Books: Love Among the Chickens
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P. G. Wodehouse >> Love Among the Chickens
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In the meantime I worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on the
links, and swam about the harbour when the affairs of the farm did not
require my attention.
Things were not going well on our model chicken farm. Little accidents
marred the harmony of life in the fowl-run. On one occasion a hen--not
Aunt Elizabeth, I am sorry to say,--fell into a pot of tar, and came
out an unspeakable object. Ukridge put his spare pair of tennis shoes
in the incubator to dry them, and permanently spoiled the future of
half-a-dozen eggs which happened to have got there first. Chickens
kept straying into the wrong coops, where they got badly pecked by the
residents. Edwin slew a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved from
execution by the tears of Mrs. Ukridge.
In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism never
deserted Ukridge.
"After all," he said, "What's one bird more or less? Yes, I know I
made a fuss when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but that
was simply the principle of the thing. I'm not going to pay large sums
for chickens purely in order that a cat which I've never liked can
lunch well. Still, we've plenty left, and the eggs are coming in
better now, though we've still a deal of leeway to make up yet in that
line. I got a letter from Whiteley's this morning asking when my first
consignment was going to arrive. You know, these people make a mistake
in hurrying a man. It annoys him. It irritates him. When we really get
going, Garny, my boy, I shall drop Whiteley's. I shall cut them out of
my list and send my eggs to their trade rivals. They shall have a
sharp lesson. It's a little hard. Here am I, worked to death looking
after things down here, and these men have the impertinence to bother
me about their wretched business. Come in and have a drink, laddie,
and let's talk it over."
It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in a
voice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about the
paddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis and
trying to get my novel into shape. I had just framed a more than
usually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, when
Ukridge shouted to me from the fowl-run.
"Garny, come here. I want you to see the most astounding thing."
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Blast if I know. Look at those chickens. They've been doing that for
the last half-hour."
I inspected the chickens. There was certainly something the matter
with them. They were yawning--broadly, as if we bored them. They stood
about singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. It was
an uncanny spectacle.
"What's the matter with them?"
"Can a chicken get a fit of the blues?" I asked. "Because if so,
that's what they've got. I never saw a more bored-looking lot of
birds."
"Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said Mrs.
Ukridge sympathetically; "I'm sure it's not well. See, it's lying
down. What /can/ be the matter with it?"
"I tell you what we'll do," said Ukridge. "We'll ask Beale. He once
lived with an aunt who kept fowls. He'll know all about it. Beale!"
No answer.
"Beale!!"
A sturdy form in shirt-sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying a
boot. We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it.
"Beale, you know all about fowls. What's the matter with these
chickens?"
The Hired Retainer examined the blase birds with a wooden expression
on his face.
"Well?" said Ukridge.
"The 'ole thing 'ere," said the Hired Retainer, "is these 'ere fowls
have been and got the roop."
I had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded bad.
"Is that what makes them yawn like that?" said Mrs. Ukridge.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Poor things!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And have they all got it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What ought we to do?" asked Ukridge.
"Well, my aunt, sir, when 'er fowls 'ad the roop, she gave them
snuff."
"Give them snuff, she did," he repeated, with relish, "every morning."
"Snuff!" said Mrs. Ukridge.
"Yes, ma'am. She give 'em snuff till their eyes bubbled."
Mrs. Ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word-
painting.
"And id it cure them?" asked Ukridge.
"No, sir," responded the expert soothingly.
"Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots," said Ukridge.
"You're no use. Wait a minute. Who would know about this infernal roop
thing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off to
the nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what he
does when his fowls get the roop."
"Yes, sir."
"No, I'll go, Ukridge," I said. "I want some exercise."
I whistled to Bob, who was investigating a mole-heap in the paddock,
and set off in the direction of the village of Up Lyme to consult
Farmer Leigh on the matter. He had sold us some fowls shortly after
our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in their
ailing families.
The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. At intervals it
passes over a stream by means of a footbridge. The stream curls
through the meadows like a snake.
And at the first of these bridges I met Phyllis.
I came upon her quite suddenly. The other end of the bridge was hidden
from my view. I could hear somebody coming through the grass, but not
till I was on the bridge did I see who it was. We reached the bridge
simultaneously. She was alone. She carried a sketching-block. All nice
girls sketch a little.
There was room for one alone on the footbridge, and I drew back to let
her pass.
