LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS
BY
P. G. WODEHOUSE
DEDICATION
TO W. TOWNEND
DEAR BILL, -
I have never been much of a lad for the
TO - - -
But For Whose Sympathy and Encouragement
This Book
Would Never Have Been Written
type of dedication. It sounds so weak-minded. But in the case of Love
Among the Chickens it is unavoidable. It was not so much that you
sympathised and encouraged - where you really came out strong was that
you gave me the stuff. I like people who sympathise with me. I am
grateful to those who encourage me. But the man to whom I raise the
Wodehouse hat - owing to the increased cost of living, the same old
brown one I had last year - it is being complained of on all sides, but
the public must bear it like men till the straw hat season comes
round - I say, the man to whom I raise this venerable relic is the man
who gives me the material.
Sixteen years ago, my William, when we were young and spritely lads;
when you were a tricky centre-forward and I a fast bowler; when your
head was covered with hair and my list of "Hobbies" in Who's Who
included Boxing; I received from you one morning about thirty closely-
written foolscap pages, giving me the details of your friend - - -'s
adventures on his Devonshire chicken farm. Round these I wove as funny
a plot as I could, but the book stands or falls by the stuff you gave
me about "Ukridge" - the things that actually happened.
You will notice that I have practically re-written the book. There was
some pretty bad work in it, and it had "dated." As an instance of the
way in which the march of modern civilisation has left the 1906
edition behind, I may mention that on page twenty-one I was able to
make Ukridge speak of selling eggs at six for fivepence!
Yours ever,
P. G. WODEHOUSE
London, 1920.
LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS
CHAPTER I
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 breakfast
things.
"Yes?" I said, in my affable way.
"A gentleman," said Mrs. Medley meditatively, "with a very powerful
voice."
"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 in
for a chat, I doubted whether I was quite equal to Ukridge at the
moment. A stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of the
words, he was a trifle too jumpy for a man of my cloistered and
intellectual life, especially as just now I was trying to plan out a
new novel, a tricky job demanding complete quiet and seclusion. It had
always been my experience that, when Ukridge was around, things began
to happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible.
Ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows the
money from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroiling
you in a fight with a cabman. I have gone to Covent Garden balls with
Ukridge, and found myself legging it down Henrietta Street in the grey
dawn, pursued by infuriated costermongers.
I wondered how he had got my address, and on that problem light was
immediately cast by Mrs. Medley, who returned, bearing an envelope.
"It came by the morning post, sir, but it was left at Number Twenty by
mistake."
"Oh, thank you."
"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley.
I recognised the handwriting. The letter, which bore a Devonshire
postmark, was from an artist friend of mine, one Lickford, who was at
present on a sketching tour in the west. I had seen him off at
Waterloo a week before, and I remember that I had walked away from the
station wishing that I could summon up the energy to pack and get off
to the country somewhere. I hate London in July.
The letter was a long one, but it was the postscript which interested
me 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 was
abroad. The last I heard of him was that he had started for Buenos
Ayres in a cattle ship, with a borrowed pipe by way of luggage. It
seems he has been in England for some time. I met him in the
refreshment-room at Yeovil Station. I was waiting for a down train; he
had changed on his way to town. As I opened the door, I heard a huge
voice entreating the lady behind the bar to 'put it in a pewter'; and
there was S. F. U. in a villainous old suit of grey flannels (I'll
swear it was the one he had on last time I saw him) with pince-nez
tacked on to his ears with ginger-beer wire as usual, and a couple of
inches of bare neck showing between the bottom of his collar and the
top of his coat - you remember how he could never get a stud to do its
work. He also wore a mackintosh, though it was a blazing day.
