'What-ho, Beefers,' he said. 'I just came to ask if I could borrow Bottles.'
He bent to where the animal lay on the hearth-rug and prodded it civilly in the lower ribs. Bottles waved a long tail in brief acknowledgment. He was a fine dog, though of uncertain breed. His mother had been a popular local belle with a good deal of sex-appeal, and the question of his paternity was one that would have set a Genealogical College pursing its lips perplexedly.
'Oh, hullo, Freddie,' said the Rev. Rupert.
The young Pastor of Souls spoke in an absent voice. He was frowning. It is a singular fact – and one that just goes to show what sort of a world this is – that of the four foreheads introduced so far to the reader of this chronicle, three have been corrugated with care. And, if girls had consciences, Gertrude's would have been corrugated, too – giving us a full hand.
'Take a chair,' said the Rev. Rupert.
'I'll take a sofa,' said Freddie, doing so. 'Feeling a bit used up. I had to hoof it all the way over.'
'What's happened to your car?'
'Gertrude took it to drive Watkins to Shrewsbury'
The Rev. Rupert sat for a while in thought. His face, which was large and red, had a drawn look. Even the massive body which had so nearly won him a Rowing Blue at Oxford gave the illusion of having shrunk. So marked was his distress that even Freddie noticed it.
'Something up, Beefers?' he inquired.
For answer the Rev. Rupert Bingham extended a ham-like hand which held a letter. It was written in a sprawling, girlish handwriting.
'Read that.'
'From Gertrude?'
'Yes. It came this morning. Well?'
Freddie completed his perusal and handed the document back. He was concerned.
'I think it's the bird,' he said.
'So do I.'
'It's long,' said Freddie, 'and it's rambling. It is full of stuff about "Are we sure?" and "Do we know our own minds?" and "Wouldn't it be better, perhaps?" But I think it is the bird.'
'I can't understand it.'
Freddie sat up.
'I can,' he said. 'Now I see what Aunt Georgiana was drooling about. Her fears were well founded. The snake Watkins has stolen Gertrude from you.'
'You think Gertrude's in love with Watkins?'
'I do. And I'll tell you why. He's a yowler, and girls always fall for yowlers. They have a glamour.'
'I've never noticed Watkins's glamour. He has always struck me as a bit of a weed.'
'Weed he may be, Beefers, but, none the less, he knows how to do his stuff. I don't know why it should be, but there is a certain type of tenor voice which acts on girls like catnip on a cat.'
The Rev. Rupert breathed heavily.
'I see,' he said.
'The whole trouble is, Beefers,' proceeded Freddie, 'that Watkins is romantic and you're not. Your best friend couldn't call you romantic. Solid worth, yes. Romance, no.'
'So it doesn't seem as if there was much to be done about it?'
Freddie reflected.
'Couldn't you manage to show yourself in a romantic light?'
'How?'
'Well – stop a runaway horse.'
'Where's the horse?'
"Myes,' said Freddie. 'That's by way of being the difficulty, isn't it? The horse – where is it?'
There was silence for some moments.
'Well, be that as it may,' said Freddie. 'Can I borrow Bottles?'
'What for?'
'Purposes of demonstration. I wish to exhibit him to my Aunt Georgiana, so that she may see for herself to what heights of robustness a dog can rise when fed sedulously on Donaldson's Dog-Joy. I'm having a lot of trouble with that woman, Beefers. I try all the artifices which win to success in salesmanship, and they don't. But I have a feeling that if she could see Bottles and poke him in the ribs and note the firm, muscular flesh, she might drop. At any rate, it's worth trying. I'll take him along, may I?'
All right.'
'Thanks. And, in regard to your little trouble, I'll be giving it my best attention. You're looking in after dinner to-night?'
'I suppose so,' said the Rev. Rupert moodily.
The information that her impressionable daughter had gone off to roam the country-side in a two-seater car with the perilous Watkins had come as a grievous blow to Lady Alcester. As she sat on the terrace, an hour after Freddie had begun the weary homeward trek from Matchingham Vicarage, her heart was sorely laden.
The Airedale had wandered away upon some private ends, but the Peke lay slumbering in her lap. She envied it its calm detachment. To her the future looked black and the air seemed heavy with doom.
