“I did not know of this, sir.”
“I don’t suppose anybody knows of it except me. He told me when I was in Paris.”
“I should have supposed it would have been feasible to make inquiries, sir.”
“That’s what I said. But he had forgotten her name.”
“That sounds remarkable, sir.”
“I said that, too. But it’s a fact. All he remembered was that her Christian name was Mabel. Well, you can’t go scouring New York for a girl named Mabel, what?”
“I appreciate the difficulty, sir.”
“Well, there it is, then.”
“I see, sir.”
We had got into a mob of vehicles outside the Exhibition by this time, and, some tricky driving being indicated, I had to suspend the conversation. We parked ourselves eventually and went in. Jeeves drifted away, and Sir Roderick took charge of the expedition. He headed for the Palace of Industry, with Biffy and myself trailing behind.
Well, you know, I have never been much of a lad for exhibitions. The citizenry in the mass always rather puts me off, and after I have been shuffling along with the multitude for a quarter of an hour or so I feel as if I were walking on hot bricks. About this particular binge, too, there seemed to me a lack of what you might call human interest. I mean to say, millions of people, no doubt, are so constituted that they scream with joy and excitement at the spectacle of a stuffed porcupine-fish or a glass jar of seeds from Western Australia—but not Bertram. No; if you will take the word of one who would not deceive you, not Bertram. By the time we had tottered out of the Gold Coast village and were working towards the Palace of Machinery, everything pointed to my shortly executing a quiet sneak in the direction of that rather jolly Planters’ Bar in the West Indian section. Sir Roderick had whizzed us past this at a high rate of speed, it touching no chord in him; but I had been able to observe that there was a sprightly sportsman behind the counter mixing things out of bottles and stirring them up with a stick in long glasses that seemed to have ice in them, and the urge came upon me to see more of this man. I was about to drop away from the main body and become a straggler, when something pawed at my coat-sleeve. It was Biffy, and he had the air of one who has had about sufficient.
There are certain moments in life when words are not needed. I looked at Biffy, Biffy looked at me. A perfect understanding linked our two souls.
“?”
“!”
Three minutes later we had joined the Planters.
I have never been in the West Indies, but I am in a position to state that in certain of the fundamentals of life they are streets ahead of our European civilization. The man behind the counter, as kindly a bloke as I ever wish to meet, seemed to guess our requirements the moment we 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—’ ”
“The what?” I asked, as he paused.
“Bertie, old man,” said Biffy, deeply concerned, “I’ve absolutely forgotten!”
I stared at the man.
“What I can’t understand,” I said, “is how you manage to run that Herefordshire place of yours for a day. How on earth do you remember to milk the cows and give the pigs their dinner?”
“Oh, that’s all right! There are diverse blokes about the places—hirelings and menials, you know—who look after all that.”
“Ah!” I said. “Well, that being so, let us have one more Green Swizzle, and then hey for the Amusement Park.”
When I indulged in those few rather bitter words about exhibitions, it must be distinctly understood that I was not alluding to what you might call the more earthy portion of these curious places. I yield to no man in my approval of those institutions where on payment of a shilling you are permitted to slide down a slippery runway sitting on a mat. I love the Jiggle-Joggle, and I am prepared to take on all and sundry at Skee Ball for money, stamps, or Brazil nuts.
But, joyous reveller as I am on these occasions, I was simply not in it with old Biffy. Whether it was the Green Swizzles or merely the relief of being parted from Sir Roderick, I don’t know, but Biffy flung himself into the pastimes of the proletariat with a zest that was almost frightening. I could hardly drag him away from the Whip, and as for the Switchback, he looked like spending the rest of his life on it. I managed to remove him at last,
