IN ORDER that they might enjoy their after-luncheon coffee in peace, the Crumpet had taken the guest whom he was entertaining at the Drones Club to the smaller and less frequented of the two smoking-rooms. In the other, he explained, though the conversation always touched an exceptionally high level of brilliance, there was apt to be a good deal of sugar thrown about.
The guest said he understood.
"Young blood, eh?"
"That's right. Young blood."
"And animal spirits."
"And animal, as you say, spirits," agreed the Crumpet. "We get a fairish amount of those here."
"The complaint, however, is not, I observe, universal."
The other drew his host's attention to the doorway, where a young man in form-fitting tweeds had just appeared. The aspect of this young man was haggard. His eyes glared wildly and he sucked at an empty cigaretteholder. If he had a mind, there was something on it. When the Crumpet called to him to come and join the party, he merely shook his head in a distraught sort of way and disappeared, looking like a character out of a Greek tragedy pursued by the Fates.
The Crumpet sighed.
"Poor old Pongo!"
"That was Pongo, Twistleton. He's all broken up about his Uncle Fred."
"No such luck. Coming up to London again to-morrow. Pongo had a wire this morning."
"And that upsets him?"
"Naturally. After what happened last time."
"What was that?"
"Ah!" said the Crumpet.
"What happened last time?"
"You may well ask."
"I do ask."
"Ah!" said the Crumpet.
Poor old Pongo (said the Crumpet) has often discussed his Uncle Fred with me, and if there weren't tears in his eyes when he did so, I don't know a tear in the eye when I see one. In round numbers the Earl of Ickenham, of Ickenham Hall, Ickenham, Hants, he lives in the country most of the year, but from time to time has a nasty way of slipping his collar and getting loose and descending upon Pongo at his flat in the Albany. And every time he does so, the unhappy young blighter is subjected to some soul--testing experience. Because the trouble with this uncle is that, though sixty if a day, he becomes on arriving in the metropolis as young as he feels--which is, apparently, a youngish twenty-two. I don't know if you happen to know what the word "excesses" means, but those are what Pongo's Uncle Fred from the country, when in London, invariably commits.
It wouldn't so much matter, mind you, if he would confine his activities to the club premises. We're pretty broad-minded here, and if you stop short of smashing the piano, there isn't much that you can do at the Drones that will cause the raised eyebrow and the sharp intake of breath. The snag is that he will insist on lugging Pongo out in the open and there, right in the public eye, proceeding to step high, wide and plentiful. So when, on the occasion to which I allude, he stood pink and genial on Pongo's hearth-rug, bulging with Pongo's lunch and wreathed in the smoke of one of Pongo's cigars, and said: "And now, my boy, for a pleasant and instructive afternoon," you will readily understand why the unfortunate young clam gazed at him as he would have gazed at two-penn'orth of dynamite, had he discovered it lighting up in his presence.
"A what?" he said, giving at the knees and paling beneath the tan a bit.
"A pleasant and instructive afternoon," repeated Lord Ickenham, rolling the words round his tongue. "I propose that you place yourself in my hands and leave the programme entirely to me."
Now, owing to Pongo's circumstances being such as to necessitate his getting into the aged relative's ribs at intervals and shaking him down for an occasional much-needed tenner or what not, he isn't in a position to use the iron hand with the old buster. But at these words he displayed a manly firmness.
"You aren't going to get me to the dog races again."
"You remember what happened last June."
"Quite," said Lord Ickenham, "quite. Though I still think that a wiser magistrate would have been content with a mere reprimand."
"And I won't-----"
"Certainly not. Nothing of that kind at all. What I propose to do this afternoon is to take you to visit the home of your ancestors."
Pongo did not get this.
"I thought Ickenham was the home of my ancestors."
"It is one of the homes of your ancestors. They also resided rather nearer the heart of things, at a place called Mitching Hill."
"Down in the suburbs, do you mean?"
