Noblesse Oblige
Book One
Twilight of the Gods

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 9

Martin and Stephen were returning from their bathing place in the morning sunshine when Martin had them stop their cycles on a bend in the elm-lined drive.  Through a gap in the trees the great house could be seen, framed as it were by a fringe of tender green leaves and illuminated by the sun as if contrived by a set designer in a West End theatre.

“I always think this first glimpse is the finest.  The house is shown off and none of its imperfections can be seen at this distance,” said Martin.

“Yes it looks splendid,” agreed Stephen, leaning on his handlebars.  “Have you noticed all landscapes look best in the morning sun, when it’s in your eyes; the same scene can look very tired in afternoon light.”

“Yes that’s true,” said Martin.

The house was an enormous pile that told the history of England.  Although the Poole family could trace itself back to the 1200s they did not become ennobled until the reign of Henry VIII and the house itself only dated back to the end of Queen Elizabeth’s time with additions in the reigns of Charles II and George III and a very large rebuilding, in brick, in 1840 which obscured much of the Elizabethan manor house.  As they stood there they were both thinking that one day it would all be Martin’s and at this moment Martin was also concentrating on the impression it would make on The Plunger when he passed this point later in the day.

Martin was on tenterhooks for the visit.  He was looking forward to Archie Craigth’s visit but was fearful of how he and Stephen would get on.  In addition, this evening’s dinner would be the first large-scale entertainment he had hosted as the de facto master of Croome.

Stephen was in their sitting room reading ‘Anna of the Five Town’ when Martin burst in, flustered, and said, “I say Stephen, come and help me make sure that everything is right for The Plunger and for tonight’s dinner.”

Stephen laid his book down and, putting his arm around Martin’s shoulder, walked him to the door.  The Plunger was to be put in the Chinese bedroom which was really rather splendid with its wallpaper of duck egg blue displaying an oriental scene of men fishing for carp over and over, and punctuated by little bracketed shelves that held blue and white pottery. The bed and its hangings were also in the Chinese taste of the 1760s. Through a red lacquer door was a small dressing room and a bathroom was not very far away down the passage.

“Should I have them light a fire?” asked Martin, then, answering himself, said, “No, it’s too warm, isn’t it?”

Stephen nodded.

Next they inspected the vast dining room, which had been opened up and dusted for the occasion.  Stephen had discussed the menu with Mrs Capstick and the cook and just now the head gardener was putting the finishing touches to the flowers, which seemed to overwhelm the table, but did something to relieve the gloom of the ugly chamber.

They were all lined up to meet the Daimler when it at last disgorged The Plunger.  The trap followed bringing what seemed a mountain of luggage and Martin had to stop himself from saying it was a visit of ten days not ten months.

Archie alighted and presented a magnificent spectacle; perhaps not since the visit of Queen Elizabeth herself in 1599 had Croome witnessed such a state visit.  Martin rushed forward and shook the elegant gloved hand of the impossibly elongated figure. Chilvers motioned to the footman to start bringing in the luggage and the sight presented itself as something between a safari in Nyasaland and ants at a picnic.

Chilvers introduced himself and murmured that Paul had been assigned to his needs.

Martin then eagerly took The Plunger, who had barley uttered a word, towards Stephen and said, “Archie Craigth, may I introduce my friend Stephen Knight, whom I’ve told you so much about; Stephen this is Mr Craigth.”

“How do you do Mr Craigth,” said Stephen grasping the hand, now removed from its glove, in a manly fashion.”

“Knight,” replied The Plunger with a short nod as he fitted his monocle and he turned immediately towards Martin and asked him about his brother.

Tea was followed by a tour of the house and things seemed to go from bad to worse.  Stephen, when he attempted to make conversation, inadvertently seemed to mention beer on several occasions and Archie refused to look at him and retained a frozen hauteur.

As they dressed for dinner, Martin was almost in tears while Stephen was furious at the rude treatment he was receiving.

“I think he’s nervous, Stephen, that’s why he won’t look at you. He certainly liked to look at the Tsindis and the boxing photograph,” said Martin. 

“You showed that long streak of snobbery our pictures!” said Stephen in a fury.

Martin nodded, going red.  “I’m sorry Stephen, but he did seem to enjoy them and I had to wipe his seed off the photo more than once.”

Stephen just made a noise of disgust but didn’t want to upset Martin any more than he was already.  He went over and kissed Martin and helped him with his tie.  “I’ll try and think of something.  I do like his hair; I suppose it’s real?”