It being the privilege of woman to make the first sign of recognition,
I said nothing. I merely lifted my hat in a non-committing fashion.
"Are you going to cut me, I wonder?" I said to myself. She answered
the unspoken question as I hoped it would be answered.
"Mr. Garnet," she said, stopping at the end of the bridge. A pause.
"I couldn't tell you so before, but I am so sorry this has happened."
"Oh, thanks awfully," I said, realising as I said it the miserable
inadequacy of the English language. At a crisis when I would have
given a month's income to have said something neat, epigrammatic,
suggestive, yet withal courteous and respectful, I could only find a
hackneyed, unenthusiastic phrase which I should have used in accepting
an invitation from a bore to lunch with him at his club.
"Of course you understand my friends--must be my father's friends."
"Yes," I said gloomily, "I suppose so."
"So you must not think me rude if I--I----"
"Cut me," said I, with masculine coarseness.
"Don't seem to see you," said she, with feminine delicacy, "when I am
with my father. You will understand?"
"I shall understand."
"You see,"--she smiled--"you are under arrest, as Tom says."
Tom!
"I see," I said.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
I watched her out of sight, and went on to interview Mr. Leigh.
We had a long and intensely uninteresting conversation about the
maladies to which chickens are subject. He was verbose and
reminiscent. He took me over his farm, pointing out as we went
Dorkings with pasts, and Cochin Chinas which he had cured of diseases
generally fatal on, as far as I could gather, Christian Science
principles.
I left at last with instructions to paint the throats of the stricken
birds with turpentine--a task imagination boggled at, and one which I
proposed to leave exclusively to Ukridge and the Hired Retainer--and
also a slight headache. A visit to the Cob would, I thought, do me
good. I had missed my bathe that morning, and was in need of a breath
of sea-air.
It was high-tide, and there was deep water on three sides of the Cob.
In a small boat in the offing Professor Derrick appeared, fishing. I
had seen him engaged in this pursuit once or twice before. His only
companion was a gigantic boatman, by name Harry Hawk, possibly a
descendant of the gentleman of that name who went to Widdicombe Fair
with Bill Brewer and old Uncle Tom Cobley and all on a certain
memorable occasion, and assisted at the fatal accident to Tom Pearse's
grey mare.
I sat on the seat at the end of the Cob and watched the professor. It
was an instructive sight, an object-lesson to those who hold that
optimism has died out of the race. I had never seen him catch a fish.
He never looked to me as if he were at all likely to catch a fish. Yet
he persevered.
There are few things more restful than to watch some one else busy
under a warm sun. As I sat there, my pipe drawing nicely as the result
of certain explorations conducted that morning with a straw, my mind
ranged idly over large subjects and small. I thought of love and
chicken-farming. I mused on the immortality of the soul and the
deplorable speed at which two ounces of tobacco disappeared. In the
end I always returned to the professor. Sitting, as I did, with my
back to the beach, I could see nothing but his boat. It had the ocean
to itself.
I began to ponder over the professor. I wondered dreamily if he were
very hot. I tried to picture his boyhood. I speculated on his future,
and the pleasure he extracted from life.
It was only when I heard him call out to Hawk to be careful, when a
movement on the part of that oarsman set the boat rocking, that I
began to weave romances round him in which I myself figured.
But, once started, I progressed rapidly. I imagined a sudden upset.
Professor struggling in water. Myself (heroically): "Courage! I'm
coming!" A few rapid strokes. Saved! Sequel, a subdued professor,
dripping salt water and tears of gratitude, urging me to become his
son-in-law. That sort of thing happened in fiction. It was a shame
that it should not happen in real life. In my hot youth I once had
seven stories in seven weekly penny papers in the same month, all
dealing with a situation of the kind. Only the details differed. In
"Not really a Coward" Vincent Devereux had rescued the earl's daughter
from a fire, whereas in "Hilda's Hero" it was the peppery old father
whom Tom Slingsby saved. Singularly enough, from drowning. In other
words, I, a very mediocre scribbler, had effected seven times in a
single month what the Powers of the Universe could not manage once,
even on the smallest scale.
* * * * *
It was precisely three minutes to twelve--I had just consulted my
watch--that the great idea surged into my brain. At four minutes to
twelve I had been grumbling impotently at Providence. By two minutes
to twelve I had determined upon a manly and independent course of
action.
Briefly it was this. Providence had failed to give satisfaction. I
would, therefore, cease any connection with it, and start a rival
business on my own account. After all, if you want a thing done well,
you must do it yourself.
