Free Heavy Weather by P. G. Wodehouse Page B

which Blandings Castle was wont to assemble long before the evening meal.
    He was surprised to find himself alone. And it was not long before surprise gave way to a stronger emotion. For some minutes he wandered to and fro, gazing at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls; but to a man who has just come from a long and dusty train journey ancestral portraits are a poor substitute for the old familiar juice. He pressed the bell, and presently Beach the butler appeared.
    'Oh, hullo, Beach. I say, Beach, what about the cocktails ?' The butler seemed surprised.
    'I was planning to serve them when the guests arrived. Mr Ronald.'
    'Guests? There aren't people coming to dinner, are there?' 'Yes, sir. We shall sit down twenty-four.' 'Good Lord! A binge?' 'Yes, sir.'
    'I must go and put on a white tie.'
    'There is plenty of time, Mr Ronald. Dinner will not be served till nine o'clock. Perhaps you would prefer me to bring you an aperitif in advance of the formal cocktails?'
    ' I certainly would. I'm dying by inches.'
    ' I will attend to the matter immediately.'
    The butler of Blandings Castle was not a man who when he said 'immediately' meant 'somewhere in the distant future'. Like a heavyweight jinn, stirred to activity by the rubbing of a lamp, he vanished and reappeared; and it was only a few minutes later that Ronnie was blossoming like a flower in the gentle rain of summer and f inding himself disposed for leisurely chat.
    'Twenty-four?' he said. 'Golly, we're going gay. Who's coming?'
    The butler's eyes took on a glaze similar to that seen in those of policemen giving evidence.
    'His lordship the Bishop of Poole, Sir Herbert and Lady Musker, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe . ..'
    'What!'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'Who invited him?’
    'Her ladyship, I should imagine, sir.'
    'And he's coming? Well, I suppose he knows his own business,' said Ronnie dubiously. 'Better keep a close eye on Uncle Clarence, Beach. If you see him toying with a knife, remove it.'
    'Very good, sir.'
    'Who else?'
    'Colonel and Mrs Mauleverer and daughter, the Honourable Major and Lady Augusta Lindsay-Todd and niece . ..'
    'All right. You needn't go on. I get the general idea. Eighteen local nibs, plus the gang of six in residence.'
    'Eight, Mr Ronald.'
    'Eight?'
    'His lordship, her ladyship, Mr Galahad, yourself, Miss Brown, Mr ...' The butler's voice shook a little.'. . . Pilbeam .. 'Exactly. Six, you old ass.' 'There is also Mr Bodkin, sir.' 'Bodkin?'
    'Sir Gregory Parsloe's nephew, Mr Ronald. Mr Montague Bodkin. You may recall him as a somewhat frequent visitor to the Castle during his school days.'
    'Of course 1 remember old Monty. But you've got muddled. You've counted him in among the resident patients, when he's really one of the outside crowd.'
    'No, sir. Mr Bodkin is assuming Mr Carmody's duties as his lordship's secretary.'
    'Not really?'
    'Yes, sir. I understand the appointment was ratified two days ago.'
    'But that's odd. What does Monty want, sweating as a secretary ? He's got about fifteen thousand a year of his own.' 'Indeed, sir?'
    'Well, he had. Somehow or other we've not happened to run into each other much these last two years. Do you think he's lost it?'
    'Very possibly, sir. A great many people have become fiscally crippled of late.'
    'Rummy,' said Ronnie.
    Then speculation on this mystery was borne away on a flood of sober pride. With a pardonable feeling of smugness, Ronnie Fish realized that his soul had achieved such heights of nobility that the prospect of a Monty Bodkin buzzing about the Castle premises in daily contact with Sue was causing him no pang of apprehension or jealousy.
    Not so very long ago, such a thought would have been a dagger in his bosom. It was just the Monty type of chap-tall, lissom, good-looking, and not pink - that he had always feared. And now he could contemplate his coming without a tremor. Pretty good, felt Ronnie.
    'Well, come along with your eight,' he said. 'That's only seve n, so far.' The butler coughed.
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