Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Her reverie was interrupted by the opening of the door. The pencil of light beneath it had attracted Colonel Wedge's eye as he started forth on his mission. She raised her head from the pillow and rolled two enormous eyes in his direction. In a slow, pleasant voice, like clotted cream made audible, she said:

  'Hullo, Dad-dee.'

  'Hullo, my dear. How are you?'

  'All right, Dad-dee.'

  Colonel Wedge seated himself on the end of the bed, amazed afresh, as he always was when he saw this daughter of his, that two such parents as his wife and himself, mere selling platers in the way of looks, could have produced an offspring so spectacular. Veronica Wedge, if the dumbest, was certainly the most beautiful girl registered among the collateral branches in the pages of Debrett's Peerage. With the brains of a peahen, and one whose mental growth had been retarded by being dropped on its head when just out of the egg, she combined a radiant loveliness which made fashionable photographers fight for her custom. Every time you saw in the paper the headlines

  WEST END AFFRAY

  PHOTOGRAPHERS BRAWL WHILE

  THOUSANDS CHEER

  you could be pretty certain that trade rivalry concerning Veronica Wedge had caused the rift.

  'When did you get back, Dad-dee?'

  'Just now. Train was late.'

  'Did you have a nice time in London?'

  'Very nice. Quite a good dinner. Your uncle Galahad was there.'

  'Uncle Gally's coming here for my birthday.'

  'So he told me. And Freddie arrives to-morrow.'

  'Yes.'

  Veronica Wedge spoke without emotion. If the severing of her engagement to Frederick Threepwood and his union with another had ever pained her, it was clear that the agony had abated.

  'He's bringing a friend with him. Chap named Tipton Plimsoll.'

  'Oh, is that who it is?'

  'You've met him?'

  'No, but I was at Quaglino's with Mummie one day, and somebody pointed him out. He's frightfully rich. Does Mummie want me to marry him?'

  There was an engaging simplicity and directness about his child which sometimes took Colonel Wedge's breath away. It did so now.

  'Good God!' he said, when he had recovered it. 'What an extraordinary notion. I don't suppose such an idea so much as crossed her mind.'

  Veronica lay thinking for a few moments. It was a thing she did very seldom and then only with the greatest difficulty, but this was a special occasion.

  'I wouldn't mind,' she said. 'He didn't look a bad sort.'

  Her words were not burning – Juliet, speaking of Romeo, would have put it better – but they came as music to Colonel Wedge. It was with uplifted heart that he kissed his daughter good night. He had reached the door, when it occurred to him that there was a subject he had intended to touch on the next time he saw her.

  'Oh, by the way, Vee, has anyone ever called you a dream rabbit?'

  'No, Dad-dee.'

  'Would you consider it pretty significant if they did? Even nowadays, I mean, when everybody calls everyone every dashed thing under the sun – "darling" and "angel" and all that sort of thing?'

  'Oh yes, Dad-dee.'

  'Ha!' said Colonel Wedge.

  He returned to the Blue Room. The light had been switched off, and he spoke at a venture into the darkness.

  'Old girl.'

  'Oh, Egbert, I was nearly asleep.'

  'I'm sorry. I thought you would like to hear that I've been talking to Vee about Plimsoll, and she seems interested. It appears that she was with you that time you saw him in the restaurant. She says she didn't think he looked a bad sort. I consider it promising. Oh, and about that other matter. She says "dream rabbit" is dashed strong stuff. The real ginger. You'd better tell Dora. It seems to me that young Prudence wants watching. Good night, old girl. I'm off to see Clarence.'

  IV

  Lord Emsworth was not asleep. He was lying in bed with a book on the treatment of pigs in sickness and in health. At the moment of his brother-in-law's entrance he had laid it down for a space, in order to brood on this awful thing which was about to befall him. To be compelled to play the host to his younger son Freddie was alone enough to unman him. Add a tight chap, and you had a situation at which the doughtiest earl might quail.

  'Ah, Egbert,' he said dully.

  'Shan't keep you a moment, Clarence. Just a trifling matter. You remember I told you Freddie was bringing his friend Plimsoll down here.'

  Lord Emsworth quivered.

