Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves!

In the previous installment, connoisseurs of the Britannic mixed grills served up by P. G. Wodehouse were offered another helping of Bertie Wooster and valet – the redoubtable Jeeves.

At the start of Part I, Bertie's brain is boggling at the mere thought of encountering the resident eccentrics of ancient Totleigh Towers, country manor of cantankerous old Sir Watkyn Bassett. But the call of compassion prevails – to say nothing of the Code of the Woosters. Bertie complies when his pal, the Rev. H. P. ("Stinker") Pinker, bids him totter to Totleigh to help Stinker and his fiancèe, Stephanie ("Stiffy") Byng, acquire a vicarage. Sporting an Alpine hat and with Jeeves at the ready, Bertie takes off on an odyssey he is soon to regret.

On hand to greet him at the Towers, among others, are: Sir Watkyn; his daughter Madeline, once almost the bride to be of Bertie and now the betrothed of fish-faced Gussie Fink-Nottle; that blighter Roderick Spode; and the ill-tempered dog, Bartholomew. Soon Bertie discovers that Fink-Nottle is depressed by his engagement to the formidable Madeline and is casting covetous glances at the cook. He and Jeeves observe also that both Sir Watkyn and Spode eye him uneasily, particularly after Stiffy persuades him to filch from the former a black amber statuette and return it to Major Plank – Bassett's irascible rugby-loving neighbor. As our first episode draws to its close, the irate Plank is about to call the law when Jeeves, anticipating him, steps into the parlor through an open French window. "I am Chief Inspector Witherspoon, sir," he announces.

"Has This Man been attempting to obtain money from you?" asked Jeeves.

"Just been doing that very thing, Inspector," said Plank.

"I thought (continued on page 92) Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves! (continued from page 83)) as much. We have had our eye on him for a long time. He is a confidence man of considerable reputation in the underworld, known to us at the Yard as Alpine Joe, because he always wears an Alpine hat with a pink feather in it."

"He's got it with him now."

"He never moves without it."

"You'd think he'd have the sense to adopt some rude disguise."

"You would indeed, sir, but the mental processes of a man like him are hard to fathom. With your permission I will take him into custody."

"You couldn't do better," said Plank heartily. "Shove him into a dungeon with dripping walls, and see to it that he is well gnawed by rats."

What with prop forwards and corner-flagging and gentlemen's personal gentlemen popping up out of traps like Demon Kings in pantomimes, the Wooster bean was not at its best as we moved off, and there was nothing in the way of conversation until we had reached my car, which I had left at the gate.

"Chief Inspector who?" I said, recovering a modicum of speech.

"Witherspoon, sir."

"Why Witherspoon? On the other hand," I added, for I like to look on both sides of a thing, "why not Witherspoon? However, that is not germane to the issue and can be reserved for discussion later. The real point, the main item on the agenda paper, is how on earth do you come to be here?"

"I anticipated that my appearance would occasion you a certain surprise, sir. I hastened after you directly Miss Byng had apprised me of her interview with Sir Watkyn."

"What interview was that?"

"Shortly after luncheon Miss Byng had a conversation with Sir Watkyn, in the course of which the latter revealed the true facts in the matter of the statucue. Induced to do so by Miss Byng's reproaches. He informed her that there was no foundation for his original statement and that in actual fact he had paid Major Plank £1000 for the object."

"Not a fiver?"

"No, sir."

"You mean he had lied in his teeth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?" I said, getting down to it in that direct way of mine.

I thought he would say he hadn't a notion, but he didn't.

"I think Sir Watkyn's motives are obvious, sir."

"Not to me."

"He acted from a desire to exasperate your uncle, Mr. Travers, sir. Mr. Travels is a collector, and collectors are not pleased when they learn that a rival collector has acquired at an insignificant price an objet d'art which they would have wished to possess themselves."

It penetrated. I saw what he meant. The discovery that Pop Bassett, a man for whose insides he had always had a vivid distaste, had got hold of a 1000-quid thingummy for practically nothing would have been gall and ww. to Uncle Tom. Stiffy had described the relative as writhing like an egg whisk, and I could well understand it. It must have been agony for the poor old buster.

"You've hit it, Jeeves. It's just what Pop Bassett would do. Nothing would please him better than to spoil Uncle Tom's day. So my errand was ... what, Jeeves?"

"Bootless, sir."

"Bootless? It doesn't sound right, but I suppose you know. And if it hadn't been for you bobbing up at the crucial moment, I should have been in for it. How did you get here so quick?"

"Immediately upon learning the facts, 1 borrowed Miss Byng's car. I left it some little distance down the road and proceeded on foot to the house. Hearing raised voices, I approached the French window and was thus enabled to intervene at, as you say, the crucial moment."

"Very resourceful."

"Thank you, sir."

"Plank was showing a nasty noncooperative spirit. Who is he, by the way?"

"A very eminent explorer, sir. He recently made an expedition into the interior of Brazil. He has not long been in residence in Hockley-cum-Meston. He inherited the house where he resides and a great deal of money from a deceased godfather. He raises Belgian hares, and eats only nonfattening protein bread."

"You seem to have got him taped all right."

"I made inquiries at the post office, sir, where I was also told that Major Plank was very fond of football and is hoping to make Hockley-cum-Meston invincible on the field."

"Yes, I gathered that from remarks he dropped. You aren't a prop forward, are you, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. Indeed, I do not know what the phrase signifies."

"Nor do I, but he told me he yearned for one. Rather sad, when you come to think of it. All that money, all those Belgian hares, all that protein bread, but no prop forward. Still, that's life."

"Yes, indeed, sir. If you will excuse me now, sir, I will be returning to Totleigh Towers. I promised to assist Sir Watkyn's butler at the school treat."

"School treat? How do you mean, school treat?"

"I thought Miss Bassett would have informed you that the annual school treat takes place this afternoon in Sir Watkyn's park."

"No, she didn't mention it."

"Will you be accompanying me, sir?"

"No, Jeeves, I will not."

I was remembering the story I had once heard Pongo Twistleton tell at the Drones. He got mixed up in a school treat once down in Somersetshire, and his description of how, in order to promote a game called Is Mr. Smith at Home? he had had to put his head in a sack and allow the younger generation to prod him with sticks and had held the smoking room spellbound.

"I propose to oil off somewhere, not returning till the quiet evenfall."

"Very good, sir. I think you are wise. Passions are apt to be unbridled at these functions. Then if you will give me the statuette, I will deliver it to Miss Byng and she will restore it to its place in the collection room."

