I have often thought that Who's Who, though a bulky and well-meaningvolume, omits too many of England's greatest men. It is notcomprehensive enough. I am in it, nestling among the G's:--"Garnet, Jeremy, o.s. of late Henry Garnet, vicar of Much Middlefold,Salop; author. Publications: 'The Outsider,' 'The Manoeuvres ofArthur.' Hobbies: Cricket, football, swimming, golf. Clubs: Arts."But if you search among the U's for UKRIDGE, StanleyFeatherstonehaugh, details of whose tempestuous career would makereally interesting reading, you find no mention of him. It seemsunfair, though I imagine Ukridge bears it with fortitude. That much-enduring man has had a lifetime's training in bearing things withfortitude.
He seemed in his customary jovial spirits now, as he dashed into theroom, clinging on to the pince-nez which even ginger-beer wire rarelykept stable for two minutes together.
"My dear old man," he shouted, springing at me and seizing my hand inthe grip like the bite of a horse. "How /are/ you, old buck? This isgood. By Jove, this is fine, what?"He dashed to the door and looked out.
"Come on Millie! Pick up the waukeesis. Here's old Garnet, lookingjust the same as ever. Devilish handsome fellow! You'll be glad youcame when you see him. Beats the Zoo hollow!"There appeared round the corner of Ukridge a young woman. She pausedin the doorway and smiled pleasantly.
"Garny, old horse," said Ukridge with some pride, "this is /her/! Thepride of the home. Companion of joys and sorrows and all the rest ofit. In fact," in a burst of confidence, "my wife."I bowed awkwardly. The idea of Ukridge married was something toooverpowering to be readily assimilated.
"Buck up, old horse," said Ukridge encouragingly. He had a painfulhabit of addressing all and sundry by that title. In his school-masterdays--at one period of his vivid career he and I had been colleagueson the staff of a private school--he had made use of it interviewingthe parents of new pupils, and the latter had gone away, as a rule,with a feeling that this must be either the easy manner of Genius ordue to alcohol, and hoping for the best. He also used it to perfectstrangers in the streets, and on one occasion had been heard toaddress a bishop by that title, rendering that dignitary, as Mr. BabooJaberjee would put it, /sotto voce/ with gratification. "Surprised tofind me married, what? Garny, old boy,"--sinking his voice to awhisper almost inaudible on the other side of the street--"take mytip. Go and jump off the dock yourself. You'll feel another man. Giveup this bachelor business. It's a mug's game. I look on you bachelorsas excrescences on the social system. I regard you, old man, purelyand simply as a wart. Go and get married, laddie, go and get married.
By gad, I've forgotten to pay the cabby. Lend me a couple of bob,Garny old chap."He was out of the door and on his way downstairs before the echoes ofhis last remark had ceased to shake the window. I was left toentertain Mrs. Ukridge.
So far her share in the conversation had been confined to the pleasantsmile which was apparently her chief form of expression. Nobody talkedvery much when Ukridge was present. She sat on the edge of thearmchair, looking very small and quiet. I was conscious of feeling abenevolent pity for her. If I had been a girl, I would have preferredto marry a volcano. A little of Ukridge, as his former head master hadonce said in a moody, reflective voice, went a very long way. "You andStanley have known each other a long time, haven't you?" said theobject of my commiseration, breaking the silence.
"Yes. Oh, yes. Several years. We were masters at the same school."Mrs. Ukridge leaned forward with round, shining eyes.
"Really? Oh, how nice!" she said ecstatically.
Not yet, to judge from her expression and the tone of her voice, hadshe found any disadvantages attached to the arduous position of beingMrs. Stanley Ukridge.
"He's a wonderfully versatile man," I said.
"I believe he could do anything.""He'd have a jolly good try!""Have you ever kept fowls?" asked Mrs. Ukridge, with apparentirrelevance.
I had not. She looked disappointed.
"I was hoping you might have had some experience. Stanley, of course,can turn his hand to anything; but I think experience is rather a goodthing, don't you?""Yes. But . . .""I have bought a shilling book called 'Fowls and All About Them,' andthis week's copy of C.A.C.""C.A.C.?""/Chiefly About Chickens/. It's a paper, you know. But it's all ratherhard to understand. You see, we . . . but here is Stanley. He willexplain the whole thing.""Well, Garny, old horse," said Ukridge, re-entering the room afteranother energetic passage of the stairs. "Years since I saw you. Stillbuzzing along?""Still, so to speak, buzzing," I assented.
"I was reading your last book the other day.""Yes?" I said, gratified. "How did you like it?""Well, as a matter of fact, laddie, I didn't get beyond the thirdpage, because the scurvy knave at the bookstall said he wasn't runninga free library, and in one way and another there was a certain amountof unpleasantness. Still, it seemed bright and interesting up to pagethree. But let's settle down and talk business. I've got a scheme foryou, Garny old man. Yessir, the idea of a thousand years. Now listento me for a moment. Let me get a word in edgeways."He sat down on the table, and dragged up a chair as a leg-rest. Thenhe took off his pince-nez, wiped them, re-adjusted the ginger-beerwire behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of hisgrey flannel trousers several times, in the apparent hope of removingit, resumed:
"About fowls."The subject was beginning to interest me. It showed a curious tendencyto creep into the conversation of the Ukridge family.
"I want you to give me your undivided attention for a moment. I wassaying to my wife, as we came here, 'Garnet's the man! Clever devil,Garnet. Full of ideas.' Didn't I, Millie?""Yes, dear.""Laddie," said Ukridge impressively, "we are going to keep fowls."He shifted himself farther on to the table and upset the ink-pot.
