Chapter 23 After The Storm

A yell of welcome drowned the tumult of the looters.

　　"Is that you, Garny, old horse? What's up? What's the matter? Haseveryone gone mad? Who are those infernal scoundrels in the fowl-run?

　　What are they doing? What's been happening?""I have been entertaining a little meeting of your creditors," I said.

　　"And now they are entertaining themselves.""But what did you let them do it for?""What is one amongst so many?""Well, 'pon my Sam," moaned Ukridge, as, her sardonic calm laid aside,that sinister hen which we called Aunt Elizabeth flashed past uspursued by the whiskered criminal, "it's a little hard! I can't goaway for a day--""You certainly can't! You're right there. You can't go away without aword--""Without a word? What do you mean? Garny, old boy, pull yourselftogether. You're over-excited. Do you mean to tell me you didn't getmy note?""What note?""The one I left on the dining-room table.""There was no note there.""What!"I was reminded of the scene that had taken place on the first day ofour visit.

　　"Feel in your pockets," I said.

　　"Why, damme, here it is!" he said in amazement.

　　"Of course. Where did you expect it would be? Was it important?""Why, it explained the whole thing.""Then," I said, "I wish you would let me read it. A note like thatought to be worth reading.""It was telling you to sit tight and not worry about us going away--""That's good about worrying. You're a thoughtful chap, Ukridge.""--because we should be back immediately.""And what sent you up to town?""Why, we went to touch Millie's Aunt Elizabeth.""Oh!" I said, a light shining on the darkness of my understanding.

　　"You remember Aunt Elizabeth? The old girl who wrote that letter.""I know. She called you a gaby.""And a guffin.""Yes. I remember thinking her a shrewd and discriminating old lady,with a great gift for character delineation. So you went to touchher?""That's it. We had to have more money. So I naturally thought of her.

　　Aunt Elizabeth isn't what you might call an admirer of mine--""Bless her for that.""--but she's very fond of Millie, and would do anything if she'sallowed to chuck about a few home-truths before doing it. So we wentoff together, looked her up at her house, stated our case, andcollected the stuff. Millie and I shared the work. She did the asking,while I inquired after the rheumatism. She mentioned the figure thatwould clear us; I patted the dog. Little beast! Got after me when Iwasn't looking and chewed my ankle!""Thank Heaven!""In the end Millie got the money, and I got the home-truths.""Did she call you a gaby?""Twice. And a guffin three times.""Your Aunt Elizabeth is beginning to fascinate me. She seems just thesort of woman I would like. Well, you got the money?""Rather! And I'll tell you another thing, old horse. I scored heavilyat the end of the visit. She'd got to the quoting-proverbs stage bythat time. 'Ah, my dear,' she said to Millie. 'Marry in haste, repentat leisure.' Millie stood up to her like a little brick. 'I'm afraidthat proverb doesn't apply to me, Aunt Elizabeth,' she said, 'becauseI haven't repented!' What do you think of that, Laddie?""Of course, she /hasn't/ had much leisure lately," I agreed.

　　Ukridge's jaw dropped slightly. But he rallied swiftly.

　　"Idiot! That wasn't what she meant. Millie's an angel!""Of course she is," I said cordially. "She's a precious sight too goodfor you, you old rotter. You bear that fact steadily in mind, andwe'll make something of you yet."At this point Mrs. Ukridge joined us. She had been exploring thehouse, and noting the damage done. Her eyes were open to their fullestextent.

　　"Oh, Mr. Garnet, /couldn't/ you have stopped them?"I felt a worm. Had I done as much as I might have done to stem thetide?

　　"I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Ukridge," I said humbly. "I really don'tthink I could have done much more. We tried every method. Beale hadseven fights, and I made a speech on the lawn, but it was all no good.

　　Directly they had finished the whisky--"Ukridge's cry was like that of a lost spirit.

　　"They didn't get hold of the whisky!""They did! It seemed to me that it would smooth things down a littleif I served it out. The mob had begun to get a trifle out of hand.""I thought those horrid men were making a lot of noise," said Mrs.

　　Ukridge.

　　Ukridge preserved a gloomy silence. Of all the disasters of thatstricken field, I think the one that came home most poignantly to himwas the loss of the whisky. It seemed to strike him like a blow.

　　"Isn't it about time to collect these men and explain things?" Isuggested. "I don't believe any of them know you've come back.""They will!" said Ukridge grimly, coming out of his trance. "They soonwill! Where's Beale! Beale!"The Hired Retainer came running out at the sound of the well-remembered voice.

　　"Lumme, Mr. Ukridge, sir!" he gasped.

　　It was the first time Beale had ever betrayed any real emotion in mypresence. To him, I suppose, the return of Ukridge was as sensationaland astonishing an event as a re-appearance from the tomb. He was notaccustomed to find those who had shot the moon revisiting theirancient haunts.

