‘Splendid!’ cried the vicar. ‘Thank you, thank you, Martha. Now we are equipped.’

‘You have been quick, Frank!’ said Miss Twitterton. She eyed the weapon nervously. ‘You’re sure it won’t go off of its own accord?’

‘Will an army mule go off of its own accord? queried Peter, softly.

‘I never like the idea of fire-arms,’ said Miss Twitterton.

‘No, no,’ said the vicar. ‘Trust me; there will be no ill effects.’ He possessed himself of the gun and examined the lock and trigger mechanism with the air of one to whom the theory of ballistics was an open book.

‘It’s all loaded and ready, sir,’ said Mrs Ruddle, proudly conscious of her Bert’s efficiency.

Miss Twitterton gave a faint squeak, and the vicar, thoughtfully turning the muzzle of the gun away from her, found himself covering Bunter, who entered at that moment from the passage.

‘Excuse me, my lord,’ said Bunter, with superb nonchalance but a wary eye, ‘there is a person at the door-’

‘Just a moment, Bunter,’ broke in his master. ‘The fireworks are about to begin. The chimney is to be cleared by the natural expansion of gases.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ Bunter appeared to measure the respective forces of the weapon and the vicar. ‘Excuse me, sir. Had you not better permit me-?’

‘No, no,’ cried Mr Goodacre. ‘Thank you. I can manage it perfectly.’ Gun in hand, he plunged head and shoulders beneath the chimney-drape.

‘Humph!’ said Peter. ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’

He removed his pipe from his mouth and with his free hand gathered his wife to him. Miss Twitterton, having no husband to cling to, flung herself upon Crutchley for protection, uttering a plaintive cry: ‘Oh, Frank! I know I shall scream at the noise.’

‘There’s no occasion for alarm,’ said the vicar, popping out his head like a showman from behind the curtain. ‘Now, are we all ready?’

Mr Puffett put on his bowler hat.

‘Ruat coelum!’ said Peter; and the gun went off.

It exploded like the crack of doom, and it kicked (as Peter had well foreseen) like a carthorse. Gun and gunman rolled together upon the hearth, entangled inextricably in the folds of the drape. As Bunter leaped to the rescue, the loosened soot of centuries came plunging in a mad cascade down the chimney; it met the floor with a soft and deadly violence and mushroomed up in a Stygian cloud, while with it rushed, in a clattering shower, masonry and mortar, jackdaws’ nests and the hones of bats and owls, sticks, bricks and metalwork, with fragments of tiles and potsherds. The shrill outcry of Mrs Ruddle and Miss Twitterton was drowned by the eruptive rumble and boom that echoed from bend to bend of the forty-foot flue.

‘Oh, rapture!’ cried Peter, with his lady in his arms. ‘Oh, bountiful Jehovah! Oh, joy for all its former woes a thousand-fold repaid!’

‘There!’ exclaimed Mr Puffett, triumphantly. ‘You can’t say as I didn’t warn yer.’

Peter opened his mouth to reply, when the sight of Bunter, snorting and blind, and black as any Nubian Venus, struck him speechless with ecstasy.

‘Oh, dear!’ cried Miss Twitterton. She fluttered round, making helpless little darts at the swaddled shape that was the vicar. ‘Oh, dear, dear, dear! Oh, Frank! Oh, goodness!’

‘Peter!’ panted Harriet

‘I knew it!’ said Peter. ‘Whoop! I knew it!! You blasphemed the aspidistra and something awful has come down that chimney!’

‘Peter! It’s Mr Goodacre in the sheet!’

‘Whoop!’ said Peter again. He pulled himself together and joined Mr Puffett in unwinding the clerical cocoon; while Mrs Ruddle and Crutchley led away the unfortunate Bunter.

Mr Goodacre emerged in some disorder.

‘Not hurt, sir, I hope?’ inquired Peter with grave concern.

‘Not at all, not at all,’ replied the vicar, rubbing his shoulder. ‘A little arnica will soon put that to rights!’ He smoothed his scanty hair with his hands and fumbled for his glasses. ‘I trust the ladies were not unduly alarmed by the explosion. It appears to have been effective.’

