11

Comrade Bingo

The story really started in the park—at the Marble Arch end—where strange people collect on Sunday afternoons and stand on soap-boxes and make speeches. Now that the Empire isn’t the place it was, I always think the park on a Sunday is the centre of London, if you know what I mean. I mean to say, that’s the spot that makes the returned exile really sure he’s back again. I realized that all had ended happily and Bertram was home again.

While I was standing there somebody spoke to me.

“Mr Wooster, surely?”

Stout fellow. Bingo Little’s uncle, the one I had lunch with at the time when young Bingo was in love with that waitress.

“Oh, hallo!” I said. “How are you?”

“I am in excellent health, I thank you. And you?”

“Excellent. I was in America.”

“Ah! Collecting something for one of your delightful romances?”

“Eh?” I had to think a bit to understand what he meant. “Oh, no,” I said. “Just felt I needed a change. How is Bingo?” I asked quickly.

“Bingo?”

“Your nephew.”

“Oh, Richard? I haven’t seen him for a long time. Since my marriage. A little coolness between us, you know.”

“Sorry to hear that. So you’ve married since I saw you, right? Is Mrs Little all right?”

“My wife is all right. But—er—not Mrs Little. Since we last met I became Lord Bittlesham.”

“By God! Really? I say, heartiest congratulations. Lord Bittlesham?” I said. “Why, you’re the owner of Ocean Breeze.”

“Yes. Marriage has enlarged my horizon in many directions. My wife is interested in horse-racing, and I now maintain a small stable. I understand that Ocean Breeze is a favourite. The race will take place at the end of the month at Goodwood, the Duke of Richmond’s seat in Sussex.”

“The Goodwood Cup! I adore Ocean Breeze.”

“Indeed? Well, I trust the animal will justify your confidence.”

At this moment I suddenly noticed that the audience was gazing in our direction with a good deal of interest, and I saw that the bearded fellow was pointing at us.

“Yes, look at them!” he was yelling. “There you see two typical members of the idle class. Idlers! Non-producers! Look at the tall thin one. Has he ever worked in his life? No! A prowler, a trifler, and a blood-sucker! And I bet he still owes his tailor for those trousers!”

I didn’t like it. Old Bittlesham, on the other hand, was pleased and amused.

“These fellows are very trenchant,” he chuckled.

“And the fat one!” proceeded the fellow. “Don’t miss him. Do you know who that is? That’s Lord Bittlesham! One of the worst. His god is his belly, and he sacrifices offerings to it. If you opened that man now you would find enough lunch to support ten working-class families for a week.”

“Not bad,” I said, but the old man didn’t seem to like it. He was bubbling like a kettle on the boil.

“Come away, Mr Wooster,” he said. “I am the last man to oppose the right of free speech, but I refuse to listen to this vulgar abuse any longer.”

Next day I looked in at the club, and found, young Bingo in the smoking-room.

“Hallo, Bingo,” I said, I was glad to see the chump. “How are you?”

“Not bad.”

“I saw your uncle yesterday.”

“I know you did. Well, sit down, old man, and suck a bit of blood. How’s the prowling these days?”

“Good Lord! You weren’t there!”

“Yes, I was.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Yes, you did. But perhaps you didn’t recognize me in the shrubbery.”

“The shrubbery?”

“The beard, my boy. Worth every penny I paid for it. But sometimes people call you ‘Beaver’.”

I goggled at him.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story. Have a martini, and I’ll tell you all about it. Before we start, give me your honest opinion. Isn’t she the most wonderful girl you ever saw in your life?”

He had produced a photograph from somewhere, like a conjurer taking a rabbit out of a hat, and was waving it in front of me.

“Oh, Lord!” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re in love again.”

He seemed aggrieved.

“What do you mean—again?”

“Well, you’ve been in love with at least half a dozen girls since the spring, and it’s only July now. There was that waitress and Honoria Glossop and—”

“Oh, those girls? Fancies. This is the real thing.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“On top of a bus. Her name is Charlotte Corday Rowbotham.”

“My God!”

