Books: Love Among the Chickens
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P. G. Wodehouse >> Love Among the Chickens
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"Clumsy!" observed Albert tersely.
"/Albert/, you mustn't speak to Aunty so!"
"Wodyer want to sit on my bag for then?" said Albert disagreeably.
They argued the point. Argument in no wise interfered with Albert's
power of mastication. The odour of aniseed became more and more
painful. Ukridge had lighted a cigar, and I understood why Mrs.
Ukridge preferred to travel in another compartment, for
"In his hand he bore the brand
Which none but he might smoke."
I looked across the carriage stealthily to see how the girl was
enduring this combination of evils, and noticed that she had begun to
read. And as she put the book down to look out of the window, I saw
with a thrill that trickled like warm water down my spine that her
book was "The Manoeuvres of Arthur." I gasped. That a girl should look
as pretty as that and at the same time have the rare intelligence to
read Me . . . well, it seemed an almost superhuman combination of the
excellencies. And more devoutly than ever I cursed in my heart these
intrusive outsiders who had charged in at the last moment and
destroyed for ever my chance of making this wonderful girl's
acquaintance. But for them, we might have become intimate in the first
half hour. As it was, what were we? Ships that pass in the night! She
would get out at some beastly wayside station, and vanish from my life
without my ever having even spoken to her.
Aunty, meanwhile, having retired badly worsted from her encounter with
Albert, who showed a skill in logomachy that marked him out as a
future labour member, was consoling herself with meat sandwiches. The
niece was demolishing sausage rolls. The atmosphere of the carriage
was charged with a blend of odours, topping all Ukridge's cigar, now
in full blast.
The train raced on towards the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpid
peace began to settle down upon the carriage. Ukridge had thrown away
the stump of his cigar, and was now leaning back with his mouth open
and his eyes shut. Aunty, still clutching a much-bitten section of a
beef sandwich, was breathing heavily and swaying from side to side.
Albert and the niece were dozing, Albert's jaws working automatically,
even in sleep.
"What's your book, my dear?" asked the Irishman.
" 'The Manoeuvres of Arthur,' father. By Jeremy Garnet."
I would not have believed without the evidence of my ears that my name
could possibly have sounded so musical.
"Molly McEachern gave it to me when I left the Abbey. She keeps a
shelf of books for her guests when they are going away. Books that she
considers rubbish, and doesn't want, you know."
I hated Miss McEachern without further evidence.
"And what do you think of it?"
"I like it," said the girl decidedly. The carriage swam before my
eyes. "I think it is very clever."
What did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the Waterloo
bookstall had never heard of "The Manoeuvres of Arthur," and that my
publishers, whenever I slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked at
me with a sort of grave, paternal pity and said that it had not really
"begun to move?" Anybody can write one of those rotten popular novels
which appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellect
and refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn out
something that will be approved of by a girl like this.
"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is," she said. "I've never heard of him
before. I imagine him rather an old young man, probably with an
eyeglass, and conceited. And I should think he didn't know many girls.
At least if he thinks Pamela an ordinary sort of girl. She's a
cr-r-eature," said Phyllis emphatically.
This was a blow to me. I had always looked on Pamela as a well-drawn
character, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that. That
scene between her and the curate in the conservatory . . . And when
she talks to Arthur at the meet of the Blankshires . . . I was sorry
she did not like Pamela. Somehow it lowered Pamela in my estimation.
"But I like Arthur," said the girl.
This was better. A good chap, Arthur,--a very complete and thoughtful
study of myself. If she liked Arthur, why, then it followed . . . but
what was the use? I should never get a chance of speaking to her. We
were divided by a great gulf of Aunties and Alberts and meat
sandwiches.
The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animation
began to be noticeable among the sleepers. Aunty's eyes opened, stared
vacantly round, closed, and reopened. The niece woke, and started
instantly to attack a sausage roll. Albert and Ukridge slumbered on.
A whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station. Looking
out, I saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Aunty
became instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels,
shook Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally
heading a stampede out of the door.
The Irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out. I watched them
leave stoically. It would have been too much to expect that they
should be going any further.
"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily. "Yeovil? Not far now. I tell
you what it is, old horse, I could do with a drink."
With that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to his
slumbers. And, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over the
carriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. It was "The
Manoeuvres of Arthur." The girl had left it behind.
