Some people do not believe in presentiments. They attribute that
curious feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to such
mundane causes as liver or a chill or the weather. For my own part, I
think there is more in the matter than the casual observer might
imagine.
I awoke three days after my meeting with the professor at the
clubhouse filled with a dull foreboding. Somehow I seemed to know that
that day was going to turn out badly for me. It may have been liver or
a chill, but it was certainly not the weather. The morning was
perfect, the most glorious of a glorious summer. There was a haze over
the valley and out to sea which suggested a warm noon, when the sun
should have begun the serious duties of the day. The birds were
singing in the trees and breakfasting on the lawn, while Edwin, seated
on one of the flower beds, watched them with the eye of a connoisseur.
Occasionally, when a sparrow hopped in his direction, he would make a
sudden spring, and the bird would fly away to the other side of the
lawn. I had never seen Edwin catch a sparrow. I believe they looked on
him as a bit of a crank, and humored him by coming within springing
distance, just to keep him amused. Dashing young cock sparrows would
show off before their particular hen sparrows, and earn a cheap
reputation for dare-deviltry by going within so many yards of Edwin's
lair and then darting away.
Bob was in his favorite place on the gravel. I took him with me down
to the Cob to watch me bathe.
"What's the matter with me to-day, Robert, old man?" I asked him as I
dried myself.
He blinked lazily, but contributed no suggestion.
"It's no good looking bored," I went on, "because I'm going to talk
about myself, however much it bores you. Here am I, as fit as a prize
fighter; living in the open air for I don't know how long; eating
good, plain food; bathing every morning--sea bathing, mind you; and
yet what's the result? I feel beastly."
Bob yawned and gave a little whine.
"Yes," I said, "I know I'm in love. But that can't be it, because I
was in love just as much a week ago, and I felt all right then. But
isn't she an angel, Bob? Eh? Isn't she? But how about Tom Chase? Don't
you think he's a dangerous man? He calls her by her Christian name,
you know, and behaves generally as if she belonged to him. And then
he sees her every day, while I have to trust to meeting her at odd
times, and then I generally feel like such a fool I can't think of
anything to talk about except golf and the weather. He probably sings
duets with her after dinner. And you know what comes of duets after
dinner."
Here Bob, who had been trying for some time to find a decent excuse
for getting away, pretended to see something of importance at the
other end of the Cob, and trotted off to investigate it, leaving me to
finish dressing by myself.
"Of course," I said to myself, "it may be merely hunger. I may be all
right after breakfast, but at present I seem to be working up for a
really fine fit of the blues."
I whistled for Bob and started for home. On the beach I saw the
professor some little distance away and waved my towel in a friendly
manner. He made no reply.
Of course it was possible that he had not seen me, but for some reason
his attitude struck me as ominous. As far as I could see, he was
looking straight at me, and he was not a shortsighted man. I could
think of no reason why he should cut me. We had met on the links on
the previous morning, and he had been friendliness itself. He had
called me "me dear boy," supplied me with ginger beer at the
clubhouse, and generally behaved as if he had been David and I
Jonathan. Yet in certain moods we are inclined to make mountains out
of mole-hills, and I went on my way, puzzled and uneasy, with a
distinct impression that I had received the cut direct.
I felt hurt. What had I done that Providence should make things so
unpleasant for me? It would be a little hard, as Ukridge would have
said, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered some
fresh crow to pluck with me. Perhaps Ukridge had been irritating him
again. I wished he would not identify me so completely with Ukridge. I
could not be expected to control the man. Then I reflected that they
could hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from the
professor at the clubhouse and my meeting with him on the beach.
Ukridge rarely left the farm. When he was not working among the fowls,
he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind.
I came to the conclusion that, after all, the professor had not seen
me.
"I'm an idiot, Bob," I said, as we turned in at the farm gate, "and I
let my imagination run away with me."
Bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment.
Breakfast was ready when I got in. There was a cold chicken on the
sideboard, deviled chicken on the table, and a trio of boiled eggs,
and a dish of scrambled eggs. I helped myself to the latter and sat
down.
Ukridge was sorting the letters.
"Morning, Garny," he said. "One for you, Millie."
"It's from Aunt Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ukridge, looking at the
envelope.
"Wish she'd inclose a check. She could spare it."
"I think she would, dear, if she knew how much it was needed. But I
don't like to ask her. She's so curious and says such horrid things."
"She does," said Ukridge gloomily. He probably spoke from experience.
"Two for you, Sebastian. All the rest for me. Eighteen of them, and
all bills."
He spread them out on the table like a pack of cards, and drew one at
a venture.
