It was to prevent the repetition of any such horror that today, having seen the first char—a-banc arrive, he had set out for the sty armed to the teeth with a stout hunting crop, the blood of his Crusading ancestors hot within him. If Basil were playing a return date and had not undergone a spiritual change for the better since his last visit, he was in for an unpleasant surprise. By the time his host had finished with him he would know that he had been in a fight.
Avoiding the front door, for to go there would have meant passing through the hall where the personnel of the char-a-banc were keeping in line, not smoking and not fingering objects of art, he came out through a side entrance, and he had not gone far when his progress was arrested by Sam, who was trying to find the rendezvous which Gally had suggested. The three people he had so far asked to direct him to the Empress’s sty had proved to be strangers in these parts themselves.
Sam, like Lord Emsworth, was not without his feeling of uneasiness on this Visitors’ Day. The thought that Constable Evans, too, might have taken it into his head to have a look at the castle and its objects of art was not one that made for peace of mind. He had not liked meeting that zealous officer the first time, and something told him that it would be even more unpleasant meeting him again. It was difficult to shake off the feeling that he might appear at any moment round any corner, the handcuffs clinking in his pocket.
He also found Blandings Castle and its surroundings intimidating. To adjust himself to its impressive magnificence was not a simple task for one accustomed to the homelier atmosphere of Halsey Chambers, Halsey Court, London W.1. Basil from Wolverhampton had taken the place in his stride, but it overawed Sam. It made him feel as if his hands and feet had swollen in a rather offensive manner and that his clothes had ceased to fit him.
This meeting with Lord Emsworth, accordingly, braced him like a tonic. His self-confidence functioned once more. If Blandings Castle could accept this seedy old man in his patched flannel trousers and battered fishing hat, he told himself, it could scarcely raise its eyebrows at one who in comparison was almost dapper.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the sty of the pig they call Empress of Blandings?’
Lord Emsworth’s mild eyes glowed. It had always pained him when visitors on Visitors’ Day trooped about the castle’s interior goggling at pictures, tapestries, amber drawing-rooms and the like and never thought of going to see the one sight that mattered. He beamed at Sam, well pleased at having found a kindred spirit.
‘I am going there myself,’ he said, and his voice had a cordial ring. ‘So you are a pig lover, too?’
Sam considered the question. He had never given much thought to pigs and, if asked, would probably have described himself as able to take them or leave them alone, but his companion had used the word ‘too’, seeming to indicate that these animals stood high in his estimation, so he felt it was only civil to reply in the affirmative. He did so, and was rewarded with a look of approval that convinced him that he had said the right thing.
‘We go through the kitchen garden. It is the shortest way. Is this,’ Lord Emsworth asked as they moved off, ‘your first visit to Blandings?’
Sam said it was.
Are you American?’
‘No.’
‘I thought you possibly might be. So many people are nowadays. I have just returned from America.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I went to attend my sister’s wedding. I stayed at an hotel in New York. Are you fond of boiled eggs?’
‘Yes, I like boiled eggs.’
‘So do I. But in America they serve them mashed up in a glass. It is one of the many curious aspects of the country. I objected strongly, but it did no good. Every time I asked for a boiled egg, up it came in a glass.’
‘I suppose the solution would have been not to have asked for a boiled egg.’
‘Exactly what my brother Galahad said. It would, he said, be the smart thing to do. But that’s all very well, because suppose you want a boiled egg. It puts you in a bit of a fix.’
Sam was astounded. Unconsciously he had been picturing the proprietor of this super-stately home of England as a formidable figure on the lines of the old gentleman with the bushy eyebrows in Little Lord Fauntleroy, a book which twenty years ago he had read with considerable zest. The shock of finding that the patched and baggy object at his side owned the entire works was as great as that experienced by Colonel Wedge on the night when he had mistaken Lord Emsworth for the pigman’s discarded overalls. It held him speechless until they had nearly reached the sty.
