"My dear fellow," he said earnestly, "there's nothing the matter with
my figures. It's a mathematical certainty. What's the good of
mathematics if not to help you work out that sort of thing? No,
there's something wrong with the machine itself, and I shall probably
make a complaint to the people I got it from. Where did we get the
incubator, Millie?"
"Harrod's, I think, dear. Yes, it was Harrod's. It came down with the
first lot of things from there."
"Then," said Ukridge, banging the table with his fist, while his
glasses flashed triumph, "we've got 'em! Write and answer that letter
of theirs to-night, Millie. Sit on them."
"Yes, dear."
"And tell 'em that we'd have sent 'em their confounded eggs weeks ago
if only their rotten, twopenny-ha'penny incubator had worked with any
approach to decency."
"Or words to that effect," I suggested.
"Add in a postscript that I consider that the manufacturer of the
thing ought to rent a padded cell at Earlswood, and that they are
scoundrels for palming off a groggy machine of that sort on me. I'll
teach them!"
"Yes, dear."
"The ceremony of opening the morning's letters at Harrod's ought to be
full of interest and excitement to-morrow," I said.
This dashing counter stroke served to relieve Ukridge's pessimistic
mood. He seldom looked on the dark side of things for long at a time.
He began now to speak hopefully of the future. He planned out
ingenious, if somewhat impracticable, improvements in the farm. Our
fowls were to multiply so rapidly and consistently that within a short
space of time Dorsetshire would be paved with them. Our eggs were to
increase in size till they broke records, and got three-line notices
in the "Items of Interest" column of the _Daily Mail_. Briefly, each
hen was to become a happy combination of rabbit and ostrich.
"There is certainly a good time coming," I said. "May it be soon.
Meanwhile, there remain the local tradesmen. What of them?"
Ukridge relapsed once more into pessimism.
"They are the worst of the lot," he said. "I don't mind about the
London men so much. They only write. And a letter or two hurts nobody.
But when it comes to butchers and bakers and grocers and fishmongers
and fruiterers, and what not, coming up to one's house and dunning one
in one's own garden--well, it's a little hard, what?"
It may be wondered why, before things came to such a crisis, I had not
placed my balance at the bank at the disposal of the senior partner
for use on behalf of the firm. The fact was that my balance was at
the moment small. I have not yet in the course of this narrative gone
into my pecuniary position, but I may state here that it was an
inconvenient one. It was big with possibilities, but of ready cash
there was but a meager supply. My parents had been poor, but I had a
wealthy uncle. Uncles are notoriously careless of the comfort of their
nephews. Mine was no exception. He had views. He was a great believer
in matrimony, as, having married three wives--not, I should add,
simultaneously--he had every right to be. He was also of opinion that
the less money the young bachelor possessed, the better. The
consequence was that he announced his intention of giving me a
handsome allowance from the day that I married, but not an instant
before. Till that glad day I would have to shift for myself. And I am
bound to admit that--for an uncle--it was a remarkably sensible idea.
I am also of opinion that it is greatly to my credit, and a proof of
my pure and unmercenary nature, that I did not instantly put myself up
to be raffled for, or rush out into the streets and propose marriage
to the first lady I met. I was making enough with my pen to support
myself, and, be it ever so humble, there is something pleasant in a
bachelor existence, or so I had thought until very recently.
I had thus no great stake in Ukridge's chicken farm. I had contributed
a modest five pounds to the preliminary expenses, and another five
pounds after the roop incident. But further I could not go with
safety. When his income is dependent on the whims of editors and
publishers, the prudent man keeps something up his sleeve against a
sudden slump in his particular wares. I did not wish to have to make a
hurried choice between matrimony and the workhouse.
Having exhausted the subject of finance--or, rather, when I began to
feel that it was exhausting me--I took my clubs and strolled up the
hill to the links to play off a match with a sportsman from the
village. I had entered some days previously a competition for a trophy
(I quote the printed notice) presented by a local supporter of the
game, in which up to the present I was getting on nicely. I had
survived two rounds, and expected to beat my present opponent, which
would bring me into the semi-final. Unless I had bad luck, I felt that
I ought to get into the final, and win it. As far as I could gather
from watching the play of my rivals, the professor was the best of
them, and I was convinced that I should have no difficulty with him.
But he had the most extraordinary luck at golf, though he never
admitted it. He also exercised quite an uncanny influence on his
opponent. I have seen men put completely off their stroke by his good
fortune.
I disposed of my man without difficulty. We parted a little coldly. He
decapitated his brassy on the occasion of his striking Dorsetshire
instead of his ball, and he was slow in recovering from the complex
emotions which such an episode induces.
In the clubhouse I met the professor, whose demeanor was a welcome
contrast to that of my late antagonist. The professor had just routed
his opponent, and so won through to the semi-final. He was warm but
jubilant.