In other words, since a dramatic accident and rescue would not happen
of its own accord, I would arrange one for myself. Hawk looked to me
the sort of man who would do anything in a friendly way for a few
shillings.
I had now to fight it out with Conscience. I quote the brief report
which subsequently appeared in the /Recording Angel/:--
* * * * *
/Three-Round Contest/: CONSCIENCE (Celestial B.C.) v. J. GARNET
(Unattached).
/Round One/.--Conscience came to the scratch smiling and confident.
Led off lightly with a statement that it would be bad for a man of the
professor's age to get wet. Garnet countered heavily, alluding to the
warmth of the weather and the fact that the professor habitually
enjoyed a bathe every day. Much sparring, Conscience not quite so
confident, and apparently afraid to come to close quarters with this
man. Time called, with little damage done.
/Round Two/.--Conscience, much freshened by the half minute's rest,
feinted with the charge of deceitfulness, and nearly got home heavily
with "What would Phyllis say if she knew?" Garnet, however, side-
stepped cleverly with "But she won't know," and followed up the
advantage with a damaging, "Besides, it's all for the best." The round
ended with a brisk rally on general principles, Garnet crowding in a
lot of work. Conscience down twice, and only saved by the call of
time.
/Round Three (and last)/.--Conscience came up very weak, and with
Garnet as strong as ever it was plain that the round would be a brief
one. This proved to be the case. Early in the second minute Garnet
cross-countered with "All's Fair in Love and War." Conscience down and
out. The winner left the ring without a mark.
* * * * *
I rose, feeling much refreshed.
That afternoon I interviewed Mr. Hawk in the bar-parlour of the Net
and Mackerel.
"Hawk," I said to him darkly, over a mystic and conspirator-like pot
of ale, "I want you, next time you take Professor Derrick out
fishing"--here I glanced round, to make sure that we were not
overheard--"to upset him."
His astonished face rose slowly from the pot of ale like a full moon.
"What 'ud I do that for?" he gasped.
"Five shillings, I hope," said I, "but I am prepared to go to ten."
He gurgled.
I encored his pot of ale.
He kept on gurgling.
I argued with the man.
I spoke splendidly. I was eloquent, but at the same time concise. My
choice of words was superb. I crystallised my ideas into pithy
sentences which a child could have understood.
And at the end of half-an-hour he had grasped the salient points of
the scheme. Also he imagined that I wished the professor upset by way
of a practical joke. He gave me to understand that this was the type
of humour which was to be expected from a gentleman from London. I am
afraid he must at one period in his career have lived at one of those
watering-places at which trippers congregate. He did not seem to think
highly of the Londoner.
I let it rest at that. I could not give my true reason, and this
served as well as any.
* * * * *
At the last moment he recollected that he, too, would get wet when the
accident took place, and he raised the price to a sovereign.
A mercenary man. It is painful to see how rapidly the old simple
spirit is dying out of our rural districts. Twenty years ago a
fisherman would have been charmed to do a little job like that for a
screw of tobacco.
CHAPTER XI
THE BRAVE PRESERVER
I could have wished, during the next few days, that Mr. Harry Hawk's
attitude towards myself had not been so unctuously confidential and
mysterious. It was unnecessary, in my opinion, for him to grin
meaningly when he met me in the street. His sly wink when we passed
each other on the Cob struck me as in indifferent taste. The thing had
been definitely arranged (ten shillings down and ten when it was
over), and there was no need for any cloak and dark-lantern effects. I
objected strongly to being treated as the villain of a melodrama. I
was merely an ordinary well-meaning man, forced by circumstances into
doing the work of Providence. Mr. Hawk's demeanour seemed to say, "We
are two reckless scoundrels, but bless you, /I/ won't give away your
guilty secret." The climax came one morning as I was going along the
street towards the beach. I was passing a dark doorway, when out
shimmered Mr. Hawk as if he had been a spectre instead of the most
substantial man within a radius of ten miles.
" 'St!" He whispered.
"Now look here, Hawk," I said wrathfully, for the start he had given
me had made me bite my tongue, "this has got to stop. I refuse to be
haunted in this way. What is it now?"
"Mr. Derrick goes out this morning, zur."
"Thank goodness for that," I said. "Get it over this morning, then,
without fail. I couldn't stand another day of it."
