"I?"
"Who else is there? Freddie and I are both lying on beds of pain, unable to move, and we can hardly ask Connie to oblige. You are our only mobile force. Your quick intelligence has probably already told you what you have to do. What do people do when they've got a dog? They instruct the butler to let it out for a run last thing at night."
"Do they?"
"Invariably. Or bang go their carpets. Every dog has its last-thing-at-night outing, and I think we can safely assume that it will be via the back door."
"What the back door?"
“Via.”
"Oh, via? Yes, yes, quite."
"So you must pop over to the Fanshawes—say around ten o'clock—and lurk outside their back door till the animal appears, and bring it back here."
Lord Emsworth stared, aghast.
"But, Galahad!"
"It's no good saying 'But, Galahad!'. It's got to be done. You don't want Freddie's whole future to turn blue at the edges and go down the drain, do you? Let alone having him at the castle for the rest of his life. Ah, I see you shudder. I thought you would. And, dash it, it's not much I'm asking of you. Merely to go and stand in a back garden and scoop in a dog. A child could do it. If it wasn't that we want to keep the thing a secret just between ourselves, I'd hand the job over to the Brownie."
"But what if the dog refuses to accompany me? After all, we've scarcely met."
"I've thought of that. You must sprinkle your trouser legs with aniseed. Dogs follow aniseed to the ends of the earth."
"But I have no aniseed."
"Beach is bound to be able to lay his hands on some. And Beach never asks questions. Unlike Connie's young, smart butler, who would probably be full of them. Oh, Beach," said Gaily, who had pressed the bell. "Have we aniseed in the house?"
"Yes, Mr. Galahad."
"Bring me a stoup of it, will you?"
"Very good, sir," said Beach.
If the request surprised him, he did not show it. Your experienced butler never allows himself to look surprised at anything. He brought the aniseed. At the appointed hour Lord Emsworth drove off in Freddie's sports model car, smelling to heaven. And Gaily, left alone, lit another cigar and turned his attention to the Times crossword puzzle.
He found it, however, difficult to concentrate on it. This was not merely because these crossword puzzles had become so abstruse nowadays and he was basically a Sun-god-Ra and Large-Australian-bird-emu man. Having seen Lord Emsworth off on his journey, doubts and fears were assailing him. He was wishing he could feel more confident of his brother's chances of success in the mission which had been entrusted to him. A lifetime association with him had left him, feeling that the head of the family was a frail reed on which to lean in an emergency. His genius for doing the wrong thing was a byword in his circle of acquaintance.
Which, he was asking himself, of the many ways open to him for messing everything up would Lord Emsworth select? Drive the car into a ditch? Go to the wrong house? Or would he forget all about his assignment and sit by the roadside musing on pigs? It was impossible to say, and Gally's emotions were similar to those of a General who, having planned a brilliant piece of strategy, finds himself dubious as to the ability of his troops to carry it out. Generals in such circumstances chew their moustaches in an overwrought sort of way, and Gaily would have chewed his, if he had had one.
Heavy breathing sounded outside the door. Beach entered.
"Miss Fanshawe, sir," he announced.
Gally's acquaintance with Valerie Fanshawe was only a slight one and in the interval since they had last met he had forgotten some of her finer points. Seeing her now, he realized how accurate had been his description of her to Lord Ems-worth. In the best and deepest sense of the words she was a dish and a pippin—in short, the very last type of girl to whom a young husband should have given his wife's Alsatian.
"Good evening," he said. "You must forgive me for not rising as directed in the books of etiquette. I've sprained my ankle."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Valerie. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all."
"I asked for Mr. Threepwood, forgetting there were two of you. I came to see Freddie."
"He's gone to bed. He has sprained his ankle."
The girl seemed puzzled.
"Aren't you getting the cast of characters mixed up?" she said. "It was you who sprained the ankle."
"Freddie also."
"What, both of you? What happened?"