I suppose what follows shows the vanity that obsesses young authors.
It did not even present itself to me as a tenable theory that the book
might have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use to
the owner. It only occurred to me that, if I did not act swiftly, the
poor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or
vanity-case were trivial.
Five seconds later I was on the platform.
"Excuse me," I said, "I think . . . ?"
"Oh, thank you so much," said the girl.
I made my way back to the carriage, and lit my pipe in a glow of
emotion.
"They are blue," I said to my immortal soul. "A wonderful, deep, soft,
heavenly blue, like the sea at noonday."
CHAPTER IV
THE ARRIVAL
From Axminster to Combe Regis the line runs through country as
attractive as any that can be found in the island, and the train, as
if in appreciation of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. It
was late afternoon by the time we reached our destination.
The arrangements for the carrying of luggage at Combe Regis border on
the primitive. Boxes are left on the platform, and later, when he
thinks of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them into the valley and
up the hill on the opposite side to the address written on the labels.
The owner walks. Combe Regis is not a place for the halt and maimed.
Ukridge led us in the direction of the farm, which lay across the
valley, looking through woods to the sea. The place was visible from
the station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of a
hill, the view was extensive.
Half-way up the slope on the other side of the valley we left the road
and made our way across a spongy field, Ukridge explaining that this
was a short cut. We climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream and
another field, and after negotiating a difficult bank, topped with
barbed wire, found ourselves in a garden.
Ukridge mopped his forehead, and restored his pince-nez to their
original position from which the passage of the barbed wire had
dislodged them.
"This is the place," he said. "We've come in by the back way. Saves
time. Tired, Millie?"
"A little, dear. I should like some tea."
"Same here," I agreed.
"That'll be all right," said Ukridge. "A most competent man of the
name of Beale and his wife are in charge at present. I wrote to them
telling them that we were coming to-day. They will be ready for us.
That's the way to do things, Garny old horse. Quiet efficiency.
Perfect organisation."
We were at the front door by this time. Ukridge rang the bell. The
noise echoed through the house, but there was no answering footsteps.
He rang again. There is no mistaking the note of a bell in an empty
house. It was plain that the competent man and his wife were out.
"Now what?" I said.
Mrs. Ukridge looked at her husband with calm confidence.
"This," said Ukridge, leaning against the door and endeavouring to
button his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in the
Argentine. Two other cheery sportsmen and myself tried for three-
quarters of an hour to get into an empty house where there looked as
if there might be something to drink, and we'd just got the door open
when the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shot-gun. It was a
little difficult to explain. As a matter of fact, we never did what
you might call really thresh the matter out thoroughly in all its
aspects, and you'd be surprised what a devil of a time it takes to
pick buck-shot out of a fellow. There was a dog, too."
He broke off, musing dreamily on the happy past, and at this moment
history partially repeated itself. From the other side of the door
came a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark.
"Hullo," said Ukridge, "Beale has a dog." He frowned, annoyed. "What
right," he added in an aggrieved tone, "has a beastly mongrel,
belonging to a man I employ, to keep me out of my own house? It's a
little hard. Here am I, slaving day and night to support Beale, and
when I try to get into my own house his infernal dog barks at me. Upon
my Sam it's hard!" He brooded for a moment on the injustice of things.
"Here, let me get to the keyhole. I'll reason with the brute."
He put his mouth to the keyhole and roared "Goo' dog!" through it.
Instantly the door shook as some heavy object hurled itself against
it. The barking rang through the house.
"Come round to the back," said Ukridge, giving up the idea of
conciliation, "we'll get in through the kitchen window."
The kitchen window proved to be insecurely latched. Ukridge threw it
open and we climbed in. The dog, hearing the noise, raced back along
the passage and flung himself at the door, scratching at the panels.
Ukridge listened with growing indignation.
"Millie, you know how to light a fire. Garnet and I will be collecting
cups and things. When that scoundrel Beale arrives I shall tear him
limb from limb. Deserting us like this! The man must be a thorough
fraud. He told me he was an old soldier. If that's the sort of
discipline they used to keep in his regiment, thank God, we've got a
Navy! Damn, I've broken a plate. How's the fire getting on, Millie?
I'll chop Beale into little bits. What's that you've got there, Garny
old horse? Tea? Good. Where's the bread? There goes another plate.