When they went in to dinner, Martin had Archie take Miss Plainsong in and placed him between her and Mrs Destrombe and across from Mr Kells, the librarian.  Out of his line of sight was Stephen who could talk to Miss Tadrew and the vicar.

Stephen looked handsome in his London evening clothes but it had to be admitted that he was not as dazzling at The Plunger.  Most gentlemen’s outfitters contrive to vary the shade of white of the shirtfront, tie and waistcoat; The Plunger’s beautifully cut garments all had a whiteness of such purity and radiance that it hurt they eyes.  He talked to Miss Plainsong of his home near Dorking and of his years on the Continent.  To Mrs Destrombe he expounded on the errors of the Anglo-Catholics and to the librarian he spoke of snipe shooting, a topic that was of little interest to Mr Kells but who was glad that anybody spoke to him at all.

In the billiard room Stephen offered The Plunger a game but found to his horror that The Plunger was very good and he was quickly dismissed.  In the drawing room, however, Stephen was revenged when he won a shilling off Archie at auction bridge, having taken lessons from Miss Tadrew who won ten.

Archie at last went up to China after the guests had departed and Martin cuddled up to Stephen in their own bedroom.

“However are we going to last nine more days, Stephen?  This has been a disaster.”

“Things mightn’t seem so bad in the morning; do you remember they look better then?” he said, putting his strong, naked arm around Martin’s neck.  “Let me suck your beautiful cock to release some of that tension.”

Martin smiled and it was a happy release.

*****

As Stephen predicted, things were a bit better in the morning.  The Plunger came into their sitting room for his breakfast where Chilvers had laid it.  He was dressed in one of his country squire outfits and he actually said “Good morning, Stephen” and had lost some of his frozen magnificence.

They discussed what they would do that day and riding looked likely, but suddenly Stephen said, “What about some boxing, Archie, would you like to come and see our gymnasium?”

To Martin’s surprise, Archie said yes, looking quite shy as he remembered the photograph.  They walked down to the village, taking Job, with Archie asking all sorts of questions about village life, swinging a knobbly stick, no doubt with the view to incorporating the answers into his new rural persona.

They were in sole possession of the hall and Stephen produced from the bag he was carrying towels and silk boxing drawers.  Martin was first to undress, his golden loveliness on full display with just a few tugs at his garments.  He was half hard.  Stephen motioned to The Plunger to remove his clothes, which he did, nervously and over some more minutes in view of the elaborate nature of his tweed costume.  Stephen stared at him hard.  At last the fine ginger cock came into view but Stephen said not a word.  He actually got The Plunger to turn around by asking him to pass the rosin which was on the floor behind him thereby giving himself a view of The Plunger’s firm but flat buttocks that were covered with red fluff and The Plunger’s tender crack where the hair grew somewhat denser.

Lastly Stephen, still with his eyes locked on The Plunger, pulled his shirt over his head and dropped his trousers, freeing his enormous cock, which, as usual, was half hard. The Plunger gasped and swallowed hard.  He tried not to look but couldn’t tear his eyes away.  His mouth was dry.

At last The Plunger bent down to the bag to get some drawers, but Stephen kicked the bag across the room, and instructed Martin to lock the door.  They were to spar naked.

Martin tied on their gloves, Stephen silent and steady, but The Plunger a nervous wreck. The contest began, cocks and balls swinging wildly, and The Plunger began to relax.  He held his body well and with a steady eye, as Martin had seen at school, and he jabbed at Stephen with long straight blows, occasionally getting past Stephen’s forearm and biceps that formed a defensive shield.  Stephen crouched slightly and, with his superior musculature, was able to deliver telling upper cuts.  Neither boy was aiming to hurt the other but each was testing his opponent.  Soon they started offering encouragement to each other and making compliments for particularly effective initiatives.  They were evenly matched, thought Martin, as the minutes ticked by.

At last a halt was called and the heaving, dripping, steaming Stephen, still half hard, walked over to Martin.  He raised his left arm and flexed his bicep.  Martin, without conscious thought, buried his face in the humid back pit, licking, slurping, inhaling and teasing at the silky black hair.  Archie watched this depraved scene with a mixture of horror and fascination as Stephen kept a steady gaze upon him.

Then he raised his right arm and offered it to The Plunger who in an instant was aping his friend, lost in the worship of the handsome village lad.

