Meet Mr Mulliner by P.G. Wodehouse Page A

open.
    “Who’s that?” said a clear young voice.
    The headmaster was frankly taken aback.
Dim though the light was, he could see that the man leaning out of the window
was poising in readiness a very nasty-looking golf-club: and his first impulse
was to reveal his identity and so clear himself of the suspicion of being the
marauder for whom he gathered the other had mistaken him. Then there presented
themselves to him certain objections to revealing his identity, and he hung
there in silence, unable to think of a suitable next move.
    The bishop was a man of readier resource.
    “Tell him we’re a couple of cats belonging
to the cook,” he whispered.
    It was painful for one of the headmaster’s
scrupulous rectitude and honesty to stoop to such a falsehood, but it seemed
the only course to pursue.
    “It’s all right,” he said, forcing a note
of easy geniality into his voice. “We’re a couple of cats.”
    “Cat-burglars?”
    “No. Just ordinary cats.”
    “Belonging to the cook,” prompted the
bishop from below.
    “Belonging to the cook,” added the
headmaster.
    “I see,” said the man at the window. “Well,
in that case, right ho!”
    He stood aside to allow them to enter. The
bishop, an artist at heart, mewed gratefully as he passed, to add
verisimilitude to the deception: and then made for his bedroom, accompanied by
the headmaster. The episode was apparently closed.
    Nevertheless, the headmaster was disturbed
by a certain uneasiness.
    “Do you suppose he thought we really were
cats?” he asked anxiously.
    “I am not sure,” said the bishop. “But I
think we deceived him by the nonchalance of our demeanour.”
    “Yes, I think we did. Who was he?”
    “My secretary. The young fellow I was
speaking of, who lent us that capital tonic.”
    “Oh, then that’s all right. He wouldn’t
give you away.”
    “No. And there is nothing else that can
possibly lead to our being suspected. We left no clue whatsoever.”
    “All the same,” said the headmaster
thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to wonder whether it was in the best sense of the
word judicious to have painted that statue.”
    “Somebody had to,” said the bishop
stoutly.
    “Yes, that’s true,” said the headmaster,
brightening.
     
    The bishop slept late on the following morning,
and partook of his frugal breakfast in bed. The day, which so often brings
remorse, brought none to him. Something attempted, something done had earned a
night’s repose: and he had no regrets— except that, now that it was all over,
he was not sure that blue paint would not have been more effective. However,
his old friend had pleaded so strongly for the pink that it would have been
difficult for himself, as a guest, to override the wishes of his host. Still,
blue would undoubtedly have been very striking.
    There was a knock on the door, and
Augustine entered.
    “Morning, Bish.”
    “Good-morning, Mulliner,” said the bishop
affably. “I have lain somewhat late to-day.”
    “I say, Bish,” asked Augustine, a little
anxiously. “Did you take a very big dose of the Buck-U-Uppo last night?”
    “Big? No. As I recollect, quite small.
Barely two ordinary wine-glasses full.”
    “Great Scott!”
    “Why do you ask, my dear fellow?”
    “Oh, nothing. No particular reason. I just
thought your manner seemed a little strange on the water-pipe, that’s all.”
    The bishop was conscious of a touch of
chagrin.
    “Then you saw through our—er—innocent
deception?”
    “Yes.”
    “I had been taking a little stroll with
the headmaster,” explained the bishop, “and he had mislaid his key. How
beautiful is Nature at night, Mulliner! The dark, fathomless skies, the little
winds that seem to whisper secrets in one’s ear, the scent of growing things.”
    “Yes,” said Augustine. He paused. “Rather
a row on this morning. Somebody appears to have painted Lord Hemel of Hempstead’s
statue last night.”
    “Indeed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah, well,” said the