Chapter 1 A Letter With A Postscript
"A gentleman called to see you when you were out last night, sir,"said Mrs. Medley, my landlady, removing the last of the breakfastthings.
"Yes?" I said, in my affable way.
"A gentleman," said Mrs. Medley meditatively, "with a very powerfulvoice.""Caruso?""Sir?""I said, did he leave a name?""Yes, sir. Mr. Ukridge.""Oh, my sainted aunt!""Sir!""Nothing, nothing.""Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley, withdrawing from the presence.
Ukridge! Oh, hang it! I had not met him for years, and, glad as I am,as a general thing, to see the friends of my youth when they drop infor a chat, I doubted whether I was quite equal to Ukridge at themoment. A stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of thewords, he was a trifle too jumpy for a man of my cloistered andintellectual life, especially as just now I was trying to plan out anew novel, a tricky job demanding complete quiet and seclusion. It hadalways been my experience that, when Ukridge was around, things beganto happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible.
Ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows themoney from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroilingyou in a fight with a cabman. I have gone to Covent Garden balls withUkridge, and found myself legging it down Henrietta Street in the greydawn, pursued by infuriated costermongers.
I wondered how he had got my address, and on that problem light wasimmediately cast by Mrs. Medley, who returned, bearing an envelope.
"It came by the morning post, sir, but it was left at Number Twenty bymistake.""Oh, thank you.""Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley.
I recognised the handwriting. The letter, which bore a Devonshirepostmark, was from an artist friend of mine, one Lickford, who was atpresent on a sketching tour in the west. I had seen him off atWaterloo a week before, and I remember that I had walked away from thestation wishing that I could summon up the energy to pack and get offto the country somewhere. I hate London in July.
The letter was a long one, but it was the postscript which interestedme most.
" . . . By the way, at Yeovil I ran into an old friend of ours,Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, of all people. As large as life--quite six foot two, and tremendously filled out. I thought he wasabroad. The last I heard of him was that he had started for BuenosAyres in a cattle ship, with a borrowed pipe by way of luggage. Itseems he has been in England for some time. I met him in therefreshment-room at Yeovil Station. I was waiting for a down train; hehad changed on his way to town. As I opened the door, I heard a hugevoice entreating the lady behind the bar to 'put it in a pewter'; andthere was S. F. U. in a villainous old suit of grey flannels (I'llswear it was the one he had on last time I saw him) with pince-neztacked on to his ears with ginger-beer wire as usual, and a couple ofinches of bare neck showing between the bottom of his collar and thetop of his coat--you remember how he could never get a stud to do itswork. He also wore a mackintosh, though it was a blazing day.
　　"He greeted me with effusive shouts. Wouldn't hear of my standing theracket. Insisted on being host. When we had finished, he fumbled inhis pockets, looked pained and surprised, and drew me aside. 'Lookhere, Licky, old horse,' he said, 'you know I never borrow money. It'sagainst my principles. But I /must/ have a couple of bob. Can you, mydear good fellow, oblige me with a couple of bob till next Tuesday?
　　I'll tell you what I'll do. (In a voice full of emotion). I'll let youhave this (producing a beastly little threepenny bit with a hole in itwhich he had probably picked up in the street) until I can pay youback. This is of more value to me than I can well express, Licky, myboy. A very, very dear friend gave it to me when we parted, years ago. . . It's a wrench . . . Still,--no, no . . . You must take it, youmust take it. Licky, old man, shake hands, old horse. Shake hands, myboy.' He then tottered to the bar, deeply moved, and paid up out ofthe five shillings which he had made it as an after-thought. He askedafter you, and said you were one of the noblest men on earth. I gavehim your address, not being able to get out of it, but if I were you Ishould fly while there is yet time."It seemed to me that the advice was good and should be followed. Ineeded a change of air. London may have suited Doctor Johnson, but inthe summer time it is not for the ordinary man. What I wanted, toenable me to give the public of my best (as the reviewer of a weeklypaper, dealing with my last work, had expressed a polite hope that Iwould continue to do) was a little haven in the country somewhere.
　　I rang the bell.
　　"Sir?" said Mrs. Medley.
　　"I'm going away for a bit," I said.
　　"Yes, sir.""I don't know where. I'll send you the address, so that you canforward letters.""Yes, sir.""And, if Mr. Ukridge calls again . . ."At this point a thunderous knocking on the front door interrupted me.
　　Something seemed to tell me who was at the end of that knocker. Iheard Mrs. Medley's footsteps pass along the hall. There was the clickof the latch. A volume of sound rushed up the stairs.
　　"Is Mr. Garnet in? Where is he? Show me the old horse. Where is theman of wrath? Exhibit the son of Belial."There followed a violent crashing on the stairs, shaking the house.
　　"Garnet! Where are you, laddie? Garnet!! GARNET!!!!!"Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge was in my midst.
Chapter 2 Mr. And Mrs.S.F. Ukriddge
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."
Chapter 3 Waterloo Station
The austerity of Waterloo Station was lightened on the followingmorning at ten minutes to eleven, when I arrived to catch the train toCombe Regis, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustleand activity on the various platforms. A porter took my suitcase andgolf-clubs, and arranged an assignation on Number 6 platform. I boughtmy ticket, and made my way to the bookstall, where, in the interestsof trade, I inquired in a loud and penetrating voice if they had gotJeremy Garnet's "Manoeuvres of Arthur." Being informed that they hadnot, I clicked my tongue reproachfully, advised them to order in asupply, as the demand was likely to be large, and spent a couple ofshillings on a magazine and some weekly papers. Then, with ten minutesto spare, I went off in search of Ukridge.
　　I found him on platform six. The eleven-twenty was already alongside,and presently I observed my porter cleaving a path towards me with thesuit-case and golf-bag.
　　"Here you are!" shouted Ukridge vigorously. "Good for you. Thought youwere going to miss it."I shook hands with the smiling Mrs. Ukridge.
　　"I've got a carriage and collared two corner seats. Millie goes downin another. She doesn't like the smell of smoke when she's travelling.
　　Hope we get the carriage to ourselves. Devil of a lot of people herethis morning. Still, the more people there are in the world, the moreeggs we shall sell. I can see with half an eye that all theseblighters are confirmed egg-eaters. Get in, sonnie. I'll just see themissis into her carriage, and come back to you."I entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out in thefaint hope of thwarting an invasion of fellow-travellers. Then Iwithdrew my head suddenly and sat down. An elderly gentleman,accompanied by a pretty girl, was coming towards me. It was not thistype of fellow traveller whom I had hoped to keep out. I had noticedthe girl at the booking office. She had waited by the side of thequeue while the elderly gentleman struggled gamely for the tickets,and I had had plenty of opportunity of observing her appearance. I haddebated with myself whether her hair should rightly be described asbrown or golden. I had finally decided on brown. Once only had I mether eyes, and then only for an instant. They might be blue. They mightbe grey. I could not be certain. Life is full of these problems.
　　"This seems to be tolerably empty, my dear Phyllis," said the elderlygentleman, coming to the door of the compartment and looking in.
　　"You're sure you don't object to a smoking-carriage?""Oh no, father. Not a bit.""Then I think . . ." said the elderly gentleman, getting in.
　　The inflection of his voice suggested the Irishman. It was not abrogue. There were no strange words. But the general effect was Irish.
　　"That's good," he said, settling himself and pulling out a cigar case.
　　The bustle of the platform had increased momentarily, until now, when,from the snorting of the engine, it seemed likely that the train mightstart at any minute, the crowd's excitement was extreme. Shrill criesechoed down the platform. Lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushedto and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in search of seats.
　　Piercing voices ordered unknown "Tommies" and "Ernies" to "keep byaunty, now." Just as Ukridge returned, that /sauve qui peut/ of therailway crowd, the dreaded "Get in anywhere," began to be heard, andthe next moment an avalanche of warm humanity poured into thecarriage.
　　The newcomers consisted of a middle-aged lady, addressed as Aunty,very stout and clad in a grey alpaca dress, skin-tight; a youth calledAlbert, not, it was to appear, a sunny child; a niece of some twentyyears, stolid and seemingly without interest in life, and one or twoother camp-followers and retainers.
　　Ukridge slipped into his corner, adroitly foiling Albert, who had madea dive in that direction. Albert regarded him fixedly andreproachfully for a space, then sank into the seat beside me and beganto chew something that smelt of aniseed.
　　Aunty, meanwhile, was distributing her substantial weight evenlybetween the feet of the Irish gentleman and those of his daughter, asshe leaned out of the window to converse with a lady friend in a strawhat and hair curlers, accompanied by three dirty and frivolous boys.
　　It was, she stated, lucky that she had caught the train. I could notagree with her. The girl with the brown hair and the eyes that wereneither blue or grey was bearing the infliction, I noticed, withangelic calm. She even smiled. This was when the train suddenly movedoff with a jerk, and Aunty, staggering back, sat down on the bag offood which Albert had placed on the seat beside him.
　　"Clumsy!" observed Albert tersely.
　　"/Albert/, you mustn't speak to Aunty so!""Wodyer want to sit on my bag for then?" said Albert disagreeably.
　　They argued the point. Argument in no wise interfered with Albert'spower of mastication. The odour of aniseed became more and morepainful. Ukridge had lighted a cigar, and I understood why Mrs.
　　Ukridge preferred to travel in another compartment, for"In his hand he bore the brandWhich none but he might smoke."I looked across the carriage stealthily to see how the girl wasenduring this combination of evils, and noticed that she had begun toread. And as she put the book down to look out of the window, I sawwith a thrill that trickled like warm water down my spine that herbook was "The Manoeuvres of Arthur." I gasped. That a girl should lookas pretty as that and at the same time have the rare intelligence toread Me . . . well, it seemed an almost superhuman combination of theexcellencies. And more devoutly than ever I cursed in my heart theseintrusive outsiders who had charged in at the last moment anddestroyed for ever my chance of making this wonderful girl'sacquaintance. But for them, we might have become intimate in the firsthalf hour. As it was, what were we? Ships that pass in the night! Shewould get out at some beastly wayside station, and vanish from my lifewithout my ever having even spoken to her.
　　Aunty, meanwhile, having retired badly worsted from her encounter withAlbert, who showed a skill in logomachy that marked him out as afuture labour member, was consoling herself with meat sandwiches. Theniece was demolishing sausage rolls. The atmosphere of the carriagewas charged with a blend of odours, topping all Ukridge's cigar, nowin full blast.
　　The train raced on towards the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpidpeace began to settle down upon the carriage. Ukridge had thrown awaythe stump of his cigar, and was now leaning back with his mouth openand his eyes shut. Aunty, still clutching a much-bitten section of abeef sandwich, was breathing heavily and swaying from side to side.
　　Albert and the niece were dozing, Albert's jaws working automatically,even in sleep.
　　"What's your book, my dear?" asked the Irishman.
　　" 'The Manoeuvres of Arthur,' father. By Jeremy Garnet."I would not have believed without the evidence of my ears that my namecould possibly have sounded so musical.
　　"Molly McEachern gave it to me when I left the Abbey. She keeps ashelf of books for her guests when they are going away. Books that sheconsiders rubbish, and doesn't want, you know."I hated Miss McEachern without further evidence.
　　"And what do you think of it?""I like it," said the girl decidedly. The carriage swam before myeyes. "I think it is very clever."What did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the Waterloobookstall had never heard of "The Manoeuvres of Arthur," and that mypublishers, whenever I slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked atme with a sort of grave, paternal pity and said that it had not really"begun to move?" Anybody can write one of those rotten popular novelswhich appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellectand refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn outsomething that will be approved of by a girl like this.
　　"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is," she said. "I've never heard of himbefore. I imagine him rather an old young man, probably with aneyeglass, and conceited. And I should think he didn't know many girls.
　　At least if he thinks Pamela an ordinary sort of girl. She's acr-r-eature," said Phyllis emphatically.
　　This was a blow to me. I had always looked on Pamela as a well-drawncharacter, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that. Thatscene between her and the curate in the conservatory . . . And whenshe talks to Arthur at the meet of the Blankshires . . . I was sorryshe did not like Pamela. Somehow it lowered Pamela in my estimation.
　　"But I like Arthur," said the girl.
　　This was better. A good chap, Arthur,--a very complete and thoughtfulstudy of myself. If she liked Arthur, why, then it followed . . . butwhat was the use? I should never get a chance of speaking to her. Wewere divided by a great gulf of Aunties and Alberts and meatsandwiches.
　　The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animationbegan to be noticeable among the sleepers. Aunty's eyes opened, staredvacantly round, closed, and reopened. The niece woke, and startedinstantly to attack a sausage roll. Albert and Ukridge slumbered on.
　　A whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station. Lookingout, I saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Auntybecame instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels,shook Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finallyheading a stampede out of the door.
　　The Irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out. I watched themleave stoically. It would have been too much to expect that theyshould be going any further.
　　"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily. "Yeovil? Not far now. I tellyou what it is, old horse, I could do with a drink."With that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to hisslumbers. And, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over thecarriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. It was "TheManoeuvres of Arthur." The girl had left it behind.
　　I suppose what follows shows the vanity that obsesses young authors.
　　It did not even present itself to me as a tenable theory that the bookmight have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use tothe owner. It only occurred to me that, if I did not act swiftly, thepoor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse orvanity-case were trivial.
　　Five seconds later I was on the platform.
　　"Excuse me," I said, "I think . . . ?""Oh, thank you so much," said the girl.
　　I made my way back to the carriage, and lit my pipe in a glow ofemotion.
　　"They are blue," I said to my immortal soul. "A wonderful, deep, soft,heavenly blue, like the sea at noonday."
Chapter 4 The Arrival
From Axminster to Combe Regis the line runs through country asattractive as any that can be found in the island, and the train, asif in appreciation of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. Itwas late afternoon by the time we reached our destination.
　　The arrangements for the carrying of luggage at Combe Regis border onthe primitive. Boxes are left on the platform, and later, when hethinks of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them into the valley andup the hill on the opposite side to the address written on the labels.
　　The owner walks. Combe Regis is not a place for the halt and maimed.
　　Ukridge led us in the direction of the farm, which lay across thevalley, looking through woods to the sea. The place was visible fromthe station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of ahill, the view was extensive.
　　Half-way up the slope on the other side of the valley we left the roadand made our way across a spongy field, Ukridge explaining that thiswas a short cut. We climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream andanother field, and after negotiating a difficult bank, topped withbarbed wire, found ourselves in a garden.
　　Ukridge mopped his forehead, and restored his pince-nez to theiroriginal position from which the passage of the barbed wire haddislodged them.
　　"This is the place," he said. "We've come in by the back way. Savestime. Tired, Millie?""A little, dear. I should like some tea.""Same here," I agreed.
　　"That'll be all right," said Ukridge. "A most competent man of thename of Beale and his wife are in charge at present. I wrote to themtelling them that we were coming to-day. They will be ready for us.
　　That's the way to do things, Garny old horse. Quiet efficiency.
　　Perfect organisation."We were at the front door by this time. Ukridge rang the bell. Thenoise echoed through the house, but there was no answering footsteps.
　　He rang again. There is no mistaking the note of a bell in an emptyhouse. It was plain that the competent man and his wife were out.
　　"Now what?" I said.
　　Mrs. Ukridge looked at her husband with calm confidence.
　　"This," said Ukridge, leaning against the door and endeavouring tobutton his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in theArgentine. Two other cheery sportsmen and myself tried for three-quarters of an hour to get into an empty house where there looked asif there might be something to drink, and we'd just got the door openwhen the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shot-gun. It was alittle difficult to explain. As a matter of fact, we never did whatyou might call really thresh the matter out thoroughly in all itsaspects, and you'd be surprised what a devil of a time it takes topick buck-shot out of a fellow. There was a dog, too."He broke off, musing dreamily on the happy past, and at this momenthistory partially repeated itself. From the other side of the doorcame a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark.
　　"Hullo," said Ukridge, "Beale has a dog." He frowned, annoyed. "Whatright," he added in an aggrieved tone, "has a beastly mongrel,belonging to a man I employ, to keep me out of my own house? It's alittle hard. Here am I, slaving day and night to support Beale, andwhen I try to get into my own house his infernal dog barks at me. Uponmy Sam it's hard!" He brooded for a moment on the injustice of things.
　　"Here, let me get to the keyhole. I'll reason with the brute."He put his mouth to the keyhole and roared "Goo' dog!" through it.
　　Instantly the door shook as some heavy object hurled itself againstit. The barking rang through the house.
　　"Come round to the back," said Ukridge, giving up the idea ofconciliation, "we'll get in through the kitchen window."The kitchen window proved to be insecurely latched. Ukridge threw itopen and we climbed in. The dog, hearing the noise, raced back alongthe passage and flung himself at the door, scratching at the panels.
　　Ukridge listened with growing indignation.
　　"Millie, you know how to light a fire. Garnet and I will be collectingcups and things. When that scoundrel Beale arrives I shall tear himlimb from limb. Deserting us like this! The man must be a thoroughfraud. He told me he was an old soldier. If that's the sort ofdiscipline they used to keep in his regiment, thank God, we've got aNavy! Damn, I've broken a plate. How's the fire getting on, Millie?
　　I'll chop Beale into little bits. What's that you've got there, Garnyold horse? Tea? Good. Where's the bread? There goes another plate.
　　Where's Mrs. Beale, too? By Jove, that woman wants killing as much asher blackguard of a husband. Whoever heard of a cook deliberatelyleaving her post on the day when her master and mistress were expectedback? The abandoned woman. Look here, I'll give that dog threeminutes, and if it doesn't stop scratching that door by then, I'lltake a rolling pin and go out and have a heart-to-heart talk with it.
　　It's a little hard. My own house, and the first thing I find when Iarrive is somebody else's beastly dog scratching holes in the doorsand ruining the expensive paint. Stop it, you brute!"The dog's reply was to continue his operations with immense vigour.
　　Ukridge's eyes gleamed behind their glasses.
　　"Give me a good large jug, laddie," he said with ominous calm.
　　He took the largest of the jugs from the dresser and strode with itinto the scullery, whence came a sound of running water. He returnedcarrying the jug with both hands, his mien that of a general who seeshis way to a masterstroke of strategy.
　　"Garny, old horse," he said, "freeze onto the handle of the door, and,when I give the word, fling wide the gates. Then watch that animal getthe surprise of a lifetime."I attached myself to the handle as directed. Ukridge gave the word. Wehad a momentary vision of an excited dog of the mongrel class framedin the open doorway, all eyes and teeth; then the passage was occupiedby a spreading pool, and indignant barks from the distance told thatthe enemy was thinking the thing over in some safe retreat.
　　"Settled /his/ hash," said Ukridge complacently. "Nothing likeresource, Garny my boy. Some men would have gone on letting a gooddoor be ruined.""And spoiled the dog for a ha'porth of water," I said.
　　At this moment Mrs. Ukridge announced that the kettle was boiling.
　　Over a cup of tea Ukridge became the man of business.
　　"I wonder when those fowls are going to arrive. They should have beenhere to-day. It's a little hard. Here am I, all eagerness and anxiety,waiting to start an up-to-date chicken farm, and no fowls! I can't runa chicken farm without fowls. If they don't come to-morrow, I shallget after those people with a hatchet. There must be no slackness.
　　They must bustle about. After tea I'll show you the garden, and we'llchoose a place for a fowl-run. To-morrow we must buckle to. Seriouswork will begin immediately after breakfast.""Suppose," I said, "the fowls arrive before we're ready for them?""Why, then they must wait.""But you can't keep fowls cooped up indefinitely in a crate.""Oh, that'll be all right. There's a basement to this house. We'll let'em run about there till we're ready for them. There's always a way ofdoing things if you look for it. Organisation, my boy. That's thewatchword. Quiet efficiency.""I hope you are going to let the hens hatch some of the eggs, dear,"said Mrs. Ukridge. "I should love to have some little chickens.""Of course. By all means. My idea," said Ukridge, "was this. Thesepeople will send us fifty fowls of sorts. That means--call it forty-five eggs a day. Let 'em . . . Well, I'm hanged! There's that dogagain. Where's the jug?"But this time an unforeseen interruption prevented the manoeuvre beingthe success it had been before. I had turned the handle and was aboutto pull the door open, while Ukridge, looking like some modern anddilapidated version of the /Discobolus/, stood beside me with his jugpoised, when a voice spoke from the window.
　　"Stand still!" said the voice, "or I'll corpse you!"I dropped the handle. Ukridge dropped the jug. Mrs. Ukridge droppedher tea-cup. At the window, with a double-barrelled gun in his hands,stood a short, square, red-headed man. The muzzle of his gun, whichrested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the thirdbutton of my waistcoat.
　　Ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion.
　　"Beale! You scoundrelly, unprincipled, demon! What the devil are youdoing with that gun? Why were you out? What have you been doing? Whydid you shout like that? Look what you've made me do."He pointed to the floor. The very old pair of tennis shoes which hewore were by this time generously soaked with the spilled water.
　　"Lor, Mr. Ukridge, sir, is that you?" said the red-headed man calmly.
　　"I thought you was burglars."A short bark from the other side of the kitchen door, followed by arenewal of the scratching, drew Mr. Beale's attention to his faithfulhound.
　　"That's Bob," he said.
　　"I don't know what you call the brute," said Ukridge. "Come in and tiehim up. And mind what you're doing with that gun. After you'vefinished with the dog, I should like a brief chat with you, laddie, ifyou can spare the time and have no other engagements."Mr. Beale, having carefully deposited the gun against the wall anddropped a pair of very limp rabbits on the floor, proceeded to climbin through the window. This operation concluded, he stood to one sidewhile the besieged garrison passed out by the same route.
　　"You will find me in the garden," said Ukridge coldly. "I've one ortwo little things to say to you."Mr. Beale grinned affably. He seemed to be a man of equabletemperament.
　　The cool air of the garden was grateful after the warmth of thekitchen. It was a pretty garden, or would have been if it had not beenso neglected. I seemed to see myself sitting in a deck-chair on thelawn, smoking and looking through the trees at the harbour below. Itwas a spot, I felt, in which it would be an easy and a pleasant taskto shape the plot of my novel. I was glad I had come. About now,outside my lodgings in town, a particularly foul barrel-organ would besettling down to work.
　　"Oh, there you are, Beale," said Ukridge, as the servitor appeared.
　　"Now then, what have you to say?"The hired man looked thoughtful for a moment, then said that it was afine evening.
　　"Fine evening?" shouted Ukridge. "What on earth has that got to dowith it? I want to know why you and Mrs. Beale were out when wearrived.""The missus went to Axminster, Mr. Ukridge, sir.""She had no right to go to Axminster. It isn't part of her duties togo gadding about to Axminster. I don't pay her enormous sums to go toAxminster. You knew I was coming this evening.""No, sir.""What!""No, sir.""Beale," said Ukridge with studied calm, the strong man repressinghimself. "One of us two is a fool.""Yes, sir.""Let us sift this matter to the bottom. You got my letter?""No, sir.""My letter saying that I should arrive to-day. You didn't get it?""No, sir.""Now, look here, Beale, this is absurd. I am certain that that letterwas posted. I remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. It isnot there now. See. These are all the contents of my--well, I'mhanged."He stood looking at the envelope which he had produced from hisbreast-pocket. A soft smile played over Mr. Beale's wooden face. Hecoughed.
　　"Beale," said Ukridge, "you--er--there seems to have been a mistake.""Yes, sir.""You are not so much to blame as I thought.""No, sir."There was a silence.
　　"Anyhow," said Ukridge in inspired tones, "I'll go and slay thatinfernal dog. I'll teach him to tear my door to pieces. Where's yourgun, Beale?"But better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a coldbut pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came outunexpectedly strong with ingenious and diverting tricks.
Chapter 5 Buckling To
Sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke menext day as distant clocks were striking eight. It was a lovelymorning, cool and fresh. The grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkledin the sun. A thrush, who knew all about early birds and theirperquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the wormwith a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. In the ivy a colony ofsparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. On the gravel infront of the house lay the mongrel, Bob, blinking lazily.
　　The gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing.
　　I dressed quickly and went out. Bob rose to meet me, waving anabsurdly long tail. The hatchet was definitely buried now. That littlematter of the jug of water was forgotten.
　　A walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by Bob,to the sleepy little town. I passed through the narrow street, andturned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination ofpier and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist.
　　The tide was high, and, leaving my clothes to the care of Bob, whotreated them as a handy bed, I dived into twelve feet of clear, coldwater. As I swam, I compared it with the morning tub of London, andfelt that I had done well to come with Ukridge to this pleasant spot.
　　Not that I could rely on unbroken calm during the whole of my visit. Iknew nothing of chicken-farming, but I was certain that Ukridge knewless. There would be some strenuous moments before that farm became aprofitable commercial speculation. At the thought of Ukridge toilingon a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, I laughed,and swallowed a generous mouthful of salt water; and, turning, swamback to Bob and my clothes.
　　On my return, I found Ukridge, in his shirt sleeves and minus acollar, assailing a large ham. Mrs. Ukridge, looking younger and morechild-like than ever in brown holland, smiled at me over the tea-pot.
　　"Hullo, old horse," bellowed Ukridge, "where have you been? Bathing?
　　Hope it's made you feel fit for work, because we've got to buckle tothis morning.""The fowls have arrived, Mr. Garnet," said Mrs. Ukridge, opening hereyes till she looked like an astonished kitten. "/Such/ a lot of them.