"The neighbourhood is now suburban, true. It is many years since the meadows where I sported as a child were sold and cut up into building lots. But when I was a boy Mitching Hill was open country. It was a vast, rolling estate belonging to your great-uncle, Marmaduke, a man with whiskers of a nature which you with your pure mind would scarcely credit, and I have long felt a sentimental urge to see what the hell the old place looks like now. Perfectly foul, I expect. Still, I think we should make the pious pilgrimage."
Pongo absolutely-ed heartily. He was all for the scheme. A great weight seemed to have rolled off his mind. The way he looked at it was that even an uncle within a short jump of the looney bin couldn't very well get into much trouble in a suburb. I mean, you know what suburbs are. They don't, as it were, offer the scope. One follows his reasoning, of course.
"Fine!" he said. "Splendidl Topping!"
"Then put on your hat and rompers, my boy," said Lord Ickenham, "and let us be off. I fancy one gets there by omnibuses and things."
Well, Pongo hadn't expected much in the way of mental uplift from the sight of Mitching Hill, and he didn't get it. Alighting from the bus, he tells me, you found yourself in the middle of rows and rows of semidetached villas, all looking exactly alike, and you went on and you came to more semi-detached villas, and those all looked exactly alike, too. Nevertheless, he did not repine. It was one of those early spring days which suddenly change to mid-winter and he had come out without his overcoat, and it looked like rain and he hadn't an umbrella, but despite this his mood was one of sober ecstasy. The hours were passing and his uncle had not yet made a goat of himself. At the Dog Races the other had been in the hands of the constabulary in the first ten minutes.
It began to seem to Pongo that with any luck he might be able to keep the old blister pottering harmlessly about here till nightfall, when he could shoot a bit of dinner into him and put him to bed. And as Lord Ickenharn had specifically stated that his wife, Pongo's Aunt Jane, had expressed her intention of scalping him with a blunt knife if he wasn't back at the Hall by lunch time on the morrow, it really looked as if he might get through this visit without perpetrating a single major outrage on the public weal. It is rather interesting to note that as he thought this Pongo smiled, because it was the last time he smiled that day.
All this while, I should mention, Lord Ickenham had been stopping at intervals like a pointing dog and saying that it must have been just about here that he plugged the gardener in the trousers seat with his bow and arrow and that over there he had been sick after his first cigar, and he now paused in front of a villa which for some unknown reason called itself The Cedars. His face was tender and wistful.
"On this very spot, if I am not mistaken," he said, heaving a bit of a sigh, "on this very spot, fifty years ago come Lammas Eve, I . . . Oh, blast it!"
The concluding remark had been caused by the fact that the rain, which had held off until now, suddenly began to buzz down like a shower-bath. With no further words, they leaped into the porch of the villa and there took shelter, exchanging glances with a grey parrot which hung in a cage in the window.
Not that you could really call it shelter. They were protected from above all right, but the moisture was now falling with a sort of swivel action, whipping in through the sides of the porch and tickling them up properly. And it was just after Pongo had turned up his collar and was huddling against the door that the door gave way. From the fact that a female of general-servant aspect was standing there he gathered that his uncle must have rung the bell. This female wore a long mackintosh, and Lord Ickenham beamed upon her with a fairish spot of suavity.
"Good afternoon," he said.
The female said good afternoon.
The female said yes, it was The Cedars.
"Are the old folks at home?"
The female said there was nobody at home.
"Ah? Well, never mind. I have come," said Lord Ickenham, edging in, "to clip the parrot's claws. My assistant, Mr. Walkinshaw, who applies the anæsthetic," he added, indicating Pongo with a gesture.
"Are you from the bird shop?"
"A very happy guess."
"Nobody told me you were coming."
"They keep things from you, do they?" said Lord Ickenham, sympathetically. "Too bad."
Continuing to edge, he had got into the parlour by now, Pongo following in a sort of dream and the female following Pongo.
"Well, I suppose it's all right," she said. "I was just going out. It's my afternoon."
"Go out," said Lord Ickenham cordially. "By all means go out. We will leave everything in order."
And presently the female, though still a bit on the dubious side, pushed off, and Lord Ickenham lit the gas-fire and drew a chair up.
