Ron Paul Sees It Through, Part III

It's one thing to be lectured by a maiden aunt who's recoiled from a touch of the heavy stuff all her life. But it's quite another to listen to stories of life improvement from a man who next tells you how he served with Gordon at Khartoum, when you know he spent most of that time bivouacked with that brand of gin. After helping myself to a glass of wine at the end of dinner, I found myself trying to melt out of my seat under the gaze of the man who was once known as the biggest drunk of the Sudanese campaign.

Rather than melting, the ice was broken under the auspices of my suit. Days earlier, I'd sent Paul to my tailor to have them knit up some of the latest and snappiest, and I hadn't checked to see what he'd brought home. It was only on unpacking my suitcase that I discovered cummerbunds, jackets, waistcoats, ties, socks, trousers and cufflinks — all gold. Thus the intense scrutiny brought about by Lord Bittlesham's temperance harangue did nothing to alleviate the feeling of being the most popular lamppost in a neighborhood ruled by overly hydrated mongrels.

"Finally, what on earth is that suit, Mister Wooster?" Lord Bittlesham growled.

"If I may, sir," interjected Paul, who was assisting with clearing away the service. "It is a representation of Mr. Wooster's opinion of character: that like that noblest metal, gold, it be pure of strain, incapable of blemish and certain of value. It is also a representation of the quality and fidelity of Mr. Little's and Miss Fanshawe's association, which would be solemnized with wedding bands, and on whose behalf Mr. Wooster wished to speak with you."

This laid it on with the thickness, but the moment called for a bit of rescue. Lord Bittlesham possessed the ability to screw seemingly the entirety of his face up into the space behind his monocle, making one feel as if one were the wrong piece of ash being inspected at the wrong end of Holmes' magnifying glass. It was time for me to show my esprit de corps. Thankfully, Bingo had furnished me with something in the way of those little sheets of notes that children with less of a noble bearing sometimes smuggle into examination rooms. I took a preparatory glance.

"Well, as old Bingo's no doubt given you the posish in re: my being Carolyn van der Meere under a pseudo-whosit, and as my man Paul has said, I take a keen interest in character, especially as it concerns the fruity glance in the moonlight and the tightening waistcoat and strange affinity for buttonholes."

"Excuse me, Mister Wooster?"

"Love, what? That which springs eternal in the human breast, launches a thousand ships and sets the home fires burning three-hundred and sixty-five. Your nephew Bingo's got it like caves have bats. What the chap lacks is your consent and enough of the freshly printed legal. So if you could see your way to loosening the straps on the old sack of doubloons and say, 'Right-ho, here's the oof, off with you to the church,' the happier will be all."

"Mister Wooster, I have often seen my nephew Richard both in love and out of money. He is profligate with both. I have no intention of increasing his allowance or permitting such an ill-fitting marriage."

"But see here, Bittlesham. Did I not write," here I sneaked a peek disguised by a sudden bout of coughs, "'Though Matilda stood impotent behind the cloister's portcullis and bade Reginald au revoir,' er, rather, 'she knew a moment before he did it that he would look over his shoulder at her with resolve, that soon no force of man or nature should keep their,' er, 'their love from reaching its glorious unity.' I mean, did I not write that?"

"Indeed you did, and an intensely moving passage it was. Yet I contend that the matter of my nephew Richard and this Madeline woman bears no relevance."

"Does it not? Dash it, Bittlesham! Dash it! This Madeline is just like this Matilda: locked away from her love while Bingo makes a quick hop over the hill to the Hall to see his sainted uncle's heart flop open like a beached jellyfish."

"I cannot agree, Wooster. Romantic whimsy is not sufficient to sway me."

"Then consider, for a moment, the economic markets," I offered. Lord Bittlesham's eyebrows shot up archly.