　　They're making such a noise."To support her statement there floated in through the window acackling which for volume and variety beat anything I had ever heard.
　　Judging from the noise, it seemed as if England had been drained offowls and the entire tribe of them dumped into the yard of Ukridge'sfarm.
　　"There seems to have been no stint," I said.
　　"Quite a goodish few, aren't there?" said Ukridge complacently. "Butthat's what we want. No good starting on a small scale. The more youhave, the bigger the profits.""What sorts have you got mostly?" I asked, showing a professionalinterest.
　　"Oh, all sorts. My theory, laddie, is this. It doesn't matter a bitwhat kind we get, because they'll all lay; and if we sell settings ofeggs, which we will, we'll merely say it's an unfortunate accident ifthey turn out mixed when hatched. Bless you, people don't mind whatbreed a fowl is, so long as it's got two legs and a beak. These dealerchaps were so infernally particular. 'Any Dorkings?' they said. 'Allright,' I said, 'bring on your Dorkings.' 'Or perhaps you will requirea few Minorcas?' 'Very well,' I said, 'unleash the Minorcas.' Theywere going on--they'd have gone on for hours--but I stopped 'em. 'Lookhere, my dear old college chum,' I said kindly but firmly to themanager johnny--decent old buck, with the manners of a marquess,--'look here,' I said, 'life is short, and we're neither of us as youngas we used to be. Don't let us waste the golden hours playing guessinggames. I want fowls. You sell fowls. So give me some of all sorts. Mix'em up, laddie,' I said, 'mix 'em up.' And he has, by jove. You gointo the yard and look at 'em. Beale has turned them out of theircrates. There must be one of every breed ever invented.""Where are you going to put them?""That spot we chose by the paddock. That's the place. Plenty of mudfor them to scratch about in, and they can go into the field when theyfeel like it, and pick up worms, or whatever they feed on. We must rigthem up some sort of shanty, I suppose, this morning. We'll go andtell 'em to send up some wire-netting and stuff from the town.""Then we shall want hen-coops. We shall have to make those.""Of course. So we shall. Millie, didn't I tell you that old Garnet wasthe man to think of things. I forgot the coops. We can't buy some, Isuppose? On tick, of course.""Cheaper to make them. Suppose we get a lot of boxes. Sugar boxes areas good as any. It won't take long to knock up a few coops."Ukridge thumped the table with enthusiasm, upsetting his cup.
　　"Garny, old horse, you're a marvel. You think of everything. We'llbuckle to right away, and get the whole pace fixed up the same asmother makes it. What an infernal noise those birds are making. Isuppose they don't feel at home in the yard. Wait till they see the A1compact residential mansions we're going to put up for them. Finishedbreakfast? Then let's go out. Come along, Millie."The red-headed Beale, discovered leaning in an attitude of thought onthe yard gate and observing the feathered mob below with muchinterest, was roused from his reflections and despatched to the townfor the wire and sugar boxes. Ukridge, taking his place at the gate,gazed at the fowls with the affectionate air of a proprietor.
　　"Well, they have certainly taken you at your word," I said, "as far asvariety is concerned."The man with the manners of a marquess seemed to have been at greatpains to send a really representative selection of fowls. There wereblue ones, black ones, white, grey, yellow, brown, big, little,Dorkings, Minorcas, Cochin Chinas, Bantams, Wyandottes. It was animposing spectacle.
　　The Hired Man returned towards the end of the morning, preceded by acart containing the necessary wire and boxes; and Ukridge, whoseenthusiasm brooked no delay, started immediately the task offashioning the coops, while I, assisted by Beale, draped the wire-netting about the chosen spot next to the paddock. There were littleunpleasantnesses--once a roar of anguish told that Ukridge's hammerhad found the wrong billet, and on another occasion my flanneltrousers suffered on the wire--but the work proceeded steadily. By themiddle of the afternoon, things were in a sufficiently advanced stateto suggest to Ukridge the advisability of a halt for refreshments.
　　"That's the way to do it," he said, beaming through misty pince-nezover a long glass. "That is the stuff to administer to 'em! At thisrate we shall have the place in corking condition before bedtime.
　　Quiet efficiency--that's the wheeze! What do you think of those forcoops, Beale?"The Hired Man examined them woodenly.
　　"I've seen worse, sir."He continued his examination.
　　"But not many," he added. Beale's passion for the truth had made himunpopular in three regiments.
　　"They aren't so bad," I said, "but I'm glad I'm not a fowl.""So you ought to be," said Ukridge, "considering the way you've put upthat wire. You'll have them strangling themselves."In spite of earnest labour the housing arrangements of the fowls werestill in an incomplete state at the end of the day. The details of theevening's work are preserved in a letter which I wrote that night tomy friend Lickford.
　　" . . . Have you ever played a game called Pigs in Clover? We havejust finished a merry bout of it, with hens instead of marbles, whichhas lasted for an hour and a half. We are all dead tired, except theHired Man, who seems to be made of india-rubber. He has just gone fora stroll on the beach. Wants some exercise, I suppose. Personally, Ifeel as if I should never move again. You have no conception of thedifficulty of rounding up fowls and getting them safely to bed. Havingno proper place to put them, we were obliged to stow some of them inthe cube sugar-boxes and the rest in the basement. It has only justoccurred to me that they ought to have had perches to roost on. Itdidn't strike me before. I shan't mention it to Ukridge, or thatindomitable man will start making some, and drag me into it, too.
　　After all, a hen can rough it for one night, and if I did a strokemore work I should collapse.
　　"My idea was to do the thing on the slow but sure principle. That isto say, take each bird singly and carry it to bed. It would have takensome time, but there would have been no confusion. But you can imaginethat that sort of thing would not appeal to Stanley Featherstonehaugh!
　　He likes his manoeuvres to be on a large, dashing, Napoleonic scale.
　　He said, 'Open the yard gate and let the blighters come out into theopen; then sail in and drive them in mass formation through the backdoor into the basement.' It was a great idea, but there was one fatalflaw in it. It didn't allow for the hens scattering. We opened thegate, and out they all came like an audience coming out of a theatre.
　　Then we closed in on them to bring off the big drive. For about thirtyseconds it looked as if we might do it. Then Bob, the Hired Man's dog,an animal who likes to be in whatever's going on, rushed out of thehouse into the middle of them, barking. There was a perfect stampede,and Heaven only knows where some of those fowls are now. There was onein particular, a large yellow bird, which, I should imagine, isnearing London by this time. The last I saw of it, it was navigatingat the rate of knots in that direction, with Bob after it, barking hishardest. The fowl was showing a rare turn of speed and gainingrapidly. Presently Bob came back, panting, having evidently given thething up. We, in the meantime, were chasing the rest of the birds allover the garden. The affair had now resolved itself into the course ofaction I had suggested originally, except that instead of collectingthem quietly and at our leisure, we had to run miles for each one wecaptured. After a time we introduced some sort of system into it. Mrs.
　　Ukridge stood at the door. We chased the hens and brought them in.
　　Then, as we put each through into the basement, she shut the door onit. We also arranged Ukridge's sugar-box coops in a row, and when wecaught a fowl we put it in the coop and stuck a board in front of it.
　　By these strenuous means we gathered in about two-thirds of the lot.
　　The rest are all over England. A few may be still in Dorsetshire, butI should not like to bet on it.
　　"So you see things are being managed on the up-to-date chicken farm ongood, sound Ukridge principles. It is only the beginning. I look withconfidence for further interesting events. I believe if Ukridge keptwhite mice he would manage to get feverish excitement out of it. He isat present lying on the sofa, smoking one of his infernal brand ofcigars, drinking whisky and soda, and complaining with some bitternessbecause the whisky isn't as good as some he once tasted in Belfast.
　　From the basement I can hear faintly the murmur of innumerable fowls."
Chapter 6 Mr. Garnet's Narrative
The day was Thursday, the date July the twenty-second. We had beenchicken-farmers for a whole week, and things were beginning to settledown to a certain extent. The coops were finished. They were notmasterpieces, and I have seen chickens pause before them in deepthought, as who should say, "Now what?" but they were coops within themeaning of the Act, and we induced hens to become tenants.
　　The hardest work had been the fixing of the wire-netting. This was thedepartment of the Hired Man and myself, Ukridge holding himselfproudly aloof. While Beale and I worked ourselves to a fever in thesun, the senior partner of the firm sat on a deck-chair in the shade,offering not unkindly criticism and advice and from time to timeabusing his creditors, who were numerous. For we had hardly been inresidence a day before he began to order in a vast supply of necessaryand unnecessary things, all on credit. Some he got from the village,others from neighbouring towns. Axminster he laid heavily undercontribution. He even went as far afield as Dorchester. He had apersuasive way with him, and the tradesmen seemed to treat him like afavourite son. The things began to pour in from all sides,--groceries,whisky, a piano, a gramophone, pictures. Also cigars in greatprofusion. He was not one of those men who want but little here below.
　　As regards the financial side of these transactions, his method wassimple and masterly. If a tradesman suggested that a small cheque onaccount would not be taken amiss, as one or two sordid fellows did, hebecame pathetic.
　　"Confound it, sir," he would say with tears in his voice, laying ahand on the man's shoulders in a wounded way, "it's a trifle hard,when a gentleman comes to settle in your neighbourhood, that youshould dun him for money before he has got the preliminary expensesabout the house off his back." This sounded well, and suggested thedisbursement of huge sums for rent. The fact that the house had beenlent him rent free was kept with some care in the background. Havingweakened the man with pathos, he would strike a sterner note. "Alittle more of this," he would go on, "and I'll close my account. Why,damme, in all my experience I've never heard anything like it!" Uponwhich the man would apologise, and go away, forgiven, with a largeorder for more goods.
　　By these statesmanlike methods he had certainly made the place verycomfortable. I suppose we all realised that the things would have tobe paid for some day, but the thought did not worry us.
　　"Pay?" bellowed Ukridge on the only occasion when I ventured to bringup the unpleasant topic, "of course we shall pay. Why not? I don'tlike to see this faint-hearted spirit in you, old horse. The moneyisn't coming in yet, I admit, but we must give it time. Soon we shallbe turning over hundreds a week, hundreds! I'm in touch with all thebig places,--Whiteley's, Harrod's, all the nibs. Here I am, I said tothem, with a large chicken farm with all the modern improvements. Youwant eggs, old horses, I said: I supply them. I will let you have somany hundred eggs a week, I said; what will you give for them? Well,I'll admit their terms did not come up to my expectations altogether,but we must not sneer at small prices at first.
　　"When we get a connection, we shall be able to name our terms. Itstands to reason, laddie. Have you ever seen a man, woman, or childwho wasn't eating an egg or just going to eat an egg or just comingaway from eating an egg? I tell you, the good old egg is thefoundation of daily life. Stop the first man you meet in the streetand ask him which he'd sooner lose, his egg or his wife, and see whathe says! We're on to a good thing, Garny, my boy. Pass the whisky!"The upshot of it was that the firms mentioned supplied us with aquantity of goods, agreeing to receive phantom eggs in exchange. Thissatisfied Ukridge. He had a faith in the laying power of his henswhich would have flattered them if they could have known it. It mightalso have stimulated their efforts in that direction, which up to datewere feeble.
　　It was now, as I have said, Thursday, the twenty-second of July,--aglorious, sunny morning, of the kind which Providence sendsoccasionally, simply in order to allow the honest smoker to take hisafter-breakfast pipe under ideal conditions. These are the pipes towhich a man looks back in after years with a feeling of wistfulreverence, pipes smoked in perfect tranquillity, mind and body alikeat rest. It is over pipes like these that we dream our dreams, andfashion our masterpieces.
　　My pipe was behaving like the ideal pipe; and, as I strolledspaciously about the lawn, my novel was growing nobly. I had neglectedmy literary work for the past week, owing to the insistent claims ofthe fowls. I am not one of those men whose minds work in placidindependence of the conditions of life. But I was making up for losttime now. With each blue cloud that left my lips and hung in the stillair above me, striking scenes and freshets of sparkling dialoguerushed through my brain. Another uninterrupted half hour, and I haveno doubt that I should have completed the framework of a novel whichwould have placed me in that select band of authors who have nochristian names. Another half hour, and posterity would have known meas "Garnet."But it was not to be.
　　"Stop her! Catch her, Garny, old horse!"I had wandered into the paddock at the moment. I looked up. Comingtowards me at her best pace was a small hen. I recognised herimmediately. It was the disagreeable, sardonic-looking bird whichUkridge, on the strength of an alleged similarity of profile to hiswife's nearest relative, had christened Aunt Elizabeth. A Bolshevisthen, always at the bottom of any disturbance in the fowl-run, a birdwhich ate its head off daily at our expense and bit the hands whichfed it by resolutely declining to lay a single egg. Behind this fowlran Bob, doing, as usual, the thing that he ought not to have done.
　　Bob's wrong-headedness in the matter of our hens was a constant sourceof inconvenience. From the first, he had seemed to regard the laying-in of our stock purely in the nature of a tribute to his sportingtastes. He had a fixed idea that he was a hunting dog and that,recognising this, we had very decently provided him with the materialfor the chase.
　　Behind Bob came Ukridge. But a glance was enough to tell me that hewas a negligible factor in the pursuit. He was not built for speed.
　　Already the pace had proved too much for him, and he had appointed mehis deputy, with full powers to act.
　　"After her, Garny, old horse! Valuable bird! Mustn't be lost!"When not in a catalepsy of literary composition, I am essentially theman of action. I laid aside my novel for future reference, and wepassed out of the paddock in the following order. First, AuntElizabeth, as fresh as paint, going well. Next, Bob, panting andobviously doubtful of his powers of staying the distance. Lastly,myself, determined, but wishing I were five years younger.
　　After the first field Bob, like the dilettante and unstable dog hewas, gave it up, and sauntered off to scratch at a rabbit-hole with aninsufferable air of suggesting that that was what he had come out forall the time. I continued to pound along doggedly. I was grimlyresolute. I had caught Aunt Elizabeth's eye as she passed me, and thecontempt in it had cut me to the quick. This bird despised me. I amnot a violent or a quick-tempered man, but I have my self-respect. Iwill not be sneered at by hens. All the abstract desire for Fame whichhad filled my mind five minutes before was concentrated now on thetask of capturing this supercilious bird.
　　We had been travelling down hill all this time, but at this point wecrossed a road and the ground began to rise. I was in that painfulcondition which occurs when one has lost one's first wind and has notyet got one's second. I was hotter than I had ever been in my life.
　　Whether Aunt Elizabeth, too, was beginning to feel the effects of herrun, or whether she did it out of the pure effrontery of her warpedand unpleasant nature, I do not know; but she now slowed down to walk,and even began to peck in a tentative manner at the grass. Herbehaviour infuriated me. I felt that I was being treated as a cipher.
　　I vowed that this bird should realise yet, even if, as seemedprobable, I burst in the process, that it was no light matter to bepursued by J. Garnet, author of "The Manoeuvres of Arthur," etc., aman of whose work so capable a judge as the Peebles /Advertiser/ hadsaid "Shows promise."A judicious increase of pace brought me within a yard or two of myquarry. But Aunt Elizabeth, apparently distrait, had the situationwell in hand. She darted from me with an amused chuckle, and moved offrapidly again up the hill.
　　I followed, but there was that within me that told me I had shot mybolt. The sun blazed down, concentrating its rays on my back to theexclusion of the surrounding scenery. It seemed to follow me aboutlike a limelight.
　　We had reached level ground. Aunt Elizabeth had again slowed to awalk, and I was capable of no better pace. Very gradually I closed in.
　　There was a high boxwood hedge in front of us; and, just as I cameclose enough once more to stake my all on a single grab, AuntElizabeth, with another of her sardonic chuckles, dived in head-foremost and struggled through in the mysterious way in which birds doget through hedges. The sound of her faint spinster-like snigger cameto me as I stood panting, and roused me like a bugle. The next momentI too had plunged into the hedge.
　　I was in the middle of it, very hot, tired, and dirty, when from theother side I heard a sudden shout of "Mark over! Bird to the right!"and the next moment I found myself emerging with a black face andtottering knees on the gravel path of a private garden. Beyond thepath was a croquet lawn, and on this lawn I perceived, as through aglass darkly, three figures. The mist cleared from my eyes, and Irecognised two of them.
　　One was the middle-aged Irishman who had travelled down with us in thetrain. The other was his blue-eyed daughter.
　　The third member of the party was a man, a stranger to me. By somemiracle of adroitness he had captured Aunt Elizabeth, and was holdingher in spite of her protests in a workmanlike manner behind the wings.
Chapter 7 The Entente Cordiale Is Sealed
There are moments and moments. The present one belonged to the morepainful variety.
　　Even to my exhausted mind it was plain that there was a need here forexplanations. An Irishman's croquet-lawn is his castle, and strangerscannot plunge in through hedges without inviting comment.
　　Unfortunately, speech was beyond me. I could have emptied a water-butt, laid down and gone to sleep, or melted ice with a touch of thefinger, but I could not speak. The conversation was opened by theother man, in whose restraining hand Aunt Elizabeth now lay, outwardlyresigned but inwardly, as I, who knew her haughty spirit, could guess,boiling with baffled resentment. I could see her looking out of thecorner of her eye, trying to estimate the chances of getting in onegood hard peck with her aquiline beak.
　　"Come right in," said the man pleasantly. "Don't knock."I stood there, gasping. I was only too well aware that I presented aquaint appearance. I had removed my hat before entering the hedge, andmy hair was full of twigs and other foreign substances. My face wasmoist and grimy. My mouth hung open. My legs felt as if they hadceased to belong to me.
　　"I must apol- . . ." I began, and ended the sentence with gulps.
　　The elderly gentleman looked at me with what seemed to be indignantsurprise. His daughter appeared to my guilty conscience to be lookingthrough me. Aunt Elizabeth sneered. The only friendly face was theman's. He regarded me with a kindly smile, as if I were some oldfriend who had dropped in unexpectedly.
　　"Take a long breath," he advised.
　　I took several, and felt better.
　　"I must apologise for this intrusion," I said successfully.
　　"Unwarrantable" would have rounded off the sentence neatly, but Iwould not risk it. It would have been mere bravado to attemptunnecessary words of five syllables. I took in more breath. "The factis, I did--didn't know there was a private garden beyond the hedge. Ifyou will give me my hen . . ."I stopped. Aunt Elizabeth was looking away, as if endeavouring tocreate an impression of having nothing to do with me. I am told by onewho knows that hens cannot raise their eyebrows, not having any; but Iam prepared to swear that at this moment Aunt Elizabeth raised hers. Iwill go further. She sniffed.
　　"Here you are," said the man. "Though it's hard to say good-bye."He held out the hen to me, and at this point a hitch occurred. He didhis part, the letting go, all right. It was in my department, thetaking hold, that the thing was bungled. Aunt Elizabeth slipped frommy grasp like an eel, stood for a moment eyeing me satirically withher head on one side, then fled and entrenched herself in some bushesat the end of the lawn.
　　There are times when the most resolute man feels that he can battle nolonger with fate; when everything seems against him and the onlycourse is a dignified retreat. But there is one thing essential to adignified retreat. You must know the way out. It was the lack of thatknowledge that kept me standing there, looking more foolish thananyone has ever looked since the world began. I could not retire byway of the hedge. If I could have leaped the hedge with a singledebonair bound, that would have been satisfactory. But the hedge washigh, and I did not feel capable at the moment of achieving a debonairbound over a footstool.
　　The man saved the situation. He seemed to possess that magnetic powerover his fellows which marks the born leader. Under his command webecame an organised army. The common object, the pursuit of theelusive Aunt Elizabeth, made us friends. In the first minute of theproceedings the Irishman was addressing me as "me dear boy," and theman, who had introduced himself as Mr. Chase--a lieutenant, I learnedlater, in His Majesty's Navy--was shouting directions to me by name. Ihave never assisted at any ceremony at which formality was socompletely dispensed with. The ice was not merely broken; it wasshivered into a million fragments.
　　"Go in and drive her out, Garnet," shouted Mr. Chase. "In my directionif you can. Look out on the left, Phyllis."Even in that disturbing moment I could not help noticing his use ofthe Christian name. It seemed to me more than sinister. I did not likethe idea of dashing young lieutenants in the senior service calling agirl Phyllis whose eyes had haunted me since I had first seen them.
　　Nevertheless, I crawled into the bushes and administered to AuntElizabeth a prod in the lower ribs--if hens have lower ribs. The moreI study hens, the more things they seem able to get along without--which abruptly disturbed her calm detachment. She shot out at the spotwhere Mr. Chase was waiting with his coat off, and was promptlyenveloped in that garment and captured.
　　"The essence of strategy," observed Mr. Chase approvingly, "issurprise. A neat piece of work!"I thanked him. He deprecated my thanks. He had, he said, only done hisduty, as expected to by England. He then introduced me to the elderlyIrishman, who was, it seemed, a professor at Dublin University, byname, Derrick. Whatever it was that he professed, it was somethingthat did not keep him for a great deal of his time at the University.
　　He informed me that he always spent his summers at Combe Regis.
　　"I was surprised to see you at Combe Regis," I said. "When you got outat Yeovil, I thought I had seen the last of you."I think I am gifted beyond other men as regards the unfortunateturning of sentences.
　　"I meant," I added, "I was afraid I had.""Ah, of course," he said, "you were in our carriage coming down. I wasconfident I had seen you before. I never forget a face.""It would be a kindness," said Mr. Chase, "if you would forgetGarnet's as now exhibited. You seem to have collected a good deal ofthe scenery coming through that hedge.""I was wondering----" I said. "A wash--if I might----""Of course, me boy, of course," said the professor. "Tom, take Mr.
　　Garnet off to your room, and then we'll have lunch. You'll stay tolunch, Mr. Garnet?"I thanked him, commented on possible inconvenience to hisarrangements, was overruled, and went off with my friend thelieutenant to the house. We imprisoned Aunt Elizabeth in the stables,to her profound indignation, gave directions for lunch to be served toher, and made our way to Mr. Chase's room.
　　"So you've met the professor before?" he said, hospitably laying out achange of raiment for me--we were fortunately much of a height andbuild.
　　"I have never spoken to him," I said. "We travelled down from Londonin the same carriage.""He's a dear old boy, if you rub him the right way. But--I'm tellingyou this for your good and guidance; a man wants a chart in a strangesea--he can cut up rough. And, when he does, he goes off like a four-point-seven and the population for miles round climbs trees. I think,if I were you, I shouldn't mention Sir Edward Carson at lunch."I promised that I would try to avoid the temptation.
　　"In fact, you'd better keep off Ireland altogether. It's the safestplan. Any other subject you like. Chatty remarks on Bimetallism wouldmeet with his earnest attention. A lecture on What to do with the ColdMutton would be welcomed. But not Ireland. Shall we do down?"We got to know each other at lunch.
　　"Do you hunt hens," asked Tom Chase, who was mixing the salad--he wasone of those men who seemed to do everything a shade better thananyone else--"for amusement or by your doctor's orders? Many doctors,I believe, insist on it.""Neither," I said, "and especially not for amusement. The fact is,I've been lured down here by a friend of mine who has started achicken farm--"I was interrupted. All three of them burst out laughing. Tom Chaseallowed the vinegar to trickle on to the cloth, missing the salad-bowlby a clear two inches.
　　"You don't mean to tell us," he said, "that you really come from theone and only chicken farm? Why, you're the man we've all been prayingto meet for days past. You're the talk of the town. If you can callCombe Regis a town. Everybody is discussing you. Your methods are newand original, aren't they?""Probably. Ukridge knows nothing about fowls. I know less. Heconsiders it an advantage. He says our minds ought to be unbiassed.""Ukridge!" said the professor. "That was the name old Dawlish, thegrocer, said. I never forget a name. He is the gentleman who lectureson the management of poultry? You do not?"I hastened to disclaim any such feat. I had never really approved ofthese infernal talks on the art of chicken-farming which Ukridge haddropped into the habit of delivering when anybody visited our farm. Iadmit that it was a pleasing spectacle to see my managing director ina pink shirt without a collar and very dirty flannel trouserslecturing the intelligent native; but I had a feeling that the thingtended to expose our ignorance to men who had probably had to do withfowls from their cradle up.
　　"His lectures are very popular," said Phyllis Derrick with a littlesplutter of mirth.
　　"He enjoys them," I said.
　　"Look here, Garnet," said Tom Chase, "I hope you won't consider allthese questions impertinent, but you've no notion of the thrillinginterest we all take--at a distance--in your farm. We have beentalking of nothing else for a week. I have dreamed of it three nightsrunning. Is Mr. Ukridge doing this as a commercial speculation, or ishe an eccentric millionaire?""He's not a millionaire yet, but I believe he intends to be oneshortly, with the assistance of the fowls. But you mustn't look on meas in any way responsible for the arrangements at the farm. I ammerely a labourer. The brainwork of the business lies in Ukridge'sdepartment. As a matter of fact, I came down here principally insearch of golf.""Golf?" said Professor Derrick, with the benevolent approval of theenthusiast towards a brother. "I'm glad you play golf. We must have around together.""As soon as ever my professional duties will permit," I saidgratefully.
　　* * * * *There was croquet after lunch,--a game of which I am a poor performer.
