Sunset at Blandings by P.G. Wodehouse Page B

Galahad’s.’
    ‘I do
not consider that a great recommendation.’
    ‘Nice
young fellow I thought he looked.’
    ‘He
struck me as a criminal type. He’s probably known to the police.’
    ‘I don’t
think so. Galahad said nothing about him being friends of theirs. Odd his
disappearing like that. I must find him and take him to see the Empress.’
    ‘Are
you really serious about putting that pig’s portrait in the portrait gallery?’
    ‘Of
course I am.’
    ‘You
will be the laughing—stock of the county.’
    Gally
would have replied that a good laugh never hurt anybody, but Lord Emsworth was
more tactful.
    ‘I don’t
know why you say that. There will be a plaque, don’t you call them, at the side
of the picture about her being three years in succession silver medallist in
the Fat Pigs class at the Shropshire Agricultural Show, an unheard-of feat.
People will be too impressed to laugh.’
    ‘A pig
among your ancestors!’
    ‘Galahad
says she will lend the gallery a tone. He says that at present it is like the
Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s.’
    ‘Don’t
talk to me about Galahad. The mere mention of his name upsets me.’
    ‘I
thought you were having one of your spells. You get them because you’re so
energetic all the time. You ought to lie in the hammock in the afternoons with
a book. Well, I can’t stay talking to you all day, I must be going and finding
Smith,’ said Lord Emsworth.
    Jeff
was in the corridor, warming up after his session with the Snow Queen. Lord
Emsworth greeted him briskly. Already, brief though their acquaintance was, he
had taken a great fancy to Jeff.
    ‘Ah,
there you are, Mr. Smith. I am sorry my sister was having one of her spells
when you arrived. She always has them when she starts thinking about putting
the Empress’s portrait in the portrait gallery. It does something to her. It
was the same with my sister Constance, now in America married to an American
whose name I have forgotten. She, too, always had these spells when the matter
of the Empress’s portrait came up. But you will be wanting to see her. Not
Constance, the Empress. It is quite a short distance to her sty.’
    He led
Jeff through the kitchen garden and into a meadow dappled with buttercups and
daisies, making pleasant conversation the while.
    ‘Things,’
he said, ‘have settled down now that the Empress has retired and no longer
competes in the Shropshire Agricultural Show, but when she was an active
contestant one was never free from anxiety. There was a man living in a house
near here who kept entering his pigs for the Fat Pigs event and was wholly
without scruples. One always feared that he would kidnap the Empress or do her
some mischief which would snatch victory from her grasp. He was a Baronet. Sir
Gregory Parsloe.’
    Here he
paused impressively, seeming to suggest that Jeff must know what baronets were
like, and Jeff agreed that they wanted watching, and they reached the sty in
perfect harmony.
    The
Empress was having an in-between-meals snack, her invariable practice when not
sleeping, and Jeff regarded her with awe.
    ‘I’ve
never seen such a pig,’ he said.
    ‘Nobody
has ever seen such a pig,’ said Lord Emsworth.
    ‘Good
appetite.’
    ‘Excellent.
You can’t imagine the bran mash she consumes daily.’
    ‘Well,
nothing like keeping body and soul together.’
    ‘You
would think that anyone would be proud to paint her. And yet all these Royal
Acadamecians refused.’
    ‘Incredible.’
    ‘In fact,
my dear fellow, you are my last hope. If you fail me. I shall have to give up
the whole thing.’
    ‘I won’t
fail you,’ said Jeff.
    He
spoke sincerely. The affection Lord Emsworth felt for him was mutual. Say what
you might of the ninth Earl — his limpness, the way his trousers bagged at the
knees and the superfluity of holes in his shooting jacket —he was essentially a
lovable character and Jeff was resolved to do all that was within his power to
make him happy. And if