him limb from limb. It’ll be something to do.”
I hated to spoil his daydreams, but it had to be.
“Good heavens, man,” I said, “you haven’t time for frivolous amusements now. You’ve got to get out. And quick!”
“Bertie,” said Bingo in a dull voice, “she was here just now. She said it was all my fault and that she would never speak to me again. She said she had always suspected me of being a heartless practical joker, and now she knew. She said—Oh, well, she ticked me off properly.”
“That’s the least of your troubles,” I said. It seemed impossible to rouse the poor zib to a sense of his position. “Do you realise that about two 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.