Only one thing mitigated her depression. Her nephew Frederick had disappeared. Other prominent local pests were present, such as flies and gnats, but not Frederick. The grounds of Blandings Castle appeared to be quite free from him.
And then even this poor consolation was taken from the stricken woman. Limping a little, as if his shoes hurt him, the Hon. Freddie came round the corner of the shrubbery, headed in her direction. He was accompanied by something having the outward aspect of a dog.
'What-ho, Aunt Georgiana!'
'Well, Freddie?' sighed Lady Alcester resignedly.
The Peke, opening one eye, surveyed the young man for a moment, seemed to be debating within itself the advisability of barking, came apparently to the conclusion that it was too hot, and went to sleep again.
'This is Bottles,' said Freddie.
'Who?'
'Bottles. The animal I touched on some little time back. Note the well-muscled frame.'
'I never saw such a mongrel in my life.'
'Kind hearts are more than coronets,' said Freddie. 'The point at issue is not this dog's pedigree, which, I concede, is not all Burke and Debrett, but his physique. Reared exclusively on a diet of Donaldson's Dog-Joy, he goes his way with his chin up, frank and fearless. I should like you, if you don't mind, to come along to the stables and watch him among the rats. It will give you some idea.'
He would have spoken further, but at this point something occurred, as had happened during his previous sales talk, to mar the effect of Freddie's oratory.
The dog Bottles, during this conversation, had been roaming to and fro in the inquisitive manner customary with dogs who find themselves in strange territory. He had sniffed at trees. He had rolled on the turf. Now, returning to the centre of things, he observed for the first time that on the lap of the woman seated in the chair there lay a peculiar something.
What it was Bottles did not know. It appeared to be alive. A keen desire came upon him to solve this mystery. To keep the records straight, he advanced to the chair, thrust an inquiring nose against the object, and inhaled sharply.
The next moment, to his intense surprise, the thing had gone off like a bomb, had sprung to the ground, and was moving rapidly towards him.
Bottles did not hesitate. A rough-and-tumble with one of his peers he enjoyed. He, as it were, rolled it round his tongue and mixed it with his saliva. But this was different. He had never met a Pekingese before, and no one would have been more surprised than himself if he had been informed that this curious, fluffy thing was a dog. Himself, he regarded it as an Act of God, and, thoroughly unnerved, he raced three times round the lawn and tried to climb a tree. Failing in this endeavour, he fitted his ample tail if possible more firmly into its groove and vanished from the scene.
The astonishment of the Hon. Freddie Threepwood was only equalled by his chagrin. Lady Alcester had begun now to express her opinion of the incident, and her sneers, her jeers, her unveiled innuendoes were hard to bear. If, she said, the patrons of Donaldson's Dog-Joy allowed themselves to be chased off the map in this fashion by Pekingese, she was glad she had never been weak enough to be persuaded to try it.
'It's lucky,' said Lady Alcester in her hard, scoffing way, 'that Susan wasn't a rat. I suppose a rat would have given that mongrel of yours heart failure.'
'Bottles,' said Freddie stiffly, 'is particularly
sound on rats. I think, in common fairness, you ought to step to the stables and give him a chance of showing himself in a true light.'
'I have seen quite enough, thank you.'
'You won't come to the stables and watch him dealing with rats?'
'I will not.'
'In that case,' said Freddie sombrely, 'there is nothing more to be said. I suppose I may as well take him back to the Vicarage.'
'What Vicarage?'
'Matchingham Vicarage.'
'Was that Rupert's dog?'
'Of course it was.'
'Then have you seen Rupert?'
'Of course I have.'
'Did you warn him? About Mr Watkins?'
'It was too late to warn him. He had had a letter from Gertrude, giving him the raspberry.'
'What!'
'Well, she said Was he sure and Did they know their own minds, but you can take it from me that it was tantamount to the raspberry. Returning, however, to the topic of Bottles, Aunt Georgiana, I think you ought to take into consideration the fact that, in his recent encounter with the above Peke, he was undergoing a totally new experience and naturally did not appear at his best. I repeat once more that you should see him among the rats.'