　　Phyllis Derrick and I played the professor and Tom Chase. Chase was alittle better than myself; the professor, by dint of extremeearnestness and care, managed to play a fair game; and Phyllis was anexpert.
　　"I was reading a book," she said, as we stood together watching theprofessor shaping at his ball at the other end of the lawn, "by anauthor of the same surname as you, Mr. Garnet. Is he a relation ofyours?""My name is Jeremy, Miss Derrick.""Oh, you wrote it?" She turned a little pink. "Then you must have--oh,nothing.""I couldn't help it, I'm afraid.""Did you know what I was going to say?""I guessed. You were going to say that I must have heard yourcriticisms in the train. You were very lenient, I thought.""I didn't like your heroine.""No. What is a 'creature,' Miss Derrick?""Pamela in your book is a 'creature,' " she replied unsatisfactorily.
　　Shortly after this the game came somehow to an end. I do notunderstand the intricacies of croquet. But Phyllis did somethingbrilliant and remarkable with the balls, and we adjourned for tea. Thesun was setting as I left to return to the farm, with Aunt Elizabethstored neatly in a basket in my hand. The air was deliciously cool,and full of that strange quiet which follows soothingly on the skirtsof a broiling midsummer afternoon. Far away, seeming to come fromanother world, a sheep-bell tinkled, deepening the silence. Alone in asky of the palest blue there gleamed a small, bright star.
　　I addressed this star.
　　"She was certainly very nice to me. Very nice indeed." The star saidnothing.
　　"On the other hand, I take it that, having had a decent up-bringing,she would have been equally polite to any other man whom she hadhappened to meet at her father's house. Moreover, I don't feelaltogether easy in my mind about that naval chap. I fear the worst."The star winked.
　　"He calls her Phyllis," I said.
　　"Charawk!" chuckled Aunt Elizabeth from her basket, in that beastlycynical, satirical way which has made her so disliked by all right-thinking people.
Chapter 8 A Little Dinner At Ukridge's
"Edwin comes to-day," said Mrs. Ukridge.
　　"And the Derricks," said Ukridge, sawing at the bread in his energeticway. "Don't forget the Derricks, Millie.""No, dear. Mrs. Beale is going to give us a very nice dinner. Wetalked it over yesterday.""Who is Edwin?" I asked.
　　We were finishing breakfast on the second morning after my visit tothe Derricks. I had related my adventures to the staff of the farm onmy return, laying stress on the merits of our neighbours and theirinterest in our doings, and the Hired Retainer had been sent off nextmorning with a note from Mrs. Ukridge inviting them to look over thefarm and stay to dinner.
　　"Edwin?" said Ukridge. "Oh, beast of a cat.""Oh, Stanley!" said Mrs. Ukridge plaintively. "He's not. He's such adear, Mr. Garnet. A beautiful, pure-bred Persian. He has takenprizes.""He's always taking something. That's why he didn't come down withus.""A great, horrid, /beast/ of a dog bit him, Mr. Garnet. And poorEdwin had to go to a cats' hospital.""And I hope," said Ukridge, "the experience will do him good. Sneakeda dog's dinner, Garnet, under his very nose, if you please. Naturallythe dog lodged a protest.""I'm so afraid that he will be frightened of Bob. He will be verytimid, and Bob's so boisterous. Isn't he, Mr. Garnet?""That's all right," said Ukridge. "Bob won't hurt him, unless he triesto steal his dinner. In that case we will have Edwin made into a rug.""Stanley doesn't like Edwin," said Mrs. Ukridge, sadly.
　　Edwin arrived early in the afternoon, and was shut into the kitchen.
　　He struck me as a handsome cat, but nervous.
　　The Derricks followed two hours later. Mr. Chase was not of the party.
　　"Tom had to go to London," explained the professor, "or he would havebeen delighted to come. It was a disappointment to the boy, for hewanted to see the farm.""He must come some other time," said Ukridge. "We invite inspection.
　　Look here," he broke off suddenly--we were nearing the fowl-run now,Mrs. Ukridge walking in front with Phyllis Derrick--"were you ever atBristol?""Never, sir," said the professor.
　　"Because I knew just such another fat little buffer there a few yearsago. Gay old bird, he was. He--""This is the fowl-run, professor," I broke in, with a moist, tinglingfeeling across my forehead and up my spine. I saw the professorstiffen as he walked, while his face deepened in colour. Ukridge'sbreezy way of expressing himself is apt to electrify the stranger.
　　"You will notice the able way--ha! ha!--in which the wire-netting isarranged," I continued feverishly. "Took some doing, that. By Jove,yes. It was hot work. Nice lot of fowls, aren't they? Rather a mixedlot, of course. Ha! ha! That's the dealer's fault though. We aregetting quite a number of eggs now. Hens wouldn't lay at first.
　　Couldn't make them."I babbled on, till from the corner of my eye I saw the flush fade fromthe professor's face and his back gradually relax its poker-likeattitude. The situation was saved for the moment but there was noknowing what further excesses Ukridge might indulge in. I managed todraw him aside as we went through the fowl-run, and expostulated.
　　"For goodness sake, be careful," I whispered. "You've no notion howtouchy he is.""But /I/ said nothing," he replied, amazed.
　　"Hang it, you know, nobody likes to be called a fat little buffer tohis face.""What! My dear old man, nobody minds a little thing like that. Wecan't be stilted and formal. It's ever so much more friendly to relaxand be chummy."Here we rejoined the others, and I was left with a leaden forebodingof gruesome things in store. I knew what manner of man Ukridge waswhen he relaxed and became chummy. Friendships of years' standing hadfailed to survive the test.
　　For the time being, however, all went well. In his role of lecturer heoffended no one, and Phyllis and her father behaved admirably. Theyreceived his strangest theories without a twitch of the mouth.
　　"Ah," the professor would say, "now is that really so? Veryinteresting indeed."Only once, when Ukridge was describing some more than usually originaldevice for the furthering of the interests of his fowls, did a slightspasm disturb Phyllis's look of attentive reverence.
　　"And you have really had no previous experience in chicken-farming?"she said.
　　"None," said Ukridge, beaming through his glasses. "Not an atom. But Ican turn my hand to anything, you know. Things seem to come naturallyto me somehow.""I see," said Phyllis.
　　It was while matters were progressing with this beautiful smoothnessthat I observed the square form of the Hired Retainer approaching us.
　　Somehow--I cannot say why--I had a feeling that he came with bad news.
　　Perhaps it was his air of quiet satisfaction which struck me asominous.
　　"Beg pardon, Mr. Ukridge, sir."Ukridge was in the middle of a very eloquent excursus on the feedingof fowls, a subject on which he held views of his own as ingenious asthey were novel. The interruption annoyed him.
　　"Well, Beale," he said, "what is it?""That there cat, sir, what came to-day.""Oh, Beale," cried Mrs. Ukridge in agitation, "/what/ has happened?""Having something to say to the missis--""What has happened? Oh, Beale, don't say that Edwin has been hurt?
　　Where is he? Oh, /poor/ Edwin!""Having something to say to the missis--""If Bob has bitten him I hope he had his nose /well/ scratched," saidMrs. Ukridge vindictively.
　　"Having something to say to the missis," resumed the Hired Retainertranquilly, "I went into the kitchen ten minutes back. The cat wassitting on the mat."Beale's narrative style closely resembled that of a certain book I hadread in my infancy. I wish I could remember its title. It was a well-written book.
　　"Yes, Beale, yes?" said Mrs. Ukridge. "Oh, do go on."" 'Hullo, puss,' I says to him, 'and 'ow are /you/, sir?' 'Becareful,' says the missis. ' 'E's that timid,' she says, 'you wouldn'tbelieve,' she says. ' 'E's only just settled down, as you may say,'
　　she says. 'Ho, don't you fret,' I says to her, ' 'im and meunderstands each other. 'Im and me,' I says, 'is old friends. 'E's mydear old pal, Corporal Banks.' She grinned at that, ma'am, CorporalBanks being a man we'd 'ad many a 'earty laugh at in the old days. 'Ewas, in a manner of speaking, a joke between us.""Oh, do--go--on, Beale. What has happened to Edwin?"The Hired Retainer proceeded in calm, even tones.
　　"We was talking there, ma'am, when Bob, what had followed me unknown,trotted in. When the cat ketched sight of 'im sniffing about, therewas such a spitting and swearing as you never 'eard; and blowed," saidMr. Beale amusedly, "blowed if the old cat didn't give one jump, andmove in quick time up the chimney, where 'e now remains, paying no'eed to the missis' attempts to get him down again."Sensation, as they say in the reports.
　　"But he'll be cooked," cried Phyllis, open-eyed.
　　"No, he won't. Nor will our dinner. Mrs. Beale always lets the kitchenfire out during the afternoon. And how she's going to light it withthat----"There was a pause while one might count three. It was plain that thespeaker was struggling with himself.
　　"--that cat," he concluded safely, "up the chimney? It's a cold dinnerwe'll get to-night, if that cat doesn't come down."The professor's face fell. I had remarked on the occasion when I hadlunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table.
　　Cold impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste.
　　We went to the kitchen in a body. Mrs. Beale was standing in front ofthe empty grate, making seductive cat-noises up the chimney.
　　"What's all this, Mrs. Beale?" said Ukridge.
　　"He won't come down, sir, not while he thinks Bob's about. And how I'mto cook dinner for five with him up the chimney I don't see, sir.""Prod at him with a broom handle, Mrs. Beale," said Ukridge.
　　"Oh, don't hurt poor Edwin," said Mrs. Ukridge.
　　"I 'ave tried that, sir, but I can't reach him, and I'm only bin anddrove 'im further up. What must be," added Mrs. Beale philosophically,"must be. He may come down of his own accord in the night. Bein'
　　'ungry.""Then what we must do," said Ukridge in a jovial manner, which to meat least seemed out of place, "is to have a regular, jolly picnic-dinner, what? Whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that.""A regular, jolly picnic-dinner," repeated the professor gloomily. Icould read what was passing in his mind,--remorse for having come atall, and a faint hope that it might not be too late to back out of it.
　　"That will be splendid," said Phyllis.
　　"Er, I think, my dear sir," said her father, "it would be hardly fairfor us to give any further trouble to Mrs. Ukridge and yourself. Ifyou will allow me, therefore, I will----"Ukridge became gushingly hospitable. He refused to think of allowinghis guests to go empty away. He would be able to whack up something,he said. There was quite a good deal of the ham left. He was sure. Heappealed to me to endorse his view that there was a tin of sardinesand part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese.
　　"And after all," he said, speaking for the whole company in thegenerous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, "what more do we want inweather like this? A nice, light, cold, dinner is ever so much betterfor us than a lot of hot things."We strolled out again into the garden, but somehow things seemed todrag. Conversation was fitful, except on the part of Ukridge, whocontinued to talk easily on all subjects, unconscious of the fact thatthe party was depressed and at least one of his guests rapidlybecoming irritable. I watched the professor furtively as Ukridgetalked on, and that ominous phrase of Mr. Chase's concerning four-point-seven guns kept coming into my mind. If Ukridge were to tread onany of his pet corns, as he might at any minute, there would be anexplosion. The snatching of the dinner from his very mouth, as itwere, and the substitution of a bread-and-cheese and sardines menu hadbrought him to the frame of mind when men turn and rend their nearestand dearest.
　　The sight of the table, when at length we filed into the dining room,sent a chill through me. It was a meal for the very young or the veryhungry. The uncompromising coldness and solidity of the viands wasenough to appall a man conscious that his digestion needed humouring.
　　A huge cheese faced us in almost a swashbuckling way. I do not knowhow else to describe it. It wore a blatant, rakish, /nemo-me-impune-lacessit/ air, and I noticed that the professor shivered slightly ashe saw it. Sardines, looking more oily and uninviting than anything Ihad ever seen, appeared in their native tin beyond the loaf of bread.
　　There was a ham, in its third quarter, and a chicken which hadsuffered heavily during a previous visit to the table. Finally, ablack bottle of whisky stood grimly beside Ukridge's plate. Theprofessor looked the sort of man who drank claret of a special year,or nothing.
　　We got through the meal somehow, and did our best to delude ourselvesinto the idea that it was all great fun; but it was a shallowpretence. The professor was very silent by the time we had finished.
　　Ukridge had been terrible. The professor had forced himself to begenial. He had tried to talk. He had told stories. And when he beganone--his stories would have been the better for a little morebriskness and condensation--Ukridge almost invariably interrupted him,before he had got half way through, without a word of apology, andstarted on some anecdote of his own. He furthermore disagreed withnearly every opinion the professor expressed. It is true that he didit all in such a perfectly friendly way, and was obviously so innocentof any intention of giving offence, that another man--or the same manat a better meal--might have overlooked the matter. But the professor,robbed of his good dinner, was at the stage when he had to attacksomebody. Every moment I had been expecting the storm to burst.
　　It burst after dinner.
　　We were strolling in the garden, when some demon urged Ukridge,apropos of the professor's mention of Dublin, to start upon the Irishquestion. I had been expecting it momentarily, but my heart seemed tostand still when it actually arrived.
　　Ukridge probably knew less about the Irish question than any maleadult in the kingdom, but he had boomed forth some very positiveopinions of his own on the subject before I could get near enough tohim to whisper a warning. When I did, I suppose I must have whisperedlouder than I had intended, for the professor heard me, and my wordsacted as the match to the powder.
　　"He's touchy about Ireland, is he?" he thundered. "Drop it, is it? Andwhy? Why, sir? I'm one of the best tempered men that ever came fromDublin, let me tell you, and I will not stay here to be insulted bythe insinuation that I cannot discuss Ireland as calmly as any one inthis company or out of it. Touchy about Ireland, is it? Touchy--?""But, professor--""Take your hand off my arm, Mr. Garnet. I will not be treated like achild. I am as competent to discuss the affairs of Ireland withoutheat as any man, let me tell you.""Father--""And let me tell you, Mr. Ukridge, that I consider your opinionspoisonous. Poisonous, sir. And you know nothing whatever about thesubject, sir. Every word you say betrays your profound ignorance. Idon't wish to see you or to speak to you again. Understand that, sir.
　　Our acquaintance began to-day, and it will cease to-day. Good-night toyou, sir. Come, Phyllis, me dear. Mrs. Ukridge, good-night."
Chapter 9 Dies Irae
Why is it, I wonder, that stories of Retribution calling at the wrongaddress strike us as funny instead of pathetic? I myself had beenamused by them many a time. In a book which I had read only a few daysbefore our cold-dinner party a shop-woman, annoyed with an omnibusconductor, had thrown a superannuated orange at him. It had found itsbillet not on him but on a perfectly inoffensive spectator. Themissile, said the writer, " 'it a young copper full in the hyeball." Ihad enjoyed this when I read it, but now that Fate had arranged aprecisely similar situation, with myself in the role of the youngcopper, the fun of the thing appealed to me not at all.
　　It was Ukridge who was to blame for the professor's regrettableexplosion and departure, and he ought by all laws of justice to havesuffered for it. As it was, I was the only person materially affected.
　　It did not matter to Ukridge. He did not care twopence one way or theother. If the professor were friendly, he was willing to talk to himby the hour on any subject, pleasant or unpleasant. If, on the otherhand, he wished to have nothing more to do with us, it did not worryhim. He was content to let him go. Ukridge was a self-sufficingperson.
　　But to me it was a serious matter. More than serious. If I have donemy work as historian with an adequate degree of skill, the readershould have gathered by this time the state of my feelings.
　　"I did not love as others do:
　　None ever did that I've heard tell of.
　　My passion was a by-word throughThe town she was, of course, the belle of."At least it was--fortunately--not quite that; but it was certainlygenuine and most disturbing, and it grew with the days. Somebody witha taste for juggling with figures might write a very readable page orso of statistics in connection with the growth of love. In some casesit is, I believe, slow. In my own I can only say that Jack's beanstalkwas a backward plant in comparison. It is true that we had not seen agreat deal of one another, and that, when we had met, our interviewhad been brief and our conversation conventional; but it is theintervals between the meeting that do the real damage. Absence--I donot claim the thought as my own--makes the heart grow fonder. And now,thanks to Ukridge's amazing idiocy, a barrier had been thrust betweenus. Lord knows, the business of fishing for a girl's heart issufficiently difficult and delicate without the addition of needlessobstacles. To cut out the naval miscreant under equal conditions wouldhave been a task ample enough for my modest needs. It was terrible tohave to re-establish myself in the good graces of the professor beforeI could so much as begin to dream of Phyllis. Ukridge gave me no balm.
　　"Well, after all," he said, when I pointed out to him quietly butplainly my opinion of his tactlessness, "what does it matter? OldDerrick isn't the only person in the world. If he doesn't want to knowus, laddie, we just jolly well pull ourselves together and staggeralong without him. It's quite possible to be happy without knowing oldDerrick. Millions of people are going about the world at this moment,singing like larks out of pure light-heartedness, who don't even knowof his existence. And, as a matter of fact, old horse, we haven't timeto waste making friends and being the social pets. Too much to do onthe farm. Strict business is the watchword, my boy. We must be thekeen, tense men of affairs, or, before we know where we are, we shallfind ourselves right in the gumbo.
　　"I've noticed, Garny, old horse, that you haven't been the whale forwork lately that you might be. You must buckle to, laddie. There mustbe no slackness. We are at a critical stage. On our work now dependsthe success of the speculation. Look at those damned cocks. They'realways fighting. Heave a stone at them, laddie, while you're up.
　　What's the matter with you? You seem pipped. Can't get the novel offyour chest, or what? You take my tip and give your brain a rest.
　　Nothing like manual labour for clearing the brain. All the doctors sayso. Those coops ought to be painted to-day or to-morrow. Mind you, Ithink old Derrick would be all right if one persevered--""--and didn't call him a fat little buffer and contradict everythinghe said and spoil all his stories by breaking in with chestnuts ofyour own in the middle," I interrupted with bitterness.
　　"My dear old son, he didn't mind being called a fat little buffer. Youkeep harping on that. It's no discredit to a man to be a fat littlebuffer. Some of the noblest men I have met have been fat littlebuffers. What was the matter with old Derrick was a touch of liver. Isaid to myself, when I saw him eating cheese, 'that fellow's going tohave a nasty shooting pain sooner or later.' I say, laddie, just heaveanother rock or two at those cocks, will you. They'll slay eachother."I had hoped, fearing the while that there was not much chance of sucha thing happening, that the professor might get over his feeling ofinjury during the night and be as friendly as ever next day. But hewas evidently a man who had no objection whatever to letting the sungo down upon his wrath, for when I met him on the following morning onthe beach, he cut me in the most uncompromising manner.
　　Phyllis was with him at the time, and also another girl, who was, Isupposed, from the strong likeness between them, her sister. She hadthe same mass of soft brown hair. But to me she appeared almostcommonplace in comparison.
　　It is never pleasant to be cut dead, even when you have done somethingto deserve it. It is like treading on nothing where one imagined astair to be. In the present instance the pang was mitigated to acertain extent--not largely--by the fact that Phyllis looked at me.
　　She did not move her head, and I could not have declared positivelythat she moved her eyes; but nevertheless she certainly looked at me.
　　It was something. She seemed to say that duty compelled her to followher father's lead, and that the act must not be taken as evidence ofany personal animus.
　　That, at least, was how I read off the message.
　　Two days later I met Mr. Chase in the village.
　　"Hullo, so you're back," I said.
　　"You've discovered my secret," he admitted; "will you have a cigar ora cocoanut?"There was a pause.
　　"Trouble I hear, while I was away," he said.
　　I nodded.
　　"The man I live with, Ukridge, did what you warned me against. Touchedon the Irish question.""Home Rule?""He mentioned it among other things.""And the professor went off?""Like a bomb.""He would. So now you have parted brass rags. It's a pity."I agreed. I am glad to say that I suppressed the desire to ask him touse his influence, if any, with Mr. Derrick to effect areconciliation. I felt that I must play the game. To request one'srival to give one assistance in the struggle, to the end that he maybe the more readily cut out, can hardly be considered cricket.
　　"I ought not to be speaking to you, you know," said Mr. Chase. "You'reunder arrest.""He's still----?" I stopped for a word.
　　"Very much so. I'll do what I can.""It's very good of you.""But the time is not yet ripe. He may be said at present to besimmering down.""I see. Thanks. Good-bye.""So long."And Mr. Chase walked on with long strides to the Cob.
　　The days passed slowly. I saw nothing more of Phyllis or her sister.
　　The professor I met once or twice on the links. I had taken earnestlyto golf in this time of stress. Golf is the game of disappointedlovers. On the other hand, it does not follow that because a man is afailure as a lover he will be any good at all on the links. My gamewas distinctly poor at first. But a round or two put me back into myproper form, which is fair.
　　The professor's demeanour at these accidental meetings on the linkswas a faithful reproduction of his attitude on the beach. Only by astudied imitation of the Absolute Stranger did he show that he hadobserved my presence.
　　Once or twice, after dinner, when Ukridge was smoking one of hisspecial cigars while Mrs. Ukridge nursed Edwin (now moving in societyonce more, and in his right mind), I lit my pipe and walked out acrossthe fields through the cool summer night till I came to the hedge thatshut off the Derrick's grounds. Not the hedge through which I had mademy first entrance, but another, lower, and nearer the house. Standingthere under the shade of a tree I could see the lighted windows of thedrawing-room. Generally there was music inside, and, the windows beingopened on account of the warmth of the night, I was able to makemyself a little more miserable by hearing Phyllis sing. It deepenedthe feeling of banishment.
　　I shall never forget those furtive visits. The intense stillness ofthe night, broken by an occasional rustling in the grass or the hedge;the smell of the flowers in the garden beyond; the distant drone ofthe sea.
　　"God makes sech nights, all white and still,Fur'z you to look and listen."Another day had generally begun before I moved from my hiding-place,and started for home, surprised to find my limbs stiff and my clothesbathed with dew.
Chapter 10 I Enlist The Services Of A Minion
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.
Chapter 11 The Brave Preserver
I could have wished, during the next few days, that Mr. Harry Hawk'sattitude towards myself had not been so unctuously confidential andmysterious. It was unnecessary, in my opinion, for him to grinmeaningly when he met me in the street. His sly wink when we passedeach other on the Cob struck me as in indifferent taste. The thing hadbeen definitely arranged (ten shillings down and ten when it wasover), and there was no need for any cloak and dark-lantern effects. Iobjected strongly to being treated as the villain of a melodrama. Iwas merely an ordinary well-meaning man, forced by circumstances intodoing the work of Providence. Mr. Hawk's demeanour seemed to say, "Weare two reckless scoundrels, but bless you, /I/ won't give away yourguilty secret." The climax came one morning as I was going along thestreet towards the beach. I was passing a dark doorway, when outshimmered Mr. Hawk as if he had been a spectre instead of the mostsubstantial man within a radius of ten miles.
　　" 'St!" He whispered.
　　"Now look here, Hawk," I said wrathfully, for the start he had givenme had made me bite my tongue, "this has got to stop. I refuse to behaunted in this way. What is it now?""Mr. Derrick goes out this morning, zur.""Thank goodness for that," I said. "Get it over this morning, then,without fail. I couldn't stand another day of it."I went on to the Cob, where I sat down. I was excited. Deeds of greatimport must shortly be done. I felt a little nervous. It would neverdo to bungle the thing. Suppose by some accident I were to drown theprofessor! Or suppose that, after all, he contented himself with amere formal expression of thanks, and refused to let bygones bebygones. These things did not bear thinking of.
　　I got up and began to pace restlessly to and fro.
　　Presently from the farther end of the harbour there put off Mr. Hawk'sboat, bearing its precious cargo. My mouth became dry with excitement.
　　Very slowly Mr. Hawk pulled round the end of the Cob, coming to astandstill some dozen yards from where I was performing my beat. Itwas evidently here that the scene of the gallant rescue had beenfixed.
　　My eyes were glued upon Mr. Hawk's broad back. Only when going in tobat at cricket have I experienced a similar feeling of suspense. Theboat lay almost motionless on the water. I had never seen the seasmoother. Little ripples plashed against the side of the Cob.
　　It seemed as if this perfect calm might continue for ever. Mr. Hawkmade no movement. Then suddenly the whole scene changed to one of vastactivity. I heard Mr. Hawk utter a hoarse cry, and saw him plungeviolently in his seat. The professor turned half round, and I caughtsight of his indignant face, pink with emotion. Then the scene changedagain with the rapidity of a dissolving view. I saw Mr. Hawk giveanother plunge, and the next moment the boat was upside down in thewater, and I was shooting headforemost to the bottom, oppressed withthe indescribably clammy sensation which comes when one's clothes arethoroughly wet.
　　I rose to the surface close to the upturned boat. The first sight Isaw was the spluttering face of Mr. Hawk. I ignored him, and swam towhere the professor's head bobbed on the waters.
　　"Keep cool," I said. A silly remark in the circumstances.
　　He was swimming energetically but unskilfully. He appeared to be oneof those men who can look after themselves in the water only when theyare in bathing costume. In his shore clothes it would have taken him aweek to struggle to land, if he had got there at all, which wasunlikely.
　　I know all about saving people from drowning. We used to practise itwith a dummy in the swimming-bath at school. I attacked him from therear, and got a good grip of him by the shoulders. I then swam on myback in the direction of land, and beached him with much /eclat/ atthe feet of an admiring crowd. I had thought of putting him under onceor twice just to show him he was being rescued, but decided againstsuch a source as needlessly realistic. As it was, I fancy he hadswallowed of sea-water two or three hearty draughts.
