aunt Dahlia. She charged in with the air of a woman
with something on her mind, giving tongue, in fact, while actually on
the very doormat.
"Bertie," she boomed, in that ringing voice of hers which cracks window
panes and upsets vases, "I've come about that young hound, Glossop."
"It's quite all right, Aunt Dahlia," I replied soothingly. "I have the
situation well in hand. The Giant Squirt and the Luminous Rabbit are
even now being packed."
"I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't for a moment
suppose you do, either," said the relative, somewhat brusquely, "but if
you'll kindly stop gibbering for a moment I'll tell you what I mean. I
have had a most disturbing letter from Katherine. About this reptile.
Of course, I haven't breathed a word to Angela. She'd hit the ceiling."
This Angela is Aunt Dahlia's daughter. She and young Tuppy are
generally supposed to be more or less engaged, though nothing
definitely _Morning Post_-ed yet.
"Why?" I said.
"Why what?"
"Why would Angela hit the ceiling?"
"Well, wouldn't you, if you were practically engaged to a fiend in
human shape and somebody told you he had gone off to the country and
was flirting with a dog-girl?"
"With a--what was that once again?"
"A dog-girl. One of these dashed open-air flappers in thick boots
and tailor-made tweeds who infest the rural districts and go about
the place followed by packs of assorted dogs. I used to be one of
them myself in my younger days, so I know how dangerous they are. Her
name is Dalgleish. Old Colonel Dalgleish's daughter. They live near
Bleaching."