‘I dined out a good deal in West Africa,’ said Plank. ‘Capital dinners some of those fellows used to give me, I remember, though there was always the drawback that you could never be sure the main dish wasn’t one of their wives’ relations, broiled over a slow fire and disguised in some native sauce. Took the edge off your appetite, unless you were feeling particularly peckish.’
‘So I would be disposed to imagine.’
‘All a matter of taste, of course.’
‘Quite. Was there something you particularly wished to see me about, Plank?’
‘No, nothing that I can think of.’
‘Then if you will excuse me, I will be getting back to Madeline.’
‘Who’s Madeline?’
‘My daughter. Your arrival interrupted me in a serious talk I was having with her.’
‘Something wrong with the girl?’
‘Something extremely wrong. She is contemplating making a disastrous marriage.’
‘All marriages are disastrous,’ said Plank, who gave one the impression, reading between the lines, that he was a bachelor. ‘They lead to bonny babies, and bonny babies lead to bonny baby competitions. I was telling this gentleman here of an experience I had in Peru and showing him the scar on my leg, the direct result of being ass enough to judge one of these competitions. Would you care to see the scar on my leg?’
‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Any time that suits you. Why is this marriage you say she’s contemplating so disastrous?’
‘Because Mr. Wooster is not a suitable husband for her.’
‘Who’s Mr. Wooster?’
‘The man she wishes to marry. A typical young wastrel of the type so common nowadays.’
‘I used to know a fellow called Wooster, but I don’t suppose it can be the same chap, because my Wooster was eaten by a crocodile on the Zambesi the other day, which rather rules him out. All right, Bassett, you pop back to the girl and tell her from me that if she’s going to start marrying every Tom, Dick and Harry she comes across, she ought to have her head examined. If she’d seen as many native chiefs’ wives as I have, she wouldn’t be wanting to make such an ass of herself. Dickens of a life they lead, those women. Nothing to do but grind maize meal and have bonny babies. Right ho, Bassett, don’t let me keep you.’
There came the sound of a closing door as Pop Bassett sped on his way, and Plank turned his attention to Stinker. He said:
‘I didn’t tell that old ass, because I didn’t want him sticking around in here talking his head off, but as a matter of fact I did come about something special. Do you happen to know where I can find a chap called Pinker?’
‘My name’s Pinker.’
‘Are you sure? I thought Bassett said it was Wooster.’
‘No, Wooster’s the one who’s going to marry Sir Watkyn’s daughter.’
‘So he is. It all comes back to me now. I wonder if you can be the fellow I want. The Pinker I’m after is a curate.’
‘I’m a curate.’
‘You are? Yes, by Jove, you’re perfectly right. I see your collar buttons at the back. You’re not H. P. Pinker by any chance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prop forward for Oxford and England a few years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, would you be interested in becoming a vicar?’ There was a crashing sound, and I knew that Stinker in his emotion must have upset his customary table. After a while he said in a husky voice that the one thing he wanted was to get his hooks on a vicarage or words to that effect, and Plank said he was glad to hear it.
‘My chap at Hockley-cum-Meston is downing tools now that his ninetieth birthday is approaching, and I’ve been scouring the countryside for a spare. Extraordinarily difficult the quest has been, because what I wanted was a vicar who was a good prop forward, and it isn’t often you find a parson who knows one end of a football from the other. I’ve never seen you play, I’m sorry to say, because I’ve been abroad so much, but with your record you must obviously be outstanding. So you can take up your duties as soon as old Bellamy goes into storage. When I get home, I’ll embody the thing in the form of a letter.’