I was sitting up in bed, sucking down a restoring cup of tea after the revels of the night before when Jeeves trickled in.

“What shall I lay out this morning, Sir?”

“Something durable and hard-wearing. I shall be lunching at The Drones with Bummy Hepplethwaite.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“And after you’ve done that, I should evacuate all the breakables from the flat to a place of safety. Old Bummy’s coming round here for a stiff bracer before the main event, what?”

“Certainly, Sir. And while I am about my duties, to whom shall I return the Fair Isle jersey I discovered in your wardrobe?”

“What?”

“There appears to be a Fair Isle jersey in your wardrobe, Sir. Since the garment could not possibly belong to a gentleman such as yourself, I should like to know where to return it.”

If Jeeves has a fault it is this: He is altogether too high-handed in matters of my dress. Over the years I have had to admit that his judgment in suits and shirts is sound, but dash it, the fellow had over-reached himself this morning.

“No need, Jeeves. The article in question is mine. They are all the rage and this one will be accompanying us on weekends to the country for the foreseeable.”

The temperature in the room dropped a fair bit, but Jeeves managed a, “Very good, Sir.” and victory was mine!

Alas! When Bummy shuffled round to the old Wooster homestead, he put quite a damper on my spirits. Usually, Bummy can be relied on to brighten a chap’s day, fully exercise his liver and leave him apologising to the neighbours for weeks. Today he looked like a chap who had turned up to his best friend’s funeral only to find that he’s got the time wrong, the show’s over and all the sausage rolls have been eaten. Stricken, that’s the word.

“Bummy, old chap, whatever is the matter?”

“It’s Lavatoria, Bertie. She broke off the engagement!”

“No! Whatever for?” Lavatoria Brown was a spirited girl capable of causing every bit as much mayhem as Bummy. They were perfect for each other.

“Partly because I was sick in her aunt’s umbrella stand and partly because some absolute blister has been convincing her that I’m not good enough for her and she should marry him instead since he’s a brainbox who does something with numbers at Cambridge!”

“She doesn’t want to listen to that rot!” I exclaimed. “You and Lavatoria are like one person whose brain has been shared out between two bodies. Why, do you remember the time that she was sick in Aunt Agatha’s umbrella stand?”

“I remember that you rather sportingly took the blame, Bertie.” said Bummy sadly.

“You’re right! By Jove, I’ve a mind to write to Lavatoria and remind her! How dare she break it off with you? Jeeves, bring paper!”

“I fear that ladies do not set much store by such debts of honour, Sir.” warned Jeeves as he supplied the foolscap.

I knew that he was right. I had fallen nobly on my sword to protect the reputations of various females and been left squarely in the lurch in return. We couldn’t rely on Lavatoria to understand that she owed me a favour and ought to marry Bummy by way of repayment.

“Then what’s to be done, Jeeves?” I sighed.

Bummy turned to Jeeves with a hopeful expression, his brilliance being known to all. Jeeves’s brilliance, obviously, I mean, Bummy’s a first-rate chap but rather a chump.

“The situation is indeed a very difficult one, Sirs.”

“But you’ve thought of a top-hole wheeze to set everything to rights?”

“No, Sir.”

Jeeves can always think of a solution. Surely the small matter of Lavatoria throwing Bummy over for some brainy cove shouldn’t defeat him? I realised that he still had the pip over that jersey. Well, I would show him. What we Woosters lack in intellect, we more than make up for in loyalty. I would fix up Bummy’s engagement myself.

“Bummy, old thing,” I said, “You will just have to become even brainier than your rival.”

Bummy goggled at me. “But Bertie, I’m an absolute duffer!”

“Chin up, Bummy! Faint heart ne’er won fair maid and all that. All you need to do is look clever and that’s not at all the same thing as actually being clever, is it, Jeeves?”

“Indeed not, Sir.”

“So, who’s this scoundrel who’s trying to woo Lavatoria with his mighty mental powers and what’s his game?”

“Some foreign-sounding johnny. Paul something. Somewhere at Cambridge. Has his own equation, apparently. I say, how d’you think he stops other people using it?”

Jeeves gave a discrete cough. “I fear, Sir, that the gentleman in question must be Mr Paul Dirac.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“I am given to understand that he is quite the coming man in the field of mathematical physics, Sir.”

There was a distinctly scaly sort of silence and Bummy’s bottom lip began to tremble.

“Bring out the Brandy and Soda, Jeeves.” I commanded grimly, “We are going to need a couple of stiff drinks to tackle this.”

Some Brandies later I had an idea.