Stephen reached down and stroked the ginger cock, telling himself that one day soon he would taste it, but not today.  Martin pulled The Plunger to the floor where they each continued to pleasure themselves with one hand but turned their greater attention to Stephen’s oozing cock, which they pleasured singly and together until, with a cry of triumph he spent his load across their upturned and expectant visages.

The ice was broken and all three were on first name terms as they dressed and departed with Stephen calling Archie “Plunger” on more than one occasion and The Plunger just one more worshiper at the shrine of the village stud.

They went to the swimming place and had races and, while The Plunger was demonstrating the backstroke in the pool, Martin and Stephen were lying naked on the bank, catching their breath. “You know, The Plunger was a different person today, thank God. He was different even at breakfast, I thought,” said Martin.

“Yes, I’m not surprised,” replied Stephen. Martin looked at him, puzzled. “I told Chilvers to assign Michael to him instead of Paul,” he said with a big grin.

*****

The Agricultural Show was in full swing. Martin was kept busy in his capacity as the one who handed out the cups, medals and ribbons and had to feign interest in ploughing techniques, dairy cattle, sheep dogs, flower arrangement and bottled pickles.  He was pleased that Miss Tadrew’s crab-apple jelly won a prize in the jam section.

In the evening, the funfair component came into its own and crowds were drawn from towns and villages beyond the estate and it was considered a general holiday even for the servants at Croome.

When the three boys walked down to the village green they found it transformed.  The lingering soft light of the summer evening was supported, even overwhelmed, by electric arc lights that has been erected on tall masts where they spluttered and hissed and threw everything into a terrible relief.  There were tents and stalls and a steam calliope played raucous waltzes and popular ragtime tunes while there were screams and laughter from children on the merry-go-round. Carnival folk barked out advertising for tents offering games and curiosities.  There were hearty guffaws coming from the beer tent where the boys made for, Archie opting for a tankard of the local cider.  There was Elsie, her arms linked with two soldiers; she gave a glance at Stephen.  Nearby were farm workers and townsmen and two drunken sailors up from Portsmouth were trying to engage the pretty daughters of Mr Silk, a pig farmer, who was threatening them with his fist. Children ran about squealing.

Next to the gypsy fortune-teller, the repeated sound of thumping and the less frequent sound of gong advertised one of those contests designed particularly for young men to show off.  Naturally all three boys were attracted and there was a small knot of females, including Elsie and her soldiers.  Stephen went first and gave the anvil a mighty thump with the mallet, but the indicator rose only three-quarters of the way up the shaft.  Next to try was Martin who managed only half way.  The Plunger who had been watching walked up next and, deftly swinging the hammer, caused the gong to ping.

“The trick is it has to be struck with a quick blow; not a hard one and the rod has to be not vibrating for the marker to rise,” he explained to the amazed boys.  Sure enough, with a few more tries each, The Plunger’s scientific approach paid off and all three were heroes in the eyes of the small crowd of onlookers.

The boxing tent was the next attraction but Martin was adamant that neither of the boys was to be allowed to challenge the brutish professional.  He threatened to close the whole sideshow down if they even though about it.  The Plunger and Stephen looked disappointed but Stephen, with Martin’s approval, paid the proprietor a pound if The Plunger and he could fight in the ring, thereby giving the professional brawler a break to refresh himself in the beer tent while at the same time drawing a crowd of young girls and their beaux who might be attracted to the sight of the two handsome novices of the ring.

And so while the boys changed and his lordship was found a seat, the proprietor set up a terrible racket spruiking for customers.  Presently the two boys bounded theatrically into the ring, illuminated by the white arc lights outside and by the weird yellow flames of lamps around the raised ring.  There was a cheer from the crowd and a deafening whistling was set up.  While The Plunger looked cool and elegant, Stephen bounced around on his toes, his cock drawing the attention of more than one pair of eyes.  The bell sounded above the noise of the crowd and the match began.  Stephen landed a few body blows and The Plunger caught the side of Stephen’s head.  The noise increased and the calliope started up an insane ragtime tune.  Martin closed his eyes against the light. Thud, thud, thud went the relentless metronome of The Plunger’s long jabs.  Whoomp, whoomp was the sickening sound of Stephen’s heavy left and right to the body.  The noise rose and Martin could hear the sounds of the screams from the merry-go-round, then the noise of the fighting sailors.  The calliope played another tune.  It grew dark with sudden flashes of light and red flares.  The thud, thud, thud went on and on. Whoop. Whup. There was screaming, first from the children then from somewhere else— an injured horse—and then he was in a shattered landscape; a place he did not recognise as any place on earth and suddenly there were the soldiers again but without Elsie. The pounding grew louder and Martin felt his head would burst.  There was crab-apple jelly; no it was blood now and it stained a puddle of water in the muddy landscape. Thud, thud, thud.  There was an explosion. He felt he must be dead.

