Vintage Stuff by Tom Sharpe

gasping for air, into the

hall.
    His aunt surveyed the smoke still fuming from beneath the seat. 'What on earth have you been

up to?' she said, and promptly extinguished the smouldering remnants of Le Monde with a basin of

water from the kitchen before examining the fragments with a critical eye.
    'You've been a bachelor too long,' she declared finally. 'Your Uncle Martin was found dead in

the lavatory with a copy of La Vie Parisienne and you've evidently taken after him. What you need

is a sensible wife to take care of your baser needs.'
    Glodstone said nothing. If his aunt chose to draw such crude conclusions it was far better

that she do so than suspect the true nature of his enterprise. All the same, the incident had

taken a measure of the immediate glamour out of the situation. 'I shall be dining out,' he said

with some hauteur and spent the evening at his club planning his next move. It was complicated by

the date of his cross-channel booking, which was set for the 28th. He had five days to wait. Then

there was the question of obtaining arms. The letter had definitely said 'Come armed,' but that

was easier said than done. True, he had a shotgun at a cousin's farm in Devon but shotguns didn't

come into the category of proper arms. He needed a revolver, something easy to conceal in the

Bentley, and he could hardly go into a gunsmith in London and ask for a .38 Smith & Wesson

with a hundred cartridges. The thing to do would be to approach some member of the underworld.

There must be plenty of people selling guns in London. Glodstone didn't know any and had not the

foggiest notion where to look for them. It was all very disconcerting and he was about to give up

the notion of going armed when he remembered that Major Fetherington kept revolvers and

ammunition in the School Armoury. In fact there were several old ones there. And he knew where

the Major kept the keys. It would be a simple matter to take one and he could have it back before

the beginning of next term. With a more cheerful air, Glodstone ordered a brandy before returning

to his aunt's flat. Next morning he was on the road again and by lunchtime back at

Groxbourne.
    'Fancy you coming back so soon,' said the School Secretary. 'The galloping Major's back too,

only he isn't galloping quite so much. Been and gone and sprained his ankle.'
    'Damnation,' said Glodstone horrified at this blow to his plan, 'I mean, poor fellow. Where is

he?'
    'Up in his rooms'
    Glodstone climbed the staircase to the Major's rooms and knocked.
    'Come in, whoever you are,' shouted the Major. He was sitting in an armchair with one leg

propped up on a stool. 'Ah, Gloddie, old boy. Good to see you. Thought you'd shoved off.'
    'I had to come back for something. What on earth happened? Did you slip on some scree in

Wales?'
    'Never got to bloody Wales. Glissaded on a dog-turd in Shrewsbury and came a right purler, I

can tell you. All I could do to drive that damned minibus back here. Had to cancel the OU course

and now I've got old Perry on my hands.'
    'Peregrine Clyde-Brown?' asked Glodstone with rising hope.
    'Parents off in Italy somewhere. Won't be back for three weeks and he's been trying to phone

some uncle but the chap's never in. Blowed if I know what to do with the lad.'
    'How long is that ankle of yours going to take to mend?' asked Goldstone, suddenly considering

the possibility that he might have found just the two people he would most like to have with him

in a tight spot.
    'Quack's fixed me up for an X-ray tomorrow. Seems to think I may have fractured my

coccyx.'
    'Your coccyx? I thought you said you'd sprained your ankle.'
    'Listen, old man,' said the Major conspiratorially. 'That's for public consumption. Can't have

people going round saying I bought it where the monkey hid the nuts. Wouldn't inspire confidence,

would it? I mean, would you trust a son of yours to go on a survival course with a man who

couldn't