Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves!: Part I of a New Novelette

It is no secret in the circles in which he moves that Bertram Wooster, though as fizzy as one could wish when night has fallen and the revels get under way, is seldom a ball of fire at the breakfast table. Confronted with the kippered herrings or the e. and bacon, he tends to pick cautiously at them, as if afraid they may leap from the plate and snap at him. Listless, about sums it up. Not much bounce to the ounce.

But this morning vastly different conditions had prevailed, and I'll tell you why. Jeeves was back. Her butler having come down with an ailment of some sort, my Aunt Dahlia had borrowed him for a house party she was throwing at Brinkley Court, her Worcestershire residence, and he had been away for more than a week. Jeeves, of course, is a gentleman's gentleman, not a butler, but he can, if the call comes, buttle with the best of them. It's in the blood. His Uncle Charlie is a butler, and no doubt he has picked up many a hint on technique from him.

"How did everything go off at Brinkley, Jeeves?" I asked when he came in to remove the debris. "Joy unconfined, and all that sort of thing?"

"To a certain extent, sir."

"Only to a certain extent?"

"The demeanor of Mr. Travers cast something of a gloom on the proceedings. He was low-spirited. I received the impression that the society of Sir Watkyn Bassett made him despondent."

"Good Lord! Was old Bassett there? He and Uncle Tom hate each other's insides. You astound me, Jeeves."

"I, too, must confess to a certain surprise at seeing the gentleman as Mr. Travers' guest, sir, but no doubt Mrs. Travers felt it incumbent upon her to return his hospitality. You will recollect that it is not long since that Sir Watkyn entertained Mrs. Travers and yourself at Totleigh Towers."

I winced. He had touched an exposed nerve. There was some cold coffee left in the pot, and I took a sip of it to restore my equanimity.

"The word 'entertained' is not well chosen, Jeeves. If locking a fellow in his bedroom, practically with gyves upon his wrists, and stationing the local police force on the lawn below to ensure that he doesn't nip out of the window at the end of a knotted sheet is your idea of entertaining, it isn't mine, not by a jugful."

I don't know how well up you are in the Wooster archives, but if you have delved into them to any extent, you may possibly recall the sinister affair of Sir Watkyn Bassett and my visit to Totleigh Towers, his rural lair. He and my Uncle Tom are both collectors of what are called objets d'art, and on one occasion he pinched a silver cow-creamer from the latter, which led to Aunt Dahlia and self going to Totleigh to pinch it back, an enterprise which so nearly landed me in the jug that when reminded of that house of horror I never fail to quiver like an aspen, if aspens are the things I'm thinking of.

"Do you ever have nightmares, Jeeves?"

"Not frequently, sir."

"Nor me. But when I do, the setup is always the same. I am back at Totleigh Towers with Sir Watkyn Bassett, his daughter Madeline, Roderick Spode, Stiffy Byng, Gussie Fink-Nottle and the dog Bartholomew, all doing their stuff, and I wake, if you will pardon the expression, sweating at every pore. Those were the times that . . . what, Jeeves?"

"Tried men's souls, sir."

"They certainly were -- in spades. So Pop Bassett was at Brinkley, was he? Who else were among those present?"

"Miss Bassett, sir, Miss Byng, Mr. Fink-Nottle and Miss Byng's little dog."

"Gosh! The whole gang. Not Spode?"

"No, sir. He remained at Totleigh Towers. Apparently no invitation had been extended to his lordship."

"Whose lordship?"

"Mr. Spode, if you recall, recently succeeded to the title of Baron Sidcup."

"So he did, didn't he? I'd forgotten. But Sidcup or no Sidcup, to me he will always be Spode. There's a bad guy, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"I wouldn't want him in my orbit again."

"No, sir."

"Nor any of them, except Gussie. I don't mind Gussie. He looks like a fish surprised while bathing and keeps newts, but one condones that sort of thing in an old schoolfellow. How was Gussie? Pretty bobbish?"

"No, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle, too, struck me as low-spirited."

"Gloomy kind of party it seems to have been. Still, that's what you have to expect if you go inviting Sir Watkyn Bassett and associates."

"Yes, indeed, sir. Will you be lunching in?"

"No. I'm giving Miss Emerald Stoker lunch at the Ritz," I said, and went off to climb into the morning costume of the English gentleman. And somewhat later, the upholstery donned and the outer crust in order, I was about to leave, when I heard Jeeves give that soft cough of his and, turning, saw in his eye the aunt-like gleam which always means that he disapproved of something. And when he said in a soupy tone of voice, "Pardon me, sir, but are you proposing to enter the Ritz Hotel in that hat?" I knew that a shadow had fallen on what had been a day of joyous reunion and that the time had come to be firm.

It was a blue Alpine hat with a pink feather in it, and I was prepared to concede that it would have been more suitable for rural wear, but against this had to be set the fact that it unquestionably lent a diablerie to my appearance, and mine is an appearance that needs all the diablerie it can get. In my voice, therefore, as I replied, there was a touch of steel.

