buster, owning half London and about five counties up north, he was notoriously the most prudent spender in England. He was what American chappies would call a hard-boiled egg. If Bicky’s people hadn’t left him anything and he depended on what he could prise out of the old duke, he was in a pretty bad way. Not that that explained why he was hunting me like this, because he was a chap who never borrowed money. He said he wanted to keep his pals, so never bit anyone’s ear on principle.
At this juncture the door bell rang. Jeeves floated out to answer it.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster has just returned,” I heard him say. And Bicky came trickling in, looking pretty sorry for himself.
“Halloa, Bicky!” I said. “Jeeves told me you had been trying to get me. Jeeves, bring another glass, and let the revels commence. What’s the trouble, Bicky?”
“I’m in a hole, Bertie. I want your advice.”
“Say on, old lad!”
“My uncle’s turning up tomorrow, Bertie.”
“So Jeeves told me.”
“The Duke of Chiswick, you know.”
“So Jeeves told me.”
Bicky seemed a bit surprised.
“Jeeves seems to know everything.”
“Rather rummily, that’s exactly what I was thinking just now myself.”
“Well, I wish,” said Bicky gloomily, “that he knew a way to get me out of the hole I’m in.”