As they approached it, Lord Emsworth uttered an exclamation.
‘Bless my soul, there’s Wellbeloved.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My former pigman,’ said Lord Emsworth, indicating the figure slouched over the rail of the sty. ‘He is in retirement now. I believe some relative of his left him a public house in Wolverhampton. He must have come in the char-a-banc from there. Ah, Wellbeloved,’ he said. ‘Come to have a look at the Empress?’
George Cyril Wellbeloved turned, revealing himself as a man with a squint and a broken nose, the former bestowed on him at birth, the latter acquired in the course of a political discussion at the Goose and Gander in Market Blandings in which he had espoused the Communist cause.
‘Hullo,’ he said.
He spoke curtly. Between the manner of a pigman dependent on his weekly wage and that of the owner of a prosperous public house in Wolverhampton there is always a subtle but well-marked difference. In George Cyril’s case it was more well— marked than subtle, for he could not forget that twice during their mutual association Lord Emsworth had dismissed him from his service and dismissed him with contumely. These things rankle. To be sacked once, yes, a man expected that, it was part of the wholesome give and take between employer and employed, but twice was a calculated insult.
‘Fat lot of having a look at the Empress I’ve been able to do,’ he said morosely. ‘She’s dug in in her shed and won’t come out,’ he said, and Sam saw that at one end of the sty there was a wooden shelter, presumably where the silver medalist retired to sleep or to meditate.
‘Strange,’ said Lord Emsworth.
‘Sinister, if you ask me. I’d say she was sickening for something.’
‘Nonsense. Try chirruping.’
‘I have tried chirruping, and the more I chirrup, the less she emerges. She’s like the deaf adder in Holy Scripture. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the deaf adder. It comes in a bit in the Bible I used to learn at Sunday School. Like the deaf adder, it says, what don’t pay a ruddy bit of attention to the charmer, though he charms till his eyes bubble. Try chirruping, indeed!’ said George Cyril disgustedly.
‘You can’t have chirruped properly. Chirrup again.’
‘Not me, cocky, I’ve got a sore lip. You have a go.
‘I will.’
When it came to communicating with pigs, Lord Emsworth had resources denied to other men. It so happened that there had come to Blandings Castle a year or so ago a young fellow anxious to marry one of his nieces, a young fellow who on leaving England under something of a cloud had found employment on a farm in Nebraska. He had forgotten his name, but he had never forgotten his teachings. In however deep a reverie a pig might be plunged, this young fellow had said, passing on the lore he had learned on the Nebraska farm, it could always be jerked out of it by what he described as the Master Call, and this he had taught to Lord Emsworth. It consisted of the word ‘Pig-hoo-ey’, the ‘Hoo’ to start in a low minor of two quarter-notes in four—four time, building gradually from this to a higher note until at last the voice soared in full crescendo, reaching F-sharp on the natural scale and dwelling for two retarded half-notes, then breaking into a shower of accidental grace-notes.
It had taken Lord Emsworth some little time to master the technique, but he had succeeded eventually. So now, cupping his lips with both hands in order to increase the volume, he
observed:
‘PIG-HOO-EY! !!‘
and Sam, who had not been expecting it, leaped like a lamb in springtime. The ejaculation seemed to him for a moment to have taken the top of his head off.
But he had not suffered in vain. Even before his ears had stopped ringing there came from the interior of the shelter a sound of stirring and rustling, as if a hippopotamus were levering itself up from its bed of reeds. Grunts became audible. The mild, kindly face of the Empress peered out, and a moment later it was possible to see her steadily and see her whole.
But not on Lord Emsworth’s part with the pride and pleasure with which he was wont to see her. Something was plainly wrong with the silver medalist. She weaved, she tottered, she took a few uncertain steps towards the trough, then slowly sank to the ground and lay there inert.
‘I told you so,’ said George Cyril Wellbeloved. ‘You want to know what that is, chum?’ he went on with relish. ‘That’s swine fever.’
