Stiff Upper Lip Jeeves

Madeline.’
    ‘Who’s Madeline?’
    ‘My daughter. Your arrival interrupted me in a serious talk I was having with her.’
    ‘Something wrong with the girl?’
    ‘Something extremely wrong. She is contemplating making a disastrous marriage.’
    ‘All marriages are disastrous,’ said Plank, who gave one the impression, reading between the lines, that he was a bachelor. ‘They lead to bonny babies, and bonny babies lead to bonny baby competitions. I was telling this gentleman here of an experience I had in Peru and showing him the scar on my leg, the direct result of being ass enough to judge one of these competitions. Would you care to see the scar on my leg?’
    ‘Some other time, perhaps.’
    ‘Any time that suits you. Why is this marriage you say she’s contemplating so disastrous?’
    ‘Because Mr. Wooster is not a suitable husband for her.’
    ‘Who’s Mr. Wooster?’
    ‘The man she wishes to marry. A typical young wastrel of the type so common nowadays.’
    ‘I used to know a fellow called Wooster, but I don’t suppose it can be the same chap, because my Wooster was eaten by a crocodile on the Zambesi the other day, which rather rules him out. All right, Bassett, you pop back to the girl and tell her from me that if she’s going to start marrying every Tom, Dick and Harry she comes across, she ought to have her head examined. If she’d seen as many native chiefs’ wives as I have, she wouldn’t be wanting to make such an ass of herself. Dickens of a life they lead, those women. Nothing to do but grind maize meal and have bonny babies. Right ho, Bassett, don’t let me keep you.’
    There came the sound of a closing door as Pop Bassett sped on his way, and Plank turned his attention to Stinker. He said:
    ‘I didn’t tell that old ass, because I didn’t want him sticking around in here talking his head off, but as a matter of fact I did come about something special. Do you happen to know where I can find a chap called Pinker?’
    ‘My name’s Pinker.’
    ‘Are you sure? I thought Bassett said it was Wooster.’
    ‘No, Wooster’s the one who’s going to marry Sir Watkyn’s daughter.’
    ‘So he is. It all comes back to me now. I wonder if you can be the fellow I want. The Pinker I’m after is a curate.’
    ‘I’m a curate.’
    ‘You are? Yes, by Jove, you’re perfectly right. I see your collar buttons at the back. You’re not H. P. Pinker by any chance?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Prop forward for Oxford and England a few years ago?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, would you be interested in becoming a vicar?’ There was a crashing sound, and I knew that Stinker in his emotion must have upset his customary table. After a while he said in a husky voice that the one thing he wanted was to get his hooks on a vicarage or words to that effect, and Plank said he was glad to hear it.
    ‘My chap at Hockley-cum-Meston is downing tools now that his ninetieth birthday is approaching, and I’ve been scouring the countryside for a spare. Extraordinarily difficult the quest has been, because what I wanted was a vicar who was a good prop forward, and it isn’t often you find a parson who knows one end of a football from the other. I’ve never seen you play, I’m sorry to say, because I’ve been abroad so much, but with your record you must obviously be outstanding. So you can take up your duties as soon as old Bellamy goes into storage. When I get home, I’ll embody the thing in the form of a letter.’
    Stinker said he didn’t know how to thank him, and Plank said that was all right, no need of any thanks.
    ‘I’m the one who ought to be grateful. We’re all right at half-back and three-quarters, but we lost to Upper Bleaching last year simply because our prop forward proved a broken reed. This year we’ll show ‘em. Amazing bit of luck finding you, and I could never have done it if it hadn’t been for a friend of mine, a Chief Inspector Witherspoon of Scotland Yard. He phoned me just now and told me you were to be found at Totleigh-in-the-Wold. He said if I called at Totleigh Towers, they would give me your address. Extraordinary how these Scotland Yard fellows nose things out. The result of years of practise, I suppose. What was that noise?’ Stinker said he had heard nothing.
    ‘Sort of gasping noise. Seemed to come from behind that sofa. Take a look.’
    I was aware for a moment of Stinker’s face peering down at me; then he turned away.
    ‘There’s nothing behind the sofa,’ he