Spreter in American Magazine. Mulliner ,  and the Wodehouse collection The Hollywood Omnibus He tells the following story about Wilmot. Wilmot Mulliner is a Nodder.
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The least slackening of vigilance and the thing has gripped him. He writes a story. Another story dealing with the same characters occurs to him, and he writes that. And before he knows where he is, he is down with a Saga, and no cure in sight. This is what happened to me with Bertie Wooster and Jeeves, and it has happened again with Lord Emsworth, his son Frederick, his butler Beach, his pig the Empress and the other residents of Blandings Castle.
In a word, once a man who could take it or leave it alone, I had become an addict. The stories in the first part of this book represent what I may term the short snorts in between the solid orgies. From time to time I would feel the Blandings Castle craving creeping over me, but I had the manhood to content myself with a small dose. And so on. The final section of the volume deals with the secret history of Hollywood, revealing in print some of those stories which are whispered over the frosted malted milk when the boys get together in the commissary.
It fell on green lawns and wide terraces, on noble trees and bright flower-beds. It fell on the baggy trousers-seat of Angus McAllister, head-gardener to the ninth Earl of Emsworth, as he bent with dour Scottish determination to pluck a slug from its reverie beneath the leaf of a lettuce. It fell on the white flannels of the Hon. It also fell on Lord Emsworth himself and on Beach, his faithful butler.
They were standing on the turret above the west wing, the former with his eye to a powerful telescope, the latter holding the hat which he had been sent to fetch. Is there a cap? So there is. Take it off, Beach. He twiddled and adjusted, and the satisfaction deepened.
Beach, I can see a cow. Might be two yards away. All right, Beach. Lord Emsworth continued gazing at the cow. The ninth Earl of Emsworth was a fluffy-minded and amiable old gentleman with a fondness for new toys.
Although the main interest of his life was his garden, he was always ready to try a side line, and the latest of these side lines was this telescope of his. Ordered from London in a burst of enthusiasm consequent upon the reading of an article on astronomy in a monthly magazine, it had been placed in position on the previous evening. What was now in progress was its trial trip.
It was a fine cow, as cows go, but, like so many cows, it lacked sustained dramatic interest. Surfeited after awhile by the spectacle of it chewing the cud and staring glassily at nothing, Lord Emsworth decided to swivel the apparatus round in the hope of picking up something a trifle more sensational.
And he was just about to do so, when into the range of his vision there came the Hon. He generally frowned when he saw Freddie, for with the passage of the years that youth had become more and more of a problem to an anxious father. Unlike the male codfish, which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.
And Freddie Threepwood was one of those younger sons who rather invite the jaundiced eye. It seemed to the head of the family that there was no way of coping with the boy. If he was allowed to live in London, he piled up debts and got into mischief; and when you jerked him back into the purer surroundings of Blandings Castle, he just mooned about the place, moping broodingly.
And it is probable that what induced the latter to keep a telescopic eye on him at this moment was the fact that his demeanour was so mysteriously jaunty, his bearing so intriguingly free from its customary crushed misery.
Some inner voice whispered to Lord Emsworth that this smiling, prancing youth was up to no good and would bear watching. The inner voice was absolutely correct. Within thirty seconds its case had been proved up to the hilt. Scarcely had his lordship had time to wish, as he invariably wished on seeing his offspring, that Freddie had been something entirely different in manners, morals, and appearance, and had been the son of somebody else living a considerable distance away, when out of a small spinney near the end of the meadow there bounded a girl.
And Freddie, after a cautious glance over his shoulder, immediately proceeded to fold this female in a warm embrace. Lord Emsworth had seen enough. He tottered away from the telescope, a shattered man.
One of his favourite dreams was of some nice, eligible girl, belonging to a good family, and possessing a bit of money of her own, coming along some day and taking Freddie off his hands; but that inner voice, more confident now than ever, told him that this was not she. No, there was only one explanation. In the cloistral seclusion of Blandings, far from the Metropolis with all its conveniences for that sort of thing, Freddie had managed to get himself entangled.
Seething with anguish and fury, Lord Emsworth hurried down the stairs and out on to the terrace. It was with a sour and hostile eye that Lord Emsworth watched his son draw near. The villain of the piece halted abruptly. Sunk in a roseate trance, he had not observed his father. But such was the sunniness of his mood that even this encounter could not damp him. He gambolled happily up. He searched in his mind for a pleasant topic of conversation — always a matter of some little difficulty on these occasions.
He drew a step nearer, looking like the man who smothered the young princes in the Tower. Freddie started convulsively. He appeared to be swallowing with difficulty something large and jagged. He paused. Oh, yes, indeed! All most absolutely correct-o! Nothing fishy, I mean to say, or anything like that.
Her people spent their honeymoon at the Falls, she tells me. I ask you! Full of beans. And where did you meet her? The information, he perceived, could no longer be withheld, and he was keenly alive to the fact that it scarcely fell into the class of tidings of great joy.
Having ranged the grounds for some minutes, he ran his quarry to earth at the entrance to the yew alley. The head-gardener turned at the sound of his footsteps. He was a sturdy man of medium height, with eyebrows that would have fitted a bigger forehead. These, added to a red and wiry beard, gave him a formidable and uncompromising expression. You must send her away. She must go! You must send her away immediately. Lord Emsworth did not grind his teeth, for he was not given to that form of displaying emotion; but he leaped some ten inches into the air and dropped his pince-nez.
Blandings Castle and Elsewhere by P.
Blandings Castle and Elsewhere
The least slackening of vigilance and the thing has gripped him. He writes a story. Another story dealing with the same characters occurs to him, and he writes that. And before he knows where he is, he is down with a Saga, and no cure in sight.
Pelham Wodehouse: Blandings Castle/// and Elsewhere