back.’
For the
third time since he had entered this house of terror, Pongo’s brow grew warm
and damp. With that get-together of theirs over the broken what-not still green
in his memory, it seemed to him only too sickeningly certain that he would
catch it when His Nibs got back.
‘What
was it?’ he quavered, rightly speaking of the object in the past tense.
‘It’s a
sort of sawn-off statue like, that he had presented to him when he give up
being Governor of that dog’s island out in Africa that he used to be Governor
of. A bust, cook says it’s called. He thinks the world of it. The other morning
he happened to come along while I was giving it a bit of a dusting, and you
ought to have heard him go on, just because I kind of rocked it a little. “Be
careful, girl! Be careful, girl! Mind what you’re doing, my good girl!” Coo!’
Pongo’s
brow grew damper. A stylist would now have described it as beaded. And
simultaneously he found himself chilled to the bone. He was a human replica of
one of those peculiar puddings which lure the diner on into supposing that he
is biting into a hot soufflé and then suddenly turn right around and
become ice-cream in the middle.
Matters
were even worse, he perceived, than he had feared. This was not one of those
minor breakages which get passed off with a light apology on the one side and a
jolly laugh on the other. It was as if Sir Aylmer Bostock had had a favourite
child on whom he doted and he, Pongo, had socked that child on the occiput and laid
it out good and proper. And coming right on top of the what-not misadventure,
too! What would be the effect on his temperamental host of this second and
possibly even more wrath-provoking outrage?
‘Golly!’
he moaned, sagging at the knees. ‘This is a nice bit of box fruit. Advise me,
young Bean. What do I do for the best, do you think?’
It may
be that Bottleton East produces an exceptionally quick-witted type of girl, or
perhaps all women are like that. At any rate, Elsie Bean, with scarcely a pause
for thought, provided the solution hot off the griddle.
‘Well,
look,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of dark in that corner, so maybe he won’t miss his
old bust for a bit. He’s short-sighted, I know, and he won’t wear specs because
he thinks they’d make him look silly. Jane heard them talking about it at
dinner. If I was you, I’d hop into that car of yours and drive lickerty-split
to London and get another bust. And then you drive back and stick it up. Ten to
one he won’t notice nothing.’
For an
instant Pongo’s numbed brain was incapable of following her reasoning. Then the
mists cleared, and he saw that it was red-hot stuff. This girl had found the
way.
Drive
lickerty-split to London? No need to do that. He could procure the substitute a
dashed sight nearer than London. At Ickenham Hall, to be precise. His mind shot
back to last night’s dinner-table…. Uncle Fred jerking his thumb at an object
in the corner of the room and saying it was a bust which Sally had brought down
and left in his charge, and himself — how ironical it seemed now — giving the
thing a brief and uninterested glance. It wouldn’t be an uninterested glance he
would be giving it when he saw it again.
His
spirits soared. Ickenham Hall was only a dozen miles away, and he had an
owner-driver’s touching faith in the ability of his Buffy-Porson to do a dozen
miles, if pushed, in about three minutes and a quarter. He could be there and
back and have the understudy on its pedestal long before his host had finished
with the Vicar.
He
beamed upon Elsie Bean.
‘That’s
the set-up. I’ll go and get the car.’
‘I
would.’
‘You,
meanwhile, might be putting in a bit of earnest brush-and-pan work.’
‘Right
ho!’
‘Fine.
Great. Capital. Splendid,’ said Pongo, and raced for the stables.
Elsie
Bean, her errand of mercy concluded, was standing on the front steps when he
drove up. He was conscious, as he saw her, of a twinge
For the
third time since he had entered this house of terror, Pongo’s brow grew warm
and damp. With that get-together of theirs over the broken what-not still green
in his memory, it seemed to him only too sickeningly certain that he would
catch it when His Nibs got back.
‘What
was it?’ he quavered, rightly speaking of the object in the past tense.
‘It’s a
sort of sawn-off statue like, that he had presented to him when he give up
being Governor of that dog’s island out in Africa that he used to be Governor
of. A bust, cook says it’s called. He thinks the world of it. The other morning
he happened to come along while I was giving it a bit of a dusting, and you
ought to have heard him go on, just because I kind of rocked it a little. “Be
careful, girl! Be careful, girl! Mind what you’re doing, my good girl!” Coo!’
Pongo’s
brow grew damper. A stylist would now have described it as beaded. And
simultaneously he found himself chilled to the bone. He was a human replica of
one of those peculiar puddings which lure the diner on into supposing that he
is biting into a hot soufflé and then suddenly turn right around and
become ice-cream in the middle.
Matters
were even worse, he perceived, than he had feared. This was not one of those
minor breakages which get passed off with a light apology on the one side and a
jolly laugh on the other. It was as if Sir Aylmer Bostock had had a favourite
child on whom he doted and he, Pongo, had socked that child on the occiput and laid
it out good and proper. And coming right on top of the what-not misadventure,
too! What would be the effect on his temperamental host of this second and
possibly even more wrath-provoking outrage?
‘Golly!’
he moaned, sagging at the knees. ‘This is a nice bit of box fruit. Advise me,
young Bean. What do I do for the best, do you think?’
It may
be that Bottleton East produces an exceptionally quick-witted type of girl, or
perhaps all women are like that. At any rate, Elsie Bean, with scarcely a pause
for thought, provided the solution hot off the griddle.
‘Well,
look,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of dark in that corner, so maybe he won’t miss his
old bust for a bit. He’s short-sighted, I know, and he won’t wear specs because
he thinks they’d make him look silly. Jane heard them talking about it at
dinner. If I was you, I’d hop into that car of yours and drive lickerty-split
to London and get another bust. And then you drive back and stick it up. Ten to
one he won’t notice nothing.’
For an
instant Pongo’s numbed brain was incapable of following her reasoning. Then the
mists cleared, and he saw that it was red-hot stuff. This girl had found the
way.
Drive
lickerty-split to London? No need to do that. He could procure the substitute a
dashed sight nearer than London. At Ickenham Hall, to be precise. His mind shot
back to last night’s dinner-table…. Uncle Fred jerking his thumb at an object
in the corner of the room and saying it was a bust which Sally had brought down
and left in his charge, and himself — how ironical it seemed now — giving the
thing a brief and uninterested glance. It wouldn’t be an uninterested glance he
would be giving it when he saw it again.
His
spirits soared. Ickenham Hall was only a dozen miles away, and he had an
owner-driver’s touching faith in the ability of his Buffy-Porson to do a dozen
miles, if pushed, in about three minutes and a quarter. He could be there and
back and have the understudy on its pedestal long before his host had finished
with the Vicar.
He
beamed upon Elsie Bean.
‘That’s
the set-up. I’ll go and get the car.’
‘I
would.’
‘You,
meanwhile, might be putting in a bit of earnest brush-and-pan work.’
‘Right
ho!’
‘Fine.
Great. Capital. Splendid,’ said Pongo, and raced for the stables.
Elsie
Bean, her errand of mercy concluded, was standing on the front steps when he
drove up. He was conscious, as he saw her, of a twinge
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