The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров

The Dictator asked if he should call a policeman, and old Bassett’s eyes gleamed for a moment. A magistrate loves the idea of calling policemen. It’s like a tiger tasting blood. But he shook his head.

“No, Roderick. I couldn’t. Not today—the happiest day of my life.”

The Dictator pursed his lips, as if feeling that the better the day, the better the deed.

“But listen,” I said, “it was a mistake.”

“Ha!” said the Dictator. “I thought that umbrella was mine.”

“That,” said old Bassett, “is the fundamental trouble with you, my man.

You are totally unable to distinguish between mine and yours. Well, I am not going to have you arrested this time, but I advise you to be very careful. Come, Roderick.”

They went out, the Dictator pausing at the door to give me another look and say “Ha!” again. The proprietor of the shop emerged from the inner room, accompanied by a rich smell of stew, and enquired what he could do for me. I said that I knew that he had an eighteenth-century cow-creamer for sale.

He shook his head.

“You’re too late. It’s promised to a customer.”

“Name of Travers?”

“Ah.”

“Then that’s all right. That Travers is my uncle. He sent me here to have a look at the thing. So dig it out, will you? I expect it’s rotten.”

“It’s a beautiful cow-creamer.”

“Ha!” I said, “That’s what you think. We shall see.”

It was a silver cow. But when I say “cow”, don’t think about some decent, self-respecting animal such as you may observe loading grass into itself in the nearest meadow.

This was a sinister, leering, underworld sort of animal. It was about four inches high and six long. Its back opened on a hinge[36 -

 – на петлях]. Its tail was arched, so that the tip touched the spine—thus, I suppose, affording a handle for the creamlover to grasp. The sight of it seemed to take me into a different and dreadful world.

It was, consequently, an easy task for me to carry out the programme indicated by Aunt Dahlia.

I curled the lip and clicked the tongue, all in one movement. I also drew in the breath sharply.

“Oh, tut, tut, tut!” I said, “Oh, dear, dear, dear! Oh, no, no, no, no, no! I don’t think much of this,” I said, curling and clicking freely. “All wrong.”

“All wrong?”

“All wrong. Modern Dutch.”

“Modern Dutch? What do you mean, Modern Dutch? It’s eighteenth-century English.