Suddenly Martin opened his eyes.  Stephen was kneeling before him, looking at him tenderly.  Behind him was The Plunger with a look of concern.  “Are you all right, Martin?”

“What?” he managed to say, in confusion.

“You seemed to have a bit of a turn there, old chap, are you all right?”

Martin touched Stephen’s face; there was no blood.  He saw that The Plunger was also unmarked.  He looked down at the floor; there was no mud; only the grass of rural England and it was beautiful.  “Yes, yes, I’m alright. It must have been the heat.”

The two boys helped the shaky younger son to his feet and presently they were leaving the fairground, the incident forgotten.

*****

The two next days passed very happily.  The three friends went riding and showed The Plunger something of the countryside, stopping at the wayside inns for lunch where the local menfolk were having their mid-day pint in their dinner hour, for harvesting was still some months away and the long summer days provided space for some leisure even among working people.  The Plunger, while not actually taking notes, was carefully observing country ways, no doubt to be interpreted after his own fashion in some future iteration.

The Plunger rode well and had a ‘beautiful seat’ and could make his horse do anything with his usual effortless aplomb.  

While they rested their horses in a shady grove of giant oaks in a small valley Stephen said: “Riding always makes me randy.  I need someone to suck my cock.”

“You can’t here, someone might come past, were not far off the main road!” said Martin.

“Then you keep watch and you get over here Plunger, that’s if you want to.”

The Plunger did not need to be asked and was on the knees of his jodhpurs in a trice and had his lips around Stephen’s manhood trying to apply pneumatic pressure for the pleasure of both of them.  Stephen had him untie his cravat and strip off his shirt and vest as Archie continued to service Stephen’s cock, paying particular attention to his foreskin and balls, now wearing only his riding trousers and shiny boots.  Stephen was running his hands all over The Plunger’s naked back, with its attractive constellation of freckles and he took a particular and malicious delight in messing-up The Plunger’s carefully coiffed red hair, occasionally gripping handfuls in is passion.

Stephen had not spent when he pulled The Plunger up and kissed him, whispering in his ear, “Now I want some of that ginger cock.”

With trembling hands Archie fumbled with his belt, boots and the tight leggings. Impatient for action, Stephen pushed The Plunger on his back and simply pulled the jodhpurs off with brute force as he did, with contempt, The Plunger’s combinations.  He disrobed more simply himself, pulling a shirt over his head and letting his trousers drop by undoing a single button.

As there was no warning from Martin, Stephen began by licking The Plunger’s plump balls with their diadem of ginger hairs and then pushed his nose into the fragrant red bush that had so intrigued him at the Women’s Institute Hall.  The Plunger’s cock was aching but Stephen wouldn’t let him touch it.  He turned The Plunger around and ran his tongue down the ginger hair of Archie’s crack before licking and nipping at the white flesh of The Plunger’s tight buttocks. “Keep yourself clean for me down there,” said Stephen bluntly and The Plunger simply nodded.

Stephen at last took The Plunger’s cock into his mouth and began to suck him as The Plunger held onto his shoulders.  The Plunger was in ecstasy but almost thought the most sensuous thing of all was running his fingers through the silky black locks of Stephen’s shaggy mop of hair.  By passing his tongue over the sensitive slit in the circumcised knob, Stephen brought The Plunger to a panting climax and he spilled his seed into Stephen’s mouth, Stephen making sure he didn’t pull out.  There was none to share as Stephen had swallowed it all.

Stephen called Martin over, past caring much whether they were being observed or not, and told The Plunger to pleasure Martin, if he cared to.  Stephen personally stripped the boy, while keeping an eye on the road.  He then watched as The Plunger sucked on Martin’s cock, occasionally aiding matters by pressing the back of The Plunger’s red head causing him to take Martin deeper than he might otherwise have been inclined.

