“What’s happened to you, Gussie?” I asked.
“Eh?”
“Since when have you been like this?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Well, you are saying you’re going to tick Aunt Dahlia off. And you are telling Spode not to talk rot. By the way, what was he talking rot about?”
“I forgot. He talks so much rot.”
“I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell Spode not to talk rot,” I said frankly.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Bertie,” said Gussie, “neither would I, a week ago.”
“What happened a week ago?”
“I had a spiritual rebirth. Thanks to Jeeves. There’s a chap, Bertie!”
“Ah!”
“We are as little children, frightened of the dark, and Jeeves is the wise nurse who takes us by the hand and—”
“Switches the light on?”
“Precisely. Would you care to hear about it?”
“Of course.”
I settled myself in my chair. Gussie stood silent for a moment. He took off his spectacles and polished them.
“A week ago, Bertie,” he began, “my affairs had reached a crisis. I discovered that I would have to make a speech at the wedding breakfast.”
“Well, naturally.”
“I know, but for some reason I had not foreseen it, and the news came as a blow. And shall I tell you why I was so overcome by stark horror at the idea of making a speech at the wedding breakfast? It was because Roderick Spode and Sir Watkyn Bassett would be in the audience. Do you know Sir Watkyn intimately?”
“Not very. He once fined me five quid at his police court.”
“Well, he is a hard nut, and he strongly objects to having me as a son-in-law. He would have liked Madeline to marry Spode—who, I may mention, has loved her since she was a baby.”
“Oh, yes?” I said, courteously concealing my astonishment that anyone except a boob like himself could love this girl.
“Yes. But apart from the fact that she wanted to marry me, he didn’t want to marry her. He looks upon himself as a Man of Destiny[71], you see, and feels that marriage would interfere with his mission.”
“What do you mean, his mission? Is he someone special?”
“Don’t you ever read the papers? Roderick Spode is the founder and head of the Saviours of Britain, a Fascist organization better known as the Black Shorts. His general idea is to make himself a Dictator.”
“Well, what! A Dictator! I’m dashed! I thought he was something of that sort. That chin… Those eyes… And that moustache. By the way, when you say ‘shorts’, you mean ‘shirts’, of course.”
“No. By the time Spode formed his association, there were no shirts left. He and his adherents wear black shorts.”
“How perfectly foul.”
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