step-ladder business. It was like this. Rupert and I sort
of went for a walk after lunch, and by the time I had persuaded
him that he ought to go and find Uncle Clarence and ingratiate
himself with him, Uncle Clarence had disappeared. So Rupert
hunted about for a long time and at last heard a snipping noise
and found him miles away standing on a step-ladder, sort of
pruning some kind of tree with a pair of shears. So Rupert said,
"Oh, there you are!" And Uncle Clarence said, Yes, there he was,
and Rupert said, "Ought you to tire yourself? Won't you let me
do that for you?"'
'The right note,' said Freddie approvingly. 'Assiduity. Zeal.
Well?'
'Well, Uncle Clarence said, "No, thank you! – Rupert thinks
it was "Thank you" – and Rupert stood there for a bit, sort of
talking, and then he suddenly remembered and told Uncle
Clarence that you had just 'phoned that you were coming
down this evening, and I think Uncle Clarence must have got
a touch of cramp or something, because he gave a kind of sudden
sharp groan, Rupert says, and sort of quivered all over. This
made the steps wobble, of course, so Rupert dashed forward to
steady them, and he doesn't know how it happened, but they
suddenly seemed to sort of shut up like a pair of scissors, and the
next thing he knew Uncle Clarence was sitting on the grass, not
seeming to like it much, Rupert says. He had ricked his ankle a
bit and shaken himself up a bit, and altogether, Rupert says, he
wasn't fearfully sunny. Rupert says he thinks he may have lost
ground a little.'
Freddie pondered with knit brows. He was feeling something
of the chagrin of a general who, after sweating himself to a
shadow planning a great campaign, finds his troops unequal to
carrying it out.
'It's such a pity it should have happened. One of the
vicars near here has just been told by the doctor that he's got to
go off to the south of France, and the living is in Uncle Clarence's
gift. If only Rupert could have had that, we could have
got married. However, he's bought Uncle Clarence some
lotion.'
Freddie started. A more cheerful expression came into his
sternly careworn face.
'Lotion?'
'For his ankle.'
'He couldn't have done better,' said Freddie warmly. 'Apart
from showing the contrite heart, he has given the guv'nor medicine, and medicine
to the guv'nor is what catnip is to the cat. Above all things he dearly loves
a little bit of amateur doctoring. As a rule he tries it on somebody else
– two years ago he gave one of the housemaids some patent ointment for
chilblains and she went screaming about the house – but, no doubt, now
that the emergency has occurred, he will be equally agreeable to treating
himself. Old Beefers has made the right move.'
In predicting that Lord Emsworth would appreciate the gift
of lotion, Freddie had spoken with an unerring knowledge of his
father's character. The master of Blandings was one of those
fluffy-minded old gentlemen who are happiest when experimenting
with strange drugs. In a less censorious age he would
have been a Borgia. It was not until he had retired to bed that he
discovered the paper-wrapped bottle on the table by his side.
Then he remembered that the pest Popjoy had mumbled something
at dinner about buying him something or other for his
injured ankle. He tore off the paper and examined the contents
of the bottle with a lively satisfaction. The liquid was a dingy
grey and sloshed pleasantly when you shook it. The name on the
label – Blake's Balsam – was new to him, and that in itself was a
recommendation.
His ankle had long since ceased to pain him, and to some men
this might have seemed an argument against smearing it with
balsam; but not to Lord Emsworth. He decanted a liberal dose
into the palm of his hand. He sniffed it. It had a strong, robust,
bracing sort of smell. He spent the next five minutes thoughtfully
rubbing it in. Then he put the light out and went to sleep.
It is a truism to say that in the world as it is at
of went for a walk after lunch, and by the time I had persuaded
him that he ought to go and find Uncle Clarence and ingratiate
himself with him, Uncle Clarence had disappeared. So Rupert
hunted about for a long time and at last heard a snipping noise
and found him miles away standing on a step-ladder, sort of
pruning some kind of tree with a pair of shears. So Rupert said,
"Oh, there you are!" And Uncle Clarence said, Yes, there he was,
and Rupert said, "Ought you to tire yourself? Won't you let me
do that for you?"'
'The right note,' said Freddie approvingly. 'Assiduity. Zeal.
Well?'
'Well, Uncle Clarence said, "No, thank you! – Rupert thinks
it was "Thank you" – and Rupert stood there for a bit, sort of
talking, and then he suddenly remembered and told Uncle
Clarence that you had just 'phoned that you were coming
down this evening, and I think Uncle Clarence must have got
a touch of cramp or something, because he gave a kind of sudden
sharp groan, Rupert says, and sort of quivered all over. This
made the steps wobble, of course, so Rupert dashed forward to
steady them, and he doesn't know how it happened, but they
suddenly seemed to sort of shut up like a pair of scissors, and the
next thing he knew Uncle Clarence was sitting on the grass, not
seeming to like it much, Rupert says. He had ricked his ankle a
bit and shaken himself up a bit, and altogether, Rupert says, he
wasn't fearfully sunny. Rupert says he thinks he may have lost
ground a little.'
Freddie pondered with knit brows. He was feeling something
of the chagrin of a general who, after sweating himself to a
shadow planning a great campaign, finds his troops unequal to
carrying it out.
'It's such a pity it should have happened. One of the
vicars near here has just been told by the doctor that he's got to
go off to the south of France, and the living is in Uncle Clarence's
gift. If only Rupert could have had that, we could have
got married. However, he's bought Uncle Clarence some
lotion.'
Freddie started. A more cheerful expression came into his
sternly careworn face.
'Lotion?'
'For his ankle.'
'He couldn't have done better,' said Freddie warmly. 'Apart
from showing the contrite heart, he has given the guv'nor medicine, and medicine
to the guv'nor is what catnip is to the cat. Above all things he dearly loves
a little bit of amateur doctoring. As a rule he tries it on somebody else
– two years ago he gave one of the housemaids some patent ointment for
chilblains and she went screaming about the house – but, no doubt, now
that the emergency has occurred, he will be equally agreeable to treating
himself. Old Beefers has made the right move.'
In predicting that Lord Emsworth would appreciate the gift
of lotion, Freddie had spoken with an unerring knowledge of his
father's character. The master of Blandings was one of those
fluffy-minded old gentlemen who are happiest when experimenting
with strange drugs. In a less censorious age he would
have been a Borgia. It was not until he had retired to bed that he
discovered the paper-wrapped bottle on the table by his side.
Then he remembered that the pest Popjoy had mumbled something
at dinner about buying him something or other for his
injured ankle. He tore off the paper and examined the contents
of the bottle with a lively satisfaction. The liquid was a dingy
grey and sloshed pleasantly when you shook it. The name on the
label – Blake's Balsam – was new to him, and that in itself was a
recommendation.
His ankle had long since ceased to pain him, and to some men
this might have seemed an argument against smearing it with
balsam; but not to Lord Emsworth. He decanted a liberal dose
into the palm of his hand. He sniffed it. It had a strong, robust,
bracing sort of smell. He spent the next five minutes thoughtfully
rubbing it in. Then he put the light out and went to sleep.
It is a truism to say that in the world as it is at
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