'Oh, Freddie?'
'Hullo?'
'How can you babble about this wretched dog when Gertrude's whole future is at stake? It is simply vital that somehow she be cured of this dreadful infatuation ...'
'Well, I'll have a word with her if you like, but, if you ask me, I think the evil has spread too far. Watkins has yowled himself into her very soul. However, I'll do my best. Excuse me, Aunt Georgiana.'
From a neighbouring bush the honest face of Bottles was protruding. He seemed to be seeking assurance that the All Clear had been blown.
It was at the hour of the ante-dinner cocktail that Freddie found his first opportunity of having the promised word with Gertrude. Your true salesman and go-getter is never beaten, and a sudden and brilliant idea for accomplishing the conversion of his Aunt Georgiana had come to him as he brushed his hair. He descended to the drawing-room with a certain jauntiness, and was reminded by the sight of Gertrude of his mission. The girl was seated at the piano, playing dreamy chords.
'I say,' said Freddie, 'a word with you, young Gertrude. What is all this bilge I hear about you and Beefers?'
The girl flushed.
'Have you seen Rupert?'
'I was closeted with him this afternoon. He told me all.'
'Oh?'
'He's feeling pretty low.'
'Oh?'
'Yes,' said Freddie, 'pretty low the poor old chap is feeling, and I don't blame him, with the girl he's engaged to rushing about the place getting infatuated with tenors. I never heard of such a thing, dash it! What do you see in this Watkins? Wherein lies his attraction? Certainly not in his ties. They're awful. And the same applies to his entire outfit. He looks as if he had bought his clothes off the peg at a second-hand gents' costumiers. And, as if that were not enough, he wears short, but distinct, side-whiskers. You aren't going to tell me that you're seriously considering chucking a sterling egg like old Beefers in favour of a whiskered warbler?'
There was a pause. Gertrude played more dreamy chords.
'I'm not going to discuss it,' she said. 'It's nothing to do with you.'
'Pardon me!' said Freddie. 'Excuse me! If you will throw your mind back to the time when Beefers was conducting his wooing, you may remember that I was the fellow who worked the whole thing. But for my resource and ingenuity you and the old bounder would never have got engaged. I regard myself, therefore, in the light of a guardian angel or something; and as such am entitled to probe the matter to its depths. Of course,' said Freddie, 'I know exactly how you're feeling. I see where you have made your fatal bloomer. This Watkins has cast his glamorous spell about you, and you're looking on Beefers as a piece of unromantic cheese. But mark this, girl ...'
'I wish you wouldn't call me "girl."'
'Mark this, old prune,' amended Freddie. And mark it well. Beefers is tried, true and trusted. A man to be relied on. Whereas Watkins, if I have read those whiskers aright, is the sort of fellow who will jolly well let you down in a crisis. And then, when it's too late, you'll come moaning to me, weeping salt tears and saying, "Ah, why did I not know in time?" And I shall reply, "You unhappy little fathead ...!"'
'Oh, go and sell your dog-biscuits, Freddie!'
Gertrude resumed her playing. Her mouth was set in an obstinate line. Freddie eyed her with disapproval.
'It's some taint in the blood,' he said. 'Inherited from female parent. Like your bally mother, you are constitutionally incapable of seeing reason. Pig-headed, both of you. Sell my dog biscuits, you say? Ha! As if I hadn't boosted them to Aunt Georgiana till my lips cracked. And with what result? So far, none. But wait till to-night.'
'It is to-night.'
'I mean, wait till later on to-night. Watch my little experiment.'
'What little experiment?'
'Ah!'
'What do you mean, "Ah"?'
'Just "Ah!"' said Freddie.
The hour of the after-dinner coffee found Blandings Castle apparently an abode of peace. The superficial observer, peeping into the amber drawing-room through the French windows that led to the terrace, would have said that all was well with the inmates of this stately home of England. Lord Emsworth sat in a corner absorbed in a volume dealing with the treatment of pigs in sickness and in health. His sister, Lady Constance Keeble, was sewing. His other sister, Lady Alcester, was gazing at Gertrude. Gertrude was gazing at Orlo Watkins. And Orlo Watkins was gazing at the ceiling and singing in that crooning voice of his a song of Roses.