"He greeted me with effusive shouts. Wouldn't hear of my standing the
racket. Insisted on being host. When we had finished, he fumbled in
his pockets, looked pained and surprised, and drew me aside. 'Look
here, Licky, old horse,' he said, 'you know I never borrow money. It's
against my principles. But I /must/ have a couple of bob. Can you, my
dear 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 you
have this (producing a beastly little threepenny bit with a hole in it
which he had probably picked up in the street) until I can pay you
back. This is of more value to me than I can well express, Licky, my
boy. 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, you
must take it. Licky, old man, shake hands, old horse. Shake hands, my
boy.' He then tottered to the bar, deeply moved, and paid up out of
the five shillings which he had made it as an after-thought. He asked
after you, and said you were one of the noblest men on earth. I gave
him your address, not being able to get out of it, but if I were you I
should fly while there is yet time."
It seemed to me that the advice was good and should be followed. I
needed a change of air. London may have suited Doctor Johnson, but in
the summer time it is not for the ordinary man. What I wanted, to
enable me to give the public of my best (as the reviewer of a weekly
paper, dealing with my last work, had expressed a polite hope that I
would 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 can
forward 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. I
heard Mrs. Medley's footsteps pass along the hall. There was the click
of the latch. A volume of sound rushed up the stairs.
"Is Mr. Garnet in? Where is he? Show me the old horse. Where is the
man 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 II
MR. AND MRS. S. F. UKRIDGE
I have often thought that Who's Who, though a bulky and well-meaning
volume, omits too many of England's greatest men. It is not
comprehensive 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 of
Arthur.' Hobbies: Cricket, football, swimming, golf. Clubs: Arts."
But if you search among the U's for UKRIDGE, Stanley
Featherstonehaugh, details of whose tempestuous career would make
really interesting reading, you find no mention of him. It seems
unfair, though I imagine Ukridge bears it with fortitude. That much-
enduring man has had a lifetime's training in bearing things with
fortitude.
He seemed in his customary jovial spirits now, as he dashed into the
room, clinging on to the pince-nez which even ginger-beer wire rarely
kept stable for two minutes together.
"My dear old man," he shouted, springing at me and seizing my hand in
the grip like the bite of a horse. "How /are/ you, old buck? This is
good. 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, looking
just the same as ever. Devilish handsome fellow! You'll be glad you
came when you see him. Beats the Zoo hollow!"
There appeared round the corner of Ukridge a young woman. She paused
in the doorway and smiled pleasantly.
"Garny, old horse," said Ukridge with some pride, "this is /her/! The
pride of the home. Companion of joys and sorrows and all the rest of
it. In fact," in a burst of confidence, "my wife."
I bowed awkwardly. The idea of Ukridge married was something too
overpowering to be readily assimilated.
"Buck up, old horse," said Ukridge encouragingly. He had a painful
habit of addressing all and sundry by that title. In his school-master
days - at one period of his vivid career he and I had been colleagues
on the staff of a private school - he had made use of it interviewing
the 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 or
due to alcohol, and hoping for the best. He also used it to perfect
strangers in the streets, and on one occasion had been heard to
address a bishop by that title, rendering that dignitary, as Mr. Baboo
Jaberjee would put it, /sotto voce/ with gratification. "Surprised to
find me married, what? Garny, old boy," - sinking his voice to a
whisper almost inaudible on the other side of the street - "take my
tip. Go and jump off the dock yourself. You'll feel another man. Give
up this bachelor business. It's a mug's game. I look on you bachelors
as excrescences on the social system. I regard you, old man, purely
and 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 of
his last remark had ceased to shake the window. I was left to
entertain Mrs. Ukridge.
So far her share in the conversation had been confined to the pleasant
smile which was apparently her chief form of expression. Nobody talked
very much when Ukridge was present. She sat on the edge of the
armchair, looking very small and quiet. I was conscious of feeling a
benevolent pity for her. If I had been a girl, I would have preferred
to marry a volcano. A little of Ukridge, as his former head master had
once said in a moody, reflective voice, went a very long way. "You and
Stanley have known each other a long time, haven't you?" said the
object 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, had
she found any disadvantages attached to the arduous position of being
Mrs. 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 apparent
irrelevance.
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 good
thing, don't you?"
"Yes. But . . ."
"I have bought a shilling book called 'Fowls and All About Them,' and
this week's copy of C.A.C."
"C.A.C.?"
