13

The Great Sermon Competition

London, about a couple of weeks after that spectacular finish of young Bingo’s which I’ve just been telling you about, was empty and smelled of burning asphalt. All my pals were away, most of the theatres were shut.

It was most infernally hot. Jeeves came in with drinks on a tray.

“Jeeves,” I said, “it’s beastly hot.”

“The weather is oppressive, sir.”

“I think we need a change, Jeeves.”

“Just as you say, sir. There is a letter on the tray, sir.”

I opened the letter.

“Jeeves, do you know Twing Hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Mr Little is there.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Absolutely. He’s again a tutor.”

After that mix-up at Goodwood, when young Bingo Little disappeared, I had been looking for him everywhere, asking mutual friends if they had heard anything of him, but nobody had. And all the time he had been at Twing Hall. Strange. And I’ll tell you why it was strange. Twing Hall belongs to old Lord Wickhammersley, a great pal of my father when he was alive. I generally spent there a week or two sometime in the summer, and I was thinking of going there before I read the letter.

“And what’s more, Jeeves, my cousin Claude, and my cousin Eustace—you remember them?”

“Very vividly, sir.”

“Well, they’re down there, too, preparing for some exam with the vicar. I used to read with him myself at one time.”

I read the letter again. It was from Eustace. Claude and Eustace are twins, and are the curse of the human race.

The Vicarage,

Twing, Glos.

Dear Bertie,

Do you want to make a bit of money? I hear you had a bad Goodwood, so you probably do. Well, come down here quick and get in on the biggest sporting event of the season. I’ll explain when I see you, but you can take it from me it’s all right.

Claude and I are studying at old Heppenstall’s. There are nine of us, not counting your pal Bingo Little, who is tutoring the kid up at the Hall.

Don’t miss this golden opportunity, which may never occur again. Come and join us.

Yours,

EUSTACE.

I handed this to Jeeves. He studied it thoughtfully.

“What do you think of it? A strange letter, eh?”

“I can imagine, sir, these young gentlemen, Mr Claude and Mr Eustace are preparing for some game.”

“Yes. But what game, how do you think?”

“It is impossible to say, sir. Did you observe that the letter continues over the page?”

“Eh, what?” I grabbed the letter. This was what was on the other side of the last page:

SERMON

RUNNERS AND BETTING

PROBABLE STARTERS

Rev. Joseph Tucker (Badgwick), scratch.

Rev. Leonard Starkie (Stapleton), scratch.

Rev. Alexander Jones (Upper Bingley), receives three minutes.

Rev. W. Dix (Little Clickton-on-the-Wold), receives five minutes.

Rev. Francis Heppenstall (Twing), receives eight minutes.

Rev. Cuthbert Dibble (Boustead Parva), receives nine minutes.

Rev. Orlo Hough (Boustead Magna), receives nine minutes.

Rev. J. J. Roberts (Fale-by-the-Water), receives ten minutes.

Rev. G. Hayward (Lower Bingley), receives twelve minutes.

Rev. James Bates (Gandle-by-the-Hill), receives fifteen minutes.

(The above have arrived.)

Prices: 5-2, Tucker, Starkie; 3-1, Jones; 9-2, Dix; 6-1, Heppenstall, Dibble, Hough; 100-8 any other.

It surprised me.

“Do you understand it, Jeeves?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I think we ought to have a look into it, anyway, what?”

“Undoubtedly, sir.”

“Send a telegram to Lord Wickhammersley to say we’re coming, and buy two tickets on the five-ten at Paddington tomorrow.”

The five-ten was late as usual, and everybody was dressing for dinner when I arrived at the Hall. I slid into the vacant chair, and found that I was sitting next to old Wickhammersleyэs youngest daughter, Cynthia.

“Oh, hallo,” I said.

Great pals we’ve always been. In fact, there was a time when I had an idea I was in love with Cynthia. However, it went away. A pretty and lively and attractive girl, mind you, but full of ideals and all that. I may be wrong, but I have an idea that she’s the sort of girl who would want a fellow to make a career. I know I’ve heard her speak favourably of Napoleon.

“Well, Bertie, so you’ve arrived?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve arrived. Yes, here I am. I say, who are all these coves?”

“Oh, just people from round about. You know most of them. You remember Colonel Willis, and the Spencers—”

“Of course, yes. And there’s old Heppenstall. Who’s the other clergyman next to Mrs Spencer?”

“Mr Hayward, from Lower Bingley.”