I went on to the Cob, where I sat down. I was excited. Deeds of great
import must shortly be done. I felt a little nervous. It would never
do to bungle the thing. Suppose by some accident I were to drown the
professor! Or suppose that, after all, he contented himself with a
mere formal expression of thanks, and refused to let bygones be
bygones. These things did not bear thinking of.
I got up and began to pace restlessly to and fro.
Presently from the farther end of the harbour there put off Mr. Hawk's
boat, bearing its precious cargo. My mouth became dry with excitement.
Very slowly Mr. Hawk pulled round the end of the Cob, coming to a
standstill some dozen yards from where I was performing my beat. It
was evidently here that the scene of the gallant rescue had been
fixed.
My eyes were glued upon Mr. Hawk's broad back. Only when going in to
bat at cricket have I experienced a similar feeling of suspense. The
boat lay almost motionless on the water. I had never seen the sea
smoother. Little ripples plashed against the side of the Cob.
It seemed as if this perfect calm might continue for ever. Mr. Hawk
made no movement. Then suddenly the whole scene changed to one of vast
activity. I heard Mr. Hawk utter a hoarse cry, and saw him plunge
violently in his seat. The professor turned half round, and I caught
sight of his indignant face, pink with emotion. Then the scene changed
again with the rapidity of a dissolving view. I saw Mr. Hawk give
another plunge, and the next moment the boat was upside down in the
water, and I was shooting headforemost to the bottom, oppressed with
the indescribably clammy sensation which comes when one's clothes are
thoroughly wet.
I rose to the surface close to the upturned boat. The first sight I
saw was the spluttering face of Mr. Hawk. I ignored him, and swam to
where the professor's head bobbed on the waters.
"Keep cool," I said. A silly remark in the circumstances.
He was swimming energetically but unskilfully. He appeared to be one
of those men who can look after themselves in the water only when they
are in bathing costume. In his shore clothes it would have taken him a
week to struggle to land, if he had got there at all, which was
unlikely.
I know all about saving people from drowning. We used to practise it
with a dummy in the swimming-bath at school. I attacked him from the
rear, and got a good grip of him by the shoulders. I then swam on my
back in the direction of land, and beached him with much /eclat/ at
the feet of an admiring crowd. I had thought of putting him under once
or twice just to show him he was being rescued, but decided against
such a source as needlessly realistic. As it was, I fancy he had
swallowed of sea-water two or three hearty draughts.
The crowd was enthusiastic.
"Brave young feller," said somebody.
I blushed. This was Fame.
"Jumped in, he did, sure enough, an' saved the gentleman!"
"Be the old soul drownded?"
"That girt fule, 'Arry 'Awk!"
I was sorry for Mr. Hawk. Popular opinion was against him. What the
professor said of him, when he recovered his breath, I cannot repeat,
--not because I do not remember it, but because there is a line, and
one must draw it. Let it be sufficient to say that on the subject of
Mr. Hawk he saw eye to eye with the citizen who had described him as a
"girt fule." I could not help thinking that my fellow conspirator did
well to keep out of it all. He was now sitting in the boat, which he
had restored to its normal position, baling pensively with an old tin
can. To satire from the shore he paid no attention.
The professor stood up, and stretched out his hand. I grasped it.
"Mr. Garnet," he said, for all the world as if he had been the father
of the heroine of "Hilda's Hero," "we parted recently in anger. Let me
thank you for your gallant conduct and hope that bygones will be
bygones."
I came out strong. I continued to hold his hand. The crowd raised a
sympathetic cheer.
I said, "Professor, the fault was mine. Show that you have forgiven me
by coming up to the farm and putting on something dry."
"An excellent idea, me boy; I /am/ a little wet."
"A little," I agreed.
We walked briskly up the hill to the farm.
Ukridge met us at the gate.
He diagnosed the situation rapidly.
"You're all wet," he said. I admitted it.
"Professor Derrick has had an unfortunate boating accident," I
explained.
"And Mr. Garnet heroically dived in, in all his clothes, and saved me
life," broke in the professor. "A hero, sir. A--/choo/!"
"You're catching cold, old horse," said Ukridge, all friendliness and
concern, his little differences with the professor having vanished
like thawed snow. "This'll never do. Come upstairs and get into
something of Garnet's. My own toggery wouldn't fit. What? Come along,
come along, I'll get you some hot water. Mrs. Beale--Mrs. /Beale/! We
want a large can of hot water. At once. What? Yes, immediately. What?
