‘It is unique!’ cried Albert. ‘Unique in the iconography of Gladstone and Disraeli and also as a paper-weight. I regard it as a find of the greatest significance.’
‘Very interesting. To what date do you think it belongs?’
‘Mr Buggins, I have a theory about that paper-weight; but this, of course, is just my own idea, and must not be taken too seriously, as I am by no means an infallible authority on the subject, though it is one which I have studied deeply. You have guessed, of course, that I refer to Gabelsburgher.’
Mr Buggins had guessed no such thing, but he bowed courteously.
‘In other words, I believe this paper-weight to be an original Gabelsburgher. It will, of course, be some time before I shall be able to proclaim this as an established fact. You ask what date it is? I reply that if, as I think, it is by the hand of the master, it would almost certainly have been made between the years 1875 and 1878. Gabelsburgher, as you know, came to England for the first time in ’75. In ’76 Elise was taken ill, in ’78 he laid her remains in the Paddington cemetery and came away a broken man. Many of his best paper-weights were buried with his beloved, and from that time his work deteriorated beyond recognition. It is easy to see that this jewel belongs to his very greatest period, and I should myself be inclined to think that it was created in the March or April of ’76 while Elise was still in the heydey of her youth and beauty. But, as I said just now, I am very far from infallible.’
Mr Buggins, who knew nothing and cared less about Gabelsburgher, and who heard the cars arriving at the front door, became a little restive during this speech, repeating at the end of it:
‘Very interesting. I really came to tell you that we start in about ten minutes for the Highland games.’
‘Ah! good gracious! I had quite forgotten!’ cried Albert, leaping out of bed and seizing his black taffeta dressing-gown. ‘But have no fear, I shall not be late.’
Albert, Walter, Mr Buggins, Jane and Sally went in the first car, the Craigdalloch’s Rolls-Royce, and with them, as they had the most room, was packed the luncheon: one large picnic basket, two thermos flasks and several bottles of beer and whisky.
In the general’s Buick, which he drove himself and which was to start a few minutes later than the Rolls, were Lady Prague, the Chadlingtons and Admiral Wenceslaus. Lord Prague was in the apparently moribund condition which characterized him on non-shooting days, and stayed behind.
The Rolls-Royce drove along with a pleasantly luxurious motion. Mr Buggins pointed out many places of interest as they passed through typical Highland scenery, among others the ‘banksome brae’ where ‘Ronnie waur killed i’ the ficht’, and the lodge gates of Castle Bane, let at present to some rich Americans who had installed (Mr Buggins shook his head sadly) a cocktail bar in the chief dungeon. Sally was much excited to hear this and wondered if it would be possible to make their acquaintance.
‘I should so love to see the inside of Castle Bane!’ she cried. ‘And I simply worship dungeons, of course!’
‘I believe the public are admitted every Thursday, but I will make inquiries,’ said Mr Buggins.
Presently the Rolls-Royce arrived at the Corbie’s Egg, a large yellowish mountain commanding an interminable prospect of other mountains, valleys, streams and pine woods. They all got out of the car and were induced by Mr Buggins, an ardent picnicker, to drag the hamper, rugs, and bottles half-way up a sort of precipice, the idea being that they would thus enjoy a slightly better view. What, however, they gained in that respect they lost in comfort, as they were perched on a decided slope and had some difficulty in preventing basket and bottles from slipping down it.
Having unpacked the luncheon they waited politely for the others; but when a quarter of an hour passed by with no signs of the Buick, Sally suggested that they should begin. ‘I’m pretty peckish,’ she said, ‘eating for two now, you see.’ Albert remarked that the Murgatroyds certainly would not have waited for them, and they all fell upon the food, munching away in a happy silence.
It was only when they had quite finished and were drinking their coffee with the delicious feeling, so rare at picnics, that even if there were any more food it would be difficult to eat it, that Sally noticed, to her extreme horror, that there was absolutely nothing left for the others.
She announced this fact in a voice shaking with hysteria. There was a ghastly silence.
Mr Buggins said: ‘Surely they are bringing their own,’ without much conviction.
‘No,’ wailed Sally, ‘this was for everybody.’
Another silence. Walter tried to speak, but no words came. Mr Buggins gulped down some neat whisky and said:
‘Wait a minute. We’ll see what’s left. Hum – yes, one leg of grouse. Three tongue sandwiches. Look! What’s this? A packet of something! Oh, dear! Petit-Beurre biscuits, rather cold comfort. Fourteen apples (curious how the cook here seems to think we are all fruitarians). No beer at all. Half a bottle of whisky. A thermos of hot milk. Yes, this is very awkward indeed.’
Another dreadful silence descended upon them. Sally wrung her hands in despair.
‘Oh, goodness, goodness me! What are we to do?’
Albert poured the remains of the whisky down his throat. Suddenly he shouted:
‘I know, of course! The only thing we can do is to hide the picnic basket and pretend it fell out of the car. Quick! quick! before they come!’
With shaking hands and furtive glances down the road they packed the debris of their lunch into the picnic basket, which they proceeded to hide between two large boulders. They then seized the rugs and scrambled down a precipitous slope to the motor car, explaining matters rather breathlessly to