The Hon. Freddie Threepwood was not present. And that fact alone, if one may go by the views of his father, Lord Emsworth, should have been enough to make a success of any party.
And yet beneath this surface of cosy peace troubled currents were running. Lady Alcester, gazing at Gertrude, found herself a prey to gloom. She did not like the way Gertrude was gazing at Orlo Watkins. Gertrude, for her part, as the result of her recent conversation with the Hon. Freddie, was experiencing twinges of remorse and doubt. Lady Constance was still ruffled from the effect of Lady Alcester's sisterly frankness that evening on the subject of the imbecility of hostesses who deliberately let Crooning Tenors loose in castles. And Lord Emsworth was in that state of peevish exasperation which comes to dreamy old gentlemen who, wishing to read of Pigs, find their concentration impaired by voices singing of Roses.
Only Orlo Watkins was happy. And presently he, too, was to join the ranks of gloom. For just as he started to let himself go and handle this song as a song should be handled, there came from the other side of the door the sound of eager barking. A dog seemed to be without. And, apart from the fact that he disliked and feared all dogs, a tenor resents competition.
The next moment the door had opened, and the Hon. Freddie Threepwood appeared. He carried a small sack, and was accompanied by Bottles, the latter's manner noticeably lacking in repose.
On the face of the Hon. Freddie, as he advanced into the room, there was that set, grim expression which is always seen on the faces of those who are about to put their fortune to the test, to win or lose it all. The Old Guard at Waterloo looked much the same. For Freddie had decided to stake all on a single throw.
Many young men in his position, thwarted by an aunt who resolutely declined to amble across to the stables and watch a dog redeem himself among the rats, would have resigned themselves sullenly to defeat. But Freddie was made of finer stuff.
'Aunt Georgiana,' he said, holding up the sack, at which Bottles was making agitated leaps, 'you refused to come to the stables this afternoon to watch this Donaldson's Dog-Joy-fed animal in action, so you have left me no alternative but to play the fixture on your own ground.'
Lord Emsworth glanced up from his book.
'Frederick, stop gibbering. And take that dog out of here.'
Lady Constance glanced u
p from her sewing.
'Frederick, if you are coming in, come in and sit down. And take that dog out of here.'
Lady Alcester, glancing up from Gertrude, exhibited in even smaller degree the kindly cordiality which might have been expected from an aunt.
'Oh, do go away, Freddie! You're a perfect nuisance. And take that dog out of here.'
The Hon. Freddie, with a noble look of disdain, ignored them all.
'I have here, Aunt Georgiana,' he said, 'a few simple rats. If you will kindly step out on to the terrace I shall be delighted to give a demonstration which should, I think, convince even your stubborn mind.'
The announcement was variously received by the various members of the company. Lady Alcester screamed. Lady Constance sprang for the bell. Lord Emsworth snorted. Orlo Watkins blanched and retired behind Gertrude. And Gertrude, watching him blench, seeing him retire, tightened her lips. A country-bred girl, she was on terms of easy familiarity with rats, and this evidence of alarm in one whom she had set on a pedestal disquieted her.
The door opened and Beach entered. He had come in pursuance of his regular duties to remove the coffee cups, but arriving, found other tasks assigned to him.
'Beach!' The voice was that of Lady Constance. 'Take away those rats.'
'Rats, m'lady?'
'Take that sack away from Mr Frederick!'
Beach understood. If he was surprised at the presence of the younger son of the house in the amber drawing-room with a sack of rats in his hand, he gave no indication of the fact. With a murmured apology, he secured the sack and started to withdraw. It was not, strictly, his place to carry rats, but a good butler is always ready to give and take. Only so can the amenities of a large country house be preserved.
'And don't drop the dashed things,' urged Lord Emsworth.
'Very good, m'lord.'
The Hon. Freddie had flung himself into a chair, and was sitting with his chin cupped in his hands, a bleak look on his face. To an ardent young go-getter these tyrannous actions in restraint of trade are hard to bear.
Lord Emsworth returned to his book.
Lady Constance returned to her sewing.
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