"/Chiefly About Chickens/. It's a paper, you know. But it's all rather
hard to understand. You see, we . . . but here is Stanley. He will
explain the whole thing."
"Well, Garny, old horse," said Ukridge, re-entering the room after
another energetic passage of the stairs. "Years since I saw you. Still
buzzing 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 third
page, because the scurvy knave at the bookstall said he wasn't running
a free library, and in one way and another there was a certain amount
of unpleasantness. Still, it seemed bright and interesting up to page
three. But let's settle down and talk business. I've got a scheme for
you, Garny old man. Yessir, the idea of a thousand years. Now listen
to 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. Then
he took off his pince-nez, wiped them, re-adjusted the ginger-beer
wire behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of his
grey flannel trousers several times, in the apparent hope of removing
it, resumed:
"About fowls."
The subject was beginning to interest me. It showed a curious tendency
to creep into the conversation of the Ukridge family.
"I want you to give me your undivided attention for a moment. I was
saying 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. Or
am I thinking of tobacco-ash on the carpet? Well, never mind. Listen
to me! When I said that we were going to keep fowls, I didn't mean in
a small, piffling sort of way - two cocks and a couple of hens and a
golf-ball for a nest-egg. We are going to do it on a large scale. We
are going to run a chicken farm!"
"A chicken farm," echoed Mrs. Ukridge with an affectionate and
admiring 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. No
expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and the money
streaming in faster than you can bank it. Winter and summer
underclothing, my bonny boy, lined with crackling Bradbury's. It's the
idea 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 calculations
clearer. Very well, then. Harriet the hen - you get her. Do you follow
me so far?"
"Yes. You get a hen."
"I told you Garnet was a dashed bright fellow," said Ukridge
approvingly to his attentive wife. "Notice the way he keeps right
after 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 day
of the week. You sell the eggs, six for half a crown. Keep of hen
costs 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 - you
get your first hen on tick. Anybody will be glad to let you have the
hen 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 me
closely. Suppose you have a dozen hens. Very well, then. When each of
the dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the old hens back to the
chappies you borrowed them from, with thanks for kind loan; and there
you are, starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickens
to your name. And after a bit, when the chickens grow up and begin to
lay, all you have to do is to sit back in your chair and endorse the
big cheques. Isn't that so, Millie?"
"Yes, dear."
"We've fixed it all up. Do you know Combe Regis, in Dorsetshire? On
the borders of Devon. Bathing. Sea-air. Splendid scenery. Just the
place for a chicken farm. A friend of Millie's - girl she knew at
school - has lent us a topping old house, with large grounds. All we've
got to do is to get in the fowls. I've ordered the first lot. We shall
find them waiting for us when we arrive."
"Well," I said, "I'm sure I wish you luck. Mind you let me know how
you get on."
"Let you know!" roared Ukridge. "Why, my dear old horse, you're coming
with 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 us
at 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 saying
to Millie as we came along that you were the very man for us. A man
with your flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm.
Absolutely invaluable. You see," proceeded Ukridge, "I'm one of those
practical fellows. The hard-headed type. I go straight ahead,
following my nose. What you want in a business of this sort is a touch
of the dreamer to help out the practical mind. We look to you for
suggestions, laddie. Flashes of inspiration and all that sort of
thing. Of course, you take your share of the profits. That's
understood. Yes, yes, I must insist. Strict business between friends.
Now, taking it that, at a conservative estimate, the net profits for
the first fiscal year amount to - five thousand, no, better be on the
safe side - say, four thousand five hundred pounds . . . But we'll
arrange all that end of it when we get down there. Millie will look
after that. She's the secretary of the concern. She's been writing
letters to people asking for hens. So you see it's a thoroughly
organised business. How many hen-letters did you write last week, old
girl?"
"Ten, dear."
Ukridge turned triumphantly to me.
"You hear? Ten. Ten letters asking for hens. That's the way to
succeed. 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 and
practical. Well now, can you get your things ready by to-morrow, Garny
old horse?"