"We fell downstairs together."
"What made you do that?"
"Oh, we thought we would. Can I give Freddie a message?"
"If you wouldn't mind. Tell him that all is well. Did he mention to you that he was trying to sell Father those dog biscuits of his?"
"He did."
"Well, I approached Father on the subject and he said Oh, all right, he would give them a try. He said he didn't suppose they would actually poison the dumb chums and as I was making such a point of it he'd take a chance."
"Splendid."
"And I've brought back "the dog."
It was only the most sensational piece of news that could make Gally's monocle drop from his eye. At these words it fell like a shooting star.
"You've done what?" he exclaimed, retrieving the monocle and replacing it in order the better to goggle at her.
"He gave me an Alsatian dog this afternoon, and I've brought it back."
"You mean you don't want it?"
"I want it all right, but I can't have it. The fathead's first act on clocking in was to make a bee line for Father's spaniel and try to assassinate it, the one thing calculated to get himself socially ostracized. Father thinks the world of that spaniel. 'Who let this canine paranoiac into the house?' he thundered, foaming at the mouth. I said I had. 'Where did you get the foul creature?' he demanded. 'Freddie gave him to me,' I said. 'Then you can damn well take him back to this Freddie, who ever he is' he---"
"Vociferated?"
"Yes, vociferated. 'And let me add,' he said, 'that I am about to get my gun and count ten, and if the animal's still around when I reach that figure, I shall blow his head off at the roots and the Lord have mercy on his soul.' Well, I'm pretty quick and I saw right away that what he was hinting at was that he preferred not to associate with the dog, so I've brought him back. I think he went off to the Servants Hall to have a bite of supper. I shall miss him, of course. Still, easy come, easy go."
And so saying Valerie Fanshawe, reverting to the subject of Gally's ankle, expressed a hope that he would not have to have it amputated, and withdrew.
If at this moment somebody had started to amputate Gally's ankle, it is hardly probable that he would have noticed it, so centred were his thoughts on this astounding piece of good luck which had befallen a nephew of whom he had always been fond. If, as he supposed, it was the latter's guardian angel who had engineered the happy ending like a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he would have liked to slap him on the back and tell him how greatly his efforts were appreciated. Joy cometh in the morning, he told himself, putting the clock forward a little, and by way of celebrating the occasion he rang for Beach and asked him to bring, him a whisky and soda.
It was some considerable time before the order was filled, and Beach was full of apologies for his tardiness.
"I must express my regret for being so long, Mr. Galahad. I was detained on the telephone by Colonel Fanshawe."
"The Fanshawe family seem very much with us tonight. Is there a Mrs. Fanshawe?"
"I understand so, Mr. Galahad."
"No doubt she will be dropping in shortly. What did the Colonel want?"
"He was asking for his lordship, but I have been unable to locate him."
"He's gone for a stroll."
"Indeed? I was not aware. Colonel Fanshawe wished him to come to Marling Hall tomorrow morning in his capacity of Justice of the Peace. It appears that the butler at Marling Hall apprehended a prowler who was lurking in the vicinity of the back door
and has locked him in the cellar. Colonel Fanshawe is hoping that his lordship will give him a sharp sentence."
For the second time that night Gally's monocle had fallen from the parent eye socket. He had not, as we have seen, been sanguine with regard to the possibility of his brother getting through the evening without mishap, but he had not foreseen anything like this. This was outstanding, even for Clarence.
"Beach," he said, "this opens up a new line of thought. You speak of a prowler."
"Yes, sir."
"Who was lurking at the Fanshawe back door and is now in the Fanshawe cellar."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, here's something for your files. The prowler you have in mind was none other than Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth."
"Sir!"
"I assure you. I sent him to Marling Hall on a secret mission, the nature of which I am not empowered to disclose, and how he managed to get copped we shall never know. Suffice it that he did and is now in the cellar. Wine cellar or coal?"