Where's Mrs. Beale, too? By Jove, that woman wants killing as much as
her blackguard of a husband. Whoever heard of a cook deliberately
leaving her post on the day when her master and mistress were expected
back? The abandoned woman. Look here, I'll give that dog three
minutes, and if it doesn't stop scratching that door by then, I'll
take a rolling pin and go out and have a heart-to-heart talk with it.
It's a little hard. My own house, and the first thing I find when I
arrive is somebody else's beastly dog scratching holes in the doors
and ruining the expensive paint. Stop it, you brute!"
The dog's reply was to continue his operations with immense vigour.
Ukridge's eyes gleamed behind their glasses.
"Give me a good large jug, laddie," he said with ominous calm.
He took the largest of the jugs from the dresser and strode with it
into the scullery, whence came a sound of running water. He returned
carrying the jug with both hands, his mien that of a general who sees
his way to a masterstroke of strategy.
"Garny, old horse," he said, "freeze onto the handle of the door, and,
when I give the word, fling wide the gates. Then watch that animal get
the surprise of a lifetime."
I attached myself to the handle as directed. Ukridge gave the word. We
had a momentary vision of an excited dog of the mongrel class framed
in the open doorway, all eyes and teeth; then the passage was occupied
by a spreading pool, and indignant barks from the distance told that
the enemy was thinking the thing over in some safe retreat.
"Settled /his/ hash," said Ukridge complacently. "Nothing like
resource, Garny my boy. Some men would have gone on letting a good
door be ruined."
"And spoiled the dog for a ha'porth of water," I said.
At this moment Mrs. Ukridge announced that the kettle was boiling.
Over a cup of tea Ukridge became the man of business.
"I wonder when those fowls are going to arrive. They should have been
here to-day. It's a little hard. Here am I, all eagerness and anxiety,
waiting to start an up-to-date chicken farm, and no fowls! I can't run
a chicken farm without fowls. If they don't come to-morrow, I shall
get after those people with a hatchet. There must be no slackness.
They must bustle about. After tea I'll show you the garden, and we'll
choose a place for a fowl-run. To-morrow we must buckle to. Serious
work will begin immediately after breakfast."
"Suppose," I said, "the fowls arrive before we're ready for them?"
"Why, then they must wait."
"But you can't keep fowls cooped up indefinitely in a crate."
"Oh, that'll be all right. There's a basement to this house. We'll let
'em run about there till we're ready for them. There's always a way of
doing things if you look for it. Organisation, my boy. That's the
watchword. Quiet efficiency."
"I hope you are going to let the hens hatch some of the eggs, dear,"
said Mrs. Ukridge. "I should love to have some little chickens."
"Of course. By all means. My idea," said Ukridge, "was this. These
people will send us fifty fowls of sorts. That means--call it forty-
five eggs a day. Let 'em . . . Well, I'm hanged! There's that dog
again. Where's the jug?"
But this time an unforeseen interruption prevented the manoeuvre being
the success it had been before. I had turned the handle and was about
to pull the door open, while Ukridge, looking like some modern and
dilapidated version of the /Discobolus/, stood beside me with his jug
poised, when a voice spoke from the window.
"Stand still!" said the voice, "or I'll corpse you!"
I dropped the handle. Ukridge dropped the jug. Mrs. Ukridge dropped
her tea-cup. At the window, with a double-barrelled gun in his hands,
stood a short, square, red-headed man. The muzzle of his gun, which
rested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the third
button of my waistcoat.
Ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion.
"Beale! You scoundrelly, unprincipled, demon! What the devil are you
doing with that gun? Why were you out? What have you been doing? Why
did you shout like that? Look what you've made me do."
He pointed to the floor. The very old pair of tennis shoes which he
wore were by this time generously soaked with the spilled water.
"Lor, Mr. Ukridge, sir, is that you?" said the red-headed man calmly.
"I thought you was burglars."
A short bark from the other side of the kitchen door, followed by a
renewal of the scratching, drew Mr. Beale's attention to his faithful
hound.
"That's Bob," he said.
"I don't know what you call the brute," said Ukridge. "Come in and tie
him up. And mind what you're doing with that gun. After you've
finished with the dog, I should like a brief chat with you, laddie, if
you can spare the time and have no other engagements."
Mr. Beale, having carefully deposited the gun against the wall and
dropped a pair of very limp rabbits on the floor, proceeded to climb
in through the window. This operation concluded, he stood to one side
while the besieged garrison passed out by the same route.