“You suck him good,” warned Stephen, “when you’re at school; I want him done properly.” The Plunger nodded as best he could.  “He likes it under here,” said Stephen helpfully indicating a particular portion of Martin’s cock he thought neglected and you can pull on his bush; he likes that too,” he added.  “About now you can insert a finger in his arse—he loves that just before he spills.  Here, I’ll wet if for you,” he said, taking The Plunger’s index finger and moistening it.  “But just a finger, mind you, and if I hear of you hurting him or making him do anything he doesn’t want to, I’ll kill you.”  The Plunger tried to indicate with his eyes that nothing could be further from his mind just as Martin spilled; Stephen helpfully holding The Plunger’s spluttering head still in an iron grip.  He pulled The Plunger up for a kiss, tasting Martin’s seed, which he shared with his lover.

Stephen held his own flaccid cock to The Plunger’s mouth for him to kiss and then walked over to Martin, who was now collapsed to his knees, and allowed Martin to lean on his hairy thigh, with his nose touching his hanging cock.  “But this,” continued Stephen, indicating his cock, “belongs to Martin and fucking is somethin’ special between him and me,” he said, lapsing into the local dialect for a minute, “baint it lass?” he said looking down at Martin.

Martin, catching the hint of a smile in Stephen’s eye, slapped the cock with a stinging blow and said “I baint your lass, Stephen, I tole you thart.” And the pair burst into laughter while The Plunger looked on not quite understanding.

It took a while to dress Archie again, a search having to be made for his monocle and the gold pin shaped like an acorn that had recently adorned his splendid cravat with its decoration of tiny horseshoes.

At last they were clip clopping through Branksome-le-Bourne when Mr Destrombe, the vicar, stopped them and asked them into the vicarage, a boy being given thruppence to hold the horses.

Destrombe told his lordship of a distressing case over in Pendleton.  A destitute young father and his infant son had walked all the way from Bristol and were now in a terrible state.

“The pair is at his sister’s cottage and she is in no position to support them as she is a widow herself,” he said, “Oh you should have seen the state of them from being on the road for a week and having almost nothing to eat, your lordship.  His boots were completely worn out and he was carrying the little chap who was too weak to walk.”

“How did he come to be on the road? Is there a mother?” asked Martin.

“He was turned out of their house —their room I should say— because they were in arrears.  The wife is in some kind of trouble and he had lost his job some months ago—I forget what it was.  Yet something tells me he is a good sort, sir, despite the wife.  Do you think we could we find him a job, milord?”

“Couldn’t he go to Wareham and get work in Tatchell’s or somewhere?” said Stephen.

“Yes he could, they’re looking for new hands and working double shifts,” said the vicar, “but who would look after the little one?  It’s too far from his sister’s, but you could put that to him, that is, milord, if you could find the time to go over to Pendleton.”

Martin didn’t particularly want to go over to Pendleton but felt that The Plunger was watching him and that he’d better be the model squire.  The others agreed and within an hour they were on their way to the distressing case, Martin driving the trap which was loaded up with old blankets, food stuffs and other provisions which Mrs Capstick had hastily assembled, with helpful contributions such as Gentleman’s Relish and a Stilton cheese, from The Plunger’s own picnic hamper he had brought from Dorking.

The cottage certainly looked poor and Mrs Meadows who opened the door seemed to be burdened by her own woes, which principally consisted of her own three children and a shortage of funds.  Meadows, Martin was reminded quietly by Stephen, was the man who lost his life when his gun went off as he climbed a stile very probably while poaching on Martin’s own estate.  “The village poacher has his place too, I suppose,” said Martin with a sigh, ever the supporter of feudalism, when out of earshot of the widow who had gone out the back to find her brother.

The brother was surprisingly young, only about 22, and was thin and drawn.  He had a slight but neat frame under a fine head of dark hair and would be quite handsome if he were shaved and scrubbed.  His brown eyes certainly spoke of his misery.  The little boy, about three or four, was adorable and kept clinging to his father’s leg in his shyness as the kitchen now so full of strangers.

Tom Hughes was better spoken than the three had expected when he came to tell his story.  Apparently his young wife was the cause of their plight, having become addicted to the drink, especially after the birth of young Thomas and, as a consequence, lost her piecework job and was frequently locked up overnight for public drunkenness.  She ran up debts and Tom lost his job and was now being pursued for their repayment.

“Where is your wife now?” Martin asked.

Tom was reluctant to answer until the child was out of the room.  “She’s in gaol, milord, she took to robbing shops to get money for gin and she got two years.”

“What was your trade?” asked The Plunger after quite a pause.

