Love Among the Chickens | Page 3

Academy, dealing with his last work, had expressed a
polite hope that he would continue to do) was country air. A farmhouse
by the sea somewhere ... cows ... spreading boughs ... rooks ... brooks ...
cream. In London the day stretches before a man, if he has no regular
and appointed work to do, like a long, white, dusty road. It seems
impossible to get to the end of it without vast effort. But in the country
every hour has its amusements. Up with the lark. Morning dip. Cheery
greetings. Local color. Huge breakfast. Long walks. Flannels. The
ungirt loin. Good, steady spell of work from dinner till bedtime. The

prospect fascinated him. His third novel was already in a nebulous state
in his brain. A quiet week or two in the country would enable him to
get it into shape.
He took from the pocket of his blazer a letter which had arrived some
days before from an artist friend of his who was on a sketching tour in
Devonshire and Somerset. There was a penciled memorandum on the
envelope in his own handwriting:
Mem. Might work K. L.'s story about M. and the W--s's into comic yarn
for one of the weeklies.
He gazed at this for a while, with a last hope that in it might be
contained the germ of something which would enable him to turn out a
morning's work; but having completely forgotten who K. L. was, and
especially what was his (or her) story about M., whoever he (or she)
might be, he abandoned this hope and turned to the letter in the
envelope.
The earlier portions of the letter dealt tantalizingly with the scenery.
"Bits," come upon by accident at the end of disused lanes and
transferred with speed to canvas, were described concisely but with
sufficient breadth to make Garnet long to see them for himself. There
were brief résumés of dialogues between Lickford (the writer) and
weird rustics. The whole letter breathed of the country and the open air.
The atmosphere of Garnet's sitting room seemed to him to become
stuffier with every sentence he read.
The postscript interested him.
"... By the way, at Yeovil I came across an old friend of yours. Stanley
Featherstonhaugh 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.
It seems he has been in England sometime. 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 in a more or less violent altercation, and there was S. F. U., in a

villainous old suit of gray flannels (I'll swear it was the same one that
he had on last time I saw him), and a mackintosh, though it was a
blazing hot day. His pince-nez were tacked onto his ears with wire as
usual. He greeted me with effusive shouts, and drew me aside. Then
after a few commonplaces of greeting, he fumbled in his pockets,
looked pained and surprised.
"'Look here, Licky,' he said. 'You know I never borrow. It's against my
principles. But I must have a shilling, or I'm a ruined man. I seem to
have had my pocket picked by some scoundrelly blackguard. Can you,
my dear fellow, oblige me with a shilling until next Tuesday afternoon
at three-thirty? I never borrow, so I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll let you
have this (producing a beastly little three-penny-bit with a hole in it)
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 to part with it. But grim necessity ... I
can hardly do it.... Still, no, no, ... you must take it, you must take it.
Licky, old man, shake hands! Shake hands, my boy!'
"He then asked after you, and said you were the noblest man--except
me--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."
"That," said Jerry Garnet, "is the soundest bit of advice I've heard. I
will."
"Mrs. Medley," he said, when that lady made her appearance.
"Sir?"
"I'm going away for a few weeks. You can let the rooms if you like. I'll
drop you a line when I think of coming back."
"Yes, sir. And your letters. Where shall I send them, sir?"
"Till further notice," said Jerry Garnet, pulling out a