"So here we are, my boy," he said. "A little tact, a little address, and here we are, snug and cosy and not catching our deaths of cold. You'll never go far wrong if you leave things to me."
"But, dash it, we can't stop here," said Pongo.
Lord Ickenham raised his eyebrows.
"Not stop here? Are you suggesting that we go out into that rain? My dear lad, you are not aware of the grave issues involved. This morning, as I was leaving home, I had a rather painful disagreement with your aunt. She said the weather was treacherous and wished me to take my woolly muffler. I replied that the weather was not treacherous and that I would be dashed if I took my woolly muffler. Eventually, by the exercise of an iron will, I had my way, and I ask you, my dear boy, to envisage what will happen if I return with a cold in the head. I shall sink to the level of a fifth-class power. Next time I came to London, it would be with a liver pad and a respirator. No! I shall remain here, toasting my toes at this really excellent fire. I had no idea that a gas-fire radiated such warmth. I feel all in a glow."
So did Pongo. His brow was wet with honest sweat. He is reading for the Bar, and while he would be the first to admit that he hasn't yet got a complete toe-hold on the Law of Great Britain he had a sort of notion that oiling into a perfect stranger's semi-detached villa on the pretext of pruning the parrot was a tort or misdemeanour, if not actual barratry or soccage in fief or something like that. And apart from the legal aspect of the matter there was the embarrassment of the thing. Nobody is more of a whale on correctness and not doing what's not done than Pongo, and the situation in which he now found himself caused him to chew the lower lip and, as I say, perspire a goodish deal.
"But suppose the blighter who owns this ghastly house comes back?" he asked. "Talking of envisaging things, try that one over on your pianola." And, sure enough, as he spoke, the front door bell rang.
"There!" said Pongo.
"Don't say 'There!' my boy," said Lord Ickenham reprovingly. "It's the sort of thing your aunt says. I see no reason for alarm. Obviously this is some casual caller. A ratepayer would have used his latchkey. Glance cautiously out of the window and see if you can see anybody."
"It's a pink chap," said Pongo, having done so.
"Well, there you are, then. I told you so. It can't be the big chief. The sort of fellows who own houses like this are pale and sallow, owing to working in offices all day. Go and see what he wants."
"You go and see what he wants."
"We'll both go and see what he wants," said Lord Ickenham.
So they went and opened the front door, and there, as Pongo had said, was a pink chap. A small young pink chap, a bit moist about the shoulder-blades.
"Pardon me," said this pink chap, "is Mr. Roddis in?"
"No," said Pongo.
"Yes," said Lord Ickenham. "Don't be silly, Douglas-of course I'm in. I am Mr. Roddis," he said to the pink chap. "This, such as he is, is my son Douglas. And you?"
"Name of Robinson."
"What about it?"
"My name's Robinson."
Oh, your name's Robinson? Now we've got it straight. Delighted to see you, Mr. Robinson. Come right in and take your boots off."
They all trickled back to the parlour, Lord Ickenharn pointing out objects of interest by the wayside to the chap, Pongo gulping for air a bit and trying to get himself abreast of this new twist in the scenario. His heart was becoming more and more bowed down with weight of woe. He hadn't liked being Mr. Walkinshaw, the anæsthetist, and he didn't like it any better being Roddis Junior. In brief, he feared the worst. It was only too plain to him by now that his uncle had got it thoroughly up his nose and had settled down to one of his big afternoons, and he was asking himself, as he had so often asked himself before, what would the harvest be?
Arrived in the parlour, the pink chap proceeded to stand on one leg and look coy.
"Is Julia here?" he asked, simpering a bit, Pongo says.
"Is she?" said Lord Ickenham to Pongo.
"No," said Pongo.
"No," said Lord Ickenham.
"She wired me she was coming here to-day."
"Ah, then we shall have a bridge four."
The pink chap stood on the other leg.
"I don't suppose you've ever met Julia. Bit of trouble in the family, she gave me to understand."
"It is often the way."
