'But how do you know Tippy will be in the vicinity?'
'Because I shall see to it that he is. Immediately after lunch I shall seek him out and engage him in conversation. You, meanwhile, will attach yourself to Veronica. You will find some pretext for sending her to her room. What pretext? Let me think.'
'She was threatening the other day to show me her album of school snapshots. I could ask her to fetch it.'
'Admirable. And the moment the starter's flag has dropped, give the gong in the hall a good hard bang. That will serve as my cue for unleashing young Plimsoll. I think we have synchronized everything?'
Freddie said he thought so.
'And the guv'nor being in London,' he pointed out with some relief, 'you will be able to restore the animal to its sty without him knowing to what uses it has been put in his absence.'
'True.'
'A rather important point, that. Any funny business involving the ancestral porker is apt to wake the sleeping tiger in him.'
'Quite. That shall be attended to. One does not wish to cause Clarence pain. I suppose the best time to inject this pig would be after the gang have settled in at lunch. You won't mind being ten minutes late for lunch?'
'Try to make it five,' said Freddie, who liked his meals.
'And now,' said Gally, 'to find Prudence. I have a note to give her from Bill which, unless I am greatly mistaken, will send her singing about the premises like a skylark in summer. Where would she be, I wonder? I've been looking for her everywhere.'
Freddie was able to assist him.
'I met her in the village as I was driving through. She said she was going to see the vicar about his jumble sale.'
'Then I will stroll down and meet her,' said Gally.
With a parting instruction to his nephew to be on his toes the moment he heard the luncheon gong go, he sauntered off. His mood was one of quiet happiness. If there was one thing this good man liked, it was scattering light and sweetness, and to-day, it seemed to him, he was about to scatter light and. sweetness with no uncertain hand.
IV
Tipton Plimsoll stood on the terrace, moodily regarding the rolling parkland that spread itself before his lack-lustre eyes. As usual in this smiling expanse of green turf and noble trees, a certain number of cows, some brown, some piebald, were stoking up and getting their vitamins, and he glowered at them like a man who had got something against cows. And when a bee buzzed past his nose, his gesture of annoyance showed that he was not any too sold on bees either. The hour was half-past two, and lunch had come to an end some few minutes earlier.
It had proved a melancholy meal for Tipton. A light break-faster, he generally made up leeway at the midday repast, but on this occasion he had more or less pushed his food away untasted. Nothing in the company or the conversation at the board had tended to dispel the dark mood in which he had started the morning. He had been glad when the ritual of coffee-drinking was over and he was at liberty to take himself elsewhere.
His initial move, as we say, had been to the terrace, for he needed air and solitude. He got the air all right but missed out on the solitude. He had been looking at the cows for scarcely a minute and a quarter with growing disfavour, when a monocle gleamed in the sunshine and the Hon. Galahad was at his side.
Most people found Gally Threepwood a stimulating and entertaining companion and were glad of his society, but Tipton goggled at him with concealed loathing. And when one says 'concealed', that is perhaps the wrong word. All through lunch this man had insisted on forcing upon him a genial flow of talk about his late Uncle Chet, and as far as Tipton was concerned Uncle Chet had reached saturation point. He felt that he had heard all that any nephew could possibly wish to hear about an uncle.
So now, starting away like some wild creature frightened by human approach, he was off the terrace and into the house before his companion could so much as be reminded of a story. The gloom of the small smoking-room drew him like a magnet, and he had fled there and was reaching out a limp hand for the weekly illustrated paper containing the camera study when the door opened.
'Aha!' said Gally. 'So here you are, eh?'
There is this to be said for the English country-house party, whatever its drawbacks, which are very numerous – when you have had as much of the gay whirl as you can endure, you can always do a sneak to your bedroom. Two minutes later Tipton was in his. And two minutes after that he found that he had been mistaken in supposing that he was alone at last. There was a knock on the door, the robust and confident knock of one who is sure of his welcome, and a dapper, grey-flannelled form sauntered in.