　　The crowd was enthusiastic.
　　"Brave young feller," said somebody.
　　I blushed. This was Fame.
　　"Jumped in, he did, sure enough, an' saved the gentleman!""Be the old soul drownded?""That girt fule, 'Arry 'Awk!"I was sorry for Mr. Hawk. Popular opinion was against him. What theprofessor said of him, when he recovered his breath, I cannot repeat,--not because I do not remember it, but because there is a line, andone must draw it. Let it be sufficient to say that on the subject ofMr. Hawk he saw eye to eye with the citizen who had described him as a"girt fule." I could not help thinking that my fellow conspirator didwell to keep out of it all. He was now sitting in the boat, which hehad restored to its normal position, baling pensively with an old tincan. To satire from the shore he paid no attention.
　　The professor stood up, and stretched out his hand. I grasped it.
　　"Mr. Garnet," he said, for all the world as if he had been the fatherof the heroine of "Hilda's Hero," "we parted recently in anger. Let methank you for your gallant conduct and hope that bygones will bebygones."I came out strong. I continued to hold his hand. The crowd raised asympathetic cheer.
　　I said, "Professor, the fault was mine. Show that you have forgiven meby coming up to the farm and putting on something dry.""An excellent idea, me boy; I /am/ a little wet.""A little," I agreed.
　　We walked briskly up the hill to the farm.
　　Ukridge met us at the gate.
　　He diagnosed the situation rapidly.
　　"You're all wet," he said. I admitted it.
　　"Professor Derrick has had an unfortunate boating accident," Iexplained.
　　"And Mr. Garnet heroically dived in, in all his clothes, and saved melife," broke in the professor. "A hero, sir. A--/choo/!""You're catching cold, old horse," said Ukridge, all friendliness andconcern, his little differences with the professor having vanishedlike thawed snow. "This'll never do. Come upstairs and get intosomething of Garnet's. My own toggery wouldn't fit. What? Come along,come along, I'll get you some hot water. Mrs. Beale--Mrs. /Beale/! Wewant a large can of hot water. At once. What? Yes, immediately. What?
　　Very well then, as soon as you can. Now then, Garny, my boy, out withthe duds. What do you think of this, now, professor? A sweetly prettything in grey flannel. Here's a shirt. Get out of that wet toggery,and Mrs. Beale shall dry it. Don't attempt to tell me about it tillyou're changed. Socks! Socks forward. Show socks. Here you are. Coat?
　　Try this blazer. That's right--that's right."He bustled about till the professor was clothed, then marched himdownstairs, and gave him a cigar.
　　"Now, what's all this? What happened?"The professor explained. He was severe in his narration upon theunlucky Mr. Hawk.
　　"I was fishing, Mr. Ukridge, with me back turned, when I felt the boatrock violently from one side to the other to such an extent that Inearly lost me equilibrium, and then the boat upset. The man's a fool,sir. I could not see what had happened, my back being turned, as Isay.""Garnet must have seen. What happened, old horse?""It was very sudden," I said. "It seemed to me as if the man had gotan attack of cramp. That would account for it. He has the reputationof being a most sober and trustworthy fellow.""Never trust that sort of man," said Ukridge. "They are always theworst. It's plain to me that this man was beastly drunk, and upset theboat while trying to do a dance.""A great curse, drink," said the professor. "Why, yes, Mr. Ukridge, Ithink I will. Thank you. Thank you. That will be enough. Not all thesoda, if you please. Ah! this tastes pleasanter than salt water, Mr.
　　Garnet. Eh? Eh? Ha--Ha!"He was in the best of tempers, and I worked strenuously to keep himso. My scheme had been so successful that its iniquity did not worryme. I have noticed that this is usually the case in matters of thiskind. It is the bungled crime that brings remorse.
　　"We must go round the links together one of these days, Mr. Garnet,"said the professor. "I have noticed you there on several occasions,playing a strong game. I have lately taken to using a wooden putter.
　　It is wonderful what a difference it makes."Golf is a great bond of union. We wandered about the groundsdiscussing the game, the /entente cordiale/ growing more firmlyestablished every moment.
　　"We must certainly arrange a meeting," concluded the professor. "Ishall be interested to see how we stand with regard to one another. Ihave improved my game considerably since I have been down here.
　　Considerably.""My only feat worthy of mention since I started the game," I said,"has been to halve a round with Angus M'Lurkin at St. Andrews.""/The/ M'Lurkin?" asked the professor, impressed.
　　"Yes. But it was one of his very off days, I fancy. He must have hadgout or something. And I have certainly never played so well since.""Still----," said the professor. "Yes, we must really arrange tomeet."With Ukridge, who was in one of his less tactless moods, he becamevery friendly.
　　Ukridge's ready agreement with his strictures on the erring Hawk had agreat deal to do with this. When a man has a grievance, he feels drawnto those who will hear him patiently and sympathise. Ukridge was allsympathy.
　　"The man is an unprincipled scoundrel," he said, "and should be tornlimb from limb. Take my advice, and don't go out with him again. Showhim that you are not a man to be trifled with. The spilt child dreadsthe water, what? Human life isn't safe with such men as Hawk roamingabout.""You are perfectly right, sir. The man can have no defence. I shallnot employ him again."I felt more than a little guilty while listening to this duet on thesubject of the man whom I had lured from the straight and narrow path.
　　But the professor would listen to no defence. My attempts at excusinghim were ill received. Indeed, the professor shewed such signs ofbecoming heated that I abandoned my fellow-conspirator to his fatewith extreme promptness. After all, an addition to the stipulatedreward--one of these days--would compensate him for any loss which hemight sustain from the withdrawal of the professor's custom. Mr. HarryHawk was in good enough case. I would see that he did not suffer.
　　Filled with these philanthropic feelings, I turned once more to talkwith the professor of niblicks and approach shots and holes done inthree without a brassy. We were a merry party at lunch--a lunchfortunately in Mrs. Beale's best vein, consisting of a roast chickenand sweets. Chicken had figured somewhat frequently of late on ourdaily bill of fare.
　　We saw the professor off the premises in his dried clothes, and Iturned back to put the fowls to bed in a happier frame of mind than Ihad known for a long time. I whistled rag-time airs as I worked.
　　"Rum old buffer," said Ukridge meditatively, pouring himself outanother whisky and soda. "My goodness, I should have liked to haveseen him in the water. Why do I miss these good things?"
Chapter 12 Some Emotions And Yellow Lupin
The fame which came to me through that gallant rescue was a littleembarrassing. I was a marked man. Did I walk through the village,heads emerged from windows, and eyes followed me out of sight. Did Isit on the beach, groups formed behind me and watched in silentadmiration. I was the man of the moment.
　　"If we'd wanted an advertisement for the farm," said Ukridge on one ofthese occasions, "we couldn't have had a better one than you, Garny,my boy. You have brought us three distinct orders for eggs during thelast week. And I'll tell you what it is, we need all the orders we canget that'll bring us in ready money. The farm is in a criticalcondition. The coffers are low, deuced low. And I'll tell you anotherthing. I'm getting precious tired of living on nothing but chicken andeggs. So's Millie, though she doesn't say so.""So am I," I said, "and I don't feel like imitating your wife's proudreserve. I never want to see a chicken again. As for eggs, they arefar too much for us."For the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat.
　　We had had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken andeggs for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. Meals became anuisance, and Mrs. Beale complained bitterly that we did not give hera chance. She was a cook who would have graced an alderman's house andserved up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this remotecorner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and roastchicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. Mr. Whistler, set to paintsign-boards for public-houses, might have felt the same restlessdiscontent. As for her husband, the Hired Retainer, he took life astranquilly as ever, and seemed to regard the whole thing as the mostexhilarating farce he had ever been in. I think he looked on Ukridgeas an amiable lunatic, and was content to rough it a little in orderto enjoy the privilege of observing his movements. He made nocomplaints of the food. When a man has supported life for a number ofyears on incessant Army beef, the monotony of daily chicken and eggsscarcely strikes him.
　　"The fact is," said Ukridge, "these tradesmen round here seem to be asordid, suspicious lot. They clamour for money."He mentioned a few examples. Vickers, the butcher, had been the firstto strike, with the remark that he would like to see the colour of Mr.
　　Ukridge's money before supplying further joints. Dawlish, the grocer,had expressed almost exactly similar sentiments two days later; andthe ranks of these passive resisters had been receiving fresh recruitsever since. To a man the tradesmen of Combe Regis seemed as deficientin Simple Faith as they were in Norman Blood.
　　"Can't you pay some of them a little on account?" I suggested. "Itwould set them going again.""My dear old man," said Ukridge impressively, "we need every penny ofready money we can raise for the farm. The place simply eats money.
　　That infernal roop let us in for I don't know what."That insidious epidemic had indeed proved costly. We had painted thethroats of the chickens with the best turpentine--at least Ukridge andBeale had,--but in spite of their efforts, dozens had died, and we hadbeen obliged to sink much more money than was pleasant in restockingthe run. The battle which took place on the first day after theelection of the new members was a sight to remember. The results of itwere still noticeable in the depressed aspect of certain of therecently enrolled.
　　"No," said Ukridge, summing up, "these men must wait. We can't helptheir troubles. Why, good gracious, it isn't as if they'd been waitingfor the money long. We've not been down here much over a month. Inever heard of such a scandalous thing. 'Pon my word, I've a good mindto go round, and have a straight talk with one or two of them. I comeand settle down here, and stimulate trade, and give them large orders,and they worry me with bills when they know I'm up to my eyes in work,looking after the fowls. One can't attend to everything. The businessis just now at its most crucial point. It would be fatal to pay anyattention to anything else with things as they are. These scoundrelswill get paid all in good time."It is a peculiarity of situations of this kind that the ideas ofdebtor and creditor as to what constitutes a good time never coincide.
　　* * * * *I am afraid that, despite the urgent need for strict attention tobusiness, I was inclined to neglect my duties about this time. I hadgot into the habit of wandering off, either to the links, where Igenerally found the professor, sometimes Phyllis, or on long walks bymyself. There was one particular walk along the cliffs, through someof the most beautiful scenery I have ever set eyes on, which more thanany other suited my mood. I would work my way through the woods till Icame to a small clearing on the very edge of the cliff. There I wouldsit and smoke by the hour. If ever I am stricken with smoker's heart,or staggers, or tobacco amblyopia, or any other of the cheery thingswhich doctors predict for the devotee of the weed, I shall feel that Isowed the seeds of it that summer in that little clearing overlookingthe sea. A man in love needs much tobacco. A man thinking out a novelneeds much tobacco. I was in the grip of both maladies. Somehow Ifound that my ideas flowed more readily in that spot than in anyother.
　　I had not been inside the professor's grounds since the occasion whenI had gone in through the box-wood hedge. But on the afternoonfollowing my financial conversation with Ukridge I made my waythither, after a toilet which, from its length, should have producedbetter results than it did. Not for four whole days had I caught somuch as a glimpse of Phyllis. I had been to the links three times, andhad met the professor twice, but on both occasions she had beenabsent. I had not had the courage to ask after her. I had an absurdidea that my voice or my manner would betray me in some way. I feltthat I should have put the question with such an exaggerated show ofindifference that all would have been discovered.
　　The professor was not at home. Nor was Mr. Chase. Nor was Miss NorahDerrick, the lady I had met on the beach with the professor. MissPhyllis, said the maid, was in the garden.
　　I went into the garden. She was sitting under the cedar by the tennis-lawn, reading. She looked up as I approached.
　　I said it was a lovely afternoon. After which there was a lull in theconversation. I was filled with a horrid fear that I was boring her. Ihad probably arrived at the very moment when she was most interestedin her book. She must, I thought, even now be regarding me as anuisance, and was probably rehearsing bitter things to say to the maidfor not having had the sense to explain that she was out.
　　"I--er--called in the hope of seeing Professor Derrick," I said.
　　"You would find him on the links," she replied. It seemed to me thatshe spoke wistfully.
　　"Oh, it--it doesn't matter," I said. "It wasn't anything important."This was true. If the professor had appeared then and there, I shouldhave found it difficult to think of anything to say to him which wouldhave accounted to any extent for my anxiety to see him.
　　"How are the chickens, Mr. Garnet?" said she.
　　The situation was saved. Conversationally, I am like a clockwork toy.
　　I have to be set going. On the affairs of the farm I could speakfluently. I sketched for her the progress we had made since her visit.
　　I was humorous concerning roop, epigrammatic on the subject of theHired Retainer and Edwin.
　　"Then the cat did come down from the chimney?" said Phyllis.
　　We both laughed, and--I can answer for myself--I felt the better forit.
　　"He came down next day," I said, "and made an excellent lunch of oneof our best fowls. He also killed another, and only just escaped deathhimself at the hands of Ukridge.""Mr. Ukridge doesn't like him, does he?""If he does, he dissembles his love. Edwin is Mrs. Ukridge's pet. Heis the only subject on which they disagree. Edwin is certainly in theway on a chicken farm. He has got over his fear of Bob, and is nowperfectly lawless. We have to keep a steady eye on him.""And have you had any success with the incubator? I love incubators. Ihave always wanted to have one of my own, but we have never keptfowls.""The incubator has not done all that it should have done," I said.
　　"Ukridge looks after it, and I fancy his methods are not the rightmethods. I don't know if I have got the figures absolutely correct,but Ukridge reasons on these lines. He says you are supposed to keepthe temperature up to a hundred and five degrees. I think he said ahundred and five. Then the eggs are supposed to hatch out in a week orso. He argues that you may just as well keep the temperature atseventy-two, and wait a fortnight for your chickens. I am certainthere's a fallacy in the system somewhere, because we never seem toget as far as the chickens. But Ukridge says his theory ismathematically sound, and he sticks to it.""Are you quite sure that the way you are doing it is the best way tomanage a chicken farm?""I should very much doubt it. I am a child in these matters. I hadonly seen a chicken in its wild state once or twice before we camedown here. I had never dreamed of being an active assistant on a realfarm. The whole thing began like Mr. George Ade's fable of the Author.
　　An Author--myself--was sitting at his desk trying to turn out any oldthing that could be converted into breakfast-food when a friend camein and sat down on the table, and told him to go right on and not mindhim.""Did Mr. Ukridge do that?""Very nearly that. He called at my rooms one beautiful morning when Iwas feeling desperately tired of London and overworked and dying for aholiday, and suggested that I should come to Combe Regis with him andhelp him farm chickens. I have not regretted it.""It is a lovely place, isn't it?""The loveliest I have ever seen. How charming your garden is.""Shall we go and look at it? You have not seen the whole of it."As she rose, I saw her book, which she had laid face downwards on thegrass beside her. It was the same much-enduring copy of the"Manoeuvres of Arthur." I was thrilled. This patient perseverance mustsurely mean something. She saw me looking at it.
　　"Did you draw Pamela from anybody?" she asked suddenly.
　　I was glad now that I had not done so. The wretched Pamela, once mypride, was for some reason unpopular with the only critic about whoseopinion I cared, and had fallen accordingly from her pedestal.
　　As we wandered down from the garden paths, she gave me her opinion ofthe book. In the main it was appreciative. I shall always associatethe scent of yellow lupin with the higher criticism.
　　"Of course, I don't know anything about writing books," she said.
　　"Yes?" my tone implied, or I hope it did, that she was an expert onbooks, and that if she was not it didn't matter.
　　"But I don't think you do your heroines well. I have just got 'TheOutsider--' " (My other novel. Bastable & Kirby, 6s. Satirical. Allabout Society--of which I know less than I know about chicken-farming.
　　Slated by /Times/ and /Spectator/. Well received by /London Mail/ and/Winning Post/)--"and," continued Phyllis, "Lady Maud is exactly thesame as Pamela in the 'Manoeuvres of Arthur.' I thought you must havedrawn both characters from some one you knew.""No," I said. "No. Purely imaginary.""I am so glad," said Phyllis.
　　And then neither of us seemed to have anything to say. My knees beganto tremble. I realised that the moment had arrived when my fate mustbe put to the touch; and I feared that the moment was premature. Wecannot arrange these things to suit ourselves. I knew that the timewas not yet ripe; but the magic scent of the yellow lupin was too muchfor me.
　　"Miss Derrick," I said hoarsely.
　　Phyllis was looking with more intentness than the attractions of theflower justified at a rose she held in her hand. The bee hummed in thelupin.
　　"Miss Derrick," I said, and stopped again.
　　"I say, you people," said a cheerful voice, "tea is ready. Hullo,Garnet, how are you? That medal arrived yet from the Humane Society?"I spun round. Mr. Tom Chase was standing at the end of the path. Theonly word that could deal adequately with the situation slappedagainst my front teeth. I grinned a sickly grin.
　　"Well, Tom," said Phyllis.
　　And there was, I thought, just the faintest tinkle of annoyance in hervoice.
　　* * * * *"I've been bathing," said Mr. Chase, /a propos des bottes/.
　　"Oh," I replied. "And I wish," I added, "that you'd drowned yourself."But I added it silently to myself.
Chapter 13 Tea And Tennis
"Met the professor's late boatman on the Cob," said Mr. Chase,dissecting a chocolate cake.
　　"Clumsy man," said Phyllis. "I hope he was ashamed of himself. I shallnever forgive him for trying to drown papa."My heart bled for Mr. Henry Hawk, that modern martyr.
　　"When I met him," said Tom Chase, "he looked as if he had been tryingto drown his sorrow as well.""I knew he drank," said Phyllis severely, "the very first time I sawhim.""You might have warned the professor," murmured Mr. Chase.
　　"He couldn't have upset the boat if he had been sober.""You never know. He may have done it on purpose.""Tom, how absurd.""Rather rough on the man, aren't you?" I said.
　　"Merely a suggestion," continued Mr. Chase airily. "I've been readingsensational novels lately, and it seems to me that Mr. Hawk's cut outto be a minion. Probably some secret foe of the professor's bribedhim."My heart stood still. Did he know, I wondered, and was this all aroundabout way of telling me he knew?
　　"The professor may be a member of an Anarchist League, or something,and this is his punishment for refusing to assassinate somesportsman.""Have another cup of tea, Tom, and stop talking nonsense."Mr. Chase handed in his cup.
　　"What gave me the idea that the upset was done on purpose was this. Isaw the whole thing from the Ware Cliff. The spill looked to me justlike dozens I had seen at Malta.""Why do they upset themselves on purpose at Malta particularly?"inquired Phyllis.
　　"Listen carefully, my dear, and you'll know more about the ways of theNavy that guards your coasts than you did before. When men are allowedon shore at Malta, the owner has a fancy to see them snugly on boardagain at a certain reasonable hour. After that hour any Maltesepoliceman who brings them aboard gets one sovereign, cash. But he hasto do all the bringing part of it on his own. Consequence is, you seeboats rowing out to the ship, carrying men who have overstayed theirleave; and when they get near enough, the able-bodied gentleman incustody jumps to his feet, upsets the boat, and swims for the gangway.
　　The policemen, if they aren't drowned--they sometimes are--race him,and whichever gets there first wins. If it's the policeman, he getshis sovereign. If it's the sailor, he is considered to have arrivednot in a state of custody and gets off easier. What a judicious remarkthat was of the governor of North Carolina to the governor of SouthCarolina, respecting the length of time between drinks. Just one morecup, please, Phyllis.""But how does all that apply?" I asked, dry-mouthed.
　　"Mr. Hawk upset the professor just as those Maltese were upset.
　　There's a patent way of doing it. Furthermore, by judiciousquestioning, I found that Hawk was once in the Navy, and stationed atMalta. /Now/, who's going to drag in Sherlock Holmes?""You don't really think--?" I said, feeling like a criminal in thedock when the case is going against him.
　　"I think friend Hawk has been re-enacting the joys of his vanishedyouth, so to speak.""He ought to be prosecuted," said Phyllis, blazing with indignation.
　　Alas, poor Hawk!
　　"Nobody's safe with a man of that sort, hiring out a boat." Oh,miserable Hawk!
　　"But why on earth should he play a trick like that on ProfessorDerrick, Chase?""Pure animal spirits, probably. Or he may, as I say, be a minion."I was hot all over.
　　"I shall tell father that," said Phyllis in her most decided voice,"and see what he says. I don't wonder at the man taking to drink afterdoing such a thing.""I--I think you're making a mistake," I said.
　　"I never make mistakes," Mr. Chase replied. "I am called Archibald theAll-Right, for I am infallible. I propose to keep a reflective eyeupon the jovial Hawk."He helped himself to another section of the chocolate cake.
　　"Haven't you finished /yet/, Tom?" inquired Phyllis. "I'm sure Mr.
　　Garnet's getting tired of sitting talking here," she said.
　　I shot out a polite negative. Mr. Chase explained with his mouth fullthat he had by no means finished. Chocolate cake, it appeared, was thedream of his life. When at sea he was accustomed to lie awake o'
　　nights thinking of it.
　　"You don't seem to realise," he said, "that I have just come from acruise on a torpedo-boat. There was such a sea on as a rule thatcooking operations were entirely suspended, and we lived on ham andsardines--without bread.""How horrible!""On the other hand," added Mr. Chase philosophically, "it didn'tmatter much, because we were all ill most of the time.""Don't be nasty, Tom.""I was merely defending myself. I hope Mr. Hawk will be able to do aswell when his turn comes. My aim, my dear Phyllis, is to show you in aseries of impressionist pictures the sort of thing I have to gothrough when I'm not here. Then perhaps you won't rend me so savagelyover a matter of five minutes' lateness for breakfast.""Five minutes! It was three-quarters of an hour, and everything wassimply frozen.""Quite right too in weather like this. You're a slave to convention,Phyllis. You think breakfast ought to be hot, so you always have ithot. On occasion I prefer mine cold. Mine is the truer wisdom. You cangive the cook my compliments, Phyllis, and tell her--gently, for Idon't wish the glad news to overwhelm her--that I enjoyed that cake.
　　Say that I shall be glad to hear from her again. Care for a game oftennis, Garnet?""What a pity Norah isn't here," said Phyllis. "We could have had afour.""But she is a present wasting her sweetness on the desert air ofYeovil. You had better sit down and watch us, Phyllis. Tennis in thissort of weather is no job for the delicately-nurtured feminine. I willexplain the finer points of my play as we go on. Look out particularlyfor the Tilden Back-Handed Slosh. A winner every time."We proceeded to the tennis court. I played with the sun in my eyes. Imight, if I chose, emphasise that fact, and attribute my subsequentrout to it, adding, by way of solidifying the excuse, that I wasplaying in a strange court with a borrowed racquet, and that my mindwas preoccupied--firstly, with /l'affaire/ Hawk, secondly, andchiefly, with the gloomy thought that Phyllis and my opponent seemedto be on friendly terms with each other. Their manner at tea had beenalmost that of an engaged couple. There was a thorough understandingbetween them. I will not, however, take refuge behind excuses. Iadmit, without qualifying the statement, that Mr. Chase was too goodfor me. I had always been under the impression that lieutenants in theRoyal Navy were not brilliant at tennis. I had met them at varioushouses, but they had never shone conspicuously. They had played anearnest, unobtrusive game, and generally seemed glad when it was over.
　　Mr. Chase was not of this sort. His service was bottled lightning. Hisreturns behaved like jumping crackers. He won the first game inprecisely six strokes. He served. Only once did I take the servicewith the full face of the racquet, and then I seemed to be stopping abullet. I returned it into the net. The last of the series struck thewooden edge of my racquet, and soared over the back net into theshrubbery, after the manner of a snick to long slip off a fast bowler.
　　"Game," said Mr. Chase, "we'll look for that afterwards."I felt a worm and no man. Phyllis, I thought, would probably judge myentire character from this exhibition. A man, she would reflect, whocould be so feeble and miserable a failure at tennis, could not begood for much in any department of life. She would compare meinstinctively with my opponent, and contrast his dash and brilliancewith my own inefficiency. Somehow the massacre was beginning to have abad effect on my character. All my self-respect was ebbing. A littlemore of this, and I should become crushed,--a mere human jelly. It wasmy turn to serve. Service is my strong point at tennis. I aminaccurate, but vigorous, and occasionally send in a quite unplayableshot. One or two of these, even at the expense of a fault or so, and Imight be permitted to retain at least a portion of my self-respect.
　　I opened with a couple of faults. The sight of Phyllis, sitting calmand cool in her chair under the cedar, unnerved me. I served anotherfault. And yet another.
　　"Here, I say, Garnet," observed Mr. Chase plaintively, "do put me outof this hideous suspense. I'm becoming a mere bundle of quiveringganglions."I loathe facetiousness in moments of stress.
　　I frowned austerely, made no reply, and served another fault, myfifth.
　　Matters had reached a crisis. Even if I had to lob it underhand, Imust send the ball over the net with the next stroke.
　　I restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigour which hadmarked my previous efforts. The ball flew in a slow semicircle, andpitched inside the correct court. At least, I told myself, I had notserved a fault.
　　What happened then I cannot exactly say. I saw my opponent springforward like a panther and whirl his racquet. The next moment the backnet was shaking violently, and the ball was rolling swiftly along theground on a return journey to the other court.
　　"Love-forty," said Mr. Chase. "Phyllis!""Yes?""That was the Tilden Slosh.""I thought it must be," said Phyllis.
