Read this extract from The Custody of the Pumpkin (by P.G. Wodehouse), and then answer the question that follows it: Two new arrivals had just joined the throng, and, being of rugged and knobbly physique, had already shoved themselves through to the ringside seats. One was a tall, handsome, smooth-faced gentleman of authoritative appearance, who, if he had not worn rimless glasses, would have looked like a Roman emperor. The other was a shorter, sturdier man with a bristly red beard. ‘McAllister!’ moaned his lordship piteously. ‘McAllister, my dear fellow, do please tell this man who I am.’ After what had passed between himself and his late employer, a lesser man than Angus McAllister might have seen in Lord Emsworth’s predicament merely a judgement. A man of little magnanimity would have felt that here was where he got a bit of his own back. Not so this splendid Glaswegian. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Yon’s Lorrud Emsworruth.’ ‘Who are you?’ inquired the constable searchingly. ‘I used to be head-gardener at the cassel.’ ‘Exactly,’ bleated Lord Emsworth. ‘Precisely. My head-gardener.’ The constable was shaken. Lord Emsworth might not look like an earl, but there was no getting away from the fact that Angus McAllister was supremely head-gardeneresque. A staunch admirer of the aristocracy, the constable perceived that zeal had caused him to make a bit of a bloomer. In this crisis, however, he comported himself with masterly tact. He scowled blackly upon the interested throng. ‘Pass along there, please. Pass along,’ he commanded austerely. ‘Ought to know better than block up a public thoroughfare like this. Pass along!’ He moved off, shepherding the crowd before him. The Roman emperor with the rimless glasses advanced upon Lord Emsworth, extending a large hand. ‘Pleased to meet you at last,’ he said. ‘My name is Donaldson, Lord Emsworth.’ For a moment the name conveyed nothing to his lordship. Then its significance hit him, and he drew himself up with hauteur. ‘You’ll excuse us, Angus,’ said Mr Donaldson. ‘High time you and I had a little chat, Lord Emsworth.’ Lord Emsworth was about to speak, when he caught the other’s eye. It was a strong, keen, level grey eye, with a curious forcefulness about it that made him feel strangely inferior. There is every reason to suppose that Mr Donaldson had subscribed for years to those personality courses advertised in the magazines which guarantee to impart to the pupil who takes ten correspondence lessons the ability to look the boss in the eye and make him wilt. Mr Donaldson looked Lord Emsworth in the eye, and Lord Emsworth wilted. ‘How do you do?’ he said weakly. ‘Now, listen, Lord Emsworth,’ proceeded Mr Donaldson. ‘No sense in having hard feelings between members of a family. I take it you’ve heard by this that your boy and my girl have gone ahead and fixed it up? Personally, I’m delighted. That boy is a fine young fellow.’ Lord Emsworth blinked. ‘You are speaking of my son Frederick?’ he said incredulously.