Service With a Smile

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘When you say no beer, do you mean no beer?’

  ‘Quate. I shall be keeping an eye on you, and I have my way of finding out things. If I discover that you have been drinking, you will lose your fifty pounds. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Quate,’ said George Cyril Wellbeloved gloomily.

  ‘Then that is understood,’ said Lavender Briggs, ‘Keep it well in mind.’

  She left the shed, glad to escape from its somewhat cloying atmosphere, and started to return to the house. She was anxious now to have a word with Lord Ickenham’s friend Cuthbert Meriwether.

  3

  Lying in his hammock, a soothing cigarette between his lips and his mind busy with great thoughts, Lord Ickenham became aware of emotional breathing in his rear and realized with annoyance that his privacy had been invaded. Then the breather came within the orbit of his vision and he saw that it was not, as for an instant he had feared, the Duke of Dunstable, but only his young friend, Myra Schoonmaker, He had no objection to suspending his thinking in order to converse with Myra.

  It seemed to him, as he rose courteously, that the child was steamed up about something. Her eyes were wild, and there was in her manner a suggestion of the hart panting for cooling streams when heated in the chase. And her first words told him that his diagnosis had been correct.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Fred! The most awful thing has happened!’

  He patted her shoulder soothingly. Those who brought their troubles to him always caught him at his best. Such was his magic that there had been times — though not on the occasion of their visit to the dog races — when he had even been able to still the fluttering nervous system of his nephew Pongo.

  ‘Take a hammock, my dear, and tell me all about it,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t let yourself get so agitated. I have no doubt that when we go into it we shall find that whatever is disturbing you is simply the ordinary sort of thing you have to expect when you come to Blandings Castle. As you have probably discovered for yourself by now, Blandings Castle is no place for weaklings. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s Bill.’

  ‘What has Bill been doing?’

  ‘It’s not what he’s been doing, poor lamb, it’s what’s being done to him. You know that secretary woman?’

  ‘Lavender Briggs? We’re quite buddies. Emsworth doesn’t like her, but for me she has a rather gruesome charm. She reminds me of the dancing mistress at my first kindergarten, on whom I had a crush in my formative years. Though when I say crush, it wasn’t love exactly, more a sort of awed respect. I feel the same about Lavender Briggs, I had a long chat with her the other day. She was telling me she wanted to start a typewriting bureau, but hadn’t enough capital, Why she should have confided in me, I don’t know. I suppose I have one of those rare sympathetic natures you hear about. A cynic would probably say that she was leading up to trying to make a touch, but I don’t think so. I think it was simply… Swedish exercises?’ he asked, breaking off, for his companion had flung her arms out in a passionate gesture.

  ‘Don’t talk so much, Uncle Fred!’

  Lord Ickenham felt the justice of the rebuke. He apologized.

  ‘I’m sorry. A bad habit of mine, which I will endeavour to correct. What were you going to say about La Briggs?’

  ‘She’s a loathsome blackmailer!’

  ‘She’s what? You astound me. Who — or, rather, whom — is she blackmailing?’

  ‘Bill, the poor angel. She’s told him he’s got to steal Lord Emsworth’s pig.’

  It took a great deal to make Lord Ickenham start. These words, however, did so. The rule by which he lived his life was that the prudent man, especially when at Blandings Castle, should be ready at all times for anything, but he had certainly not been prepared for this. His was a small moustache, not bushy and billowy like the Duke’s, and it did not leap as the Duke’s would have done, but it quivered perceptibly. He stared at his young friend as at a young friend who has had a couple.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I’m telling you. She says Bill has got to steal Lord Emsworth’s pig. I don’t know who’s behind her, but somebody wants it and she’s working for him, and she’s drafted my poor darling Bill as her assistant.’