“How many clergymen! Oh, there’s another, next to Mrs Willis.”

“That’s Mr Bates, Mr Heppenstall’s nephew. He’s down here during the summer holidays.”

“I thought I knew his face. I saw him at Oxford.”

I took another look round the table, and noticed young Bingo.

“Ah, there he is,” I said. “There’s the old man.”

“There’s who?”

“Young Bingo Little. Great pal of mine. He’s tutoring your brother, you know.”

“Good gracious! Is he a friend of yours?”

“Exactly! Known him all my life.”

“Then tell me, Bertie, is he weak in the head?”

“Weak in the head?”

“Of course, he’s a friend of yours. But he’s so strange in his manner.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he looks at me so oddly.”

“Oddly? How? Give me an imitation.”

“I can’t in front of all these people.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll hold my napkin up.”

“All right, then. Quick. There!”

Considering that she had only about a second and a half to do it in, I must say it was a fine exhibition. She opened her mouth and eyes pretty wide and managed to look so like a dyspeptic calf that I recognized the symptoms immediately.

“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “No need to worry. He’s simply in love with you.”

“In love with me? Don’t be absurd.”

“My dear, you don’t know young Bingo. He can fall in love with anybody.’”

“Thank you!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, you know. He is in love with you, no wonder. Why, I was in love with you myself once.”

“Once? Ah! This isn’t one of your tactful evenings, Bertie.”

“Well, my dear, dash it, considering that you nearly laughed yourself into a permanent state of hiccoughs when I asked you—”

“Oh, I’m not reproaching you. No doubt there were faults on both sides. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”

“Good-looking? Bingo? Bingo good-looking? I don’t know, really!”

“I mean, compared with some people,” said Cynthia.

Some time after this, Lady Wickhammersley gave the signal for the girl to go away, and they stood up. I didn’t get a chance of talking to young Bingo, and later, in the drawing-room, he didn’t show up. I found him in his room, lying on the bed with his feet on the rail, smoking a pipe. There was a notebook beside him.

“Hallo, Bingo,” I said.

“Hallo, Bertie,” he replied, in a distrait sort of manner.

“It’s rather strange to find you down here. Your uncle cut off your allowance after that Goodwood event and you had to take this tutoring job, right?”

“Correct,” said young Bingo.

“Well, you might have let your pals know where you were.”

He frowned darkly.

“I didn’t want them to know where I was. I wanted to creep away and hide myself. I’ve been through a bad time, Bertie, these last weeks. The sun ceased to shine—”

“That’s curious. We’ve had gorgeous weather in London.”

“The birds ceased to sing—”

“What birds?”

“The devil knows what birds!” cried young Bingo. “Any birds. The birds round about here. I can’t specify them by their pet names! I tell you, Bertie, it hit me hard, very hard.”

“What hit you?” I simply couldn’t follow the blighter.

“Charlotte. Her callousness.”

“Oh, ah!”

I’ve seen poor old Bingo through so many unsuccessful love-affairs that I’d almost forgotten there was a girl. Of course! Charlotte Corday Rowbotham. And she had gone off with Comrade Butt.

“I went through torments. Tell me, Bertie, what are you doing down here? I didn’t know you knew these people.”

“Me? Why, I’ve known them since I was a kid.”

Young Bingo put his feet down with a thud.

“Do you mean to say you’ve known Lady Cynthia all that time?”

“Of course! She was seven when I met her first.”

“Good Lord!” said young Bingo. He looked at me. “I love that girl, Bertie.”

“Yes. Nice girl, of course.”

“Don’t speak of her in that horrible casual way. She’s an angel. An angel! Was she talking about me at all at dinner, Bertie?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What did she say?”

“I remember one thing. She said she thought you good-looking.”

Young Bingo closed his eyes in a sort of ecstasy. Then he picked up the notebook.

“Will you walk a little, old man?” he said in a far-away voice. “I’ve got to write something.”

“To write?”

“Poetry, if you want to know. I wish,” said young Bingo, not without some bitterness, “she had been christened something except Cynthia. There isn’t a word in the language it rhymes with. Why Cynthia? Why not Jane?”

Next morning, as I lay in bed and wondering when Jeeves was going to show up with a cup of tea, the voice of young Bingo polluted the air. The blighter had apparently risen with the lark.

“Leave me,” I said, “I want to be alone. I can’t see anybody till I’ve had my tea.”