When I got back to Totleigh Towers, having spent the afternoon driving hither and thither and to and fro, the heart was light and the morale in midseason form. It seemed to me that I no longer had to worry about the stability of the Madeline-Gussie alliance now that the latter, through the kind offices of Emerald Stoker, had got in touch with the steak and kidney pie and could fulfill his legitimate aspirations. And the relief of knowing that the amber eyesore had passed from my custody, that the school treat had shot its bolt in my absence and that there was now nothing to prevent me buzzing back to London on the morrow was stupendous. I remember Jeeves once saying something about God being in His heaven and everything just like mother made, and I could understand what he had meant.

He came into my room after I had been there a minute or two, bearing a whisky and soda.

"I saw you arrive, sir, and I thought you might be in need of refreshment."

"Thank you, Jeeves, I am. Warm day."

"Quite sultry, sir."

"How did the school treat go?"

"I think the juvenile participants in the festivities enjoyed themselves."

"How about you?"

"Sir?"

"You were all right? They didn't put your head in a sack and prod you with sticks?"

"No, sir. My share in the afternoon's events was confined to assisting in the tea tent."

"So everything went off without a hitch?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, sir. There were certain unfortunate incidents of the kind which are always inseparable from this form of entertainment. Mr. Fink-Nottle was somewhat roughly handled. Among other vicissitudes which he underwent, a child en (continued on page 108) Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves! (continued from page 92) tangled an all-day sucker in his hair."

"Worse things than that happen at school treats. I myself once got a small lizard down the back of my neck. Was he sore?"

"He displayed considerable annoyance. He detached the sweetmeat and threw it from him. It hit the dog Bartholomew, who, affronted by what he presumably considered an unprovoked assault, bit him."

"That must have darkened his mood."

"Yes, sir, and it was not lightened when Miss Bassett, who chanced to be present, accused him of teasing the animal. Mr. Fink-Nottle plainly resented the charge."

"Oh, my God! A rift within the lute!"

"I would not go so far as to say that, sir, for Miss Bassett was called away to speak to Mr. Pinker before hostilities, if I may use the word, had time to reach their height. Mr. Pinker's object in seeking a conference with Miss Bassett, I learned from Miss Byng, who sought me out later, was to ask her to use her influence to soothe Sir Watkyn."

"Why did he need soothing?"

"It appears that one of the boys in the tea tent threw a doughnut containing raspberry jam at him, with only too true an aim."

"Feeling, one supposes, that Pop Bassett was the sort of chap who needed to have doughnuts thrown at him."

"Presumably, sir."

"And how right the stripling was."

"Yes, sir. But the young fellow's impulsive action led to unfortunate consequences. Sir Watkyn has voiced doubts as to the wisdom of giving a vicarage to a curate incapable of keeping order at a school treat. Miss Byng, while confiding this information to me, appeared greatly distressed. She had supposed – in her own phrase – that the thing was in the bag."

I lit a moody cigarette.

"There's a curse on this house, Jeeves. Broken blossoms and ruined lives wherever you look. The sooner we're out of here, the better. I wonder if we couldn't " —"

I had been about to add "make our getaway tonight," but at this moment the door flew open as if propelled by a mighty rushing wind, and Spode appeared. His lips were twitching and his eyes glittering, and he seemed to have grown a bit since I'd seen him last, being now about nine-foot-seven.

"Oh, hullo, Spode," I said. "I mean Oh, hullo, Lord Sidcup. Take one or two chairs."

He ignored the kindly invitation.

"Have you seen Fink-Nottle?" he demanded, speaking, it seemed to me, from between clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, no. I've only just got back.

I had some business to attend to this afternoon, so unfortunately missed the school treat. A great disappointment. You haven't seen Gussie, have you, Jeeves?"

He made no reply, possibly because he wasn't there. He always slides discreetly off when the young master is entertaining the quality.

"Was it something important you wanted to see him about?"

"I'm going to break his neck."

"No, really? Why is that?"

He ground his teeth, at least that's what I think he did to them, and was silent for a space. Then, though there wasn't anybody listening except me, he spoke in a lowered voice.

"I can speak frankly to you, Wooster, because I know that you, too, love her."

"Eh? Who?"

"Madeline. Who did you think I meant?"

"Do you love Madeline?"

"I have always loved her, and her happiness is very dear to me. It was a great shock to me when she became engaged to this man Fink-Nottle, but I accepted the situation because I thought that that was where her happiness lay. Though stunned, I kept —"

"A stiff upper lip?"

"– my feelings to myself. I sat —"

"Like Patience on a monument?"

" – tight, and said nothing that would give her a suspicion of how I felt. All that mattered was that she should be happy. But when Fink-Nottle turns out to be a libertine —"

This surprised me.

"Who, Gussie? What makes you think Gussie's a libertine?"

"The fact that less than ten minutes ago I saw him kissing the cook," said Spode through the teeth which I'm pretty sure he was grinding, and he dived out of the door and was gone.

How long I remained motionless, like a ventriloquist's dummy whose ventriloquist has gone off to the local and left it sitting, I cannot say. Probably not very long, for when life returned to the rigid limbs and I legged it for the open spaces to try to find Gussie, Spode was still in sight. He was disappearing in a nor'-nor' easterly direction, so, not wanting to hobnob with him again while he was in this what I might call difficult mood, I went sou'-sou'-west, and found that I couldn't have set my course better. There was a sort of yew alley or rhododendron walk or some such thing confronting me, and as I entered it I saw Gussie. He was pacing up and down in thought.

Thought, I need scarcely mention, was a thing I was in myself, and not agreeable thought, either. My whole future depended on Augustus Fink-Nottle sticking to the straight and narrow path and not blotting his copybook, and now he had strayed several miles from the s. and n.p. and blotted his c. in no uncertain manner. There were no doubt misdemeanors which Madeline Bassett would be able to bring herself to overlook. but something told me that cook-kissing wasn't one of them. It was in somber mood that I accosted the blighter with a resounding "Hoy!"

He turned, and it seemed to me that a strange light was shining through his horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked like a halibut that's just learned that its rich unde in Australia has died and left it a packet.

"Ah, Bertie," he said. "What a beautiful day. What a beautiful, beautiful day."

I could not subscribe to this.

"It strikes you as that, does it? It doesn't me."

He seemed surprised.

"Not beautiful? Something wrong with it, you feel? In what respect do you find it not up to sample?"

"I'll tell you in what respect I find it not up to sample. What's all this I hear about you kissing Emerald Stoker?"