"Yes, Jeeves, that, in a nutshell, is what I am proposing to do. Don't you like this hat?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I do," I said rather cleverly, and went out with it tilted just that merest shade over the left eye which makes all the difference.

The Emerald Stoker with whom I was about to put on the nose-bag was the younger sister of an American girl named Pauline Stoker, with whom I have always been on matey terms. Quite natural, therefore, that when Emerald came to London to study painting at the Slade, Pauline S. should have told me to keep an eye on her and see from time to time that she got her calories.

Nor was it any hardship on me to do this, for I liked the popsy. She was one of those nice motherly sympathetic girls you can take your troubles to, confident of having your hand held and your head patted. Not having any troubles at the moment, I merely plied her with food-stuffs and asked if she would care to come to the theater on the following night, I having a couple of tickets for a well-spoken-of musical.

And what do you think she said?

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't. I'm going to the country this afternoon to stay with some people called Bassett--"

I started visibly.

"They live in Gloucestershire at a place called--"

"Totleigh Towers?"

She started visibly, making two visible starts in all.

"Do you know them? Well, that's fine. You can tell me all about them."

"Why, don't you know them?"

"I've only met the daughter. What are the rest of them like?"

"The personnel of the leper colony under advisement," I said, "consists of Sir Watkyn Bassett, his daughter Madeline, his niece Stephanie Byng and Stiffy Byng's Aberdeen terrier, Bartholomew, the last of whom you would do well to watch closely if he gets anywhere near your ankles, for he biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder. So you've met Madeline Bassett? What did you think of her?"

"Is she a great friend of yours?"

"Far from it."

"Well, I think she's a drip."

"She's engaged to a friend of mine, Gussie Fink-Nottle."

"Mr. Fink-Nottle? Well, I'll be darned. I know him. I met him at a studio party, and we talked for ever so long. I thought he was a lamb."

"You mean a fish."

"I don't mean a fish."

"He looks like a fish."

"He does not."

"Well, have it your own way," I said tolerantly, knowing it was futile to attempt to reason with a girl who had seen Gussie Fink-Nottle and didn't think he looked like a fish.

She gave me the impression, when we parted, of being a bit pensive, and I wasn't feeling too unpensive myself. There's a touch of the superstitious in my makeup, and the way the Bassett ménage seemed to be rearing its ugly head, if you know what I mean, struck me as sinister. I had a . . . what's the word? . . . begins with a p . . . pre-something . . . presentiment, that's the baby . . . I had a presentiment that peril loomed and that I was being warned, possibly by my guardian angel, that Totleigh Towers was coming back into my life and that I would be well advised to watch my step and keep an eye skinned.

It was consequently a somewhat thoughtful Bertram Wooster who half an hour later sat toying with a stoup of malvoisie in the smoking room of the Drones Club. And about five minutes after I had taken the first sip the smoking room waiter slid to my side and told me a gentleman stood without, asking to have speech with me. A clerical gentleman named Pinker, he said, and I gave another of my visible starts, the presentiment stronger on the wing than ever.

It was not that I didn't love the Rev. H. P. ("Stinker") Pinker like a brother. We were up at Oxford together, and our relations have always been on David and Jonathan lines. But while technically not a resident of Totleigh Towers, he was near enough to it to make this sudden popping-up of his deepen the feeling of impending doom. He earns his coffee and cakes helping the vicar vet the souls of the local yokels in the neighboring hamlet of Totleigh-in-the-Wold, and he's engaged to be married to Stiffy Byng. It seemed to me that (continued on page 54)stiff upper lip, Jeeves! (Continued from page 52) it only needed Sir Watkyn Bassett, Madeline Bassett, Roderick Spode, Stiffy and the dog Bartholomew to saunter up arm in arm and I would have a full hand.

"Bung him in," I said, dully, and in due season he lumbered across the threshold and, advancing with out-stretched hand, tripped over his feet and upset a small table, his invariable practice when moving from spot to spot in a room where there's furniture.

Which was odd, when you came to think of it, because after representing Oxford for four years and England for six on the football field, he still turns out for the Harlequins when he can get a Saturday off from saving souls, and when footballing is as steady on his pins as a hart or roe or whatever the animals are that don't trip over their feet and upset things. I've seen him a couple of times in the arena, and was greatly impressed by his virtuosity. Like the Canadian Mounted Police, he always got his man, and when he got him the air was vibrant with the voices of morticians in the audience making bids for the body.

His years of Rugby football will no doubt prove an excellent preparation for setting up house with Stiffy. After having had playmates do a Shuffle Off to Buffalo on his face with cleated boots Saturday after Saturday since he was so high, I take it that a fellow gets to fear nothing, not even marriage with a girl like S. Byng, who from early childhood has seldom let a day pass without starting some loony enterprise calculated to bleach the hair of one and all.

