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Plunged in thought, and trying without any success to conjure up a picture of a benevolent uncle patting him on the head with one hand while writing cheques with the other, he had wandered some distance from the house and was passing a small spinney, when he observed in a little dell to his left a peculiar object.

It was a large yellow caravan. And what, he asked himself, was a caravan doing in the grounds of Blandings Castle?

To aid him in grappling with the problem, he flung the tennis-ball at it. Upon which, the door opened and a spectacled head appeared.

‘Hullo!’ said the head.

‘Hullo!’ said Ronnie.

‘Hullo!’

‘Hullo!’

The thing threatened to become a hunting-chorus. At this moment, however, the sun went behind a cloud and Ronnie was enabled to recognize the head’s proprietor. Until now, the light, shining on the other’s glasses, had dazzled him.

‘Baxter!’ he exclaimed.

The last person he would have expected to meet in the park of Blandings. He had heard all about that row a couple of years ago. He knew that, if his own stock with Lord Emsworth was low, that of the Efficient Baxter was down in the cellar, with no takers.

Yet here the fellowwas, shoving his head out of caravans as if nothing had ever happened.

‘Ah, Fish!’

Rupert Baxter descended the steps, a swarthy-complexioned young man with a supercilious expression which had always been displeasing to Ronnie.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Ronnie.

‘I happened to be taking a caravan holiday in the neighbourhood. And, finding myself at Market Blandings last night, I thought I would pay a visit to the place where I had spent so many happy days.’

‘I see.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me where I could find Lady Constance?’

‘I haven’t seen her since breakfast. She’s probably about somewhere.’

‘I will go and inquire. If you meet her, perhaps you would not mind mentioning that I am here.’

The Efficient Baxter strode off, purposeful as ever; and Ronnie, having speculated for a moment as to how his Uncle Clarence would comport himself if he came suddenly round a corner and ran into this bit of the dead past, and having registered an idle hope that, when this happened, he might be present with a camera, inserted another cigarette in its holder and passed on his way.

II

Five minutes later, Lord Emsworth, leaning pensively out of the library window and sniffing the morning air, received an unpleasant shock. He could have sworn he had seen his late secretary, Rupert Baxter, cross the gravel and go in at the front door.

‘Bless my soul!’ said Lord Emsworth.

The only explanation that occurred to him was that Baxter, having met with some fatal accident, had come back to haunt the place. To suppose the fellow could be here in person was absurd. When you shoot a secretary out for throwing flower-pots at you in the small hours, he does not return to pay social calls. A frown furrowed his lordship’s brow.

The spectre of one of his ancestors he could have put up with, but the idea of a Blandings Castle haunted by Baxter he did not relish at all. He decided to visit his sister Constance in her boudoir and see what she had to say about it.

‘Constance, my dear.’

Lady Constance looked up from the letter she was writing. She clicked her tongue, for it annoyed her to be interrupted at her correspondence.

‘Well, Clarence?’

‘I say, Constance, a most extraordinary thing happened just now. I was looking out of the library window and – you remember Baxter?’

‘Of course I remember Mr Baxter.’

‘Well, his ghost has just walked across the gravel.’

‘What
are
you talking about, Clarence?’

‘I’m telling you. I was looking out of the library window and I suddenly saw –’

‘Mr Baxter,’ announced Beach, flinging open the door.

‘Mr Baxter!’

‘Good morning, Lady Constance.’

Rupert Baxter advanced with joyous camaraderie glinting from both lenses. Then he perceived his former employer and his exuberance diminished. ‘Er – good morning, Lord Ems-worth,’ he said, flashing his spectacles austerely upon him.

There was a pause. Lord Emsworth adjusted his pince-nez and regarded the visitor dumbly. Of the relief which was presumably flooding his soul at the discovery that Rupert Baxter was still on this side of the veil, he gave no outward sign.

Baxter was the first to break an uncomfortable silence.

‘I happened to be taking a caravan holiday in this neighbourhood, Lady Constance, and finding myself near Market Blandings last night, I thought I would . . .’

‘Why, of course! We should never have forgiven you if you had not come to see us.

Should we, Clarence?’

‘Eh?’

‘I said, should we?’