The Soul's Awakening expression on his face became intensified. It's a hard thing to say about a boyhood friend, but at these words Augustus Fink-Nottle definitely smirked.

"Oh, you've heard about that? What a girl, Bertie! She's my idea of a thoroughly womanly woman, and you don't see many of those about these days. At the school treat this afternoon that ghastly dog of Stuffy Byng's bit me to the bone, and do you know what Emerald Stoker did? Not only was she all sympathy, but she bathed and bandaged my lacerated leg. She was a ministering angel, the nearest thing to Florence Nightingale you could hope to find. It was as she finished attending to the gash that I kissed her."

"Well, you shouldn't have kissed her."

Again he seemed surprised. He said he had thought it rather a good idea.

"But you're engaged to Madeline."

"Ah, Madeline," he said. "I was about to touch on Madeline. Do you know how she reacted to my serious flesh wound? She espoused Bartholomew's cause. She said the whole thing was my fault. She accused me in set terms of having teased the little bounder. Do you know what Madeline Bassett's trouble is? No heart. Lovely to look at, but nothing here," he said, tapping the left side of his chest. "Are you aware that out of pure caprice she insists on my being a vegetarian? Oh, Jeeves told you, did he? Well, even a fellow with a brain like yours can understand what that has meant to me, particularly when I was staying at Brinkley Court. Night after night I had to refuse Anatole's unbeatable eatables. And when I tell you that two nights in suc (continued on page 146) Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves! (continued on page 108 cession he gave us those Mignonnettes de Poulet Petit Duc of his and on another occasion his Timbales de Ris de Veau Toulousiane, you will perhaps appreciate what I suffered. I can see now that what I felt for Madeline was just a boyish infatuation. What I feel for Emerald Stoker is the real thing."

"But you can't marry Emerald Stoker!"

"Why not? We're twin souls."

I was still trying to find an answer to that, when Stuffy and Stinker appeared, and the former came bounding up to him.

"What are you doing hanging about here, Gussie?"

"Eh? I was just chatting with Bertie."

"Well, stop chatting with him and run like a hare. Spode's after you."

"Eh?"

"He wants your blood in buckets. He saw you kiss the cook."

Gussie's jaw fell with a dull thud.

"You never told me that," he said to me, and one spotted the note of reproach in his voice.

"No, sorry, I forgot to mention it. But it's true. You'd better escape while the escaping's good."

"I will," he said, and dashing off as if shot from a gun was brought up short by colliding` with Spode, who had at that moment entered left center.

"Ha!" said Spode.

It's always a bit difficult to know what to reply when chaps say "Ha!" to you, but Gussie was saved the necessity of searching for words by the fact that Spode had begun to shake him in a manner that precluded speech, if precluded is the word I want. His spectacles fell off and came to rest near where I was standing. I picked them up with a view to returning them to him when he had need of them, which I could see would not be immediately.

This human drama had not passed unnoticed by Stuffy.

"Harold!" she cried, and one could gather what she meant. Gussie was no particular buddy of hers, but she was a kindhearted young shrimp, and one always likes to save a fellow creature's life, when possible. She was calling on Stinker to get into the act and save Gussie's. And he stood there passing a finger thoughtfully over his chin, like a cat in an adage, plainly at a loss to know how to proceed.

There is plenty and to spare of the Rev. H. P. Pinker. Even as a boy he must have burst seams and broken tryyour-weight machines, and I knew that it was not pusillanimity that was stopping him getting action. Had he encountered Spode on the football field, it would have been the work of an instant with him to spring at his neck and twist it into a spiral. But the brass hats of the church look askance at curates who swat the parishioners. Sock your flock, and you're sunk. So now he hesitated, and when he intervened, it was merely with the honeyed word.

"I say, you know, what?" he said.

I could have told him his errand was bootless, if bootless really is the word, which I still doubt. When a gorilla like Spode is going good, you can't stop him with a mild remonstrance. Seeming to realize this, he advanced to where the latter was now starting to strangle Gussie, laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled. There was a rending sound, and the clutching hand released its grip.

Spode was annoyed. You could see that not only from the way he looked, like a tiger of the jungle interrupted while tucking into its breakfast coolie, but from what he did a moment later. He hit Stinker on the nose, and all the doubts which had been bothering that man of God vanished in a flash. If there's one thing that makes you forget you're in holy orders, it's a socko on the beezer. A moment before, Stinker had been all concern about the disapproval of the princes of the Church, but now, as I read his mind, he was saying to himself "To hell with the princes of the Church!", or however a curate would put it. "Let them eat cake." There was a momentary mix-up, and the next thing one observed was Spode on the ground, looking like the corpse which had been in the water several days. His left eye was swelling visibly, and a referee could have counted 100 over him without eliciting a response.

Stiffy, with a brief " 'At a boy!" led her loved one off, no doubt to bathe his nose and stanch the vital flow, which was considerable, and I handed Gussie his glasses. He was standing there twiddling them in a sort of trance, when a voice spoke, and I noted that Madeline Bassett was with us. She was gazing at Gussie as if he had been a mass murderer she wasn't very fond of.

"Brute!" she cried.

"Eh?" said Gussie.

"What have you done to Roderick?"

Gussie adjusted his spectacles, cast a glance at the remains and shrugged a shoulder.

"Oh, that? He had only himself to blame. The fellow asked for it, and I had to teach him a lesson. He must have known what would happen when he saw me remove my glasses. When I remove my glasses, those who know what's good for them take to the hills."

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" cried Madeline, a thing I didn't know anyone ever said except in the second act of a musical comedy. Spode had risen to his feet, and she took him tenderly by the arm and led him away.

"This," Gussie said, "is the end!" Another thing you don't often hear. And he, too, legged it.

There seeming to be nothing to keep me, I started back to the house. In the drive I met Jeeves. He was at the wheel of Stiffy's car. Beside him, looking like a Scotch elder rebuking sin, sat the dog Bartholomew.

"Jeeves!" I ejaculated, if that's the word.

"Good evening, sir. I am taking this little fellow to the veterinary surgeon. Miss Byng is uneasy because he bit Mr. Fink-Nottle. She is afraid he may have caught something."

"Jeeves," I said, still ejaculating, "the lute's gone phut."

"Sir?"

"At this very moment Miss Bassett and Gussie may be severing relations."

"Most disturbing, sir," he said, and, apparently feeling that that covered it, he drove off. Bartholomew gave me an unpleasantly superior look as they passed, as if asking me if I were saved.