He took a seat and said he was glad to have caught me.

"I thought I'd find you at the Drones, Bertie. I came to town to attend a Harlequins committee meeting."

"And how were they all?"

"Oh, fine."

"That's good. I've been worrying myself sick about the Harlequins committee. Well, Stinker, what's new? Has old Bassett given you that vicarage yet?"

"No, not yet. He doesn't seem able to make up his mind. One day he says he will, the next day he says he's not sure, he'll have to think it over."

I frowned. I disapproved of this in-and-out running. I could see how it must be throwing a spanner into Stinker's whole foreign policy. He can't marry Stilly on a curate's stipend, so they've got to wait till Pop Bassett gives him a vicarage which he has in his gift. And while I personally, though fond of the young gumboil, would run a mile in tight shoes to avoid marriage with her, I knew him to be strongly in favor of signing her up.

"Something always happens to put him off. I think he was about ready to close the deal before he went to stay with your uncle at Brinkley, but most unfortunately I bumped into a valuable vase of his and broke it. It seemed to rankle rather."

I heaved a sigh.

"You move in a mysterious way your wonders to perform, Stinker. I believe you would bump into something if you were crossing the Gobi Desert."

"I've never been in the Gobi Desert."

"Well, don't go. It isn't safe. I suppose Stiffy's sore about this . . . what's the word . . . not Vaseline . . . vacillation, that's it. She chafes at this vacillation on Bassett's part and resents him letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' like the poor cat in the adage. Not my own, that, by the way. Jeeves'. Pretty steamed up, I should imagine, isn't she?"

"She is rather. And, Bertie, talking of Stiffy . . ."

He broke off, and I eyed him narrowly.

"What's the matter, Stinker? Your manner is strange. You remind me of a faithful dog looking up into its proprietor's face as if it were trying to tell him something. Are you trying to tell me something?"

He swallowed once or twice, and his color deepened, which took a bit of doing, for even when not embarrassed he always looks like a clerical beetroot. Then it came out with a rush.

"Bertie, Stiffy wants you to come to Totleigh."

I stared at the man, amazed. I could scarcely b. my e.

"She told me to tell you there was something she particularly wanted you to do for her."

I tried to reason with the man.

"But, my good Stinker, what chance is there of Pop Bassett inviting me to Totleigh?"

"Madeline would invite you, if you sent her a wire."

"And in the second place, I know Stiffy. A charming girl, but one who is a cross between a ticking bomb and a poltergeist. When she gets going on one of those loony schemes of hers, human life is not safe in her vicinity. Did she tell you what it was she wants me to do?"

"No. I asked her, of course, but she said she would rather keep it under her hat till she saw you."

"She won't see me."

"You won't come to Totleigh?"

"Not within 50 miles of it."

"She'll be terribly disappointed."

"You will administer spiritual solace. That's your job. Tell her these things are sent to try us."

"She'll probably cry."

"Nothing better for the nervous system. Ask any well-known Harley Street physician."

I suppose he saw that my iron front was not to be shaken, for he rose, said goodbye, knocked over the glass from which I had been refreshing myself, and withdrew.

Knowing how loath Bertram Wooster always is to let a pal down, you are probably thinking that this painful scene had left me shaken, but as a matter of fact it had bucked me up quite considerably. My guardian angel had been hinting that Totleigh Towers was threatening to re-enter my life, and obviously what the g.a. had had in mind was this summons to go there, he feeling that in a weak moment I might consent. The peril was now past. Totleigh Towers had made its spring and missed by a mile, and I no longer had anything to worry about. It was with a light heart that I joined a group of pleasure-seekers who were playing darts and cleaned them up good and proper. Three o'clock was approaching when I left the club en route for home, and it must have been about 3:20 when I hove to alongside the apartment house where I have my abode.

There was a cab standing outside, laden with luggage. From its window Gussie Fink-Nottle's head was protruding, and I thought how mistaken Emerald Stoker had been about his appearance. I could detect a trace of the lamb, but if he hadn't been wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, I might have supposed myself to be gazing on a halibut AWOL from a fishmonger's slab.

"Oh, hullo, Bertie," he said. "I'm just off to Totleigh. I looked in to tell you your aunt told me to tell you that she may be coming to London next week, and she wants you to give her lunch."

"It shall be attended to. Come in and have a drink."

"I can't. I shall miss my train."

"What train are you catching?"

"The four o'clock at Paddington."

"You'll meet a friend of yours on it. Emerald Stoker."

"Stoker? Stoker? Emerald Stoker?"

"You met her at a cocktail party the other day. Girl with freckles. Looks a little like a Pekingese."

"Of course, yes. Now I've placed her. One never hears names at a cocktail party. A most delightful girl. We had a long talk about newts. She tells me she used to keep them herself when a child in America, only she called them guppies. I don't know when I've met a more attractive girl."

