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_ CHAPTER VIII - A LITTLE DINNER AT UKRIDGE'S
"Edwin comes to-day," said Mrs. Ukridge.
"And the Derricks," said Ukridge, sawing at the bread in his energetic
way. "Don't forget the Derricks, Millie."
"No, dear. Mrs. Beale is going to give us a very nice dinner. We
talked it over yesterday."
"Who is Edwin?" I asked.
We were finishing breakfast on the second morning after my visit to
the Derricks. I had related my adventures to the staff of the farm on
my return, laying stress on the merits of our neighbours and their
interest in our doings, and the Hired Retainer had been sent off next
morning with a note from Mrs. Ukridge inviting them to look over the
farm and stay to dinner.
"Edwin?" said Ukridge. "Oh, beast of a cat."
"Oh, Stanley!" said Mrs. Ukridge plaintively. "He's not. He's such a
dear, Mr. Garnet. A beautiful, pure-bred Persian. He has taken
prizes."
"He's always taking something. That's why he didn't come down with
us."
"A great, horrid, /beast/ of a dog bit him, Mr. Garnet. And poor
Edwin had to go to a cats' hospital."
"And I hope," said Ukridge, "the experience will do him good. Sneaked
a dog's dinner, Garnet, under his very nose, if you please. Naturally
the dog lodged a protest."
"I'm so afraid that he will be frightened of Bob. He will be very
timid, and Bob's so boisterous. Isn't he, Mr. Garnet?"
"That's all right," said Ukridge. "Bob won't hurt him, unless he tries
to steal his dinner. In that case we will have Edwin made into a rug."
"Stanley doesn't like Edwin," said Mrs. Ukridge, sadly.
Edwin arrived early in the afternoon, and was shut into the kitchen.
He struck me as a handsome cat, but nervous.
The Derricks followed two hours later. Mr. Chase was not of the party.
"Tom had to go to London," explained the professor, "or he would have
been delighted to come. It was a disappointment to the boy, for he
wanted to see the farm."
"He must come some other time," said Ukridge. "We invite inspection.
Look here," he broke off suddenly--we were nearing the fowl-run now,
Mrs. Ukridge walking in front with Phyllis Derrick--"were you ever at
Bristol?"
"Never, sir," said the professor.
"Because I knew just such another fat little buffer there a few years
ago. Gay old bird, he was. He--"
"This is the fowl-run, professor," I broke in, with a moist, tingling
feeling across my forehead and up my spine. I saw the professor
stiffen as he walked, while his face deepened in colour. Ukridge's
breezy way of expressing himself is apt to electrify the stranger.
"You will notice the able way--ha! ha!--in which the wire-netting is
arranged," I continued feverishly. "Took some doing, that. By Jove,
yes. It was hot work. Nice lot of fowls, aren't they? Rather a mixed
lot, of course. Ha! ha! That's the dealer's fault though. We are
getting quite a number of eggs now. Hens wouldn't lay at first.
Couldn't make them."
I babbled on, till from the corner of my eye I saw the flush fade from
the professor's face and his back gradually relax its poker-like
attitude. The situation was saved for the moment but there was no
knowing what further excesses Ukridge might indulge in. I managed to
draw him aside as we went through the fowl-run, and expostulated.
"For goodness sake, be careful," I whispered. "You've no notion how
touchy he is."
"But /I/ said nothing," he replied, amazed.
"Hang it, you know, nobody likes to be called a fat little buffer to
his face."
"What! My dear old man, nobody minds a little thing like that. We
can't be stilted and formal. It's ever so much more friendly to relax
and be chummy."
Here we rejoined the others, and I was left with a leaden foreboding
of gruesome things in store. I knew what manner of man Ukridge was
when he relaxed and became chummy. Friendships of years' standing had
failed to survive the test.
For the time being, however, all went well. In his role of lecturer he
offended no one, and Phyllis and her father behaved admirably. They
received his strangest theories without a twitch of the mouth.
"Ah," the professor would say, "now is that really so? Very
interesting indeed."
Only once, when Ukridge was describing some more than usually original
device for the furthering of the interests of his fowls, did a slight
spasm disturb Phyllis's look of attentive reverence.
"And you have really had no previous experience in chicken-farming?"
she said.
"None," said Ukridge, beaming through his glasses. "Not an atom. But I
can turn my hand to anything, you know. Things seem to come naturally
to me somehow."