‘Remarkably so,’ said Peter. He pulled a pampas grass from the drain-pipe and poked delicately among the debris, while Harriet, flicking soot from the vicar, was reminded of Alice dusting the White King. ‘It’s surprising the things you find in old chimneys.’

‘No dead bodies, I trust,’ said the vicar.

‘Only ornithological specimens. And two skeleton bats. And eight feet or so of ancient chain, as formerly worn by the mayors of Paggleham.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Goodacre, filled with antiquarian zeal, ‘an old pot-chain, very likely.’

“That’s what it’ll be,’ concurred Mr Puffett. ‘’Ung up on one of them ledges, as like as not. See ’ere! ’Ere’s a bit of one o’ they roasting-jacks wot they used in the old days. Look, see! That’s the cross-bar and the wheel wot the chain went over, like. My grannie had one, the dead spit of this.’

‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘we seem to have loosened things up a bit, anyhow. Think you can get your rods through the pot now?’

‘If,’ said Mr Puffett, darkly, ‘the pot’s still there.’ He dived beneath the chimney-breast, whither Peter followed him. ‘Mind your ’ead, me lord-there might be some more loose bricks. I will say as you can see the sky if you looks for it, which is more than you’d see this morning.’

‘Excuse me, my lord!’

‘Hey?’ said Peter. He crawled out and straightened his back, only to find himself nose to nose with Bunter, who appeared to have undergone a rough but effective cleansing. He looked his servitor up and down. ‘By god, Bunter, my Bunter, I’m revenged for the scullery pump.’

The shadow of some powerful emotion passed over Bunter’s face; but his training held good.

“The individual at the door, my lord, is inquiring for Mr Noakes. I have informed him that he is not here, but he refuses to take my word for it.’

‘Did you ask if he would see Miss Twitterton? What does he want?’

‘He says, my lord, that his business is urgent and personal.’ Mr Puffett, feeling his presence a little intrusive, whistled thoughtfully, and began to collect his rods together and secure them with string.

‘What sort of an “individual”, Bunter?’

Mr Bunter lightly shrugged his shoulders and spread forth his palms.

‘A financial individual, my lord, to judge by his appearances.’ said Mr Puffett, sotto voce.

‘Name of Moses?’

‘Name of MacBride, my lord.’

‘A distinction without a difference. Well, Miss Twitterton, will you see this financial Scotsman?’

‘Oh, Lord Peter, I really don’t know what to say. I know nothing about Uncle William’s business. I don’t know if he’d like me to interfere. If only Uncle-’

‘Would you rather I tackled the bloke?’

‘It’s too kind of you. Lord Peter. I’m sure I oughtn’t to bother you. But with Uncle away and everything so awkward-and gentlemen always understand so much better about business, don’t they, Lady Peter? Dear me!’

‘My husband will be delighted,’ said Harriet She was wickedly tempted to add, ‘He knows everything about business,’ but was fortunately forestalled by the gentleman himself.

‘Nothing delights me more,’ pronounced his lordship, ‘than minding other people’s business. Show him in. And, Bunter! Allow me to invest you with the Most Heroic Order of the Chimney, for attempting a rescue against overwhelming odds.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Mr Bunter, woodenly, stooping his neck to the chain and meekly receiving the roasting-jack in his right hand. ‘I am much obliged. Will there be anything further?’

‘Yes. Before you go-take up the bodies. But the soldiers may be excused from shooting. We have had enough of that for one morning.’

Mr Bunter bowed, collected the skeletons in the dustpan and departed. But as he passed behind the settle, Harriet saw him unwind the chain and drop it unobtrusively into the drain-pipe, setting the roasting-jack upright against the wall. A gentleman might have his joke; but a gentleman’s gentleman has his position to keep up. One could not face inquisitive Hebrews in the character of the Mayor of Paggleham and Provincial Grand Master of the Most Heroic Order of the Chimney.