Out of what I have heard Jeeves describe as the welter of emotions one coherent thought emerged, and that was that if I didn't shortly get a snifter, I would expire in my tracks. It was now approaching the cocktail hour, and I made my way to the drawing room. I knew that, whatever his faults, Sir Watkyn Bassett provided cocktails for his guests.

I found him seated with a well-laden tray at his elbow, and hurried forward, licking my lips. To say that he looked glad to see me would be overstating it, but he offered me a lifesaver, and I accepted it gratefully. I had drained it, and was fishing for the olive, when Stuffy came bounding in.

"Hullo, Uncle Watkyn. Having one before dinner?"

"I am."

"That's what you think," said Stiffy, plainly glad to be bearing front-page news, like those messengers in Greek tragedies. "There isn't going to be any dinner. The cook's just eloped with Gussie Fink-Nottle."

"Eloped?" he gurgled. "With the cook?" he gurgled. "Are you sure of your facts, my dear?"

"I met them as they were starting off. Gussie said he hoped I didn't mind him borrowing my car."

"You reassured him, I trust?"

"Oh, yes. I said 'That's all right, Gussie. Help yourself.' "

"Good girl. Good girl. An excellent response."

"You're pleased, Uncle Watkyn?"

"This is the happiest day of my life."

"Then you can make it the happiest of mine," said Stiffy, striking while the iron wash., "by giving Harold that vicarage."

Most of my attention being, as you may well imagine, riveted on the soup in which I was immersed, I cannot say whether Pop Bassett hesitated, but if he did, it was only for a moment. The news, now officially confirmed, that Augustus Fink-Nottle was not to be his son-in-law had filled him so full of the milk of human kindness that you could almost hear it sloshing about inside him. He was in no shape to deny anyone anything. I really believe that if at this point in the proceedings I had tried to touch him for a fiver, he would have parted with it without a cry.

"Of course, of course, of course, of course," he said. "I am sure that Pinker will make an excellent vicar."

"The best," said Stiffy. "He's wasted as a curate. He needs scope. Unleash him as a vicar, and he'll be the talk of the established Church. He's as hot as a pistol."

"I am sure he is. But excuse me, my dear, I must go and see Madeline and ––"

"Congratulate her?"

"I was about to say – dry her tears."

"If any."

"Exactly. If any," said Pop Bassett, and was out of the room like one of those wing three-quarters who, even if they can't learn to give the reverse pass, are fast.

If there had been some uncertainty as to whether Sir Watkyn Bassett had done a buck-and-wing dance, there was none with regard to Stiffy doing one now. She pirouetted freely, and the dullest eye could discern that only the fact of her not having one prevented her strewing roses from her hat. I had seldom seen a young shrimp so above herself. And I, having Stinker's best interests at heart, rejoiced with her, going so far as to allow her to kiss me on both cheeks. If there's one thing Bertram Wooster is nippy at it is forgetting his personal troubles when a pal is celebrating some stroke of good fortune.

But in the midst of all the backslapping and three-rousing-cheers-giving, a sobering thought occurred to me.

"I agree with you," I said, "that this looks like the happy ending, but I think you ought to have it in writing."

This stopped her as if she had bumped into a prop forward. The joyous animation died from her face.

"You don't think Uncle Watkyn would let us down?"

"There are no limits to what your bloodstained Uncle Watkyn can do, if the mood takes him," I said gravely. "I wouldn't trust him to give me the correct time, unless I had it in writing. If I were you, I'd go and get hold of Stinker and bring him here and have the thing embodied in the shape of a letter."

"He's out on the lawn. I'll fetch him."

"It wouldn't hurt to bring a couple of lawyers, too," I said, as she whizzed past me.

At this point, the door opened and Spode came in, sporting as spectacular a black eye as it has ever been my privilege to see. And it was as I stood there, trying to think of something to say which would be sympathetic and tactful, that Pop Bassett returned.

But a very different Bassett from the effervescent rejoicer who had exited so short a while before. Then he had been all buck and beans, as any father would be whose daughter was not going to marry Gussie Fink-Nottle. Now his face was drawn and his general demeanor that of a man who discovers too late that he has swallowed a bad oyster.

"Madeline tells me," he began. Then he saw Spode's eye, and broke off. It was the sort of eye which, even if you have a lot on your mind, you can't help noticing. "Did you have a fall, Roderick?" he asked, goggling.

"Fall, my foot," said Spode. "I was socked by a curate."

"Good heavens! What curate?"

"There's only one in these parts, isn't there?"

"You mean you were assaulted by Mr. Pinker? Good heavens!"

"Just one of those things," I said, though I'm not sure if it was the right thing to say. "Faults on both sides. Young blood, don't you know, and all that."

For the first time Pop Bassett seemed to become aware that the slim, distinguished-looking young fellow standing on one leg by the sofa was Bertram.

"Mr. Wooster," he said. Then he stopped, swallowed once or twice and groped his way to the table where the drinks were. Having downed what looked like a beakerful of straight gin, he resumed. "I 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 letting my lower jaw fall perhaps six inches I betrayed no sign of discomposure, in which respect I differed radically from Spode, who reeled and uttered a cry like that of a cinnamon bear that has stubbed its toe on a passing rock.

"I am not surprised that you are upset, Roderick," said Pop Bassett sympathetically. "I feel the same myself. I am distraught. I can see no light on the horizon."

"But she can't marry that!"

"She seems resolved to."

"I'll 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 about half a minute later Stiffy and Stinker entered, for I could see that it was going to be difficult to hit on a subject of conversation which would interest, elevate and amuse.

"Here we are, Uncle Watkyn," said Stiffy, very merry and bright. "We thought we would have the thing embodied in the shape of a letter."

Pop Bassett blinked.

"What thing?"

"Why, the vicarage."

"The vicarage?"

"The vicarage you're going to give Harold."

"Oh? I have just seen Roderick," said Pop Bassett, changing the subject.

I think Stiffy made a mistake at this point in giggling. There is a time for girlish frivolity and a time when it is misplaced. It had not escaped my notice that Pop Bassett was swelling like one of those odd circular fish you catch down in Florida.

"I'll bet he had a shiner."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Was his eye black?"

"It was."

"I thought it would be. Well, how about that embodying letter?" said Stuffy. "Harold has a fountain pen. Let's put the show on the road."

I was expecting Pop Bassett to give an impersonation of a bomb falling on an ammunition dump, but he didn't. Instead, his manner took on that sort of chilly stiffness which you see in magistrates when they are fining you five quid for boyish peccadilloes.