"Whiteley's," he said. "Getting jumpy. Are in receipt of my favor of
the 7th inst, and are at a loss to understand--all sorts of things.
Would like something on account."
"Grasping of them," I said.
"They seem to think I'm doing it for fun. How can I let them have
their money when there isn't any?"
"Sounds difficult."
"Here's one from Dorchester--Smith, the man I got the gramophone from.
Wants to know when I'm going to settle up for sixteen records."
"Sordid man!"
I wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but Ukridge was one of
those men who compel one's attention when they are talking.
"The chicken men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay up for
the first lot of hens. Considering that they all died of roop, and
that I was going to send them back, anyhow, after I'd got them to
hatch out a few chickens, I call that cool. I can't afford to pay
heavy sums for birds which die off quicker than I can get them in. It
isn't business."
It was not my business, at any rate, so I switched off my attention
from Ukridge's troubles and was opening the first of my two letters
when an exclamation from Mrs. Ukridge made me look up.
She had dropped the letter she had been reading and was staring
indignantly in front of her. There were two little red spots on her
cheeks.
"I shall never speak to Aunt Elizabeth again," she said.
"What's the matter, old chap?" inquired Ukridge affectionately,
glancing up from his pile of bills. "Aunt Elizabeth been getting on
your nerves again? What's she been saying this time?"
Mrs. Ukridge left the room with a sob.
Ukridge sprang at the letter.
"If that demon doesn't stop writing letters and upsetting Millie I
shall lynch her," he said. I had never seen him so genuinely angry. He
turned over the pages till he came to the passage which had caused the
trouble. "Listen to this, Garnet. 'I'm sorry, but not surprised, to
hear that the chicken farm is not proving a great success. I think you
know my opinion of your husband. He is perfectly helpless in any
matter requiring the exercise of a little common sense and business
capability.' I like that! 'Pon my soul, I like that! You've known me
longer than she has, Garny, and you know that it's just in matters
requiring common sense that I come out strong. What?"
"Of course, old man," I replied dutifully. "The woman must be a fool."
"That's what she calls me two lines farther on. No wonder Millie was
upset. Why can't these cats leave people alone?"
"O woman, woman!" I threw in helpfully.
"Always interfering--"
"Beastly!"
"--and backbiting--"
"Awful!"
"I shan't stand it!"
"I shouldn't."
"Look here! On the next page she calls me a gaby!"
"It's time you took a strong hand."
"And in the very next sentence refers to me as a perfect guffin.
What's a guffin, Garny, old boy?"
"It sounds indecent."
"I believe it's actionable."
"I shouldn't wonder."
Ukridge rushed to the door.
"Millie!" he shouted.
No answer.
He slammed the door, and I heard him dashing upstairs.
I turned with a sense of relief to my letters. One was from Lickford.
It bore a Cornish postmark. I glanced through it, and laid it aside
for a more exhaustive perusal later on.
The other was in a strange handwriting. I looked at the signature.
Patrick Derrick. This was queer. What had the professor to say to me?
The next moment my heart seemed to spring to my throat.
"Sir," the letter began.
A pleasant, cheery beginning!
Then it got off the mark, so to speak, like lightning. There was no
sparring for an opening, no dignified parade of set phrases leading up
to the main point. It was the letter of a man who was almost too
furious to write. It gave me the impression that, if he had not
written it, he would have been obliged to have taken some very violent
form of exercise by way of relief to his soul.
"You will be good enough," he wrote, "to look on our acquaintance as
closed. I have no wish to associate with persons of your stamp. If we
should happen to meet, you will be good enough to treat me as a total
stranger, as I shall treat you. And, if I may be allowed to give you a
word of advice, I should recommend you in future, when you wish to
exercise your humor, to do so in some less practical manner than by
bribing boatmen to upset your" (_friends_ crossed out thickly, and
_acquaintances_ substituted). "If you require further enlightenment in
this matter, the inclosed letter may be of service to you."
With which he remained mine faithfully, Patrick Derrick.
The inclosed letter was from one Jane Muspratt. It was bright and
interesting.
DEAR SIR: My Harry, Mr. Hawk, sas to me how it was him
upseting the boat and you, not because he is not steddy in a
boat which he is no man more so in Lyme Regis but because
one of the gentmen what keeps chikkens up the hill, the
little one, Mr. Garnick his name is, says to him Hawk, I'll
give you a sovrin to upset Mr. Derrick in your boat, and my
Harry being esily led was took in and did but he's sory now
and wishes he hadn't, and he sas he'll niver do a prackticle
joke again for anyone even for a bank note.