"I see," said Phyllis.
It was while matters were progressing with this beautiful smoothness
that I observed the square form of the Hired Retainer approaching us.
Somehow--I cannot say why--I had a feeling that he came with bad news.
Perhaps it was his air of quiet satisfaction which struck me as
ominous.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Ukridge, sir."
Ukridge was in the middle of a very eloquent excursus on the feeding
of fowls, a subject on which he held views of his own as ingenious as
they were novel. The interruption annoyed him.
"Well, Beale," he said, "what is it?"
"That there cat, sir, what came to-day."
"Oh, Beale," cried Mrs. Ukridge in agitation, "/what/ has happened?"
"Having something to say to the missis--"
"What has happened? Oh, Beale, don't say that Edwin has been hurt?
Where is he? Oh, /poor/ Edwin!"
"Having something to say to the missis--"
"If Bob has bitten him I hope he had his nose /well/ scratched," said
Mrs. Ukridge vindictively.
"Having something to say to the missis," resumed the Hired Retainer
tranquilly, "I went into the kitchen ten minutes back. The cat was
sitting on the mat."
Beale's narrative style closely resembled that of a certain book I had
read in my infancy. I wish I could remember its title. It was a well-
written book.
"Yes, Beale, yes?" said Mrs. Ukridge. "Oh, do go on."
" 'Hullo, puss,' I says to him, 'and 'ow are /you/, sir?' 'Be
careful,' says the missis. ' 'E's that timid,' she says, 'you wouldn't
believe,' she says. ' 'E's only just settled down, as you may say,'
she says. 'Ho, don't you fret,' I says to her, ' 'im and me
understands each other. 'Im and me,' I says, 'is old friends. 'E's my
dear old pal, Corporal Banks.' She grinned at that, ma'am, Corporal
Banks being a man we'd 'ad many a 'earty laugh at in the old days. 'E
was, in a manner of speaking, a joke between us."
"Oh, do--go--on, Beale. What has happened to Edwin?"
The Hired Retainer proceeded in calm, even tones.
"We was talking there, ma'am, when Bob, what had followed me unknown,
trotted in. When the cat ketched sight of 'im sniffing about, there
was such a spitting and swearing as you never 'eard; and blowed," said
Mr. Beale amusedly, "blowed if the old cat didn't give one jump, and
move in quick time up the chimney, where 'e now remains, paying no
'eed to the missis' attempts to get him down again."
Sensation, as they say in the reports.
"But he'll be cooked," cried Phyllis, open-eyed.
"No, he won't. Nor will our dinner. Mrs. Beale always lets the kitchen
fire out during the afternoon. And how she's going to light it with
that----"
There was a pause while one might count three. It was plain that the
speaker was struggling with himself.
"--that cat," he concluded safely, "up the chimney? It's a cold dinner
we'll get to-night, if that cat doesn't come down."
The professor's face fell. I had remarked on the occasion when I had
lunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table.
Cold impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste.
We went to the kitchen in a body. Mrs. Beale was standing in front of
the empty grate, making seductive cat-noises up the chimney.
"What's all this, Mrs. Beale?" said Ukridge.
"He won't come down, sir, not while he thinks Bob's about. And how I'm
to cook dinner for five with him up the chimney I don't see, sir."
"Prod at him with a broom handle, Mrs. Beale," said Ukridge.
"Oh, don't hurt poor Edwin," said Mrs. Ukridge.
"I 'ave tried that, sir, but I can't reach him, and I'm only bin and
drove 'im further up. What must be," added Mrs. Beale philosophically,
"must be. He may come down of his own accord in the night. Bein'
'ungry."
"Then what we must do," said Ukridge in a jovial manner, which to me
at least seemed out of place, "is to have a regular, jolly picnic-
dinner, what? Whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that."
"A regular, jolly picnic-dinner," repeated the professor gloomily. I
could read what was passing in his mind,--remorse for having come at
all, and a faint hope that it might not be too late to back out of it.
"That will be splendid," said Phyllis.
"Er, I think, my dear sir," said her father, "it would be hardly fair
for us to give any further trouble to Mrs. Ukridge and yourself. If
you will allow me, therefore, I will----"
Ukridge became gushingly hospitable. He refused to think of allowing
his guests to go empty away. He would be able to whack up something,
he said. There was quite a good deal of the ham left. He was sure. He
appealed to me to endorse his view that there was a tin of sardines
and part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese.
