lay hidden in the country homes of England. And who in the world was going to kick him out when they heard that one?
Nobody.
And then, once he was inside, if he happened to spot somethinghe really wanted, well—he knew a hundred different ways of dealing with that.
Rather to Mr. Boggis’s surprise, the scheme worked. In fact, the friendliness with which he was received in one house after another through the countryside was, in the beginning, quite embarrassing, even to him. A slice of cold pie, a glass of port, a cup of tea, a basket of plums, even a full sit-down Sunday dinner with the family, such things were constantly being pressed upon him. Sooner or later, of course, there had been some bad moments and a number of unpleasant incidents, but then nine years is more than four hundred Sundays, and that adds up to a great quantity of houses visited. All in all, it had been an interesting, exciting, and lucrative business.
And now it was another Sunday and Mr. Boggis was operating in the country of Buckinghamshire, in one of the most northerly squares on his map, about ten miles from Oxford, and as he drove down the hill and headed for his first house, the dilapidated Queen Anne, he began to get the feeling that this was going to be one of his lucky days.
He parked the car about a hundred yards from the gates and got out to walk the rest of the way. He never liked people to see his car until after a deal was completed. A dear old clergyman and a large station wagon somehow never seemed quite right together. Also the short walk gave him time to examine the property closely from the outside and to assume the mood most likely to be suitable for the occasion.
Mr. Boggis strode briskly up the drive. He was a small fat-legged man with a belly. The face was round and rosy, quite perfectfor the part, and the two large brown eyes that bulged out at you from this rosy face gave an impression of gentle imbecility. He was dressed in a black suit with the usual parson’s dog-collar round his neck, and on his head a soft black hat. He carried an old oak walking stick which lent him, in his opinion, a rather rustic easygoing air.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and the door opened and suddenly there stood before him, or rather above him, a gigantic woman dressed in riding breeches. Even through the smoke of her cigarette he could smell the powerful odour of stables and horse manure that clung about her.
“Yes?” she asked, looking at him suspiciously. “What is it you want?”
Mr. Boggis, who half expected her to whinny any moment, raised his hat, made a little bow, and handed her his card. “I do apologize for bothering you,” he said, and then he waited, watching her face as she read the message.
“I don’t understand,” she said, handing back the card. “What is it you want?”
Mr. Boggis explained about the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
“This wouldn’t by any chance be something to do with the Socialist Party?” she asked, staring at him fiercely from under a pair of pale bushy brows.
From then on, it was easy. A Tory in riding breeches, male or female, was always a sitting duck for Mr. Boggis. He spent two minutes delivering an impassioned eulogy on the extreme Right Wing of the Conservative Party, then two more denouncing the Socialists.As a clincher, he made particular reference to the bill that the Socialists had once introduced for the abolition of bloodsports in the country, and went on to inform his listener that his idea of heaven—“though you better not tell the bishop, my dear”—was a place where one could hunt the fox, the stag, and the hare with large packs of tireless hounds from morn till night every day of the week, including Sundays.
Watching her as he spoke, he could see the magic beginning to do its work. The woman was grinning now, showing Mr. Boggis a set of enormous, slightly yellow teeth. “Madam,” he
Nobody.
And then, once he was inside, if he happened to spot somethinghe really wanted, well—he knew a hundred different ways of dealing with that.
Rather to Mr. Boggis’s surprise, the scheme worked. In fact, the friendliness with which he was received in one house after another through the countryside was, in the beginning, quite embarrassing, even to him. A slice of cold pie, a glass of port, a cup of tea, a basket of plums, even a full sit-down Sunday dinner with the family, such things were constantly being pressed upon him. Sooner or later, of course, there had been some bad moments and a number of unpleasant incidents, but then nine years is more than four hundred Sundays, and that adds up to a great quantity of houses visited. All in all, it had been an interesting, exciting, and lucrative business.
And now it was another Sunday and Mr. Boggis was operating in the country of Buckinghamshire, in one of the most northerly squares on his map, about ten miles from Oxford, and as he drove down the hill and headed for his first house, the dilapidated Queen Anne, he began to get the feeling that this was going to be one of his lucky days.
He parked the car about a hundred yards from the gates and got out to walk the rest of the way. He never liked people to see his car until after a deal was completed. A dear old clergyman and a large station wagon somehow never seemed quite right together. Also the short walk gave him time to examine the property closely from the outside and to assume the mood most likely to be suitable for the occasion.
Mr. Boggis strode briskly up the drive. He was a small fat-legged man with a belly. The face was round and rosy, quite perfectfor the part, and the two large brown eyes that bulged out at you from this rosy face gave an impression of gentle imbecility. He was dressed in a black suit with the usual parson’s dog-collar round his neck, and on his head a soft black hat. He carried an old oak walking stick which lent him, in his opinion, a rather rustic easygoing air.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and the door opened and suddenly there stood before him, or rather above him, a gigantic woman dressed in riding breeches. Even through the smoke of her cigarette he could smell the powerful odour of stables and horse manure that clung about her.
“Yes?” she asked, looking at him suspiciously. “What is it you want?”
Mr. Boggis, who half expected her to whinny any moment, raised his hat, made a little bow, and handed her his card. “I do apologize for bothering you,” he said, and then he waited, watching her face as she read the message.
“I don’t understand,” she said, handing back the card. “What is it you want?”
Mr. Boggis explained about the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
“This wouldn’t by any chance be something to do with the Socialist Party?” she asked, staring at him fiercely from under a pair of pale bushy brows.
From then on, it was easy. A Tory in riding breeches, male or female, was always a sitting duck for Mr. Boggis. He spent two minutes delivering an impassioned eulogy on the extreme Right Wing of the Conservative Party, then two more denouncing the Socialists.As a clincher, he made particular reference to the bill that the Socialists had once introduced for the abolition of bloodsports in the country, and went on to inform his listener that his idea of heaven—“though you better not tell the bishop, my dear”—was a place where one could hunt the fox, the stag, and the hare with large packs of tireless hounds from morn till night every day of the week, including Sundays.
Watching her as he spoke, he could see the magic beginning to do its work. The woman was grinning now, showing Mr. Boggis a set of enormous, slightly yellow teeth. “Madam,” he
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