It was shortly after that, if you remember, that he made a big hit as the juvenile lead in that piece at the Apollo and started on his sensational career as a _matinee_ idol. Inside the church the organ had swelled into the familiar music of the Wedding March. A verger came out and opened the doors. The five cooks ceased their reminiscences of other and smarter weddings at which they had participated. The camera-men unshipped their cameras. The costermonger moved his barrow of vegetables a pace forward. A dishevelled and unshaven man at my side uttered a disapproving growl. “Idle rich!” said the dishevelled man. Out of the church came a beauteous being, leading attached to his arm another being, somewhat less beauteous. There was no denying the spectacular effect of Teddy Weeks. He was handsomer than ever. His sleek hair, gorgeously waved, shone in the sun, his eyes were large and bright; his lissome frame, garbed in faultless morning-coat and trousers, was that of an Apollo. But his bride gave the impression that Teddy had married money. They paused in the doorway, and the camera-men became active and fussy. “Have you got a shilling, laddie?” said Ukridge in a low, level voice. “Why do you want a shilling?” “Old horse,” said Ukridge, tensely, “it is of the utmost vital importance that I have a shilling here and now.” I passed it over. Ukridge turned to the dishevelled man, and I perceived that he held in his hand a large rich tomato of juicy and over-ripe appearance. “Would you like to earn a bob?” Ukridge said. “Would I!” replied the dishevelled man. Ukridge sank his voice to a hoarse whisper. The camera-men had finished their preparations. Teddy Weeks, his head thrown back in that gallant way which has endeared him to so many female hearts, was exhibiting his celebrated teeth. The cooks, in undertones, were making adverse comments on the appearance of the bride. “Now, please,” said one of the camera-men. Over the heads of the crowd, well and truly aimed, whizzed a large juicy tomato. It burst like a shell full between Teddy Weeks’s expressive eyes, obliterating them in scarlet ruin. It spattered Teddy Weeks’s collar, it dripped on Teddy Weeks’s morning-coat. And the dishevelled man turned abruptly and raced off down the street. Ukridge grasped my arm. There was a look of deep content in his eyes. “Shift-ho?” said Ukridge. Arm-in-arm, we strolled off in the pleasant June sunshine. CHAPTER III THE DÉBUT OF BATTLING BILLSON