  'As well as the tight chap?'

  Colonel Wedge tutted a tut as impatient as any that had ever proceeded from the lips of his companion's female connections.

  'Plimsoll is the tight chap. And what I came to say is, when you meet him, don't tell him Veronica used to be engaged to Freddie. Better write it down, or you'll go forgetting.'

  'Certainly, my dear fellow, if you wish it. Have you a pencil?'

  'Here you are.'

  'Thank you, thank you,' said Lord Emsworth, and wrote on the flyleaf of the pig book, which was all he had at his bedside in the way of tablets. 'Good night,' he said, pocketing the pencil.

  'Good night,' said Colonel Wedge, retrieving it.

  He closed the door, and Lord Emsworth returned to his sombre thoughts.

  V

  Blandings Castle was in for the night. In the Clock Room, Colonel Wedge was dreaming of rich sons-in-law. In the Blue Room, Lady Hermione, on the verge of sleep, was registering a mental note to ring her sister Dora up on the telephone first thing in the morning and warn her to keep a keen, motherly eye on her daughter Prudence. In the Red Room, Veronica was staring at the ceiling again, and now there was a soft smile on her lovely lips. It had just occurred to her that Tipton Plimsoll was exactly the sort of man who would provide her with jewels – in fact, cover her with them.

  Lord Emsworth had picked up the pig book again and was peering through his pince-nez at the words on the flyleaf.

  When Plimsoll arrives, tell him that Veronica used to be engaged to Freddie.

  They perplexed him a little, for he could not understand why, if Colonel Wedge wished such a piece of information imparted to this tight Plimsoll, he should not impart it himself. But he had long given up trying to fathom the mental processes of those about him. Turning to page forty-seven, he began to re-read its golden words on the subject of bran mash and was soon absorbed.

  The moon beamed down on the turrets and battlements. It was not quite full yet, but would be in the course of the next few days.

  CHAPTER 2

  The hands of those of London's clocks which happened to be seeing eye to eye with Greenwich Observatory were pointing to twenty minutes past nine on the following morning, when the ornate front door of Wiltshire House, Grosvenor Square, flew open, and there came pouring out in close formation an old spaniel, a young spaniel, and a middle-aged Irish setter, followed by a girl in blue. She crossed the road to the railed-in gardens and unlocked the gate, and her associates streamed through; first the junior spaniel, then the senior spaniel, and finally the Irish setter, who had been detained for a moment by a passing smell.

  It has never been authoritatively established what are the precise attributes which qualify a girl to rank as a dream rabbit, but few impartial judges would have cavilled at the application of the term to Prudence, only daughter of Dora, relict of the late Sir Everard Garland, K.C.B. For while she had none of that breath-taking beauty which caused photographers to fight over Veronica Wedge, she was quite alluring enough in her trim, slim, blue-eyed way to justify male acquaintances in so addressing her over the telephone. There was not much of her, but what there was was good.

  Probably the chief thing about this attractive young half-portion that would have impressed itself upon an observer on the present occasion was the fact that she appeared extraordinarily happy. She had, indeed, the air of a girl who is thoroughly above herself. Her eyes were shining, her feet seemed to dance along the pavement, and from her lips there proceeded a gay song
, not so loudly as to disturb the amenities of Grosvenor Square, but loudly enough to shock a monocled young man who had just come up behind her, causing him to prod her in the small of the back with an austere umbrella.

  'Less of it, young Prue,' he said rebukingly. 'You can't do that there here.'

  The clocks, as has been stated, showed that the time was only twenty minutes past nine. Nevertheless, this musical critic was Lord Emsworth's younger son, Freddie. Early though the hour was, Frederick Threepwood was up and about, giving selfless service to the firm which employed him. Sent over to London to whack up the English end of Donaldson's Inc., manufacturers of the world-famous Donaldson's Dog-Joy, he had come to catch his aunt Dora before she went out and give her a sales talk.

