The Summer of Sir Lancelot

gratefully. ‘Now I must rush for my bus.‘
    She left the surgeon pondering on an Australian bird with a cautious tail in nine letters, from which his thoughts shortly strayed to Euphemia. At least his own side of the family, he told himself with a touch of conceit, didn‘t go about looking like illustrations from a textbook on deficiency diseases.
    ‘ “Cassowary”!‘ he exclaimed. ‘C — A — S — S — O — W — ‘
    ‘I say, Uncle Lancelot.‘
    He threw a highly unwelcoming glance at the door. Randolph entered on tip-toe, closing it softly behind him.
    ‘Uncle Lancelot — ‘
    The youth stood biting his lip. He was one of those pudgy pink-faced shining young men who always look as though they‘ve just stepped from a cold shower.
    ‘I say, will you help me have a bit of fun?‘ he invited.
    Sir Lancelot raised his eyebrows. ‘What have you in mind? Hunt the slipper? Socratic debate? Thought reading? Rape?‘
    ‘Uncle, you‘re a sportsman — ‘
    Sir Lancelot‘s look became even less hospitable. Not least among his lessons of life was discovering that this phrase generally ushered in a touch.
    ‘I mean, you‘ve bashed round racecourses and things,‘ Randolph continued, standing on one leg.
    ‘I have occasionally diverted myself with the Turf, like many English monarchs.‘
    ‘Jolly good. That is, you know the ropes and all that,‘ Randolph persisted, standing on the other one.
    ‘What exactly are you trying to get at?‘ snapped Sir Lancelot.
    ‘You see, I obviously don‘t know much about all that caper. I mean to say, with Dad being — you know.‘ He changed legs again. ‘Particularly as I‘m waiting to go up to Cambridge next term with a scholarship from the Youth Morality Foundation. Wouldn‘t do, you see.‘
    ‘I fail to entirely, but go on.‘
    ‘Fact is, I‘d rather like to have a little bit of a flutter.‘
    Sir Lancelot let out a guffaw.
    ‘Great Scott, man, I imagined you wanted to nobble the favourite for next year‘s Derby.‘
    ‘You see, I‘ve been filling in with this welfare job down in Hoxton,‘ Randolph continued, expanding and raising a grin. ‘I met a very sound fellow down there who‘s mixed up in this horse business somewhere, and he told me the one which is absolutely certain to win the first race this afternoon at Folkestone.‘
    ‘Excellent.‘ Sir Lancelot slapped his knee. ‘Not half enough sporting spirit in the young these days.‘
    ‘Yes, but how do I put the money on?‘ asked Randolph, looking puzzled. ‘I suppose I could go to Folkestone, but it seems an awful long way — ‘
    ‘Here — ‘ Sir Lancelot scribbled on a strip torn from his newspaper. ‘Ring that number, ask for Alf and mention my name.‘
    ‘That‘s awfully good of you, Uncle — ‘
    ‘And now get out. I want to finish this damn crossword.‘
    ‘Yes, of course, Uncle.‘ He hesitated. ‘The horse‘s name is Goose Pimple, in case you‘re interested,‘ he added generously.
    ‘I never bet on meetings at seaside courses, but put your few bob on and jolly good luck to you.‘
    Sir Lancelot bent his mind to the gap in ‘Where‘s my — of old Nile? (Ant. and Cleo.)‘, until a minute later he was interrupted by the appearance of Hilda and Herbert, in tears.
    ‘Ye gods! I might as well be sitting in the waiting-room at Euston Station. Go and blow your noses and find your mother,‘ he commanded.
    ‘We‘ve lost Cissy the eat,‘ they wailed together.
    ‘It has probably been run over. It was an extremely unpleasant animal anyway. Now clear off.‘
    ‘She was our special pet,‘ lamented Hilda loudly.
    ‘No doubt your father will provide a replacement. Hop it.‘
    ‘Daddy says he can‘t afford another one,‘ cried Herbert.
    Sir Lancelot threw his paper aside. ‘Look here, you beastly pair of felinophils, London is positively crawling with stray cats. Go and hunt round the dustbins till you find one. If you smother it with DDT you‘ll keep most of the fleas out of the drawing-room. Now get out before I bid you farewell with the toe of my boot.‘
    ‘S — E — R — P - F. — N - T,‘ Sir Lancelot pencilled in with satisfaction, picking up his paper again. He gave a groan. The door was opened. But it was only Mrs Chuffey.
    ‘Ah, my luncheon basket, no doubt,‘ he exclaimed.
    ‘No, sir. There‘s a gentleman to see you, sir.‘
    ‘A gentleman?‘ Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘What sort of a gentleman?‘
    ‘Oh, quite respectable, sir. He brought this