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Updated: June 10, 2025
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.
"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."
It was a little trying having to argue with a man, of whom one could not predict with certainty that at any given moment he would not be under water. It tended to spoil the flow of one's eloquence. The best of arguments is useless if the listener suddenly disappears in the middle of it. "Stick to it, old horse," said Ukridge. "I think you're going to bring it off." I stuck to it. "Mr.
That is all I can give you, sympathy and good advice." Dissatisfaction. I was getting myself disliked. And I had meant to be so conciliatory, to speak to these unfortunates words of cheer which should be as olive oil poured into a wound. For I really did sympathise with them. I considered that Ukridge had used them disgracefully. But I was irritated. My head ached abominably.
"Beale, go round the place and tell those scoundrels that I've come back, and would like a word with them on the lawn. And, if you find any of them stealing the fowls, knock them down!" "I 'ave knocked down one or two," said Beale, with approval. "That Charlie " "Beale," said Ukridge, much moved, "you're an excellent fellow! One of the very best. I will pay you your back wages before I go to bed."
To me, as I stood with Ukridge in the fowl-run in the morning following my maritime conversation with the professor, regarding a hen that had posed before us, obviously with a view to inspection, there appeared a man carrying an envelope.
"Edwin?" said Ukridge. "Oh, beast of a cat." "Oh, Stanley!" said Mrs. Ukridge plaintively. "He's not. He's such a dear, Mr. Garnet. A beautiful, pure-bred Persian. He has taken prizes." "He's always taking something. That's why he didn't come down with us." "A great, horrid, beast of a dog bit him, Mr. Garnet. And poor Edwin had to go to a cats' hospital."
Finally, a black bottle of whisky stood grimly beside Ukridge's plate. The professor 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 ourselves into the idea that it was all great fun; but it was a shallow pretence. The professor was very silent by the time we had finished. Ukridge had been terrible.
The situation was saved for the moment but there was no knowing what further excesses Ukridge might indulge in. I managed to draw him aside as we went through the fowl-run, and expostulated. "For goodness sake, be careful," I whispered. "You've no notion how touchy he is." "But I said nothing," he replied, amazed. "Hang it, you know, nobody likes to be called a fat little buffer to his face."
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 his help was needed to save me from my friends.
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