  The thing was, of course, a mere incident in a busy man's routine. Lady Dora Garland was not, like some women, a sort of projecting rock in the midst of a foaming sea of dogs, and flags would not be run up over the firm's Long Island City factory if he booked her order; but as the managing director of two distinct spaniels and an Irish setter she was entitled to her place as a prospect. Allowing, say, twenty biscuits per day per spaniel and the same or possibly more per day per Irish setter, her custom per year per complete menagerie would be quite well worth securing. Your real go-getter, seething though his brain may be with gigantic schemes, does not disdain these minor coups, for he knows that every little bit added to what you've got makes just a little bit more.

  The apparition of her cousin seemed to astonish Prudence as much as that of Colonel Wedge on the previous night had astonished Lord Emsworth.

  'Golly, Freddie,' she cried, amazed. 'Up already?'

  The poetic greeting plainly stung the young go-getter.

  'Already? What do you mean, already? Why, over in Long Island City I leave the hay at seven sharp, and by nine-thirty we're generally half-way through our second conference.'

  'You don't attend conferences?'

  'You betcher I attend conferences.'

  'Well, you could knock me down with a feather,' said Prudence composedly. 'I always thought you were a sort of office boy.'

  'Me? Vice-president. Say, is Aunt Dora in?'

  'She was just going to the phone when I came out. Somebody ringing up from Blandings.'

  'Good. I want a talk with her. I've been trying to get around to it for days. It's about those dogs of yours. What do they live on?'

  'The chairs most of the time.'

  Freddie clicked his tongue. One smiles at these verbal pleasantries, but they clog the wheels of commerce.

  'You know what I mean. What do you feed them?'

  'I forget. Mother could tell you. Peterson's something.'

  A quick shudder passed through Freddie's elegant frame. His air was that of a man who has been bitten in the leg.

  'Not Peterson's Pup Food?'

  'That's the name.'

  'My God!' cried Freddie, dropping his monocle in his emotion. 'Is everybody over here nuts? This is the fifth case of Peterson's Pup Food I've come across in the last two weeks. And they call England a dog-loving nation. Do you want those hounds of yours to get rickets, rheumatism, sciatica, anæmia, and stomach trouble? Well, they jolly well will if you continue to poison them with a product lacking, I happen to know, in several of the most important vitamins. Peterson's Pup Food, forsooth! What they need, to make them the well-muscled, vital, one-hundred-per-cent he-dogs they ought to be, is Donaldson's Dog-Joy. Donaldson's Dog-Joy is God's gift to the kennel, whether it be in the gilded palace of the rich or the humble hovel of the poor. Dogs raised on Donaldson's Dog-Joy become fine, strong, upstanding dogs who go about with their chins up and both feet on the ground and look the world in the eye. Get your dog thinking the Donaldson way! Let Donaldson make your spaniel a super-spaniel! Place your Irish setter's paws on the broad Donaldson highroad and watch him scamper away to health, happiness, the clear eye, the cold nose, and the ever-wagging tail! Donaldson's Dog-Joy, which may be had in the five-shilling packet, the half-crown packet, and the—'

  'Freddie!'

  'Hullo?'

  'Stop!'

  'Stop?' said Freddie, who had only just begun.

  Prudence Garland was exhibiting symptoms of being overcome.

  'Yes, stop. Desist. Put a sock in it. Gosh, it's like a tidal wave. I'm beginning to believe you about those conferences. You must be the life and soul of them.'

  Freddie straightened his tie.

  'The boys generally seem to wish to hear my views,' he admitted modestly.

  'And I'll bet they get their wish if you're within a mile of them.'

  'Was I raising my voice?'

  'You were yelling like a soul in torment.'

  'One gets carried away.'

  'You will be, by the constabulary, if you aren't careful. Do you mean to say you really are a success in business, Freddie?'

  'Well, considering that the Big Chief has entrusted me with the task of gingering up the English branch, I must be fairly ... Well, figure it out for yourself.'

  'And you had had no previous experience.'

  'None. It just seemed to come to me like a flash.'

  Prudence drew in her breath sharply.

  'Well, this settles it. If you can become a business man, anyone can.'

  'I wouldn't say that.'

  'I would. What a bit of luck, running in to you like this. You've provided me with just the crushing argument I needed. I can now squelch Bill properly.'

  'Bill?'

