The inimitable Jeeves

about it. This ruinous price checked the punters at once, and there was little money in sight. And so matters stood till just after lunch on Tuesday afternoon, when, as I was strolling up and down in front of the house with a cigarette, Claude and Eustace came bursting up the drive on bicycles, dripping with momentous news.
    ‘Bertie,’ said Claude, deeply agitated, ‘unless we take immediate action and do a bit of quick thinking, we’re in the cart.’
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘G. Hayward’s the matter,’ said Eustace morosely. ‘The Lower Bingley starter.’
    ‘We never even considered him,’ said Claude. ‘Somehow or other, he got overlooked. It’s always the way. Steggles overlooked him. We all overlooked him. But Eustace and I happened by the merest fluke to be riding through Lower Bingley this morning, and there was a wedding on at the church, and it suddenly struck us that it wouldn’t be a bad move to get a line on G. Hayward’s form, in case he might be a dark horse.’
    ‘And it was jolly lucky we did,’ said Eustace. ‘He delivered an address of twenty-six minutes by Claude’s stop-watch. At a village wedding, mark you! What’ll we do when he really extends himself!’
    ‘There’s only one thing to be done, Bertie,’ said Claude. ‘You must spring some more funds, so that we can hedge on Hayward and save ourselves.’
    ‘But-‘
    ‘Well, it’s the only way out.’
    ‘But I say, you know, I hate the idea of all that money we put on HeppenstaU being chucked away.’
    ‘What else can you suggest? You don’t suppose the Rev. can give this absolute marvel a handicap and win, do you?’
    ‘I’ve got it!’ I said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I see a way by which we can make it safe for our nominee. I’ll pop over this afternoon, and ask him as a personal favour to preach that sermon of his on Brotherly Love on Sunday.’
    Claude and Eustace looked at each other, like those chappies in the poem, with a wild surmise.
    ‘It’s a scheme,’ said Claude.
    ‘A jolly brainy scheme,’ said Eustace. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you, Bertie.’
    ‘But even so,’ said Claude, ‘fizzer as that sermon no doubt is, will it be good enough in the face of a four-minute handicap?’
    ‘Rather!* I said. ‘When I told you it lasted forty-five minutes, I was probably understating it. I should call it - from my recollection of the thing - nearer fifty.’
    ‘Then carry on,’ said Claude.
    I toddled over in the evening and fixed the thing up. Old Heppen-stall was most decent about the whole affair. He seemed pleased and touched that I should have remembered the sermon all these years, and said he had once or twice had an idea of preaching it again, only it had seemed to him, on reflection, that it was perhaps a trifle long for a rustic congregation.
    ‘And in these restless times, my dear Wooster,’ he said, ‘I fear that brevity in the pulpit is becoming more and more desiderated by even the bucolic churchgoer, who one might have supposed would be less afflicted with the spirit of hurry and impatience than his metropolitan brother. I have had many arguments on the subject with my nephew, young Bates, who is taking my old friend Spetti-gue’s cure over at Gandle-by-the-Hill. His view is that a sermon nowadays should be a bright, brisk, straight-from-the shoulder address, never lasting more than ten or twelve minutes.’
    ‘Long?’ I said. ‘Why, my goodness! You don’t call that Brotherly Love sermon of yours long, do you?’
    ‘It takes fully fifty minutes to deliver.’
    ‘Surely not?’
    ‘Your incredulity, my dear Wooster, is extremely flattering - far more flattering, of course, than I deserve. Nevertheless, the facts are as I have stated. You are sure that I would not be well advised to make certain excisions and eliminations? You do not think it would be a good thing to cut, to prune? I might, for example, delete the rather exhaustive excursus into the family life of the early Assyrians?’
    ‘Don’t touch a word of it, or you’ll spoil the whole thing,’ I said earnestly.
    ‘I am delighted to hear you say so, and I shall preach the sermon without fail next Sunday morning.’

    What I have always said, and what I always shall say, is, that this ante-post betting is a mistake, an error, and a mug’s game. You can never tell what’s going to happen. If fellows would only stick to the good old SP there would be fewer young men go wrong. I’d hardly finished my breakfast