If there is one thing we Woosters are simply dripping with, it is sporting blood. I bolted the rest of my sausage, and sat up and took notice.

“Proceed,” I said. “You interest me strangely, old bird.”

Bingo laid the paper on the bed.

“On Monday week,” he said, “you may or may not know, the annual village school treat takes place. Lord Wickhammersley lends the Hall grounds for the purpose. There will be games, and a conjurer, and cokernut shies, and tea in a tent. And also sports.”

“I know. Cynthia was telling me.”

Young Bingo winced.

“Would you mind not mentioning that name? I am not made of marble.”

“Sorry!”