Galahad at Blandings (16 page)

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?’

It was
not easy to dislodge the monocle from Gally’s eye, but this piece of
information did it. He stared incredulously.

‘Are
you puffing my leg?’

‘I am
not.’

‘But
what on earth made him do that?’

‘He was
grateful to me for assuring him that the Empress had not got swine fever.’

‘And he
really asked you to stay?’

‘He
did.’

Gally
retrieved his monocle and replaced it in its niche. His manner was pensive.

‘This
opens up a new line of thought,’ he said. ‘It might perhaps have been better
on the whole if I had not introduced the Whipple motif. It’s a pity you didn’t
tell me that before.’

‘When
did I have a chance to?’

‘True.
Well, it’s done now and nothing more to be said.’

‘I can
think of a few things.’

Gally
looked pained.

‘You
must not allow yourself to become bitter, my boy. No doubt you are feeling
disturbed and upset, but I can’t see that you have much to complain of You were
in imminent danger of getting the local police force on the back of your neck,
and the one thing you needed most sorely was a hide-out. Now you have one. What
are those beautiful lines of someone’s about the sailor being home from the sea
and the hunter home from the hill? That’s you. You’re in, aren’t you?’

‘Under
a false name.’

‘What
of that? There’s nothing low or degrading about an alias. Look at Lord Bacon. Went
about calling himself Shakespeare.’

And I’m
supposed to be an authority on pigs.’

‘You have
some objection to being an authority on pigs?’

‘Yes, I
have, considering that I don’t know a damn thing about them except that their
tails wiggle when they eat. What do I do when Lord Emsworth starts talking pig
to me?’

‘No
need for concern. Clarence will do all the talking. An occasional low murmur is
all he’ll expect from you. But hist!’

‘What
do you mean, hist?’

‘Seal
your lips. I think I hear him coming.’

Gally
was right. A moment later, Lord Emsworth bustled in, wreathed in smiles.

‘Ah,
here you are, Mr Whipple,’ he said. ‘Capital, capital. I will ring for tea.’

‘Tea?’
said Gally. ‘You don’t want tea. Filthy stuff. Look what it did to poor Buffy
Struggles. Did I ever tell you about Buffy? Someone lured him into one of those
temperance lectures illustrated with coloured slides and there was one showing
the liver of the drinker of alcohol. He called on me next day, his face ashen.
“Gally,” he said, “what would you say the procedure was when a fellow wants to
buy tea?” “Tea?” I said. “What do you want tea for?” “To drink,” he said. I
told him to pull himself together. “You’re talking wildly,” I said. “You can’t
drink tea. Have a drop of brandy.” He shook his head. “No more alcohol for me,”
he said. “It makes your liver look like a Turner sunset.” Well, I begged him
with tears in my eyes not to do anything rash, but I couldn’t move him. He
ordered in ten pounds of the muck and was dead two weeks later. Got run over by
a hansom cab in Piccadilly. Obviously if his system hadn’t been weakened by
tea, he’d have been able to dodge the vehicle. Summon Beach and tell him to
bring a bottle of champagne. I can see from Whipple’s face that he needs a
bracer.