Love Among the Chickens
P >>
P. G. Wodehouse >> Love Among the Chickens
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11
"No," I said, "I do not."
He was looking curiously at the expectant band of duns. I forestalled
his question.
"Those are some of Mr. Ukridge's creditors," I said. "I am just about
to 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 peeped
through 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 just
how matters stand between us." (A voice: "Where's Ukridge?") "Mr.
Ukridge left 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. I
couldn't pay your bills if I wanted to."
It began to be borne in upon me that I was becoming unpopular.
"I am here simply as Mr. Ukridge's guest," I proceeded. After all, why
should I spare the man? "I have nothing whatever to do with his
business affairs. I refuse absolutely to be regarded as in any way
indebted to you. I am sorry for you. You have my sympathy. 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
sympathize with them. I considered that Ukridge had used them
disgracefully. 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," I
replied 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 institute
legal 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."
"Where's our money?" demanded a discontented voice from the crowd.
Then Charlie, filled with the lust of revenge, proposed that the
company should sack the place.
"We can't see the color of our money," he said pithily, "but we can
have our own back."
That settled it. The battle was over. The most skillful general must
sometimes recognize defeat. 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 of mirth,
as the sacking party emptied the rooms of their contents. In the fowl
run a hen was crooning sleepily in its coop. It was 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.
Then I heard somebody--Charlie again, it seemed to me--propose a raid
on the fowl run.
The fowls had had their moments of unrest since they had been our
property, but what they had gone through with us was peace compared
with what befell them then. Not even on that second evening of our
visit, when we had run unmeasured miles in pursuit of them, had there
been such confusion. Roused abruptly from their beauty sleep, they
fled in all directions. The summer evening was made hideous with the
noise of them.
"Disgraceful, sir. Is it not disgraceful!" said a voice at 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 and
his coat was smeared with mold.
I was turning to answer him, when from the dusk in the direction of
the house came a sudden roar. A passionate appeal to the world in
general to tell the speaker what all this meant.
There was only one man of my acquaintance with a voice like that. I
walked without hurry toward him.
"Good evening, Ukridge," I said.
AFTER THE STORM
XXIII
A yell of welcome drowned the tumult of the looters.
"Is that you, Garny, old horse? What's up? What's the matter? Has
everybody gone mad? Who are those blackguardly 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 among so many?" I said.
"Oh," moaned Ukridge, as a hen flashed past us, pursued by a criminal,
"it's a little hard. I can't go away for a day--"
"You can't," I said. "You're right there. You can't go away without a
word--"
"Without a word? What do you mean? Garny, old boy, pull yourself
together. You're overexcited. Do you mean to tell me you didn't get my
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 of
our visit.
"Feel in your pockets," I said.
And history repeated itself. One of the first things he pulled out was
the note.
"Why, here it is!" he said in amazement.
"Of course. Where did you expect it to be? Was it important?"
"Why, it explained the whole thing."
"Then," I said, "I wish you'd let me read it. A note that can explain
what's happened ought to be worth reading."
I took the envelope from his hand and opened it.
It was too dark to read, so I lit a match. A puff of wind extinguished
it. There is always just enough wind to extinguish a match.
I pocketed the note.
"I can't read it now," I said. "Tell me what it was about."
"It was telling you to sit tight and not to worry about us going
away--"
"That's good about worrying. You're a thoughtful chap, Ukridge."
"--because we should be back in a day or two."
"And what sent you up to town?"
"Why, we went to touch Millie's Aunt Elizabeth."
A light began to shine on my darkness.
"Oh!" I said.
"You remember Aunt Elizabeth? We got a letter from her not so long
ago."
"I know whom you mean. She called you a gaby."
"And a guffin."
"Of course. I remember thinking her a shrewd and discriminating old
lady, with a great gift of description. So you went to touch her?"
"That's it. I suddenly found that things were getting into an A1
tangle, and that we must have more money. So I naturally thought of
Aunt Elizabeth. She isn't what you might call an admirer of mine, but
she's very fond of Millie, and would do anything for her if she's
allowed to chuck about a few home-truths before doing it. So we went
off together, looked her up at her house, stated our painful case, and
corralled the money. Millie and I shared the work. She did the asking,
while I inquired after the rheumatism. She mentioned the precise
figure that would clear us. I patted the toy Pomeranian. Little beast!