"The Julia I mean is your niece Julia Parker. Or, rather, your wife's niece Julia Parker."
"Any niece of my wife is a niece of mine," said Lord Ickenham heartily. "We share and share alike."
"Julia and I want to get married."
"Well, go ahead."
"But they won't let us."
"Her mother and father. And Uncle Charlie Parker and Uncle Henry Parker and the rest of them. They don't think I'm good enough."
"The morality of the modern young man is notoriously lax."
"Class enough, I mean. They're a haughty lot."
"What makes them haughty? Are they earls?"
"No, they aren't earls."
"Then why the devil," said Lord Ickenham warmly, "are they haughty? Only earls have a right to be haughty. Earls are hot stuff. When you get an earl, you've got something."
"Besides, we've had words. Me and her father. One thing led to another, and in the end I called him a perishing old------ Coo!" said the pink chap, breaking off suddenly.
He had been standing by the window, and he now leaped lissomely into the middle of the room, causing Pongo, whose nervous system was by this time definitely down among the wines and spirits and who hadn't been expecting this adagio stuff, to bite his tongue with some severity.
"They're on the doorstep! Julia and her mother and father. I didn't know they were all coming."
"You do not wish to meet them?"
"No, I don't!"
"Then duck behind the settee, Mr. Robinson," said Lord Ickenham, and the pink chap, weighing the advice and finding it good, did so. And as he disappeared the door bell rang.
Once more, Lord Ickenham led Pongo out into the hall.
"I say!" said Pongo, and a close observer might have noted that he was quivering like an aspen.
"Say on, my dear boy."
"I mean to say, what?"
"You aren't going to let these bounders in, are you?"
"Certainly," said Lord Ickenham. "We Roddises keep open house. And as they are presumably aware that Mr. Roddis has no son, I think we had better return to the old layout. You are the local vet, my boy, come to minister to my parrot. When I return, I should like to find you by the cage, staring at the bird in a scientific manner. Tap your teeth from time to time with a pencil and try to smell of iodoform. It will help to add conviction."
So Pongo shifted back to the parrot's cage and stared so earnestly that it was only when a voice said "Well!" that he became aware that there was anybody in the room. Turning, he perceived that Hampshire's leading curse had come back, bringing the gang. It consisted of a stern, thin, middle-aged woman, a middle-aged man and a girl.
You can generally accept Pongo's estimate of girls, and when he says that this one was a pippin one knows that he uses the term in its most exact sense. She was about nineteen, he thinks, and she wore a black béret, a dark-green leather coat, a shortish tweed skirt, silk stockings and highheeled shoes. Her eyes were large and lustrous and her face like a dewy rosebud at daybreak on a June morning. So Pongo tells me. Not that I suppose he has ever seen a rosebud at daybreak on a June morning, because it's generally as much as you can do to lug him out of bed in time for ninethirty breakfast. Still, one gets the idea.
"Well," said the woman, "you don't know who I am, I'll be bound. I'm Laura's sister Connie. This is Claude, my husband. And this is my daughter Julia. Is Laura in?"
"I regret to say, no," said Lord Ickenham.
The woman was looking at him as if he didn't come up to her specifications.
"I thought you were younger," she said.
"Younger than what?" said Lord Ickenham.
"Younger than you are."
"You can't be younger than you are, worse luck," said Lord Ickenham. "Still, one does one's best, and I am bound to say that of recent years I have made a pretty good go of it."
The woman caught sight of Pongo, and he didn't seem to please her, either.
"The local vet, clustering round my parrot."
"I can't talk in front of him."
"It is quite all right," Lord Ickenham assured her. "The poor fellow is stone deaf."
And with an imperious gesture at Pongo, as much as to bid him stare less at girls and more at parrots, he got the company seated.
"Now, then," he said.
There was silence for a moment, then a sort of muffled sob, which Pongo thinks proceeded from the girl. He couldn't see, of course, because his back was turned and he was looking at the parrot, which looked back at him--most offensively, he says, as parrots will, using one eye only for the purpose. It also asked him to have a nut.
