Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves

order to be in a position to marry Miss Byng, Mr. Pinker requires a vicarage, and in order to compete successfully with rival villages in the football arena Major Plank is in need of a vicar with Mr. Pinker’s wide experience as a prop forward. Their interests appeared to me to be identical.’
    ‘Well, it worked all right. Stinker has clicked.’
    ‘He is to succeed Mr. Bellamy as incumbent at Hockley-cum-Meston?’
    ‘As soon as Bellamy calls it a day.’
    ‘I am very happy to hear it, sir.’
    I didn’t reply for a while, being obliged to attend to a sudden touch of cramp.
    This ironed out, I said, still icy:
    ‘You may be happy, but I haven’t been for the last quarter of an hour or so, nestling behind the sofa and expecting Plank at any moment to unmask me. It didn’t occur to you to envisage what would happen if he met me?’
    ‘I was sure that your keen intelligence would enable you to find a means of avoiding him, sir, as indeed it did. You concealed yourself behind the sofa?’
    ‘On all fours.’
    ‘A very shrewd manoeuvre on your part, if I may say so, sir. It showed a resource and swiftness of thought which it would be difficult to overpraise.’
    My iciness melted. It is not too much to say that I was mollified. It’s not often that I’m given the old oil in this fashion, most of my circle, notably my Aunt Agatha, being more prone to the slam than the rave. And it was only after I had been savouring that ‘keen intelligence’ gag, if savouring is the word I want, for some moments that I suddenly remembered that marriage with Madeline Bassett loomed ahead, and I gave a start so visible that he asked me if I was feeling unwell. I shook the loaf.
    ‘Physically, no, Jeeves. Spiritually, yes.’
    ‘I do not quite understand you, sir.’
    ‘Well, here is the news, and this is Bertram Wooster reading it. I’m going to be married.’
    ‘Indeed, sir?’
    ‘Yes, Jeeves, married. The banns are as good as up.’
    ‘Would it be taking a liberty if I were to ask -‘
    ‘Who to? You don’t need to ask. Gussie Fink-Nottle has eloped with Emerald Stoker, thus creating a … what is it?’
    ‘Would vacuum be the word you are seeking, sir?’
    ‘That’s right. A vacuum which I shall have to fill. Unless you can think of some way of getting me out of it.’
    ‘I will devote considerable thought to the matter, sir.’
    ‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ I said, and would have spoken further, but at this moment I saw the door opening and speechlessness supervened. But it wasn’t, as I had feared, Plank, it was only Stiffy.
    ‘Hullo, you two,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Harold.’
    I could see at a g. that Jeeves had been right in describing her demeanour as despondent. The brow was clouded and the general appearance that of an overwrought soul. I was glad to be in a position to inject a little sunshine into her life. Pigeon-holing my own troubles for future reference, I said:
    ‘He’s looking for you. He has a strange story to relate. You know about Plank?’
    ‘What about him?’
    Til tell you what about him. Plank to you hitherto has been merely a shadowy figure who hangs out at Hockley-cum-Meston and sells black amber statuettes to people, but he has another side to him.’
    She betrayed a certain impatience.
    ‘If you think I’m interested in Plank -‘
    ‘Aren’t you?’
    ‘No, I’m not.’
    ‘You will be. He has, as I was saying, another side to him. He is a landed proprietor with vicarages in his gift, and to cut a long story down to a short-short, as one always likes to do when possible, he has just given one to Stinker.’
    I had been right in supposing that the information would have a marked effect on her dark mood. I have never actually seen a corpse spring from its bier and start being the life and soul of the party, but I should imagine that its deportment would closely resemble that of this young Byng as the impact of my words came home to her. A sudden light shot into her eyes, which, as Plank had correctly said, were large and blue, and an ecstatic ‘Well, Lord love a duck!’ escaped her. Then doubts seemed to creep in, for the eyes clouded over again.
    ‘Is this true?’
    ‘Absolutely official.’
    ‘You aren’t pulling my leg?’
    I drew myself up rather haughtily.
    ‘I wouldn’t dream of pulling your leg. Do you think Bertram Wooster is the sort of chap who thinks it funny to raise people’s hopes, only to … what, Jeeves?’
    ‘Dash them to the ground,