Pigs Have Wings Read Online Free PDF Page A

Galahad, an appalling thing has happened. I hardly know how to tell you. Let me begin,’ said Lord Emsworth, groping his way to the rail of the sty and drooping over it like a wet sock, ‘by saying that Sir Gregory Parsloe is nothing short of a rogue and a swindler.’
    ‘We all knew that. Get on.’
    ‘Don’t bustle me.’
    ‘Well, I want to hear what all the agitation’s about. When last seen, you were on your way to the house to confront this bulging Baronet. Right. You reached the house, found him in the morning-room with his shoes off, gave him a cold look and said stiffly: “To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”, to which Parsloe, twiddling his toes, replied … what? To what were you indebted for the honour of his visit?’
    Lord Emsworth became a little calmer. His eyes were resting on the Empress, and he seemed to draw strength from her massive stolidity.
    ‘Do you ever have presentiments, Galahad?’
    ‘Don’t ramble, Clarence.’
    ‘I am not rambling,’ said Lord Emsworth peevishly. ‘I am telling you that I had one the moment I entered the morning-room and saw Parsloe sitting there. Something seemed to whisper to me that the man was preparing an unpleasant surprise for me. There was a nasty smirk on his face, and I didn’t like the sinister way he said “Good afternoon, Emsworth.” And his next words told me that my presentiment had been right. From an inside pocket he produced a photograph and said: “Cast an eye on this, old cock.”’
    ‘A photograph? What of?’
    Lord Emsworth was obliged to fortify himself with another look at the Empress, who was now at about her fifty-fourth thousandth calorie.
    ‘Galahad,’ he said, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, ‘it was the photograph of an enormous pig! He thrust it under my nose with an evil leer and said: “Emsworth, old cocky-wax, meet the winner of this year’s Fat Pig medal at the Shropshire Agricultural Show.” His very words.’
    Gally found himself unable to follow this. It seemed to him that he was in the presence of an elder brother who spoke in riddles.
    ‘You mean it was a photograph of Pride of Matchingham?’
    ‘No, no, no. God bless my soul, no. This animal would make two of Pride of Matchingham. Don’t you understand? This is a new pig. He imported it a day or two ago from a farm in Kent. Queen of Matchingham, he calls it. Galahad,’ said Lord Emsworth, his voice vibrating with emotion, ‘with this Queen of Matchingham in the field, Empress of Blandings will have to strain every nerve to repeat her triumphs of the last two years.’
    ‘You don’t mean it’s fatter than the Empress?’ said Gally, cocking an eye at the stable’s nominee and marvelling that such a thing could be possible.
    Lord Emsworth looked shocked.
    ‘I would not say that. No, no, I certainly would not say that. But the contest will now become a desperately close one. It may be a matter of ounces.’
    Gally whistled. He was fully alive at last to the gravity of the situation. Apart from his fondness for old Clarence and a natural brotherly distaste for seeing him in the depths, the thing touched him financially. As he had told Penny, he was not a rich man, but, like Beach, he had his mite on the Empress and it appeared now that there was a grave peril that his modest investment would go down the drain.
    ‘So that’s why Binstead was going about the place with his five to one! He knew something. But is this hornswoggling high-binder allowed to import pigs? I thought the competition was purely for native sons?’
    ‘There has always been an unwritten law to that effect, a gentleman’s agreement, but Parsloe informs me that there exists no actual rule. Naturally the possibility of such a thing happening never occurred to those who drew up the conditions governing these contests. It’s abominable!’
    ‘Monstrous,’ agreed Gally with all the warmth of a man who, having slapped down his cash on what he supposed to be a sure