‘You are not very quick at noticing things, are you? I imagine not, or you would have seen that Market Snodsbury is liberally plastered with posters bearing the words “Vote for McCorkadale”. An abrupt way of putting it, but one that is certainly successful in conveying its meaning.’
It was a blow, I confess, and I swayed beneath it like an aspen, if aspens are those things that sway. The Woosters can take a good -deal, but only so much. My most coherent thought at the moment was that it was just like my luck, when I sallied forth as a can- vasser, to collide first crack out of the box with the rival candidate. I also had the feeling that if Jeeves had taken on Number One instead of Number Two, he would probably have persuaded Ma McCorkadale to vote against herself.
I suppose if you had asked Napoleon how he had managed to get out of Moscow, he would have been a bit vague about it, and it was the same with me. I found myself on the front steps with only a sketchy notion of how I had got there, and I was in the poorest of shapes. To try to restore the shattered system I lit a cigarette and had begun to puff, when a cheery voice hailed me and I became aware that some foreign substance was sharing my doorstep. ‘Hullo, Wooster old chap’ it was saying and, the mists clearing from before my eyes, I saw that it was Bingley.
I gave the blighter a distant look. Knowing that this blot on the species resided in Market Snodsbury, I had foreseen that I might run into him sooner or later, so I was not surprised to see him. But I certainly wasn’t pleased. The last thing I wanted in the delicate state to which the McCorkadale had reduced me was conversation with a man who set cottages on fire and chased the hand that fed him hither and thither with a carving knife.
He was as unduly intimate, forward, bold, intrusive and deficient in due respect as he had been at the Junior Ganymede. He gave my back a cordial slap and would, I think, have prodded me in the ribs if it had occurred to him. You wouldn’t have thought that carving knives had ever come between us.
‘And what are you doing in these parts, cocky?’ he asked.
I said I was visiting my aunt Mrs. Travers, who had a house in the vicinity, and he said he knew the place, though he had never met the old geezer to whom I referred.
‘I’ve seen her around. Red-faced old girl, isn’t she?’
‘Fairly vermilion.’
‘High blood pressure, probably.’
‘Or caused by going in a lot for hunting. It chaps the cheeks.’
‘Different from a barmaid. She cheeks the chaps.’
If he had supposed that his crude humour would get so much as a simper out of me, he was disappointed. I preserved the cold aloofness of a Wednesday matinee audience, and he proceeded.
‘Yes, that might be it. She looks a sport. Making a long stay?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, for the length of my visits to the old ancestor is always uncertain. So much depends on whether she throws me out or not.
‘Actually I’m here to canvass for the Conservative candidate. He’s a pal of mine.’
He whistled sharply. He had been looking repulsive and cheerful; he now looked repulsive and grave. Seeming to realize that he had omitted a social gesture, he prodded me in the ribs.
‘You’re wasting your time, Wooster, old man,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t an earthly.’
‘No?’ I quavered. It was simply one man’s opinion, of course, but the earnestness with which he had spoken was unquestionably impressive. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Never you mind what makes me think it. Take my word for it. If you’re sensible, you’ll phone your bookie and have a big bet on McCorkadale. You’ll never regret it. You’ll come to me later and thank me for the tip with tears in your -‘
At some point in this formal interchange of thoughts by spoken word, as Jeeves’s Dictionary Of Synonyms puts it, he must have pressed the bell, for at this moment the door opened and my old buddy the maid appeared. Quickly adding the word ‘eyes’, he turned to her.