　　In the third game I managed to score fifteen. By the merest chance Ireturned one of his red-hot serves, and--probably through surprise--hefailed to send it back again.
　　In the fourth and fifth games I omitted to score. Phyllis had left thecedar now, and was picking flowers from the beds behind the court.
　　We began the sixth game. And now for some reason I played really well.
　　I struck a little vein of brilliance. I was serving, and this time aproportion of my serves went over the net instead of trying to getthrough. The score went from fifteen all to forty-fifteen. Hope beganto surge through my veins. If I could keep this up, I might win yet.
　　The Tilden Slosh diminished my lead by fifteen. Then I got in a reallyfine serve, which beat him. 'Vantage In. Another Slosh. Deuce. AnotherSlam. 'Vantage out. It was an awesome moment. There is a tide in theaffairs of men, which, taken by the flood--I served. Fault. I servedagain,--a beauty. He returned it like a flash into the corner of thecourt. With a supreme effort I got to it. We rallied. I was playinglike a professor. Then whizz--!
　　The Slosh had beaten me on the post.
　　"Game /and/--," said Mr. Chase, tossing his racquet into the air andcatching it by the handle. "Good game that last one."I turned to see what Phyllis thought of it.
　　At the eleventh hour I had shown her of what stuff I was made.
　　She had disappeared.
　　"Looking for Miss Derrick?" said Chase, jumping the net, and joiningme in my court, "she's gone into the house.""When did she go?""At the end of the fifth game," said Chase.
　　"Gone to dress for dinner, I suppose," he continued. "It must begetting late. I think I ought to be going, too, if you don't mind. Theprofessor gets a little restive if I keep him waiting for his dailybread. Great Scott, that watch can't be right! What do you make of it?
　　Yes, so do I. I really think I must run. You won't mind. Good-night,then. See you to-morrow, I hope."I walked slowly out across the fields. That same star, in which I hadconfided on a former occasion, was at its post. It looked placid andcheerful. /It/ never got beaten by six games to love under the veryeyes of a lady-star. /It/ was never cut out ignominiously byinfernally capable lieutenants in His Majesty's Navy. No wonder it wascheerful.
Chapter 14 A Council Of War
"The fact is," said Ukridge, "if things go on as they are now, my lad,we shall be in the cart. This business wants bucking up. We don't seemto be making headway. Why it is, I don't know, but we are /not/ makingheadway. Of course, what we want is time. If only these scoundrels oftradesmen would leave us alone for a spell we could get things goingproperly. But we're hampered and rattled and worried all the time.
　　Aren't we, Millie?""Yes, dear.""You don't let me see the financial side of the thing enough," Icomplained. "Why don't you keep me thoroughly posted? I didn't know wewere in such a bad way. The fowls look fit enough, and Edwin hasn'thad one for a week.""Edwin knows as well as possible when he's done wrong, Mr. Garnet,"said Mrs. Ukridge. "He was so sorry after he had killed those othertwo.""Yes," said Ukridge, "I saw to that.""As far as I can see," I continued, "we're going strong. Chicken forbreakfast, lunch, and dinner is a shade monotonous, perhaps, but lookat the business we're doing. We sold a whole heap of eggs last week.""But not enough, Garny old man. We aren't making our presence felt.
　　England isn't ringing with our name. We sell a dozen eggs where we oughtto be selling them by the hundred, carting them off in trucks for theLondon market and congesting the traffic. Harrod's and Whiteley's andthe rest of them are beginning to get on their hind legs and talk.
　　That's what they're doing. Devilish unpleasant they're makingthemselves. You see, laddie, there's no denying it--we /did/ touchthem for the deuce of a lot of things on account, and they agreed totake it out in eggs. All they've done so far is to take it out inapologetic letters from Millie. Now, I don't suppose there's a womanalive who can write a better apologetic letter than her nibs, but, ifyou're broad-minded and can face facts, you can't help seeing that thejuiciest apologetic letter is not an egg. I meant to say, look at itfrom their point of view. Harrod--or Whiteley--comes into his store inthe morning, rubbing his hands expectantly. 'Well,' he says, 'how manyeggs from Combe Regis to-day?' And instead of leading him off to acorner piled up with bursting crates, they show him a four-page lettertelling him it'll all come right in the future. I've never run a storemyself, but I should think that would jar a chap. Anyhow, theblighters seem to be getting tired of waiting.""The last letter from Harrod's was quite pathetic," said Mrs. Ukridgesadly.
　　I had a vision of an eggless London. I seemed to see homes rendereddesolate and lives embittered by the slump, and millionaires biddingagainst one another for the few rare specimens which Ukridge hadactually managed to despatch to Brompton and Bayswater.
　　Ukridge, having induced himself to be broad-minded for five minutes,now began to slip back to his own personal point of view and becameonce more the man with a grievance. His fleeting sympathy with thewrongs of Mr. Harrod and Mr. Whiteley disappeared.
　　"What it all amounts to," he said complainingly, "is that they'reinfernally unreasonable. I've done everything possible to meet them.
　　Nothing could have been more manly and straightforward than myattitude. I told them in my last letter but three that I proposed tolet them have the eggs on the /Times/ instalment system, and they saidI was frivolous. They said that to send thirteen eggs as payment forgoods supplied to the value of 25 pounds 1s. 8 1/2 d. was mere trifling.
　　Trifling, I'll trouble you! That's the spirit in which they meet mysuggestions. It was Harrod who did that. I've never met Harrodpersonally, but I'd like to, just to ask him if that's his idea ofcementing amiable business relations. He knows just as well as anyoneelse that without credit commerce has no elasticity. It's anelementary rule. I'll bet he'd have been sick if chappies had refusedto let him have tick when he was starting his store. Do you supposeHarrod, when he started in business, paid cash down on the nail foreverything? Not a bit of it. He went about taking people by the coat-button and asking them to be good chaps and wait till Wednesday week.
　　Trifling! Why, those thirteen eggs were absolutely all we had overafter Mrs. Beale had taken what she wanted for the kitchen. As amatter of fact, if it's anybody's fault, it's Mrs. Beale's. That womanliterally eats eggs.""The habit is not confined to her," I said.
　　"Well, what I mean to say is, she seems to bathe in them.""She says she needs so many for puddings, dear," said Mrs. Ukridge. "Ispoke to her about it yesterday. And of course, we often haveomelettes.""She can't make omelettes without breaking eggs," I urged.
　　"She can't make them without breaking us, dammit," said Ukridge. "Oneor two more omelettes, and we're done for. No fortune on earth couldstand it. We mustn't have any more omelettes, Millie. We musteconomise. Millions of people get on all right without omelettes. Isuppose there are families where, if you suddenly produced anomelette, the whole strength of the company would get up and cheer,led by father. Cancel the omelettes, old girl, from now onward.""Yes, dear. But--""Well?""I don't /think/ Mrs. Beale would like that very much, dear. She hasbeen complaining a good deal about chicken at every meal. She saysthat the omelettes are the only things that give her a chance. Shesays there are always possibilities in an omelette.""In short," I said, "what you propose to do is deliberately to removefrom this excellent lady's life the one remaining element of poetry.
　　You mustn't do it. Give Mrs. Beale her omelettes, and let's hope for alarger supply of eggs.""Another thing," said Ukridge. "It isn't only that there's a shortageof eggs. That wouldn't matter so much if only we kept hatching outfresh squads of chickens. I'm not saying the hens aren't doing theirbest. I take off my hat to the hens. As nice a hard-working lot as Iever want to meet, full of vigour and earnestness. It's that damnedincubator that's letting us down all the time. The rotten thing won'twork. /I/ don't know what's the matter with it. The long and the shortof it is that it simply declines to incubate.""Perhaps it's your dodge of letting down the temperature. Youremember, you were telling me? I forget the details.""My dear old boy," he said earnestly, "there's nothing wrong with myfigures. It's a mathematical certainty. What's the good of mathematicsif not to help you work out that sort of thing? No, there's somethingdeuced wrong with the machine itself, and I shall probably make acomplaint to the people I got it from. Where did we get the incubator,old girl?""Harrod's, I think, dear,--yes, it was Harrod's. It came down with thefirst lot of things.""Then," said Ukridge, banging the table with his fist, while hisglasses flashed triumph, "we've got 'em. The Lord has deliveredHarrod's into our hand. Write and answer that letter of theirs to-night, Millie. Sit on them.""Yes, dear.""Tell 'em that we'd have sent them their confounded eggs long ago, ifonly their rotten, twopenny-ha'penny incubator had worked with anyapproach to decency." He paused. "Or would you be sarcastic, Garny,old horse? No, better put it so that they'll understand. Say that Iconsider that the manufacturer of the thing ought to be in ColneyHatch--if he isn't there already--and that they are scoundrels forpalming off a groggy machine of that sort on me.""The ceremony of opening the morning's letters at Harrod's ought to befull of interest and excitement to-morrow," I said.
　　This dashing counter-stroke seemed to relieve Ukridge. His pessimismvanished. He seldom looked on the dark side of things for long at atime. He began now to speak hopefully of the future. He planned outingenious improvements. Our fowls were to multiply so rapidly andconsistently that within a short space of time Dorsetshire would bepaved with them. Our eggs were to increase in size till they brokerecords and got three-line notices in the "Items of Interest" columnin the /Daily Mail/. Briefly, each hen was to become a happycombination of rabbit and ostrich.
　　"There is certainly a good time coming," I said. "May it be soon.
　　Meanwhile, what of the local tradesmen?"Ukridge relapsed once more into gloom.
　　"They are the worst of the lot. I don't mind the London people somuch. They only write, and a letter or two hurts nobody. But when itcomes to butchers and bakers and grocers and fishmongers andfruiterers and what not coming up to one's house and dunning one inone's own garden,--well it's a little hard, what?""Oh, then those fellows I found you talking to yesterday were duns? Ithought they were farmers, come to hear your views on the rearing ofpoultry.""Which were they? Little chap with black whiskers and long, thin manwith beard? That was Dawlish, the grocer, and Curtis, the fishmonger.
　　The others had gone before you came."It may be wondered why, before things came to such a crisis, I had notplaced my balance at the bank at the disposal of the senior partnerfor use on behalf of the farm. The fact was that my balance was at themoment small. I have not yet in the course of this narrative gone intomy pecuniary position, but I may state here that it was aninconvenient one. It was big with possibilities, but of ready cashthere was but a meagre supply. My parents had been poor. But I had awealthy uncle. Uncles are notoriously careless of the comfort of theirnephews. Mine was no exception. He had views. He was a great believerin matrimony, as, having married three wives--not simultaneously--hehad every right to be. He was also of opinion that the less money theyoung bachelor possessed, the better. The consequence was that heannounced his intention of giving me a handsome allowance from the daythat I married, but not an instant before. Till that glad day I wouldhave to shift for myself. And I am bound to admit that--for an uncle--it was a remarkably sensible idea. I am also of the opinion that it isgreatly to my credit, and a proof of my pure and unmercenary nature,that I did not instantly put myself up to be raffled for, or rush outinto the streets and propose marriage to the first lady I met. But Iwas making quite enough with my pen to support myself, and, be itnever so humble, there is something pleasant in a bachelor existence,or so I had thought until very recently.
　　I had thus no great stake in Ukridge's chicken farm. I had contributeda modest five pounds to the preliminary expenses, and another fiveafter the roop incident. But further I could not go with safety. Whenhis income is dependent on the whims of editors and publishers, theprudent man keeps something up his sleeve against a sudden slump inhis particular wares. I did not wish to have to make a hurried choicebetween matrimony and the workhouse.
　　Having exhausted the subject of finance--or, rather, when I began tofeel that it was exhausting me--I took my clubs, and strolled up thehill to the links to play off a match with a sportsman from thevillage. I had entered some days previously for a competition for atrophy (I quote the printed notice) presented by a local supporter ofthe game, in which up to the present I was getting on nicely. I hadsurvived two rounds, and expected to beat my present opponent, whichwould bring me into the semi-final. Unless I had bad luck, I felt thatI ought to get into the final, and win it. As far as I could gatherfrom watching the play of my rivals, the professor was the best ofthem, and I was convinced that I should have no difficulty with him.
　　But he had the most extraordinary luck at golf, though he neveradmitted it. He also exercised quite an uncanny influence on hisopponent. I have seen men put completely off their stroke by his goodfortune.
　　I disposed of my man without difficulty. We parted a little coldly. Hehad decapitated his brassy on the occasion of his striking Dorsetshireinstead of his ball, and he was slow in recovering from the complexemotions which such an episode induces.
　　In the club-house I met the professor, whose demeanour was a welcomecontrast to that of my late opponent. The professor had just routedhis opponent, and so won through to the semi-final. He was warm, butjubilant.
　　I congratulated him, and left the place.
　　Phyllis was waiting outside. She often went round the course with him.
　　"Good afternoon," I said. "Have you been round with the professor?""Yes. We must have been in front of you. Father won his match.""So he was telling me. I was very glad to hear it.""Did you win, Mr. Garnet?""Yes. Pretty easily. My opponent had bad luck all through. Bunkersseemed to have a magnetic attraction for him.""So you and father are both in the semi-final? I hope you will playvery badly.""Thank you," I said.
　　"Yes, it does sound rude, doesn't it? But father has set his heart onwinning this year. Do you know that he has played in the final roundtwo years running now?""Really?""Both times he was beaten by the same man.""Who was that? Mr. Derrick plays a much better game than anybody Ihave seen on these links.""It was nobody who is here now. It was a Colonel Jervis. He has notcome to Combe Regis this year. That's why father is hopeful.""Logically," I said, "he ought to be certain to win.""Yes; but, you see, you were not playing last year, Mr. Garnet.""Oh, the professor can make rings round me," I said.
　　"What did you go round in to-day?""We were playing match-play, and only did the first dozen holes; butmy average round is somewhere in the late eighties.""The best father has ever done is ninety, and that was only once. Soyou see, Mr. Garnet, there's going to be another tragedy this year.""You make me feel a perfect brute. But it's more than likely, you mustremember, that I shall fail miserably if I ever do play your father inthe final. There are days when I play golf as badly as I play tennis.
　　You'll hardly believe me."She smiled reminiscently.
　　"Tom is much too good at tennis. His service is perfectly dreadful.""It's a little terrifying on first acquaintance.""But you're better at golf than at tennis, Mr. Garnet. I wish you werenot.""This is special pleading," I said. "It isn't fair to appeal to mybetter feelings, Miss Derrick.""I didn't know golfers had any where golf was concerned. Do you reallyhave your off-days?""Nearly always. There are days when I slice with my driver as if itwere a bread-knife.""Really?""And when I couldn't putt to hit a haystack.""Then I hope it will be on one of those days that you play father.""I hope so, too," I said.
　　"You hope so?""Yes.""But don't you want to win?""I should prefer to please you.""Really, how very unselfish of you, Mr. Garnet," she replied, with alaugh. "I had no idea that such chivalry existed. I thought a golferwould sacrifice anything to win a game.""Most things.""And trample on the feelings of anybody.""Not everybody," I said.
　　At this point the professor joined us.
Chapter 15 The Arrival Of Nemesis
Some people do not believe in presentiments. They attribute thatcurious feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to suchmundane causes as liver, or a chill, or the weather. For my own part,I think there is more in the matter than the casual observer mightimagine.
　　I awoke three days after my meeting with the professor at the club-house, filled with a dull foreboding. Somehow I seemed to know thatthat day was going to turn out badly for me. It may have been liver ora chill, but it was certainly not the weather. The morning wasperfect,--the most glorious of a glorious summer. There was a hazeover the valley and out to sea which suggested a warm noon, when thesun should have begun the serious duties of the day. The birds weresinging in the trees and breakfasting on the lawn, while Edwin, seatedon one of the flower-beds, watched them with the eye of a connoisseur.
　　Occasionally, when a sparrow hopped in his direction, he would make asudden spring, and the bird would fly away to the other side of thelawn. I had never seen Edwin catch a sparrow. I believe they looked onhim as a bit of a crank, and humoured him by coming within springingdistance, just to keep him amused. Dashing young cock-sparrows wouldshow off before their particular hen-sparrows, and earn a cheapreputation for dare-devilry by going within so many years of Edwin'slair, and then darting away. Bob was in his favourite place on thegravel. I took him with me down to the Cob to watch me bathe.
　　"What's the matter with me to-day, Robert, old son?" I asked him, as Idried myself.
　　He blinked lazily, but contributed no suggestion.
　　"It's no good looking bored," I went on, "because I'm going to talkabout myself, however much it bores you. Here am I, as fit as a prize-fighter, living in the open air for I don't know how long, eating goodplain food--bathing every morning--sea-bathing, mind you--and yetwhat's the result? I feel beastly."Bob yawned, and gave a little whine.
　　"Yes," I said, "I know I'm in love. But that can't be it, because Iwas in love just as much a week ago, and I felt all right then. Butisn't she an angel, Bob? Eh? Isn't she? And didn't you feel buckedwhen she patted you? Of course you did. Anybody would. But how aboutTom Chase? Don't you think he's a dangerous man? He calls her by herChristian name, you know, and behaves generally as if she belonged tohim. And then he sees her every day, while I have to trust to meetingher at odd times, and then I generally feel such a fool I can't thinkof anything to talk about except golf and the weather. He probablysings duets with her after dinner, and you know what comes of duetsafter dinner."Here Bob, who had been trying for some time to find a decent excusefor getting away, pretended to see something of importance at theother end of the Cob, and trotted off to investigate it, leaving me tofinish dressing by myself.
　　"Of course," I said to myself, "It may be merely hunger. I may be allright after breakfast. But at present I seem to be working up for areally fine fit if the blues. I feel bad."I whistled to Bob, and started for home. On the beach I saw theprofessor some little distance away, and waved my towel in a friendlymanner. He made no reply.
　　Of course, it was possible that he had not seen me; but for somereason his attitude struck me as ominous. As far as I could see, hewas looking straight at me, and he was not a short-sighted man. Icould think of no reason why he should cut me. We had met on the linkson the previous morning, and he had been friendliness itself. He hadcalled me "me dear boy," supplied me with a gin and gingerbeer at theclubhouse, and generally behaved as if he had been David and IJonathan. Yet in certain moods we are inclined to make mountains outof molehills, and I went on my way, puzzled and uneasy, with adistinct impression that I had received the cut direct.
　　I felt hurt. What had I done that Providence should make things sounpleasant for me? It would be a little hard, as Ukridge would havesaid, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered somefresh grievance against me. Perhaps Ukridge had been irritating himagain. I wished he would not identify me so completely with Ukridge. Icould not be expected to control the man. Then I reflected that theycould hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from theprofessor at the club-house and my meeting with him on the beach.
　　Ukridge rarely left the farm. When he was not working among the fowls,he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind.
　　I came to the conclusion that after all the professor had not seen me.
　　"I'm an idiot, Bob," I said, as we turned in at the farm gate, "and Ilet my imagination run away with me."Bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment.
　　Breakfast was ready when I got in. There was a cold chicken on thesideboard, devilled chicken on the table, a trio of boiled eggs, and adish of scrambled eggs. As regarded quantity Mrs. Beale never failedus.
　　Ukridge was sorting the letters.
　　"Morning, Garny," he said. "One for you, Millie.""It's from Aunt Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ukridge, looking at theenvelope.
　　I had only heard casual mention of this relative hitherto, but I hadbuilt up a mental picture of her partly from remarks which Ukridge hadlet fall, but principally from the fact that he had named the mostmalignant hen in our fowl-run after her. A severe lady, I imaginedwith a cold eye.
　　"Wish she'd enclose a cheque," said Ukridge. "She could spare it.
　　You've no idea, Garny, old man, how disgustingly and indecently richthat woman is. She lives in Kensington on an income which would do herwell in Park Lane. But as a touching proposition she had proved almostnegligible. She steadfastly refuses to part.""I think she would, dear, if she knew how much we needed it. But Idon't like to ask her. She's so curious, and says such horrid things.""She does," agreed Ukridge, gloomily. He spoke as one who had hadexperience. "Two for you, Garny. All the rest for me. Ten of them, andall bills."He spread the envelopes out on the table, and drew one at a venture.
　　"Whiteley's," he said. "Getting jumpy. Are in receipt of my favour ofthe 7th inst. and are at a loss to understand. It's rummy about theseblighters, but they never seem able to understand a damn thing. It'shard! You put things in words of one syllable for them, and they justgoggle and wonder what it all means. They want something on account.
　　Upon my Sam, I'm disappointed with Whiteley's. I'd been thinking inrather a kindly spirit of them, and feeling that they were a moreintelligent lot than Harrod's. I'd had half a mind to give Harrod'sthe miss-in-baulk and hand my whole trade over to these fellows. Butnot now, dash it! Whiteley's have disappointed me. From the way theywrite, you'd think they thought I was doing it for fun. How can I letthem have their infernal money when there isn't any? Here's one fromDorchester. Smith, the chap we got the gramophone from. Wants to knowwhen I'm going to settle up for sixteen records.""Sordid brute!"I wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but Ukridge held mewith a glittering eye.
　　"The chicken-men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay for thefirst lot of hens. Considering that they all died of roop, and that Iwas going to send them back anyhow after I'd got them to hatch out afew chickens, I call that cool. I mean to say, business is business.
　　That's what these fellows don't seem to understand. I can't afford topay enormous sums for birds which die off quicker than I can get themin.""I shall never speak to Aunt Elizabeth again," said Mrs. Ukridgesuddenly.
　　She had dropped the letter she had been reading, and was staringindignantly in front of her. There were two little red spots on hercheeks.
　　"What's the matter, old chap?" inquired Ukridge affectionately,glancing up from his pile of bills and forgetting his own troubles inan instant. "Buck up! Aunt Elizabeth been getting on your nervesagain? What's she been saying this time?"Mrs. Ukridge left the room with a sob. Ukridge sprang at the letter.
　　"If that demon doesn't stop writing her infernal letters and upsettingMillie, I shall strangle her with my bare hands, regardless of her ageand sex." He turned over the pages of the letter till he came to thepassage which had caused the trouble. "Well, upon my Sam! Listen tothis, Garny, old horse. 'You tell me nothing regarding the success ofthis chicken farm of yours, and I confess that I find your silenceominous. You know my opinion of your husband. He is perfectly helplessin any matter requiring the exercise of a little common-sense andbusiness capability.' " He stared at me, amazed. "I like that! 'Pon mysoul, that is really rich! I could have believed almost anything ofthat blighted female, but I did think she had a reasonable amount ofintelligence. Why, you know that it's just in matters requiringcommon-sense and business capability that I come out really strong.""Of course, old man," I replied dutifully. "The woman's a fool.""That's what she calls me two lines further on. No wonder Millie wasupset. Why can't these cats leave people alone?""Oh, woman, woman!" I threw in helpfully.
　　"Always interfering--""Rotten!""And backbiting--""Awful!""I shan't stand it.""I shouldn't!""Look here! On the next page she calls me a gaby!""It's time you took a strong line.""And in the very next sentence refers to me as a perfect guffin.
　　What's a guffin, Garny, old boy?"I considered the point.
　　"Broadly speaking, I should say, one who guffs.""I believe it's actionable.""I shouldn't wonder."Ukridge rushed to the door.
　　"Millie!"He slammed the door, and I heard him dashing upstairs.
　　I turned to my letters. One was from Lickford, with a Cornishpostmark. I glanced through it and laid it aside for a more exhaustiveperusal.
　　The other was in a strange handwriting. I looked at the signature.
　　"Patrick Derrick." This was queer. What had the professor to say tome?
　　The next moment my heart seemed to spring to my throat.
　　"Sir," the letter began.
　　A pleasant cheery opening!
　　Then it got off the mark, so to speak, like lightning. There was nosparring for an opening, no dignified parade of set phrases, leadingup to the main point. It was the letter of a man who was almost toofurious to write. It gave me the impression that, if he had notwritten it, he would have been obliged to have taken some very violentform of exercise by way of relief to his soul.
　　"You will be good enough to look on our acquaintance as closed. I haveno wish to associate with persons of your stamp. If we should happento meet, you will be good enough to treat me as a total stranger, as Ishall treat you. And, if I may be allowed to give you a word ofadvice, I should recommend you in future, when you wish to exerciseyour humour, to do so in some less practical manner than by bribingboatmen to upset your--(/friends/ crossed out thickly, and/acquaintances/ substituted.) If you require further enlightenment inthis matter, the enclosed letter may be of service to you."With which he remained mine faithfully, Patrick Derrick.
　　The enclosed letter was from one Jane Muspratt. It was bright andinteresting.
　　"DEAR SIR,--My Harry, Mr. Hawk, sas to me how it was him upsetting theboat and you, not because he is not steady in a boat which he is noman more so in Combe Regis, but because one of the gentlemen whatkeeps chikkens up the hill, the little one, Mr. Garnick his name is,says to him, Hawk, I'll give you a sovrin to upset Mr. Derick in yourboat, and my Harry being esily led was took in and did, but he's sorynow and wishes he hadn't, and he sas he'll niver do a prackticle jokeagain for anyone even for a banknote.--Yours obedly.,JANE MUSPRATT."Oh, woman, woman!
　　At the bottom of everything! History is full of tragedies caused bythe lethal sex. Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman. Who letSamson in so atrociously? Woman again. Why did Bill Bailey leave home?