"Except, of course, Madeline."

His face darkened. He looked like a halibut that's taken offense at a passing remark from another halibut.

"Madeline! Don't talk to me about Madeline. Madeline makes me sick!" he hissed. "Paddington," he shouted to the charioteer and was gone with the wind, (continued on page 134)stiff upper lip, Jeeves! (Continued from page 54) leaving me gaping after him, all of a twitter.

And I'll tell you why I was all of at. At Brinkley in the previous summer a rather unfortunate mix-up had occurred, and, as Jeeves would say, it had precipitated a sharp crisis in my affairs. The facts may be readily stated. Gussic. enamored of Madeline Bassett, would have liked to let her in on the way he felt but couldn't seem to make the grade. He asked me to plead his cause, and when I did so, of course the Bassett. as pronounced a fathead as ever broke biscuit, thought I was pleading mine. She said she was so sorry to cause me pain, but Gussie was the one she loved. Which was fine, except that she added, that if anything should happen to correct her view that he was what the doctor ordered, or words to that effect. I was the next in line, and while she could never feel for me the same flaming fervor or whatever it was, she would do her best to make me happy. I was. in a word, in the position of a Vice-President of the United States of America who. while feeling that he is all right so far. knows that he will be in for it if anything goes wrong with the man up top. Because--let's face it -- if a girl has got it into her nut that a fellow loves her, and comes and tells him that she is returning her betrothed to storage and is now prepared to sign up with him, what can a chap do?

It will occasion you. therefore, little surprise to learn that scarcely a couple of ticks after these words had escaped Gussie's lips I was through the Wooster door and shouting for Jeeves.

"Sir?" he said, manifesting himself.

"A frightful thing has happened. Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir? I am sorry to hear that." There's one thing you have to give Jeeves credit for. He lets the dead past bury its d. He and the young master may have had differences about Alpine hats with pink feathers in them, but when he sees the y. m. on the receiving end of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, he sinks his dudgeon and comes through with the feudal spirit at its best. So now. instead of being cold and distant and haughty, as a lesser man would have been, he showed the utmost agitation and concern. That is to say. he allowed one eyebrow to rise perhaps an eighth of an inch, which is as far as he ever goes in the way of expressing emotion.

"What would appear to be the trouble. sir?"

I sank into a chair, and mopped the frontal bone.

"I've just seen Gussie Fink-Nottle. And do you know what? I happened to mention Miss Bassett's name, and he said -- follow this closely, Jeeves -- he said-- I quote --'Don't talk to me about Madeline. Madeline makes me sick.' Close quotes. Those are not the words of love."

"No, sir."

"There must have been a rift in the what-d'-you-call-it."

"Lute, sir."

"Thank you, Jeeves. Lute is the word I was groping for. And we know what's going to happen if that lute takes the knock. What ought I to do. Jeeves?"

"Sir?"

"Don't stand there saying 'Sir?' You know as well as I do that a situation has arisen which calls for the immediate coming of all good men to the aid of the party. I ought to hasten to Totleigh Towers and try to start the dove of peace going into its act, but I was talking to Stinker Pinker just now and he says Stiffy Byng has something she wants me to do for her. Well, you know the sort of thing young Stiffy generally wants people to do. The mind boggles at the thought of what she may be cooking up. So there you are. I'm on the horns of a . . . what are those things you get on the horns ol?"

"Dilemmas, sir."

"That's right. I'm on the horns of a dilemma. Shall I. I ask myself, go and see what I can do in the way of pouring oil on the troubled w's, or would it be more prudent to stay put and let nature take its course?

"If I might make a suggestion, sir?"

"Say on, Jeeves."

"Is it not possible for you to go to Totleigh Towers but to decline to carry out Miss Byng's wishes?"

I weighed this. It was, I could see. a thought.

"Issue a nolle prosequi, you mean? Tell her to go and boil her head?"

"Precisely, sir."

"Jeeves," I said, "as always you have found the way. The die is cast. I go to Totleigh. though the flesh creeps freely at the prospect. Stiff upper lip, Jeeves!"

• • •

With Jeeves, I set out for Totleigh Towers. I had timed myself to arrive not too long in advance of the evening meal. when bracers might be expected to be circulating, for there was no sense in getting there in the middle of the afternoon and having to mix with the gang for several hours without refreshment. It was nearing seven when I fetched up at the front door and was shown into the drawing room, where Madeline Bassett was at the piano singing old folk songs, at least that was what they had sounded like as I approached. A good deal of that hey-nonny-nonny stuff.

She rose to greet me, a slender figure drooping slightly at the hinges.

"Bertie!" she cried, and gazed at me with a tender goggle which sent a thrill of dread creeping down the Wooster spine. The thought that there stood a popsy who might at any moment hand Gussie his hat and call on me to fill the vacant spot was not an agreeable one. "Oh, Bertie, was it wise of you to come? Will it not be merely causing you needless pain to see me, to be near me, knowing that we can never be more than just good friends? I hate to hurt you, Bertie. It makes me sad to think of your hopeless love."