“When Cynthia smiles,” said young Bingo, “the skies are blue; birds in the garden trill and sing, and Joy is king of everything, when Cynthia smiles.” He coughed. “When Cynthia frowns—”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I’m reading you my poem. The one I wrote to Cynthia last night. I’ll go on, shall I?”

“No!”

“No?”

“No. I haven’t had my tea.”

At this moment Jeeves came in with tea, and I was glad. After a couple of sips things looked a bit brighter. Even young Bingo didn’t look so loathsome as before. By the time I’d finished the first cup I was a new man. Suddenly the door opened and in blew Claude and Eustace. One of the things which discourages me about rural life is the earliness with which events begin to happen. At Twing, thank heaven, they know me, and let me breakfast in bed. The twins seemed pleased to see me.

“Good old Bertie!” said Claude.

“Dear friend!” said Eustace. “The Rev. told us you had arrived. I thought that letter of mine would get you here.”

“You can always rely on Bertie,” said Claude. “A real sportsman. Well, has Bingo told you about it?”

“Not a word. He’s been—”

“We’ve been talking,” said Bingo hastily, “of other matters.”

Claude pinched the last slice of thin bread-andbutter, and Eustace drank out a cup of tea.

“It’s like this, Bertie,” said Eustace, settling down. “As I told you in my letter, there are nine of us in this desert spot, reading with old Heppenstall. Well, of course, nothing is jollier than reading the Classics when it’s a hundred in the shade, but there comes time when you begin to feel the need of a little relaxation; and there are absolutely no facilities for relaxation in this place whatever. And then Steggles got this idea. Steggles is one of our reading-party, and, between ourselves, rather a fool as a general thing. Still, you have to give him credit for getting this idea.”

“What idea?”

“Well, you know how many parsons there are round about here. There are about a dozen villages within a radius of six miles, and each village has a church and each church has a parson and each parson preaches a sermon every Sunday. Tomorrow week—Sunday the twenty-third—we’re running off the great Sermon Competition. Steggles is making the book. The parson that preaches the longest sermon wins. Did you study the race-card I sent you?”

“I couldn’t understand what it was all about.”

“Why, you chump, it gives the names and the current odds on each starter. I’ve got another copy, in case you’ve lost yours. Take a careful look at it. Jeeves, old man, do you want to get some money?”

“Sir?” said Jeeves, who had just brought my breakfast.

Claude explained the scheme. Amazingly, Jeeves grasped it immediately. But he merely smiled in a paternal sort of way.

“Thank you, sir, I think not.”

“Well, you’re with us, Bertie, aren’t you?” said Claude, stealing a roll and a slice of bacon. “Have you studied that card? Well, tell me, is everything clear?”

Of course it was.

“Why, old Heppenstall is a winner,” I said. “There isn’t a parson in the land who could give him eight minutes. Your pal Steggles must be an ass. In the days when I was with him, old Heppenstall never used to preach under half an hour. Has he lost his vim lately?”

“Not a bit of it,” said Eustace. “Tell him what happened, Claude.”

“Oh,” said Claude, “the first Sunday we were here, we all went to Twing church, and old Heppenstall preached a sermon that was under twenty minutes. This is what happened. Steggles didn’t notice it, and the Rev. didn’t notice it himself, but Eustace and I both noticed that he had dropped some pages out of his sermon-case as he was walking up to the pulpit. But Steggles went away with the impression that twenty minutes was his usual form. The next Sunday we heard Tucker and Starkie, and they both went well over the thirty-five minutes, so Steggles wrote the figures that you see on the card. You must come into this, Bertie. You see, the trouble is that I have nothing, and Eustace has nothing, and Bingo Little has nothing, so you’ll have to finance the syndicate. We’ll have a lot of money in all our pockets. Well, we’ll have to get back now. Think the thing over, and phone me later in the day. Come on, Claude, old man.”

The more I studied the scheme, the better it looked.

“How about it, Jeeves?” I said.

Jeeves smiled gently, and went out.

“Jeeves has no sporting blood,” said Bingo.

“Well, I have. I’m coming into this. Claude’s quite right. It’s like finding, money by the wayside.”

“Good man!” said Bingo. “Now I can see daylight. Say I have a tenner on Heppenstall, and cop! And then, I’ll go to my uncle. He’s a snob, you know, and when he hears that I’m going to marry the daughter of an earl—”

“I say, old man, aren’t you looking ahead rather far?”

“Oh, that’s all right. She practically told me yesterday she was fond of me.”

“What!”