“I say, Bummy! I don’t know much about mathematical physics but I do know about the movies. At the end of every film, in the credits there’s a cove called the Producer. Bear with me now, Bummy, this is important. This Producer johnny, he can’t act, can’t direct, can’t work a camera or even paint the scenery but he gets his name on the movie. Why? Because he puts up the money.”

Bummy’s brow corrugated with effort. “Are you saying I could buy an equation, Bertie?”

“I’m saying that you could take the credit when another chap finds one, if he does it with your money.”

“Gosh… Are you sure they make science the same way they make movies?”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Science must need money. All those tubes and wires and lightening-ball-thingies aren’t going to grow on trees are they? I honestly think we’ve cracked it, Bummy. You and I are going to have a jolly little lunch at the Drones then first thing this afternoon, we’ll motor down to the old alma mater, write them a fat cheque and set you up as a Science Producer!”

First thing that afternoon I rather needed a lie down after lunching with Bummy but the next day we drove down to Oxon. As it transpired, Science works exactly as I had suspected only rather slower. Writing the cheque went speedily enough and allowed Bummy to jump the queue for honorary doctorates so that in just nine short months he would be Doctor Benjamin “Bummy” Hepplethwaite. The science equivalent of a cinema release turns out to be a “paper” and Bummy could expect his name on one as early as one to three year’s time. We returned to London sadder, wiser and considerably lighter of pocket.

“You seem pensive, Sir,” said Jeeves as he bought me my evening snifter.

“Well, get used to it.” I advised, “I shall have to remain so until I can tell whether the plan to reunite Bummy and Lavatoria has worked in one-to-three year’s time.” I laid out the state of affairs before him.

“Does Miss Brown happen to read the Physical Review, Sir?”

“I should think not! Sounds like hot stuff for a girl, what?”

“It is a scientific publication, Sir. Unless Miss Brown is a subscriber, it is unlikely she would see Mr Hepplethwaite’s name on a research paper.”

“Dash it all, Jeeves, being a science producer is not exactly a quick path to fame and riches, is it?”

“If I might venture an opinion, Sir?”

“Venture away, Jeeves!”

“Mr Hepplethwaite requires a way to showcase his scientific credentials more publicly. Perhaps if he were to give a series of lectures and invite Miss Brown and her new suitor to attend?”

“Jeeves, you’re a genius!” I declared. “If you don’t have your own equation, it can only be modesty on your part. How can we arrange such a thing?”

“I believe, Sir, that if we were to tell the Royal Institution about the money Mr Hepplethwaite donated to Oxford University, they might think that a series of lectures hosted by Mr Hepplethwaite and attended by the better class of person might encourage other wealthy ladies and gentlemen to show similar generosity.”

“I believe you’re right. Why don’t you go ahead and make the arrangements?”

“Very good, Sir.”

Some days later I was sitting up in bed, drinking tea and musing on the possibility of toast when Bummy burst in upon me.

“Bertie!” He cried, waving an envelope, “Look what your fatheaded scheme has done! I’ve been invited to give a public science lecture. What am I going to do?” I called for Jeeves.

“Now see here, Bummy,” I said, “This is all part of the plan. You can’t just be a brain secretly, Lavatoria will never realise. You have to be seen to be brainy. Tell him, Jeeves.”

“Mr Wooster is correct, Sir. Your name on a research paper will be very impressive but Miss Brown may never know of your achievement. A public lecture with Miss Brown in the audience is what is needed.”

“But I don’t really know any science. Lavatoria will think I’m more of a bird-brain than ever!”

“Most public lectures, Sir, contain very little actual science, if any. Spectacular demonstrations and deft patter are considered more important for a lay audience.”

Bummy was considerably braced at this, being quite the lad for humorous anecdotes at the Drones club, he felt on sounder footing.

“But what demonstrations can I do?”

We settled on lithium in water, burning magnesium, the Van De Graf generator and for the grand finale, soaking a bread roll in liquid oxygen and setting it on fire. All that remained was for Bummy to write his patter and then rewrite it after I had crossed out the parts not fit for mixed company and we were set.

On the night of Bummy’s lecture I beetled down to the RI in a white tie and dinner jacket for the big event. Do you know the Royal Institution? It’s a sort of Drone’s Club for the terminally clever. I spotted Lavatoria in the bar. She was having her ear bent by the chap beside her and did not look happy about it. She caught my eye and trotted over.

“I say, Paul,” she chirped, “This is an old pal of mine, Bertie Wooster. He’s an absolutely jelly-brain but tremendous fun!”