The woman came into action again.
"Although," she said, "Laura never did me the honour to invite me to her wedding, for which reason I have not communicated with her for five years, necessity compels me to cross her threshold to-day. There comes a time when differences must be forgotten and relatives must stand shoulder to shoulder."
"I see what you mean," said Lord Ickenham. "Like the boys of the old brigade."
"What I say is, let bygones be bygones. I would not have intruded on you, but needs must. I disregard the past and appeal to your sense of pity."
The thing began to look to Pongo like a touch, and he is convinced that the parrot thought so, too, for it winked and cleared its throat. But they were both wrong. The woman went on.
"I want you and Laura to take Julia into your home for a week or so, until I can make other arrangements for her. Julia is studying the piano, and she sits for her examination in two weeks' time, so until then she must remain in London. The trouble is, she has fallen in love. Or thinks she has."
"I know I have," said Julia.
Her voice was so attractive that Pongo was compelled to slew round and take another look at her. Her eyes, he says, were shining like twin stars and there was a sort of Soul's Awakening expression on her face, and what the dickens there was in a pink chap like the pink chap, who even as pink chaps go wasn't much of a pink chap, to make her look like that, was frankly, Pongo says, more than he could understand. The thing baffled him. He sought in vain for a solution.
"Yesterday, Claude and I arrived in London from our Bexhill home to give Julia a pleasant surprise. We stayed, naturally, in the boardinghouse where she has been living for the past six weeks. And what do you think we discovered?"
"Not insects. A letter. From a young man. I found to my horror that a young man of whom I knew nothing was arranging to marry my daughter. I sent for him immediately, and found him to be quite impossible. He jellies eels!"
"He is an assistant at a jellied eel shop."
"But surely," said Lord Ickenham, "that speaks well for him. The capacity to jelly an eel seems to me to argue intelligence of a high order. It isn't everybody who can do it, by any means. I know if someone came to me and said 'Jelly this eel!' I should be nonplussed. And so, or I am very much mistaken, would Ramsay MacDonald and Winston Churchill." The woman did not seem to see eye to eye.
"Tchah!" she said. "What do you suppose my husband's brother Charlie Parker would say if I allowed his niece to marry a man who jellies eels?"
"Ah!" said Claude, who, before we go any further, was a tall, drooping bird with a red soup-strainer moustache.
"Or my husband's brother, Henry Parker."
"Ah!" said Claude. "Or Cousin Alf Robbins, for that matter."
"Exactly. Cousin Alfred would die of shame."
The girl Julia hiccoughed passionately, so much so that Pongo says it was all he could do to stop himself nipping across and taking her hand in his and patting it.
"I've told you a hundred times, mother, that Wilberforce is only jellying eels till he finds something better."
"What is better than an eel?" asked Lord Ickenham, who had been following this discussion with the close attention it deserved. "For jellying purposes, I mean."
"He is ambitious. It won't be long," said the girl, "before Wilberforce suddenly rises in the world."
She never spoke a truer word. At this very moment, up he came from behind the settee like a leaping salmon.
"Julia!" he cried.
"Wilby!" yipped the girl.
And Pongo says he never saw anything more sickening in his life than the way she flung herself into the blighter's arms and clung there like the ivy on the old garden wall. It wasn't that he had anything specific against the pink chap, but this girl had made a deep impression on him and he resented her glueing herself to another in this manner.
Julia's mother, after just that brief moment which a woman needs in which to recover from her natural surprise at seeing eel-jelliers pop up from behind sofas, got moving and plucked her away like a referee breaking a couple of welter-weights.
" Julia Parker," she said, "I'm ashamed of you!"
"So am I," said Claude.
"I blush for you."
"Me, too," said Claude. "Hugging and kissing a man who called your father a perishing old bottle-nosed Gawd-help-us."
"I think," said Lord Ickenham, shoving his oar in, "that before proceeding any further we ought to go into that point. If he called you a perishing old bottle-nosed Gawd-help-us, it seems to me that the first thing to do is to decide whether he was right, and frankly, in my opinion
" Wilberforce will apologize."