Strange how one reaches an epoch-making moment in one's life without
recognising it. If I had refused that invitation, I would not have - at
any rate, I would have missed a remarkable experience. It is not given
to everyone to see Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge manage a chicken
farm.
"I was thinking of going somewhere where I could get some golf," I
said undecidedly.
"Combe Regis is just the place for you, then. Perfect hot-bed of
golf. Full of the finest players. Can't throw a brick without hitting
an amateur champion. Grand links at the top of the hill not half a
mile from the farm. Bring your clubs. You'll be able to play in the
afternoons. Get through serious work by lunch time."
"You know," I said, "I am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls. I
just know enough to help myself to bread sauce when I see one, but no
more."
"Excellent! You're just the man. You will bring to the work a mind
unclouded by theories. You will act solely by the light of your
intelligence. And you've got lots of that. That novel of yours showed
the most extraordinary intelligence - at least as far as that blighter
at the bookstall would let me read. I wouldn't have a professional
chicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. If he applied to
me, I should simply send him away. Natural intelligence is what we
want. 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 the
eleven-twenty at Waterloo. Don't miss it. Look out for me on the
platform. If I see you first, I'll shout."
CHAPTER III
WATERLOO STATION, SOME FELLOW-TRAVELLERS, AND A GIRL WITH BROWN HAIR
The austerity of Waterloo Station was lightened on the following
morning at ten minutes to eleven, when I arrived to catch the train to
Combe Regis, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustle
and activity on the various platforms. A porter took my suitcase and
golf-clubs, and arranged an assignation on Number 6 platform. I bought
my ticket, and made my way to the bookstall, where, in the interests
of trade, I inquired in a loud and penetrating voice if they had got
Jeremy Garnet's "Manoeuvres of Arthur." Being informed that they had
not, I clicked my tongue reproachfully, advised them to order in a
supply, as the demand was likely to be large, and spent a couple of
shillings on a magazine and some weekly papers. Then, with ten minutes
to 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 the
suit-case and golf-bag.
"Here you are!" shouted Ukridge vigorously. "Good for you. Thought you
were going to miss it."
I shook hands with the smiling Mrs. Ukridge.
"I've got a carriage and collared two corner seats. Millie goes down
in 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 here
this morning. Still, the more people there are in the world, the more
eggs we shall sell. I can see with half an eye that all these
blighters are confirmed egg-eaters. Get in, sonnie. I'll just see the
missis into her carriage, and come back to you."
I entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out in the
faint hope of thwarting an invasion of fellow-travellers. Then I
withdrew my head suddenly and sat down. An elderly gentleman,
accompanied by a pretty girl, was coming towards me. It was not this
type of fellow traveller whom I had hoped to keep out. I had noticed
the girl at the booking office. She had waited by the side of the
queue while the elderly gentleman struggled gamely for the tickets,
and I had had plenty of opportunity of observing her appearance. I had
debated with myself whether her hair should rightly be described as
brown or golden. I had finally decided on brown. Once only had I met
her eyes, and then only for an instant. They might be blue. They might
be grey. I could not be certain. Life is full of these problems.
"This seems to be tolerably empty, my dear Phyllis," said the elderly
gentleman, 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 a
brogue. 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 might
start at any minute, the crowd's excitement was extreme. Shrill cries
echoed down the platform. Lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushed
to and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in search of seats.
Piercing voices ordered unknown "Tommies" and "Ernies" to "keep by
aunty, now." Just as Ukridge returned, that /sauve qui peut/ of the
railway crowd, the dreaded "Get in anywhere," began to be heard, and
the next moment an avalanche of warm humanity poured into the
carriage.
The newcomers consisted of a middle-aged lady, addressed as Aunty,
very stout and clad in a grey alpaca dress, skin-tight; a youth called
Albert, not, it was to appear, a sunny child; a niece of some twenty
years, stolid and seemingly without interest in life, and one or two
other camp-followers and retainers.