“Well, she said that the sort of man she liked was the self-reliant, manly man with strength, good looks, character, ambition, and initiative.”

“Leave me,” I said. “Leave me to my breakfast.”

I went to the phone, and instructed Eustace to put a tenner on the Twing flier at current odds for each of the syndicate; and after lunch Eustace rang me up to say that he had done business seven-toone, owing to a rumour that the Rev. was subject to hay-fever. And it was lucky, I thought next day, that we had managed to get the money on in time, for on the Sunday morning old Heppenstall gave us thirty-six solid minutes on Certain Popular Superstitions. I was sitting next to Steggles. He was a little rat-faced fellow, with shifty eyes and a suspicious nature. And he was pale.

On Tuesday afternoon, when, as I was strolling up and down in front of the house with a cigarette, Claude and Eustace came up the drive on bicycles, with momentous news.

“Bertie,” said Claude, deeply agitated, “unless we take immediate action and do something, we’re ruined.”

“What’s the matter?”

“G. Hayward,” said Eustace morosely. “The Lower Bingley starter.”

“We never even considered him,” said Claude. “Somehow or other, he got overlooked. It’s always like this. Steggles overlooked him. We all overlooked him. But Eustace and I were riding through Lower Bingley this morning, and there was a wedding on at the church, and G. Hayward delivered a speech of twenty-six minutes by Claude’s watch. At a village wedding, mark you! What’ll we do when he really extends himself!”

“There’s only one thing to be done, Bertie,” said Claude. “You must give us some more money, so that we can put on Hayward and save ourselves.”

“But—”

“Well, it’s the only way out.”

“But I say, you know, I hate the idea to throw money away.”

“What else can you suggest? You don’t suppose the Rev. can give us four minutes more and win, do you?”

“I know what to do!” I said.

“What?”

“I see a way by which we can make it safe for our nominee. I’ll meet him this afternoon, and ask him to preach that sermon of his on Brotherly Love on Sunday.”

Claude and Eustace looked at each other.

“It’s a scheme,” said Claude.

“An excellent scheme,” said Eustace. “Bravo, Bertie.”

“Then carry on,” said Claude.

Old Heppenstall seemed pleased and touched that I should have remembered the sermon all these years, and said he had once or twice had an idea of preaching it again, only it had seemed to him that it was perhaps very long.

“Long?” I said. “Why, my goodness! You don’t call that Brotherly Love sermon of yours long, do you?”

“It takes fully fifty minutes to deliver.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Are you sure that it is not necessary to make certain excisions and eliminations? I might, for example, delete the rather exhaustive excursus into the family life of the early Assyrians.”

“Don’t touch a word of it, or you’ll spoil the whole thing,” I said earnestly.

“I am delighted to hear you say so, and I shall preach the whole sermon next Sunday morning.”

But you can never tell what’s going to happen. I’d hardly finished my breakfast on the Saturday morning, when Jeeves came to my bedside to say that Eustace wanted me on the telephone.

“Good Lord, Jeeves, what’s the matter?”

“Mr Eustace did not confide in me, sir.”

“Do you know what I think, Jeeves? Something’s gone wrong with the favourite.”

“Which is the favourite, sir?”

“Mr Heppenstall. He was intending to preach a sermon on Brotherly Love. I wonder if anything’s happened to him.”

“Sir, Mr Eustace is on the telephone.”

I put on a dressing gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind. The moment I heard Eustace’s voice I knew we were ruined.

“Bertie?”

“Here I am.”

“Bertie, we’re dead. The favourite’s blown up.”

“No!”

“Yes. Coughing in his stable all last night.”

“What!”

“Absolutely! Hay-fever.”

“Oh, my Lord!”

“The doctor is with him now, and it’s only a question of minutes before he’s officially out of the race. That means the curate will show up at the post instead, and he’s no good at all. A hundred-to-six, but nobody wants. What shall we do?”

“Eustace.”

“Hallo?”

“What can you get on G. Hayward?”

“Only four to one now. I think Steggles has heard something.”

“Well, four to one will clear us. Put another fiver all round on G. Hayward for the syndicate.”

“If he wins.”

“What do you mean? I thought you considered him a winner, after Heppenstall.”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” said Eustace gloomily, “if there’s such a thing as a winner, in this world. I’m told the Rev. Joseph Tucker did an extraordinarily fine trial gallop at a meeting over at Badgwick yesterday. However, it seems our only chance. So-long.”