‘Should we what?’ said Lord Emsworth, who was still adjusting his mind.

Lady Constance’s lips tightened, and a moment passed during which it seemed always a fifty-fifty chance that a handsome silver ink-pot would fly through the air in the direction of her brother’s head. But she was a strong woman. She fought down the impulse.

‘Did you say you were travelling in a caravan, Mr Baxter?’

‘In a caravan. I left it in the park.’

‘Well, of course you must come and stay with us. The castle,’ she continued, raising her voice a little, to compete with a sort of wordless bubbling which had begun to proceed from her brother’s lips, ‘is almost empty just now. We shall not be having our first big house-party till the middle of next month. You must make quite a long visit. I will send somebody over to fetch your things.’

‘It is exceedingly kind of you.’

‘It will be delightful having you here again. Won’t it, Clarence?’

‘Eh?’

‘I said won’t it?’

‘Won’t it what?’

Lady Constance’s hand trembled above the ink-pot like a hovering butterfly. She withdrew it.

‘Will it not be delightful,’ she said, catching her brother’s eye and holding it like a female Ancient Mariner, ‘having Mr Baxter back at the castle again?’

‘I’m going down to see my pig,’ said Lord Emsworth.

A silence followed his departure, such as would have fallen had a coffin just been carried out. Then Lady Constance shook off gloom.

‘Oh, Mr Baxter, I’m so glad you were able to come. And how clever of you to come in a caravan. It prevented your arrival seeming pre-arranged.’

‘I thought of that.’

‘You think of everything.’

Rupert Baxter stepped to the door, opened it, satisfied himself that no listeners lurked in the passage, and returned to his seat.

‘Are you in any trouble, Lady Constance? Your letter seemed so very urgent.’

‘I am in dreadful trouble, Mr Baxter.’

If Rupert Baxter had been a different type of man and Lady Constance Keeble a different type of woman he would probably at this point have patted her hand. As it was, he merely hitched his chair an inch closer to hers.

‘If there is anything I can do?’

‘There is nobody except you who can do anything. But I hardly like to ask you.’

Ask me whatever you please. And if it is in my power . . .’

‘Oh, it is.’

Rupert Baxter gave his chair another hitch.

‘Tell me.’

Lady Constance hesitated.

‘It seems such an impossible thing to ask of anyone.’

‘Please!’

‘Well . . . you know my brother?’

Baxter seemed puzzled. Then an explanation of the peculiar question presented itself.

‘Oh, you mean Mr . . .?’

Yes, yes, yes. Of course I wasn’t referring to Lord Emsworth. My brother Galahad.’

‘I have never met him. Oddly enough, though he visited the castle twice during the period when I was Lord Emsworth’s secretary, I was away both times on my holiday. Is he here now?’

Yes. Finishing his Reminiscences.’

‘I saw in some paper that he was writing the history of his life.’

‘And if you know what a life his has been you will understand why I am distracted.’

‘Certainly I have heard stories,’ said Baxter guardedly.

Lady Constance performed that movement with her hands which came so close to wringing.

‘The book is full from beginning to end of libellous anecdotes, Mr Baxter. About all our best friends. If it is published we shall not have a friend left. Galahad seems to have known everybody in England when they were young and foolish, and to remember everything particularly foolish and disgraceful that they did. So . . .’

‘So you want me to get hold of the manuscript and destroy it?’

Lady Constance stared, stunned by this penetration. She told herself that she might have known that she would not have to make long explanations to Rupert Baxter. His mind was like a searchlight, darting hither and thither, lighting up whatever it touched.

‘Yes,’ she gasped. She hurried on. ‘It does seem, I know, an extraordinary thing to . . .’

‘Not at all.’

‘. . . but Lord Emsworth refuses to do anything.’

‘I see.’

‘You know how he is in the face of any emergency.’

‘Yes, I do, indeed.’

‘So supine. So helpless. So vague and altogether incompetent.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Mr Baxter, you are my only hope.’

Baxter removed his spectacles, polished them, and put them back again.

‘I shall be delighted, Lady Constance, to do anything to help you that lies in my power.

And to obtain possession of this manuscript should be an easy task. But is there only one copy of it in existence?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I am sure of that. Galahad told me that he was waiting till it was finished before sending it to the typist.’

