Uncle Fred in the Springtime Read Online Free Page A

couldn’t Horace drive him
back in his car? Then you could have your talk with him without any trouble or inconvenience.’
    ‘The
first sensible word you’ve spoken since you came into this room,’ said the Duke
approvingly. ‘Yes, tell Bosham to rout him out and bring him back alive or
dead. Well, I can’t stay here talking to you all day, Connie. Got to get up,
got to get up. Where’s Clarence?’
    ‘Down
at the pig sty, I suppose.’
    ‘Don’t
tell me he’s still mooning over that pig of his.’
    ‘He’s
quite absurd about it.’
    ‘Quite
crazy, you mean. If you want to know what I think, Connie, it’s that pig that’s
at the root of his whole trouble. It’s a very bad influence in his life, and if
something isn’t done soon to remove it you’ll find him suddenly sticking straws
in his hair and saying he’s a poached egg. Talking of eggs, send me up a dozen.’
    ‘Eggs?
But haven’t you had your breakfast?’
    ‘Of
course I’ve had my breakfast.’
    ‘I see.
But you want some more,’ said Lady Constance pacifically. ‘How would you like
them done?’
    ‘I don’t
want them done at all. I don’t want eating eggs. I want throwing eggs. I intend
to give that whistling feller a sharp lesson. Hark! There he is again. Singing
now.’
    ‘Alaric,’
said Lady Constance, a pleading note in her voice, ‘must you throw eggs at the
gardeners?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Very
well,’ said Lady Constance resignedly, and went off to avert the threatened
horror by removing the vocalist from the danger zone.
    Her
thoughts, as she went, were long, long thoughts.
     
    Lord Emsworth, meanwhile,
unaware of the solicitude which he was causing, was down in the meadow by the
kitchen garden, drooping over the comfortable sty which housed his pre-eminent
sow, Empress of Blandings, twice in successive years silver medallist in the
Fat Pigs’ class at the Shropshire Agricultural Show. The noble animal, under
his adoring eyes, was finishing a late breakfast.
    The
ninth Earl of Emsworth was a resilient man. It had not taken him long to get
over the first sharp agony of the discovery that Rupert Baxter was about to
re-enter his life. This morning, Baxter was forgotten, and he was experiencing
that perfect happiness which comes from a clear conscience, absence of loved
ones, congenial society and fine weather. For once in a way there was nothing
which he was trying to conceal from his sister Constance, no disrupting
influences had come to mar his communion with the Empress, and the weather, as
almost always in this favoured spot, was wonderful. We have seen spring being
whimsical and capricious in London, but it knew enough not to try anything of
that sort on Blandings Castle.
    The
only concern Lord Emsworth had was a fear that this golden solitude could not
last, and the apprehension was well founded. A raucous cry shattered the drowsy
stillness and, turning, he perceived, as Claude Pott would have said, one male.
His guest, the Duke, was crossing the meadow towards him.
    ‘Morning,
Clarence.’
    ‘Good
morning, Alaric.’
    Lord
Emsworth forced a welcoming smile to his lips. His breeding — and about fifteen
thousand words from Lady Constance from time to time — had taught him that a
host must wear the mask. He tried his hardest not to feel like a stag at bay.
    ‘Seen
Bosham anywhere?’
    ‘No.
No, I have not.’
    ‘I want
a word with him before he leaves. I’ll wait here and intercept him on his way
out. He’s going to London today, to bring Horace here. His engagement has been
broken off.’
    This
puzzled Lord Emsworth. His son and heir, Lord Bosham, who was visiting the
castle for the Bridgeford races, had been, he felt pretty sure, for some years
a married man. He mentioned this.
    ‘Not
Bosham’s engagement. Horace’s. ‘Again Lord Emsworth was at a loss.
    ‘Who is
Horace?’ ‘My nephew.’
    ‘And he
is engaged?’
    ‘He
was. Ickenham’s niece.’ ‘Who is?’
    ‘The
girl he was engaged to.’
    ‘Who