It would be interesting to know to what extent the work of authors isinfluenced by their private affairs. If life is flowing smoothly, arethe novels they write in that period of content coloured withoptimism? And if things are running crosswise, do they work off theresultant gloom on their faithful public? If, for instance, Mr. W. W.
Jacobs had toothache, would he write like Hugh Walpole? If Maxim Gorkywere invited to lunch by Trotsky, to meet Lenin, would he sit down anddash off a trifle in the vein of Stephen Leacock? Probably the eminenthave the power of detaching their writing self from their living,work-a-day self; but, for my own part, the frame of mind in which Inow found myself had a disastrous effect on my novel that was to be. Ihad designed it as a light comedy effort. Here and there a page or twoto steady the reader and show him what I could do in the way of pathosif I cared to try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter.
But now great slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the schemeof it. A magnificent despondency became its keynote. It would not do.
I felt that I must make a resolute effort to shake off my depression.
More than ever the need of conciliating the professor was borne inupon me. Day and night I spurred my brain to think of some suitablemeans of engineering a reconciliation.
In the meantime I worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on thelinks, and swam about the harbour when the affairs of the farm did notrequire my attention.
Things were not going well on our model chicken farm. Little accidentsmarred the harmony of life in the fowl-run. On one occasion a hen--notAunt Elizabeth, I am sorry to say,--fell into a pot of tar, and cameout an unspeakable object. Ukridge put his spare pair of tennis shoesin the incubator to dry them, and permanently spoiled the future ofhalf-a-dozen eggs which happened to have got there first. Chickenskept straying into the wrong coops, where they got badly pecked by theresidents. Edwin slew a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved fromexecution by the tears of Mrs. Ukridge.
In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism neverdeserted Ukridge.
"After all," he said, "What's one bird more or less? Yes, I know Imade a fuss when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but thatwas simply the principle of the thing. I'm not going to pay large sumsfor chickens purely in order that a cat which I've never liked canlunch well. Still, we've plenty left, and the eggs are coming inbetter now, though we've still a deal of leeway to make up yet in thatline. I got a letter from Whiteley's this morning asking when my firstconsignment was going to arrive. You know, these people make a mistakein hurrying a man. It annoys him. It irritates him. When we really getgoing, Garny, my boy, I shall drop Whiteley's. I shall cut them out ofmy list and send my eggs to their trade rivals. They shall have asharp lesson. It's a little hard. Here am I, worked to death lookingafter things down here, and these men have the impertinence to botherme about their wretched business. Come in and have a drink, laddie,and let's talk it over."It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in avoice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about thepaddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis andtrying to get my novel into shape. I had just framed a more thanusually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, whenUkridge shouted to me from the fowl-run.
"Garny, come here. I want you to see the most astounding thing.""What's the matter?" I asked.
"Blast if I know. Look at those chickens. They've been doing that forthe last half-hour."I inspected the chickens. There was certainly something the matterwith them. They were yawning--broadly, as if we bored them. They stoodabout singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. It wasan uncanny spectacle.
"What's the matter with them?""Can a chicken get a fit of the blues?" I asked. "Because if so,that's what they've got. I never saw a more bored-looking lot ofbirds.""Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said Mrs.
Ukridge sympathetically; "I'm sure it's not well. See, it's lyingdown. What /can/ be the matter with it?""I tell you what we'll do," said Ukridge. "We'll ask Beale. He oncelived with an aunt who kept fowls. He'll know all about it. Beale!"No answer.
"Beale!!"A sturdy form in shirt-sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying aboot. We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it.
"Beale, you know all about fowls. What's the matter with thesechickens?"The Hired Retainer examined the blase birds with a wooden expressionon his face.
"Well?" said Ukridge.
"The 'ole thing 'ere," said the Hired Retainer, "is these 'ere fowlshave been and got the roop."I had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded bad.
"Is that what makes them yawn like that?" said Mrs. Ukridge.
"Yes, ma'am.""Poor things!""Yes, ma'am.""And have they all got it?""Yes, ma'am.""What ought we to do?" asked Ukridge.
"Well, my aunt, sir, when 'er fowls 'ad the roop, she gave themsnuff.""Give them snuff, she did," he repeated, with relish, "every morning.""Snuff!" said Mrs. Ukridge.
