'Did I ever tell you,' he asked, 'about the extraordinary experience of a most respectable sheep I used to know, whose name was Percibald?'
It was plain from the expression on Mr. Uniatz's homely pan that he had never heard the story. It was equally plain that he was ready to try dutifully to discover its precise connection with the shindig in hand. The convolutions of painful concentration carved themselves deeper into his dial.
'Boss'
'Percibald,' said the Saint firmly, 'was a sheep of exceptionally distinguished appearance, as you may judge from the fact that he was once the innocent cause of a libel action in which a famous Cabinet Minister sued the president and council of the Royal Academy for damages on the grounds that a picture exhibited in their galleries portrayed him in the act of sharing the embraces of a nearly nude wench with every evidence of enjoyment. On investigation it was found that the painting had only been intended for a harmless pastoral scene featuring a few classical nymphs and shepherds, and that the artist, feeling that shepherds without any sheep might look somewhat stupid, had induced Percibald to pose with one of the nymphs in the foreground. This, however, was merely an incident in Percibald's varied career. The extraordinary experience I was going to tell you about . . .'
He blurbed on, hardening his heart against the pathetic perplexity of his audience. It is one of the chronicler's major regrets that the extraordinary experience of Percibald is not suitable for quotation in a volume which may fall into the hands of ladies and young children; but it is doubtful whether Mr. Uniatz ever saw the point. Nor was the Saint greatly concerned about whether he did or not. His main object was to shut off the spate of questions with which Mr. Uniatz's hairy bosom was obviously overflowing.
At the same time, without ever seeming to pay any attention to them, he was quietly watching the four men in the opposite corner. After their first silence they had put their heads together so briefly and casually that if he had actually taken his eyes off them for a moment he might not have noticed it. Then an exchange of whispered words opened out into an elaborately natural argument which he had no trouble to hear even while he was talking himself.
'Well, I know it's on the road to Yeovil. I've been there often enough.'
'Damn it, I was born and brought up in Crewkerne, and I ought to know.'
'I'll bet you a pound you don't.'
'I'll bet you five pounds you're talking through your hat.'
'Well, you show it to me on a map.'
'All right, who's got a map?'
It turned out that none of them had a map. The big unshaven man finished loading his pipe and got up.
'Perhaps the landlord's got a map.'
'He hasn't. I asked him yesterday.'
The extraordinary experience of Percibald reached its indelicate conclusion. Mr. Uniatz looked as if he was going to cry. The Saint scanned his memory rapidly for another anecdote; and then the big man moved a little way down the mantelpiece and cleared his throat.
'Excuse me, sir-do you happen to have a map of the country around Yeovil?'
Simon put aside a plate containing a small piece of lukewarm blotting-paper which was apparently the translation of Boiled Cod au Beurre.
'I've got one in the car,' he said. 'Are you in a hurry?'
'Oh, no. Not a bit. We just want to settle an argument- I don't know if you know the district?'
'Vaguely.'
'Do you know Champney Castle? I say it's between Crewkerne and Yeovil, and my friend says it's in the other direction -on the way to Ilchester.'
The Saint had never heard of Champney Castle, and he was even inclined to doubt whether such a place existed; but it never occurred to him to interfere with anybody's innocent amusements.
'I know it quite well,' he replied unblushingly. 'There's an entrance from the Ilchester Road and another from the Yeovil Road. So you're both right.'
The man looked convincingly blank for a moment; and then a chuckle of laughter broke out from his companions, in which he joined. Cordial relations having thus been established, the other members of the party turned their chairs to an angle that subtly gathered up the Saint and Hoppy into their conversation. It was all very neatly and efficiently done, with a disarming geniality that would have melted the reserve of anyone less hoarily aged in sin.
'Are you staying here long?' inquired the fat man with the fruity face.
'I haven't made any plans,' answered the Saint carelessly. 'I expect we'll hang around for a few days, if there's anything interesting to do.'
'Do you like fishing?'
'Sometimes.'
'You get some pretty big conger off Larkstone Point.'
Simon nodded.
'I should think they'd be good sport.'
The small man with the grey moustache polished his pince-nez industriously on a napkin.
'Dangerous, of course, if you don't know your business,' he remarked. 'You don't want to loop the gaff on your wrist -if you did that, and made a slip, I don't suppose we'd ever see you again. But lots of things are much more dangerous.'
