“Do you hunt hens,” asked Tom Chase, who was mixing the salad–he was one of those men who seemed to do everything a shade better than anyone else–“for amusement or by your doctor’s orders? Many doctors, I believe, insist on it.”
“Neither,” I said, “and especially not for amusement. The fact is, I’ve been lured down here by a friend of mine who has started a chicken farm–”
I was interrupted. All three of them burst out laughing. Tom Chase allowed the vinegar to trickle on to the cloth, missing the salad-bowl by a clear two inches.
“You don’t mean to tell us,” he said, “that you really come from the one and only chicken farm? Why, you’re the man we’ve all been praying to meet for days past. You’re the talk of the town. If you can call Combe Regis a town. Everybody is discussing you. Your methods are new and original, aren’t they?”
“Probably. Ukridge knows nothing about fowls. I know less. He considers it an advantage. He says our minds ought to be unbiassed.”
“Ukridge!” said the professor. “That was the name old Dawlish, the grocer, said. I never forget a name. He is the gentleman who lectures on the management of poultry? You do not?”
I hastened to disclaim any such feat. I had never really approved of these infernal talks on the art of chicken-farming which Ukridge had dropped into the habit of delivering when anybody visited our farm. I admit that it was a pleasing spectacle to see my managing director in a pink shirt without a collar and very dirty flannel trousers lecturing the intelligent native; but I had a feeling that the thing tended to expose our ignorance to men who had probably had to do with fowls from their cradle up.
“His lectures are very popular,” said Phyllis Derrick with a little splutter of mirth.
“He enjoys them,” I said.
“Look here, Garnet,” said Tom Chase, “I hope you won’t consider all these questions impertinent, but you’ve no notion of the thrilling interest we all take–at a distance–in your farm. We have been talking of nothing else for a week. I have dreamed of it three nights running. Is Mr. Ukridge doing this as a commercial speculation, or is he an eccentric millionaire?”
“He’s not a millionaire yet, but I believe he intends to be one shortly, with the assistance of the fowls. But you mustn’t look on me as in any way responsible for the arrangements at the farm. I am merely a labourer. The brainwork of the business lies in Ukridge’s department. As a matter of fact, I came down here principally in search of golf.”
“Golf?” said Professor Derrick, with the benevolent approval of the enthusiast towards a brother. “I’m glad you play golf. We must have a round together.”
“As soon as ever my professional duties will permit,” I said gratefully.
…..
There was croquet after lunch,–a game of which I am a poor performer. Phyllis Derrick and I played the professor and Tom Chase. Chase was a little better than myself; the professor, by dint of extreme earnestness and care, managed to play a fair game; and Phyllis was an expert.
“I was reading a book,” she said, as we stood together watching the professor shaping at his ball at the other end of the lawn, “by an author of the same surname as you, Mr. Garnet. Is he a relation of yours?”
“My name is Jeremy, Miss Derrick.”
“Oh, you wrote it?” She turned a little pink. “Then you must have–oh, nothing.”
“I couldn’t help it, I’m afraid.”
“Did you know what I was going to say?”
“I guessed. You were going to say that I must have heard your criticisms in the train. You were very lenient, I thought.”
“I didn’t like your heroine.”
“No. What is a ‘creature,’ Miss Derrick?”
“Pamela in your book is a ‘creature,’ ” she replied unsatisfactorily.
Shortly after this the game came somehow to an end. I do not understand the intricacies of croquet. But Phyllis did something brilliant and remarkable with the balls, and we adjourned for tea. The sun was setting as I left to return to the farm, with Aunt Elizabeth stored neatly in a basket in my hand. The air was deliciously cool, and full of that strange quiet which follows soothingly on the skirts of a broiling midsummer afternoon. Far away, seeming to come from another world, a sheep-bell tinkled, deepening the silence. Alone in a sky of the palest blue there gleamed a small, bright star.