“Certainly am.” I confirmed. Then I thought I would have a bash at catching the conscience of the king, as it were: “Mind you, Lavatoria has been known to have a great deal of fun herself, especially where my aunt’s umbrella stand is concerned.”

The shameless female affected total ignorance of the subject. “As I say,” she said, “A great friend and wonderfully foolish.”

I excused myself and went to find Bummy who was hanging nervously round the bar. I bought him a large Scotch and told him to break a leg, then I sauntered into the auditorium and settled down to enjoy the show.

I was a mite worried when Bummy tottered in still holding a large glass of inspiration and more worried when he went on to spill it across the bench and spend the next few minutes dabbing at it with paper towels. After that old Bummy seemed to find his feet. He poured forth several minutes of excellent material about how if a chap expects Science to provide him with a bread roll accelerator to impress the lads at the club, he must be willing to put some dough into research.

From here things went distinctly downhill. Putting magnesium in a flame produced no flash. Dropping lithium into water went with about as much fizz as any party to which my Aunt Agatha has been invited. Knowing Bummy as I do, I rather suspected he might have burned the lithium and dropped the magnesium in the water. The crowd were confused and getting restless, but Lavatoria seemed to be looking happier. In fact, the more Bummy panicked and blethered about the lithium perhaps being tired after a late night, the more she seemed to smile upon him.

At this point, someone from the RI sidled out of the wings and advised Bummy to move on the next demonstration. It was the Van der Graf. Even boneheads like Bummy and I would be hard put to confuse a Van der Graf generator for anything else, so this part of the show went pretty well. Bummy made the traditional “Hair raising” gag to the delight of everyone but Lavatoria. Then Bummy made his fatal error. He added himself to the chain of people attached to the silvery dome and his floppy hair stood out from his head like a halo. Bummy stretched out an arm in an expansive gesture meant to communicate The Majesty of Science or somesuch and as his hand passed over the bench a spark jumped from his finger to the pile of paper towels soaked in Scotch, setting them alight. He tried to pat the fire out with more towels but these caught fire too. Throughout all of this, Lavatoria was clapping with delight and yelling, ‘Bravo Bummy!’ and similar.

Unfortunately, Bummy was in no state to realise how his stock was rising. He was in a panic and he grabbed at the flask of liquid oxygen at the end of the bench.

At this Lavatoria’s companion stood up out of his chair and shouted, “No!” earning censorious glances from the assembled high society.

The sheet of flame was impressive but short lived. Royal Institution bods were on hand with buckets of sand. I suppose you don’t survive long in science unless you learn to keep a bucket of sand handy to tip over split atoms and so forth.

The audience was evacuated and as I tripped down the steps to the RI, I saw Lavatoria with her arms around a rather charred Bummy.

“Oh Bummy, you marvelous chump,” she was saying, “Take me to supper at the Pink Pussycat and don’t say anything about harmonic motion when the girl on the trapeze comes out!”

“Should be easy enough,” said old Bummy gamely.

“I say, Bertie!” called Lavatoria, “Could you run Paul home for me? He’s an absolute duffer at cabs and what-not. The pair of you can even enjoy measuring the volume of his umbrella stand if you like!” and off she buzzed with Bummy, leaving yours truly to endure an awkward drive home with the equation-owner.

I related all of the above to Jeeves the next morning while tucking into eggs and bacon.

“You know, it’s a funny thing, Jeeves, but I rather think Lavatoria was fed up with brainy coves and science by the time she went to that lecture.”

“I fear, Sir, that the actions of Mr Hepplethwaite’s rival may have had that effect.”

“Why do you fear that, Jeeves?”

“Well, Sir, a few weeks ago I happened to spend my day off admiring the architecture of some Cambridge colleges and I chanced to meet with that young man. We fell into conversation and I was able to persuade him that nothing would endear him more to Miss Brown than if he were to tutor her in physics.”

“Good Lord!”

“I remembered, Sir, how you yourself felt about being educated by Miss Crayton and Miss Glossop. I thought Miss Brown might feel rather the same way.”

“So when Lavatoria saw Bummy being a chump, she remembered how he never tried to lecture her on anything?”

“Something like that, Sir.”

“You’ve excelled yourself this time, Jeeves. You know what? I’ve been thinking about that jersey. You’re right. It is perhaps not quite the thing for a young man about town. There must be plenty of chaps roaming over the gorse and heather who could put it to good use.”

“The article in question is insulating a crofter as we speak, Sir.”

“Oh! Oh, jolly good, then. Carry on, Jeeves.”

“Very good, Sir.”