  Lord Ickenham whistled softly. Never a dull moment at Blandings Castle, he was thinking. At first incredulous, he now saw how plausible the girl’s story was. People who employ people to steal pigs know that the labourer is worthy of his hire, and the principal in this venture, whoever he was, would undoubtedly reward Lavender Briggs with a purse of gold, thus enabling her to start her typewriting bureau. All that was plain enough, and one could understand the Briggs enthusiasm for the project, but there remained the perplexing problem of why she had selected the Rev Cuthbert Bailey as her collaborator. Why, dash it, thought Lord Ickenham, they hardly knew one another.

  ‘But why Bill?’

  ‘You mean Why Bill?’

  ‘Exactly. Why is he the people’s choice?’

  ‘Because she’s got the goods on him. Shall I tell you the whole thing?’

  ‘It would be a great help.’

  Prefacing her remarks with the statement that if girls like Lavender Briggs were skinned alive and dipped in boiling oil, this would be a better and sweeter world, Myra embarked on her narrative.

  ‘Bill was out taking a stroll just now, and she came along. He said, “Oh, hello. Nice morning.”‘

  ‘And she said “Quate”?’

  ‘No, she said, “I should like a word with you, Mr Bailey.”‘

  ‘Mr Bailey? She knew who he was?’

  ‘She’s known from the moment he got here. Apparently when she lived in London, she used to mess about in Bottleton East, doing good works among the poor and all that, so of course she saw him there and recognized him when he showed up at the Castle. Bill’s is the sort of face one remembers.’

  Lord Ickenham agreed that it did indeed stamp itself on the mental retina. He was looking grave. Expecting at the outset to be called on to deal with some trifling girlish malaise, probably imaginary, he saw that here was a major crisis. If defied, he realized, Lavender Briggs would at once take Lady Constance into her confidence, with the worst results. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned, and very few like a woman who finds that she has been tricked into entertaining at her home a curate at the thought of whom she has been shuddering for weeks. Unquestionably Lady Constance would take umbrage. There would be pique on her part, and even dudgeon, and Bill’s visit to Blandings Castle would be abruptly curtailed. In a matter of minutes the unfortunate young pastor of souls would be slung out of this Paradise on his ear like Lucifer, son of the morning.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She said he had got to steal the pig.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He told her to go to hell.’

  ‘Strange advice from a curate.’

  ‘I’m just giving you the rough idea.’

  ‘Quate.’

  ‘Actually, he said Lord Emsworth was his host and had been very kind to him, and he was very fond of him and he’d be darned if he’d bring his grey hairs in sorrow to the grave by pinching his pig, and apart from that what would his bishop have to say, if the matter was drawn to his attention?’

  Lord Ickenham nodded.

  ‘One sees what he meant. Curates must watch their step. One false move, like being caught stealing pigs, and bang goes any chance they may have had of rising to become Princes of the Church. And she —?’

  ‘Told him to think it over, the —’

  Lord Ickenham raised a hand.

  ‘I know the word that is trembling on your lips, child, but don’t utter it. Let us keep the conversation at as high a level as possible. Well, I agree with you that the crisis is one that calls for thought. I wonder, if the simplest thing might not be for Bill just to fold his tent like the Arabs and silently steal away.’

  ‘You mean leave the castle? Leave me?’

  ‘It seems the wise move.
/>
  ‘I won’t have him steal away!’

  ‘Surely it is better to steal away than a pig?’

  ‘I’d die here without him. Can’t you think of something better than that?’

  ‘What we want is to gain time.’

  ‘How can we? The —’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘The woman said she had to have his answer tomorrow.’

  ‘As soon as that? Well, Bill will have to consent and tell her that she must give him a couple of days to nerve himself to the task.’

  ‘What’s the good of that?’

  ‘We gain time.’

  ‘Only two days.’

  ‘But two days during which I shall be giving the full force of the Ickenham brain to the problem, and there are few problems capable of standing up to that treatment for long. They can’t take it.’

  ‘And when the two days are up and you haven’t thought of anything?’

  ‘Why, then,’ admitted Lord Ickenham, ‘the situation becomes a little sticky.’