On Lord Emsworth the spectacle had had a paralysing effect. If the phrase were not copyright, one might say that his heart stood still. But his spirit remained unimpaired. He glared militantly.
‘Don’t be a fool, Wellbeloved!’
George Cyril gave him a rebuking look.
‘I suppose you know what happens when you call your brother a fool,’ he said austerely. ‘You’re in danger of hellfire, that’s what you’re in danger of You’ll find it in the Good Book. “If thou sayest to thy brother, Thou fool…“‘
‘You’re not my brother!’ said Lord Emsworth, at the same time thanking God.
George Cyril Wellbeloved would have none of this quibbling. ‘For purposes of argument I am. All men are brothers. That’s in the Good Book, too.’
‘Get out! Get off my property immediately!’
‘Okey-doke. George Cyril Wellbeloved does not remain where he’s not wanted, though it’s a moot point whether you’re legally entitled to chuck the paying public out on Visitors’ Day. However, we’ll waive that. You’d better go and phone the vet, ‘said George Cyril over his shoulder as he took a dignified departure. ‘Not that he’ll be able to do a ruddy bit of good.’
Lord Emsworth was already on his way to telephone the veterinary surgeon, his long legs flashing as he raced to the house, and Sam, left alone, stood gazing at the invalid. And as he gazed the sun came out from behind a cloud and something glinted in the empty trough. It looked like a flask. He climbed the rail and found that it was a flask, and instantaneously all things were made clear to him. He realised now why from the first the Empress’s aspect had struck him as vaguely familiar. He had seen men come into the Drones Club smoking-room on the morning after Boat Race night looking just like that. Oofy Prosser practically always looked like that. When Lord Emsworth returned, he was happy to be able to calm his fears.
‘It’s all right,’ he said.
All right?’ Lord Emsworth could not believe the ears which exercise had reddened. ‘If it’s swine fever—’
‘It isn’t. Look at this.’
‘What is that?’
‘An empty flask. I found it in the trough.’
‘God bless my soul, how did she get hold of it?’
‘I wonder. But obviously all that’s the matter is that she’s been on the toot of a lifetime. That pig is plastered. You probably remember the old poem which begins “The pig at eve had drunk its fill”?’
‘No. No, I do not.’
‘Well, that’s what must have happened. She just needs time to sleep it off It’s a pity we’re so far from London. There’s a chemist in the Haymarket who fixes the most wonderful pick— me-up. He could have put her right in no time. Still, a good sleep will probably do the trick. You’ll see her turning cartwheels tomorrow.’
Lord Emsworth drew a deep breath. He gazed at Sam adoringly. He was not as a rule fond of his juniors, but he could recognise merit when he saw it and it was plain to him that here was something special in the way of juniors, one whom he could take to his bosom and make a friend of And the thought that this young man, so sound on pigs, so sympathetic in every way, would be fading out of his life when Visitors’ Day was over horrified him. He wanted to see him constantly, to have interminable talks on pigs with him, to wake up in the morning with the heartening feeling that he would find him at the breakfast table.
‘Are you making a long stay in these parts?’ he asked.
Sam, thinking of Constable Evans, said Well, that depended.
‘You are not on a walking tour? Not got to get anywhere special?’
‘No.’
‘Then I wonder if you would care to be my guest at the castle for a few weeks? Or as long as you like, of course?’
If Sam had been able to speak, he would probably have said ‘There is a Santa Claus! I do believe in fairies!’ but this totally unexpected invitation had wiped speech from his lips. When he was able to utter, he said:
‘It’s awfully kind of you. I’d love it.’
‘Capital! Capital, capital, capital!’
‘Ah, there you are, my dear fellow,’ said the cheery voice of Gally from behind them. ‘So you’ve met Augustus Whipple, have you, Clarence?’
III
Lord Emsworth’s pince-nez flew from their base. He shook from fishing hat to shoe sole. ‘Whipple? Whipple? Whipple?’ he gasped. ‘Did you say Whipple?’
