UKRIDGE'S DOG COLLEGE
“Laddie,” said Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, that much-enduring man, helping himself to my tobacco and the into his pocket, “listen to me, you son of Belial.”
“What?” I said, the pouch.
“Do you want to make an fortune?”
“Then my biography. Bung it on paper, and we’ll the proceeds. I’ve been making a close study of your lately, old horse, and it’s all wrong. The trouble with you is that you don’t the well-springs of nature and all that. You just think up some yarn about some-dam-thing-or-other and it down. Now, if you my life, you’d have something about. Pots of money in it, my boy—English and American and book rights, and and movie rights—well, you can take it from me that, at a estimate, we should clean up at least fifty thousand apiece.”
“As much as that?”
“Fully that. And listen, laddie, I’ll tell you what. You’re a good and we’ve been for years, so I’ll let you have my of the English for a hundred down.”
“What makes you think I’ve got a hundred pounds?”
“Well, then, I’ll make it my of the English and American for fifty.”
“Your collar’s come off its stud.”
“How about my complete of the whole for twenty-five?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“Then I’ll tell you what, old horse,” said Ukridge, inspired. “Just me a to be going on with.”
* * * * *
If the leading of S. F. Ukridge’s career are to be to the public—and not, as some might suggest, up—I I am the man to them. Ukridge and I have been since the days of school. Together we on the green, and when he was no one missed him more than I. An business, this expulsion. Ukridge’s spirit, ill-attuned to rules, him to the of them all by out at night to try his skill at the coco-nut-shies of the local village fair; and his in on and a false nose for the was by the that he absent-mindedly his cap the entire proceedings. He left the next morning, by all.
After this there was a of some years in our friendship. I was at Cambridge, culture, and Ukridge, as as I from his and the reports of acquaintances, about the world like a snipe. Somebody met him in New York, just off a cattle-ship. Somebody else saw him in Buenos Ayres. Somebody, again, spoke sadly of having been on by him at Monte Carlo and touched for a fiver. It was not until I settled in London that he came into my life. We met in Piccadilly one day, and our relations where they had been off. Old are strong, and the that he was about my and so wear my and us very close together.
Then he again, and it was a month or more I got news of him.
It was George Tupper who the news. George was of the in my last year, and he has the promise of those early days. He is in the Foreign Office, doing well and much respected. He has an earnest, and takes other people’s very seriously. Often he had to me like a father over Ukridge’s progress through life, and now, as he spoke, he to be with a joy, as over a prodigal.
“Have you about Ukridge?” said George Tupper. “He has settled at last. Gone to live with an aunt of his who one of those big houses on Wimbledon Common. A very rich woman. I am delighted. It will be the making of the old chap.”
I he was right in a way, but to me this into with a rich aunt in Wimbledon somehow an indecent, almost a tragic, end to a career like that of S. F. Ukridge. And when I met the man a week later my still.
It was in Oxford Street at the hour when come up from the to shop; and he was among the dogs and Selfridge’s. His arms were full of parcels, his was set in a of discomfort, and he was so that for an I did not him. Everything which the Correct Man was assembled on his person, from the to the patent-leather boots; and, as he to me in the minute, he was the of the damned. The him, the his forehead, and the was than the and combined.
“She makes me wear them,” he said, moodily, his the of the store and a as the movement the to his neck.
“Still,” I said, trying to turn his mind to things, “you must be having a great time. George Tupper tells me that your aunt is rich. I you’re off the of the land.”
“The and are good,” Ukridge. “But it’s a life, laddie. A life, old horse.”
“Why don’t you come and see me sometimes?”
“I’m not allowed out at night.”
“Well, shall I come and see you?”
A look of out from under the hat.
“Don’t of it, laddie,” said Ukridge, earnestly. “Don’t of it. You’re a good chap—my best and all that of thing—but the is, my in the home’s none too solid now, and one of you would my into hash. Aunt Julia would think you worldly.”
“I’m not worldly.”
“Well, you look worldly. You wear a and a soft collar. If you don’t mind my it, old horse, I think, if I were you, I’d off now she comes out. Good-bye, laddie.”
“Ichabod!” I sadly to myself as I passed on Oxford Street. “Ichabod!”
I should have had more faith. I should have my Ukridge better. I should have that a London no more that great man than Elba did Napoleon.
