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young Parsloe. There is an ethical code.’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘Yes, I thought you wouldn’t know what that meant. Let it pass. You are really proposing to enter this porker of yours in the Fat Pigs class at the Agricultural Show?’
    ‘I have already done so.’
    ‘I see. And now, no doubt, your subtle brain is weaving plots and schemes. You’re getting ready to start the funny business, just as you used to do in the old days.’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    Gally gave a short, hard, unpleasant laugh.
    ‘He doesn’t know what I’m talking about! I will ask you, Parsloe, to throw your mind back a number of years to a certain evening at the Black Footman public-house in Gossiter Street. You and I were young then, and in the exuberance of youth I had matched my dog Towser against your dog Banjo for a substantial sum in a rat contest. And when the rats were brought on and all should have been bustle and activity on Towser’s part, where was he? Dozing in a corner with his stomach bulging like an alderman’s. I whistled him … called him … Towser, Towser … No good. Fast asleep. And why? Because you had drawn him aside just before the starting bell was due to go and filled him up past the Plimsoll mark with steak and onions, thus rendering his interest in rats negligible and enabling your Banjo to win by default.’
    ‘I deny it!’
    ‘It’s no good standing there saying “I deny it”. I am perfectly aware that I am not able to prove it, but you and I know that that is what happened. Somebody had inserted steak and onions in that dog – I sniffed his breath, and it was like opening the door of a Soho chop-house on a summer night – and the verdict of History will be that it was you. You were the world’s worst twister in the old days, a man who would stick at nothing to gain his evil ends. And … now I approach the nub … you still are. Even as we stand here, you are asking yourself “How can I nobble the Empress and leave the field clear for my entry?” Oh, yes, you are. I remember saying to Clarence once, “Clarence,” I said, “I have known young Parsloe for thirty years and I solemnly state that if his grandmother was entered in a competition for fat pigs and his commitments made it desirable for him to get her out of the way, he would dope her bran mash and acorns without a moment’s hesitation.” Well, let me tell you that that is a game two can play at. Your every move will be met with ruthless reprisals. You try to nobble our pig, and we’ll nobble yours. One poisoned potato in the Empress’s dinner pail, and there will be six poisoned potatoes in Queen of Matchingham’s. That is all I wanted to say. A very hearty good afternoon to you, Parsloe,’ said Gally, turning on his heel.
    Sir Gregory, who had been gulping, recovered speech.
    ‘Hey!’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Come back!’
    ‘Who, me? Certainly not. I have no desire to speak to you, my good man,’ said Gally, and continued his progress in the direction of the terrace.
    Lady Constance was dipping her aristocratic nose in her tea cup as he approached the table. At the sound of his footsteps, she looked up.
    ‘Oh, it’s you?’ she said, and her tone made it abundantly clear that no sudden gush of affection had caused her to alter the opinion she had so long held that this brother of hers was a blot on the Blandings scene. ‘I thought it was Sir Gregory. Have you seen Sir Gregory?’
    ‘The man Parsloe? Yes. He has just slunk off.’
    ‘What do you mean, slunk off?’
    ‘I mean slunk off.’
    ‘If you are referring to the fact that Sir Gregory was limping, he has a blister on his foot. There was something I was going to tell him. I must wait and telephone when he gets home. Do you want tea?’
    ‘Never touch the muck.’
    ‘Then what do you want?’
    Gally screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye.
    ‘To talk to you, Constance,’ he said. ‘To talk to you very seriously about this Simmons disaster,