A Damsel in Distress

"In a way," said George. He was not equal to confiding his troubles

to Reggie.

"Of course, your trouble isn't like mine was. What I mean is, Maud

loves you, and all that, and all you've got to think out is a

scheme for laying the jolly old family a stymie. It's a

pity--almost--that yours isn't a case of having to win the girl,

like me; because by Jove, laddie," said Reggie with solemn

emphasis, "I could help you there. I've got the thing down fine.

I've got the infallible dope."

George smiled bleakly.

"You have? You're a useful fellow to have around. I wish you would

tell me what it is."

"But you don't need it."

"No, of course not. I was forgetting."

Reggie looked at his watch.

"We ought to be shifting in a quarter of an hour or so. I don't

want to be late. It appears that there's a catch of some sort in

this business of getting married. As far as I can make out, if you

roll in after a certain hour, the Johnnie in charge of the

proceedings gives you the miss-in-baulk, and you have to turn up

again next day. However, we shall be all right unless we have a

breakdown, and there's not much chance of that. I've been tuning up

the old car since seven this morning, and she's sound in wind and

limb, absolutely. Oil--petrol--water--air--nuts--bolts--sprockets--

carburetter--all present and correct. I've been looking after them

like a lot of baby sisters. Well, as I was saying, I've got the

dope. A week ago I was just one of the mugs--didn't know a thing

about it--but now! Gaze on me, laddie! You see before you old

Colonel Romeo, the Man who Knows! It all started on the night of

the ball. There was the dickens of a big ball, you know, to

celebrate old Boots' coming-of-age--to which, poor devil, he

contributed nothing but the sunshine of his smile, never having

learned to dance. On that occasion a most rummy and extraordinary

thing happened. I got pickled to the eyebrows!" He laughed happily.

"I don't mean that that was a unique occurrence and so forth,

because, when I was a bachelor, it was rather a habit of mine to

get a trifle submerged every now and again on occasions of decent

mirth and festivity. But the rummy thing that night was that I

showed it. Up till then, I've been told by experts, I was a

chappie in whom it was absolutely impossible to detect the

symptoms. You might get a bit suspicious if you found I couldn't

move, but you could never be certain. On the night of the ball,

however, I suppose I had been filling the radiator a trifle too

enthusiastically. You see, I had deliberately tried to shove

myself more or less below the surface in order to get enough nerve

to propose to Alice. I don't know what your experience has been,

but mine is that proposing's a thing that simply isn't within the

scope of a man who isn't moderately woozled. I've often wondered

how marriages ever occur in the dry States of America. Well, as I

was saying, on the night of the ball a most rummy thing happened.

I thought one of the waiters was you!"