Ukridge slipped into his corner, adroitly foiling Albert, who had made
a dive in that direction. Albert regarded him fixedly and
reproachfully for a space, then sank into the seat beside me and began
to chew something that smelt of aniseed.
Aunty, meanwhile, was distributing her substantial weight evenly
between the feet of the Irish gentleman and those of his daughter, as
she leaned out of the window to converse with a lady friend in a straw
hat and hair curlers, accompanied by three dirty and frivolous boys.
It was, she stated, lucky that she had caught the train. I could not
agree with her. The girl with the brown hair and the eyes that were
neither blue or grey was bearing the infliction, I noticed, with
angelic calm. She even smiled. This was when the train suddenly moved
off with a jerk, and Aunty, staggering back, sat down on the bag of
food 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's
power of mastication. The odour of aniseed became more and more
painful. Ukridge had lighted a cigar, and I understood why Mrs.
Ukridge preferred to travel in another compartment, for
"In his hand he bore the brand
Which none but he might smoke."
I looked across the carriage stealthily to see how the girl was
enduring this combination of evils, and noticed that she had begun to
read. And as she put the book down to look out of the window, I saw
with a thrill that trickled like warm water down my spine that her
book was "The Manoeuvres of Arthur." I gasped. That a girl should look
as pretty as that and at the same time have the rare intelligence to
read Me . . . well, it seemed an almost superhuman combination of the
excellencies. And more devoutly than ever I cursed in my heart these
intrusive outsiders who had charged in at the last moment and
destroyed for ever my chance of making this wonderful girl's
acquaintance. But for them, we might have become intimate in the first
half hour. As it was, what were we? Ships that pass in the night! She
would get out at some beastly wayside station, and vanish from my life
without my ever having even spoken to her.
Aunty, meanwhile, having retired badly worsted from her encounter with
Albert, who showed a skill in logomachy that marked him out as a
future labour member, was consoling herself with meat sandwiches. The
niece was demolishing sausage rolls. The atmosphere of the carriage
was charged with a blend of odours, topping all Ukridge's cigar, now
in full blast.
The train raced on towards the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpid
peace began to settle down upon the carriage. Ukridge had thrown away
the stump of his cigar, and was now leaning back with his mouth open
and his eyes shut. Aunty, still clutching a much-bitten section of a
beef 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 name
could possibly have sounded so musical.
"Molly McEachern gave it to me when I left the Abbey. She keeps a
shelf of books for her guests when they are going away. Books that she
considers 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 my
eyes. "I think it is very clever."
What did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the Waterloo
bookstall had never heard of "The Manoeuvres of Arthur," and that my
publishers, whenever I slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked at
me 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 novels
which appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellect
and refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn out
something that will be approved of by a girl like this.
"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is," she said. "I've never heard of him
before. I imagine him rather an old young man, probably with an
eyeglass, 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 a
cr-r-eature," said Phyllis emphatically.
This was a blow to me. I had always looked on Pamela as a well-drawn
character, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that. That
scene between her and the curate in the conservatory . . . And when
she talks to Arthur at the meet of the Blankshires . . . I was sorry
she 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 thoughtful
study of myself. If she liked Arthur, why, then it followed . . . but
what was the use? I should never get a chance of speaking to her. We
were divided by a great gulf of Aunties and Alberts and meat
sandwiches.
The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animation
began to be noticeable among the sleepers. Aunty's eyes opened, stared
vacantly round, closed, and reopened. The niece woke, and started
instantly to attack a sausage roll. Albert and Ukridge slumbered on.
A whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station. Looking
out, I saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Aunty
became instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels,
shook Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally
heading a stampede out of the door.
The Irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out. I watched them
leave stoically. It would have been too much to expect that they
should be going any further.
"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily. "Yeovil? Not far now. I tell
you what it is, old horse, I could do with a drink."
With that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to his
slumbers. And, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over the
carriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. It was "The
Manoeuvres 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 book
might have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use to
the owner. It only occurred to me that, if I did not act swiftly, the
poor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or
vanity-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 of
emotion.
