‘Yes, sir,’ said Spode, ‘it’ll be chokey for you.’
And he was going on to say that he would derive great pleasure from coming on visiting days and making faces at me through the bars, when Pop Bassett returned.
But a very different Bassett from the fizzy rejoicer who had exited so short a while before. Then he had been all buck and beans, as any father would have been whose daughter was not going to marry Gussie Fink-Nottle. Now his face was drawn and his general demeanour that of an incautious luncher who discovers when there is no time to draw back that he has swallowed a rather too elderly 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. ‘Good gracious, Roderick,’ he said, ‘did you have a fall?’
‘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? You astound me, Roderick.’
Spode spoke with genuine feeling.
‘Not half as much as he astounded me. He was more or less of a revelation to me, I don’t mind telling you, because I didn’t know curates had left hooks like that. He’s got a knack of feinting you off balance and then coming in with a sort of corkscrew punch which it’s impossible not to admire. I must get him to teach it to me some time.’
‘You speak as though you bore him no animosity.’
‘Of course I don’t. A very pleasant little scrap with no ill feeling on either side. I’ve nothing against Pinker. The one I’ve got it in for is the cook. She beaned me with a china basin. From behind, of all unsporting things. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and have a word with that cook.’
He was so obviously looking forward to telling Emerald Stoker what he thought of her that it gave me quite a pang to have to break it to him that his errand would be bootless.
‘You can’t,’ I pointed out. ‘She is no longer with us.’
‘Don’t be an ass. She’s in the kitchen, isn’t she?’
‘I’m sorry, no. She’s eloped with Gussie Fink-Nottle. A wedding has been arranged and will take place as soon as the Archbish of Canterbury lets him have a special licence.’
Spode reeled. He had only one eye to stare at me with, but he got all the mileage out of it that was possible.
‘Is that true?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, that makes up for everything. If Madeline’s back in circulation . . . Thank you for telling me, Wooster, old chap.’
‘Don’t mention it, Spode, old man, or, rather, Lord Sidcup, old man.’
For the first time Pop Bassett appeared to become aware that the slight, 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. His manner
was feverish. Having passed a liberal snootful down the hatch, he was able to resume. ‘1 have just seen Madeline.’
‘Oh, yes?’ I said courteously. ‘How is she?’
‘Off her head, in my opinion. She says she is going to marry you.’
Well, I had more or less steeled myself to something along these lines, so except for quivering like a stricken blancmange and letting my lower jaw fall perhaps six inches I betrayed no sign of discomposure, in which respect I differed radically from Spode, who reeled for the second time and uttered a cry like that of a cinnamon bear that has stubbed its toe on a passing rock.
‘You’re joking!’
Pop Bassett shook his head regretfully. His face was haggard.
‘I wish I were, Roderick. I am not surprised that you are upset. I feel the same myself. I am distraught. I can see no light on the horizon. When she told me, it was as if I had been struck by a thunderbolt.’
Spode was staring at me, aghast. Even now, it seemed, he was unable to take in the full horror of the situation. There was incredulity in his one good eye.