　　"Beale, go round the place and tell those scoundrels that I've comeback, and would like a word with them on the lawn. And, if you findany of them stealing the fowls, knock them down!""I 'ave knocked down one or two," said Beale, with approval. "ThatCharlie--""Beale," said Ukridge, much moved, "you're an excellent fellow! One ofthe very best. I will pay you your back wages before I go to bed.""These fellars, sir," said Beale, having expressed his gratification,"they've bin and scattered most of them birds already, sir. They'vebin chasin' of them this half-hour back."Ukridge groaned.

　　"Scoundrels! Demons!"Beale went off.

　　"Millie, old girl," said Ukridge, adjusting the ginger-beer wirebehind his ears and hoisting up his grey flannel-trousers, whichshowed an inclination to sag, "you'd better go indoors. I propose tospeak pretty chattily to these blighters, and in the heat of themoment one or two expressions might occur to me which you would notlike. It would hamper me, your being here."Mrs. Ukridge went into the house, and the vanguard of the audiencebegan to come on to the lawn. Several of them looked flushed anddishevelled. I have a suspicion that Beale had shaken sobriety intothem. Charlie, I noticed, had a black eye.

　　They assembled on the lawn in the moonlight, and Ukridge, with his capwell over his eyes and his mackintosh hanging round him like a Romantoga, surveyed them sternly, and began his speech.

　　"You--you--you--you scoundrels! You blighters! You worms! You weeds!"I always like to think of Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge as I sawhim at that moment. There have been times during a friendship of manyyears when his conduct did not recommend itself to me. It hassometimes happened that I have seen flaws in him. But on this occasionhe was at his best. He was eloquent. He dominated his audience. Longbefore he had finished I was feeling relieved that he had thought ofsending Mrs. Ukridge indoors when he did, and Beale was hanging on hiswords with a look in his eyes which I had never seen there before,--alook of reverence, almost of awe, the look of a disciple who listensto a master.

　　He poured scorn upon his hearers, and they quailed. He flung invectiveat them, and they wilted. Strange oaths, learned among strange men oncattle-ships or gleaned on the waterfronts of Buenos Ayres and SanFrancisco, slid into the stream of his speech. It was hard, he said inpart, it was, upon his Sam, a little hard that a gentleman--agentleman, moreover, who had done so much to stimulate local tradewith large orders and what not--could not run up to London for fiveminutes on business without having his private grounds turned upsidedown by a gang of cattle-ship adjectived San Francisco substantiveswho behaved as if the whole of the Buenos Ayres phrased place belongedto them. He had intended to do well by them. He had meant to continueputting business in their way, expanding their trade. But would heafter what had occurred? Not by a jugful! As soon as ever the sun hadrisen and another day begun, their miserable accounts should be paidin full, and their connection with him cut off. Afterwards it wasprobable that he would institute legal proceedings against them in thematter of trespass and wholesale damage to property, and if theydidn't all end their infernal days in some dashed prison they mightconsider themselves uncommonly lucky, and if they didn't makethemselves scarce in considerably under two ticks, he proposed to seewhat could be done with Beale's shot-gun. (Beale here withdrew with apleased expression to fetch the weapon.) He was sick of them. Theywere blighters. Creatures that it would be fulsome flattery todescribe as human beings. He would call them skunks, only he did notsee what the skunks had done to be compared with them. And now theymight go--/quick/!

　　* * * * *We were quiet at the farm that night. Ukridge sat like Marius amongthe ruins of Carthage, and refused to speak. Eventually he took Bobwith him and went for a walk.

　　Half an hour later I, too, wearied of the scene of desolation. Myerrant steps took me in the direction of the sea. As I approached, Iwas aware of a figure standing in the moonlight, gazing silently outover the waters. Beside the figure was a dog.

　　The dark moments of optimistic minds are sacred, and I would no morehave ventured to break in on Ukridge's thoughts at that moment than,if I had been a general in the Grand Army, I would have openedconversation with Napoleon during the retreat from Moscow. I waswithdrawing as softly as I could, when my foot grated on the shingle.

　　Ukridge turned.

　　"Hullo, Garny.""Hullo, old man." I murmured in a death-bedside voice.

　　He came towards me, Bob trotting at his heels: and, as he came, I sawwith astonishment that his mien was calm, even cheerful. I should haveknown my Ukridge better than to be astonished. You cannot keep a goodman down, and already Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge was himselfagain. His eyes sparkled buoyantly behind their pince-nez.

　　"Garny, old horse, I've been thinking, laddie! I've got an idea! Theidea of a lifetime. The best ever, 'pon my Sam! I'm going to start aduck farm!""A duck farm?""A duck farm, laddie! And run it without water. My theory is, you see,that ducks get thin by taking exercise and swimming about all over theplace, so that, if you kept them always on land, they'd get jolly fatin about half the time--and no trouble and expense. See? What? Not aflaw in it, old horse! I've thought the whole thing out." He took myarm affectionately. "Now, listen. We'll say that the profits of thefirst year at a conservative estimate . . ."

The End