"Certainly I'll apologize. It isn't fair to hold a remark passed in the heat of the moment against a chap . . ."
"Mr. Robinson," said the woman, "you know perfectly well that whatever remarks you may have seen fit to pass don't matter one way or the other. If you were listening to what I was saying you will understand . . ."
"Oh, I know, I know. Uncle Charlie Parker and Uncle Henry Parker and Cousin Alf Robbins and all that. Pack of snobs!"
"Haughty, stuck-up snobs. Them and their class distinctions. Think themselves everybody just because they've got money. I'd like to know how they got it."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Never mind what I mean."
"If you are insinuating-----"
"Well, of course, you know, Connie," said Lord Ickenham mildly, "he's quite right. You can't get away from that."
I don't know if you have ever seen a bull-terrier embarking on a scrap with an Airedale and just as it was getting down nicely to its work suddenly having an unexpected Kerry Blue sneak up behind it and bite it in the rear quarters. When this happens, it lets go of the Airedale and swivels round and fixes the butting-in animal with a pretty nasty eye. It was exactly the same with the woman Connie when Lord Ickenharn spoke these words.
"I was only wondering if you had forgotten how Charlie Parker made his pile."
"What are you talking about?"
"I know it is painful," said Lord Ickenham, "and one doesn't mention it as a rule, but, as we are on the subject, you must admit that lending money at two hundred and fifty per cent interest is not done in the best circles. The judge, if you remember, said so at the trial."
"I never knew that!" cried the girl Julia.
"Ah," said Lord Ickenham. "You kept it from the child? Quite right, quite right."
"It's a lie!"
"And when Henry Parker had all that fuss with the bank it was touch and go they didn't send him to prison. Between ourselves, Connie, has a bank official, even a brother of your husband, any right to sneak fifty pounds from the till in order to put it on a hundred to one shot for the Grand National? Not quite playing the game, Connie. Not the straight bat. Henry, I grant you, won five thousand of the best and never looked back afterwards, but, though we applaud his judgment of form, we must surely look askance at his financial methods. As for Cousin Alf Robbins . . ."
The woman was making rummy stuttering sounds. Pongo tells me he once had a Pommery Seven which used to express itself in much the same way if you tried to get it to take a hill on high. A sort of mixture of gurgles and explosions.
"There is not a word of truth in this," she gasped at length, having managed to get the vocal cords disentangled. "Not a single word. I think you must have gone mad."
Lord Ickenham shrugged his shoulders.
"Have it your own way, Connie. I was only going to say that, while the jury were probably compelled on the evidence submitted to them to give Cousin Alf Robbins the benefit of the doubt when charged with smuggling dope, everybody knew that he had been doing it for years. I am not blaming him, mind you. If a man can smuggle cocaine and get away with it, good luck to him, say I. The only point I am trying to make is that we are hardly a family that can afford to put on dog and sneer at honest suitors for our daughters' hands. Speaking for myself, I consider that we are very lucky to have the chance of marrying even into eel-jellying circles."
"So do I," said Julia firmly.
"You don't believe what this man is saying?"
"I believe every word."
"So do I," said the pink chap.
The woman snorted. She seemed overwrought.
"Well," she said, "goodness knows I have never liked Laura, but I would never have wished her a husband like you!"
"Husband?" said Lord Ickenham, puzzled. "What gives you the impression that Laura and I are married?"
There was a weighty silence, during which the parrot threw out a general invitation to the company to join it in a nut. Then the girl Julia spoke.
"You'll have to let me marry Wilberforce now," she said. "He knows too much about us."
"I was rather thinking that myself," said Lord Ickenham. "Seal his lips, I say."
"You wouldn't mind marrying into a low family, would you, darling?" asked the girl, with a touch of anxiety.
"No family could be too low for me, dearest, if it was yours," said the pink chap.
"After all, we needn't see them."
"It isn't one's relations that matter: it's oneselves."
"That's right, too."
