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.