hundred of Twing’s heftiest are waiting for you outside to chuck you into the pond?”
“No!”
“Absolutely!”
For a moment the poor chap seemed crushed. But only for a moment. There has always been something of the good old English bulldog breed about Bingo. A strange, sweet smile flickered for an instant over his face.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I can sneak out through the cellar and climb over the wall at the back. They can’t intimidate me !”
It couldn’t have been more than a week later when Jeeves, after he had brought me my tea, gently steered me away from the sporting page of the Morning Post and directed my attention to an announcement in the engagements and marriages column.
It was a brief statement that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between the Hon. and Rev. Hubert Wingham, third son of the Right Hon. the Earl of Sturridge, and Mary, only daughter of the late Matthew Burgess, of Weatherly Court, Hants.
“Of course,” I said, after I had given it the east-to-west, “I expected this, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She would never forgive him what happened that night.”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” I said, as I took a sip of the fragrant and steaming, “I don’t suppose it will take old Bingo long to get over it. It’s about the hundred