Got after me quick, when I wasn't looking, and chewed my ankle."
"Thank Heaven for that," I said.
"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."
"But you got the money?"
"Rather. And I'll tell you another thing. I scored heavily at the end
of the visit. Lady Lakenheath was doing stunts with proverbs--"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Quoting proverbs, you know, bearing on the situation. 'Ah, my dear,'
she said to Millie, 'marry in haste, repent at leisure!' 'I'm afraid
that proverb doesn't apply to us,' said Millie, 'because I haven't
repented.' What do you think of that, old horse?"
"Millie's an angel," I replied.
Just then the angel joined us. She had been exploring the house, and
noting the damage done. Her eyes were open to their fullest extent as
she shook hands with me.
"Oh, Mr. Garnet," she said, "_couldn't_ you have stopped them?"
I felt a cur. Had I done as much as I might have done to stem the
tide?
"I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Ukridge," I said. "I really don't think I
could have done more. We tried every method. Beale had seven fights,
and I made a speech on the lawn, but it was all no good."
"Perhaps we can collect these men and explain things," I added. "I
don't believe any of them know you've come back."
"Send Beale round," said Ukridge. "Beale!"
The hired retainer came running out at the sound of the well-known
voice.
"Lumme, Mr. Ukridge, sir!" he gasped.
It was the first time Beale had ever betrayed any real emotion in my
presence. To him, I suppose, the return of Ukridge was as sensational
and astounding an event as the reappearance of one from the tomb would
have been. He was not accustomed to find those who had shot the moon
revisiting their old haunts.
"Go round the place and tell those blackguards that I've come back,
and would like to have a word with them on the lawn. And if you find
any of them stealing my fowls, knock them down."
"I 'ave knocked down one or two," said Beale with approval. "That
Charlie--"
"That's right, Beale. You're an excellent man, and I will pay you your
back wages to-night before I go to bed."
"Those fellers, sir," said Beale, having expressed his gratification,
"they've been and scattered most of them birds already, sir. They've
been chasin' of 'em for this hour back."
Ukridge groaned.
"Demons!" he said. "Demons!"
Beale went off.
The audience assembled on the lawn in the moonlight. Ukridge, with his
cap well over his eyes and his mackintosh hanging around him like a
Roman toga, surveyed them stonily, and finally began his speech.
"You--you--you--you blackguards!" he said.
I always like to think of Ukridge as he appeared at that moment. There
have been times when his conduct did not recommend itself to me. It
has sometimes happened that I have seen flaws in him. But on this
occasion he was at his best. He was eloquent. He dominated his
audience.
He poured scorn upon his hearers, and they quailed. He flung invective
at them, and they wilted.
It was hard, he said, it was a little hard that a gentleman could not
run up to London for a couple of days on business without having his
private grounds turned upside down. He had intended to deal well by
the tradesmen of the town, to put business in their way, to give them
large orders. But would he? Not much. As soon as ever the sun had
risen and another day begun, their miserable accounts should be paid
in full and their connection with him be cut off. Afterwards it was
probable that he would institute legal proceedings against them for
trespass and damage to property, and if they didn't all go to prison
they might consider themselves uncommonly lucky, and if they didn't
fly the spot within the brief space of two ticks he would get among
them with a shotgun. He was sick of them. They were no gentlemen, but
cads. Scoundrels. Creatures that it would be rank flattery to describe
as human beings. That's the sort of things _they_ were. And now they
might go--_quick_!
The meeting then dispersed, without the usual vote of thanks.
* * * * *
We were quiet at the farm that night. Ukridge sat like Marius among
the ruins of Carthage and refused to speak. Eventually he took Bob
with him and went for a walk.
Half an hour later I, too, wearied of the scene of desolation. My
errant steps took me in the direction of the sea. As I approached I
was aware of a figure standing in the moonlight, gazing moodily out
over the waters. Beside the figure was a dog.
I would not disturb his thoughts. The dark moments of massive minds
are sacred. I forebore to speak to him. As readily might one of the
generals of the Grand Army have opened conversation with Napoleon
during the retreat from Moscow.