"You appear to be under a misapprehension, Stephanie," he said in a metallic voice. "I have no intention of entrusting Mr. Pinker with a vicarage."

Stiffy reeled.

"But, Uncle Watkyn! You promised!"

"I was not aware, when I did so, that Mr. Pinker had assaulted Roderick." "Roderick assaulted Harold." "Indeed? That was not the way I heard the story."

"Well, it's the way it happened. Harold was cooing to Roderick like a turtle dove, and Roderick suddenly hauled off and plugged him on the beezer. What would you have expected Harold to do? Turn the other nose?"

"I would have expected him to remember his position as a clerk in holy orders. He should have complained to me, and I would have seen to it that Roderick made ample apology."

"What's the good of apologies? Harold did the only possible thing. He knocked Roderick base over apex, as anyone would have done in his place."

"Anyone who had not his cloth to think of."

"Roderick was murdering Gussie Fink-Nottle."

"And Mr. Pinker stopped him?" cried Pop Bassett, aghast. "Great heavens!"

There was a pause while he struggled with his feelings. Then Stiffy, as Stinker had done with Spode, had a shot at the honeyed word.

"It's not like you, Uncle Watkyn, to go back on your solemn promise."

I could have corrected her there. It was just like him.

"You have always been so kind to me, Uncle Watkyn. You have made me love and respect you. I've come to look on you as a second father. Don't louse the whole thing up now."

"If by that peculiar expression you mean that you wish me to change my mind and give Mr. Pinker this vicarage, I am afraid I must disappoint you. I shall do no such thing. I consider him unfit to be a vicar, and I am surprised after what has occurred that he feels justified in continuing his duties as a curate."

"Is that final?"

"Quite final."

"Nothing will move you?"

"Nothing."

"You'll be sorry."

"I disagree with you."

"You will. Bitter remorse is what's coming to you, Uncle Watkyn. Never underestimate the power of a woman," said Stiffy, and she buzzed off. A sinister thing to say, it seemed to me, and I wondered what she had in mind.

She had scarcely left us, when Butterfield, the butler, entered.

"Excuse me, Sir Watkyn, Constable Oates desires a word with you, sir."

"Who?"

"Police Constable Oates, sir."

"What does he want?"

"I gather that he has a clue to the identity of the boy who threw a doughnut at you, sir."

The words acted on Pop Bassett as I'm told the sound of bugles acts on war horses, not that I've ever seen a war horse. He had been eying Butterfield with that ill-concealed irritation with which men of testy habit eye butlers who butt in at the wrong moment, but his demeanor changed in a flash. His face lit up. He didn't actually say "Whoopee!" but you could see that that was a mere oversight. He was out of the room in a matter of seconds, Butterfield following some lengths behind, and it was just as they left that I happened to glance out of the window.

The window looked on the drive, and I had wandered there during the BassettStiffy hostilities with the idea of removing myself from the battle zone. From where I was standing I got a good view of the steps leading up to the front door, and when I saw what was coming up those steps my heart stood still and for an instant everything went black.

It was Plank. There was no mistaking that square, tanned face and that purposeful walk of his, like a bloodhound on the trail of a prop forward. And when I reflected that in about two ticks Butterfield would be showing him into the drawing room, I confess that I was momentarily at a loss to spot the proper channels through which steps should be taken.

My first thought was to wait till he had got through the door and then nip out of the window, which was conveniently open, and I was about to do so when the dog Bartholomew came sauntering along, and I saw that I would have to revise my strategy from the bottom up. You can't go climbing out of windows in the presence of an Aberdeen terrier whose slogan is: Bite first and ask questions afterward. In due season, of course, he would learn that what he had taken for a burglar was in reality a harmless guest and would be all apologies, but by that time Bertram's outer crust would be as full of holes as a Swiss cheese. Falling back on my second line of defense, I dived behind the sofa with a muttered "Not a word to a soul, Stinker!" and was nestling there, speculating as to what the harvest would be, when the door opened.

"If you will wait, Sir Watkyn will be at liberty shortly," I heard Butterfield say. "He is temporarily engaged."

"Chap's an ass," said Plank, as the door closed. "I don't want Bassett. I thought I'd made that clear to him. I'm looking for a fellow named Pinker."

"My name's Pinker," said Stinker.

"Some relation, perhaps. 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. And your name's Pinker?"

"Yes."

"H. P. Pinker?"

"Yes."

"Prop forward for Oxford and England a few years ago?"

"Yes."

"Well, Lord-love-a-duck!" said Plank. A note of alarm came into his voice. "You haven't given up playing, have you?"

"Oh, no. I still turn out for the Harlequins."

"Well, are you 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 relieved to hear it.

"My chap at Hockley-cum-Meston is downing tools very shortly, and I've been scouring the countryside for a spare. And I would never have known that you were in these parts 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 I should find you at Totleigh-in-the-Wold. What was that noise?"

"I heard nothing."

"Sort of gasping noise. Seemed to come from behind that sofa. Take a look."

"There's nothing behind the sofa," said Stinker, very decently imperiling his immortal soul by falsifying the facts on behalf of a pal.

"Thought it might be a clog being sick," said Plank.

And I suppose it had sounded rather like that. The revelation of Jeeves' black treachery had unmanned me, causing me to forget that silence was golden. A silly thing to do, of course, to gasp like that, but, dash it, if for years you have nursed a gentleman's personal gentleman in your bosom and out of a blue sky you find that he has deliberately sicked Brazilian explorers on to you, I maintain that you are fully entitled to behave like a dog in the throes of nausea. I could make nothing of his scurvy conduct, and was so stunned that for a moment or two I lost the thread of the conversation. When the mists cleared, Plank was speaking.

"Oddly enough, I've never seen you play," said Plank. "Been out in Brazil and elsewhere. Only recently returned to the old country. But of course I know you by reputation. I don't think I mentioned that it's my aim in life to make the Hockley-cum-Meston rugby team the talk of England. We're all right at half and three-quarters, but the scrum wants stiffening. What Hockley-cum-Meston needs is a vicar who's a good prop forward, and everybody tells me you're outstanding. So you can take up your duties as soon as you like. I'll embody the thing, when I get home, in the shape of a letter."

And after a well-phrased expression of thanks from Stinker and a word from Plank to the effect that he'd better be sneaking out or he might run into that old bore Bassett, the door closed and I felt it was safe to surface.

It was to the side table that I made my way, for after the ordeal through which I had passed I was in urgent need of a restorative. And I had had one (quick and was about to have another rather slower, when the door handle started to turn and I went homing back to the sofa again.