"You will find me in the garden," said Ukridge coldly. "I've one or
two little things to say to you."
Mr. Beale grinned affably. He seemed to be a man of equable
temperament.
The cool air of the garden was grateful after the warmth of the
kitchen. It was a pretty garden, or would have been if it had not been
so neglected. I seemed to see myself sitting in a deck-chair on the
lawn, smoking and looking through the trees at the harbour below. It
was a spot, I felt, in which it would be an easy and a pleasant task
to shape the plot of my novel. I was glad I had come. About now,
outside my lodgings in town, a particularly foul barrel-organ would be
settling down to work.
"Oh, there you are, Beale," said Ukridge, as the servitor appeared.
"Now then, what have you to say?"
The hired man looked thoughtful for a moment, then said that it was a
fine evening.
"Fine evening?" shouted Ukridge. "What on earth has that got to do
with it? I want to know why you and Mrs. Beale were out when we
arrived."
"The missus went to Axminster, Mr. Ukridge, sir."
"She had no right to go to Axminster. It isn't part of her duties to
go gadding about to Axminster. I don't pay her enormous sums to go to
Axminster. You knew I was coming this evening."
"No, sir."
"What!"
"No, sir."
"Beale," said Ukridge with studied calm, the strong man repressing
himself. "One of us two is a fool."
"Yes, sir."
"Let us sift this matter to the bottom. You got my letter?"
"No, sir."
"My letter saying that I should arrive to-day. You didn't get it?"
"No, sir."
"Now, look here, Beale, this is absurd. I am certain that that letter
was posted. I remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. It is
not there now. See. These are all the contents of my--well, I'm
hanged."
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."
"Where are you going to put them?"
"That spot we chose by the paddock. That's the place. Plenty of mud
for them to scratch about in, and they can go into the field when they
feel like it, and pick up worms, or whatever they feed on. We must rig
them up some sort of shanty, I suppose, this morning. We'll go and
tell 'em to send up some wire-netting and stuff from the town."
"Then we shall want hen-coops. We shall have to make those."
"Of course. So we shall. Millie, didn't I tell you that old Garnet was
the man to think of things. I forgot the coops. We can't buy some, I
suppose? On tick, of course."
"Cheaper to make them. Suppose we get a lot of boxes. Sugar boxes are
as good as any. It won't take long to knock up a few coops."
Ukridge thumped the table with enthusiasm, upsetting his cup.
"Garny, old horse, you're a marvel. You think of everything. We'll
buckle to right away, and get the whole pace fixed up the same as
mother makes it. What an infernal noise those birds are making. I
suppose they don't feel at home in the yard. Wait till they see the A1
compact residential mansions we're going to put up for them. Finished
breakfast? Then let's go out. Come along, Millie."
The red-headed Beale, discovered leaning in an attitude of thought on
the yard gate and observing the feathered mob below with much
interest, was roused from his reflections and despatched to the town
for the wire and sugar boxes. Ukridge, taking his place at the gate,
gazed at the fowls with the affectionate air of a proprietor.
"Well, they have certainly taken you at your word," I said, "as far as
variety is concerned."
The man with the manners of a marquess seemed to have been at great
pains to send a really representative selection of fowls. There were
blue ones, black ones, white, grey, yellow, brown, big, little,
Dorkings, Minorcas, Cochin Chinas, Bantams, Wyandottes. It was an
imposing spectacle.
The Hired Man returned towards the end of the morning, preceded by a
cart containing the necessary wire and boxes; and Ukridge, whose
enthusiasm brooked no delay, started immediately the task of
fashioning the coops, while I, assisted by Beale, draped the wire-
netting about the chosen spot next to the paddock. There were little
unpleasantnesses--once a roar of anguish told that Ukridge's hammer
had found the wrong billet, and on another occasion my flannel
trousers suffered on the wire--but the work proceeded steadily. By the
middle of the afternoon, things were in a sufficiently advanced state
to suggest to Ukridge the advisability of a halt for refreshments.
"That's the way to do it," he said, beaming through misty pince-nez
over a long glass. "That is the stuff to administer to 'em! At this
rate we shall have the place in corking condition before bedtime.
Quiet efficiency--that's the wheeze! What do you think of those for
coops, Beale?"
The Hired Man examined them woodenly.
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