At last, in a lull, I managed to catch the Hired Retainer by the arm, as he drew back from the prostrate form of his latest victim. “Drop it, Beale,” I whispered hotly, “drop it. We shall never manage these people if you knock them about. Go indoors, and stay there while I talk to them.”
“Mr. Garnet, sir,” said he, the light of battle dying out of his eyes, “it’s ‘ard. It’s cruel ‘ard. I ain’t ‘ad a turn-up, not to /call/ a turn-up, since I’ve been a time-expired man. I ain’t hitting of ’em, Mr. Garnet, sir, not hard I ain’t. That there first one of ’em he played me dirty, hittin’ at me when I wasn’t looking. They can’t say as I started it.”
“That’s all right, Beale,” I said soothingly. “I know it wasn’t your fault, and I know it’s hard on you to have to stop, but I wish you would go indoors. I must talk to these men, and we shan’t have a moment’s peace while you’re here. Cut along.”
“Very well, sir. But it’s ‘ard. Mayn’t I ‘ave just one go at that Charlie, Mr. Garnet?” he asked wistfully.
“No, no. Go in.”
“And if they goes for you, sir, and tries to wipe the face off you?”
“They won’t, they won’t. If they do, I’ll shout for you.”
He went reluctantly into the house, and I turned again to my audience.
“If you will kindly be quiet for a moment–” I said.
“I am Appleby, Mr. Garnet, in the High Street. Mr. Ukridge–”
“Eighteen pounds fourteen shillings–”
“Kindly glance–”
I waved my hands wildly above my head.
“Stop! stop! stop!” I shouted.
The babble continued, but diminished gradually in volume. Through the trees, as I waited, I caught a glimpse of the sea. I wished I was out on the Cob, where beyond these voices there was peace. My head was beginning to ache, and I felt faint for want of food.
“Gentlemen,” I cried, as the noise died away.
The latch of the gate clicked. I looked up, and saw a tall thin young man in a frock coat and silk hat enter the garden. It was the first time I had seen the costume in the country.
He approached me.
“Mr. Ukridge, sir?” he said.
“My name is Garnet. Mr. Ukridge is away at the moment.”
“I come from Whiteley’s, Mr. Garnet. Our Mr. Blenkinsop having written on several occasions to Mr. Ukridge calling his attention to the fact that his account has been allowed to mount to a considerable figure, and having received no satisfactory reply, desired me to visit him. I am sorry that he is not at home.”
“So am I,” I said with feeling.
“Do you expect him to return shortly?”
“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 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.”