"Coal, I was given to understand, sir."
"Our task, then, is to get him out of it. Don't speak. I must think, I must think."
When an ordinary man is trying to formulate a scheme for extricating his brother from a coal cellar, the procedure is apt to be a lengthy one involving the furrowed brow, the scratched head and the snapped finger, but in the case of a man like Gaily this is not so. Only a minimum of time had elapsed before he was able to announce that he had got it.
"Beach!"
"Sir?"
"Go to my bedroom, look in the drawer where the handkerchiefs are, and you will find a small bottle containing white tablets. Bring it to me."
"Very good, sir. Would this be the bottle to which you refer, sir?" asked Beach, returning a few minutes later.
"That's the one. Now a few necessary facts. Is the butler at the Fanshawes a pal of yours?"
"We are acquainted, sir."
"Then he won't be surprised if you suddenly pay him a call?"
"I imagine not, Mr. Galahad. I sometimes do when I find myself in the neighbourhood of Marling Hall."
"And on these occasions he sets them up?"
"Sir?"
"You drain a cup or two?"
"Oh yes, sir. I am always offered refreshment."
"Then it's all over but the cheering. You see this bottle, Beach? It contains what are known as Micky Finns. The name is familiar to you?"
"No, sir."
"They are a recognized sedative in the United States. When I last went to New York, a great friend of mine, a bartender on Eighth Avenue, happened to speak of them and was shocked to learn that I had none in my possession. They were things, he said, which nobody should be without. He gave me a few, assuring me that sooner or later they were bound to come in useful. Hitherto I have had no occasion to make use of them, but I think you will agree that now is the time for them to come to the aid of the party. You follow me, Beach?"
"No, sir."
"Come, come. You know my methods, apply them. Slip one of these into this butler's drink, and almost immediately you will see him fold up like a tired lily. Your path thus made straight, you proceed to the cellar, unleash his lordship and bring him home."
"But, Mr. Galahad!"
"Now what?"
"I hardly like---"
"Don't stand there making frivolous objections. If Clarence is not extracted from that cellar before tomorrow morning, his name will be mud. He will become a hissing and a byword."
"Yes, sir, but---"
"And don't overlook another aspect of the matter. Perform this simple task, and there will be no limit to his gratitude. Purses of gold will change hands. Camels bearing apes, ivory and peacocks, all addressed to you, will shortly be calling at the back door of Blandings Castle. You will clean up to an unimaginable extent."
It was a powerful plea. Beach's two chins, which had been waggling unhappily, ceased to waggle. A light of resolution came into his eyes. He looked like a butler who has stiffened the sinews and summoned up the blood, as recommended by Henry the Fifth.
"Very good, Mr. Galahad," he said.
Gaily resumed his crossword puzzle, more than ever convinced that the compiler of the clues was suffering from softening of the brain, and in due course heavy breathing woke him from the light doze into which he had fallen while endeavouring to read sense into '7 across' and he found that Beach was back from the front. He had the air of one who has recently passed through some great spiritual experience.
"Well?" said Gaily. "All washed up? Everything nice and smooth?"
"Yes, Mr. Galahad."
"You administered the medium dose for an adult?"
"Yes, Mr. Galahad."
"And released his lordship?"
"Yes, Mr. Galahad."
"That's my boy. Where is he?"
"Taking a bath, Mr. Galahad. He was somewhat begrimed. Would there be anything further, sir?"
"Not a thing. You can go to bed and sleep peacefully. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
It was some minutes later, while Gaily was wrestling with '12-down', that he found his privacy invaded by a caller with whom he had not expected to hobnob. It was very seldom that his sister Constance sought his society. Except for shivering austerely whenever they met, she rarely had much to do with him.
"Oh, hullo, Connie," he said. "Are you any good at crossword puzzles?"
