It was one of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make a chappie wish
he'd got a soul or something, and I was just brooding on life in
general when I became aware of the dickens of a spate in progress down
below. A taxi had driven up, and an old boy in a top hat had got out
and was kicking up a frightful row about the fare. As far as I could
make out, he was trying to get the cab chappie to switch from New York
to London prices, and the cab chappie had apparently never heard of
London before, and didn't seem to think a lot of it now. The old boy
said that in London the trip would have set him back eightpence; and
the cabby said he should worry. I called to Jeeves.
"The duke has arrived, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir?"
"That'll be him at the door now."
Jeeves made a long arm and opened the front door, and the old boy
crawled in, looking licked to a splinter.
"How do you do, sir?" I said, bustling up and being the ray of
sunshine. "Your nephew went down to the dock to meet you, but you must
have missed him. My name's Wooster, don't you know. Great pal of
Bicky's, and all that sort of thing. I'm staying with him, you know.
Would you like a cup of tea? Jeeves, bring a cup of tea."
Old Chiswick had sunk into an arm-chair and was looking about the room.
"Does this luxurious flat belong to my nephew Francis?"
"Absolutely."
"It must be terribly expensive.
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