Before the car accident, I'd been scanning the notes Bingo'd given me and muttering key phrases aloud when Ron Paul interrupted me to suggest an alternate strategy. It's heady stuff, but he told me that people are essentially rational agents of economics. Not like the dashing sort of international spy agent, but rather like those lawyer types who take up the best table at a club and talk about torts while ordering tortes and then laughing very loudly at their joke while your head feels utterly befouled by the night before. Unfortunately, I didn't remember quite all of what he said because at the time I felt quite a bit rummy about having a specimen sample of what looked like gold sugar, but I did my level best to explain agents and their interests to Bittlesham.

"So then Bingo has a stout supply of gentlemanliness and has a great demand of the love of a well-appointed young thing, and she has a demand of a sturdy shoulder, and adoration spills out her like a teakettle poured by a palsied hand, what? And the two come together for the benefit of both."

"And how would you say this makes any sense at all?"

"By the invisible hand of the, er, market, I'd wager."

"And what is this 'invisible hand,' Mister Wooster?"

"Well, er, I mean," I looked about the room for R. P., but he must have departed through a door. "Heavens, Bittlesham, it's all very rum, but it works in utter simplicity, which is all one need know."

"Then you should have little trouble explaining it."

"Well, er, I mean, dash it, Bittlesham. To put it all in simple terms does not do it justice."

"Feel free to do it injury."

"It's all, that is to say... I mean, it's all rather like leprechauns."

"What?"

"Consider this, Bittlesham: you are a poor Irishman. Daily you supply your toil, what? It comes to nothing. This cannot be! As the carriages of wealthy men near, you rise from your peat ditch in the rain and ask, 'Have you any gold?' The wealthy men throw carrot rinds and rotten spuds at you and make you scatter. After trudging on, you near the end of a rainbow where The Market has laid to rest leprechaun gold. This, then, is your reward for perseverance."

"I am not a leprechaun dispensing gold!" he howled, pounding the table.

"Lead us not into apoplexy, Bittlesham. In large enough doses, it is literally unbecoming. Remain with the narrative as it gallops. Leprechaun gold, as we know from textbooks, is cursed. Its bearer must spend it. He buys a new house and more land, but he also spends freely at the pub and the butcher. But, lo, we ask ourselves, what is this? The invisible hand has bought this man a new house and enough dirt to stick his seed in, which brings him more money! And his ill-spent gold is now capital for the barman to buy a terrace for his pub, and for the butcher to buy a tenderloin the size of an equipment shack, which people rally round to see. And each in turn makes money. This, I believe, is the invisible hand."

"Leprechauns."

"Call them commerce goblins if it puts you at ease. But, yes. They're not real, of course, they're one of those thingummies one uses to stand in for another whatsit."

"A metaphor. Let us suggest then," Bittlesham said, waving a hand dismissively, "that Richard's inheritance is this gold. What then does his union with this Madeline bring?"

"A capital question!" I said. "Ah, there's that word again: capital. In this case, the union brings together the investing class — viz. Bingo — and the class from which miss Madeline descends, i.e. labor, for increase and growth."

"Of what?"

"Babies, I'd imagine. The exchange through which biology realizes new, er, product."

"Any pair can make babies."

"There you would have it in your ear, Bittlesham. I know from experience that a pair of deuces will make nothing, but this drifts from the point most dinghily. Of your nephew, you declare profligacy. Young Bingo does not know his shillings. Of his proposed bride, I can say only that those who haven't got it in the bushelsful are more pensive when they spend it. You've only to let those minds meet to see Bingo's pocket wisely managed by one who knows the danger of an empty one. You could not go far wrong, Bittlesham. Let no man put asunder what commerce and fate have joined."

"I will consider your words, Mr. Wooster," he said, rising to leave. "If you should wish to write or to supplement your considerable knowledge of economics, feel free to avail yourself of my study. At the present time, my secretary is on holiday in the city, and you will have the room to yourself."

