Produced by Charles and Dagny. HTML version by Al Haines.
LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS
BY
P. G. WODEHOUSE
DEDICATION
TO W. TOWNEND
DEAR BILL,--
I have never been much of a lad for the
TO-----
But For Whose Sympathy and Encouragement
This Book
Would Never Have Been Written
type of dedication. It sounds so weak-minded. But in the case of Love
Among the Chickens it is unavoidable. It was not so much that you
sympathised and encouraged--where you really came out strong was that
you gave me the stuff. I like people who sympathise with me. I am
grateful to those who encourage me. But the man to whom I raise the
Wodehouse hat--owing to the increased cost of living, the same old
brown one I had last year--it is being complained of on all sides, but
the public must bear it like men till the straw hat season comes
round--I say, the man to whom I raise this venerable relic is the man
who gives me the material.
Sixteen years ago, my William, when we were young and spritely lads;
when you were a tricky centre-forward and I a fast bowler; when your
head was covered with hair and my list of "Hobbies" in Who's Who
included Boxing; I received from you one morning about thirty
closely-written foolscap pages, giving me the details of your friend
-----'s adventures on his Devonshire chicken farm. Round these I wove
as funny a plot as I could, but the book stands or falls by the stuff
you gave me about "Ukridge"--the things that actually happened.
You will notice that I have practically re-written the book. There was
some pretty bad work in it, and it had "dated." As an instance of the
way in which the march of modern civilisation has left the 1906 edition
behind, I may mention that on page twenty-one I was able to make
Ukridge speak of selling eggs at six for fivepence!
Yours ever,
P. G. WODEHOUSE
London, 1920.
CONTENTS
I A LETTER WITH A POSTSCRIPT
II MR. AND MRS. S. F. UKRIDGE
III WATERLOO STATION, SOME FELLOW-TRAVELLERS, AND A GIRL
WITH BROWN HAIR
IV THE ARRIVAL
V BUCKLING TO
VI MR. GARNET'S NARRATIVE--HAS TO DO WITH A REUNION
VII THE ENTENTE CORDIALE IS SEALED
VIII A LITTLE DINNER AT UKRIDGE'S
IX DIES IRAE
X I ENLIST THE SERVICES OF A MINION
XI THE BRAVE PRESERVER
XII SOME EMOTIONS AND YELLOW LUPIN
XIII TEA AND TENNIS
XIV A COUNCIL OF WAR
XV THE ARRIVAL OF NEMESIS
XVI A CHANCE MEETING
XVII OF A SENTIMENTAL NATURE
XVIII UKRIDGE GIVES ME ADVICE
XIX ASKING PAPA
XX SCIENTIFIC GOLF
XXI THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
XXII THE STORM BREAKS
XXIII AFTER THE STORM
LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS
CHAPTER I
A LETTER WITH A POSTSCRIPT
"A gentleman called to see you when you were out last night, sir," said
Mrs. Medley, my landlady, removing the last of the breakfast things.
"Yes?" I said, in my affable way.
"A gentleman," said Mrs. Medley meditatively, "with a very powerful
voice."
"Caruso?"
"Sir?"
"I said, did he leave a name?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Ukridge."
"Oh, my sainted aunt!"
"Sir!"
"Nothing, nothing."
"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley, withdrawing from the presence.
Ukridge! Oh, hang it! I had not met him for years, and, glad as I am,
as a general thing, to see the friends of my youth when they drop in
for a chat, I doubted whether I was quite equal to Ukridge at the
moment. A stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of the
words, he was a trifle too jumpy for a man of my cloistered and
intellectual life, especially as just now I was trying to plan out a
new novel, a tricky job demanding complete quiet and seclusion. It had
always been my experience that, when Ukridge was around, things began
to happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible.
Ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows the
money from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroiling
you in a fight with a cabman. I have gone to Covent Garden balls with
Ukridge, and found myself legging it down Henrietta Street in the grey
dawn, pursued by infuriated costermongers.
I wondered how he had got my address, and on that problem light was
immediately cast by Mrs. Medley, who returned, bearing an envelope.
"It came by the morning post, sir, but it was left at Number Twenty by
mistake."
"Oh, thank you."
"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley.
I recognised the handwriting. The letter, which bore a Devonshire
postmark, was from an artist friend of mine, one Lickford, who was at
present on a sketching tour in the west. I had seen him off at Waterloo
a week before, and I remember that I had walked away from the station
wishing that I could summon up the energy to pack and get off to the
country somewhere. I hate London in July.
The letter was a long one, but it was the postscript which interested
me most.
"... By the way, at Yeovil I ran into an old friend of ours, Stanley
Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, of all people. As large as life--quite six
foot two, and tremendously filled out. I thought he was abroad. The
last I heard of him was that he had started for Buenos Ayres in a
cattle ship, with a borrowed pipe by way of luggage. It seems he has
been in England for some time. I met him in the refreshment-room at
Yeovil Station. I was waiting for a down train; he had changed on his
way to town. As I opened the door, I heard a huge voice entreating the
lady behind the bar to 'put it in a pewter'; and there was S. F. U. in
a villainous old suit of grey flannels (I'll swear it was the one he
had on last time I saw him) with pince-nez tacked on to his ears with
ginger-beer wire as usual, and a couple of inches of bare neck showing
between the bottom of his collar and the top of his coat--you remember
how he could never get a stud to do its work. He also wore a
mackintosh, though it was a blazing day.
"He greeted me with effusive shouts. Wouldn't hear of my standing the
racket. Insisted on being host. When we had finished, he fumbled in his
pockets, looked pained and surprised, and drew me aside. 'Look here,
Licky, old horse,' he said, 'you know I never borrow money. It's
against my principles. But I _must_ have a couple of bob. Can you, my
dear good fellow, oblige me with a couple of bob till next Tuesday?
I'll tell you what I'll do. (In a voice full of emotion). I'll let you
have this (producing a beastly little threepenny bit with a hole in it
which he had probably picked up in the street) until I can pay you
back. This is of more value to me than I can well express, Licky, my
boy. A very, very dear friend gave it to me when we parted, years
ago... It's a wrench... Still,--no, no... You must take it, you must
take it. Licky, old man, shake hands, old horse. Shake hands, my boy.'
He then tottered to the bar, deeply moved, and paid up out of the five
shillings which he had made it as an after-thought. He asked after you,
and said you were one of the noblest men on earth. I gave him your
address, not being able to get out of it, but if I were you I should
fly while there is yet time."
It seemed to me that the advice was good and should be followed. I
needed a change of air. London may have suited Doctor Johnson, but in
the summer time it is not for the ordinary man. What I wanted, to
enable me to give the public of my best (as the reviewer of a weekly
paper, dealing with my last work, had expressed a polite hope that I
would continue to do) was a little haven in the country somewhere.
I rang the bell.
"Sir?" said Mrs. Medley.
"I'm going away for a bit," I said.
"Yes, sir."
"I don't know where. I'll send you the address, so that you can forward
letters."
"Yes, sir."
"And, if Mr. Ukridge calls again..."
At this point a thunderous knocking on the front door interrupted me.
Something seemed to tell me who was at the end of that knocker. I heard
Mrs. Medley's footsteps pass along the hall. There was the click of the
latch. A volume of sound rushed up the stairs.
"Is Mr. Garnet in? Where is he? Show me the old horse. Where is the man
of wrath? Exhibit the son of Belial."
There followed a violent crashing on the stairs, shaking the house.
"Garnet! Where are you, laddie? Garnet!! GARNET!!!!!"
Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge was in my midst.