‘I’m sure it is,’ said Harriet

‘As I understand the matter, my lady,’ put in Bunter, ‘it is the actual pot that’s choked-no structural defect in the stack.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Puffett, mollified by finding him self appreciated, ‘the pot’s where your trouble is.’ He stripped off another sweater to reveal himself in emerald green. ‘I’m a-goin’ to try it with the rods alone, without the brush. Maybe, with my power be’ind it, we’ll be able to get the rod through the sut. If not, then we’ll ’ave to get the ladders.’

‘Ladders?’

‘Access by the roof, my lady,’ explained Bunter.

‘What fun!’ said Harriet. ‘I’m sure Mr Puffett will manage it somehow. Can you find me a vase or something for these flowers, Bunter?’

‘Very good, my lady.’ (Nothing, thought Mr Bunter, not even an Oxford education, would prevent a woman’s mind from straying away after inessentials; but he was pleased to note that the temper was, so far, admirably controlled. A vase of water was a small price to pay for harmony.)

‘Peter!’ cried Harriet up the staircase. (Bunter, had he remained to witness it, might after all have conceded her an instinct for essentials.) ‘Peter darling! the sweep’s here!’

‘Oh, frabjous day! I am coming, my own, my sweep.’ He pattered down briskly. ‘What a genius you have for saying the right thing! All my life I have waited to hear those exquisite words, Peter darling, the sweep’s come. We are married by god! we are married. I thought so once, but now I know it.’

‘Some people take a lot of convincing.’

‘One is afraid to believe in good fortune. The sweep! I crushed down my rising hopes. I said. No-it is a thunderstorm, a small earthquake, or at most a destitute cow dying by inches in the chimney. I dared not court disappointment. It is so long since I was taken into anybody’s confidence about a sweep. As a rule, Bunter smuggles him in when I am out of the house, for fear my lordship should be inconvenienced. Only a wife would treat me with the disrespect I deserve and summon me to look upon the-good lord!’

He turned, as he spoke, to look upon Mr Puffett, only the soles of whose boots were visible. At this moment a bellow so loud and prolonged issued from the fireplace that Peter turned quite pale. ‘He hasn’t got stuck, has he?’

‘No-it’s the power he’s putting behind it. There’s corroded soot in the pot or something, which makes it very hard work… Peter, I do wish you could have seen the place before Noakes filled it up with bronze horsemen and bamboo what-nots and aspidistras.’

‘Hush! Never blaspheme the aspidistra. It’s very unlucky. Something frightful will come down that chimney and get you-boo!… Oh, my god! look at that bristling horror over the wireless set!’

‘Some people would pay pounds for a fine cactus like that.’

‘They must have very little imagination. It’s not a plant it’s a morbid growth-something lingering happening to your kidneys. Besides, it makes me wonder whether I’ve shaved. Have I?’

‘M’m-yes-like satin-no, that’ll do! I suppose, if we shot the beastly thing out, it’d die to spite us. They’re delicate, though you mightn’t think it, and Mr Noakes would demand its weight in gold. How long did we hire this grisly furniture for?’

‘A month, but we might get rid of it sooner. It’s a damn shame spoiling this noble old place with that muck.’

‘Do you like the house, Peter?’

‘It’s beautiful. It’s like a lovely body inhabited by an evil spirit. And I don’t mean only the furniture. I’ve taken a dislike to our landlord, or tenant, or whatever he is. I’ve a fancy he’s up to no good and that the house will be glad to be rid of him.’

‘I believe it hates him. I’m sure he’s starved and insulted and ill-treated it. Why, even the chimneys-’

‘Yes, of course, the chimneys. Do you think I could bring myself to the notice of our household god, our little Lar? Er-excuse me one moment, Mr-er-’

‘Puffett is the name.’

‘Mr Puffett-hey, Puffett! Just a second, would you?’

‘Now then!’ expostulated Mr Puffett, swivelling round on his knees. ‘Who’ve you a-poking of in the back with a man’s own rods? It ain’t fair to a man nor his rods.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Peter. ‘I did shout but failed to attract your attention.’

‘No offence,’ said Mr Puffett, evidently conceding something to the honeymoon spirit. ‘You’ll be his lordship, I take it. Hope I sees you well.’

‘Thank you, we are in the pink. But this chimney seems to be a little unwell. Shortness of wind or something.’

‘There ain’t no call to abuse the chimney,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘The fault’s in the pot, like I was saying to your lady. The pot, you see, ain’t reconcilable to the size of the chimney and it’s corroded that ’ard with sut as you couldn’t ’ardly get a bristle through, let alone a brush. It don’t matter ’ow wide you builds the chimney, all the smoke’s got to go through the pot in the end, and that-if you foller my meaning-is where the fault is, see?’

‘I follow you. Even a Tudor chimney winds somewhere safe to pot.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘that’s just it. If we ’ad the Tooder pot, now, we’d be all right. A Tooder pot is a pot as a practical chimney-sweep might ’andle with pleasure and do justice to ’isself and ’is rods. But Mr Noakes, now, ’e tuk down some of the Tooder pots and sold ’em to make sundials.’

‘Sold them for sundials?’

‘That’s right, me lady. Catchpenny, I calls it. That’s ’im all over. And these ’ere fiddlin’ modern pots wot ’e’s put on ain’t no good for a chimney the ’ighth and width of this chimney wot you’ve got ’ere. It stands to reason they’ll corrode up with sut in a month. Once that there pot’s clear, the rest is easy. There’s loose sut in the bends, of course but that don’t ’urt-not without it was to ketch fire, which is why it didn’t oughter be there and I’ll ’ave it out in no time once we’re done with the pot-but while the sut’s corroded ’ard in the pot, you won’t get no fire to go in this chimney, me lord, and that’s the long and the short of it.’

‘You make it admirably clear,’ said Peter. ‘I see you are an expert. Please go on demonstrating. Don’t mind me-I’m admiring the tools of your trade. What is this affair like a Brobdingnagian corkscrew? There’s a thing to give a man a thirst-what?’

‘Thank you, me lord,’ replied Mr Puffett, evidently taking this for an invitation. ‘Work first and pleasure afterwards. W’en the job’s done, I won’t say no.’

He beamed kindly at them, peeled off his green uppermost layer and, arrayed now in a Fair-Isle jumper of complicated pattern, addressed himself once more to the chimney.

Chapter V. Fury Of Guns

‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you,’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton anxiously. ‘I felt I must run over and see how you were getting on. I really couldn’t sleep for thinking of you-so strange of Uncle to behave like that-so dreadfully inconsiderate!’

‘Oh, please!’ said Harriet. ‘It was so nice of you to come, won’t you sit down?… Oh, Bunter! Is that the best you can find?’

‘Why!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘you’ve got the Bonzo vase! Uncle won it in a raffle. So amusing, isn’t it, holding the flowers in his mouth like that, and his little pink waistcoat?-Aren’t the chrysanthemums lovely? Frank Crutchley looks after them, he’s such a good gardener… Oh, thank you, thank you so much-I really mustn’t inflict myself on you for more than a moment. But I couldn’t help being anxious. I do hope you passed a comfortable night.’

“Thank you,’ said Peter, gravely. ‘Parts of it were excellent.’