　　Once more, because of a woman. And here was I, Jerry Garnet, harmless,well-meaning writer of minor novels, going through the same old mill.
　　I cursed Jane Muspratt. What chance had I with Phyllis now? Could Ihope to win over the professor again? I cursed Jane Muspratt for thesecond time.
　　My thoughts wandered to Mr. Harry Hawk. The villain! The scoundrel!
　　What business had he to betray me? . . . Well, I could settle withhim. The man who lays a hand upon a woman, save in the way ofkindness, is justly disliked by Society; so the woman Muspratt,culpable as she was, was safe from me. But what of the man Hawk? Thereno such considerations swayed me. I would interview the man Hawk. Iwould give him the most hectic ten minutes of his career. I would saythings to him the recollection of which would make him start upshrieking in his bed in the small hours of the night. I would arise,and be a man, and slay him; take him grossly, full of bread, with allhis crimes broad-blown, as flush as May, at gaming, swearing, or aboutsome act that had no relish of salvation in it.
　　The Demon!
　　My life--ruined. My future--grey and black. My heart--shattered. Andwhy? Because of the scoundrel, Hawk.
　　Phyllis would meet me in the village, on the Cob, on the links, andpass by as if I were the Invisible Man. And why? Because of thereptile, Hawk. The worm, Hawk. The dastard and varlet, Hawk.
　　I crammed my hat on, and hurried out of the house towards the village.
Chapter 16 A Chance Meeting
I roamed the place in search of the varlet for the space of half-an-hour, and, after having drawn all his familiar haunts, found him atlength leaning over the sea-wall near the church, gazing thoughtfullyinto the waters below.
　　I confronted him.
　　"Well," I said, "you're a beauty, aren't you?"He eyed me owlishly. Even at this early hour, I was grieved to see, heshowed signs of having looked on the bitter while it was brown. Hiseyes were filmy, and his manner aggressively solemn.
　　"Beauty?" he echoed.
　　"What have you got to say for yourself?""Say f'self."It was plain that he was engaged in pulling his faculties together bysome laborious process known only to himself. At present my wordsconveyed no meaning to him. He was trying to identify me. He had seenme before somewhere, he was certain, but he could not say where, orwho I was.
　　"I want to know," I said, "what induced you to be such an abject idiotas to let our arrangement get known?"I spoke quietly. I was not going to waste the choicer flowers ofspeech on a man who was incapable of understanding them. Later on,when he had awakened to a sense of his position, I would begin reallyto talk to him.
　　He continued to stare at me. Then a sudden flash of intelligence litup his features.
　　"Mr. Garnick," he said at last.
　　"From ch--chicken farm," he continued, with the triumphant air of across-examining King's counsel who has at last got on the track.
　　"Yes," I said.
　　"Up top the hill," he proceeded, clinchingly. He stretched out a hugehand.
　　"How you?" he inquired with a friendly grin.
　　"I want to know," I said distinctly, "what you've got to say foryourself after letting our affair with the professor become publicproperty?"He paused awhile in thought.
　　"Dear sir," he said at last, as if he were dictating a letter, "dearsir, I owe you--ex--exp----"He waved his hand, as who should say, "It's a stiff job, but I'm goingto do it.""Explashion," he said.
　　"You do," said I grimly. "I should like to hear it.""Dear sir, listen me.""Go on then.""You came me. You said 'Hawk, Hawk, ol' fren', listen me. You tip thisol' bufflehead into watter,' you said, 'an' gormed if I don't give 'eea poond note.' That's what you said me. Isn't that what you said me?"I did not deny it.
　　" 'Ve' well,' I said you. 'Right,' I said. I tipped the ol' soul intowatter, and I got the poond note.""Yes, you took care of that. All this is quite true, but it's besidethe point. We are not disputing about what happened. What I want toknow--for the third time--is what made you let the cat out of the bag?
　　Why couldn't you keep quiet about it?"He waved his hand.
　　"Dear sir," he replied, "this way. Listen me."It was a tragic story that he unfolded. My wrath ebbed as I listened.
　　After all the fellow was not so greatly to blame. I felt that in hisplace I should have acted as he had done. It was Fate's fault, andFate's alone.
　　It appeared that he had not come well out of the matter of theaccident. I had not looked at it hitherto from his point of view.
　　While the rescue had left me the popular hero, it had had quite theopposite result for him. He had upset his boat and would have drownedhis passenger, said public opinion, if the young hero from London--myself--had not plunged in, and at the risk of his life brought theprofessor ashore. Consequently, he was despised by all as aninefficient boatman. He became a laughing-stock. The local wags madelaborious jests when he passed. They offered him fabulous sums to taketheir worst enemies out for a row with him. They wanted to know whenhe was going to school to learn his business. In fact, they behaved aswags do and always have done at all times all the world over.
　　Now, all this, it seemed, Mr. Hawk would have borne cheerfully andpatiently for my sake, or, at any rate for the sake of the crisp poundnote I had given him. But a fresh factor appeared in the problem,complicating it grievously. To wit, Miss Jane Muspratt.
　　"She said to me," explained Mr. Hawk with pathos, " 'Harry 'Awk,' shesaid, 'yeou'm a girt fule, an' I don't marry noone as is ain't to betrusted in a boat by hisself, and what has jokes made about him bythat Tom Leigh!' ""I punched Tom Leigh," observed Mr. Hawk parenthetically. " 'So,' shesaid me, 'you can go away, an' I don't want to see yeou again!' "This heartless conduct on the part of Miss Muspratt had had thenatural result of making him confess in self-defence; and she hadwritten to the professor the same night.
　　I forgave Mr. Hawk. I think he was hardly sober enough to understand,for he betrayed no emotion. "It is Fate, Hawk," I said, "simply Fate.
　　There is a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,and it's no good grumbling.""Yiss," said Mr. Hawk, after chewing this sentiment for a while insilence, "so she said me, 'Hawk,' she said--like that--'you're a girtfule----' ""That's all right," I replied. "I quite understand. As I say, it'ssimply Fate. Good-bye." And I left him.
　　As I was going back, I met the professor and Phyllis. They passed mewithout a look.
　　I wandered on in quite a fervour of self-pity. I was in one of thosemoods when life suddenly seems to become irksome, when the futurestretches black and grey in front of one. I should have liked to havefaded almost imperceptibly from the world, like Mr. Bardell, even if,as in his case, it had involved being knocked on the head with a pintpot in a public-house cellar.
　　In such a mood it is imperative that one should seek distraction. Theshining example of Mr. Harry Hawk did not lure me. Taking to drinkwould be a nuisance. Work was what I wanted. I would toil like a navvyall day among the fowls, separating them when they fought, gatheringin the eggs when they laid, chasing them across country when they gotaway, and even, if necessity arose, painting their throats withturpentine when they were stricken with roop. Then, after dinner, whenthe lamps were lit, and Mrs. Ukridge nursed Edwin and sewed, andUkridge smoked cigars and incited the gramophone to murder "MumblingMose," I would steal away to my bedroom and write--and write--and/write/. And go on writing till my fingers were numb and my eyesrefused to do their duty. And, when time had passed, I might come tofeel that it was all for the best. A man must go through the firebefore he can write his masterpiece. We learn in suffering what weteach in song. What we lose on the swings we make up on theroundabouts. Jerry Garnet, the Man, might become a depressed, hopelesswreck, with the iron planted immovably in his soul; but Jeremy Garnet,the Author, should turn out such a novel of gloom, that strong criticswould weep, and the public jostle for copies till Mudie's doorwaybecame a shambles.
　　Thus might I some day feel that all this anguish was really ablessing--effectively disguised.
　　* * * * *But I doubted it.
　　* * * * *We were none of us very cheerful now at the farm. Even Ukridge'sspirit was a little daunted by the bills which poured in by everypost. It was as if the tradesmen of the neighbourhood had formed aleague, and were working in concert. Or it may have been due tothought-waves. Little accounts came not in single spies but inbattalions. The popular demand for the sight of the colour of hismoney grew daily. Every morning at breakfast he would give us freshbulletins of the state of mind of each of our creditors, and thrill uswith the announcement that Whiteley's were getting cross, and Harrod'sjumpy or that the bearings of Dawlish, the grocer, were becomingoverheated. We lived in a continual atmosphere of worry. Chicken andnothing but chicken at meals, and chicken and nothing but chickenbetween meals had frayed our nerves. An air of defeat hung over theplace. We were a beaten side, and we realised it. We had been playingan uphill game for nearly two months, and the strain was beginning totell. Ukridge became uncannily silent. Mrs. Ukridge, though she didnot understand, I fancy, the details of the matter, was worriedbecause Ukridge was. Mrs. Beale had long since been turned into asoured cynic by the lack of chances vouchsafed her for the exercise ofher art. And as for me, I have never since spent so profoundlymiserably a week. I was not even permitted the anodyne of work. Thereseemed to be nothing to do on the farm. The chickens were quite happy,and only asked to be let alone and allowed to have their meals atregular intervals. And every day one or more of their number wouldvanish into the kitchen, Mrs. Beale would serve up the corpse in somecunning disguise, and we would try to delude ourselves into the ideathat it was something altogether different.
　　There was one solitary gleam of variety in our menu. An editor sent mea cheque for a set of verses. We cashed that cheque and trooped roundthe town in a body, laying out the money. We bought a leg of mutton,and a tongue and sardines, and pine-apple chunks, and potted meat, andmany other noble things, and had a perfect banquet. Mrs. Beale, withthe scenario of a smile on her face, the first that she had worn inthese days of stress, brought in the joint, and uncovered it with anair.
　　"Thank God!" said Ukridge, as he began to carve.
　　It was the first time I had ever heard him say a grace, and if ever anoccasion merited such a deviation from habit, this occasion did.
　　After that we relapsed into routine again.
　　Deprived of physical labour, with the exception of golf and bathing--trivial sports compared with work in the fowl-run at its hardest--Itried to make up for it by working at my novel.
　　It refused to materialise.
　　The only progress I achieved was with my villain.
　　I drew him from the professor, and made him a blackmailer. He hadseveral other social defects, but that was his profession. That wasthe thing he did really well.
　　It was on one of the many occasions on which I had sat in my room, penin hand, through the whole of a lovely afternoon, with no betterresult than a slight headache, that I bethought me of that littleparadise on the Ware Cliff, hung over the sea and backed by greenwoods. I had not been there for some time, owing principally to anentirely erroneous idea that I could do more solid work sitting in astraight hard chair at a table than lying on soft turf with the seawind in my eyes.
　　But now the desire to visit that little clearing again drove me frommy room. In the drawing-room below the gramophone was dealing brassilywith "Mister Blackman." Outside the sun was just thinking of setting.
　　The Ware Cliff was the best medicine for me. What does Kipling say?
　　"And soon you will find that the sun and the windAnd the Djinn of the Garden, too,Have lightened the hump, Cameelious Hump,The Hump that is black and blue."His instructions include digging with a hoe and a shovel also, but Icould omit that. The sun and the wind were what I needed.
　　I took the upper road. In certain moods I preferred it to the pathalong the cliff. I walked fast. The exercise was soothing.
　　To reach my favourite clearing I had to take to the fields on theleft, and strike down hill in the direction of the sea. I hurried downthe narrow path.
　　I broke into the clearing at a jog trot, and stood panting. And at thesame moment, looking cool and beautiful in her white dress, Phyllisentered in from the other side. Phyllis--without the professor.
Chapter 17 Of A Sentimental Nature
She was wearing a panama, and she carried a sketching-block and camp-stool.
　　"Good evening," I said.
　　"Good evening," said she.
　　It is curious how different the same words can sound, when spoken bydifferent people. My "good evening" might have been that of a man witha particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing somethingmore than usually ignoble. She spoke like a rather offended angel.
　　"It's a lovely evening," I went on pluckily.
　　"Very.""The sunset!""Yes.""Er--"She raised a pair of blue eyes, devoid of all expression save a faintsuggestion of surprise, and gazed through me for a moment at someobject a couple of thousand miles away, and lowered them again,leaving me with a vague feeling that there was something wrong with mypersonal appearance.
　　Very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged her camp-stool, and sat down. Neither of us spoke a word. I watched her whileshe filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened herpaint-box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching-block inposition.
　　She began to paint.
　　Now, by all the laws of good taste, I should before this have made adignified exit. It was plain that I was not to be regarded as anessential ornament of this portion of the Ware Cliff. By now, if I hadbeen the Perfect Gentleman, I ought to have been a quarter of a mileaway.
　　But there is a definite limit to what a man can do. I remained.
　　The sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea. Phyllis' hairwas tinged with it. Little waves tumbled lazily on the beach below.
　　Except for the song of a distant blackbird, running through itsrepertoire before retiring for the night, everything was silent.
　　She sat there, dipping and painting and dipping again, with never aword for me--standing patiently and humbly behind her.
　　"Miss Derrick," I said.
　　She half turned her head.
　　"Yes.""Why won't you speak to me?" I said.
　　"I don't understand you.""Why won't you speak to me?""I think you know, Mr. Garnet.""It is because of that boat accident?""Accident!""Episode," I amended.
　　She went on painting in silence. From where I stood I could see herprofile. Her chin was tilted. Her expression was determined.
　　"Is it?" I said.
　　"Need we discuss it?""Not if you do not wish it."I paused.
　　"But," I added, "I should have liked a chance to defend myself. . . .
　　What glorious sunsets there have been these last few days. I believewe shall have this sort of weather for another month.""I should not have thought that possible.""The glass is going up," I said.
　　"I was not talking about the weather.""It was dull of me to introduce such a worn-out topic.""You said you could defend yourself.""I said I should like the chance to do so.""You have it.""That's very kind of you. Thank you.""Is there any reason for gratitude?""Every reason.""Go on, Mr. Garnet. I can listen while I paint. But please sit down. Idon't like being talked to from a height."I sat down on the grass in front of her, feeling as I did so that thechange of position in a manner clipped my wings. It is difficult tospeak movingly while sitting on the ground. Instinctively I avoidedeloquence. Standing up, I might have been pathetic and pleading.
　　Sitting down, I was compelled to be matter-of-fact.
　　"You remember, of course, the night you and Professor Derrick dinedwith us? When I say dined, I use the word in a loose sense."For a moment I thought she was going to smile. We were both thinkingof Edwin. But it was only for a moment, and then her face grew coldonce more, and the chin resumed its angle of determination.
　　"Yes," she said.
　　"You remember the unfortunate ending of the festivities?""Well?""If you recall that at all clearly, you will also remember that thefault was not mine, but Ukridge's.""Well?""It was his behaviour that annoyed Professor Derrick. The position,then, was this, that I was to be cut off from the pleasantestfriendship I had ever formed----"I stopped for a moment. She bent a little lower over her easel, butremained silent.
　　"----Simply through the tactlessness of a prize idiot.""I like Mr. Ukridge.""I like him, too. But I can't pretend that he is anything but an idiotat times.""Well?""I naturally wished to mend matters. It occurred to me that anexcellent way would be by doing your father a service. It was seeinghim fishing that put the idea of a boat-accident into my head. I hopedfor a genuine boat-accident. But those things only happen when onedoes not want them. So I determined to engineer one.""You didn't think of the shock to my father.""I did. It worried me very much.""But you upset him all the same.""Reluctantly."She looked up, and our eyes met. I could detect no trace offorgiveness in hers.
　　"You behaved abominably," she said.
　　"I played a risky game, and I lost. And I shall now take theconsequences. With luck I should have won. I did not have luck, and Iam not going to grumble about it. But I am grateful to you for lettingme explain. I should not have liked you to have gone on thinking thatI played practical jokes on my friends. That is all I have to say. Ithink it was kind of you to listen. Good-bye, Miss Derrick."I got up.
　　"Are you going?""Why not?""Please sit down again.""But you wish to be alone----""Please sit down!"There was a flush on the cheek turned towards me, and the chin wastilted higher.
　　I sat down.
　　To westward the sky had changed to the hue of a bruised cherry. Thesun had sunk below the horizon, and the sea looked cold and leaden.
　　The blackbird had long since flown.
　　"I am glad you told me, Mr. Garnet."She dipped her brush in the water.
　　"Because I don't like to think badly of--people."She bent her head over her painting.
　　"Though I still think you behaved very wrongly. And I am afraid myfather will never forgive you for what you did."Her father! As if he counted.
　　"But you do?" I said eagerly.
　　"I think you are less to blame than I thought you were at first.""No more than that?""You can't expect to escape all consequences. You did a very stupidthing.""I was tempted."The sky was a dull grey now. It was growing dusk. The grass on which Isat was wet with dew.
　　I stood up.
　　"Isn't it getting a little dark for painting?" I said. "Are you sureyou won't catch cold? It's very damp.""Perhaps it is. And it is late, too."She shut her paint-box, and emptied the little mug on to the grass.
　　"May I carry your things?" I said.
　　I think she hesitated, but only for a moment.
　　I possessed myself of the camp-stool, and we started on our homewardjourney.
　　We were both silent. The spell of the quiet summer evening was on us.
　　" 'And all the air a solemn stillness holds,' " she said softly. "Ilove this cliff, Mr. Garnet. It's the most soothing place in theworld.""I found it so this evening."She glanced at me quickly.
　　"You're not looking well," she said. "Are you sure you are notoverworking yourself?""No, it's not that."Somehow we had stopped, as if by agreement, and were facing eachother. There was a look in her eyes I had never seen there before. Thetwilight hung like a curtain between us and the world. We were alonetogether in a world of our own.
　　"It is because I had offended you," I said.
　　She laughed a high, unnatural laugh.
　　"I have loved you ever since I first saw you," I said doggedly.
Chapter 18 Ukridge Gives Me Advice
Hours after--or so it seemed to me--we reached the spot at which ourways divided. We stopped, and I felt as if I had been suddenly castback into the workaday world from some distant and pleasanter planet.
　　I think Phyllis must have felt much the same sensation, for we bothbecame on the instant intensely practical and businesslike.
　　"But about your father," I said.
　　"That's the difficulty.""He won't give us his consent?""I'm afraid he wouldn't dream of it.""You can't persuade him?""I can in most things, but not in this. You see, even if nothing hadhappened, he wouldn't like to lose me just yet, because of Norah.""Norah?""My sister. She's going to be married in October. I wonder if we shallever be as happy as they will.""Happy! They will be miserable compared with us. Not that I know whothe man is.""Why, Tom of course. Do you mean to say you really didn't know?""Tom! Tom Chase?""Of course."I gasped.
　　"Well, I'm hanged," I said. "When I think of the torments I've beenthrough because of that wretched man, and all for nothing, I don'tknow what to say.""Don't you like Tom?""Very much. I always did. But I was awfully jealous of him.""You weren't! How silly of you.""Of course I was. He was always about with you, and called youPhyllis, and generally behaved as if you and he were the heroine andhero of a musical comedy, so what else could I think? I heard yousinging duets after dinner once. I drew the worst conclusions.""When was that? What were you doing there?""It was shortly after Ukridge had got on your father's nerves, andnipped our acquaintance in the bud. I used to come every night to thehedge opposite your drawing-room window, and brood there by the hour.""Poor old boy!""Hoping to hear you sing. And when you did sing, and he joined in allflat, I used to swear. You'll probably find most of the bark scorchedoff the tree I leaned against.""Poor old man! Still, it's all over now, isn't it?""And when I was doing my very best to show off before you at tennis,you went away just as I got into form.""I'm very sorry, but I couldn't know, could I? I though you alwaysplayed like that.""I know. I knew you would. It nearly turned my hair white. I didn'tsee how a girl could ever care for a man who was so bad at tennis.""One doesn't love a man because he's good at tennis.""What /does/ a girl see to love in a man?" I inquired abruptly; andpaused on the verge of a great discovery.
　　"Oh, I don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily.
　　And I could draw no views from her.
　　"But about father," said she. "What /are/ we to do?""He objects to me.""He's perfectly furious with you.""Blow, blow," I said, "thou winter wind. Thou are not so unkind----""He'll never forgive you.""----As man's ingratitude. I saved his life. At the risk of my own.
　　Why I believe I've got a legal claim on him. Who ever heard of a manhaving his life saved, and not being delighted when his preserverwanted to marry his daughter? Your father is striking at the very rootof the short-story writer's little earnings. He mustn't be allowed todo it.""Jerry!"I started.
　　"Again!" I said.
　　"What?""Say it again. Do, please. Now.""Very well. Jerry!""It was the first time you had called me by my Christian name. I don'tsuppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when you sayit. There is something poetical, almost holy, about it.""Jerry, please!""Say on.""Do be sensible. Don't you see how serious this is? We must think howwe can make father consent.""All right," I said. "We'll tackle the point. I'm sorry to befrivolous, but I'm so happy I can't keep it all in. I've got you and Ican't think of anything else.""Try.""I'll pull myself together. . . . Now, say on once more.""We can't marry without his consent.""Why not?" I said, not having a marked respect for the professor'swhims. "Gretna Green is out of date, but there are registrars.""I hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision.
　　"Besides----""Well?""Poor father would never get over it. We've always been such friends.
　　If I married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know. Not let menear him again, and not write to me. And he would hate it all the timehe was doing it. He would be bored to death without me.""Who wouldn't?" I said.
　　"Because, you see, Norah has never been quite the same. She has spentsuch a lot of her time on visits to people, that she and father don'tunderstand each other so well as he and I do. She would try and benice to him, but she wouldn't know him as I do. And, besides, she willbe with him such a little, now she's going to be married.""But, look here," I said, "this is absurd. You say your father wouldnever see you again, and so on, if you married me. Why? It's nonsense.
　　It isn't as if I were a sort of social outcast. We were the best offriends till that man Hawk gave me away like that.""I know. But he's very obstinate about some things. You see, he thinksthe whole thing has made him look ridiculous, and it will take him along time to forgive you for that."I realised the truth of this. One can pardon any injury to oneself,unless it hurts one's vanity. Moreover, even in a genuine case ofrescue, the rescued man must always feel a little aggrieved with hisrescuer, when he thinks the matter over in cold blood. He must regardhim unconsciously as the super regards the actor-manager, indebted tohim for the means of supporting existence, but grudging him thelimelight and the centre of the stage and the applause. Besides, everyone instinctively dislikes being under an obligation which they cannever wholly repay. And when a man discovers that he has experiencedall these mixed sensations for nothing, as the professor had done, hiswrath is likely to be no slight thing.
　　Taking everything into consideration, I could not but feel that itwould require more than a little persuasion to make the professorbestow his blessing with that genial warmth which we like to see inour fathers-in-law's elect.
　　"You don't think," I said, "that time, the Great Healer, and so on--?
　　He won't feel kindlier disposed towards me--say in a month's time?""Of course he /might/," said Phyllis; but she spoke doubtfully.
　　"He strikes me from what I have seen of him as a man of moods. I mightdo something one of these days which would completely alter his views.
　　We will hope for the best.""About telling father----?""Need we, do you think?" I said.
　　"Yes, we must. I couldn't bear to think that I was keeping it fromhim. I don't think I've ever kept anything from him in my life.
　　Nothing bad, I mean.""You count this among your darker crimes, then?""I was looking at it from father's point of view. He will be awfullyangry. I don't know how I shall begin telling him.""Good heavens!" I cried, "you surely don't think I'm going to let youdo that! Keep safely out of the way while you tell him! Not much. I'mcoming back with you now, and we'll break the bad news together.""No, not to-night. He may be tired and rather cross. We had betterwait till to-morrow. You might speak to him in the morning.""Where shall I find him?""He is certain to go to the beach before breakfast for a swim.""Good. I'll be there."* * * * *"Ukridge," I said, when I got back, "I want your advice."It stirred him like a trumpet blast. I suppose, when a man is in thehabit of giving unsolicited counsel to everyone he meets, it is asinvigorating as an electric shock to him to be asked for itspontaneously.
　　"Bring it out, laddie!" he replied cordially. "I'm with you. Here,come along into the garden, and state your case."This suited me. It is always easier to talk intimately in the dark,and I did not wish to be interrupted by the sudden entrance of theHired Man or Mrs. Beale, of which there was always a danger indoors.
　　We walked down to the paddock. Ukridge lit a cigar.
　　"Ukridge," I said, "I'm engaged!""What!" A huge hand whistled through the darkness and smote me heavilybetween the shoulder-blades. "By Jove, old boy, I wish you luck. 'Ponmy Sam I do! Best thing in the world for you. Bachelors are mereexcrescences. Never knew what happiness was till I married. When's thewedding to be?""That's where I want your advice. What you might call a difficulty hasarisen about the wedding. It's like this. I'm engaged to PhyllisDerrick.""Derrick? Derrick?""You can't have forgotten her! Good Lord, what eyes some men have!
　　Why, if I'd only seen her once, I should have remembered her all mylife.""I know, now. Rather a pretty girl, with blue eyes."I stared at him blankly. It was not much good, as he could not see myface, but it relieved me. "Rather a pretty girl!" What a description!
