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No answer. "Beale!!" A sturdy form in shirt-sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying a boot. We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it. "Beale, you know all about fowls. What's the matter with these chickens?" The Hired Retainer examined the blase birds with a wooden expression on his face. "Well?" said Ukridge.
"Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots," said Ukridge. "You're no use. Wait a minute. Who would know about this infernal roop thing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off to the nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what he does when his fowls get the roop." "Yes, sir." "No, I'll go, Ukridge," I said. "I want some exercise."
Ukridge, looking younger and more child-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 to this morning." "The fowls have arrived, Mr. Garnet," said Mrs. Ukridge, opening her eyes till she looked like an astonished kitten. "Such a lot of them.
When it arrives, I'll look into that matter of back wages. Tell Mrs. Beale I'm much obliged to her, will you?" "Yes, sir." Having concluded that delicate business, I lit my pipe, and strolled out into the garden with Bob. I cursed Ukridge as I walked. It was abominable of him to desert me in this way. Even if I had not been his friend, it would have been bad.
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.
Why, those thirteen eggs were absolutely all we had over after Mrs. Beale had taken what she wanted for the kitchen. As a matter of fact, if it's anybody's fault, it's Mrs. Beale's. That woman literally 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.
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 Irish question. I had been expecting it momentarily, but my heart seemed to stand still when it actually arrived.
If Ukridge were to tread on any of his pet corns, as he might at any minute, there would be an explosion. The snatching of the dinner from his very mouth, as it were, and the substitution of a bread-and-cheese and sardines menu had brought him to the frame of mind when men turn and rend their nearest and dearest.
Without preamble I gave out the text of my address. "I love your daughter, Phyllis, Mr. Derrick. She loves me. In fact, we are engaged." "Devilish well put, laddie," said Ukridge approvingly. The professor went under as if he had been seized with cramp.
"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.
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