The old killer instinct had awakened. Reloading with the swift efficiency of some hunter of the woods, Lord Emsworth went to the eindow. He was a little uncertain as to what he intended to do when he got there, except that he had a clear determination to loose off at something. There flitted into his mind what his grandson George had said about tickling up cows, and this served to some extent to crystallize his aims. True, cows are not plentiful on the terrace of Blandings Castle. Still, one might have wandered there. You never knew with cows.
There were no cows. Only Rupert Baxter. The ex-secretary was in the act of throwing away a cigarette.
Most men are careless in the matter of throwing away cigarettes. The world is their ashtray. But Rupert Baxter had a tidy soul. He allowed the thing to fall to the ground like any ordinary young man, it is true, but immediately he had done so his better self awakened. He stooped to pick up the object that disfigured the smooth flagged stones, and the invitation of that becklning trousers' seat would have been too powerful for a stronger man than Lord Emsworth to resist.
He pulled the trigger, and Rupert Baxter sprang into the air with a sharp cry. Lord Emsworth reseated himself and took up Whiffle on The Care of The Pig.
(from "The Crime Wave At Blandings, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse")
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