Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves

the table where the drinks were. His manner
    was feverish. Having passed a liberal snootful down the hatch, he was able to resume. ‘1 have just seen Madeline.’
    ‘Oh, yes?’ I said courteously. ‘How is she?’
    ‘Off her head, in my opinion. She says she is going to marry you.’
    Well, I had more or less steeled myself to something along these lines, so except for quivering like a stricken blancmange and letting my lower jaw fall perhaps six inches I betrayed no sign of discomposure, in which respect I differed radically from Spode, who reeled for the second time and uttered a cry like that of a cinnamon bear that has stubbed its toe on a passing rock.
    ‘You’re joking!’
    Pop Bassett shook his head regretfully. His face was haggard.
    ‘I wish I were, Roderick. I am not surprised that you are upset. I feel the same myself. I am distraught. I can see no light on the horizon. When she told me, it was as if I had been struck by a thunderbolt.’
    Spode was staring at me, aghast. Even now, it seemed, he was unable to take in the full horror of the situation. There was incredulity in his one good eye.
    ‘But she can’t marry thatV
    ‘She seems resolved to.’
    ‘But he’s worse than that fishfaced blighter.’
    ‘I agree with you. Far worse. No comparison.’
    Til go and talk to her,’ said Spode, and left us before I could express my resentment at being called that.
    It was perhaps fortunate that only half a minute later Stiffy and Stinker entered, for if I had been left alone with Pop Bassett, I would have been hard put to it to hit on a topic of conversation calculated to interest, elevate and amuse.

    19
    Stinker’s nose, as was only to be expected, had swollen a good deal since last heard from, but he seemed in excellent spirits, and Stiffy couldn’t have been merrier and brighter. Both were obviously thinking in terms of the happy ending, and my heart bled freely for the unfortunate young slobs. I had observed Pop Bassett closely while Spode was telling him about Stinker’s left hook, and what I had read on his countenance had not been encouraging.
    These patrons of livings with vicarages to bestow always hold rather rigid views as regards the qualifications they demand from the curates they are thinking of promoting to fields of higher activity, and left hooks, however adroit, are not among them. If Pop Bassett had been a fight promoter on the look-out for talent and Stinker a promising novice anxious to be put on his next programme for a six-round preliminary bout, he would no doubt have gazed on him with a kindly eye. As it was, the eye he was now directing at him was as cold and bleak as if an old crony had been standing before him in the dock, charged with having moved pigs without a permit or failed to abate a smoky chimney. I could see trouble looming, and I wouldn’t have risked a bet on the happy e. even at the most liberal odds.
    The stickiness of the atmosphere, so patent to my keener sense, had not communicated itself to Stiffy. No voice was whispering in her ear that she was about to be let down with a thud which would jar her to the back teeth. She was all smiles and viv-whatever-the-word-is, plainly convinced that the signing on the dotted line was now a mere formality.
    ‘Here we are, Uncle Watkyn,’ she said, beaming freely.
    ‘So I see.’
    ‘I’ve brought Harold.’
    ‘So I perceive.’
    ‘We’ve talked it over, and we think we ought to have the thing embodied in the form of a letter.’
    Pop Bassett’s eye grew colder and bleaker, and the feeling I had that we were all back in Bosher Street police court deepened. Nothing, it seemed to me, was needed to complete the illusion except a magistrate’s clerk with a cold in the head, a fug you could cut with a knife and a few young barristers hanging about hoping for dock briefs.
    ‘I fear I do not understand you,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, come, Uncle Watkyn, you know you’re brighter than that. I’m talking about Harold’s vicarage.’
    ‘I was not aware that Mr. Pinker had a vicarage.’
    ‘The one you’re going to give him, I mean.’
    ‘Oh?’ said Pop Bassett, and I have seldom heard an ‘Oh?’ that had a nastier sound. ‘I have just seen Roderick,’ he added, getting down to the res.
    At the mention of Spode’s name Stiffy giggled, and I could have told her it was a mistake. There is a time for girlish frivolity, and a time when it is misplaced. It had not escaped my notice that Pop Bassett had begun to