‘Yes, this is Gus, as the boys at the Athenaeum call him. I suppose you weren’t expecting him so soon. But that’s what he’s like. Never lets the grass grow under his feet and is always like lightning off the mark. Do it now is his slogan. Hullo, what’s the matter with the Empress?’
‘She is the worse for liquor, Galahad, I am sorry to say. Somebody carelessly dropped a flask of whisky in her bran mash.’
‘What a lesson this is to all of us to keep off the sauce. We must try to get her to join Alcoholics Anonymous. Well, I’m glad there’s no cause for alarm. A raw egg beaten up in Worcester sauce will probably work wonders. Still, I suppose you ought to have the vet take a look at her.’
‘I have already telephoned him. He is on his way.’
‘Then I’ll take Whipple to your study and you can join us there after you’ve seen him.’
‘Yes, yes, capital. This is a proud moment for me, Mr Whipple,’ said Lord Emsworth, and Sam contrived to produce a weak smile. He was not yet equal to giving tongue, and he continued silent as Gally led him to the house. Fortunately Gally, as always, was able to provide conversation enough for two.
‘Quick thinking, my boy, quick thinking,’ he said complacently. ‘I’ve always been a quick thinker. My resourcefulness was a matter of frequent comment at the old Pelican. “Galahad Threepwood,” they used to say, “may not be much to look at, but you seldom find him at a loss.” I remember once in those days glancing out of a window and seeing a bookie I owed money to at the front door. I saw that instant precautions would have to be taken, for my financial position was such that it would have inconvenienced me greatly to have been obliged to make a cash settlement at the moment. Only seconds elapsed before inspiration descended on me. When he hammered at my door, I was ready for him. “Have a care, Mr Simms,” I shouted. He was Tim Simms, the Safe Man. “Keep away. I’ve got scarlet fever.” He was incredulous, and said so. So I opened the door and he gave one look and was down the stairs in two strides. Most luckily one of my female acquaintances had happened to leave a lipstick in the sitting-room the day before, and I had been able to apply it to my cheeks. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror after he had left, and I can tell you it frightened me.’
‘Listen,’ said Sam.
‘I know what you are going to say,’ said Gally, checking him with a raised hand like a policeman directing traffic. ‘You are all eagerness to ascertain why after your intransigent attitude of yesterday I decided to overrule your veto and tell Clarence you were Augustus Whipple. My dear boy, it was essential. You are not aware of it, but young Sandy with a snakiness which redounds little to her credit had slipped
a fast one over on us. On some trivial pretext she had got leave from Clarence to go away for a day or two, thus rendering your prospects of a conference with her null and void. It became imperative, accordingly, to think up some way of introducing you into the house as a permanent guest, so that you would be on the spot when she came back, and this, as we have seen, I have been able to accomplish.’
‘Listen,’ said Sam, and again the raised hand checked him.
‘I know you have some fanciful objection to being Augustus Whipple, but I think you will have to admit that the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. You’re in the house, safe from Constable Evans, and when young Sandy returns, chuckling to herself as she thinks how she had outsmarted us, she will find you here and hit the ceiling. Weakened by the shock, she will be as dust beneath your chariot wheels. Yes, I think I am entitled to take a few bows for the way I have handled this rather delicate situation. There was talk at one time of my going into the diplomatic service, and I sometimes feel it was a pity I didn’t. Well, here we are in Clarence’s study. I must apologise for there being so little dust about. That’s Sandy’s fault. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable.’
Sam sat down and fixed him with an uncordial eye.
‘Would you mind if I now slipped a word in edgeways?’ he said coldly.
‘Of course, my dear fellow. Go ahead. But I want no thanks.’
‘Would it interest you to know that half a minute before you came muscling in on us with your “Yoo-hoo, it’s Whipple!” Lord Emsworth had invited me to stay at the castle for as long as I wanted to?’
Galahad at Blandings Page 11