Much Obliged, Jeeves

burned to a cinder, as was my banjolele.
    ‘I’ve got him placed now. What about him? ‘
    ‘He lives in Market Snodsbury. I met him this morning and happened to mention that I was canvassing for Ginger.’
    ‘If you can call it canvassing.’
    ‘And he told me I was wasting my time. He advised me to have a substantial bet on Ma McCorkadale. He said Ginger hadn’t an earthly.’
    ‘He’s a fool.’
    ‘I must say I’ve always thought so, but he spoke as if he had inside information.’
    ‘What on earth information could he have? An election isn’t a horse race where you get tips from the stable cat. I don’t say it may not be a close thing, but Ginger ought to win all right. He has a secret weapon.’
    ‘Repeat that, if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t think I got it.’
    ‘Ginger defies competition because he has a secret weapon.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Spode.
    ‘ ‘Spode?’
    ‘My lord Sidcup. Have you ever heard him speak?’
    ‘I did just now.’
    ‘In public, fool.’
    ‘Oh, in public. No, I haven’t.’
    ‘He’s a terrific orator, as I told you, only you’ve probably forgotten.’
    This seemed likely enough to me. Spode at one time had been one of those Dictators, going about at the head of a band of supporters in footer shorts shouting ‘Heil Spode’, and to succeed in that line you have to be able to make speeches.
    ‘You aren’t fond of him, nor am I, but nobody can deny that he’s eloquent. Audiences hang on his every word, and when he’s finished cheer him to the echo.’
    I nodded. I had had the same experience myself when singing The Yeoman’s Wedding Song at village concerts. Two or three encores sometimes, even when I blew up in the words and had to fill in with ‘Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along’. I began to feel
    easier in my mind. I told her this, and she said ‘Your what?’.
    ‘You have put new heart into me, old blood relation,’ I said, ignoring the crack. ‘You see, it means everything to him to win this election.’
    ‘Is he so bent on representing Market Snodsbury in the Westminster menagerie ? ‘
    ‘It isn’t that so much. Left to himself, I imagine he could take Parliament or leave it alone. But he thinks Florence will give him the bum’s rush if he loses.’
    ‘He’s probably right. She can’t stand a loser.’
    ‘So he told me. Remember what happened to Percy Gorringe.’
    ‘And others. England is strewn with ex-fianc6s whom she bounced because they didn’t come up to her specifications. Dozens of them. I believe they form clubs and societies.’
    ‘Perhaps calling themselves the Old Florentians.’
    ‘And having an annual dinner !
    ‘ We mused on Florence for awhile; then she said she ought to be going to confer with Anatole about dinner tonight, urging him to dish up something special. It was vital, she said, that he should excel his always high standard.
    ‘I was speaking, just now, when you interrupted me and turned my thoughts to the name Wilberforce, of L. P. Runkle.’
    ‘You said you had an idea he might be going to co-operate.’
    ‘Exactly. Have you ever seen a python after a series of hearty meals?’
    ‘Not to my knowledge.’
    ‘It gets all softened up. It becomes a kindlier, gentler, more lovable python. And if I am not greatly mistaken, the same thing is happening to L. P. Runkle as the result of Anatole’s cooking. You saw him at dinner last night.’
    ‘Sorry, no, I wasn’t looking. Every fibre of my being was concentrated on the foodstuffs. He would have repaid inspection, would he? Worth seeing, eh?’
    ‘He was positively beaming. He was too busy to utter, but it was plain that he had become all amiability and benevolence. He had the air of a man who would start scattering largesse if given a word of encouragement. It is for Anatole to see to it that this Christmas spirit does not evaporate but comes more and more to the boil. And I know that I can rely on him.’
    ‘Good old Anatole,’ I said, lighting a cigarette.
    ‘Amen,’ said the ancestor reverently; then, touching on another subject. ‘Take that foul cigarette outside, you young hellhound. It smells like an escape of sewer gas.’
    Always glad to indulge her lightest whim, I passed through the french window, in a far different mood from that in which I had entered the room. Optimism now reigned in the Wooster bosom. Ginger, I told myself, was going to be all right, Tuppy was going to be all right, and it would not be long before the