I turned softly and walked the other way. When I looked back he was
still there.
[Illustration: "I did think Mr. Garnet would have fainted when the
best man said, 'I can't find it, old horse!'"]
EPILOGUE
ARGUMENT. From the _Morning Post: "... and graceful, wore a simple
gown of stiff satin and old lace, and a heavy lace veil fell in soft
folds over the shimmering skirt. A reception was subsequently held by
Mrs. O'Brien, aunt of the bride, at her house in Ennismore Gardens."_
IN THE SERVANTS' HALL
THE COOK. ... And as pretty a wedding, Mr. Hill, as ever I did see.
THE BUTLER. Indeed, Mrs. Minchley? And how did our niece look?
THE COOK (_closing her eyes in silent rapture_). Well,
_there_! That lace! (_In a burst of ecstacy_.) Well, _there_!!
Words can't describe it, Mr. Hill.
THE BUTLER. Indeed, Mrs. Minchley?
THE COOK. And Miss Phyllis--Mrs. Garnet, I _should_ say--she was as
calm as calm. And looking beautiful as--well, there! Now, Mr. Garnet,
he _did_ look nervous, if you like, and when the best man--such a
queer-looking awkward man, in a frock coat that _I_ wouldn't have been
best man at a wedding in--when he lost the ring and said--quite loud,
everybody could hear him--"I can't find it, old horse!" why I did
think Mr. Garnet would have fainted away, and so I said to Jane, as
was sitting beside me. But he found it at the last moment, and all
went on as merrily, as you may say, as a wedding bell.
JANE (_sentimentally_). Reely, these weddings, you know, they do give
you a sort of feeling, if you catch my meaning, Mrs. Minchley.
THE BUTLER (_with the air of a high priest who condescends for once to
unbend and frolic with lesser mortals_). Ah! it'll be your turn next,
Miss Jane.
JANE (_who has long had designs on this dignified bachelor_). Oh, Mr.
Hill, reely! You do poke your fun.
[_Raises her eyes to his, and drops them swiftly, leaving him
with a pleasant sensation of having said a good thing
particularly neatly, and a growing idea that he might do
worse than marry Jane, take a nice little house in Chelsea
somewhere, and let lodgings. He thinks it over._
TILBY (_a flighty young person who, when she has a moment or two to
spare from the higher flirtation with the local policeman, puts in a
little light work about the bedrooms_). Oh, I say, this'll be one in
the eye for Riggetts, pore little feller. (_Assuming an air of
advanced melodrama._) Ow! She 'as forsiken me! I'll go and blow me
little 'ead off with a blunderbuss! Ow that one so fair could be so
false!
MASTER THOMAS RIGGETTS (_the page boy, whose passion for the lady who
has just become Mrs. Garnet has for many months been a byword in the
servants' hall_). Huh! (_To himself bitterly._) Tike care, tike care,
lest some day you drive me too far. [_Is left brooding darkly._
UPSTAIRS
THE BRIDE. ... Thank you.... Oh, thank you.... Thank you so much....
Thank you _so_ much ... oh, thank you.... Thank you.... Thank you _so_
much.
THE BRIDEGROOM. Thanks.... Oh, thanks.... Thanks awf'lly.... Thanks
awf'lly.... Thanks awf'lly.... Oh, thanks awf'lly ... (_with a
brilliant burst of invention, amounting almost to genius_) Thanks
_frightfully_.
THE BRIDE (_to herself, rapturously_). A-a-a-h!
THE BRIDEGROOM (_dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief during
a lull_). I shall drop.
THE BEST MAN (_appearing suddenly at his side with a glass_). Bellows
to mend, old horse, what? Keep going. You're doing fine. Bless you.
Bless you.
[_Drifts away._
ELDERLY STRANGER (_to bridegroom_). Sir, I have jigged your wife on my
knee.
THE BRIDEGROOM (_with absent politeness_). Ah! Lately?
ELDERLY STRANGER. When she was a baby, sir.
THE BRIDEGROOM (_from force of habit_). Oh, thanks. Thanks awf'lly.