One afternoon, as I let myself into the house in Ebury Street of which I rented at that time the and sitting-room on the floor, I came upon Bowles, my landlord, in at the of the stairs.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Bowles. “A is waiting to see you. I I him calling me a moment ago.”
“Who is he?”
“A Mr. Ukridge, sir. He——”
A voice out from above.
“Bowles, old horse!”
Bowles, like all other of in the south-western of London, was an ex-butler, and about him, as about all ex-butlers, there like a an of which had failed to my spirit. He was a man of aspect, with a and of a green—eyes that to me and me wanting. “H’m!” they to say. “Young—very young. And not at all what I have been to in the best places.” To this addressed—and in a at that—as “old horse” me with much the same of as would a if he saw his on the back. The shock, therefore, when he not but with what almost to was numbing.
“Bring me six and a corkscrew.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bowles retired, and I and open the door of my sitting-room.
“Great Scott!” I said, blankly.
The place was a sea of Pekingese dogs. Later their numbers to six, but in that moment there to be hundreds. Goggling met mine I looked. The room was a of tails. With his against the mantelpiece, placidly, Ukridge.
“Hallo, laddie!” he said, with a of the hand, as if to make me free of the place. “You’re just in time. I’ve got to off and catch a train in a of an hour. Stop it, you mutts!” he bellowed, and the six Pekingese, who had been barking since my arrival, stopped in mid-yap, and were still. Ukridge’s to a over the animal kingdom, from ex-butlers to Pekes, which on the uncanny. “I’m off to Sheep’s Cray, in Kent. Taken a there.”
“Are you going to live there?”
“But what about your aunt?”
“Oh, I’ve left her. Life is and life is earnest, and if I to make a I’ve got to about and not up in a place like Wimbledon.”
“Something in that.”
“Besides which, she told me the very of me her and she wanted to see me again.”
I might have guessed, directly I saw him, that some had taken place. The which had him such a to the at our last meeting was gone, and he was in his pre-Wimbledon costume, which was, as the say, individual. Over trousers, a coat, and a he like a a yellow mackintosh. His had free from its and a of of neck. His was disordered, and his nose was by a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez to his ears with ginger-beer wire. His whole revolt.
Bowles himself with a of bones.
“That’s right. Chuck ’em on the floor.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I like that fellow,” said Ukridge, as the door closed. “We had a talk you came in. Did you know he had a on the music-halls?”
“He hasn’t in me much.”
“He’s promised me an to him later on. May be useful to be in touch with a man who the ropes. You see, laddie, I’ve on the most scheme.” He his arm dramatically, a plaster of the Infant Samuel at Prayer. “All right, all right, you can it with or something, and, anyway, you’re without it. Yessir, I’ve on a great scheme. The idea of a thousand years.”
“I’m going to train dogs.”
“For the music-hall stage. Dog acts, you know. Performing dogs. Pots of money in it. I start in a way with these six. When I’ve ’em a tricks, I sell them to a in the for a large and twelve more. I train those, sell ’em for a large sum, and with the money twenty-four more. I train those——”
“Here, wait a minute.” My was to swim. I had a of England with Pekingese dogs, all doing tricks. “How do you know you’ll be able to sell them?”
“Of I shall. The demand’s enormous. Supply can’t with it. At a I should think I ought to in four or five thousand the year. That, of course, is the to expand.”
“When I going properly, with a dozen under me and an establishment, I shall to touch the big money. What I’m at is a of Dogs’ College out in the country somewhere. Big place with a of ground. Regular and a set curriculum. Large staff, each of it with so many dogs under his care, me looking on and superintending. Why, once the thing moving it’ll itself, and all I shall have to do will be to and the cheques. It isn’t as if I would have to my operations to England. The for dogs is the world. America wants dogs. Australia wants dogs. Africa do with a few, I’ve no doubt. My aim, laddie, is to a of the trade. I want who needs a dog of any to come to me. And I’ll tell you what, laddie. If you like to put up a of capital, I’ll let you in on the ground floor.”
“All right. Have it your own way. Only don’t that there was a who put nine hundred into the Ford Car when it was starting and he a million. I say, is that clock right? Great Scott! I’ll be missing my train. Help me these animals.”
Five minutes later, by the six Pekingese and about him a of my tobacco, three of my socks, and the of a bottle of whisky, Ukridge in a taxi-cab for Charing Cross Station to his life-work.