"Never mind," he said, "it'll soak in. It's good for the texture. Oram I thinking of tobacco-ash on the carpet? Well, never mind. Listento me! When I said that we were going to keep fowls, I didn't mean ina small, piffling sort of way--two cocks and a couple of hens and agolf-ball for a nest-egg. We are going to do it on a large scale. Weare going to run a chicken farm!""A chicken farm," echoed Mrs. Ukridge with an affectionate andadmiring glance at her husband.
"Ah," I said, feeling my responsibilities as chorus. "A chicken farm.""I've thought it all over, laddie, and it's as clear as mud. Noexpenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and the moneystreaming in faster than you can bank it. Winter and summerunderclothing, my bonny boy, lined with crackling Bradbury's. It's theidea of a lifetime. Now listen to me for a moment. You get your hen--""One hen?""Call it one for the sake of argument. It makes my calculationsclearer. Very well, then. Harriet the hen--you get her. Do you followme so far?""Yes. You get a hen.""I told you Garnet was a dashed bright fellow," said Ukridgeapprovingly to his attentive wife. "Notice the way he keeps rightafter one's ideas? Like a bloodhound. Well, where was I?""You'd just got a hen.""Exactly. The hen. Pricilla the pullet. Well, it lays an egg every dayof the week. You sell the eggs, six for half a crown. Keep of hencosts nothing. Profit--at least a couple of bob on every dozen eggs.
What do you think of that?""I think I'd like to overhaul the figures in case of error.""Error!" shouted Ukridge, pounding the table till it groaned. "Error?"Not a bit of it. Can't you follow a simple calculation like that? Oh,I forgot to say that you get--and here is the nub of the thing--youget your first hen on tick. Anybody will be glad to let you have thehen on tick. Well, then, you let this hen--this first, original hen,this on-tick-hen--you let it set and hatch chickens. Now follow meclosely. Suppose you have a dozen hens. Very well, then. When each ofthe dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the old hens back to thechappies you borrowed them from, with thanks for kind loan; and thereyou are, starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickensto your name. And after a bit, when the chickens grow up and begin tolay, all you have to do is to sit back in your chair and endorse thebig cheques. Isn't that so, Millie?""Yes, dear.""We've fixed it all up. Do you know Combe Regis, in Dorsetshire? Onthe borders of Devon. Bathing. Sea-air. Splendid scenery. Just theplace for a chicken farm. A friend of Millie's--girl she knew atschool--has lent us a topping old house, with large grounds. All we'vegot to do is to get in the fowls. I've ordered the first lot. We shallfind them waiting for us when we arrive.""Well," I said, "I'm sure I wish you luck. Mind you let me know howyou get on.""Let you know!" roared Ukridge. "Why, my dear old horse, you're comingwith us.""Am I?" I said blankly.
"Certainly you are. We shall take no refusal. Will we, Millie?""No, dear.""Of course not. No refusal of any sort. Pack up to-night and meet usat Waterloo to-morrow.""It's awfully good of you . . .""Not a bit of it--not a bit of it. This is pure business. I was sayingto Millie as we came along that you were the very man for us. A manwith your flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm.
Absolutely invaluable. You see," proceeded Ukridge, "I'm one of thosepractical fellows. The hard-headed type. I go straight ahead,following my nose. What you want in a business of this sort is a touchof the dreamer to help out the practical mind. We look to you forsuggestions, laddie. Flashes of inspiration and all that sort ofthing. Of course, you take your share of the profits. That'sunderstood. Yes, yes, I must insist. Strict business between friends.
Now, taking it that, at a conservative estimate, the net profits forthe first fiscal year amount to--five thousand, no, better be on thesafe side--say, four thousand five hundred pounds . . . But we'llarrange all that end of it when we get down there. Millie will lookafter that. She's the secretary of the concern. She's been writingletters to people asking for hens. So you see it's a thoroughlyorganised business. How many hen-letters did you write last week, oldgirl?""Ten, dear."Ukridge turned triumphantly to me.
"You hear? Ten. Ten letters asking for hens. That's the way tosucceed. Push and enterprise.""Six of them haven't answered, Stanley, dear, and the rest refused.""Immaterial," said Ukridge with a grand gesture. "That doesn't matter.
The point is that the letters were written. It shows we are solid andpractical. Well now, can you get your things ready by to-morrow, Garnyold horse?"Strange how one reaches an epoch-making moment in one's life withoutrecognising it. If I had refused that invitation, I would not have--atany rate, I would have missed a remarkable experience. It is not givento everyone to see Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge manage a chickenfarm.
"I was thinking of going somewhere where I could get some golf," Isaid undecidedly.
"Combes Regis is just the place for you, then. Perfect hot-bed ofgolf. Full of the finest players. Can't throw a brick without hittingan amateur champion. Grand links at the top of the hill not half amile from the farm. Bring your clubs. You'll be able to play in theafternoons. Get through serious work by lunch time.""You know," I said, "I am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls. Ijust know enough to help myself to bread sauce when I see one, but nomore.""Excellent! You're just the man. You will bring to the work a mindunclouded by theories. You will act solely by the light of yourintelligence. And you've got lots of that. That novel of yours showedthe most extraordinary intelligence--at least as far as that blighterat the bookstall would let me read. I wouldn't have a professionalchicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. If he applied tome, I should simply send him away. Natural intelligence is what wewant. Then we can rely on you?""Very well," I said slowly. "It's very kind of you to ask me.""Business, laddie, pure business. Very well, then. We shall catch theeleven-twenty at Waterloo. Don't miss it. Look out for me on theplatform. If I see you first, I'll shout."
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