Love Among the Chickens u-1

by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse

  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 11.

  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 th
e 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?”

  Chapter 12.

  Some Emotions and Yellow Lupin

  The fame which came to me through that gallant rescue was a little embarrassing. I was a marked man. Did I walk through the village, heads emerged from windows, and eyes followed me out of sight. Did I sit on the beach, groups formed behind me and watched in silent admiration. I was the man of the moment.

  “If we’d wanted an advertisement for the farm,” said Ukridge on one of these occasions, “we couldn’t have had a better one than you, Garny, my boy. You have brought us three distinct orders for eggs during the last week. And I’ll tell you what it is, we need all the orders we can get that’ll bring us in ready money. The farm is in a critical condition. The coffers are low, deuced low. And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m getting precious tired of living on nothing but chicken and eggs. So’s Millie, though she doesn’t say so.”

  “So am I,” I said, “and I don’t feel like imitating your wife’s proud reserve. I never want to see a chicken again. As for eggs, they are far too much for us.”

  For the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat. We had had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken and eggs for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. Meals became a nuisance, and Mrs. Beale complained bitterly that we did not give her a chance. She was a cook who would have graced an alderman’s house and served up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this remote corner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and roast chicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. Mr. Whistler, set to paint sign-boards for public-houses, might have felt the same restless discontent. As for her husband, the Hired Retainer, he took life as tranquilly as ever, and seemed to regard the whole thing as the most exhilarating farce he had ever been in. I think he looked on Ukridge as an amiable lunatic, and was content to rough it a little in order to enjoy the privilege of observing his movements. He made no complaints of the food. When a man has supported life for a number of years on incessant Army beef, the monotony of daily chicken and eggs scarcely strikes him.