That word "hopeless" was music to my e. It made a new man of me. What is it that flowers do when the sun shines on them? Burgeon, isn't it? I burgeoned. as I have so often seen Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright at the Drones burgeon after a couple of quick ones.

"Is it hopeless?"

"I fear so."

"You still love Gussie?"

"Still?"

"Well, you know what I mean. I thought perhaps you might have gone off the boil."

"No. Bertie, it is useless. You must not hope."

"Right ho."

"I can never . . . Oh, Daddy, here is Bertie Wooster."

Pop Bassett had entered, humming a light air. It died on his lips as he saw me. and he stood staring aghast.

"I forgot to tell you. I asked Bertie to come here for a few days."

"Good God!" said Pop Bassett. and he tottered out again, no doubt to go and get a restorative.

"Dinner will be in half an hour, Bertie," said Madeline. "I will show you your room."

The painful encounter with the old Bassett disease might have been expected to depress me. but it didn't. I was so braced by Madeline's assurance that all was well between her and Gussie that I gave it little thought. It was in excellent fettle that I started to dress for dinner, and when Jeeves came in I greeted him with a gay hello.

"It's all right about that lute. Jeeves. No rift. I have this straight from the horse's mouth. Miss Bassett and Gussie are sweethearts still. Great relief."

He did not string along with my merry mood.

"I fear, sir, that you are too sanguine. On Mr. Fink-Nottle's side there exists considerable dissatisfaction and resentment."

This wiped the smile off my face. It's never easy to translate what Jeeves says into basic English, but I had been able to grab the above statement off the bat.

"You mean she's a sweetheart still, but he isn't?"

"Precisely, sir."

"But what's happened?"

"Some little time ago Miss Bassett insisted on Mr. Fink-Nottle becoming a vegetarian, sir."

"A what? A vegetarian?"

"Yes, sir. It has caused a marked change in Mr. Fink-Nottle's feelings."

"But why on earth?"

"Sir?"

"Why did she want him to be a vegetarian?"

"I understand that the lady has recently been reading books of Buddhist philosophy and has gleaned from them the conviction that the consumption of flesh foods is unspiritual."

"This is grave news, Jeeves."

"Yes. sir."

"Gussie is seething with revolt?"

"Yes. sir."

"Then anything may happen."

"Yes, sir."

"What do we do for the best?"

"It might be possible to reason with Miss Bassett, sir."

"I doubt it," I said, putting on a despondent shoe. "By the way," I went on, for while I knew that Jeeves always knows everything, it puzzled me how he had come to be so well informed on the matter under discussion. "Who told you all this?"

"Miss Stoker, sir. She and Mr. Fink-Nottle met on the train coming from London, and he confided his troubles to her. Miss Stoker was much moved, and immediately offered to alleviate Mr. Fink-Nottle's distress."

"How did she propose to do that? I should have thought he'd have been beyond human aid."

"She undertook to supply him late at night with the protein viands of which Miss Bassett so strongly disapproves. I should have mentioned that Miss Stoker has taken the post of cook at Totleigh Towers."

"The post of cook?"

"Yes, sir. The matter is susceptible of a ready explanation. Miss Stoker is dependent on a monthly allowance from her father in New York, and normally she finds this adequate. Early this month, however, misled by her advisers, she was unfortunate in her investments on the turf. Sunny Jim in the two o'clock race at Kempton Park, sir."

I recalled the horse to which he referred. Only prudent second thoughts had kept me from having a tenner on it myself.

"The animal ran sixth in a field of seven."

"And she lost her chemise?"

"Yes, sir, and was faced with the alternative of applying to Mr. Stoker for funds, which would have necessitated full confession of her rashness and would, in her own phrase, have made him madder than a wet hen, or of seeking some gainful occupation which would -- I quote her again -- tide her over until the United States Marines arrived. Seeing Sir Watkyn's advertisement in the paper and knowing herself to possess considerable culinary skill, she applied for and obtained the position. The young lady entered upon her duties on the day when you entertained her to lunch at the Ritz Hotel. To refresh your memory, sir, you were wearing an Alpine hat with a pink feather in it."

"There is no need to rub in the Alpine hat, Jeeves."

"No, sir."

"If you really want to know, several fellows at the Drones asked me where I had got it."

"No doubt in order to avoid your hatter, sir."

I saw that nothing was to be gained by bandying words; I turned to a less controversial aspect of the situation.

"So she lushes him up at night, does she?"

"Yes, sir. Cold steak and kidney pie, principally."

"Well, this is fine, Jeeves."

"Sir?"

