Pigs Have Wings by P. G. Wodehouse Page A

Hugo’s tenure of his job was very rocky off and on, but he told me he could always stabilize it by talking pig to Lord Emsworth. There were times, he said, when he was at the top of his form as a pig talker, when he got the impression that Lord Emsworth would have given him all he had, even unto half his kingdom. And when Greg told me about this secretary thing and I thought of you, it was because it suddenly struck me that it was quite possible that if you went to Blandings and showed yourself sufficiently pig-conscious, old Emsworth might be induced to advance you that two thousand you require. Naturally I don’t say it’s a snip. Lots of elderly men, however fond they may have become of an eager youngster, wince and shrink back when the latter shows a disposition to climb on their laps and help himself out of their pockets. But in your case it wouldn’t be a straight touch. All you would be asking for would be a loan, and not too risky a loan considering what pots of money these cure places make. You would put it up to him as a business proposition. “Lord Emsworth,” you would say, “do you want to make a bit? Because, if so, I can swing it for you,” and then you would go into your sales talk and offer him a large interest on his money. An old bird like that probably has all his cash salted away in Government bonds at three per cent, and you would sneer at Government bonds, and ask if he wouldn’t prefer a safe ten. I think he would drop. Mind you, I’m not saying that you could walk into Blandings Castle tomorrow and expect to get a cheque for two thousand of the best before bedtime, but after the lapse of some weeks, after you had softened him up with your encyclopaedic knowledge of pigs, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a sporting chance. Think it over.’
    Jerry was doing so, and now he came up with an objection.
    ‘But I haven’t an encyclopaedic knowledge of pigs.’
    ‘There are a million books you can get it from. Good heavens! Go to the British Museum and ask for everything they have on the subject. If I were in your place, I’d guarantee to become an authority in a couple of days. You don’t suppose Hugo Carmody knew anything about pigs do you? He had never met a pig except informally over the dish of breakfast bacon. Whenever the sack seemed to him to be looming, when he could hear the beating of its wings, so to speak, he used to sneak down at night to Lord Emsworth’s library and bone up on the subject till breakfast time. By then, he tells me, though a little apt to fall asleep where he sat, he did know about pigs. What Hugo could do, you can do. Or are you a spineless worm incapable of honest effort?’
    So might the Cleopatra she so closely resembled in appearance have addressed one of her soldiers who seemed in need of a pep talk before the battle of Actium. And just as this soldier would have sprung to his feet with flashing eyes, so did Jerry Vail leap with flashing eyes from his chair.
    ‘Want to dance?’ said Gloria.
    Jerry quivered.
    ‘What I really want is to fold you in my arms and cover your upturned face with burning kisses.’
    ‘You can’t do that there here. And you seem to be forgetting that we’re both engaged to somebody else.’
    ‘You don’t get the idea. These would be kisses of gratitude, the sort of kisses a brother would bestow on a sister who deserved well of him. I simply don’t know what to say, Gloria, old thing. You spoke of doing your day’s good deed. What you have done this night is sufficient to carry you over till a couple of years from now, even if you do no good deeds in the meantime. Well, I suppose all I can say is “Thank you.”’
    She patted his cheek.
    ‘Don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’
3
    In her bedroom in her neat little house in the suburb of Valley Fields, Maudie Stubbs, née Beach, was enjoying a last cigarette before turning in for the night.
    All her arrangements for tomorrow’s exodus were