　　"Of course, yes," continued Ukridge. "She came to dinner here onenight with her father, that fat little buffer.""As you were careful to call him to his face at the time, confoundyou! It was that that started all the trouble.""Trouble? What trouble?""Why, her father. . . .""By Jove, I remember now! So worried lately, old boy, that my memory'sgone groggy. Of course! Her father fell into the sea, and you fishedhim out. Why, damme, it's like the stories you read.""It's also very like the stories I used to write. But they had onepoint about them which this story hasn't. They invariably endedhappily, with the father joining the hero's and heroine's hands andgiving his blessing. Unfortunately, in the present case, that doesn'tseem likely to happen.""The old man won't give his consent?""I'm afraid not. I haven't asked him yet, but the chances are againstit.""But why? What's the matter with you? You're an excellent chap, soundin wind and limb, and didn't you once tell me that, if you married,you came into a pretty sizeable bit of money?""Yes, I do. That part of it is all right."Ukridge's voice betrayed perplexity.
　　"I don't understand this thing, old horse," he said. "I should havethought the old boy would have been all over you. Why, damme, I neverheard of anything like it. You saved his life! You fished him out ofthe water.""After chucking him in. That's the trouble.""You chucked him in?""By proxy."I explained. Ukridge, I regret to say, laughed in a way that must havebeen heard miles away in distant villages in Devonshire.
　　"You devil!" he bellowed. " 'Pon my Sam, old horse, to look at you onewould never have thought you'd have had it in you.""I can't help looking respectable.""What are you going to do about it?""That's where I wanted your advice. You're a man of resource. Whatwould you do in my place?"Ukridge tapped me impressively on the shoulder.
　　"Laddie," he said, "there's one thing that'll carry you through anymess.""And that is----?""Cheek, my boy, cheek. Gall. Nerve. Why, take my case. I never toldyou how I came to marry, did I. I thought not. Well, it was this way.
　　It'll do you a bit of good, perhaps, to hear the story, for, mark you,blessings weren't going cheap in my case either. You know Millie'sAunt Elizabeth, the female who wrote that letter? Well, when I tellyou that she was Millie's nearest relative and that it was her consentI had to snaffle, you'll see that I was faced with a bit of aproblem.""Let's have it," I said.
　　"Well, the first time I ever saw Millie was in a first-class carriageon the underground. I'd got a third-class ticket, by the way. Thecarriage was full, and I got up and gave her my seat, and, as I hungsuspended over her by a strap, damme, I fell in love with her then andthere. You've no conception, laddie, how indescribably ripping shelooked, in a sort of blue dress with a bit of red in it and a hat withthingummies. Well, we both got out at South Kensington. By that time Iwas gasping for air and saw that the thing wanted looking into. I'dnever had much time to bother about women, but I realised that thismust not be missed. I was in love, old horse. It comes over you quitesuddenly, like a tidal wave. . . .""I know! I know! Good Heavens, you can't tell me anything about that.""Well, I followed her. She went to a house in Thurloe Square. I waitedoutside and thought it over. I had got to get into that shanty andmake her acquaintance, if they threw me out on my ear. So I rang thebell. 'Is Lady Lichenhall at home?' I asked. You spot the devilishcunning of the ruse, what? My asking for a female with a title was tomake 'em think I was one of the Upper Ten.""How were you dressed?" I could not help asking.
　　"Oh, it was one of my frock-coat days. I'd been to see a man abouttutoring his son, and by a merciful dispensation of Providence therewas a fellow living in the same boarding-house with me who was aboutmy build and had a frock-coat, and he had lent it to me. At least, hehadn't exactly lent it to me, but I knew where he kept it and he wasout at the time. There was nothing the matter with my appearance.
　　Quite the young duke, I assure you, laddie, down to the last button.
　　'Is Lady Lichenhall at home?' I asked. 'No,' said the maid, 'nobody ofthat name here. This is Lady Lakenheath's house.' So, you see, I had abit of luck at the start, because the names were a bit alike. Well, Igot the maid to show me in somehow, and, once in you can bet I talkedfor all I was worth. Kept up a flow of conversation about beingmisdirected and coming to the wrong house. Went away, and called a fewdays later. Gradually wormed my way in. Called regularly. Spied ontheir movements, met 'em at every theatre they went to, and bowed, andfinally got away with Millie before her aunt knew what was happeningor who I was or what I was doing or anything.""And what's the moral?""Why, go in like a mighty, rushing wind! Bustle 'em! Don't give 'em amoment's rest or time to think or anything. Why, if I'd given Millie'sAunt Elizabeth time to think, where should we have been? Not at CombeRegis together, I'll bet. You heard that letter, and know what shethinks of me now, on reflection. If I'd gone slow and played a timidwaiting-game, she'd have thought that before I married Millie, insteadof afterwards. I give you my honest word, laddie, that there was atime, towards the middle of our acquaintance--after she had stoppedmixing me up with the man who came to wind the clocks--when that womanate out of my hand! Twice--on two separate occasions--she actuallyasked my advice about feeding her toy Pomeranian! Well, that showsyou! Bustle 'em, laddie! Bustle 'em!""Ukridge," I said, "you inspire me. You would inspire a caterpillar. Iwill go to the professor--I was going anyhow, but now I shall goaggressively. I will prise a father's blessing out of him, if I haveto do it with a crowbar.""That's the way to talk, old horse. Don't beat about the bush. Tellhim exactly what you want and stand no nonsense. If you don't see whatyou want in the window, ask for it. Where did you think of tacklinghim?""Phyllis tells me that he always goes for a swim before breakfast. Ithought of going down to-morrow and waylaying him.""You couldn't do better. By Jove!" said Ukridge suddenly. "I'll tellyou what I'll do, laddie. I wouldn't do it for everybody, but I lookon you as a favourite son. I'll come with you, and help break theice.""What!""Don't you be under any delusion, old horse," said Ukridge paternally.
　　"You haven't got an easy job in front of you and what you'll need morethan anything else, when you really get down to brass-tacks, is awise, kindly man of the world at your elbow, to whoop you on when yournerve fails you and generally stand in your corner and see that youget a fair show.""But it's rather an intimate business. . . .""Never mind! Take my tip and have me at your side. I can say thingsabout you that you would be too modest to say for yourself. I canplead your case, laddie. I can point out in detail all that the oldboy will be missing if he gives you the miss-in-baulk. Well, that'ssettled, then. About eight to-morrow morning, what? I'll be there, myboy. A swim will do me good."
Chapter 19 Asking Papa
Reviewing the matter later, I could see that I made one or twoblunders in my conduct of the campaign to win over Professor Derrick.
　　In the first place, I made a bad choice of time and place. At themoment this did not strike me. It is a simple matter, I reflected, fora man to pass another by haughtily and without recognition, when theymeet on dry land; but, when the said man, being it should beremembered, an indifferent swimmer, is accosted in the water and outof his depth, the feat becomes a hard one. It seemed to me that Ishould have a better chance with the professor in the water than outof it.
　　My second mistake--and this was brought home to me almost immediately--was in bringing Ukridge along. Not that I really brought him along;it was rather a case of being unable to shake him off. When he met meon the gravel outside the house at a quarter to eight on the followingmorning, clad in a dingy mackintosh which, swinging open, revealed apurple bathing-suit, I confess that my heart sank. Unfortunately, allmy efforts to dissuade him from accompanying me were attributed by himto a pardonable nervousness--or, as he put it, to the needle.
　　"Buck up, laddie!" he roared encouragingly. "I had anticipated this.
　　Something seemed to tell me that your nerve would go when it came tothe point. You're deuced lucky, old horse, to have a man like me atyour side. Why, if you were alone, you wouldn't have a word to say foryourself. You'd just gape at the man and yammer. But I'm with youladdie, I'm with you. If your flow of conversation dries up, count onme to keep the thing going."And so it came about that, having reached the Cob and spying in thedistance the grey head of the professor bobbing about on the face ofthe waters, we dived in and swam rapidly towards him.
　　His face was turned in the opposite direction when we came up withhim. He was floating peacefully on his back, and it was plain that hehad not observed our approach. For when, treading water easily in hisrear, I wished him good morning in my most conciliatory tone, he stoodnot upon the order of his sinking, but went under like so much pig-iron.
　　I waited courteously until he rose to the surface again, when Irepeated my remark.
　　He expelled the last remnant of water from his mouth with a wrathfulsplutter, and cleared his eyes with the back of his hand. I confess toa slight feeling of apprehension as I met his gaze. Nor was myuneasiness diminished by the spectacle of Ukridge splashing tactfullyin the background like a large seal. Ukridge so far had made noremarks. He had dived in very flat, and I imagine that his breath hadnot yet returned to him. He had the air of one who intends to get usedto his surroundings before trusting himself to speech.
　　"The water is delightfully warm," I said.
　　"Oh, it's you!" said the professor; and I could not cheat myself intothe belief that he spoke cordially. Ukridge snorted loudly in theoffing. The professor turned sharply, as if anxious to observe thismarine phenomenon; and the annoyed gurgle which he gave showed that hewas not approving of Ukridge either. I did not approve of Ukridgemyself. I wished he had not come. Ukridge, in the water, lacksdignity. I felt that he prejudiced my case.
　　"You are swimming splendidly this morning," I went on perseveringly,feeling that an ounce of flattery is worth a pound of rhetoric. "If,"I added, "you will allow me to say so.""I will not!" he snapped. "I--" here a small wave, noticing that hismouth was open, stepped in. "I wish," he resumed warmly, "as I said inme letter, to have nothing to do with you. I consider that ye'vebehaved in a manner that can only be described as abominable, and Iwill thank you to leave me alone.""But allow me--""I will not allow ye, sir. I will allow ye nothing. Is it not enoughto make me the laughing-stock, the butt, sir, of this town, withoutpursuing me in this way when I wish to enjoy a quiet swim?""Now, laddie, laddie," said Ukridge, placing a large hand on hisshoulder, "these are harsh words! Be reasonable! Think before youspeak. You little know . . .""Go to the devil!" said the professor. "I wish to have nothing to dowith either of you. I should be glad if you would cease thispersecution. Persecution, sir!"His remarks, which I have placed on paper as if they were continuousand uninterrupted, were punctuated in reality by a series of gasps andpuffings, as he received and rejected the successors of the wave hehad swallowed at the beginning of our little chat. The art ofconducting conversation while in the water is not given to everyswimmer. This he seemed to realise, for, as if to close the interview,he proceeded to make his way as quickly as he could to the shore.
　　Unfortunately, his first dash brought him squarely up against Ukridge,who, not having expected the collision, clutched wildly at him andtook him below the surface again. They came up a moment later on theworst terms.
　　"Are you trying to drown me, sir?" barked the professor.
　　"My dear old horse," said Ukridge complainingly, "it's a little hard.
　　You might look where you're going.""You grappled with me!""You took me by surprise, laddie. Rid yourself of the impression thatyou're playing water-polo.""But, professor," I said, joining the group and treading water, "onemoment."I was growing annoyed with the man. I could have ducked him, but forthe reflection that my prospects of obtaining his consent to myengagement would scarcely have been enhanced thereby.
　　"But, professor," I said, "one moment.""Go away, sir! I have nothing to say to you.""But he has lots to say to you," said Ukridge. "Now's the time, oldhorse," he added encouragingly to me. "Spill the news!"Without preamble I gave out the text of my address.
　　"I love your daughter, Phyllis, Mr. Derrick. She loves me. In fact, weare engaged.""Devilish well put, laddie," said Ukridge approvingly.
　　The professor went under as if he had been seized with cramp. It was alittle trying having to argue with a man, of whom one could notpredict with certainty that at any given moment he would not be underwater. It tended to spoil the flow of one's eloquence. The best ofarguments is useless if the listener suddenly disappears in the middleof it.
　　"Stick to it, old horse," said Ukridge. "I think you're going to bringit off."I stuck to it.
　　"Mr. Derrick," I said, as his head emerged, "you are naturallysurprised.""You would be," said Ukridge. "We don't blame you," he addedhandsomely.
　　"You--you--you--" So far from cooling the professor, liberal doses ofwater seemed to make him more heated. "You impudent scoundrel!"My reply was more gentlemanly, more courteous, on a higher planealtogether.
　　I said, winningly: "Cannot we let bygones be bygones?"From his remarks I gathered that we could not. I continued. I wasunder the unfortunate necessity of having to condense my speech. I wasnot able to let myself go as I could have wished, for time was animportant consideration. Ere long, swallowing water at his presentrate, the professor must inevitably become waterlogged.
　　"I have loved your daughter," I said rapidly, "ever since I first sawher . . .""And he's a capital chap," interjected Ukridge. "One of the best.
　　Known him for years. You'll like him.""I learned last night that she loved me. But she will not marry mewithout your consent. Stretch your arms out straight from theshoulders and fill your lungs well and you can't sink. So I have comethis morning to ask for your consent.""Give it!" advised Ukridge. "Couldn't do better. A very sound fellow.
　　Pots of money, too. At least he will have when he marries.""I know we have not been on the best of terms lately. For Heaven'ssake don't try to talk, or you'll sink. The fault," I said,generously, "was mine . . .""Well put," said Ukridge.
　　"But when you have heard my explanation, I am sure you will forgiveme. There, I told you so."He reappeared some few feet to the left. I swam up, and resumed.
　　"When you left us so abruptly after our little dinner-party----""Come again some night," said Ukridge cordially. "Any time you'repassing."" . . . you put me in a very awkward position. I was desperately inlove with your daughter, and as long as you were in the frame of mindin which you left I could not hope to find an opportunity of revealingmy feelings to her.""Revealing feelings is good," said Ukridge approvingly. "Neat.""You see what a fix I was in, don't you? Keep your arms well out. Ithought for hours and hours, to try and find some means of bringingabout a reconciliation. You wouldn't believe how hard I thought.""Got as thin as a corkscrew," said Ukridge.
　　"At last, seeing you fishing one morning when I was on the Cob, itstruck me all of a sudden . . .""You know how it is," said Ukridge.
　　" . . . all of a sudden that the very best way would be to arrange alittle boating accident. I was confident that I could rescue you allright."Here I paused, and he seized the opportunity to curse me--briefly,with a wary eye on an incoming wavelet.
　　"If it hadn't been for the inscrutable workings of Providence, whichhas a mania for upsetting everything, all would have been well. Infact, all was well till you found out.""Always the way," said Ukridge sadly. "Always the way.""You young blackguard!"He managed to slip past me, and made for the shore.
　　"Look at the thing from the standpoint of a philosopher, old horse,"urged Ukridge, splashing after him. "The fact that the rescue wasarranged oughtn't to matter. I mean to say, you didn't know it at thetime, so, relatively, it was not, and you were genuinely saved from awatery grave and all that sort of thing."I had not imagined Ukridge capable of such an excursion intometaphysics. I saw the truth of his line of argument so clearly thatit seemed to me impossible for anyone else to get confused over it. Ihad certainly pulled the professor out of the water, and the fact thatI had first caused him to be pushed in had nothing to do with thecase. Either a man is a gallant rescuer or he is not a gallantrescuer. There is no middle course. I had saved his life--for he wouldcertainly have drowned if left to himself--and I was entitled to hisgratitude. That was all there was to be said about it.
　　These things both Ukridge and I tried to make plain as we swam along.
　　But whether it was that the salt water he had swallowed had dulled theprofessor's normally keen intelligence or that our power of stating acase was too weak, the fact remains that he reached the beach anunconvinced man.
　　"Then may I consider," I said, "that your objections are removed? Ihave your consent?"He stamped angrily, and his bare foot came down on a small, sharppebble. With a brief exclamation he seized his foot in one hand andhopped up the beach. While hopping, he delivered his ultimatum.
　　Probably the only instance on record of a father adopting thisattitude in dismissing a suitor.
　　"You may not!" he cried. "You may consider no such thing. Myobjections were never more absolute. You detain me in the water, sir,till I am blue, sir, blue with cold, in order to listen to the mostpreposterous and impudent nonsense I ever heard."This was unjust. If he had listened attentively from the first andavoided interruptions and had not behaved like a submarine we shouldhave got through the business in half the time.
　　I said so.
　　"Don't talk to me, sir," he replied, hobbling off to his dressing-tent. "I will not listen to you. I will have nothing to do with you. Iconsider you impudent, sir.""I assure you it was unintentional.""Isch!" he said--being the first occasion and the last on which I haveever heard that remarkable monosyllable proceed from the mouth of aman. And he vanished into his tent.
　　"Laddie," said Ukridge solemnly, "do you know what I think?""Well?""You haven't clicked, old horse!" said Ukridge.
Chapter 20 Scientific Golf
People are continually writing to the papers--or it may be onesolitary enthusiast who writes under a number of pseudonyms--on thesubject of sport, and the over-doing of the same by the modern youngman. I recall one letter in which "Efficiency" gave it as his opinionthat if the Young Man played less golf and did more drill, he would beall the better for it. I propose to report my doings with theprofessor on the links at some length, in order to refute this absurdview. Everybody ought to play golf, and nobody can begin it too soon.
　　There ought not to be a single able-bodied infant in the British Isleswho has not foozled a drive. To take my case. Suppose I had employedin drilling the hours I had spent in learning to handle my clubs. Imight have drilled before the professor by the week without softeninghis heart. I might have ported arms and grounded arms and presentedarms, and generally behaved in the manner advocated by "Efficiency,"and what would have been the result? Indifference on his part, or--andif I overdid the thing--irritation. Whereas, by devoting a reasonableportion of my youth to learning the intricacies of golf I wasenabled . . .
　　It happened in this way.
　　To me, as I stood with Ukridge in the fowl-run in the morningfollowing my maritime conversation with the professor, regarding a henthat had posed before us, obviously with a view to inspection, thereappeared a man carrying an envelope. Ukridge, who by this time saw, asCalverley almost said, "under every hat a dun," and imagined that noenvelope could contain anything but a small account, softly andsilently vanished away, leaving me to interview the enemy.
　　"Mr. Garnet, sir?" said the foe.
　　I recognised him. He was Professor Derrick's gardener.
　　I opened the envelope. No. Father's blessings were absent. The letterwas in the third person. Professor Derrick begged to inform Mr. Garnetthat, by defeating Mr. Saul Potter, he had qualified for the finalround of the Combe Regis Golf Tournament, in which, he understood, Mr.
　　Garnet was to be his opponent. If it would be convenient for Mr.
　　Garnet to play off the match on the present afternoon, ProfessorDerrick would be obliged if he would be at the Club House at half-pasttwo. If this hour and day were unsuitable, would he kindly arrangeothers. The bearer would wait.
　　The bearer did wait. He waited for half-an-hour, as I found itimpossible to shift him, not caring to use violence on a man wellstricken in years, without first plying him with drink. He absorbedmore of our diminishing cask of beer than we could conveniently spare,and then trudged off with a note, beautifully written in the thirdperson, in which Mr. Garnet, after numerous compliments and thanks,begged to inform Professor Derrick that he would be at the Club Houseat the hour mentioned.
　　"And," I added--to myself, not in the note--"I will give him such alicking that he'll brain himself with a cleek."For I was not pleased with the professor. I was conscious of amalicious joy at the prospect of snatching the prize from him. I knewhe had set his heart on winning the tournament this year. To berunner-up two years in succession stimulates the desire for firstplace. It would be doubly bitter to him to be beaten by a newcomer,after the absence of his rival, the colonel, had awakened hope in him.
　　And I knew I could do it. Even allowing for bad luck--and I am never avery unlucky golfer--I could rely almost with certainty on crushingthe man.
　　"And I'll do it," I said to Bob, who had trotted up. I often make Bobthe recipient of my confidences. He listens appreciatively, and neverinterrupts. And he never has grievances of his own. If there is oneperson I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when Iwish to air mine.
　　"Bob," I said, running his tail through my fingers, "listen to me, myold University chum, for I have matured a dark scheme. Don't run away.
　　You know you don't really want to go and look at that chicken. Listento me. If I am in form this afternoon, and I feel in my bones that Ishall be, I shall nurse the professor. I shall play with him. Do youunderstand the principles of Match play at Golf, Robert? You score byholes, not strokes. There are eighteen holes. All right, how was /I/to know that you knew that without my telling you? Well, if youunderstand so much about the game, you will appreciate my dark scheme.
　　I shall toy with the professor, Bob. I shall let him get ahead, andthen catch him up. I shall go ahead myself, and let him catch me up. Ishall race him neck and neck till the very end. Then, when his hairhas turned white with the strain, and he's lost a couple of stone inweight, and his eyes are starting out of his head, and he's praying--if he ever does pray--to the Gods of Golf that he may be allowed towin, I shall go ahead and beat him by a hole. /I'll/ teach him,Robert. He shall taste of my despair, and learn by proof in some wildhour how much the wretched dare. And when it's all over, and he's tornall his hair out and smashed all his clubs, I shall go and commitsuicide off the Cob. Because, you see, if I can't marry Phyllis, Ishan't have any use for life."Bob wagged his tail cheerfully.
　　"I mean it," I said, rolling him on his back and punching him on thechest till his breathing became stertorous. "You don't see the senseof it, I know. But then you've got none of the finer feelings. You'rea jolly good dog, Robert, but you're a rank materialist. Bones andcheese and potatoes with gravy over them make you happy. You don'tknow what it is to be in love. You'd better get right side up now, oryou'll have apoplexy."It has been my aim in the course of this narrative to extenuatenothing, nor set down aught in malice. Like the gentleman who playedeuchre with the Heathen Chinee, I state but facts. I do not,therefore, slur over my scheme for disturbing the professor's peace ofmind. I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, butI have my off moments.
　　I felt ruthless towards the professor. I cannot plead ignorance of thegolfer's point of view as an excuse for my plottings. I knew that toone whose soul is in the game as the professor's was, the agony ofbeing just beaten in an important match exceeds in bitterness allother agonies. I knew that, if I scraped through by the smallestpossible margin, his appetite would be destroyed, his sleep o' nightsbroken. He would wake from fitful slumber moaning that if he had onlyused his iron instead of his mashie at the tenth, all would have beenwell; that, if he had putted more carefully on the seventh green, lifewould not be drear and blank; that a more judicious manipulation ofhis brassey throughout might have given him something to live for. Allthese things I knew.
　　And they did not touch me. I was adamant. The professor was waitingfor me at the Club House, and greeted me with a cold and statelyinclination of the head.
　　"Beautiful day for golf," I observed in my gay, chatty manner. Hebowed in silence.
　　"Very well," I thought. "Wait. Just wait.""Miss Derrick is well, I hope?" I added, aloud.
　　That drew him. He started. His aspect became doubly forbidding.
　　"Miss Derrick is perfectly well, sir, I thank you.""And you? No bad effect, I hope, from your dip yesterday?""Mr. Garnet, I came here for golf, not conversation," he said.
　　We made it so. I drove off from the first tee. It was a splendiddrive. I should not say so if there were any one else to say so forme. Modesty would forbid. But, as there is no one, I must repeat thestatement. It was one of the best drives of my experience. The ballflashed through the air, took the bunker with a dozen feet to spare,and rolled on to the green. I had felt all along that I should be inform. Unless my opponent was equally above himself, he was a lost man.
　　I could toy with him.
　　The excellence of my drive had not been without its effect on theprofessor. I could see that he was not confident. He addressed hisball more strangely and at greater length than any one I had everseen. He waggled his club over it as if he were going to perform aconjuring trick. Then he struck, and topped it.
　　The ball rolled two yards.
　　He looked at it in silence. Then he looked at me--also in silence.
　　I was gazing seawards.
　　When I looked round he was getting to work with a brassey.
　　This time he hit the bunker, and rolled back. He repeated thismanoeuvre twice.
　　"Hard luck!" I murmured sympathetically on the third occasion, therebygoing as near to being slain with a niblick as it has ever been my lotto go. Your true golfer is easily roused in times of misfortune; andthere was a red gleam in the eye of the professor turned to me.
　　"I shall pick my ball up," he growled.
　　We walked on in silence to the second tee. He did the second hole infour, which was good. I did it in three, which--unfortunately for him--was better.
　　I won the third hole.
　　I won the fourth hole.
　　I won the fifth hole.
　　I glanced at my opponent out of the corner of my eyes. The man wassuffering. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
　　His play had become wilder and wilder at each hole in arithmeticalprogression. If he had been a plough he could hardly have turned upmore soil. The imagination recoiled from the thought of what he couldbe doing in another half-hour if he deteriorated at his present speed.
　　A feeling of calm and content stole over me. I was not sorry for him.
　　All the viciousness of my nature was uppermost in me. Once, when hemissed the ball clean at the fifth tee, his eye met mine, and we stoodstaring at each other for a full half-minute without moving. Ibelieve, if I had smiled then, he would have attacked me withouthesitation. There is a type of golfer who really almost ceases to behuman under stress of the wild agony of a series of foozles.
　　The sixth hole involves the player in a somewhat tricky piece ofcross-country work, owing to the fact that there is a nasty ditch tobe negotiated some fifty yards from the green. It is a beast of aditch, which, if you are out of luck, just catches your second shot.
　　"All hope abandon ye who enter here" might be written on a noticeboard over it.
　　The professor entered there. The unhappy man sent his second, as niceand clean a brassey shot as he had made all day, into its very jaws.
　　And then madness seized him. A merciful local rule, framed by kindlymen who have been in that ditch themselves, enacts that in such a casethe player may take his ball and throw it over his shoulder, losing astroke. But once, so the legend runs, a scratch man who found himselftrapped, scorning to avail himself of this rule at the expense of itsaccompanying penalty, wrought so shrewdly with his niblick that he notonly got out but actually laid his ball dead: and now optimistssometimes imitate his gallantry, though no one yet has been able toimitate his success.
