John viewed the trembling barman. He wasn’t enjoying doing this to Neville. Well, actually he was, because Neville had bopped both he and Jim upon their heads. “What do you say?” John asked, sticking his hand out for a shake. “Let bygones be bygones and all prosper from the glories that lie ahead for the team and the borough?”

Neville sighed. It was a deep and tragic sigh, but if all the truth was to be told, Neville was very pleased to have John and Jim once more in his bar.

“Bygones be bygones,” said Neville wearily and with that he shook Omally’s hand.

“And Jim’s, too,” said John. And Neville shook Pooley’s hand also.

“Splendid,” said John, a-rubbing of his palms together. “Then three pints of Large, please Neville.”

“All right,” said Neville and he set to pulling the pints. “But there is only one thing that I want to know.”

“Which is?” asked John with caution.

“Why is Jim dressed as Bertie Wooster?”

And so the celebrations proper began, much to the pleasure of Jim Pooley, who found his hand being endlessly shaken, his back being endlessly patted, pint after pint being placed before him and kisses being planted on his cheeks by numerous female football fans. John, who was not averse to bathing in a bit of reflected glory, engaged the kiss-planters in conversation and added several numbers to his telephone book.

At a little after nine, Norman Hartnel entered The Flying Swan. Norman was carrying two duffel bags and Norman had a big grin on.

“Evening, John, Jim, Neville,” said Norman when he had fought his way to the counter.

Heads nodded and glasses were raised. “You look very full of yourself, Norman,” said John. “Come to toast the team’s success and buy the men who brought it to fruition a pint or two?”

“Come to do a bit of celebrating myself,” said Norman, “on my own account, for I shall shortly be rich beyond the dreams of Avril.”

“It’s avarice,” said John.

“Then you haven’t met my cousin Avril,” said Norman. “But enough of that. I have, but yesterday, taken out five original patents. You had best shake my hand now, because it will be far too busy receiving awards in the future to be available for shaking then.”

“I am intrigued,” said John.

“Me, too,” said Jim.

“And what happened to you last night?” Norman asked Jim. “You missed all the mayhem and magic at The Stripes Bar.”

“I did?” said Jim, casting a suspicious glance towards Omally.

“Forget all that,” said John. “Tell us what you’ve been up to, Norman.”

“I heard your lock-up was blown up by Al Qaeda,” said Neville, sticking two olives into a pale ale and Pernod.

“Al who?” Jim asked. “What team does he play for?”

“We’re not on one of those right now,” said John. “Tell us what’s what, Norman.”

“About the lock-up?” asked the shopkeeper. “It doesn’t matter, it was insured.”

“About whatever you’ve invented that is going to bring you untold wealth,” said John.

“Ah, that.” Norman unshouldered his duffel bags and placed them upon the bar counter. “Wireless transmission of electricity,” he said. “Which is to say, electricity without cables beamed from one place to another upon a carrier wave. It will literally revolutionise everything.”

Neville the part-time barman scratched at his head with a cocktail stick and nearly put his good eye out. Wireless transmission of electricity? That rang a bell somewhere. Someone had mentioned something about that to him recently. Neville tried to recall just who it had been.

“Does this involve microwaves?” Jim asked fearfully. “Like in portable telephones?”

“No,” said Norman. “It’s all very simple. Would you care for me to demonstrate?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said John, as yet another young woman came forward to offer Jim a kiss.

“I’ll be getting all that soon,” said Norman, unpacking his duffel bags. “A king’s chaff is worth other men’s corn. And I’m thinking of getting one of those special wheelchairs like Stephen Hawking has, with the voice box and everything.”

“Why?” John asked, as he watched Norman setting up strange contraptions upon the bar counter.

“Just trying to think of things to spend my money on.” The strange contraptions that Norman was now setting up were mostly constructed from Meccano. They resembled two little towers surmounted by silver Christmas-tree decoration balls. One of the little towers had a hand-crank attached to it and what looked like a tiny generator. The other was simply attached to a light bulb on a stand.

“Put that one at the other end of the bar,” Norman told Omally.

“Is this safe?” Neville asked. “There won’t be any explosions or loss of life or anything? I can’t be having with that in my bar.”

“It’s perfectly safe.” Norman took hold of the little tower with the hand-crank. “I will turn this handle and charge up this tower, and the electricity will be transmitted to the other tower and light up the light bulb.”

“No offence, Norman,” said John, “but that is most unlikely.”

“Nevertheless it will occur, as surely as a trained dog needs no whistling.”

The crowd in The Flying Swan, which had been conversing and hubbubbing and singing, too, and chanting Brent-Ford, Brent-Ford from time to time also, had been doing less of the conversing, hubbubbing and so on and so forthing also with the setting up of Norman’s little towers.

The crowd was growing interested. Heads were turning, elbows nudged elbows. A certain hush was descending upon the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

“It seems you have an audience,” said John.

“Wonderful,” said Norman and he turned to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “what you are about to witness is something that you will never have seen before, something that will change the very face of civilisation: the wireless transmission of electricity. I will crank up this tower here. The crank powers this little generator, which in turn charges up the capacitor. When it’s completely charged up, I throw this switch.” Norman turned and pointed and turned back once more. “And the electricity will be transmitted through the air to that tower at the other end of the bar and will light up the light bulb.”

“For what it’s worth,” said a casual observer. “I—”

“Are we all ready?” Norman asked.

Heads nodded. The word in the bar was yes.

“Then I shall crank.” And Norman cranked. He cranked and he cranked and then he cranked some more. And then he said, “That should be enough. Would you like to count me down? It makes it so much more exciting.”

Shoulders shrugged and then the countdown began. Necks craned to see what would happen. Folk at the back leaned upon shoulders and stood upon tippy-toe.

There was a general air of expectation.

“Three … two … one …”

And Norman threw the switch.

And then there was ooohing and aaahing and then there was silence.

For nothing whatever happened.

“Cop-out,” called someone.

“Load of old toot,” called someone else.

“No, hold on, hold on,” Norman called back. “I’ll just make an adjustment or two. It must work. I obviously haven’t charged up the capacitor enough. It needs a lot of energy – after all, the electricity does have to travel through the air.”

Norman took to cranking some more. He cranked and he cranked and he cranked. He cranked as one possessed. Sweat appeared on the shopkeeper’s brow and his face became crimson. His breath came in short pants. His short pants came in a gingham design.

“There,” gasped Norman, when he could crank no more. “One more time, if you will. Three …”

The crowd, enlivened by drink and celebratory bonhomie, joined Norman in his second countdown.

“Three … two … one …”

And Norman flicked the switch.