  Chapter Six

  1

  Among other notable observations, too numerous to mention here, the poet Dryden (1631—1700) once said that mighty things from small beginnings grow, and all thinking men are agreed that in making this statement he called his shots correctly.

  If a fly had not got into his bedroom and started buzzing about his nose in the hearty way flies have, it is improbable that Lord Emsworth would have awoken on the following morning at twenty minutes to five, for he was as a rule a sound sleeper who seldom failed to enjoy his eight hours. And if he had not woken and been unable to doze off again, he would not have lain in bed musing on the Church Lads. And if he had not mused on the Church Lads, he would not have recalled Lord Ickenham’s advice of the previous day. Treacherous though his memory habitually was, it all came back to him.

  Sneak down to the lake in the small hours of the morning and cut the ropes of the boys’ tent, Ickenham had said, and the more he examined the suggestion, the more convinced he became that this was the manly thing to do. These fellows like Ickenham, he told himself, cautious conservative men of the world, do not make snap decisions; they think things over before coming to a conclusion, and when they tell you how to act, you know that by following their instructions you will be acting for the best.

  No morning hour could be smaller than the present one, and in his library, he knew, there was a paper-knife of the type with which baronets get stabbed in the back in novels of suspense, and having cut his finger on it only two days ago he had no doubts of its fitness for the purpose he had in mind. Conditions, in short, could scarcely have been more favourable.

  The only thing that held him back was the thought of his sister Constance. No one knew better than he how high was her standard of behaviour for brothers, and if the pitiless light of day were to be thrown on the crime he was contemplating, she would undoubtedly extend herself. She could, he estimated, be counted on for at least ten thousand words of rebuke and recrimination, administered in daily instalments over the years. In fact, as he put it to himself, for he was given to homely phrases, he would never hear the end of it.

  If Connie finds out… he thought, and a shudder ran through him.

  Then a voice seemed to whisper in his ear.

  ‘She won’t find out,’ said the voice, and he was strong again. Filled with the crusading spirit which had animated ancestors of his who had done well at the battles of Acre and Joppa, he rose from his bed and dressed, if putting on an old sweater and a pair of flannel trousers with holes in the knees could be called dressing. When he reached the library his mood was definitely that of those distant forebears who had stropped their battle-axes and sallied out to fight the Paynim.

  As he left the library, brandishing the paper-knife as King Arthur had once brandished the sword Excalibur, a sudden hollowness in his interior reminded him that he had not had his morning cup of tea. Absent-minded though he was, he realized that this could be remedied by going to the kitchen. It was not a part of the castle which he ever visited these days, but as a boy he had always been in and out — in when he wanted cake and out when the cook caught him getting it, and he had no difficulty in finding his way there. Full of anticipation of the happy ending, for though he knew he had his limitations he was pretty sure that he could boil a kettle, he pushed open the familiar door and went in, and was unpleasantly surprised to see his grandson George there, eating eggs and bacon.

  ‘Oh, hullo, grandpa,’ said George, speaking thickly, for his mouth was full.

  ‘George!’ said Lord Emsworth, also speaking thickly, but for a different reason. ‘You are up very early.’

  George said he liked rising betimes. You got two breakfasts that way. He was at the age when the young stomach wants all that is coming to it.

  ‘Why are you up so early, Grandpapa?’

  ‘I … er… I was unable to sleep.’

  ‘Shall I fry you an egg?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I thought of taking a little stroll. The air is so nice and fresh. Er — good-bye, George.’

  ‘Good-bye, Grandpapa.’

  ‘Little stroll,’ said Lord Emsworth again, driving home his point, and withdrew, feeling rather shaken.

  2

  The big story of the cut tent ropes broke shortly before breakfast, when a Church Lad who looked as if he had had a disturbed night called at the back premises of the castle asking to see Beach. To him he revealed the position of affairs, and Beach dispatched an underling to find fresh rope to take the place of the severed strands. He then reported to Lady Constance, who told the Duke, who told his nephew Archie Gilpin, .who told Lord Ickenham, who said, ‘Well, well well! Just fancy!’

