“Fifty-fower, sur.”
“And mine?” gasped Dick.
“Fifty-fower, too, sur.”
“You see, my dear fellows,” said the Rev. Henry when they had finished—and his voice was like unto oil that is poured into a wound—”we had to win this match, and if you had gone on batting we should not have had time to get them out. As it is, we shall have to hurry.”
“But, hang it–-” said Tom.
“But, look here–-” said Dick.
“Yes?”
“What on earth are we to do?” said Tom.
“We’re in precisely the same hole as we were before,” said Dick.
“We don’t know how to manage it.”
“We’re absolutely bunkered.”
“Our competition, you see.”
“About Miss Burn, don’t you know.”
“Which is to propose first?”
“We can’t settle it.”
The Rev. Henry smiled a faint, saintly smile and raised a protesting hand.
“My advice,” he said, “is that both of you should refrain from proposing.”
“What?” said Dick.
“
“You see,” purred the Rev. Henry, “you are both very young fellows. Probably you do not know your own minds. You take these things too seri–-“
“Now, look here,” said Tom.
“None of that rot,” said Dick.
“I shall propose tonight.”
“I shall propose this evening.”
“I shouldn’t,” said the Rev. Henry. “The fact is–-“
“Well?”
“Well?”
“I didn’t tell you before, for fear it should put you off your game; but Miss Burn is engaged already, and has been for three days.”
The two rivals started.
“Engaged!” cried Tom.
“Whom to?” hissed Dick.
“Me,” murmured Harry.
JEEVES TAKES CHARGE
Now, touching this business of old Jeeves—my man, you know—how do we stand? Lots of people think I’m much too dependent on him. My Aunt Agatha, in fact, has even gone so far as to call him my keeper. Well, what I say is: Why not? The man’s a genius. From the collar upward he stands alone. I gave up trying to run my own affairs within a week of his coming to me. That was about half a dozen years ago, directly after the rather rummy business of Florence Craye, my Uncle Willoughby’s book, and Edwin, the Boy Scout.
The thing really began when I got back to Easeby, my uncle’s place in Shropshire. I was spending a week or so there, as I generally did in the summer; and I had had to break my visit to come back to London to get a new valet. I had found Meadowes, the fellow I had taken to Easeby with me, sneaking my silk socks, a thing no bloke of spirit could stick at any price. It transpiring, moreover, that he had looted a lot of other things here and there about the place, I was reluctantly compelled to hand the misguided blighter the mitten and go to London to ask the registry office to dig up another specimen for my approval. They sent me Jeeves.
I shall always remember the morning he came. It so happened that the night before I had been present at a rather cheery little supper, and I was feeling pretty rocky. On top of this I was trying to read a book Florence Craye had given me. She had been one of the house-party at Easeby, and two or three days before I left we had got engaged. I was due back at the end of the week, and I knew she would expect me to have finished the book by then. You see, she was particularly keen on boosting me up a bit nearer her own plane of intellect. She was a girl with a wonderful profile, but steeped to the gills in serious purpose. I can’t give you a better idea of the way things stood than by telling you that the book she’d given me to read was called “Types of Ethical Theory,” and that when I opened it at random I struck a page beginning:—
All perfectly true, no doubt; but not the sort of thing to spring on a lad with a morning head.
I was doing my best to skim through this bright little volume when the bell rang. I crawled off the sofa and