"They are blue," I said to my immortal soul. "A wonderful, deep, soft,
heavenly blue, like the sea at noonday."
CHAPTER IV
THE ARRIVAL
From Axminster to Combe Regis the line runs through country as
attractive as any that can be found in the island, and the train, as
if in appreciation of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. It
was late afternoon by the time we reached our destination.
The arrangements for the carrying of luggage at Combe Regis border on
the primitive. Boxes are left on the platform, and later, when he
thinks of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them into the valley and
up 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 the
valley, looking through woods to the sea. The place was visible from
the station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of a
hill, the view was extensive.
Half-way up the slope on the other side of the valley we left the road
and made our way across a spongy field, Ukridge explaining that this
was a short cut. We climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream and
another field, and after negotiating a difficult bank, topped with
barbed wire, found ourselves in a garden.
Ukridge mopped his forehead, and restored his pince-nez to their
original position from which the passage of the barbed wire had
dislodged them.
"This is the place," he said. "We've come in by the back way. Saves
time. 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 the
name of Beale and his wife are in charge at present. I wrote to them
telling 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. The
noise echoed through the house, but there was no answering footsteps.
He rang again. There is no mistaking the note of a bell in an empty
house. 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 to
button his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in the
Argentine. Two other cheery sportsmen and myself tried for three-
quarters of an hour to get into an empty house where there looked as
if there might be something to drink, and we'd just got the door open
when the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shot-gun. It was a
little difficult to explain. As a matter of fact, we never did what
you might call really thresh the matter out thoroughly in all its
aspects, and you'd be surprised what a devil of a time it takes to
pick buck-shot out of a fellow. There was a dog, too."
He broke off, musing dreamily on the happy past, and at this moment
history partially repeated itself. From the other side of the door
came a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark.
"Hullo," said Ukridge, "Beale has a dog." He frowned, annoyed. "What
right," 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 a
little hard. Here am I, slaving day and night to support Beale, and
when I try to get into my own house his infernal dog barks at me. Upon
my 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 against
it. The barking rang through the house.
"Come round to the back," said Ukridge, giving up the idea of
conciliation, "we'll get in through the kitchen window."
The kitchen window proved to be insecurely latched. Ukridge threw it
open and we climbed in. The dog, hearing the noise, raced back along
the 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 collecting
cups and things. When that scoundrel Beale arrives I shall tear him
limb from limb. Deserting us like this! The man must be a thorough
fraud. He told me he was an old soldier. If that's the sort of
discipline they used to keep in his regiment, thank God, we've got a
Navy! 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, Garny
old horse? Tea? Good. Where's the bread? There goes another plate.
Where's Mrs. Beale, too? By Jove, that woman wants killing as much as
her blackguard of a husband. Whoever heard of a cook deliberately
leaving her post on the day when her master and mistress were expected
back? The abandoned woman. Look here, I'll give that dog three
minutes, and if it doesn't stop scratching that door by then, I'll
take 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 I
arrive is somebody else's beastly dog scratching holes in the doors
and 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 it
into the scullery, whence came a sound of running water. He returned
carrying the jug with both hands, his mien that of a general who sees
his 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 get
the surprise of a lifetime."
I attached myself to the handle as directed. Ukridge gave the word. We
had a momentary vision of an excited dog of the mongrel class framed
in the open doorway, all eyes and teeth; then the passage was occupied
by a spreading pool, and indignant barks from the distance told that
the enemy was thinking the thing over in some safe retreat.
"Settled /his/ hash," said Ukridge complacently. "Nothing like
resource, Garny my boy. Some men would have gone on letting a good
door 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 been
here 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 run
a chicken farm without fowls. If they don't come to-morrow, I shall
get 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'll
choose a place for a fowl-run. To-morrow we must buckle to. Serious
work 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 of
doing things if you look for it. Organisation, my boy. That's the
watchword. 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. These
people 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 dog
again. Where's the jug?"
But this time an unforeseen interruption prevented the manoeuvre being
the success it had been before. I had turned the handle and was about
to pull the door open, while Ukridge, looking like some modern and