Lady Constance did not say "To hell with crossword puzzles," but it was plain that only her breeding restrained her from doing so. She was in one of those moods of imperious wrath which so often had reduced Lord Emsworth to an apologetic jelly.
"Galahad," she said. "Have you seen Beach?"
"Just been chatting with him. Why?"
"I have been ringing for him for half an hour. He really is quite past his duties."
"Clarence was telling me that that was how you felt about him. He said you were thinking of firing him."
“I am.”
"I shouldn't."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll rue the day."
"I don't understand you."
"Then let me tell you a little bedtime story."
"Please do not drivel, Galahad. Really I sometimes think that you have less sense than Clarence."
"It is a story," Gaily proceeded, ignoring the slur, "of a feudal devotion to the family interests which it would be hard to overpraise. It shows Beach in so favourable a light that I think you will agree that when you speak of giving him the heave-ho you are talking, if you will forgive me saying so, through the back of your neck."
"Have you been drinking, Galahad?"
"Only a series of toasts to a butler who will go down in legend and song. Here comes the story."
He told it well, omitting no detail however slight, and as his narrative unfolded an ashen pallor spread over Lady Constance's face and she began to gulp in a manner which would have interested any doctor specializing in ailments of the thoracic cavity.
"So there you are," said Gaily, concluding. "Even if you are not touched by his selfless service and lost in admiration of his skill in slipping Micky Finns into people's drinks, you must realize that it would be madness to hand him the pink slip. You can't afford to have him spreading the tale of Clarence's activities all over the county, and you know as well as I do that, if sacked, he will dine out on the thing for months. If I were you, Connie, I would reconsider."
He eyed the wreck of what had once been a fine upstanding sister with satisfaction. He could read the message of those gulps, and could see that she was reconsidering.
Our Man in America
One of the disadvantages you fellows have who live in England and don't see the New York papers regularly is that you miss a lot of interesting stuff. I don't suppose, for instance, that any of you have been able to follow the Fooshe-Harris case, have you? It culminated in the headline in the press:
WOMAN WHO CAME TO DINNER DEPARTS AFTER 11-YEAR STAY
and the ensuing brief ann
ouncement:
St. Louis, April 30. Mrs. Eleanor Elaine Lee Harris, who stretched a dinner invitation into an eleven-year stay at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller Fooshe of this city, packed up and departed today on a judge's order. The Fooshes, who are now separated, joined in the eviction suit against her.
Now one can understand that correspondence which has been going on so long between Worried (St. Louis) and Loretta Biggs Tuttle, the well-known adviser on social etiquette whose column is so widely syndicated.
October 10, 1947
Dear Loretta Biggs Tuttle,—I am hoping that you will be able to tell me what to do in a case like this, for I have no mother to advise me.
Here are the facts very briefly. On April 14, 1944, I was invited to dinner by some friends of mine... well, I suppose they were more acquaintances at that time...and it was all most enjoyable. My host and hostess could not have been more charming. But now that I have been with them three years and six months something seems to have happened. Their manner has changed. I do my best to be bright and entertaining, and have even gone to the trouble of learning a few simple card tricks, but they keep falling into long silences and Mr. F., my host, groans a good deal. Do you think that without knowing it I can have done something to offend them?
(You must not be so sensitive, Worried. We are all a little inclined to be diffident and to think ourselves responsible when some trifling thing goes wrong. There are a hundred reasons why Mr. F. should groan ... high taxation, increased cost of living, heavy day at the office and so on. As for the long silences, so many people go into long silences these days. All this Yogi meditation stuff, you know.)
August 3, 1952
Dear Loretta Biggs Tuttle,—I am sure there is something wrong. Mrs. F. has not spoken to me since 1949, and Mr. F. is still groaning. He seems to have aged a good deal, and I am afraid his memory is failing him. This afternoon a friend of his called, and when introducing me he said: "Shake hands with Mrs. Barnacle-Limpet." I thought it so odd, because after more than eight years he must know what my name is.
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