Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [59]
Number 10 Downing Street was understaffed: the principal private secretary was in Scotland; the second secretary was on the Lido; Parliament was in vacation; but there was no rest for the Prime Minister � he was obliged to muddle along, as best he could, with his third and fourth secretaries, unreliable young men related to his wife. "Another name for the K.C.B.'s," he said petulantly. "Boot � gratis." "Yes, Uncle Mervyn. Are you � we giving any particular reason?" "It's someone of Copper's. Call it 'Service to Literature.' It's some time since Copper asked for anything � I was getting nervous. I'll send him a personal note to tell him it is all right. You might drop a line to Boot." "O.K., Uncle."
Later this secretary said to his less important colleague:� "More birthdayers. Boot � writer. Do you know anything about him?" "Yes, he's always lunching with Aunt Agnes. Smutty novels." "Well, write, and tell him he's fixed up, will you?"
Two days later, among his bills, John Courteney Boot found forwarded to him a letter which said:�
I am instructed by the Prime Minister to inform you that your name has been forwarded to H.M. the King with the recommendation for your inclusion in the Order of Knights Commanders of the Bath.
"Golly," said Boot. "It must be Julia." Mrs. Stitch was staying in the same house. He went and sat on her bed while she had breakfast. Presently he said:� "By the way, what d'you think? They're making me a Knight." "Who are?" "The King and the Prime Minister. You know...a real Knight...Sir John Boot, I mean." "Well..." "Is it your doing?" "Well...I hardly know what to say, John. Are you pleased about it?" "It's hard to say yet...taken by surprise. But I think I am...In fact I know I am�Come to think of it, I'm very pleased indeed." "Good," said Mrs. Stitch, "I'm very pleased too," and added, "I suppose I did have something to do with it." "It was angelic of you. But why?" "Just the Stitch Service. I felt you had been disappointed about that job on the newspaper." Later, when Algernon Stitch came back from a day with the partridges, she said:� "Algie. What's come over your Prime Minister? He's making John a Knight." "John Gassoway? Oh, well, he's had his tongue hanging out for something ever since we got in." "No. John Boot." It was not often that Algernon Stitch showed surprise. He did then. "Boot," he said. "Good God!" And added after a long pause: "Overwork. Breaking up. Pity."
John Boot was not sure whether to make a joke of it. He extended his confidence to a Lady Greenidge and a Miss Montesquieu. By dinnertime the house was buzzing with the news. There was no doubt in anyone else's mind whether it was a joke or not.
"Anything to declare?" "Nothing." "What, not with all this?" "I bought it in London in June." "All of it?" "More. There was a canoe..." The customs officer laid hands on the nearest of the crates which lay conspicuously among the hand luggage of returning holiday-makers. Then he read the label and his manner changed. "Forgive me asking, sir, but are you by any chance Mr. Boot of the Beast?" "Yes, I suppose I am." "Ah. Then I don't think I need trouble you, sir...the missus will be pleased to hear I've seen you. We've been reading a lot about you lately." Everyone seemed to have read about William. From the moment he touched the fringe of the English-speaking world in the train de luxe from Marseilles, William had found himself the object of undisguised curiosity. On his way round Paris he had bought a copy of the Beast. The front page was mainly occupied with the preparation of the Ladies' Antarctic Expedition but, inset in the middle, was a framed notice:�
BOOT IS BACK The man who made journalistic history, Boot of the Beast, will tomorrow tell in his own inimitable way the inner story of his meteoric leap to fame. How does it feel to tell the truth to two million registered readers? How does it feel to have risen in a single week to the highest pinnacle of fame? Boot will tell you.
That had been the paper of the day before. At Dover William bought the current issue. There, above a facsimilie of his signature and a composite picture of his passport photograph surcharged on an Ishmaelite landscape, in the size of type which the Beast reserved for its most expensive contributors, stood the promised article: