Uncle Dynamite by P.G. Wodehouse

see
what you mean,’ he said. ‘But what could he do if he resigned his portfolio?
Not easy to find jobs nowadays.’
    ‘I want
him to buy a pub. He’s got three hundred pounds. He won a football pool last
winter.’
    ‘The
lucky stiff.’
    ‘But
he’s scared of that sister of his, and I can’t persuade him. “Now, listen,
Harold,” I keep saying, but he just hums and haws and chews his moustache. Oh,
well,’ said Elsie philosophically, ‘I suppose it’ll all come out in the wash.
What’s that mess on the floor?’
    ‘It’s
what’s left of a sort of gadget I happened to drop.’
    ‘Does
he know about it?’
    ‘Oh,
yes. The topic came up.’
    ‘I
wonder he didn’t chew your head off.’
    ‘He did
look for a moment as if he were toying with some such idea. Rather a hard nut,
what?’
    ‘He’s
an overbearing dishpot,’ said Elsie Bean.
    Pongo
wandered out into the hall. He had about as much as he required of the
collection of African curios for the time being, and he wanted to pace up and
down and ponder. He had already formed a reasonably accurate estimate of Sir
Aylmer Bostock’s character, but it was interesting to find it confirmed by the
woman who knew.
    An
overbearing dishpot? The words had a disagreeable sound. His attitude towards
overbearing dishpots resembled that of his companion’s circle in Bottleton East
towards officers of the Law. He disliked and feared them. It began to look to
him as if union with Hermione Bostock, good though it might be in itself,
carried with it certain disadvantages which wanted thinking over.
    ‘And
Lady Bostock?’ he said. ‘She flitted only briefly through my life, but she
struck me as being slightly less of a man-eater.’
    ‘Yes,
she’s better than what he is,’ agreed Elsie Bean. ‘But the one I like is Mr
William.’
    ‘Who
would he be?’
    ‘Their
nephew. Mr Oakshott.’
    ‘Oh,
ah, yes. I was forgetting. I know him, or used to. Got a pink face, hasn’t he?’
    ‘Well,
I’d call it more of a tomato-ketchup colour. Owing to the heat of the sun in
them parts. He’s just come back from Brazil . He was telling me about Brazil this morning,’ said Elsie, who had lost no time in buttonholing the
returned wanderer and exchanging ideas with him. ‘The natives there shoot birds
with poisoned darts.’
    ‘Poisoned
darts?’
    ‘R.
Through blowpipes.’
    Pongo
was courteous, but he could not let this pass. Though it was some time since he
had boned up on his Brazil ,
memories of ‘The Boy Explorers Up the Amazon’ still lingered in his mind.
    ‘Not
poisoned darts.’
    ‘That’s
what Mr William told me.’
    ‘He was
pulling your leg. They keep those for their wives’ relations. Use your
intelligence, my dear old housemaid. When a Brazilian native shoots a bird, he
does it with a purpose. He intends to employ that bird subsequently in broiled
or fricassee form. Obviously, then, if he soaked it with a poisoned dart, he
would be defeating his own ends, because no sooner had he bitten into the liver
wing than he would kick the bucket in awful agonies. And Brazilian natives,
while they may be asses, are not silly asses. If you really want to know how
they shoot birds, I will tell you. They fashion a rude sling — thus,’ said
Pongo, taking out his handkerchief and unfolding it. ‘They then look about them
for a handy projectile, as it might be this paperweight, and stuff it into the
rude sling. This done, they whirl the contraption round their heads and…. Oh,
my God! Where did that one go?’
    It had
not been his intention to give a practical demonstration. He had planned to
stop short of the actual discharge of the projectile, merely indicating its
effects verbally. But artistic enthusiasm had carried him too far. A rending
crash, and something white in the shadows at the end of the hall was lying in
fragments.
    ‘Coo!’
said Elsie Bean, awed. ‘You aren’t half breaking up the home, are you? You’ll
catch it when His Nibs gets