"Good evening, sir," said Jeeves a moment later, peering over the top of it. "I fancied I had not been mistaken in supposing that I had observed you seeking concealment. Would you care for an appetizer, sir? I was obliging Sir Watkyn's butler by bringing them."

I rose. My face was cold and hard, like a picnic egg.

"What I want, Jeeves, is not a slab of wet bread with a dead sardine on it––"

"Anchovy, sir."

"Or anchovy. I am in no mood to split straws. I require an explanation, and a categorical one at that."

"Sir?"

"You can't evade the issue by saying 'Sir?' Answer me this, Jeeves, with a simple Yes or No. Why did you tell Plank to come to Totleigh Towers?"

I thought the query would bathe him in confusion, but he didn't so much as shuffle a foot.

"I chanced to encounter Miss Byng, sir, anti found her in a state of considerable despondency owing to Sir Watkyn's refusal to bestow a vicarage on Mr. Pinker. I had learned at the post office at Hockley-cum-Meston that the incumbent there was retiring shortly, and having been informed by the lady behind the counter of Major Plank's enthusiasm for Rugby football and of his desire to strengthen the local forward line, I thought it would be an excellent idea to place him in communication with Mr. Pinker. In 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 requires a vicar with Mr. Pinker's wide experience as a prop forward. Their interests seemed to me identical."

"It didn't occur to you to envisage what would happen if Plank met me?" I said, still icy.

"I was sure that your keen intelligence would enable you to find a means of avoiding him, sir."

My iciness melted. It is not too much to say that I was mollified.

"Should I mix you a cocktail, sir?" I shook the head.

"Cocktails are bootless, Jeeves. My predicament is not one that a dry martini with a spot of lemon peel in it can cure. I'm going to be married."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, Jeeves, married. The fate that is worse than death, don't they call it?"

"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?"

"Vacuum, sir?"

"That's right. Which I have to fill. Jeeves!"

"Sir?"

I had been about to beg him as a personal favor not to say "Most disturbing," but at this moment I saw the door opening and speech was wiped from my lips. But it was only Stiffy. She came in with that sunny smile on her face which always means that she's been up to some kind of hell.

"Hullo, souls," she said. "Bit of hot news for you. I've pinched that thing of Uncle Watkyn's."

For an instant her words did not penetrate. Then I got it, and I gasped rather freely.

"The eyesore, you mean?"

"If that's what you want to call it. The idea is to go to Uncle Watkyn and tell him he won't get it back unless he does the square thing by Harold. It's what's called power politics. Right, Jeeves?"

"Perfectly correct, miss."

"But didn't Stinker find you?" I said. "No. Was he looking for me? I haven't seen him."

"Then you haven't heard the latest. He dashed off to tell you that Plank has given him the vicarage of Hockley-cum-Meston."

"You're kidding!"

"Not at all. I was present when the deal went through. Behind the sofa, but present."

"Well, pickle me for an onion! This opens up a new line of thought. Are you sure it's official?"

"Plank is embodying it in the shape of a letter tonight."

"Oh, frabjous day! Calloo! Callay! What's Plank like? Clean-shaven?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I want to kiss him, and if he had a beard, I wouldn't. Shall I kiss you, Jeeves?"

"No, thank you, miss."

"You, Bertie?"

"Some other time."

"Then I'll go and kiss Bartholomew. And meanwhile I suppose the shrewd line to take is to return this thing to storage before Uncle Watkyn notes its absence. Go and put it in the collection room, Bertie. Here's the key."

I like to oblige the delicately nurtured when possible, but there are moments when only a nolle prosequi will serve.

"I'm not going near the ruddy collection room. With my luck, I'd find your Uncle Watkyn there arm in arm with Spode, and it wouldn't be any too easy to explain what I was doing there and how I'd got in."

Jeeves, as always, found the way.

"If you will give the object to me, miss, I will see that it is restored to its place."

"Thank you, Jeeves. Well, goodbye, all. I'm off to find Harold," said Stilly, and she withdrew, dancing on the tips of her toes.

I shrugged a shoulder.

"Women, Jeeves!"

"Yes, sir."

"What a sex!"

"Yes, sir."

"No scruples."

"No, sir."

"However, there isn't time to go into the subject now. You'd better put that ghastly thing back where it belongs without delay."

"Yes, sir. If it were done, when 'twere done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," he said, making for the door, and as I went to the side table where the drinks were I was thinking how neatly he puts these things.

I was in the act of reaching for the cocktail shaker, when again footsteps sounded without, and feeling that 'twere well it were clone quickly, I made for the sofa once more, lowering my previous record for the short spring by perhaps a split second.

I was surprised, as I lay nestling in my little nook, by the complete absence of dialog that ensued. Hitherto, all my visitors had started chatting from the moment of their entry, and it seemed odd that this new couple should apparently be deaf mutes. Peeping cautiously out, however, I found that I had been mistaken in supposing that I had with me a brace of guests. It was Madeline alone who had blown in.

But she was not alone for long. Clumping footsteps sounded, the door handle turned, and a voice said "Madeline!" Spode's voice, husky with emotion.

"Oh, Roderick," she said. "How is your eye?"

"Never mind my eye," said Spode. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Sir Watkyn has told me the awful news about you and Wooster. Is it true you're going to marry him?"

"Yes, Roderick, it is true."

"But you can't love an ass like that," said Spode, and I thought the remark extremely offensive. Pick your words more carefully, Spode, I might have said, rising and confronting him, but I didn't. I may be an ass, but I am not a silly ass.

I heard Madeline sigh, unless it was the draft under the sofa.

"No, Roderick, I do not love him, but I feel it is my duty to make him happy."

"Tchah!" said Spode, which was another of those things you don't often hear, and I think that at this point he must have grabbed her by the wrist, for she uttered a medium-sized squeak and said he was hurting her.

"I'm sorry, sorry," said Spode. "But I refuse to allow you to ruin your life. I won't have it. You can't marry this man Wooster."

"But, Roderick, I want to make him happy."

"Well, you're not going to. You're going to make me happy. I'm the one you're going to marry. I've loved you since you were so high."

Madeline was plainly moved.

"I know, Roderick, I know," she said, having gurgled a bit. "Ah, why is life so tragic?"

"Life's all right," said Spode. "At least, it will be if you give this blighter Wooster the push and marry me."

"I have always been very fond of you, Roderick."

"Well, then?"

"Give me time to think."