Very well then, as soon as you can. Now then, Garny, my boy, out with
the duds. What do you think of this, now, professor? A sweetly pretty
thing in grey flannel. Here's a shirt. Get out of that wet toggery,
and Mrs. Beale shall dry it. Don't attempt to tell me about it till
you're changed. Socks! Socks forward. Show socks. Here you are. Coat?
Try this blazer. That's right--that's right."
He bustled about till the professor was clothed, then marched him
downstairs, and gave him a cigar.
"Now, what's all this? What happened?"
The professor explained. He was severe in his narration upon the
unlucky Mr. Hawk.
"I was fishing, Mr. Ukridge, with me back turned, when I felt the boat
rock violently from one side to the other to such an extent that I
nearly lost me equilibrium, and then the boat upset. The man's a fool,
sir. I could not see what had happened, my back being turned, as I
say."
"Garnet must have seen. What happened, old horse?"
"It was very sudden," I said. "It seemed to me as if the man had got
an attack of cramp. That would account for it. He has the reputation
of being a most sober and trustworthy fellow."
"Never trust that sort of man," said Ukridge. "They are always the
worst. It's plain to me that this man was beastly drunk, and upset the
boat while trying to do a dance."
"A great curse, drink," said the professor. "Why, yes, Mr. Ukridge, I
think I will. Thank you. Thank you. That will be enough. Not all the
soda, if you please. Ah! this tastes pleasanter than salt water, Mr.
Garnet. Eh? Eh? Ha--Ha!"
He was in the best of tempers, and I worked strenuously to keep him
so. My scheme had been so successful that its iniquity did not worry
me. I have noticed that this is usually the case in matters of this
kind. It is the bungled crime that brings remorse.
"We must go round the links together one of these days, Mr. Garnet,"
said the professor. "I have noticed you there on several occasions,
playing a strong game. I have lately taken to using a wooden putter.
It is wonderful what a difference it makes."
Golf is a great bond of union. We wandered about the grounds
discussing the game, the /entente cordiale/ growing more firmly
established every moment.
"We must certainly arrange a meeting," concluded the professor. "I
shall be interested to see how we stand with regard to one another. I
have improved my game considerably since I have been down here.
Considerably."
"My only feat worthy of mention since I started the game," I said,
"has been to halve a round with Angus M'Lurkin at St. Andrews."
"/The/ M'Lurkin?" asked the professor, impressed.
"Yes. But it was one of his very off days, I fancy. He must have had
gout or something. And I have certainly never played so well since."
"Still----," said the professor. "Yes, we must really arrange to
meet."
With Ukridge, who was in one of his less tactless moods, he became
very friendly.
Ukridge's ready agreement with his strictures on the erring Hawk had a
great deal to do with this. When a man has a grievance, he feels drawn
to those who will hear him patiently and sympathise. Ukridge was all
sympathy.
"The man is an unprincipled scoundrel," he said, "and should be torn
limb from limb. Take my advice, and don't go out with him again. Show
him that you are not a man to be trifled with. The spilt child dreads
the water, what? Human life isn't safe with such men as Hawk roaming
about."
"You are perfectly right, sir. The man can have no defence. I shall
not employ him again."
I felt more than a little guilty while listening to this duet on the
subject of the man whom I had lured from the straight and narrow path.
But the professor would listen to no defence. My attempts at excusing
him were ill received. Indeed, the professor shewed such signs of
becoming heated that I abandoned my fellow-conspirator to his fate
with extreme promptness. After all, an addition to the stipulated
reward--one of these days--would compensate him for any loss which he
might sustain from the withdrawal of the professor's custom. Mr. Harry
Hawk was in good enough case. I would see that he did not suffer.
Filled with these philanthropic feelings, I turned once more to talk
with the professor of niblicks and approach shots and holes done in
three without a brassy. We were a merry party at lunch--a lunch
fortunately in Mrs. Beale's best vein, consisting of a roast chicken
and sweets. Chicken had figured somewhat frequently of late on our
daily bill of fare.
We saw the professor off the premises in his dried clothes, and I
turned back to put the fowls to bed in a happier frame of mind than I
had known for a long time. I whistled rag-time airs as I worked.
"Rum old buffer," said Ukridge meditatively, pouring himself out
another whisky and soda. "My goodness, I should have liked to have
seen him in the water. Why do I miss these good things?"
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