　　The professor decided to take a chance: and he failed miserably. As Iwas on the green with my third, and, unless I putted extremely poorly,was morally certain to be down in five, which is bogey for the hole,there was not much practical use in his continuing to struggle. But hedid in a spirit of pure vindictiveness, as if he were trying to takeit out of the ball. It was a grisly sight to see him, head andshoulders above the ditch, hewing at his obstinate colonel. It was asimilar spectacle that once induced a lay spectator of a golf match toobserve that he considered hockey a silly game.
　　"/Sixteen!/" said the professor between his teeth. Then he picked uphis ball.
　　I won the seventh hole.
　　I won the eighth hole.
　　The ninth we halved, for in the black depths of my soul I had formed aplan of fiendish subtlety. I intended to allow him to win--withextreme labour--eight holes in succession.
　　Then, when hope was once more strong in him, I would win the last, andhe would go mad.
　　I watched him carefully as we trudged on. Emotions chased one anotheracross his face. When he won the tenth hole he merely refrained fromoaths. When he won the eleventh a sort of sullen pleasure showed inhis face. It was at the thirteenth that I detected the first dawningof hope. From then onward it grew.
　　When, with a sequence of shocking shots, he took the seventeenth holein seven, he was in a parlous condition. His run of success hadengendered within him a desire for conversation. He wanted, as itwere, to flap his wings and crow. I could see Dignity wrestling withTalkativeness. I gave him the lead.
　　"You have got your form now," I said.
　　Talkativeness had it. Dignity retired hurt. Speech came from him in arush. When he brought off an excellent drive from the eighteenth tee,he seemed to forget everything.
　　"Me dear boy,"--he began; and stopped abruptly in some confusion.
　　Silence once more brooded over us as we played ourselves up thefairway and on to the green.
　　He was on the green in four. I reached it in three. His sixth stroketook him out.
　　I putted carefully to the very mouth of the hole.
　　I walked up to my ball and paused. I looked at the professor. Helooked at me.
　　"Go on," he said hoarsely.
　　Suddenly a wave of compassion flooded over me. What right had I totorture the man like this?
　　"Professor," I said.
　　"Go on," he repeated.
　　"That looks a simple shot," I said, eyeing him steadily, "but I mightmiss it."He started.
　　"And then you would win the Championship."He dabbed at his forehead with a wet ball of a handkerchief.
　　"It would be very pleasant for you after getting so near it the lasttwo years.""Go on," he said for the third time. But there was a note ofhesitation in his voice.
　　"Sudden joy," I said, "would almost certainly make me miss it."We looked at each other. He had the golf fever in his eyes.
　　"If," I said slowly, lifting my putter, "you were to give your consentto my marriage with Phyllis----"He looked from me to the ball, from the ball to me, and back to theball. It was very, very near the hole.
　　"Why not?" I said.
　　He looked up, and burst into a roar of laughter.
　　"You young devil," said he, smiting his thigh, "you young devil,you've beaten me.""On the contrary," I said, "you have beaten me."* * * * *I left the professor at the Club House and raced back to the farm. Iwanted to pour my joys into a sympathetic ear. Ukridge, I knew, wouldoffer that same sympathetic ear. A good fellow, Ukridge. Alwaysinterested in what you had to tell him; never bored.
　　"Ukridge!" I shouted.
　　No answer.
　　I flung open the dining-room door. Nobody.
　　I went into the drawing-room. It was empty. I drew the garden, and hisbedroom. He was not in either.
　　"He must have gone for a stroll," I said.
　　I rang the bell.
　　The Hired Retainer appeared, calm and imperturbable as ever.
　　"Sir?""Oh, where is Mr. Ukridge, Beale?""Mr. Ukridge, sir," said the Hired Retainer nonchalantly, "has gone.""Gone!""Yes, sir. Mr. Ukridge and Mrs. Ukridge went away together by thethree o'clock train."
Chapter 21 The Calm Before The Storm
"Beale," I said, "are you drunk?""Wish I was, sir," said the Hired Man.
　　"Then what on earth do you mean? Gone? Where have they gone to?""Don't know, sir. London, I expect.""London? Why?""Don't know, sir.""When did they go? Oh, you told me that. Didn't they say why they weregoing?""No, sir.""Didn't you ask! When you saw them packing up and going to thestation, didn't you do anything?""No, sir.""Why on earth not?""I didn't see them, sir. I only found out as they'd gone after they'dbeen and went, sir. Walking down by the Net and Mackerel, met one ofthem coastguards. 'Oh,' says he, 'so you're moving?' 'Who's a-moving?'
　　I says to him. 'Well,' he says to me, 'I seen your Mr. Ukridge and hismissus get into the three o'clock train for Axminster. I thought asyou was all a-moving.' 'Ho,' I says, 'Ho,' wondering, and I goes on.
　　When I gets back, I asks the missus did she see them packing theirboxes, and she says, No, she says, they didn't pack no boxes as sheknowed of. And blowed if they had, Mr. Garnet, sir.""What! They didn't pack!""No, sir."We looked at one another.
　　"Beale," I said.
　　"Sir?""Do you know what I think?""Yes, sir.""They've bolted.""So I says to the missus, sir. It struck me right off, in a manner ofspeaking.""This is awful," I said.
　　"Yes, sir."His face betrayed no emotion, but he was one of those men whoseexpression never varies. It's a way they have in the Army.
　　"This wants thinking out, Beale," I said.
　　"Yes, sir.""You'd better ask Mrs. Beale to give me some dinner, and then I'llthink it over.""Yes, sir."I was in an unpleasant position. Ukridge by his defection had left mein charge of the farm. I could dissolve the concern, I supposed, if Iwished, and return to London, but I particularly desired to remain inCombe Regis. To complete the victory I had won on the links, it wasnecessary for me to continue as I had begun. I was in the position ofa general who has conquered a hostile country, and is obliged tosoothe the feelings of the conquered people before his labours can beconsidered at an end. I had rushed the professor. It must now be myaim to keep him from regretting that he had been rushed. I must,therefore, stick to my post with the tenacity of an able-bodied leech.
　　There would be trouble. Of that I was certain. As soon as the news gotabout that Ukridge had gone, the deluge would begin. His creditorswould abandon their passive tactics, and take active steps. There wasa chance that aggressive measures would be confined to the enemy atour gates, the tradesmen of Combe Regis. But the probability was thatthe news would spread, and the injured merchants of Dorchester andAxminster rush to the scene of hostilities.
　　I summoned Beale after dinner and held a council of war. It was notime for airy persiflage. I said, "Beale, we're in the cart.""Sir?""Mr. Ukridge going away like this has left me in a most unpleasantposition. I would like to talk it over with you. I daresay you knowthat we--that Mr. Ukridge owes a considerable amount of money roundabout here to tradesmen?""Yes, sir.""Well, when they find out that he has--er----""Shot the moon, sir," suggested the Hired Retainer helpfully.
　　"Gone up to town," I amended. "When they find out that he has gone upto town, they are likely to come bothering us a good deal.""Yes, sir.""I fancy that we shall have them all round here to-morrow. News ofthis sort always spreads quickly. The point is, then, what are we todo?"He propounded no scheme, but stood in an easy attitude of attention,waiting for me to continue.
　　I continued.
　　"Let's see exactly how we stand," I said. "My point is that Iparticularly wish to go on living down here for at least anotherfortnight. Of course, my position is simple. I am Mr. Ukridge's guest.
　　I shall go on living as I have been doing up to the present. He askedme down here to help him look after the fowls, so I shall go onlooking after them. Complications set in when we come to consider youand Mrs. Beale. I suppose you won't care to stop on after this?"The Hired Retainer scratched his chin and glanced out of the window.
　　The moon was up, and the garden looked cool and mysterious in the dimlight.
　　"It's a pretty place, Mr. Garnet, sir," he said.
　　"It is," I said, "but about other considerations? There's the matterof wages. Are yours in arrears?""Yes, sir. A month.""And Mrs. Beale's the same, I suppose?""Yes, sir. A month.""H'm. Well, it seems to me, Beale, you can't lose anything by stoppingon.""I can't be paid any less than I have bin, sir," he agreed.
　　"Exactly. And, as you say, it's a pretty place. You might just as wellstop on, and help me in the fowl-run. What do you think?""Very well, sir.""And Mrs. Beale will do the same?""Yes, sir.""That's excellent. You're a hero, Beale. I shan't forget you. There'sa cheque coming to me from a magazine in another week for a shortstory. When it arrives, I'll look into that matter of back wages. TellMrs. Beale I'm much obliged to her, will you?""Yes, sir."Having concluded that delicate business, I lit my pipe, and strolledout into the garden with Bob. I cursed Ukridge as I walked. It wasabominable of him to desert me in this way. Even if I had not been hisfriend, it would have been bad. The fact that we had known each otherfor years made it doubly discreditable. He might at least have warnedme, and given me the option of leaving the sinking ship with him.
　　But, I reflected, I ought not to be surprised. His whole career, aslong as I had known him, had been dotted with little eccentricities ofa type which an unfeeling world generally stigmatises as shady. Theywere small things, it was true; but they ought to have warned me. Weare most of us wise after the event. When the wind has blown, we cangenerally discover a multitude of straws which should have shown uswhich way it was blowing.
　　Once, I remembered, in our schoolmaster days, when guineas, thoughregular, were few, he had had occasion to increase his wardrobe. If Irecollect rightly, he thought he had a chance of a good position inthe tutoring line, and only needed good clothes to make it his. Hetook four pounds of his salary in advance,--he was in the habit ofdoing this: he never had any salary left by the end of term, it havingvanished in advance loans beforehand. With this he was to buy twosuits, a hat, new boots, and collars. When it came to making thepurchases, he found, what he had overlooked previously in hisoptimistic way, that four pounds did not go very far. At the time, Iremember, I thought his method of grappling with the situationhumorous. He bought a hat for three-and-sixpence, and got the suitsand the boots on the instalment system, paying a small sum in advance,as earnest of more to come. He then pawned one suit to pay for thefirst few instalments, and finally departed, to be known no more. Hisaddress he had given--with a false name--at an empty house, and whenthe tailor arrived with his minions of the law, all he found was anannoyed caretaker, and a pile of letters written by himself,containing his bill in its various stages of evolution.
　　Or again. There was a bicycle and photograph shop near the school. Hewent into this one day, and his roving eye fell on a tandem bicycle.
　　He did not want a tandem bicycle, but that influenced him not at all.
　　He ordered it provisionally. He also ordered an enlarging camera, akodak, and a magic lantern. The order was booked, and the goods wereto be delivered when he had made up his mind concerning them. After aweek the shopman sent round to ask if there were any furtherparticulars which Mr. Ukridge would like to learn before definitelyordering them. Mr. Ukridge sent back word that he was considering thematter, and that in the meantime would he be so good as to let himhave that little clockwork man in his window, which walked when woundup? Having got this, and not paid for it, Ukridge thought that he haddone handsomely by the bicycle and photograph man, and that thingswere square between them. The latter met him a few days afterwards,and expostulated plaintively. Ukridge explained. "My good man," hesaid, "you know, I really think we need say no more about the matter.
　　Really, you're come out of it very well. Now, look here, which wouldyou rather be owed for? A clockwork man--which is broken, and you canhave it back--or a tandem bicycle, an enlarging camera, a kodak, and amagic-lantern? What?" His reasoning was too subtle for the uneducatedmind. The man retired, puzzled, and unpaid, and Ukridge kept theclockwork toy.
Chapter 22 The Storm Breaks
Rather to my surprise, the next morning passed off uneventfully. Ourknocker advertised no dun. Our lawn remained untrodden by hob-nailedboots. By lunch-time I had come to the conclusion that the expectedTrouble would not occur that day, and I felt that I might well leavemy post for the afternoon, while I went to the professor's to pay myrespects. The professor was out when I arrived. Phyllis was in, and itwas not till the evening that I started for the farm again.
　　As I approached, the sound of voices smote my ears.
　　I stopped. I could hear Beale speaking. Then came the rich notes ofVickers, the butcher. Then Beale again. Then Dawlish the grocer. Thena chorus.
　　The storm had burst, and in my absence.
　　I blushed for myself. I was in command, and I had deserted the fort intime of need. What must the faithful Hired Man be thinking of me?
　　Probably he placed me, as he had placed Ukridge, in the ragged ranksof those who have Shot the Moon.
　　Fortunately, having just come from the professor's I was in thecostume which of all my wardrobe was most calculated to impress. To acasual observer I should probably suggest wealth and respectability. Istopped for a moment to cool myself, for, as is my habit when pleasedwith life, I had been walking fast; then opened the gate and strodein, trying to look as opulent as possible.
　　It was an animated scene that met my eyes. In the middle of the lawnstood the devoted Beale, a little more flushed than I had seen himhitherto, parleying with a burly and excited young man without a coat.
　　Grouped round the pair were some dozen men, young, middle-aged, andold, all talking their hardest. I could distinguish nothing of whatthey were saying. I noticed that Beale's left cheekbone was a littlediscoloured, and there was a hard, dogged expression on his face. He,too, was in his shirt-sleeves.
　　My entry created no sensation. Nobody, apparently, had heard the latchclick, and nobody had caught sight of me. Their eyes were fixed on theyoung man and Beale. I stood at the gate, and watched them.
　　There seemed to have been trouble already. Looking more closely, Iperceived sitting on the grass apart a second young man. His face wasobscured by a dirty pocket handkerchief, with which he dabbed tenderlyat his features. Every now and then the shirt-sleeved young man flunghis hand towards him with an indignant gesture, talking hard thewhile. It did not need a preternaturally keen observer to deduce whathad happened. Beale must have fallen out with the young man who wassitting on the grass and smitten him; and now his friend had taken upthe quarrel"Now this," I said to myself, "is rather interesting. Here, in thisone farm, we have the only three known methods of dealing with duns.
　　Beale is evidently an exponent of the violent method. Ukridge is anapostle of Evasion. I shall try Conciliation. I wonder which of uswill be the most successful."Meanwhile, not to spoil Beale's efforts by allowing him too littlescope for experiment, I refrained from making my presence known, andcontinued to stand by the gate, an interested spectator.
　　Things were evidently moving now. The young man's gestures became morevigorous. The dogged look on Beale's face deepened. The comments ofthe Ring increased in point and pungency.
　　"What did you hit him for, then?"The question was put, always the same words and with the same air ofquiet triumph, at intervals of thirty seconds by a little man in asnuff-coloured suit with a purple tie. Nobody ever answered him, orappeared to listen to him, but he seemed each time to think that hehad clinched the matter and cornered his opponent.
　　Other voices chimed in.
　　"You hit him, Charlie. Go on. You hit him.""We'll have the law.""Go on, Charlie."Flushed with the favour of the many-headed, Charlie now proceeded fromthreats to action. His right fist swung round suddenly. But Beale wason the alert. He ducked sharply, and the next moment Charlie wassitting on the ground beside his fallen friend. A hush fell on theRing, and the little man in the purple tie was left repeating hisformula without support.
　　I advanced. It seemed to me that the time had come to be conciliatory.
　　Charlie was struggling to his feet, obviously anxious for a secondround, and Beale was getting into position once more. In another fiveminutes conciliation would be out of the question.
　　"What's all this?" I said.
　　I may mention here that I do not propose to inflict dialect upon thereader. If he had borne with my narrative thus far, I look on him as afriend, and feel that he deserves consideration. I may not havebrought out the fact with sufficient emphasis in the foregoing pages,but nevertheless I protest that I have a conscience. Not so much as a"thiccy" shall he find.
　　My advent caused a stir. Excited men left Beale, and rallied round me.
　　Charlie, rising to his feet, found himself dethroned from his positionof Man of the Moment, and stood blinking at the setting sun andopening and shutting his mouth. There was a buzz of conversation.
　　"Don't all speak at once, please," I said. "I can't possibly followwhat you say. Perhaps you will tell me what you want?"I singled out a short, stout man in grey. He wore the largest whiskersever seen on human face.
　　"It's like this, sir. We all of us want to know where we are.""I can tell you that," I said, "you're on our lawn, and I should bemuch obliged if you would stop digging your heels into it."This was not, I suppose, Conciliation in the strictest and best senseof the word; but the thing had to be said. It is the duty of everygood citizen to do his best to score off men with whiskers.
　　"You don't understand me, sir," he said excitedly. "When I said wedidn't know where we were, it was a manner of speaking. We want toknow how we stand.""On your heels," I replied gently, "as I pointed out before.""I am Brass, sir, of Axminster. My account with Mr. Ukridge is tenpounds eight shillings and fourpence. I want to know----"The whole strength of the company now joined in.
　　"You know me, Mr. Garnet. Appleby, in the High----" (Voice lost in thegeneral roar).
　　" . . . and eightpence.""My account with Mr. Uk . . ."" . . . settle . . .""I represent Bodger . . ."A diversion occurred at this point. Charlie, who had long been eyeingBeale sourly, dashed at him with swinging fists, and was knocked downagain. The whole trend of the meeting altered once more, Conciliationbecame a drug. Violence was what the public wanted. Beale had threefights in rapid succession. I was helpless. Instinct prompted me tojoin the fray; but prudence told me that such a course would be fatal.
　　At last, in a lull, I managed to catch the Hired Retainer by the arm,as he drew back from the prostrate form of his latest victim. "Dropit, Beale," I whispered hotly, "drop it. We shall never manage thesepeople if you knock them about. Go indoors, and stay there while Italk to them.""Mr. Garnet, sir," said he, the light of battle dying out of his eyes,"it's 'ard. It's cruel 'ard. I ain't 'ad a turn-up, not to /call/ aturn-up, since I've been a time-expired man. I ain't hitting of 'em,Mr. Garnet, sir, not hard I ain't. That there first one of 'em heplayed me dirty, hittin' at me when I wasn't looking. They can't sayas I started it.""That's all right, Beale," I said soothingly. "I know it wasn't yourfault, and I know it's hard on you to have to stop, but I wish youwould go indoors. I must talk to these men, and we shan't have amoment's peace while you're here. Cut along.""Very well, sir. But it's 'ard. Mayn't I 'ave just one go at thatCharlie, Mr. Garnet?" he asked wistfully.
　　"No, no. Go in.""And if they goes for you, sir, and tries to wipe the face off you?""They won't, they won't. If they do, I'll shout for you."He went reluctantly into the house, and I turned again to my audience.
　　"If you will kindly be quiet for a moment--" I said.
　　"I am Appleby, Mr. Garnet, in the High Street. Mr. Ukridge--""Eighteen pounds fourteen shillings--""Kindly glance--"I waved my hands wildly above my head.
　　"Stop! stop! stop!" I shouted.
　　The babble continued, but diminished gradually in volume. Through thetrees, as I waited, I caught a glimpse of the sea. I wished I was outon the Cob, where beyond these voices there was peace. My head wasbeginning to ache, and I felt faint for want of food.
　　"Gentlemen," I cried, as the noise died away.
　　The latch of the gate clicked. I looked up, and saw a tall thin youngman in a frock coat and silk hat enter the garden. It was the firsttime I had seen the costume in the country.
　　He approached me.
　　"Mr. Ukridge, sir?" he said.
　　"My name is Garnet. Mr. Ukridge is away at the moment.""I come from Whiteley's, Mr. Garnet. Our Mr. Blenkinsop having writtenon several occasions to Mr. Ukridge calling his attention to the factthat his account has been allowed to mount to a considerable figure,and having received no satisfactory reply, desired me to visit him. Iam sorry that he is not at home.""So am I," I said with feeling.
　　"Do you expect him to return shortly?""No," I said, "I do not."He was looking curiously at the expectant band of duns. I forestalledhis question.
　　"Those are some of Mr. Ukridge's creditors," I said. "I am just aboutto address them. Perhaps you will take a seat. The grass is quite dry.
　　My remarks will embrace you as well as them."Comprehension came into his eyes, and the natural man in him peepedthrough the polish.
　　"Great Scott, has he done a bunk?" he cried.
　　"To the best of my knowledge, yes," I said.
　　He whistled.
　　I turned again to the local talent.
　　"Gentlemen," I shouted.
　　"Hear, hear," said some idiot.
　　"Gentlemen, I intend to be quite frank with you. We must decide justhow matters stand between us. (A voice: Where's Ukridge?) Mr. Ukridgeleft for London suddenly (bitter laughter) yesterday afternoon.
　　Personally I think he will come back very shortly."Hoots of derision greeted this prophecy. I resumed.
　　"I fail to see your object in coming here. I have nothing for you. Icouldn't pay your bills if I wanted to."It began to be borne upon me that I was becoming unpopular.
　　"I am here simply as Mr. Ukridge's guest," I proceeded. After all, whyshould I spare the man? "I have nothing whatever to do with hisbusiness affairs. I refuse absolutely to be regarded as in any wayindebted to you. I am sorry for you. You have my sympathy. That is allI can give you, sympathy--and good advice."Dissatisfaction. I was getting myself disliked. And I had meant to beso conciliatory, to speak to these unfortunates words of cheer whichshould be as olive oil poured into a wound. For I really didsympathise with them. I considered that Ukridge had used themdisgracefully. But I was irritated. My head ached abominably.
　　"Then am I to tell our Mr. Blenkinsop," asked the frock-coated one,"that the money is not and will not be forthcoming?""When next you smoke a quiet cigar with your Mr. Blenkinsop," Ireplied courteously, "and find conversation flagging, I rather think I/should/ say something of the sort.""We shall, of course, instruct our solicitors at once to institutelegal proceedings against your Mr. Ukridge.""Don't call him my Mr. Ukridge. You can do whatever you please.""That is your last word on the subject?""I hope so. But I fear not.""Where's our money?" demanded a discontented voice from the crowd.
　　An idea struck me.
　　"Beale!" I shouted.
　　Out came the Hired Retainer at the double. I fancy he thought that hishelp was needed to save me from my friends.
　　He slowed down, seeing me as yet unassaulted.
　　"Sir?" he said.
　　"Isn't there a case of that whisky left somewhere, Beale?"I had struck the right note. There was a hush of pleased anticipationamong the audience.
　　"Yes, sir. One.""Then bring it out here and open it."Beale looked pained"For /them/, sir!" he ejaculated.
　　"Yes. Hurry up."He hesitated, then without a word went into the house. A hearty cheerwent up as he reappeared with the case. I proceeded indoors in searchof glasses and water.
　　Coming out, I realised my folly in having left Beale alone with ourvisitors even for a minute. A brisk battle was raging between him anda man whom I did not remember to have seen before. The frock-coatedyoung man was looking on with pale fear stamped upon his face; but therest of the crowd were shouting advice and encouragement was beinggiven to Beale. How I wondered, had he pacified the mob?
　　I soon discovered. As I ran up as quickly as I could, hampered as Iwas by the jugs and glasses, Beale knocked his man out with the cleanprecision of the experienced boxer; and the crowd explained in chorusthat it was the pot-boy, from the Net and Mackerel. Like everythingelse, the whisky had not been paid for and the pot-boy, arriving justas the case was being opened, had made a gallant effort to save itfrom being distributed free to his fellow-citizens. By the time hecame to, the glasses were circulating merrily; and, on observing this,he accepted the situation philosophically enough, and took his turnand turn about with the others.
　　Everybody was now in excellent fettle. The only malcontents wereBeale, whose heart plainly bled at the waste of good Scotch whisky,and the frock-coated young man, who was still pallid.
　　I was just congratulating myself, as I eyed the revellers, on havingachieved a masterstroke of strategy, when that demon Charlie, hisdefeat, I suppose, still rankling, made a suggestion. From his pointof view a timely and ingenious suggestion.
　　"We can't see the colour of our money," he said pithily, "but we canhave our own back."That settled it. The battle was over. The most skilful general mustsometime recognise defeat. I recognised it then, and threw up my hand.
　　I could do nothing further with them. I had done my best for the farm.
　　I could do no more.
　　I lit my pipe, and strolled into the paddock.
　　Chaos followed. Indoors and out-of-doors they raged without check.
　　Even Beale gave the thing up. He knocked Charlie into a flower-bed,and then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
　　It was growing dusk. From inside the house came faint sounds ofbibulous mirth, as the sacking party emptied the rooms of theircontents. In the fowl-run a hen was crooning sleepily in its coop. Itwas a very soft, liquid, soothing sound.
　　Presently out came the invaders with their loot, one with a picture,another with a vase, another bearing the gramophone upside down. Theywere singing in many keys and times.
　　Then I heard somebody--Charlie again, it seemed to me--propose a raidon the fowl-run.
　　The fowls had had their moments of unrest since they had been ourproperty, but what they had gone through with us was peace comparedwith what befell them then. Not even on the second evening of ourvisit, when we had run unmeasured miles in pursuit of them, had therebeen such confusion. Roused abruptly from their beauty-sleep they fledin all directions. Their pursuers, roaring with laughter, staggeredafter them. They tumbled over one another. The summer evening was madehideous with the noise of them.
　　"Disgraceful, sir. Is it not disgraceful!" said a voice in my ear.
　　The young man from Whiteley's stood beside me. He did not look happy.
　　His forehead was damp. Somebody seemed to have stepped on his hat, andhis coat was smeared with mould.
　　I was turning to answer him when from the dusk in the direction of thehouse came a sudden roar. A passionate appeal to the world in generalto tell the speaker what all this meant.
　　There was only one man of my acquaintance with a voice like that.
　　I walked without hurry towards him.
　　"Good evening, Ukridge," I said.
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