"Certainly. I'll leave you now, and you can do all the thinking you need. And while you're thinking, turn this over in your mind. Wooster, in addition to being half-witted, is a thief."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Do you know why he came here?"

"To be near me."

"Nothing of the kind. He came to steal that black amber statuette of your father's."

"It can't be true!"

"It's perfectly true. He's always stealing things. The very first time I met him, in an antique shop in the Brompton "Road, he as near as a toucher got away with your father's umbrella."

"I can't believe it," said Madeline.

"I'll go and fetch Sir Watkyn," said Spode. "Perhaps you'll believe him."

For several minutes after he had clumped out, Madeline must have stood in a reverie, for I didn't hear a sound out of her. Then the door opened, and the next thing that came across was a cough I had no difficulty in recognizing. It was that soft cough of Jeeves' which always reminds me of a very old sheep clearing its throat on a distant mountain top.

"I wonder if I might have a moment of your time, miss?"

"Of course, Jeeves."

"It is with reference to Mr. Wooster, miss. I just begin by saying that I was passing the door and inadvertently overheard Lord Sidcup's observations. His lordship has a carrying voice. And I find myself in a somewhat equivocal position, torn between loyalty to my employer and the desire to behave like a good citizen and do the right and honorable thing."

"I don't understand you, Jeeves," said Madeline, which made two of us.

"I think you should be warned, miss."

"Warned?"

"Regarding Mr. Wooster, miss. I am loath to criticize my employer, but I feel that you should know that he is a kleptomaniac."

"What!"

"I had hoped to be able to preserve his little secret, but he has now gone to lengths which I cannot countenance. In going through his effects this afternoon I discovered this, concealed beneath his underwear."

I heard Madeline make a sound like a dying soda water syphon.

"But that belongs to my father."

"If I may say so, miss, nothing belongs to anyone if Mr. Wooster takes a fancy to it. I do not think Mr. Wooster can help it. It is a form of mental illness. But whether a jury would take that view, I cannot say."

"You mean he might be sent to prison?"

"It is a contingency that seems to me far from remote."

I think Jeeves must have shimmered off after this, for silence fell again and nothing happened except that my nose began to tickle. The draft behind the sofa seemed to be getting worse, and I would have given 10 quid to be able to sneeze, but of course that was outside the range of practical politics. I just lay there, thinking of this and that, and after quite a while the door opened once more, this time to admit something in the nature of a mob scene. I could see three pairs of shoes, two of which I recognized as those of Pop Bassett and Spode, and I was wondering whose the others were, when their proprietor gave tongue. All he said, presumably catching sight of the side table, was "What ho, the drinks!" but it was enough to tell me that Plank was for the second time a pleasant visitor.

Pop Bassett was the next to speak, getting under the wire a short head in front of Spode. He said "Good heavens!" and then they both said "Madeline! Where did you get that?" and Plank said "Why, that's that little thingummy I sold you, Bassett, isn't it?" and Madeline gave a sob, at least it sounded like a sob.

"Jeeves brought it to me, Father. He found it in Bertie's room."

"Ha!" said Spode.

"Who's Bertie?" asked Plank.

"The nephew of an unscrupulous collector of my acquaintance," said Pop Bassett. "How right you were, Roderick!"

"Who's Roderick?" asked Plank.

Spode said he was Roderick, and Plank said "Ah? Well, in that case I think I'll have a whisky and soda."

"Yes, how right you were, Roderick," Pop Bassett proceeded. "You said his motive in coming here was to steal this. But how he got into the collection room I cannot understand."

"These fellows have their methods."

"Seems to be a great demand for that thingummy," said Plank. "There was a pie-faced young son of a bachelor round at my place only this afternoon trying to sell it to me."

"Wooster!"

"Who's Wooster?"

"Travers' nephew."

"Who's Travers?"

"The collector I spoke of. Obviously Travers sent him here to steal the statuette. He must have stolen it while everyone was busy at the school treat and taken it to you."

"Couldn't have been the same chap. My fellow's name was Alpine Joe."

"Wooster would naturally adopt an alias."

"I suppose he would. I never thought of that. Witherspoon must have been mistaken."

I was waiting for someone to say "Who's Witherspoon?" but nobody did. Instead, Pop Bassett addressed Madeline.

"Well, after this – –"

"Yes, after this," said Spode, "you're certainly not going to marry that worm." "What worm?" asked Plank.

"He's worse than Fink-Nottle."

"Who's Fink-Nottle?" asked Plank. I don't think I've ever come across a fellow with a greater thirst for information.

"My daughter was at one time engaged to be married to Augustus FinkNottle. But he has eloped with Stoker."

"Who's Stoker?"

"The cook."

"He's eloped with the cook?"

"He has."

"Dashed sensible of him," said Plank. "Very hard to find these days, cooks."

"And now," said Spode, "she's going to marry me. Isn't that so, Madeline?"

"Yes, Roderick. I will be your wife."

Spode uttered a whoop which made my nose tickle worse than ever. "

"That's the stuff! That's the way I like to hear you talk!" he said. "Let's go out into the garden. I have much to say to you."

I heard a sound like a bursting paper bag. It was Pop Bassett expressing relief and joy.

"Lady Sidcup!" I heard him murmur.

"Who's Lady Sidcup?"

"My daughter will shortly be. One of the oldest titles in England. That was Lord Sidcup who just left us."

"I thought you called him Roderick."

"His Christian name is Roderick."

"Ah!" said Plank. "Now I've got it.

Now I have the whole picture. Your daughter was to have married someone called Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes."

"Then she was to have married this fellow Wooster?"

"Yes."

"And now she's going to marry Lord Sidcup?"

"Yes."

"Clear as crystal," said Plank. "I knew I should get it threshed out in time. I think this calls for another whisky and soda."

"I will join you," said Pop Bassett.

It was at this point, unable to hold it back any longer, though well aware that it would put the frosting on the cake, I sneezed.

"I knew there was something behind that sofa," said Plank, rounding it and subjecting me to the sort of look I suppose he used to give native chiefs who couldn't grasp the rules of Rugby football. "Good God! It's Alpine Joe!"

"It's Wooster!"

"Who's Wooster? Oh, you told me, didn't you? What steps do you propose to take?"

"I have rung for Butterfield."

"Who's Butterfield."

"My butler."

"What do you want a butler for?"

"To tell him to bring Oates."

"Who's Oates?"

"Our local police constable. He is having a glass of whisky in the kitchen."

"Whisky!" said Plank thoughtfully, and as if reminded of something went to the side table.

The door opened.

"Oh, Butterfield, will you tell Oates to come here."