____________________

Lord Bittlesham retired early as a rule, allowing Bingo, Ron Paul and I to cheese it over to Lower Rutherfordeby for a few hours. Bingo, naturally, champed at the bit to introduce the woman he'd shackle shortly with a ring, while I was content to meet anyone so long as I could look at them through the bottom end of glasses formerly holding some of the stiffest. Paul, on the other hand, had heard a few audible leavings from one of Bittlesham's servants that the Rutherfordeby Arms included a small hunting arsenal and was eager to give the weapons a keen eye.

The interior of the Arms, like so many ancient village pubs, offered little in the way of comfort for any head higher than a chiffonier. One got the impression that anyone of human stature and inhuman inebriation frequently went about pile-driving their foreheads into the low ceilings, and discreet dents in the plasterwork immediately confirmed that this was a bad room for a chap to be startled in. By closing time, the place must have sounded like two men trying to beat each other to death with burlap sacks filled with coconuts.

Nonetheless, the barkeep clearly chucked the roughest stuff he could find if you asked him for it, which Bingo and I did. We each stood poised to plunge facefirst into a g. flavored with the briefest acquaintance of t., in the hopes that distilled waters ran deep, when a voice fairly crackled, "Richard!" I plunged forth, while Bingo choked directly into his glass, sending fizz erupting as if he were firing a seltzer bottle into a tablespoon. "So early in the evening, and you're already drinking!"

"Madeline!" Bingo frothed. "Here she is, Bertie. My angel! My song." He indicated the source of the "Richard!" exclamation — a steel-jawed brunette in a prim tweed ensemble who, had she not ducked, was tall enough to have been able to wallop her own imposing cranium at least four or five times on her way over toward us.

"Er, hallo!" I slung a hand womanward. "Bingo's burnished your name as well as he could. Started to sound so rummy, I'd have said they'd been feeding him spoonfuls of mercury."

"I'm afraid, sir," Paul offered, after a polite cough, "that a connection between mercury and ill health has never been proved."

"Too right," I said, "and Bingo's never shied away from extra weight on his brain. Tell me, how can you stand the old blighter?"

"If by 'Bingo,' you are referring to Richard, I think he has all the makings of a great man, when he applies himself to it and not to drink," she said, taking Bingo's glass and setting it on the bar. Having emptied mine, I suspected that its contents were lonely and terrified in their new home, and sent Bingo's g. and t. down after them to restore calm. "When he does that, Mr. —?"

"Wooster," I gargled. "Bertie to all."

"When he does that, Mister Wooster, in apprehension how like an angel he is himself."

"I'd wager he wishes he were on Boat Race Night. The wings would be an absolute pippin if they meant flying out of the brig — ah!" I gasped, Bingo's elbow having found my ribs.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mister Wooster. Richard has only ever had the keenest and most serious interests since I've known him. He's even taken to assisting me in my work."

"I, er, well, excuse me. I don't know it, so feel free to bung all the info at me."

"I work with the Women of Mercy."

"Ah, yes, creditable. Someone says, 'Strangle this man to death,' and you whoosh in and say, 'Perhaps flogging will work instead,' and mercy pours over the troubled crowd and prisoner. A man stands in good stead with the Women of Mercy. I've always said you ladies are like God's butlers. Although you seem to be out of mufti."

"Excuse me?"

"For a nun. Out of uniform without your black hat and that cape-ish job they give you."

"Mister W—"

"Although come to think of it, I can't figure out how you're going to marry Bingo, unless you're giving it all up like a bad habit. Can't imagine the Bishop and the Almighty chap will be thrilled, but I suppose they'll see you again in the end, what? It's going to be a trick to convince them, but I say you have two or three stout bracers and look the Bish straight in the mitre and say, 'Of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these: It might have been.' Then explain that Bingo is, as you know, not actually clinically ugly, and they'll rally round."

"Mister Wooster, I am not a nun!"

"Oh, I say! You might have said something."

"I attempted to. The Women of Mercy, Mister Wooster, are a charitable organization that petitions the government on behalf of the lower classes. Richard has assisted me in passing out pamphlets."