  'He won't have a leg to stand on. You see, it's so obvious what happened. There were you, a perfectly ordinary sort of ass—'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  '—and you go and get married, and immediately turn into a terrific tycoon. That was what did the trick, your getting married.'

  Freddie had no desire to contest this theory.

  'Yes,' he agreed, 'I think one may say that. I have never attempted to disguise the fact that I owe everything to the little wo—'

  'No man ever amounted to anything till he got married.'

  '—man, my best pal and sev—'

  'Look at Henry the Eighth.'

  '—erest critic.'

  'And Solomon. Once they started marrying, there was no holding them – you just sat back and watched their smoke. And it'll be the same with Bill. He keeps saying he wouldn't be any good at business, trying to come the dreamy artist over me, but that's all nonsense. Wait till you're married, I tell him, and then see how you'll blossom out. And now I'll be able to put you in as Exhibit A. "What price Freddie, Bill?" I shall say to him, and he won't know which way to look.'

  'Who is this William?'

  'A man I know. I met him through Uncle Gally. He's Uncle Gally's godson.' Prudence glanced cautiously about her; then, satisfied that no prying eyes intruded on their solitude, drew from the recesses of her costume a photograph. 'Here he is.'

  The face that gazed from the picture was not that of a strictly handsome man. It was, indeed, that of one who would have had to receive a considerable number of bisques to make it worth his while to enter even the most minor of beauty contests. The nose was broad, the ears prominent, the chin prognathous. This might, in fact, have been the photograph of a kindly gorilla. Kindly, because even in this amateur snapshot one could discern the pleasant honesty and geniality of the eyes.

  The body this face surmounted was very large and obviously a mass of the finest muscle. The whole, in short, was what a female novelist of the Victorian era would have called 'a magnificent ugly man', and Freddie's first feeling was a mild wonder that such a person should ever have consented to have his photograph taken.

  Then this emotion changed to interest. Screwing his monocle more tightly into his eye, he examined the picture closely.

  'Haven't I met this bird?'

  'You know best.'

  'Yes. I have met him.'

  'Where?'

  'At Oxford.'

  'Bill wasn't at Oxford. He went to an art school.'

  'I am not referrin
g to the university of that name, but to a pub on the outskirts called the Mulberry Tree. I used to frequent it a good deal, and every time I went this bird was there. The story was that he was being paid to haunt the place.'

  'It belonged to his uncle.'

  'Did it? Then that explains why he was so glued to the premises. Well, what with him constantly being there and me constantly popping in for lunch, dinner, or possibly only a drink, we became close cronies. Lister was his name.'

  'It still is.'

  'Bill Lister. We used to call him Blister. And he was, as you say, an artist. I remember thinking it rummy. Somehow the life artistic didn't seem to go with a face like that.'

  'What do you mean, a face like that?'

  'Well, it is, isn't it?'

  'Your own dial, young Freddie,' said Prudence coldly, 'is nothing to write home about. I think Bill's lovely. How odd that you should be friends.'

  'Not at all. Blister was loved by all who knew him.'

  'I mean, how odd that you should have known him.'

  'Not in the least. You couldn't look in at the Mulberry Tree without bumping into him. He seemed to fill up all the available space. And having bumped into him, one naturally fraternized. So his uncle owns that joint, does he?'

  'Not now. He died the other day, and left it to Bill.'

  'Any dogs there?'

  'How on earth should I know?'

  A keen look had come into Freddie's eyes.

  'Ask Blister. And, if there are, put him in touch with me. Well,' said Freddie, returning to his breast pocket the notebook in which he had made a swift entry, 'this sounds like a bit of bunce for my old friend. Taking into consideration goodwill, fixtures, stock in cellar, and so forth, he should be able to sell out for a fairish sum.'

  'But that's just the point. I don't want him to sell out. I want him to chuck being an artist and run the Mulberry Tree. It's the most wonderful opportunity. He'll never get anywhere, muddling along with his painting, and we could make a fortune out of a place like that. It's just the right distance from Oxford, which gives us a ready-made clientele, and we could put in a squash court and a swimming pool and advertise it in the London papers, and it might become as popular as that place in Buckinghamshire that everybody goes to. Of course, we should need capital.'