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 sympathise 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. But I fear not.”
“Where’s our money?” demanded a discontented voice from the crowd.
An idea struck me.
“Beale!” I shouted.
Out came the Hired Retainer at the double. I fancy he thought that his help was needed to save me from my friends.
He slowed down, seeing me as yet unassaulted.
“Sir?” he said.
“Isn’t there a case of that whisky left somewhere, Beale?”
I had struck the right note. There was a hush of pleased anticipation among the audience.
“Yes, sir. One.”
“Then bring it out here and open it.”
Beale looked pained
“For /them/, sir!” he ejaculated.
“Yes. Hurry up.”
He hesitated, then without a word went into the house. A hearty cheer went up as he reappeared with the case. I proceeded indoors in search of glasses and water.
Coming out, I realised my folly in having left Beale alone with our visitors even for a minute. A brisk battle was raging between him and a man whom I did not remember to have seen before. The frock-coated young man was looking on with pale fear stamped upon his face; but the rest of the crowd were shouting advice and encouragement was being given to Beale. How I wondered, had he pacified the mob?
I soon discovered. As I ran up as quickly as I could, hampered as I was by the jugs and glasses, Beale knocked his man out with the clean precision of the experienced boxer; and the crowd explained in chorus that it was the pot-boy, from the Net and Mackerel. Like everything else, the whisky had not been paid for and the pot-boy, arriving just as the case was being opened, had made a gallant effort to save it from being distributed free to his fellow-citizens. By the time he came to, the glasses were circulating merrily; and, on observing this, he accepted the situation philosophically enough, and took his turn and turn about with the others.
Everybody was now in excellent fettle. The only malcontents were Beale, whose heart plainly bled at the waste of good Scotch whisky, and the frock-coated young man, who was still pallid.
I was just congratulating myself, as I eyed the revellers, on having achieved a masterstroke of strategy, when that demon Charlie, his defeat, I suppose, still rankling, made a suggestion. From his point of view a timely and ingenious suggestion.
“We can’t see the colour of our money,” he said pithily, “but we can have our own back.”
That settled it. The battle was over. The most skilful general must sometime recognise defeat. I recognised it then, and threw up my hand. 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 bibulous 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. They were singing in many keys and times.