“I was a hotel servant, a porter and waiter.  My wife sewed and mended at home for the same hotel.  I don’t think I know anything about country life, sir and I must stay near my little Thomas, the nearest hotel is over in Wimborne Minister”

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you any work at Croome; we have more than enough staff for our small household, but you could work in a house?”

“I’ve never been in domestic service, sir, but I suppose I could try.”

Stephen suddenly spoke up, addressing Martin rather than the others in the room: “Miss Tadrew could use a servant since she let her maid go.”

“But can she afford it, old sport?” said Martin.

“I will have ten pounds a week, thanks to William and you, and I was intending that some of it should go to my father and some to Miss Tadrew. If I gave her 25 shillings a week, then I’m sure she could find the rest and having a young man about her cottage might be more useful than a girl— that is if she won’t think it too unusual or scandalous.”

Stephen turned to Tom and said, “I might have an elderly lady who is in need a manservant as she has no maid in her cottage, only a charwoman.  If she agrees, would you consider working over at Branksome-le-Bourne?  It would mean leaving little Thomas here with your sister, but it’s not far to cycle on your day off and you could send some of your wages to Mrs Meadows for his keep; you’d receive more than fair wages.”

“In the meantime, Hughes, I will ask Mr Blake the estate manager if he needs any more hands for the harvest as its going to be a big one this year if it’s not ruined by rain.  I think you could manage that,” said Martin, not wanting to appear entirely impotent.

“I’m sure I could sir,” he replied, “and I’m all the stronger for the hope that you have given little Thomas and me, your lordship.”

“Thank Mr Knight, Hughes, he’s the one with the ideas and we’ll speak to the lady and send word to you.  I can’t promise anything,” said Martin. 

It was Stephen who approached Miss Tadrew who naturally thought it extremely odd for a single lady to have a male servant but said that these were changing times and that she would go and see Hughes, taking Mr Destrombe with her. ‘If they suited each other,’ Mr Destrombe’s part in the matter might put the situation in a better light with the villagers, she said.  As to the money, she was overcome and hugged her Stephen and said he was the best gift God could ever have sent her—apart from Sarah, and she accepted.

The rest of The Plunger’s visit went well.  On the days that it rained they played cards and explored the house.  On the fine days they went bathing.  They did not see the Owens boys; that was to be a treat for another visit, thought Martin.  On Sunday Mr Destrombe had The Plunger read the lesson after his wife had told him what sound views the young man held on the errors of Anglo-Catholicism.  The Plunger looked particularly resplendent and begged to be allowed to poke the fire in the tiny fireplace in the Poole family pew—an idea, along with thatching his neighbour’s houses, he was determined to replicate in his native Dorking.

On their last evening they were playing auction bridge with a dummy in Martin’s sitting room.  Chilvers had already taken away the coffee but the boys were still drinking a hock that Chilvers had brought up from the cellars to drink ‘before it spoilt.’  Stephen left the room and reappeared in the silk pyjama bottoms that he had worn in London, which caused Martin to ask for the story of Miss Orchard-Baird to be retold for The Plunger’s benefit.  The pyjamas sat low on Stephen’s hips with his v-shaped cuts exposed and pointing down to the silken pubic hair that was tufting above the waist.  Stephen kept rubbing his hand across his naked torso and this and the action of the silk on his cock made it arch obscenely.  The Plunger was mesmerised and revoked twice, Martin snapping up the sixpence in the pot.

Stephen rose and yawned, exposing his armpits and tenting the silk pyjamas even more.

“I’d better go to my room,” said The Plunger at last.

“Take off all your clothes, you can sleep with us if you want to, but I want you naked, understand?”

The Plunger did understand and the morning found The Plunger’s carroty head lying on Stephen’s right bicep with his body snuggled up to his side while, on the other side, Martin lay with Stephen’s left arm around his shoulder and his head resting, as accustomed, on the soft triangular patch of chest hair.

The Plunger awoke and slipped out of the bed and found Stephen’s discarded pyjama bottoms and pulled them on, making a dash next door, before Michael appeared with his tea.  Michael received a pound when The Plunger and his luggage had at last departed for the train.

When Chilvers came up to make the bed in his lordship’s room his impassive eye caught some suspicious threads of red on the pillows and a further forensic inspection showed more red hair and untoward markings on the sheets.  The servant looked around to make sure he was unobserved and extended his tongue to taste.  He arched that famous eyebrow in a manner that needs no interpretation and left the room.

To be continued…

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.

Posted: 08/23/13