“It’s not her fault, poor child. Her father had her christened that because he adores the Revolution, and it seems that the original Charlotte Corday liked to kill oppressors in their baths. You must meet old Rowbotham, Bertie. A delightful chap. He wants to massacre the bourgeosie, and disembowel the hereditary aristocracy. Well, nothing could be fairer than that, eh? But about Charlotte. We were on top of the bus, and it started to rain. I offered her my umbrella, and we chatted of this and that. I fell in love and got her address, and a couple of days later I bought the beard and toddled round and met the family.”

“But why the beard?”

“Well, she had told me all about her father on the bus, and I understood that I should have to join these Red Dawn blighters; and naturally, if make speeches in the park, where I can meet a dozen people I knew, some disguise is needed. So I bought the beard, and, by God, I liked it. When I take it off to come in here, for instance, I feel absolutely nude. Old Rowbotham thinks I’m a Bolshevist who hides from the police. You really must meet old Rowbotham, Bertie, I tell you. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

“Nothing special. Why?”

“Good! Then you can have us all to tea at your flat. I had promised to take them to Lyons’ Popular Cafe after the meeting, but I can save money this way; and, believe me, nowadays, as far as I’m concerned, a penny saved is a penny earned. My uncle told you he’d got married?”

“Yes. And he said there was a coolness between you.”

“Coolness? Zero. Ever since he married he’s been spending money and economizing on me. I suppose that peerage cost the old devil a lot. And he has a racing-stable. By the way, Ocean Breeze will win. I’m sure.”

“Let’s see.”

“It can’t lose. I mean to win enough on it to marry Charlotte with. You’re going to Goodwood, of course?”

“Certainly!”

“So are we. We’ll be just outside the paddock.”

“But, I say, aren’t you taking risks? Your uncle’s sure to be at Goodwood. What if he recognizes the fellow who insulted him in the park.”

“How will he find out? Use your intelligence, you prowler. If he didn’t recognize me yesterday, why should he recognize me at Goodwood? Well, thanks for your cordial invitation for tomorrow, old man. We shall be delighted to accept. Do us well, old man, and blessings shall reward you. By the way, I used the word ‘tea’, but—none of your wafer slices of breadand-butter. We’re good eaters, we, the people of the Revolution. Scrambled eggs, muffins, jam, ham, cake and sardines. Expect us at five o’clock.”

“But, I say, I’m not quite sure—”

“Yes, you are. Silly ass, when you see old Rowbotham running up Piccadilly with a knife in each hand, you’ll be thankful to be able to remind him that he once ate your tea and shrimps. There will be four of us Charlotte, self, the old man, and Comrade Butt.”

“Who is that Comrade Butt?”

“Did you notice a fellow standing on my left in our little troupe yesterday? Small chap. Looks like a haddock. That’s Butt. My rival, dash him. He’s engaged to Charlotte at the moment. Till I came along he was lucky. Old Rowbotham thinks a lot of him. But I’ll cut him out. He may have a strong voice, but he hasn’t my gift of expression. Well, I must go now. I say, you don’t know how I could get fifty pounds, do you?”

“Why don’t you work?”

“Work?” said young Bingo, surprised. “What, me? No. I must put at least fifty on Ocean Breeze. Well, see you tomorrow. God bless you, old man, and don’t forget the muffins.”

I don’t know why, but I have felt a strange feeling of responsibility for young Bingo. I mean to say, he’s not my son (thank goodness) or my brother or anything like that. But this latest affair of his worried me. He was going to support even a mentally afflicted wife on nothing a year.

“Jeeves,” I said, when I got home, “I’m worried.”

“Sir?”

“About Mr Little. I won’t tell you about it now, because he’s bringing some friends of his to tea tomorrow, and then you will be able to judge for yourself. I want you to observe closely, Jeeves, and form your decision.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And about the tea. Get in some muffins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And some jam, ham, cake, scrambled eggs, and five or six wagons of sardines.”

“Sardines, sir?” said Jeeves, with a shudder.

“Sardines.” There was an awkward pause.

“Don’t blame me, Jeeves,” I said. “It isn’t my fault.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that’s that.”

