“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I am not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your
beastly leg. The vicar was to have officiated, but when I got home
I found a letter from him saying that he had strained a fetlock and
must scratch his nomination. You can imagine the state I was in. I
telephoned all over the place. Nobody would take it on. And then
suddenly I thought of you.”
I decided to check all this rot at the outset. Nobody is more eager to
oblige deserving aunts than Bertram Wooster, but there are limits, and
sharply defined limits, at that.
“So you think I’m going to strew prizes at this bally Dotheboys Hall of
yours?”
“I do.”
“And make a speech?”
“Exactly.”