  ‘The work of an international gang, do you think?’ he said, and Archie said Well, anyway, the work of somebody who wasn’t fond of Church Lads, and Lord Ickenham agreed that this might well be so.

  Normally at this hour he would have been on his way to his hammock, but obviously the hammock must be postponed till later. His first task was to seek Lord Emsworth out and offer his congratulations. He was feeling quite a glow as he proceeded to the library, where he knew that the other would have retired to read Whiffle On The Care Of The Pig or some other volume of porcine interest, his invariable procedure after he had had breakfast. It gratified the kindly man to know that his advice had been taken with such excellent results.

  Lord Emsworth was not actually reading when he entered. He was sitting staring before him, the book on his lap. There are moments when even Whiffle cannot hold the attention, and this was one of them. It would be too much, perhaps, to say that remorse gripped Lord Emsworth, but he was undoubtedly in something of a twitter and wondering if that great gesture of his had been altogether well-advised. His emotions were rather similar to those of a Chicago business man of the old school who has rubbed out a competitor with a pineapple bomb and, while feeling that that part of it is all right, cannot help speculating on what the F.B.I. are going to do when they hear about it.

  ‘Oh — er — hullo, Ickenham,’ he said. ‘Nice morning.’

  ‘For you, my dear Emsworth, a red-letter morning. I’ve just heard the news.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The place is ringing with the story of your exploit.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Now come,’ said Lord Ickenham reproachfully. ‘No need to dissemble with me. You took my advice, didn’t you, and pulled a sword of Gideon on those tented boys? And I imagine that you are feeling a better, cleaner man.’

  Lord Emsworth was looking somewhat more guilty and apprehensive than good, clean men usually do. He peered through his pince-nez at the wall, as if suspecting it of having ears.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk so loudly, Ickenham.’

  ‘I’ll whisper.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Lord Emsworth, relieved.

  Lord Ickenham took a seat and sank his voice.

  ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Well —’

  ‘I unde
rstand. You are a man of action, and words don’t come to you easily. Like Bill Bailey.’

  ‘Bill Bailey?’

  ‘Fellow I know.’

  ‘There was a song called “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey?” I used to sing it as a boy.’

  ‘It must have sounded wonderful. But don’t sing it now. I want to hear all about your last night’s activities.’

  ‘It was this morning.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that was the time I recommended, wasn’t it? With dawn pinking the eastern sky and the early bird chirping over its early worm. I had a feeling that you would be in better shape under those romantic conditions. You thoroughly enjoyed it, no doubt?’

  ‘I was terrified, Ickenham.’

  ‘Nonsense. I know you better than that.’

  ‘I was. I kept thinking what my sister Constance would say, if she found out.’

  ‘She won’t find out.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘How can she?’

  ‘She does find out things.’

  ‘But not this one. It will remain one of those great historic mysteries like the Man in the Iron Mask and the Mary Celeste.’

  ‘Have you seen Constance?’

  ‘For a moment.’

  ‘Was she — er — upset?’

  ‘One might almost say she split a gusset.’

  ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘But that’s nothing for you to worry about. Your name never came up. Suspicion fell immediately on the boy who cleans the knives and boots. Do you know him?’

  ‘No, we have never met.’

  ‘Nice chap, I believe. Percy is his name, and apparently his relations with the Church Lads have been far from cordial. They tell me he is rather acutely alive to class distinctions and being on the castle payroll has always looked down on the Church Lads as social inferiors. This has led to resentment, thrown stones, the calling of opprobrious names and so forth, so that when the authorities were apprised of what had happened, he automatically became the logical suspect. Taken into the squad room and grilled under the lights, however, he persisted in stout denial and ultimately had to be released for lack of evidence. That is the thing that is baffling the prosecution, the total lack of evidence.’