"Oh, quite!" chirped Bingo. "Bertie, did you know how many people in London want to sock other people in London in the nose? I'd say at least a dozen people leaned in close and practically breathed this secret all over me."

"Richard was too kind," Madeline said, straightening his tie and strangling a noise out of him like a mallard being crushed in a vise. "We're trying to get the government to regulate all these so-called 'cure-all' homeopathic potions."

"Er, hello," I offered, "this won't put a stop to Crandall's Cranial Liniment, will it? I find nothing else emulsifies the follicles during a brain ache quite like it."

"That and many more," she said, turning earnestly and looking at me as if she intended to get a one-pound subscription fee out of my pocket even if it meant a throttling. A sudden tonsular dryness presented itself, prompting me to make a series of tribal gestures at the bartender in re: an uninterrupted drink schedule for the foreseeable future. "Did you know, Mister Wooster, that thousands of lower-class families are ruined every year by paying exorbitant prices for what often amounts to dyed water, sugar and iron filings?"

"I had no idea," I confessed. "Still, hardly surprising. One must sweeten the filings somehow, and no one minds a dash of color." Madeline emitted an exasperated sigh.

"That is why we absolutely must have the government regulate these tonics and fake cures so people will get legitimate and helpful care."

"Excuse me, madame. Do you know who else wanted to ban homeopathic medicine?" Paul fairly snarled. "Napoleon."

"I — I don't believe that's true."

"Forgive me, then, but do your research. Government control of individual treatment was one of the platforms he used to attempt to create a One-Europe empire."

"While I believe you have no supporting facts, I do not wish to argue this," she said. "We've several other indisputably sound projects. Child labor in coal mining, for example."

"Capital idea!" I said. "Always for it. Better to throw the little blisters into a pit than have them running about the streets pinching candies and throwing clods of earth at your hat."

"We are decidedly against it, Mister Wooster. Young lungs can be permanently damaged by inhaling black dust fourteen hours per day."

"Ah, yes, naturally when you put it that way. Yes, yes, a gloomy portrait indeed, Miss Fanshawe. Too true! Sallow striplings sputtering at the breakfast table, giant adam's apple bobbling up and down, the weasel faces wheezing their juice and hacking great globs of wet toast like sodden artillery fire at their frightened mater."

"Yes, Mister Wooster. I am glad you can see the sort of brighter future we envision."

"Brighter?" scoffed Paul. "Again forgive me, Madame, but perhaps like me you'll have difficulty envisioning anything at night after you've broken the back of free enterprise and the coal industry, and after the power plants that illuminate London shut down for want of anthracite."

"Richard! Is this what you brought me down here to be subject to? This hostility and contempt from someone else's valet?"

"I believe you'll find it a self-evident truth, Madame," Paul said, "that barring a certain portion of three-fifths, all men are created equal, in spite of what government regulation would say."

"This is insupportable! Richard, I would speak with you," she said, turning on a heel and stalking to a secluded portion of pub that looked rather like a cupboard without a door on it. Even from across the room, it was difficult to avoid overhearing the torrent of abuse raining down on Bingo from a great height, a remarkable rhetorical achievement considering the only element missing from his joining sardines in brotherhood was a thick application of salty oil. Bingo attempted a few conciliatory embracing gestures, but limited room and Madeline's incandescence prevented any from hitting home. A sudden hail of words shied him further away, until she double-timed out the front door and left him slouching, arms sagging outstretched, like a willow tree of flesh.

"Er, dashed awkward," I said to Paul. His fingers were white on his glass of ale, and he stared fixedly at a pair of massive guns on the wall that looked like they were meant to explode elephants and ventilate frigates. "Er, hullo, Paul?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I was thinking of Miss Fanshawe."

"Flapping great angry bird, like a maniac goose, what?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, I was miles away," he squinted at the guns, then smiled toothily and met my gaze. "I was thinking of making a market correction."

Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V