I had my choice of churches next morning, and naturally I didn’t hesitate. I chose Lower Bingley that was ten miles away, but I borrowed a bicycle and ran off. Eustace had been right. The man was a tall greybeard, and he went off from the start with a nice, easy action, pausing and clearing his throat at the end of each sentence, and it wasn’t five minutes before I realized that here was the winner. His habit of stopping and looking round the church at intervals was worth minutes to us. At the twenty-minute mark he had merely settled down. And when he finally finished with a good burst, the clock showed thirty-five minutes fourteen seconds. I hopped on to the old bike and started back to the Hall for lunch.

Bingo was talking on the phone when I arrived.

“Fine! Splendid!” he was saying. “Eh? Oh, we needn’t worry about him. I’ll tell Bertie.” He hung up the receiver and caught sight of me. “Oh, hallo, Bertie; I was just talking to Eustace. It’s all right, old man. The report from Lower Bingley has just got in. G. Hayward won.”

“I knew he would. I’ve just come from there.”

“Oh, were you there? I went to Badgwick. Tucker ran a splendid race, but what could he do? Starkie had a sore throat and was nowhere. Roberts, of Fale-by-the-Water, ran third. Good old G. Hayward!” said Bingo affectionately, and we strolled out on to the terrace.

“Are the results clear, then?” I asked.

“All except Gandle-by-the-Hill. But we needn’t worry about Bates. He never had a chance. By the way, poor old Jeeves loses his tenner. Silly ass!”

“Jeeves? What do you mean?”

“He came to me this morning, just after you had left, and asked me to put a tenner on Bates for him. I told him he was a chump, and begged him not to throw his money away, but he would do it.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. This note arrived for you just after you had left the house this morning.” Jeeves had materialized from nowhere, and was standing at my elbow.

“Eh? What? Note?”

“The Reverend Mr Heppenstal’s butler brought it over from the Vicarage, sir. It came too late to be delivered to you at the moment.”

Young Bingo was talking to Jeeves. The yell I gave made him bite his tongue in the middle of a sentence.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“We’re ruined! Listen to this!”

I read him the note:

The Vicarage,.

Twing, Glos.

My Dear Wooster,

As you may have heard, circumstances over which I have no control will prevent my preaching the sermon on Brotherly Love for which you made such a flattering request. I am unwilling, however, that you shall be disappointed, so, if you will attend divine service at Gandle-by-the-Hill this morning, you will hear my sermon preached by young Bates, my nephew. I have lent him the manuscript at his urgent desire. My nephew is one of the candidates for the headmastership of a well-known public school, and the choice is between him and one rival.

Late yesterday evening James received private information that the head of the Board of Governors of the school proposed to sit under him this Sunday in order to judge of the merits of his preaching, a most important item in swaying the Board’s choice. I acceded to his plea that I lend him my sermon on Brotherly Love, of which, like you, he apparently retains a vivid recollection. I just wished to help the boy.

I remain,

Cordially yours,

F. Heppenstall.

PS—Because of the hay-fever, I am dictating this letter to my butler, Brookfield, who will convey it to you.

I don’t know when I’ve experienced a more massive silence than the one that followed my reading of this epistle. Young Bingo gulped once or twice. Jeeves coughed one soft, low, gentle cough, and then stood gazing serenely at the landscape. Finally young Bingo spoke.

“Great Lord!” he whispered hoarsely. “So you had inside information, dash it!”

“Why, yes, sir,” said Jeeves. “Brookfield mentioned the contents of the note to me when he brought it. We are old friends.”

“Well, all I can say,” Bingo cried, “is that it’s unfair! Preaching another man’s sermon! Do you call that honest? Do you call that playing the game?”

“Well, my dear old man,” I said, “be fair. It’s quite within the rules. Clergymen do it all the time. They aren’t expected always to make up the sermons they preach.”

Jeeves coughed again, and fixed me with an expressionless eye.

“And in the present case, sir, if I may be permitted to take the liberty of making the observation, we should remember that the securing of this headmastership meant everything to the young couple.”

“Young couple? What young couple?”

“The Reverend James Bates, sir, and Lady Cynthia. I am informed by her ladyship’s maid that they have been engaged to be married for some weeks; and his lordship made his consent conditional on Mr Bates securing a really important and remunerative position.’

Young Bingo turned a light green.

“Engaged to be married!”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a silence.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” said Bingo.

“But, my dear old man,” I said, “it’s just lunchtime.”

“I don’t want any lunch!” said Bingo.