The inimitable Jeeves

on the Saturday morning, when Jeeves came to my bedside to say that Eustace wanted me on the telephone.
    ‘Good Lord, Jeeves, what’s the matter, do you think?’
    I’m bound to say I was beginning to get a bit jumpy by this time.
    ‘Mr Eustace did not confide in me, sir.’
    ‘Has he got the wind up?’
    ‘Somewhat vertically, sir, to judge by his voice.’
    ‘Do you know what I think, Jeeves? Something’s gone wrong with the favourite.’
    ‘Which is the favourite, sir?’
    ‘Mr Heppenstall. He’s gone to odds on. He was intending to preach a sermon on Brotherly Love which would have brought him home by lengths. I wonder if anything’s happened to him.’
    ‘You could ascertain, sir, by speaking to Mr Eustace on the telephone. He is holding the wire.’
    ‘By Jove, yes!’
    I shoved on a dressing gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind. The moment I heard Eustace’s voice I knew we were for it. It had a croak of agony in it.
    ‘Bertie?’
    ‘Here I am.’
    ‘Deuce of a time you’ve been. Bertie, we’re sunk. The favourite’s blown up.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Yes. Coughing in his stable all last night.’
    ‘What!’
    ‘Absolutely! Hay-fever.’
    ‘Oh, my sainted aunt!’
    ‘The doctor is with him now, and it’s only a question of minutes before he’s officially scratched. That means the curate will show up at the post instead, and he’s no good at all. He is being offered at a hundred-to-six, but no takers. What shall we do?’
    I had to grapple with the thing for a moment in silence.
    ‘Eustace.’
    ‘Hallo?’
    ‘What can you get on G. Hayward?’
    ‘Only four to one now. I think there’s been a leak, and Steggles has heard something. The odds shortened late last night in a significant manner.’
    ‘Well, four to one will clear us. Put another fiver all round on G. Hayward for the syndicate. That’ll bring us out on the right side of the ledger.’
    ‘If he wins.’
    ‘What do you mean? I thought you considered him a cert, bar Heppenstall.’
    ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Eustace gloomily, ‘if there’s such a thing as a cert, in this world. I’m told the Rev. Joseph Tucker did an extraordinarily fine trial gallop at a mothers’ meeting over at Badgwick yesterday. However, it seems our only chance. So-long.’
    Not being one of the official stewards, I had my choice of churches next morning, and naturally I didn’t hesitate. The only drawback to going to Lower Bingley was that it was ten miles away, which meant an early start, but I borrowed a bicycle from one of the grooms and tooled off. I had only Eustace’s word for it that G. Hayward was such a stayer, and it might have been that he had showed too flattering form at that wedding where the twins had heard him preach; but any misgivings I may have had disappeared the moment he got into the pulpit. Eustace had been right. The man was a trier. He was a tall, rangy-looking greybeard, and he went off from the start with a nice, easy action, pausing and clearing his throat at the end of each sentence, and it wasn’t five minutes before I realized that here was the winner. His habit of stopping dead and looking round the church at intervals was worth minutes to us, and in the home stretch we gained no little advantage owing to his dropping his pince-nez and having to grope for them. At the twenty-minute mark he had merely settled down. Twenty-five minutes saw him going strong. And when he finally finished with a good burst, the clock showed thirty-five minutes fourteen seconds. With the handicap which he had been given, this seemed to me to make the event easy for him, and it was with much bonhomie and goodwill to all men that I hopped on to the old bike and started back to the Hall for lunch.
    Bingo was talking on the phone when I arrived.
    ‘Fine! Splendid! Topping!’ he was saying. ‘Eh? Oh, we needn’t worry about him. Right-o, I’ll tell Bertie.’ He hung up the receiver and caught sight of me. ‘Oh, hallo, Bertie; I was just talking to Eustace. It’s all right, old man. The report from Lower Bingley has just got in. G. Hayward romps home.’
    ‘I knew he would. I’ve just come from there.’
    ‘Oh, were you there? I went to Badgwick. Tucker ran a splendid race, but the handicap was too much for him. Starkie had a sore throat and was nowhere. Roberts, of Fale-by-the-Water, ran third. Good old G. Hayward!’ said Bingo affectionately, and we strolled out on to the terrace.
    ‘Are all the