Anybody who wishes to be clear on Tipton Plimsoll's feelings at this juncture has only to skim through the pages of Masefield's Reynard the Fox. The sense of being a hunted thing was strong upon him. And mingled with it was resentment at the monstrous injustice of this persecution. If a country-house visitor is not safe in his bedroom, one might just as well admit that civilization has failed and that the whole fabric of society is tottering.
Agony of spirit made him abrupt.
'Say, you chasing something?' he demanded dangerously.
It would have required a dull man to be unconscious of the hostility of his attitude, and it did not escape Gally's notice that his young friend was rapidly coming to the boil. But he ignored the sullen fire behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.
'We do keep meeting, don't we?' he replied with the suave geniality which had so often disarmed belligerent bookmakers. 'The fact is, my boy, I want a long talk with you.'
'You just had one.'
'A long, intimate talk on a matter closely affecting your happiness and well-being. You are the nephew of my old friend Chet Tipton—'
'You already told me that.'
'—and I decline, I positively refuse to see Chet Tipton's nephew ruining his future and bunging golden prospects of roseate bliss where the soldier bunged the pudding, when I can put the whole thing right in half a minute with a few simple words. Come now, my dear fellow, we needn't beat about the bush. You love my niece Veronica.'
A convulsive start shook Tipton Plimsoll. His impulse was to deny the statement hotly. But even as he opened his mouth to do so, he found himself gazing at the lovely features of the camera study. Actually, the camera study was still in the small smoking-room, but he seemed to see it now, the rose dangling from its lips, and he had not the heart to speak. Instead, he gave a quick, low gulp like a bulldog choking on a piece of gristle, causing Gally to pat his shoulder five or six times in a fatherly manner.
'Of course you do,' said Gally. 'No argument about that. You love her like a ton of bricks. The whole neighbourhood is ringing with the story of your passion. Then why on earth, my dear chap, are you behaving in this extraordinary way?'
'What do you mean, extraordinary way?' said Tipton, weakly defensive.
'You know what I mean,' said Gally, impatient of evasion. 'Many people would say you were playing fast and loose with the girl.'
'Fast and loose?' said Tipton, shocked.
'Fast and loose,' repeated Gally firmly. 'And you know what the verdict of men of honour is on chaps who play fast and loose with girls. I have often heard your Uncle Chet express himself particularly strongly on the subject.'
The words 'To hell with my Uncle Chet' trembled on Tipton's lips, but he forced them back in favour of others more germane to the subject under discussion.
'Well, what price her playing fast and loose with me?' he cried. 'Leading me on and then starting the old army game, the two-timing Jezebel.'
'Don't you mean Delilah?'
'Do I?' said Tipton, dubious.
'I think so,' said Gally, none too sure himself. 'Jezebel was the one who got eaten by dogs.'
'What a beastly idea.'
'Not pleasant,' agreed Gally. 'Must have hurt like the dickens. However, the point is,' he said, a stern look coming into his face, 'that you are speaking of my niece and bringing a very serious accusation against her. What, exactly, do you imply
by the expression "the old army game"?'
'I mean she's giving me the run-around.'
'I fail to understand you.'
'Well, what would you call it if a girl let it be generally known that you were the blue-eyed boy and then you found her necking on benches with that heel Freddie?'
This shook Gally.
'Necking on benches? With Freddie?'
'I saw them. He was kissing her. She was crying, and he was kissing her like nobody's business.'
'When was this?'
'Yesterday.'
Daylight flooded in upon the Hon. Galahad. He was a man who could put two and two together.
'Before you had failed to meet her behind the rhododendrons,' he asked keenly, 'or after?'
'After,' said Tipton, and having spoken allowed his mouth to remain open like that of a sea lion expecting another fish. 'Gee! Do you think that was why she was crying?'
'Of course it was. My dear chap, you're a man of the world and you know perfectly well that you can't go about the place telling girls to meet you behind rhododendrons and then not turning up without gashing their sensitive natures to the quick. One sees the whole picture. Having drawn blank in the rhododendrons, Veronica would naturally totter to the nearest bench and weep bitterly. Along comes Freddie, finds her in tears, and in a cousinly spirit kisses her.'