"Don't you see?" I said, not sorry to display my superior intelligence. "What was souring Gussie's nature and threatening to split the Fink-Nottle-Bassett axis was his having to confine himself to a vegetarian diet. He chafed, and I don't blame him for chafing. But now that he has found this steak-and-kidney-pie outlet, the sun will break through the clouds and he will be his old lovable self once more. Or don't you agree with me?"

"It is possible, sir."

• • •

Dinner is usually the meal at which you catch me at my best. "Wooster," those close to me have said, "may be a pretty total loss by daylight, but switch on the soft lights, uncork the champagne, and shove a dinner into him, and you'd be surprised."

If, however, I am to sparkle and charm all and sundry, I make one proviso--that the company be right. And anything less right than the co. on this occasion I have seldom encountered. Old Bassett, still plainly much shaken at finding me on the premises, was very far from being the jolly old squire who makes the party go from the start. Spode was strong and silent. Madeline was silent, too. So was Gussie as he picked moodily at what looked like spinach. Add Stiffy. who seemed in a kind of daydream, and you had something that might have been guest night at a Trappist monastery.

It was toward the middle of the meal that, feeling that if I didn't utter, no one would, I drew Pop Bassett's attention to the table's centerpiece. In any normal house it would have been a bowl of flowers or something on that order, but, this being Totleigh Towers, it was a small black figure carved of some material I couldn't put a name to. It was so gosh-awful in every respect that I assumed it must be something Pop Bassett had collected recently. My Uncle Tom is always coming back from auctions with similar eyesores.

"That's new, isn't it?" I said, addressing my host, if you could call him that. and he started, as if he'd just persuaded himself that I was merely a mirage, and was brought up with a round turn by discovering that I was there in the flesh.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Wooster?"

"That statuette thing in the middle of the table that looks like the end man in a minstrel show. It's something You got since . . . er . . . since I was last here, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is the latest addition to my collection."

"Daddy bought it from a man named Plank who lives not far from here at Hockley-cum-Meston," said Madeline.

"Attractive little bijou," I said, though it hurt me to look at it. "Just the sort of thing Uncle Tom would like to have. Looks valuable," I added, feeling that there was nothing to be lost by giving him the old oil.

"It's worth £1000," said Stiffy. coming out of her coma and speaking for the first time.

"Really? As much as that? Well. well, well," I said.

I had been hoping that this splash of dialog would have broken the ice. so to speak, and started us off kidding back and forth like the guys and doll in one of those old-world salons you read about, but no. Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of Gussie eating spinach, and eventually, at long last, the meal came to an end and I was in a position to contact young Stilly.

She had gone out into the garden at the close of the proceedings. I followed her there and found her sitting on a rustic seat. She showed no surprise at finding me at her side.

"I was just thinking you might be dropping by, Bertie. You want a conference?"

I corrected this. Information, I said, not a conference.

"What's this job Stinker Pinker tells me you want me to do for you?"

"Oh, that? It's something quite simple. You remember that little black statuette thing on the table at dinner?"

"Ah yes. the eyesore. What about it?"

"Do you know how much Uncle Watkyn paid for it?"

"You said it was worth 1000 quid."

"So it is. It's black amber. But he got it out of Plank for a fiver."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not. He paid him five pounds. I heard him say so."

"Plank must be an ass. Who is he?"

"I don't know, except that he lives in Hockley-cum-Meston and is very poor. When we were at Brinkley, Uncle Watkyn was telling Mr. Travers about this thing . . . how he happened to see it on Plank's mantelpiece and spotted how valuable it was and kidded him it was worth practically nothing, but he would give him five pounds for it because he knew how hard up he was. He gloated over how clever he'd been, and Mr. Travers writhed like an egg whisk."

I could well believe it. If there's one thing that makes a collector sore, it's another collector getting a bargain.

"We've got to do something about it," said Stilly, and I smiled tolerantly.

"I want you to pinch the thing and take it back to Plank," she said. "We can't let Uncle Watkyn get away with highway robbery like that."

I smiled another tolerant smile. The young boll weevil amused me.

"Well, really, Stiffy!"

"I don't know what you're well-reallying about. You're always pinching things, aren't you? Policemen's helmets, and so on. This'll be right up your street."

I saw that this was where Bertram did a bit of prompt in-the-bud nipping.

"N-ruddy-o," I said, making it clear to the meanest intelligence.

She was silent for a moment. Then she gave a little sigh.

"Oh dear! And I did hope I wouldn't have to tell Madeline about Gussie."

My heart skipped a beat. I've seldom heard words I liked the sound of less.

"Let me tell you a little story, Bertie. Last night I was roused from sleep by stealthy footsteps. I crept out of my room, and saw Gussie sneaking down the stairs. I followed him. He went to the kitchen. I peered in, and there was the cook shoveling cold steak and kidney pie into him like a stevedore loading a grain ship. And the thought crossed my mind -- What would Madeline have to say about this, if somebody happened to drop an incautious word? I really think you'll have to do this one more bit of pinching, Bertie. You don't want Madeline breaking her engagement, do you?"