Perhaps six passed, six Ukridgeless weeks, and then one I an telegram. Indeed, it was not so much a as a of anguish. In every word of it there the of a great man who has in against odds. It was the of which Job might have sent off after a session with Bildad the Shuhite:—
“Come here immediately, laddie. Life and death matter, old horse. Desperate situation. Don’t fail me.”
It me like a bugle, I the next train.
The White Cottage, Sheep’s Cray—destined, presumably, to in years an spot and a Mecca for dog-loving pilgrims—was a small and near the main road to London at some from the village. I it without difficulty, for Ukridge to have a in the neighbourhood; but to an entry was a task. I for a full minute without result, then shouted; and I was about to that Ukridge was not at home when the door opened. As I was just a final at the moment, I entered the house in a manner of one of the Ballet Russe a new and difficult step.
“Sorry, old horse,” said Ukridge. “Wouldn’t have you waiting if I’d who it was. Thought you were Gooch, the grocer—goods to the value of six three and a penny.”
“He me for his money,” said Ukridge, bitterly, as he the way into the sitting-room. “It’s a little hard. Upon my Sam it’s a little hard. I come here to a and do the a of good by a in their midst, and the thing you know they turn and bite the hand that was going to them. I’ve been and by these blood-suckers since I got here. A little trust, a little sympathy, a little of the good old give-and-take spirit—that was all I asked. And what happened? They wanted a on account! Kept me for a on account, I’ll trouble you, just when I needed all my and all my energy and every of at my for my difficult and work. I couldn’t give them a on account. Later on, if they had only patience, I would no have been in a position to settle their fifty times over. But the time was not ripe. I with the men. I said, ‘Here am I, a man, trying hard to educate six Pekingese dogs for the music-hall stage, and you come my attention and my by about a on account. It isn’t the pull-together spirit,’ I said. ‘It isn’t the that to wealth. These narrow petty-cash ideas can make for success.’ But no, they couldn’t see it. They started calling here at all hours and me in the public till life an curse. And now what do you think has happened?”
“No. Worse. My landlord’s them as security for his rent! Sneaked the stock. Tied up the assets. Crippled the at the very outset. Have you in your life of anything so dastardly? I know I to pay the rent and I’m about six behind, but, my gosh! surely a man with a enterprise on his hands isn’t to have to worry about these when he’s with the most delicate——Well, I put all that to old Nickerson, but a of good it did. So then I to you.”
“Ah!” I said, and there was a and pause.
“I thought,” said Ukridge, meditatively, “that you might be able to somebody I touch.”
He spoke in a and almost way, but his was at me significantly, and I it with a of guilt. My at the moment were in their condition—rather more so, in fact, than usual, to at Kempton Park on the previous Saturday; and it to me that, if there was a time for the buck, this was it. I tensely. It was an occasion for quick thinking.
“George Tupper!” I cried, on the of a brain-wave.
“George Tupper?” Ukridge, radiantly, his melting like the sun. “The very man, by Gad! It’s a most thing, but I of him. George Tupper, of course! Big-hearted George, the old school-chum. He’ll do it like a and won’t miss the money. These Foreign Office have always got a or two away in the old sock. They pinch it out of the public funds. Rush to town, laddie, with all speed, of Tuppy, him up, and bite his ear for twenty quid. Now is the time for all good men to come to the of the party.”
I had been that George Tupper would not fail us, did he. He without a murmur—even with enthusiasm. The was one that might have been to order for him. As a boy, George used to for the magazine, and now he is the of man who is always starting and up and presentations. He to my with the official air which these Foreign Office put on when they are to on Switzerland or send a note to San Marino, and was for his cheque-book I had been speaking two minutes. Ukridge’s sad case to move him deeply.
“Too bad,” said George. “So he is dogs, is he? Well, it very that, if he has at last settled to work, he should be by financial at the outset. We ought to do something practical for him. After all, a of twenty cannot the permanently.”
“I think you’re a if you’re looking on it as a loan.”
“What Ukridge needs is capital.”
“He thinks that, too. So Gooch, the grocer.”
“Capital,” George Tupper, firmly, as if he were with the of some Great Power. “Every at first.” He thoughtfully. “Where can we obtain for Ukridge?”
“Rob a bank.”
George Tupper’s cleared.
