Love Among the Chickens<br />A Story of the Haps and Mishaps on an English Chicken Farm, P. G. Wodehouse [i love reading books .txt] 📗

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.[333]

"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 men[334]tioned 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?"[335]

"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.[336]

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,[337] 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.[338]

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.[339] 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[340] 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.

"I did think Mr. Garnet would have fainted when the best man said, 'I can't find it, old horse!'"

[341]

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?

[342]

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[343] 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[344] '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.[345]

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[346] 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 under[347]stand 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![348]

The Horse (to itself). Deuce of a time these people are. Why don't they hurry. I want to be off. I'm