"Bit out of condition, that chap," said Plank, eying Butterfield's receding back. "Wants a few games of Rugger to put him in shape. What are you going to do about this Alpine Joe fellow? You're a justice of the peace, aren't you?"

"I intend to give him a sharp sentence."

"I think you're wise. Pinches everything he can lay his hands on and doesn't understand the first thing about Rugger."

"I shall give him 30 days."

"I'd make it 60. Nice round number, 60."

"There is much in what you say."

"Couldn't make it six months, I suppose?"

"I fear not."

"No, I imagine you have a regular tariff. Ah well, 30 days is better than nothing."

"Police Constable Oates," said Butterfield in the doorway, and to cut a long story s., in about another couple of ticks I was in custody and on my way to the police emporium in the village.

To say that when I lay down on the plank bed of my cell I fell into a dreamless sleep would be deceiving my public. I passed a somewhat restless night. I could have sworn, indeed, that I didn't drop off at all, but I must have done so, because the next thing I knew sunlight was penetrating the barred window and through the grille in the door I could hear a silvery voice. It was Stiffy's, and she appeared to be ticking Constable Oates off with no little severity.

"Oates," she was saying, "you're an ass."

This was profoundly true, but it seemed to displease the officer. He resented the charge, and said so, and Stiffy said she didn't want any back chat from him.

"You road company rozzers make me sick. Unlock that door."

"It's against regulations, miss."

"I want to talk to Mr. Wooster."

"Not sure that's allowed. I'd have to look it up."

"But I keep telling you that Sir Watkyn isn't pressing the charge."

"So you say, miss."

"Well, go and phone him and ask him."

This seemed to strike Oates as a sound idea, for I could hear him receding, and a moment later I was aware of Stiffy's face at the grille.

"Bertie."

"Hullo?"

"Are you there?"

"In person."

"Did you have a nice night?"

"Most restful."

"I'm glad to hear that, because I can't help feeling that all that's happened was to a certain extent my fault. Would you like me to tell Uncle Watkyn that it was I who pinched that thing and that you are as pure as the driven snow?""Certainly not."

"Don't you want your name cleared?"

"Not if it means Stinker learning all. He would be shocked to the core. It isn't as if you were going to be a gangster's moll. The gangster would be all for you swiping everything that wasn't nailed down. But it's different with Stinker. When he marries you, he'll want you to look after the parish funds. Apprise him of the facts, and he won't have an easy moment."

"I see what you mean. Yes, you have a point there."

"Imagine his jumpiness if he found you near the Sunday offertory bag. And, anyway, there's no need to tell anyone anything. I heard you saying that Pop Bassett wasn't pressing the charge, so I'm all right. Ah, here comes mine host, returning," I said, as the clumping of Constable Oates' regulation boots made itself heard.

"Well?" said Stiffy, addressing him.

"Sir Watkyn supports your statement, miss."

"I told you he would. Fling wide those gates."

Oates flung them, though giving me the impression that he was hurt and disappointed, and I passed with Stiffy into the great world outside the prison walls.

"Goodbye, Oates," I said as we left, for one always likes to do the courteous thing. "It's been nice meeting you."

His only reply was a sound like a hippopotamus taking its foot out of the mud on a river bank, and I saw Stiffy frown.

"You know," she said, as we reached the open spaces, "we really ought to do something about Oates, something that would teach him that we are not put into this world for pleasure alone. I can't suggest what offhand, but if we put our heads together, we could think of something. You ought to stay on, Bertie, and help me bring his gray hairs in sorrow to the grave."

I raised an eyebrow.

"As a guest of your Uncle Watkyn?"

"You could doss at Harold's place."

"Sorry, no."

"You won't stay on?"

"I will not. I intend to put as many miles as possible in as short a time as possible between Totleigh Towers and myself. And it's no good your using that expression 'lily-livered poltroon,' because I am adamant."

She made what I believe is called a moue. It's done by pushing the lips out and drawing them in again.

"I thought it wasn't any use asking you. No spirit, that's your trouble, no enterprise. Jeeves'll be here in a minute," she said, and pushed off, exhibiting dudgeon. A brief while later Jeeves drove up in the car.

"Good morning, sir," he said, alighting. "Your disturbed night has left you ruffled, I am sorry to see. You are far from soigné."

"You know, Jeeves," I said, "painful though this episode has been, it has taught me a lesson – viz., that one makes a mistake in labeling someone as a hellhound just because he normally behaves like a hellhound. Look closely, and we find humanity in the unlikeliest places. Take this Sir W. Bassett. A menace to pedestrians and traffic and without, one would say, a redeeming quality. And yet, having got Bertram out on a limb, he does not, as one would have expected, saw it off, but declines to press the charge. It has touched me a good deal to find that under that forbidding exterior there lies a heart of gold. Why are you looking like a stuffed frog, Jeeves? Don't you agree with me?"

"Not altogether, sir, when you attribute Sir Watkyn's leniency to sheer goodness of heart. There were inducements."

"I don't dig you, Jeeves."

"I made it a condition that you be set at liberty, sir."

"Condition? How do you mean condition? Condition of what?"

"Of my entering Sir Watkyn's employment as his personal attendant, sir. I should mention that during our visit to Brinkley Court the gentleman, very kindly expressing appreciation of the manner in which I performed my duties, made me an offer to leave your service and enter his. This offer, conditional upon your release, I have accepted."

The police station at Totleigh-in-the-Wold is situated in the main street of that village, and from where we were standing I had a view of the establishments of a butcher, a baker, a grocer and a confectioner. And this butcher, this baker, this grocer and this confectioner seemed to flicker before my eyes, as if they were dancing the twist.

"You're leaving me?" I gasped.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He seemed to be about to smile, but of course thought better of it.

"Only temporarily, sir. I think it more than possible that after perhaps a week or so differences will arise between Sir Watkyn and myself and I shall be compelled to resign my position. In that event, if you are not already suited, sir, I shall be most happy to return to your employment."

I saw all. It was a ruse, and by no means the worst of them. The mists cleared from before my eyes, and the butcher, the baker, the grocer and the confectioner returned to what I have heard Jeeves call the status quo.

"When the fields are white with daisies, you'll return, you mean?"

"Precisely, sir."

A rush of emotion filled me. I felt the need of a gesture of some kind. Then I got it.

"Take this Alpine hat, Jeeves, and give it to the deserving poor."

"Thank you very much, sir," he said.

This is the final installment of a two-part serialization of P. G. Wodehouse's novelette, "Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves!"