"Oh, my sainted aunt!"

• • •

I walked back to the house. Jeeves was messing about in my room when I got there, and I lost no time in placing the facts before him. To my surprise, instead of raising an eyebrow the customary eighth of an inch, he came within an ace of smiling. That is to say, the left corner of his mouth quivered almost imperceptibly before returning to position one.

"I am happy to be able to relieve your apprehension, sir. It will be impossible for you to oblige Miss Byng in this matter."

"But if I don't, the worst will happen. You know as well as I do that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

"No, sir for the lady will be forced to admit that you are not in a position to carry out her wishes. The statuette is no longer on the dining-room table. It has been placed in Sir Watkyn's collection room behind a stout steel door."

"Good Lord! How do you know that?"

"I chanced to pass the dining room while you were in the garden, sir, and I overheard a conversation between Sir Watkyn and his lordship."

"Call him Spode."

"Very good, sir. Mr. Spode was observing to Sir Watkyn that he had not at all liked the interest you displayed in the object during dinner. Did you utter the words 'Just the sort of thing Uncle Tom would like to have,' sir?"

"I did, yes. It was just the old salve."

"The remark made a deep impression upon Mr. Spode. Remembering the unfortunate matter of the cow-creamer, which did so much to mar the pleasantness of your former visit to Totleigh Towers, he assured Sir Watkyn that it was obvious that you had come here to purloin the statuette on Mr. Travers' behalf. Sir Watkyn, who appeared much moved, accepted the theory in toto and readily fell in with Mr. Spode's suggestion that the object be removed and placed behind lock and key in the collection room. Where, I presume, it now is. When it is explained to Miss Byng that only by means of burglar's tools or a flask of trinitrotoluol could you obtain access to it, I am sure the lady will see reason and recede from her position."

I danced a few carefree steps. The dark shadow had passed from my life.

"You speak sooth, Jeeves. Perhaps you wouldn't mind going and explaining it to her now. You'll tell the story so much better than I could. You'll find her on the second rustic bench as you enter the lawn."

He was absent quite a time. When he returned, he was looking grave. Well, he always does, of course, but I mean even graver than usual.

"I saw Miss Byng, sir."

"Did she recede from her position?"

"No, sir. She is still insistent that you restore the statuette to Mr. Plank."

"She's cuckoo. I can't get into the collection room."

"No, sir, but Miss Byng can. She informs me that not long ago Sir Watkyn chanced to drop his key, and she picked it up and omitted to apprise him. Sir Watkyn had another key made, but the original remains in Miss Byng's possession."

I clutched the brow a bit.

"You mean to say that Stiffy can get into the room any time she feels like it?"

"Precisely, sir. Indeed, she has just done so."

And so saying he fished the eyesore from an inner pocket and handed it to me.

"Miss Byng suggests that you take the statuette to Mr. Plank tomorrow after luncheon. In her droll way she said the meal would put a bit of stuffing in you and nerve you for the . . . Shall I get you a little brandy, sir?"

"Not a little, Jeeves," I said. "Fetch the cask."

• • •

I don't know how Emerald Stoker was with brush and palette, but she unquestionably served a good lunch, and in taking up the post of cook it seemed to me that she had found her métier. Everything most toothsome. But I had little appetite for the meal. Too much on my mind.

"Jeeves," I said as he accompanied me to my car, speaking rather peevishly, perhaps, for I was not my usual sunny self, "it's all very well for Stiffy to say . . . glibly?"

"Or airily, sir."

"It's all very well for Stiffy to say glibly or airily 'Take this blasted statuette back to Plank,' but how do I find him? I can't go rapping at every door in Hockley-cum-Meston, saying 'Excuse me, are you Plank?' It'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"A colorful image, sir. I appreciate your difficulty. I would suggest that you procced to the local post office and institute inquiries there. Post-office officials invariably have information on these matters at their disposal."

He had not erred. The Hockley-cum-Meston post office was one of those shops you get in villages, where in addition to enjoying the postal facilities you can also buy cigarettes, wool, lollipops, string, socks, boots, picture postcards and bottles containing yellow nonalcoholic drinks, probably fizzy. In answer to my query, the old lady behind the counter told me I would find Plank up at the big house with the red shutters.

I remembered the house. I had passed it about half a mile down the road. Imposing mansion with a lot of land. This Plank, I took it, was a laborer on the estate. I pictured him as a sturdy, gnarled old fellow whose sailor son had brought home the eyesore from one of his voyages, and neither of them had an idea of its value. "I'll put it on the mantelpiece. Dad," no doubt the son had said, to which the old gaffer had replied. "Aye, lad, gormed if 'twon't look gradely on the mantelpiece" or words to that effect. I can't do the dialect, of course. And then along had come Sir Watkyn Bassett with his smooth city ways and made suckers out of parent and offspring. Happening all the time, that sort of thing.

