Uncle Fred in the Springtime Read Online Free Page B

is
Ickenham?’
    ‘Her
uncle.’
    ‘Oh,’
said Lord Emsworth, brightening. The name had struck a chord in his memory. Oh,
Ickenham? Of course. Ickenham, to be sure. I know Ickenham. He is a friend of
my brother Galahad. I think they used to be thrown out of night clubs together.
I am glad Ickenham is coming here.’
    ‘He isn’t.’
    ‘You
said he was.’
    ‘I didn’t
say he was. I said Horace was. ‘The name was new to Lord Emsworth. ‘Who,’ he
asked, ‘is Horace?’
    ‘I told
you two seconds ago,’ said the Duke, with the asperity which never left him for
long, ‘that he was my nephew. I have no reason to believe that conditions have
altered since.
    ‘Oh?’
said Lord Emsworth. ‘Ah? Yes. Yes, to be sure. Your nephew. Well, we must try
to make his stay pleasant. Perhaps he is interested in pigs. Are you interested
in pigs, Alaric? You know my sow, Empress of Blandings, I think. I believe you
met when you were here in the summer.’
    He
moved aside to allow his guest an uninterrupted view of the superb animal. The
Duke advanced to the rail, and there followed a brief silence — on Lord
Emsworth’s side reverent, on that of the Duke austere. He had produced a large
pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and through them was scrutinizing the
silver medallist in a spirit only too plainly captious and disrespectful.
    ‘Disgusting!’
he said at length.
    Lord
Emsworth started violently. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
    ‘What!’
    ‘That
pig is too fat.’
    ‘Too
fat?’
    ‘Much
too fat. Look at her. Bulging.’
    ‘But my
dear Alaric, she is supposed to be fat.’
    ‘Not as
fat as that.’
    ‘Yes, I
assure you. She has already been given two medals for being fat.’
    ‘Don’t
be silly, Clarence. What would a pig do with medals? It’s no good trying to
shirk the issue. There is only one word for that pig — gross. She reminds me of
my Aunt Horatia, who died of apoplexy during Christmas dinner. Keeled over
half-way through her second helping of plum pudding and never spoke again. This
animal might be her double. And what do you expect? You stuff her and stuff her
and stuff her, and I don’t suppose she gets a lick of exercise from one week’s
end to another. What she wants is a crackling good gallop every morning, and no
starchy foods. That would get her into shape.’
    Lord
Emsworth had recovered the pince-nez which emotion had caused, as it always
did, to leap from his nose. He replaced them insecurely.
    ‘Are
you under the impression,’ he said, for when deeply moved he could be terribly
sarcastic, ‘that I want to enter my pig for the Derby?’
    The
Duke had been musing. He had not liked that nonsense about pigs being given
medals and he was thinking how sad all this was for poor Connie. But at these
words he looked up sharply. An involuntary shudder shook him, and his manner
took on a sort of bedside tenderness.
    ‘I
wouldn’t, Clarence.’
    ‘Wouldn’t
what?’
    ‘Enter
this pig for the Derby. She might not win, and then you would have had all your
trouble for nothing. What you want is to get her out of your life. And I’ll
tell you what I’ll do. Listen, my dear Clarence,’ said the Duke, patting his
host’s shoulder, ‘I’ll take this pig over — lock, stock and barrel. Yes, I mean
it. Have her sent to my place — I’ll wire them to expect her — and in a few
weeks’ time she will be a different creature. Keen, alert, eyes sparkling. And
you’ll be different, too. Brighter. Less potty. Improved out of all knowledge ….
Ah, there’s Bosham. Hi, Bosham! Half a minute, Bosham, I want a word with you.’
    For
some moments after his companion had left him, Lord Emsworth remained leaning
limply against the rail of the sty. The sun was bright. The sky was blue. A
gentle breeze caressed the Empress’s tail, as it wiggled over the trough. But
to him the heavens seemed darkened by a murky mist, and there appeared to be an
east wind blowing through the