They repeated the old ivy on the garden wall act. Pongo says he didn't like it any better than the first time, but his distaste wasn't in it with the woman Connie's.
"And what, may I ask," she said, "do you propose to marry on?"
This seemed to cast a damper. They came apart. They looked at each other. The girl looked at the pink chap, and the pink chap looked at the girl. You could see that a jarring note had been struck.
"Wilberforce is going to be a very rich man some day."
"If I had a hundred pounds," said the pink chap, "I could buy a half. share in one of the best milk walks in South London to-morrow."
"If!" said the woman.
"Ah!" said Claude.
"Where are you going to get it?"
"Ah!" said Claude.
"Where," repeated the woman, plainly pleased with the snappy crack and loath to let it ride without an encore, "are you going to get it?"
"That," said Claude, "is the point. Where are you going to get a hundred pounds?"
"Why, bless my soul," said Lord Ickenham jovially, "from me, of course. Where else?"
And before Pongo's bulging eyes he fished out from the recesses of his costume a crackling bundle of notes and handed it over. And the agony of realizing that the old bounder had had all that stuff on him all this time and that he hadn't touched him for so much as a tithe of it was so keen, Pongo says, that before he knew what he was doing he had let out a sharp, whinnying cry which rang through the room like the yowl of a stepped-on puppy.
"Ah," said Lord Ickenham. "The vet wishes to speak to me. Yes, vet?"
This seemed to puzzle the cerise bloke a bit.
"I thought you said this chap was your son."
"If I had a son," said Lord Ickenham, a little hurt, "he would be a good deal better-looking than that. No, this is the local veterinary surgeon. I may have said I looked on him as a son. Perhaps that was what confused you."
He shifted across to Pongo and twiddled his hands enquiringly. Pongo gaped at him, and it was not until one of the hands caught him smartly in the lower ribs that he remembered he was deaf and started to twiddle back. Considering that he wasn't supposed to be dumb, I can't see why he should have twiddled, but no doubt there are moments when twiddling is about all a fellow feels himself equal to. For what seemed to him at least ten hours Pongo had been undergoing great mental stress, and one can't blame him for not being chatty. Anyway, be that as it may, he twiddled.
"I cannot quite understand what he says," announced Lord Ickenham at length, "because he sprained a finger this morning and that makes him stammer. But I gather that he wishes to have a word with me in private. Possibly my parrot has got something the matter with it which he is reluctant to mention even in sign language in front of a young unmarried girl. You know what parrots are. We will step outside."
"We will step outside," said Wilberforce.
"Yes," said the girl Julia. "I feel like a walk."
"And you?" said Lord Ickenham to the woman Connie, who was looking like a female Napoleon at Moscow. "Do you join the hikers?"
"I shall remain and make myself a cup of tea. You will not grudge us a cup of tea, I hope?"
"Far from it," said Lord Ickenham cordially. "This is Liberty Hall. Stick around and mop it up till your eyes bubble."
Outside, the girl, looking more like a dewy rosebud than ever, fawned on the old buster pretty considerably.
"I don't know how to thank you!" she said. And the pink chap said he didn't, either.
"Not at all, my dear, not at all," said Lord Ickenham.
"I think you're simply wonderful."
"You are. Perfectly marvellous."
"Tut, tut," said Lord Ickenham. "Don't give the matter another thought."
He kissed her on both cheeks, the chin, the forehead, the right eyebrow, and the tip of the nose, Pongo looking on the while in a baffled and discontented manner. Everybody seemed to be kissing this girl except him.
Eventually the degrading spectacle ceased and the girl and the pink chap shoved off, and Pongo was enabled to take up the matter of that hundred quid.
"Where," he asked, "did you get all that money?"
"Now, where did I?" mused Lord Ickenham. "I know your aunt gave it to me for some purpose. But what? To pay some bill or other, I rather fancy."
This cheered Pongo up slightly.