‘Then you need have no further anxiety.’

It was a moment when Lady Constance Keeble would have given much for eloquence.

She sought for words that should adequately express her feelings, but could find none.

‘Oh, Mr Baxter!’ she said.

III

Ronnie Fish’s aimlessly wandering feet had taken him westward. It was not long, accordingly, before there came to his nostrils a familiar and penetrating odour, and he found that he was within a short distance of the detached residence employed by Empress of Blandings as a combined bedroom and restaurant. A few steps, and he was enabled to observe that celebrated animal in person. With her head tucked well down and her tail wiggling with pure
joie de vivre,
the Empress was hoisting in a spot of lunch.

Everybody likes to see somebody eating. Ronnie leaned over the rail, absorbed. He poised the tennis-ball and with an absent-minded flick of the wrist bounced it on the silver medallist’s back. Finding the pleasant, ponging sound which resulted soothing to harassed nerves, he did it again. The Empress made excellent bouncing. She was not one of your razor-backs. She presented a wide and resistant surface. For some minutes, therefore, the pair carried on according to plan – she eating, he bouncing, until presently Ronnie was thrilled to discover that this outdoor sport of his was assisting thought.

Gradually – mistily at first, then assuming shape, a plan of action was beginning to emerge from the murk of his mind.

How would this be, for instance?

If there was one thing calculated to appeal to his Uncle Clarence, to induce in his Uncle Clarence a really melting mood, it was the announcement that somebody desired to return to the Land. He loved to hear of people returning to the Land. How, then, would this be?

Go to the old boy, state that one had seen the light and was in complete agreement with him that England’s future depended on checking the Drift to the Towns, and then ask for a good fat slice of capital with which to start a farm.

The project of starting a farm was one which was bound to . . . Half a minute. Another idea on the way. Yes, here it came, and it was a pippin. Not merely just an ordinary farm, but a pig-farm! Wouldn’t Uncle Clarence leap in the air and shower gold on anybody who wanted to live in the country and breed pigs? You bet your Sunday cuffs he would.

And, once the money was safely deposited to the account of Ronald Overbury Fish in Cox’s Bank, then ho! for the registrar’s hand in hand with Sue.

There was a musical
plonk
as Ronnie bounced the ball for the last time on the Empress’s complacent back. Then, no longer with dragging steps but treading on air, he wandered away to sketch out the last details of the scheme before going indoors and springing it.

IV

Too often it happens that, when you get these brain-waves, you take another look at them after a short interval and suddenly detect some fatal flaw. No such disappointment came to mar the happiness of Ronnie Fish.

‘I say, Uncle Clarence,’ he said, prancing into the library, some half-hour later.

Lord Emsworth was deep in the current issue of a weekly paper of porcine interest. It seemed to Ronnie, as he looked up, that his eye was not any too chummy. This, however, did not disturb him. That eye, he was confident, would melt anon. If, at the moment, Lord Emsworth could hardly have sat for his portrait in the role of a benevolent uncle, there would, Ronnie felt, be a swift change of demeanour in the very near future.

‘I say, Uncle Clarence, you know that capital of mine.’

‘That what?’

‘My capital. My money. The money you’re trustee of. And a jolly good trustee,’ said Ronnie handsomely. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking things over and I want you, if you will, to disgorge a segment of it for a sort of venture I’ve got in mind.’

He had not expected the eye to melt yet, and it did not. Seen through the glass of his uncle’s pince-nez, it looked like an oyster in an aquarium.

You wish to start another night-club?’

Lord Emsworth’s voice was cold, and Ronnie hastened to disabuse him of the idea.

‘No, no. Nothing like that. Night-clubs are a mug’s game. I ought never to have touched them. As a matter of fact, Uncle Clarence, London as a whole seems to me a bit of a washout these days. I’m all for the country. What I feel is that the drift to the towns should be checked. What England wants is more blokes going back to the land. That’s the way it looks to me.’

Ronnie Fish began to experience the first definite twinges of uneasiness. This was the point at which he had been confident that the melting process would set in. Yet, watching the eye, he was dismayed to find it as oysterlike as ever. He felt like an actor who has been counting on a round of applause and goes off after his big speech without a hand.