Wild horses—which have such an undeserved reputation for wanting to drag one off to unpleasant places—could not have coerced a sane Bertram Wooster to return again to Totleigh Towers, seat of the Bertram-hating Sir Watkyn Basset. Particularly not with that petite young ass, Stiffy Byng, expecting him to act a part in one of her infernal schemes. Yet there was the matter of Gussie Fink-Nottle, whose ardor for the soppy Madeline Basset had been observed to be definitely waning. The problem was that, if Gussie should escape the ties that bind, Madeline was more than likely to loose the fountains of her pity and settle on Bertie—whom she assumed erroneously to be pining for her—in the manner of one of those sea-maidens, the What-you-may-call-ems, that fasten onto drowning sailors and drag them to their doom. Yes, it was imperative that the course of true love between M. Basset and G. Fink-Nottle be put smooth again, even if it meant hurling the Wooster honour once more into, ah, whatever it is one hurls oneself into. . .starts with a b.