"Something must be up, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

I gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl. It seemed to hurt Jeeves a
good deal, so I chucked it.

"I see by the paper, sir, that Mr. Bickersteth's uncle is arriving on
the _Carmantic_."

"Yes?"

"His Grace the Duke of Chiswick, sir."

This was news to me, that Bicky's uncle was a duke. Rum, how little one
knows about one's pals! I had met Bicky for the first time at a species
of beano or jamboree down in Washington Square, not long after my
arrival in New York. I suppose I was a bit homesick at the time, and I
rather took to Bicky when I found that he was an Englishman and had, in
fact, been up at Oxford with me. Besides, he was a frightful chump, so
we naturally drifted together; and while we were taking a quiet snort
in a corner that wasn't all cluttered up with artists and sculptors and
what-not, he furthermore endeared himself to me by a most extraordinarily
gifted imitation of a bull-terrier chasing a cat up a tree. But, though
we had subsequently become extremely pally, all I really knew about him
was that he was generally hard up, and had an uncle who relieved the
strain a bit from time to time by sending him monthly remittances.

"If the Duke of Chiswick is his uncle," I said, "why hasn't he a title?
Why isn't he Lord What-Not?"