“Yes, sir.”

From the moment Bingo invited himself I felt that the things were going to be bad, and they really were. I had forgotten to warn Jeeves about the beard. I saw the man was in stupor, and I don’t blame him, mind you. Few people have ever looked fouler than young Bingo in the fungus. Jeeves paled a little; then the weakness passed and he was himself again. But I could see that he had been shaken.

Young Bingo’s friends were a very strange collection. Comrade Butt looked like a dead tree after the rain; moth-eaten was the word I should have used to describe old Rowbotham; and as for Charlotte, she took me straight into another and a dreadful world. It wasn’t that she was exactly bad-looking. But there was too much of her. Well-nourished, perhaps. And, while she may have had a heart of gold, the thing you noticed about her first was that she had a tooth of gold. I know that young Bingo could fall in love with practically anything of the other sex; but this time I couldn’t see any excuse for him at all.

“My friend, Mr Wooster,” said Bingo.

Old Rowbotham looked at me and then he looked round the room, and I could see he wasn’t satisfied.

“Mr Wooster?” said old Rowbotham. “May I say Comrade Wooster?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you of the movement?”

“Well—er—”

“Do you yearn for the Revolution?”

“Well, I don’t know that I exactly yearn. I mean to say, as far as I know, the idea of the revolution is to massacre coves like me; and I don’t like the idea.”

“But I’m talking to him,” said Bingo.

Old Rowbotham looked at me a bit doubtfully.

“Comrade Little has great eloquence,” he admitted.

“I think he talks something wonderful,” said the girl, and young Bingo shot a glance of devotion at her. It seemed to depress Comrade Butt a lot.

“Tea is served, sir,” said Jeeves.

“Tea, Pa!” said Charlotte; and we got down to it.

At school, I remember, I would have sold my soul for scrambled eggs and sardines at five in the afternoon; but everything had changed. And the sons and daughter of the Revolution were eating very fast. Even Comrade Butt immersed his whole being in scrambled eggs, only coming to the surface at intervals to grab another cup of tea. I turned to Jeeves.

“More hot water.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Hey! What’s this? What’s this?” Old Rowbotham had lowered his cup and was eyeing us sternly. He tapped Jeeves on the shoulder. “No servility, my lad; no servility!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’. Call me Comrade. Do you know what you are, my lad? You’re an absolute relic of a feudal system.”

“Very good, sir.”

“If there’s one thing that makes my blood boil in my veins—”

“Have another sardine,” said young Bingo—the first sensible thing he’d done since I had known him. Old Rowbotham took three and dropped the subject, and Jeeves drifted away. I could see by the look of his back what he felt.

At last, just as I was beginning to feel that the tea-party was going on for ever, it finished. Sardines and about three quarters of tea had mellowed old Rowbotham. There was quite a genial look in his eye as he shook my hand.

“I must thank you for your hospitality, Comrade Wooster,” he said.

“Oh, not at all! Only too glad—”

“Hospitality?” snorted the man Butt. He was scowling at young Bingo and the girl, who were giggling together by the window. “I wonder the food didn’t turn to ashes in our mouths! Eggs! Muffins! Sardines! All taken from the bleeding lips of the starving poor!”

“Oh, I say! What a beastly idea!”

“I will send you some literature on the subject of the working class,” said old Rowbotham. “And soon, I hope, we shall see you at one of our little meetings.”

Jeeves came in, and found me sitting among the ruins. Comrade Butt had pretty well finished the ham; and no jam was left for the the bleeding lips of the starving poor.

“Well, Jeeves,” I said, “how about it?”

“I would prefer to express no opinion, sir.”

“Jeeves, Mr Little is in love with that female.”

“So I saw, sir. She was slapping him in the passage.”

“Slapping him?”

“Yes, sir. Roguishly.”

“Lord! I didn’t know it had got as far as that. What did Comrade Butt think about that? Or perhaps he didn’t see?”

“Yes, sir, he observed the entire proceedings. It seems to me that he is extremely jealous.”

“I don’t blame him. Jeeves, what shall we do?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Very much so, sir.”