'Cousinly spirit? You think that was it?'
'Unquestionably. A purely cousinly spirit. They have known each other all their lives.'
'Yes,' said Tipton moodily. 'People used to call her his little sweetheart.'
'Who told you that?'
'Lord Emsworth.'
Gally clicked his tongue.
'My dear fellow, one of the first lessons you have to learn, if you intend to preserve your sanity in Blandings Castle, is to pay no attention whatsoever to anything my brother Clarence says. He has been talking through the back of his neck for nearly sixty years. I never heard anyone call Veronica Freddie's little sweetheart.'
'He used to be engaged to her.'
'Well, weren't we all? I don't mean engaged to Veronica, but to somebody. Weren't you?'
'Why, yes,' Tipton was forced to admit. 'I've been engaged about half a dozen times.'
'And they mean nothing to you now, these momentary tendresses?'
'Momentary what?'
'Oh, get on with it,' said Gally. 'You don't care a damn for the girls now, what?'
'I wouldn't say a damn,' said Tipton meditatively. 'There was one named Doris Jimpson ... Yes, I would too. No, I don't care a damn for any of them.'
'Exactly. Well, there you are. You needn't worry about Freddie. He's devoted to his wife.'
Hope dawned in his young friend's face.
'You mean that?'
'Certainly. A thoroughly happy marriage. They bill and coo incessantly.'
'Gosh,' said Tipton, and mused awhile. 'Of course cousins do kiss cousins, don't they?'
'They're at it all the time.'
'And it doesn't mean a thing?'
'Not a thing. Tell me, my dear chap,' said Gally, feeling that the sooner this point was settled the quicker the conference would begin to get results. 'Why did you hang back from that rhododendron tryst?'
'Well, it's a long story,' said Tipton.
It was not often that the Hon. Galahad found himself commending the shrewdness and intelligence of a nephew whom from infancy he had always looked upon as half-witted, but he did so now, as the tale of the face unfolded itself. In the course of a longish life spent in London's more Bohemian circles it had been his privilege to enjoy the friendship of quite a number of men who saw things, and he knew how sensitive and highly strung those so afflicted were, and how readily they had recourse to the bottle to ease the strain. Unquestionably, Freddie had been right. It would have been an error of the gravest nature to have put the pig in Tipton Plimsolls sleeping quarters.
'I see,' he said thoughtfully, as the narrative drew to its conclusion. 'This face peered at you from the bushes?'
'Not so much peered,' said Tipton, who liked to get things straight, 'as leered. And I rather think it said "Hi!"'
'And had you given it any encouragement?'
'Well, I did take a short snort from my flask.'
'Ah! You have it here, this flask?'
'It's in that drawer over there.'
The Hon. Galahad cocked a dubious eyebrow at the drawer.
'Hadn't you better let me take charge of that?'
Tipton chewed his lip. It was as if the suggestion had been made to a drowning man that he part with his life-belt.
'It is not the sort of thing you ought to have handy. And you won't need it. Believe me, my boy, this is going to be a walkover, I know for a fact that Veronica is head over ears in love with you. No earthly need to buck yourself up before proposing.'
'The squirt thought otherwise.'
'The squirt?'
'That small, blue-eyed girl they call Prudence.'
'She advised a gargle?'
'A quick one.'
'I think she was wrong. You could do it on lime juice.'
Tipton continued dubious, but before any settlement could be reached, the debate was interrupted. From the hall below there burst upon their ears the sound of booming brass. Gally, who had been prepared for it, showed no concern, but Tipton, to whom it came as a complete surprise and who for a moment had mistaken it for the Last Trump, rose an inch or two into the air.
'What the devil was that?' he asked, becoming calmer.
'Just someone fooling about,' said Gally reassuringly. 'Probably Freddie. Pay no attention. Go right up to Veronica's room and get the thing over.'
'To her room?'
'I have an idea I saw her going there.'
'But I can't muscle into a girl's room.'