"Yes, ma'am. She give 'em snuff till their eyes bubbled."Mrs. Ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word-painting.
"And did it cure them?" asked Ukridge.
"No, sir," responded the expert soothingly.
"Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots," said Ukridge.
"You're no use. Wait a minute. Who would know about this infernal roopthing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off tothe nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what hedoes when his fowls get the roop.""Yes, sir.""No, I'll go, Ukridge," I said. "I want some exercise."I whistled to Bob, who was investigating a mole-heap in the paddock,and set off in the direction of the village of Up Lyme to consultFarmer Leigh on the matter. He had sold us some fowls shortly afterour arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in theirailing families.
The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. At intervals itpasses over a stream by means of a footbridge. The stream curlsthrough the meadows like a snake.
And at the first of these bridges I met Phyllis.
I came upon her quite suddenly. The other end of the bridge was hiddenfrom my view. I could hear somebody coming through the grass, but nottill I was on the bridge did I see who it was. We reached the bridgesimultaneously. She was alone. She carried a sketching-block. All nicegirls sketch a little.
There was room for one alone on the footbridge, and I drew back to lether pass.
It being the privilege of woman to make the first sign of recognition,I said nothing. I merely lifted my hat in a non-committing fashion.
"Are you going to cut me, I wonder?" I said to myself. She answeredthe unspoken question as I hoped it would be answered.
"Mr. Garnet," she said, stopping at the end of the bridge. A pause.
"I couldn't tell you so before, but I am so sorry this has happened.""Oh, thanks awfully," I said, realising as I said it the miserableinadequacy of the English language. At a crisis when I would havegiven a month's income to have said something neat, epigrammatic,suggestive, yet withal courteous and respectful, I could only find ahackneyed, unenthusiastic phrase which I should have used in acceptingan invitation from a bore to lunch with him at his club.
"Of course you understand my friends--must be my father's friends.""Yes," I said gloomily, "I suppose so.""So you must not think me rude if I--I----""Cut me," said I, with masculine coarseness.
"Don't seem to see you," said she, with feminine delicacy, "when I amwith my father. You will understand?""I shall understand.""You see,"--she smiled--"you are under arrest, as Tom says."Tom!
"I see," I said.
"Good-bye.""Good-bye."I watched her out of sight, and went on to interview Mr. Leigh.
We had a long and intensely uninteresting conversation about themaladies to which chickens are subject. He was verbose andreminiscent. He took me over his farm, pointing out as we wentDorkings with pasts, and Cochin Chinas which he had cured of diseasesgenerally fatal on, as far as I could gather, Christian Scienceprinciples.
I left at last with instructions to paint the throats of the strickenbirds with turpentine--a task imagination boggled at, and one which Iproposed to leave exclusively to Ukridge and the Hired Retainer--andalso a slight headache. A visit to the Cob would, I thought, do megood. I had missed my bathe that morning, and was in need of a breathof sea-air.
It was high-tide, and there was deep water on three sides of the Cob.
In a small boat in the offing Professor Derrick appeared, fishing. Ihad seen him engaged in this pursuit once or twice before. His onlycompanion was a gigantic boatman, by name Harry Hawk, possibly adescendant of the gentleman of that name who went to Widdicombe Fairwith Bill Brewer and old Uncle Tom Cobley and all on a certainmemorable occasion, and assisted at the fatal accident to Tom Pearse'sgrey mare.
I sat on the seat at the end of the Cob and watched the professor. Itwas an instructive sight, an object-lesson to those who hold thatoptimism has died out of the race. I had never seen him catch a fish.
He never looked to me as if he were at all likely to catch a fish. Yethe persevered.
There are few things more restful than to watch some one else busyunder a warm sun. As I sat there, my pipe drawing nicely as the resultof certain explorations conducted that morning with a straw, my mindranged idly over large subjects and small. I thought of love andchicken-farming. I mused on the immortality of the soul and thedeplorable speed at which two ounces of tobacco disappeared. In theend I always returned to the professor. Sitting, as I did, with myback to the beach, I could see nothing but his boat. It had the oceanto itself.
I began to ponder over the professor. I wondered dreamily if he werevery hot. I tried to picture his boyhood. I speculated on his future,and the pleasure he extracted from life.
