He stood looking at the envelope which he had produced from his breast-pocket. A soft smile played over Mr. Beale’s wooden face. He coughed.
“Beale,” said Ukridge, “you–er–there seems to have been a mistake.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are not so much to blame as I thought.”
“No, sir.”
There was a silence.
“Anyhow,” said Ukridge in inspired tones, “I’ll go and slay that infernal dog. I’ll teach him to tear my door to pieces. Where’s your gun, Beale?”
But better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a cold but pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came out unexpectedly strong with ingenious and diverting tricks.
CHAPTER V
BUCKLING TO
Sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke me next day as distant clocks were striking eight. It was a lovely morning, cool and fresh. The grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkled in the sun. A thrush, who knew all about early birds and their perquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the worm with a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. In the ivy a colony of sparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. On the gravel in front of the house lay the mongrel, Bob, blinking lazily.
The gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing. I dressed quickly and went out. Bob rose to meet me, waving an absurdly long tail. The hatchet was definitely buried now. That little matter of the jug of water was forgotten.
A walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by Bob, to the sleepy little town. I passed through the narrow street, and turned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination of pier and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist.
The tide was high, and, leaving my clothes to the care of Bob, who treated them as a handy bed, I dived into twelve feet of clear, cold water. As I swam, I compared it with the morning tub of London, and felt that I had done well to come with Ukridge to this pleasant spot. Not that I could rely on unbroken calm during the whole of my visit. I knew nothing of chicken-farming, but I was certain that Ukridge knew less. There would be some strenuous moments before that farm became a profitable commercial speculation. At the thought of Ukridge toiling on a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, I laughed, and swallowed a generous mouthful of salt water; and, turning, swam back to Bob and my clothes.
On my return, I found Ukridge, in his shirt sleeves and minus a collar, assailing a large ham. Mrs. 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. They’re making such a noise.”
To support her statement there floated in through the window a cackling which for volume and variety beat anything I had ever heard. Judging from the noise, it seemed as if England had been drained of fowls and the entire tribe of them dumped into the yard of Ukridge’s farm.
“There seems to have been no stint,” I said.
“Quite a goodish few, aren’t there?” said Ukridge complacently. “But that’s what we want. No good starting on a small scale. The more you have, the bigger the profits.”
“What sorts have you got mostly?” I asked, showing a professional interest.
“Oh, all sorts. My theory, laddie, is this. It doesn’t matter a bit what kind we get, because they’ll all lay; and if we sell settings of eggs, which we will, we’ll merely say it’s an unfortunate accident if they turn out mixed when hatched. Bless you, people don’t mind what breed a fowl is, so long as it’s got two legs and a beak. These dealer chaps were so infernally particular. ‘Any Dorkings?’ they said. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘bring on your Dorkings.’ ‘Or perhaps you will require a few Minorcas?’ ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘unleash the Minorcas.’ They were going on–they’d have gone on for hours–but I stopped ’em. ‘Look here, my dear old college chum,’ I said kindly but firmly to the manager johnny–decent old buck, with the manners of a marquess,– ‘look here,’ I said, ‘life is short, and we’re neither of us as young as we used to be. Don’t let us waste the golden hours playing guessing games. I want fowls. You sell fowls. So give me some of all sorts. Mix ’em up, laddie,’ I said, ‘mix ’em up.’ And he has, by jove. You go into the yard and look at ’em. Beale has turned them out of their crates. There must be one of every breed ever invented.”