'Certainly not. Just knock, and ask her to come out and speak to you. Do it now,' said the Hon. Galahad.
V
It is a truism to say that the best-laid plans are often disarranged and sometimes even defeated by the occurrence of some small unforeseen hitch in the programme. The poet Burns, it will be remembered, specifically warns the public to budget for this possibility. The gong sequence now under our notice provides a case in point.
What the Hon. Galahad had failed to allow for in arranging for Freddie to beat the gong as a signal that Veronica Wedge was on her way up to her room was that there is a certain type of girl, to which Veronica belonged, who on hearing gongs beaten when they are half-way upstairs come down again and start asking those who have beaten them why they have beaten them. Freddie was just replacing the stick on its hook with the gratifying feeling of having completed a good bit of work when he observed a pair of enormous eyes staring into his and realized that the starter's flag had dropped prematurely.
The following dialogue took place:
'Fred-dee, was that you?'
'Was what me?'
'Did you beat the gong?'
'The gong? Oh yes. Yes, I beat the gong.'
'Why did you beat the gong?'
'Oh, I don't know. I thought I would.'
'But what did you beat the gong for?'
This sort of thing was threatening to go on for some time when Lady Hermione came out of the drawing-room.
Lady Hermione said:
'Who beat the gong?'
To which Veronica replied: 'Fred-die beat the gong.'
'Did you beat the gong, Freddie?'
'Er – Yes. Yes, I beat the gong.'
Lady Hermione swooped on this damaging admission like a cross-examining counsel.
'Why did you beat the gong?'
Veronica said that that was just what she had been asking him.
'I was going up to my room to get my album of snapshots, Mum-mee, and he suddenly beat the gong.'
Beach, the butler, appeared through the green baize door at the end of the hall.
'Did somebody beat the gong, m'lady?'
'Mr Frederick beat the gong.'
'Very good,
m'lady.'
Beach withdrew, and the debate continued. It came out in the end that Freddie had beaten the gong just for a whim. A what? A whim! Dash it, you know how you get whims sometimes. He had got this sudden whim to beat the gong, so he had beaten the gong. He said he was blowed if he could see what all the fuss was about, and Veronica said: 'But, Fred-die,' and Lady Hermione said that America appeared to have made him even weaker in the head than he had been before crossing the Atlantic, and Veronica was just about to resume her progress up the stairs (still feeling that it was peculiar that her cousin should have beaten gongs), when it occurred to Lady Hermione that she had forgotten to tell Bellamy, her maid, to change the shoulder straps on her brassiere and that this was a task which could be very well undertaken by Veronica.
Veronica, always dutiful, said: 'Yes, Mum-mee,' and set out for the room next to the servants' hall where Bellamy did her sewing. Lady Hermione went back to the drawing-room. Freddie, feeling that the situation had got beyond him, took refuge in the billiard room, and started thinking of dog biscuits.
So that when the Hon. Galahad, misled by the beating of the gong, supposed that his niece was on her way up to her bedroom, she was really headed in a different direction altogether, and the chances of Tipton Plimsoll rescuing her from pigs and clasping her trembling form to his bosom and asking her to be his wife were for the moment nil. It was not until quite some little time later that Veronica, having delivered her message to Bellamy, turned her thoughts once more towards the fetching of snapshot albums.
Tipton, meanwhile, having reached the Red Room, had paused before its closed door. He was breathing rather stertorously, and he balanced himself first on one leg, then on the other.
In scouting Freddie's suggestion that a nephew of the late Chet Tipton might be suffering from cold feet in his relations with the opposite sex, the Hon. Galahad had erred. Nephews do not always inherit their uncles' dash and fire. You might have had to hold Chet back with ropes when there were girls around, but not Tipton. In spite of the encouragement which he had received both from Gally and the squirt Prudence, he was conscious now of a very low temperature in his extremities. Also, his heart was throbbing like a motor-cycle, and he experienced a strange difficulty in breathing. And the more he thought the situation over, the more convinced he became that a preliminary stimulant was essential to the task he had in hand.