Then I heard somebody–Charlie again, it seemed to me–propose a raid on the fowl-run.
The fowls had had their moments of unrest since they had been our property, but what they had gone through with us was peace compared with what befell them then. Not even on the second evening of our visit, when we had run unmeasured miles in pursuit of them, had there been such confusion. Roused abruptly from their beauty-sleep they fled in all directions. Their pursuers, roaring with laughter, staggered after them. They tumbled over one another. The summer evening was made hideous with the noise of them.
“Disgraceful, sir. Is it not disgraceful!” said a voice in my ear.
The young man from Whiteley’s stood beside me. He did not look happy. His forehead was damp. Somebody seemed to have stepped on his hat, and his coat was smeared with mould.
I was turning to answer him when from the dusk in the direction of the house came a sudden roar. A passionate appeal to the world in general to tell the speaker what all this meant.
There was only one man of my acquaintance with a voice like that.
I walked without hurry towards him.
“Good evening, Ukridge,” I said.
CHAPTER XXIII
AFTER THE STORM
A yell of welcome drowned the tumult of the looters.
“Is that you, Garny, old horse? What’s up? What’s the matter? Has everyone gone mad? Who are those infernal scoundrels in the fowl-run? What are they doing? What’s been happening?”
“I have been entertaining a little meeting of your creditors,” I said. “And now they are entertaining themselves.”
“But what did you let them do it for?”
“What is one amongst so many?”
“Well, ‘pon my Sam,” moaned Ukridge, as, her sardonic calm laid aside, that sinister hen which we called Aunt Elizabeth flashed past us pursued by the whiskered criminal, “it’s a little hard! I can’t go away for a day–”
“You certainly can’t! You’re right there. You can’t go away without a word–”
“Without a word? What do you mean? Garny, old boy, pull yourself together. You’re over-excited. Do you mean to tell me you didn’t get my note?”
“What note?”
“The one I left on the dining-room table.”
“There was no note there.”
“What!”
I was reminded of the scene that had taken place on the first day of our visit.
“Feel in your pockets,” I said.
“Why, damme, here it is!” he said in amazement.
“Of course. Where did you expect it would be? Was it important?”
“Why, it explained the whole thing.”
“Then,” I said, “I wish you would let me read it. A note like that ought to be worth reading.”
“It was telling you to sit tight and not worry about us going away–”
“That’s good about worrying. You’re a thoughtful chap, Ukridge.”
“–because we should be back immediately.”
“And what sent you up to town?”
“Why, we went to touch Millie’s Aunt Elizabeth.”
“Oh!” I said, a light shining on the darkness of my understanding.
“You remember Aunt Elizabeth? The old girl who wrote that letter.”
“I know. She called you a gaby.”
“And a guffin.”
“Yes. I remember thinking her a shrewd and discriminating old lady, with a great gift for character delineation. So you went to touch her?”
“That’s it. We had to have more money. So I naturally thought of her. Aunt Elizabeth isn’t what you might call an admirer of mine–”
“Bless her for that.”
“–but she’s very fond of Millie, and would do anything 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 case, and collected the stuff. Millie and I shared the work. She did the asking, while I inquired after the rheumatism. She mentioned the figure that would clear us; I patted the dog. Little beast! Got after me when I wasn’t looking and chewed my ankle!”
“Thank Heaven!”
“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.”
“Your Aunt Elizabeth is beginning to fascinate me. She seems just the sort of woman I would like. Well, you got the money?”