Evening Star Newspaper, September 27, 1936, Page 75

_JSeptember 27, 1936 to uncover Lord Bromborough's buried fortune. A rollicking yarn for men with facial foliage and men with great open spaces by P. G. WODEHOUSE HE days of great sweeping moustaches are not entirely gone, according to Mr. Mulliner. These curious growths are rarer than they used to be, but in the remoter rural districts you will still find them flourishing. What causes them to survive, he says, is partly the good, clean spirit of ama- teur sport and partly boredom — life has not much to offer in the way of excitement to men who are buried in the country, so for want of anything better to do, they grow moustaches at one another. And he should know, Mulliner says; his own nephew’s present affluence and happiness are due to one of these rural contests. Lord Bromborough's daughter Muriel and Brancepeth Mulliner had made one another’s acquaintance some time before this story opens. The girl, unlike her father, who never left his ancestral acres in the country, came often to London, and on one of these visits my nephew was introduced to her. g With Brancepeth it seems to have been a case of love at first sight, and it was not long before Muriel admitted to returning his pas- sion. She had been favorably attracted to him from the moment when she found that their dance steps fitted, and when some little later he offered to paint her portrait for nothing, there was a look in her eyes which it was im- THIS WEEK . —HIDDEN </7zasures_ It took a smart young man possible to mistake. As early as the middle of the first sitting he folded her in his arms, and she nestled against his waistcoat with a low, cooing gurgle. Both knew that in the other they had found a soul-mate. Such, then, was the relationship of the young couple when one summer morning Brancepeth’s telephone rang and, removing the receiver, he heard the voice of the girl he loved. “Hey, cocky,” she was saying. ‘“What ho, reptile,” responded Brancepeth. “Where are you speaking from?"” “Rumpling. Listen, I've a job for you.” “What sort of a job?”’ “A commission. Father wants his portrait painted.” “Oh, yes?” “Yes. His sinister design is to present it to the local men'’s club. I don’t know what he’s got against them. A nasty jar it’ll be for the poor fellows when they learn of it.” “Why, is the old dad a bit of a gargoyle?” “You never spoke a truer word. All mous- tache and eyebrows. The former has to be seen to be believed. Are you on? I've told Father you're the coming man.” *“So I am. I'm coming this afternoon.” He was as good as his word. He caught the 3.15 train from Liverpool Street and at 7.20 alighted at the little station of Lower Rump- ling, arriving at the Hall just in time to dress for dinner. Always a rapid dresser, tonight Brancepeth excelled himself, for he yearned to see Muriel. Racing down to the drawing room, tying his tie as he went, he found that his impetuosity had brought him there too early. The only occupant of the room was a portly man whom, from the evidence submitted, he took to be his host. Except for two outlying ears and the tip of a nose, the fellow was entirely mous- tache, and until he set eyes upon it, Brance- peth tells me, he had never appreciated the full significance of those opening words of Longfellow’s “Evangeline” — “This is the forest primeval.” He introduced himself courteously. “How do you do, Lord Bromborough. My name is Mulliner.” The other regarded him over the zareba — Magoazine Section 3 Illustrations by C. C. Beall BRANCEPETH FOUND LORD BROMBOROUGH'S FACE A SEVERE TEST FOR ANY PAINTER with displeasure, it seemed to Brancepeth. “What do you mean —Lord Brom- borough?”’ he snapped curtly. Brancepeth said he had meant Lord Brom- “I'm not Lord Bromborough,” said the man. Brancepeth was taken aback. “Oh, aren’t you?” he said. “I'm sorry.” “I’'m glad,” said the man. “Whatever gave you the silly idea that I was old Brom- borough?”’ “I was told that he had a very fine mous- tache.” ‘“Who told you that?"’ “His daughter.” The other snorted. ““You can’t go by what a man’s daughter says. She’s prejudiced. Blinded by filial love, and all that sort of thing. If I wanted an opinion on a moustache, I’d go to somebody who knew about mous- taches. Bromborough’s, a very fine moustache, indeed! Pshaw! Bromborough kas a moustache