hove in view. Scarcely had our elbows touched the wood before he was leaping to and fro, bringing down a new bottle with each leap. A planter, apparently, does not consider he has had a drink unless it contains at least seven ingredients, and I’m not saying, mind you, that he isn’t right. The man behind the bar told us the things were called Green Swizzles; and, if ever I marry and have a son, Green Swizzle Wooster is the name that will go down on the register, in memory of the day his father’s life was saved at Wembley.
After the third, Biffy breathed a contented sigh.
“Where do you think Sir Roderick is?” he said.
“Biffy, old thing,” I replied, frankly, “I’m not worrying.”
“Bertie, old bird,” said Biffy, “nor am I.”
He sighed again, and broke a long silence by asking the man for a straw.
“Bertie,” he said, “I’ve just remembered something rather rummy. You know Jeeves?”
I said I knew Jeeves.
“Well, a rather rummy incident occurred as we were going into this place. Old Jeeves sidled up to me and said something rather rummy. You’ll never guess what it was.”
“No. I don’t believe I ever shall.”
“Jeeves said,” proceeded Biffy, earnestly, “and I am quoting his very words—Jeeves said, ‘ Mr. Biffen’—addressing me, you understand—”
“I understand.”
“ ‘ Mr. Biffen,’ he said, ‘I strongly advise you to visit the—’ ”