by
P. G. Wodehouse

It was the morning of the day on which I was slated to pop down to my aunt Agatha’s place at Woollam Chersey in the county of Herts for a visit of three solid weeks; and, as I seated myself at the breakfast table, I don’t mind confessing that the heart was singularly heavy. We Woosters are men of iron, but beneath my intrepid exterior at that moment there lurked a nameless dread.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I am not the old merry self this morning.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“No, Jeeves. Far from it. Far from the old merry self.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

He uncovered the fragrant eggs and b., and I pronged a moody forkful.

“Why — this is what I keep asking myself, Jeeves — why has my aunt Agatha invited me to her country seat?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“Not because she is fond of me.”

“No, sir.”

“It is a well-established fact that I give her a pain in the neck. How it happens I cannot say, but every time our paths cross, so to speak, it seems to be a mere matter of time before I perpetrate some ghastly floater and have her hopping after me with her hatchet. The result being that she regards me as a worm and an outcast and would gladly drop something on me from a high window. Am I right or wrong, Jeeves?”

“Perfectly correct, sir.”

“And yet now she has absolutely insisted on my scratching all previous engagements and buzzing down to Woollam Chersey. She must have some sinister reason of which we know nothing. Can you blame me, Jeeves, if the heart is heavy?”

“No, sir. Excuse me, sir, I fancy I heard the front doorbell.”

He shimmered out, and I took another listless stab at the e. and bacon.

“A telegram, sir,” said Jeeves, reëntering the presence.

“Open it, Jeeves, and read contents. Who is it from?”

“It is unsigned, sir.”

“You mean there’s no name at the end of it?”

“That is precisely what I was endeavouring to convey, sir.”

“Let’s have a look.”

I scanned the thing. It was a rummy communication. Rummy. No other word.

As follows:

REMEMBER WHEN YOU COME HERE ABSOLUTELY VITAL MEET PERFECT STRANGERS

We Woosters are not very strong in the head, particularly at breakfast time; and I was conscious of a dull ache between the eyebrows.

“What does it mean, Jeeves?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“It says ‘come here.’ Where’s ‘here’?”

“You will notice that the message was handed in at Woollam Chersey, sir.”

“You’re absolutely right. At Woollam, as you very cleverly spotted, Chersey. This tells us something, Jeeves.”

“What, sir?”

“I don’t know. It couldn’t be from my aunt Agatha, do you think?”

“Hardly, sir.”

“No, you’re right again. Then all we can say is that some person unknown, resident at Woollam Chersey, considers it absolutely vital for me to meet perfect strangers. But why should I meet perfect strangers, Jeeves?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“And yet, looking at it from another angle, why shouldn’t I?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Then what it comes to is that the thing is a mystery which time alone can solve. We must wait and see, Jeeves.”

“The very expression I was about to employ, sir.”

I hit Woollam Chersey at about four o’clock: and found Aunt Agatha in her lair, writing letters. And, from what I know of her, probably offensive letters, with nasty postscripts. She regarded me with not a fearful lot of joy.

“Oh, there you are, Bertie.”

“Yes, here I am.”

“There’s a smut on your nose.”

I plied the handkerchief.

“I am glad you have arrived so early. I want to have a word with you before you meet Mr. Filmer.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Filmer, the cabinet minister. He is staying in the house. Surely even you must have heard of Mr. Filmer?”

“Oh, rather,” I said, though as a matter of fact the bird was completely unknown to me. What with one thing and another, I’m not frightfully well up in the personnel of the political world.

“I particularly wish you to make a good impression on Mr. Filmer.”

“Right ho.”

“Don’t speak in that casual way, as if you supposed that it was perfectly natural that you would make a good impression upon him. Mr. Filmer is a serious-minded man of high character and purpose, and you are just the type of vapid and frivolous wastrel against which he is most likely to be prejudiced.”

Hard words, of course, from one’s own flesh and blood, but well in keeping with past form.

“You will endeavour, therefore, while you are here, not to display yourself in the rôle of a vapid and frivolous wastrel. In the first place, you will give up smoking during your visit.”

“Oh, I say!”

“Mr. Filmer is president of the Anti-Tobacco League. Nor will you drink alcoholic stimulants.”