Nothing much happens in Chapter CLVI of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. In his capacity as Scurveyshire’s justice of the peace, Lord Jeremy Coldsore has released Jasper the Village Idiot from the local jail, on the condition that he impersonate the Japanese ambassador, Walt Dropo, to prevent the Emperor from learning that his favorite nephew has been sucked under the vicar’s backyard wading pool and is highly unlikely ever to be seen again.
In Chapter CLVII, the vicar comes to his senses but immediately relapses into conniptions when his housekeeper, Mrs. Przewalski, tactlessly asks him what exactly he saw peeking out from under the wading pool.
But the main thing is, Lady Margo Cargo’s wedding to Lord Jeremy and the American adventurer Willis Twombley, well, it’s off again, postponed indefinitely, because Crusty the crusty butler disapproves. He believes Lord Jeremy to be a foundling and Twombley to be an escaped mental patient. He also doesn’t like the idea of his mistress marrying both of these mountebanks at once. To stop the wedding, he has called in upholsterers to re-upholster every piece of furniture in Cargo Hall. Only when that project is finished, he decrees, can the wedding proceed.
“Oh, Crusty!” cries Lady Margo. “Is that really necessary? And I don’t see why my wooden leg has to be upholstered, too.”
“You must allow me to be the judge of that, my lady,” answers the butler.
“You want I should shoot that butler, Germy?” Twombley asks. “We can dump him in the well.”
“Please don’t do that, Sargon, old boy!” Jeremy replies. [Note: Twombley believes himself to be Sargon of Akkad, in case the reader has forgotten.] “Lady Margo’s quite fond of the blighter. He’ll come around when we let him accompany us on our honeymoon.”
“Then let’s have the honeymoon first,” Twombley suggests. “It’ll give us all something fun to do while the upholsterers do their stuff. Where are we goin’, by the way?”
“Lady Margo has always wanted to see Plaguesby.”
“Plaguesby? But that’s only the village next door to this one! What’s she want to go there for? What kind of honeymoon is that?”
Jeremy shrugged. “She’s never been to Plaguesby,” he explains.
“There ain’t nothin’ there, though! Couldn’t we at least go to Monte Carlo? And I hear Kizzuwatna’s nice, this time of year.”
“Where the devil is Kizzuwatna?” Lord Jeremy wonders.
“In Scotland, someplace,” Twombley says [editor’s note: he is badly mistaken].
Jeremy gives in. He always gives in to Twombley’s daft ideas. It’s easier that way.