"And after all," he said, speaking for the whole company in the
generous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, "what more do we want in
weather like this? A nice, light, cold, dinner is ever so much better
for us than a lot of hot things."
We strolled out again into the garden, but somehow things seemed to
drag. Conversation was fitful, except on the part of Ukridge, who
continued to talk easily on all subjects, unconscious of the fact that
the party was depressed and at least one of his guests rapidly
becoming irritable. I watched the professor furtively as Ukridge
talked on, and that ominous phrase of Mr. Chase's concerning four-
point-seven guns kept coming into my mind. If Ukridge were to tread on
any of his pet corns, as he might at any minute, there would be an
explosion. The snatching of the dinner from his very mouth, as it
were, and the substitution of a bread-and-cheese and sardines menu had
brought him to the frame of mind when men turn and rend their nearest
and dearest.
The sight of the table, when at length we filed into the dining room,
sent a chill through me. It was a meal for the very young or the very
hungry. The uncompromising coldness and solidity of the viands was
enough to appall a man conscious that his digestion needed humouring.
A huge cheese faced us in almost a swashbuckling way. I do not know
how else to describe it. It wore a blatant, rakish, /nemo-me-impune-
lacessit/ air, and I noticed that the professor shivered slightly as
he saw it. Sardines, looking more oily and uninviting than anything I
had ever seen, appeared in their native tin beyond the loaf of bread.
There was a ham, in its third quarter, and a chicken which had
suffered heavily during a previous visit to the table. Finally, a
black bottle of whisky stood grimly beside Ukridge's plate. The
professor looked the sort of man who drank claret of a special year,
or nothing.
We got through the meal somehow, and did our best to delude ourselves
into the idea that it was all great fun; but it was a shallow
pretence. The professor was very silent by the time we had finished.
Ukridge had been terrible. The professor had forced himself to be
genial. He had tried to talk. He had told stories. And when he began
one--his stories would have been the better for a little more
briskness and condensation--Ukridge almost invariably interrupted him,
before he had got half way through, without a word of apology, and
started on some anecdote of his own. He furthermore disagreed with
nearly every opinion the professor expressed. It is true that he did
it all in such a perfectly friendly way, and was obviously so innocent
of any intention of giving offence, that another man--or the same man
at a better meal--might have overlooked the matter. But the professor,
robbed of his good dinner, was at the stage when he had to attack
somebody. Every moment I had been expecting the storm to burst.
It burst after dinner.
We were strolling in the garden, when some demon urged Ukridge,
apropos of the professor's mention of Dublin, to start upon the Irish
question. I had been expecting it momentarily, but my heart seemed to
stand still when it actually arrived.
Ukridge probably knew less about the Irish question than any male
adult in the kingdom, but he had boomed forth some very positive
opinions of his own on the subject before I could get near enough to
him to whisper a warning. When I did, I suppose I must have whispered
louder than I had intended, for the professor heard me, and my words
acted as the match to the powder.
"He's touchy about Ireland, is he?" he thundered. "Drop it, is it? And
why? Why, sir? I'm one of the best tempered men that ever came from
Dublin, let me tell you, and I will not stay here to be insulted by
the insinuation that I cannot discuss Ireland as calmly as any one in
this company or out of it. Touchy about Ireland, is it? Touchy--?"
"But, professor--"
"Take your hand off my arm, Mr. Garnet. I will not be treated like a
child. I am as competent to discuss the affairs of Ireland without
heat as any man, let me tell you."
"Father--"
"And let me tell you, Mr. Ukridge, that I consider your opinions
poisonous. Poisonous, sir. And you know nothing whatever about the
subject, sir. Every word you say betrays your profound ignorance. I
don't wish to see you or to speak to you again. Understand that, sir.
Our acquaintance began to-day, and it will cease to-day. Good-night to
you, sir. Come, Phyllis, me dear. Mrs. Ukridge, good-night."
___
End of CHAPTER VIII - A LITTLE DINNER AT UKRIDGE'S [P. G. Wodehouse's novel: Love Among the Chickens] _
Read next: CHAPTER IX - DIES IRAE
Read previous: CHAPTER VII - THE ENTENTE CORDIALE IS SEALED
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