It was only when I heard him call out to Hawk to be careful, when amovement on the part of that oarsman set the boat rocking, that Ibegan to weave romances round him in which I myself figured.
But, once started, I progressed rapidly. I imagined a sudden upset.
Professor struggling in water. Myself (heroically): "Courage! I'mcoming!" A few rapid strokes. Saved! Sequel, a subdued professor,dripping salt water and tears of gratitude, urging me to become hisson-in-law. That sort of thing happened in fiction. It was a shamethat it should not happen in real life. In my hot youth I once hadseven stories in seven weekly penny papers in the same month, alldealing with a situation of the kind. Only the details differed. In"Not really a Coward" Vincent Devereux had rescued the earl's daughterfrom a fire, whereas in "Hilda's Hero" it was the peppery old fatherwhom Tom Slingsby saved. Singularly enough, from drowning. In otherwords, I, a very mediocre scribbler, had effected seven times in asingle month what the Powers of the Universe could not manage once,even on the smallest scale.
* * * * *It was precisely three minutes to twelve--I had just consulted mywatch--that the great idea surged into my brain. At four minutes totwelve I had been grumbling impotently at Providence. By two minutesto twelve I had determined upon a manly and independent course ofaction.
Briefly it was this. Providence had failed to give satisfaction. Iwould, therefore, cease any connection with it, and start a rivalbusiness on my own account. After all, if you want a thing done well,you must do it yourself.
In other words, since a dramatic accident and rescue would not happenof its own accord, I would arrange one for myself. Hawk looked to methe sort of man who would do anything in a friendly way for a fewshillings.
I had now to fight it out with Conscience. I quote the brief reportwhich subsequently appeared in the /Recording Angel/:--* * * * */Three-Round Contest/: CONSCIENCE (Celestial B.C.) v. J. GARNET(Unattached).
/Round One/.--Conscience came to the scratch smiling and confident.
Led off lightly with a statement that it would be bad for a man of theprofessor's age to get wet. Garnet countered heavily, alluding to thewarmth of the weather and the fact that the professor habituallyenjoyed a bathe every day. Much sparring, Conscience not quite soconfident, and apparently afraid to come to close quarters with thisman. Time called, with little damage done.
/Round Two/.--Conscience, much freshened by the half minute's rest,feinted with the charge of deceitfulness, and nearly got home heavilywith "What would Phyllis say if she knew?" Garnet, however, side-stepped cleverly with "But she won't know," and followed up theadvantage with a damaging, "Besides, it's all for the best." The roundended with a brisk rally on general principles, Garnet crowding in alot of work. Conscience down twice, and only saved by the call oftime.
/Round Three (and last)/.--Conscience came up very weak, and withGarnet as strong as ever it was plain that the round would be a briefone. This proved to be the case. Early in the second minute Garnetcross-countered with "All's Fair in Love and War." Conscience down andout. The winner left the ring without a mark.
* * * * *I rose, feeling much refreshed.
That afternoon I interviewed Mr. Hawk in the bar-parlour of the Netand Mackerel.
"Hawk," I said to him darkly, over a mystic and conspirator-like potof ale, "I want you, next time you take Professor Derrick outfishing"--here I glanced round, to make sure that we were notoverheard--"to upset him."His astonished face rose slowly from the pot of ale like a full moon.
"What 'ud I do that for?" he gasped.
"Five shillings, I hope," said I, "but I am prepared to go to ten."He gurgled.
I encored his pot of ale.
He kept on gurgling.
I argued with the man.
I spoke splendidly. I was eloquent, but at the same time concise. Mychoice of words was superb. I crystallised my ideas into pithysentences which a child could have understood.
And at the end of half-an-hour he had grasped the salient points ofthe scheme. Also he imagined that I wished the professor upset by wayof a practical joke. He gave me to understand that this was the typeof humour which was to be expected from a gentleman from London. I amafraid he must at one period in his career have lived at one of thosewatering-places at which trippers congregate. He did not seem to thinkhighly of the Londoner.
I let it rest at that. I could not give my true reason, and thisserved as well as any.
* * * * *At the last moment he recollected that he, too, would get wet when theaccident took place, and he raised the price to a sovereign.
A mercenary man. It is painful to see how rapidly the old simplespirit is dying out of our rural districts. Twenty years ago afisherman would have been charmed to do a little job like that for ascrew of tobacco.
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