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 he went
Dorkings and Cochin Chinas which he had cured of diseases generally
fatal, with, 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. As I
had a slight headache, a visit to the Cob would, I thought, do me
good. I had missed my bath 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.
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 did not look 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 mind ranged idly over large
subjects and small. I thought of love and chicken farming. I mused on
the immortality of the soul. 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.