Love Among the Chickens | Page 9

had long since
suspected.

The train raced on toward the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpid
peace began to settle down on the carriage.
Soon only Garnet, the Irishman, and the lady were awake.
"What's your book, me dear?" asked the Irishman.
"'The Maneuvers of Arthur,' father," said Phyllis. "By Jeremy Garnet."
Garnet would not have believed without the evidence of his ears that
his name could possibly have sounded so well.
"Dolly Strange gave it to me when I left the abbey," continued Phyllis.
"She keeps a shelf of books for her guests when they are going away.
Books that she considers rubbish and doesn't want, you know."
Garnet hated Dolly Strange without further evidence.
"And what do you think of it, me dear?"
"I like it," said Phyllis decidedly. The carriage swam before Garnet's
eyes. "I think it is very clever. I shall keep it."
"Bless you," thought Garnet, "and I will write my precious autograph
on every page, if you want it."
"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is?" said Phyllis. "I imagine him rather
an old young man, probably with an eyeglass and conceited. He must
be conceited. I can tell that from the style. And I should think he didn't
know many girls. At least, if he thinks Pamela Grant an ordinary sort of
girl."
"Is she not?" asked her father.
"She's a cr-r-reature," said Phyllis emphatically.
This was a blow to Garnet, and demolished the self-satisfaction which
her earlier criticisms had caused to grow within him. He had always
looked on Pamela as something very much out of the ordinary run of

feminine character studies. That scene between her and the curate in the
conservatory.... And when she finds Arthur at the meet of the
Blankshire.... He was sorry she did not like Pamela. Somehow it
lowered Pamela in his estimation.
"But I like Arthur," said Phyllis, and she smiled--the first time Garnet
had seen her do so.
Garnet also smiled to himself. Arthur was the hero. He was a young
writer. Ergo, Arthur was himself.
The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animation
began to be noticeable among the sleepers. A whistle from the engine,
and the train drew up in a station. Looking out of the window, Garnet
saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Aunty became
instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels, shook Albert,
replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally headed a stampede out
of the door.
To Garnet's chagrin the Irish gentleman and his daughter also rose.
Apparently this was to be the end of their brief acquaintanceship. They
alighted and walked down the platform.
"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily, opening his eyes. "Yeovil? Not
far now, old horse."
With which remark he closed his eyes again and returned to his
slumbers.
Garnet's eye, roving disconsolately over the carriage, was caught by
something lying in the far corner. It was the criticized "Maneuvers of
Arthur." The girl had left it behind.
What follows shows the vanity that obsesses our young and rising
authors. It did not enter into his mind that the book might have been
left behind of set purpose, as being of no further use to the owner. It
only occurred to him that if he did not act swiftly the lady of the hair
and eyes would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or a hand

bag were trivial.
He acted swiftly.
Five seconds later he was at the end of the platform, flushed but
courteous.
"Excuse me," he said, "I think--"
"Thank you," said the girl.
Garnet made his way back to his carriage.
"They are blue," he said.

THE ARRIVAL
IV
From Axminster to Lyme Regis the line runs through country as pretty
as any that can be found in the island, and the train, as if in appreciation
of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. It was late afternoon by the
time the chicken farmers reached their destination.
The arrangements for the carrying of luggage at Lyme Regis border on
the primitive. Boxes are left on the platform, and later, when he thinks
of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them down into the valley and up
the hill on the opposite side to the address written on the labels. The
owner walks. Lyme Regis is not a place for the halt and maimed.
Ukridge led his band in the direction of the farm, which lay across the
valley, looking through woods to the sea. The place was visible from
the station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of a hill,
the view was extensive.
Halfway up the slope on the other side of the valley the party left the
road