up. No, on second thoughts,
you
lock it up, Henry, and give me the key. There’s going to be no cheating, Lionel, you’ve been cheating as well for over seventy-five years. The whisky will be locked up for a month. You’re perfectly healthy now: we just had Dr. Salmon over and he said so. We’ll have him over again at the end of the month and he’ll tell us honestly whether there’s any difference. I assure you, Lionel, there won’t be any difference, none at all.Then we’ll know what sort of value to put on your famous medicinal whisky.
“It’s a bet,” she ended. “We’ll write it in the betting book.” This was a heavy red leather number, quite antique, with the Blakesmoor arms on it. It had once belonged to the old Earl; some of the ancient bets in it had to be read to be believed, what those officers got up to! As Bella remarked, when she was dusting it, “They didn’t deserve to
have
horses, did they?”
But the Colonel and Lady Sissy had been using it for years, writing down their own bets. When I had to show it to Tomlinson, I couldn’t help hoping he wouldn’t go to the front of the book, the old bets being such grist to his mill, to put it mildly. But of course he did. Speechless for a while and then coming out with something predictable like, “So this is our aristocracy. Roll on the revolution.”
The Colonel’s bets were really quite tame stuff compared to what had gone before, Lady Sissy’s too: although there were an awful lot of them. It was typical of Tomlinson that he was out to sneer at the feebleness of the old couple’s bets, just after being so fearfully shocked by their father’s scandalous ones.
“What a lot of fuss about—” He stopped. Well, he couldn’t quite say it was a fuss about nothing, could he? In view of what had occurred. Myself, I had always looked at that red leather book as an important symbol in the power struggle, even if I was a little slow to appreciate the serious nature of this particular bet, out of all the others.
“What exactly is the bet, m’lady?” I asked politely as I carried the big book over to her. I sometimes wrote the bets down for them, and they signed them; although on this occasion it was Lady Sissy herself who wrote it down—frankly, I don’t think I would have dared write it, not with the Colonel there glowering at me.
“The bet is that the Colonel will drink no whisky for a month, at the end of which he will be passed fit as a fiddle by Dr. Salmon. That’s the bet. Agreed, Lionel?”
I looked at the Colonel. His face had gone quite red and for a moment I thought—but no, he recovered himself He continued to sit there staring at Lady Sissy as if he couldn’t quite believe his own ears.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he said at length. He spoke quite slowly as if he had just discovered something of major importance about his sister after all these years. “You’re trying to kill me by robbing me of my whisky. Prove it, indeed. That’ll prove nothing. Because I shall be dead, shan’t I? I’ll be proved right that the whisky was keeping me alive; but then it’ll be too late. I’ll be in my grave and you’ll be alive and here at the Manor—”
“Stuff and nonsense, Lionel,” replied Lady Sissy airily, as she sipped away at her own cocktail. “Since I don’t believe in all this medicinal business anyway, it’s my opinion that far from being in your grave you’ll be in even better health at the end of the month than before! And that’s what Dr. Salmon will tell us.”
The Colonel continued to gaze at her.
“So what about PPs?” he asked after a while in a gruff voice. “What do I drink then? Cocoa?” By Jove, I thought, he’s going to do it. He’s going to take the bet. And sure enough he pulled the big red leather book towards him and signed the bet which Lady Sissy had written, with a flourish. No question about the signature there, as even Tomlinson had to agree, he entered into it of his own free
you
lock it up, Henry, and give me the key. There’s going to be no cheating, Lionel, you’ve been cheating as well for over seventy-five years. The whisky will be locked up for a month. You’re perfectly healthy now: we just had Dr. Salmon over and he said so. We’ll have him over again at the end of the month and he’ll tell us honestly whether there’s any difference. I assure you, Lionel, there won’t be any difference, none at all.Then we’ll know what sort of value to put on your famous medicinal whisky.
“It’s a bet,” she ended. “We’ll write it in the betting book.” This was a heavy red leather number, quite antique, with the Blakesmoor arms on it. It had once belonged to the old Earl; some of the ancient bets in it had to be read to be believed, what those officers got up to! As Bella remarked, when she was dusting it, “They didn’t deserve to
have
horses, did they?”
But the Colonel and Lady Sissy had been using it for years, writing down their own bets. When I had to show it to Tomlinson, I couldn’t help hoping he wouldn’t go to the front of the book, the old bets being such grist to his mill, to put it mildly. But of course he did. Speechless for a while and then coming out with something predictable like, “So this is our aristocracy. Roll on the revolution.”
The Colonel’s bets were really quite tame stuff compared to what had gone before, Lady Sissy’s too: although there were an awful lot of them. It was typical of Tomlinson that he was out to sneer at the feebleness of the old couple’s bets, just after being so fearfully shocked by their father’s scandalous ones.
“What a lot of fuss about—” He stopped. Well, he couldn’t quite say it was a fuss about nothing, could he? In view of what had occurred. Myself, I had always looked at that red leather book as an important symbol in the power struggle, even if I was a little slow to appreciate the serious nature of this particular bet, out of all the others.
“What exactly is the bet, m’lady?” I asked politely as I carried the big book over to her. I sometimes wrote the bets down for them, and they signed them; although on this occasion it was Lady Sissy herself who wrote it down—frankly, I don’t think I would have dared write it, not with the Colonel there glowering at me.
“The bet is that the Colonel will drink no whisky for a month, at the end of which he will be passed fit as a fiddle by Dr. Salmon. That’s the bet. Agreed, Lionel?”
I looked at the Colonel. His face had gone quite red and for a moment I thought—but no, he recovered himself He continued to sit there staring at Lady Sissy as if he couldn’t quite believe his own ears.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he said at length. He spoke quite slowly as if he had just discovered something of major importance about his sister after all these years. “You’re trying to kill me by robbing me of my whisky. Prove it, indeed. That’ll prove nothing. Because I shall be dead, shan’t I? I’ll be proved right that the whisky was keeping me alive; but then it’ll be too late. I’ll be in my grave and you’ll be alive and here at the Manor—”
“Stuff and nonsense, Lionel,” replied Lady Sissy airily, as she sipped away at her own cocktail. “Since I don’t believe in all this medicinal business anyway, it’s my opinion that far from being in your grave you’ll be in even better health at the end of the month than before! And that’s what Dr. Salmon will tell us.”
The Colonel continued to gaze at her.
“So what about PPs?” he asked after a while in a gruff voice. “What do I drink then? Cocoa?” By Jove, I thought, he’s going to do it. He’s going to take the bet. And sure enough he pulled the big red leather book towards him and signed the bet which Lady Sissy had written, with a flourish. No question about the signature there, as even Tomlinson had to agree, he entered into it of his own free
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