I reached the house and was about to knock on the door, when there came bustling up an elderly gentleman with a square face, much tanned as if he had been sitting out in the sun quite a lot without his parasol.

"Oh, there you are," he said. "Come in, come in," and he led me through a hall liberally besprinkled with the heads of lions, leopards, gnus and other fauna into a room with French windows opening on the front garden. Here he left me while he went off to fetch drinks, his first question having been Would I care for one for the tonsils, to which I had replied with considerable enthusiasm, for the day was warm, that I would. When he returned, he found me examining the photographs on the wall. The one on which my eye was resting at the moment was a school football group, and it was not difficult to spot the identity of the juvenile delinquent holding the ball and sitting in the middle.

"You?" I said, pointing.

"Yes," he replied. "My last year at school. That's old Scrubby Banks sitting next to me. Fast wing three-quarter, but never could learn to give the reverse pass."

"No?" I said, rather shocked. I hadn't the remotest what he was talking about, but he had said enough to show me that this Banks must have been a pretty dubious character.

"Next to him Boko Beamish, our number eight. Died of cirrhosis of the liver in the Federated Malay States, poor fellow. Chap on his left is Smiler Todd. prop forward. You fond of Rugger?"

"I don't think I know him."

"Rugby football."

"Oh, ah. No, I've never gone in for it."

"You haven't?"

"No."

"Good God! I've always been mad keen on it. Didn't get much of it after leaving school, as I went into the Army and was stationed in West Africa. Tried to teach the natives out there the game, but had to give it up. Too many deaths, with the inevitable subsequent blood feuds. Do you read the Times? I had a letter in it the other day, advocating some changes in the rules of Rugger. Abolish the line-out, I said. Keep both sides behind a line drawn out on the field from where the ball goes into touch."

Again his meaning escaped me. My head was swimming a good bit.

"It would avoid rucking, pushing and holding."

"Just what one wants to steer clear of, what?"

"I also suggested an alteration in the scrummage laws, nobody to move his foot except the hooker and then only the foot farthest from the scrum, and every forward to remain in the scrum till the ball is out."

"Sounds reasonable." I said, and he went on to speak of outside breaks and corner-flagging, of farther left foot and either fourth foot, and of number eight in the 3-5-1 formation, self saying "Oh, yes?" and "I see what you mean," which I didn't.

"I want to make this village the best football village in the west of England."

"Oh, yes?"

"What we need is a good prop forward."

"I see what you mean."

"And good prop forwards don't grow on every bush. But you don't want to hear all this. You want to know about my Brazil expedition."

"Oh, have you been in Brazil?"

I seemed to have said the wrong thing. He stared unpleasantly.

"Didn't you know I'd been in Brazil?"

"Hadn't the foggiest."

"You're a funny sort of reporter."

"I'm not a reporter."

"Then who the hell are you?"

I'm pretty astute, and I saw there had been a mix-up somewhere.

"Were you expecting a reporter?"

"I was expecting a man from Flood and Field, to interview me about my Brazilian explorations."

"Oh, are you an explorer?"

Again I had said the wrong thing. He bridled, if that's the word I want.

"What did you think I was? Does the name Plank mean nothing to you?"

"Is your name Plank? Well, what a very odd coincidence. I'm looking for a chap called Plank. Not you, somebody else. The fellow I want is a sturdy gnarled tiller of the soil with a sailor son. I can place the facts before you in a few simple words. I have here," I said, producing the black amber thing, "a whatnot."

He gaped at it.

"Where did you get that? That's the bit of native sculpture I picked up on the Congo and sold to Sir Watkyn Bassett."

"You sold it to him?"

"Certainly."

"Well, he did you down. But the matter can be readily adjusted. If you will slip me a fiver --"

"Oh, so that's it!" he said, and I saw that he was looking at me with a cold, glassy stare, as no doubt he had looked at the late lions, leopards and gnus whose remains were to be viewed on the walls of the outer hall. "I've got your number now," he said. "I've met your sort in Brazil. Fellow out there once stole my false teeth and had the nerve to try to sell them back to me next day. Scum of the earth, you sneak thieves. Some chaps I know shoot them like dogs, but I don't suppose that sort of thing would do in Hockley-cum-Meston, so you sit where you are, and don't move, while I call the police."

"It will not be necessary, sir," said a respectful voice, and Jeeves entered through the French window. Last man I'd expected to see, and how he had got there defeated me. I've sometimes felt that he must dematerialize himself, if that's the word, like those fellows in India -- fakirs, don't you call them? -- who fade into thin air in Bombay and turn up five minutes later in Calcutta or points west with all the parts reassembled. "Major Plank?" he said.

"Who on earth are you?"

"Chief Inspector Witherspoon, sir."

This is the first of two installments of "Stiff Upper Lip. Jeeves!", a novelette by P. G. Wodehouse. The conclusion will appear next month.