THE BRIDE (_to herself_). _Why_ can't one get married every
day!... (_catching sight of a young gentleman whose bi-weekly conversation
with her in the past was wont to consist of two remarks on the weather and
one proposal of marriage_). _Oh_! Oh, what a _shame_ inviting poor
little Freddy Fraddle! Aunt Kathleen _must_ have known! How could she be
so cruel! Poor little fellow, he must be suffering dreadfully!
POOR LITTLE FREDDY FRADDLE (_addressing his immortal soul as he
catches sight of the bridegroom, with a set smile on his face, shaking
hands with an obvious bore_). Poor devil, poor, poor devil! And to
think that I--! Well, well! There but for the grace of God goes
Frederick Fraddle.
THE BRIDEGROOM (_to the_ OBVIOUS BORE). Thanks. Thanks awf'lly.
THE OBVIOUS BORE (_in measured tones_).... are going, as you say, to
Wales for your honeymoon, you should on no account miss the
opportunity of seeing the picturesque ruins of Llanxwrg Castle, which
are among the most prominent spectacles of Carnarvonshire, a county,
which I understand you to say, you propose to include in your visit.
The ruins are really part of the village of Twdyd-Prtsplgnd, but your
best station would be Golgdn. There is a good train service to and
from that spot. If you mention my name to the custodian of the ruins,
he will allow you to inspect the grave of the celebrated ----
IMMACULATE YOUTH (_interrupting_). Hello, Garnet, old man. Don't know
if you remember me. Latimer, of Oriel. I was a fresher in your third
year. Gratters!
THE BRIDEGROOM (_with real sincerity for once_). Thanks. Thanks
awf'lly.
[_They proceed to talk Oxford shop together, to the exclusion
of the O. B., who glides off in search of another victim_.
IN THE STREET
THE COACHMAN (_to his horse_). _Kim_ up, then!
THE HORSE (_to itself_). Deuce of a time these people are. Why don't
they hurry. I want to be off. I'm certain we shall miss that train.
THE BEST MAN (_to crowd of perfect strangers, with whom in some
mysterious way he has managed to strike up a warm friendship_). Now,
then, you men, stand by. Wait till they come out, then blaze away.
Good handful first shot. That's what you want.
THE COOK (_in the area, to_ JANE). Oh, I do 'ope they won't miss that
train, don't you? Oh, here they come. Oh, don't Miss Phyllis--Mrs.
Garnet--look--well, there. And I can remember her a little slip of a
girl only so high, and she used to come to my kitchen, and she used to
say, "Mrs. Minchley," she used to say--it seems only yesterday--"Mrs.
Minchley, I want--"
[_Left reminiscing._
THE BRIDE (_as the page boy's gloomy eye catches hers, "smiles as she
was wont to smile_").
MASTER RIGGETTS (_with a happy recollection of his latest-read work of
fiction--"Sir Rupert of the Hall": Meadowsweet Library--to himself_).
"Good-by, proud lady. Fare you well. And may you never regret.
May--you--nevorrr--regret!"
[_Dives passionately into larder, and consoles himself with jam._
THE BEST MAN (_to his gang of bravoes_). Now, then, you men, bang it
in.
[_They bang it in._
THE BRIDEGROOM (_retrieving his hat_). Oh-- [_Recollects himself in
time._
THE BEST MAN. Oh, shot, sir! Shot, indeed!
[_The_ BRIDE _and_ BRIDEGROOM _enter the carriage amid a storm of
rice._
THE BEST MAN (_coming to carriage window_). Garny, old horse.
THE BRIDEGROOM. Well?
THE BEST MAN. Just a moment. Look here, I've got a new idea. The best
ever, 'pon my word it is. I'm going to start a duck farm and run it
without water. What? You'll miss your train? Oh, no, you won't.
There's plenty of time. My theory is, you see, that ducks get thin by
taking exercise and swimming about and so on, don't you know, so that,
if you kept them on land always, they'd get jolly fat in about half
the time--and no trouble and expense. See? What? You bring the missus
down there. I'll write you the address. Good-by. Bless you. Good-by,
Mrs. Garnet.
THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM (_simultaneously, with a smile apiece_).
Good-by.
[_They catch the train and live happily ever afterwards._]
* * * * *
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11