"She'll give you the devil when you get back," he said, with not a little relish. "I wouldn't be in your shoes for something. When you tell Aunt Jane," he said, with confidence, for he knew his Aunt Jane's emotional nature, "that you slipped her entire roll to a girl, and explain, as you will have to explain, that she was an extraordinarily pretty girl--a girl, in fine, who looked like something out of a beauty chorus of the better sort, I should think she would pluck down one of the ancestral battle-axes from the wall and jolly well strike you on the mazzard."
"Have no anxiety, my dear boy," said Lord Ickenham. "It is like your kind heart to be so concerned, but have no anxiety. I shall tell her that I was compelled to give the money to you to enable you to buy back some compromising letters from a Spanish demi-mondaine. She will scarcely be able to blame me for rescuing a fondly-loved nephew from the clutches of an adventuress. It may be that she will feel a little vexed with you for a while, and that you may have to allow a certain time to elapse before you visit Ickenham again, but then I shan't be wanting you at Ickenham till the ratting season starts, so all is well."
At this moment, there came toddling up to the gate of The Cedars a large red-faced man. He was just going in when Lord Ickenham hailed him.
"Am I addressing Mr. Roddis?"
"I am Mr. J. G. Bulstrode from down the road," said Lord Ickenham.
"This is my sister's husband's brother, Percy Frensham, in the lard and imported-butter business."
The red-faced bird said he was pleased to meet them. He asked Pongo if things were brisk in the lard and imported-butter business, and Pongo said they were all right, and the red-faced bird said he was glad to hear it.
"We have never met, Mr. Roddis," said Lord Ickenham, "but I think it would be only neighbourly to inform you that a short while ago I observed two suspicious-looking persons in your house."
"In my house? How on earth did they get there?"
"No doubt through a window at the back. They looked to me like cat burglars. If you creep up, you may be able to see them."
The red-faced bird crept, and came back not exactly foaming at the mouth but with the air of a man who for two pins would so foam.
"You're perfectly right. They're sitting in my parlour as cool as dammit, swigging my tea and buttered toast."
"I thought as much."
"And they've opened a pot of my raspberry jam."
"Ah, then you will be able to catch them red-handed. I should fetch a policeman."
"I will. Thank you, Mr. Bulstrode."
"Only too glad to have been able to render you this little service, Mr. Roddis," said Lord Ickenham. "Well, I must be moving along. I have an appointment. Pleasant after the rain, is it not? Come, Percy."
He lugged Pongo off.
"So that," he said, with satisfaction, "is that. On these visits of mine to the metropolis, my boy, I always make it my aim, if possible, to spread sweetness and light. I look about me, even in a foul hole like Mitching Hill, and I ask myself--How can I leave this foul hole a better and happier foul hole than I found it? And if I see a chance, I grab it. Here is our omnibus. Spring aboard, my boy, and on our way home we will be sketching out rough plans for the evening. If the old Leicester Grill is still in existence, we might look in there. It must be fully thirty-five years since I was last thrown out of the Leicester Grill. I wonder who is the bouncer there now."
Such (concluded the Crumpet) is Pongo Twistleton's Uncle Fred from the country, and you will have gathered by now a rough notion of why it is that when a telegram comes announcing his impending arrival in the great city Pongo blenches to the core and calls for a couple of quick ones.
The whole situation, Pongo says, is very complex. Looking at it from one angle, it is fine that the man lives in the country most of the year. If he didn't he would have him in his midst all the time. On the other hand, by living in the country he generates, as it were, a store of loopiness which expends itself with frightful violence on his rare visits to the centre of things.
What it boils down to is this--Is it better to have a loopy uncle whose loopiness is perpetually on tap but spread out thin, so to speak, or one who lies low in distant Hants for three hundred and sixty days in the year and does himself proud in London for the other five? Dashed moot, of course, and Pongo has never been able to make up his mind on the point.
Naturally, the ideal thing would be if someone would chain the old hound up permanently and keep him from Jan. One to Dec. Thirty-one where he wouldn't do any harm--viz. among the spuds and tenantry. But this, Pongo admits, is a Utopian dream. Nobody could work harder to that end than his Aunt Jane, and she has never been able to manage it.