“I have it!” he said. “I will go over to Wimbledon to-night and approach his aunt.”
“Aren’t you that Ukridge is about as popular with her as a cold rabbit?”
“There may be a temporary estrangement, but if I tell her the and upon her that Ukridge is making a to earn a living——”
“Well, try it if you like. But she will set the on to you.”
“It will have to be done diplomatically, of course. It might be as well if you did not tell Ukridge what I to do. I do not wish to which may not be fulfilled.”
A of yellow on the of Sheep’s Cray Station next me that Ukridge had come to meet my train. The sun from a sky, but it took more than to make Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge his mackintosh. He looked like an of mustard.
When the train rolled in, he was in trying to light his pipe, but as I got out I that he had been joined by a sad-looking man, who, from the and manner in which he talked and the of his gesticulations, appeared to be some on which he deeply. Ukridge was looking warm and harassed, and, as I approached, I his voice in reply.
“My dear sir, my dear old horse, do be reasonable, do try to the big, outlook——”
He saw me and away—not unwillingly; and, my arm, me off along the platform. The sad-looking man irresolutely.
“Have you got the stuff, laddie?” Ukridge, in a whisper. “Have you got it?”
“Yes, here it is.”
“Put it back, put it back!” Ukridge in agony, as I in my pocket. “Do you know who that was I was talking to? Gooch, the grocer!”
“Goods to the value of six three and a penny?”
“Well, now’s your chance. Fling him a of gold. That’ll make him look silly.”
“My dear old horse, I can’t to go about the place my cash in order to make look silly. That money is for Nickerson, my landlord.”
“Oh! I say, I think the six three and a bird is us.”
“Then for goodness’ sake, laddie, let’s a move on! If that man we had twenty on us, our wouldn’t be safe. He’d make one spring.”
He me out of the station and the way up a that off through the fields, “like one that on a road walk in and dread, and having once looked walks on and no more his head, he a close him tread.” As a of fact, the had up the after the steps, and a moment later I this to Ukridge’s attention, for it was not the of day on which to walking records unnecessarily.
He halted, relieved, and his with a which I as having once been my property.
“Thank we’ve him off,” he said. “Not a in his way, I believe—a good husband and father, I’m told, and in the church choir. But no vision. That’s what he lacks, old horse—vision. He can’t that all have been up on a of and credit. Won’t that is the life-blood of commerce. Without has no elasticity. And if has no what dam’ good is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nor else. Well, now that he’s gone, you can give me that money. Did old Tuppy up cheerfully?”
“I it,” said Ukridge, moved, “I it. A good fellow. One of the best. I’ve always liked Tuppy. A man you can on. Some day, when I going on a big scale, he shall have this a thousandfold. I’m you small notes.”
“I want to ’em about on the table in of this Nickerson blighter.”
“Is this where he lives?”
We had come to a red-roofed house, set from the road trees. Ukridge the forcefully.
“Tell Mr. Nickerson,” he said to the maid, “that Mr. Ukridge has called and would like a word.”
About the of the man who presently entered the room into which we had been there was that but well-marked something which your all the world over. Mr. Nickerson was a man of medium height, almost by whiskers, and through the he at Ukridge with eyes, out of animal magnetism. You see at a that he was not of Ukridge. Take him for all in all, Mr. Nickerson looked like one of the less of the Old Testament about to the of the Amalekites.
“Well?” he said, and I have the word spoken in a more manner.
“I’ve come about the rent.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Nickerson, guardedly.
“To pay it,” said Ukridge.
“To pay it!” Mr. Nickerson, incredulously.
“Here!” said Ukridge, and with a superb money on the table.
I now why the massive-minded man had wanted small notes. They a display. There was a light in through the open window, and so a did it set up as it played about the heaped-up that Mr. Nickerson’s to like off a razor-blade. For a moment a look came into his and he slightly; then, as he started to up the money, he took on the air of a pilgrims. As as Mr. Nickerson was concerned, the sun was up.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Ukridge, I’m sure,” he said. “Thank you very much. No hard feelings, I trust?”
“Not on my side, old horse,” Ukridge, affably. “Business is business.”
“Well, I may as well take those dogs now,” said Ukridge, helping himself to a cigar from a box which he had just on the and a more in his pocket in the way. “The sooner they’re with me, the better. They’ve a day’s education as it is.”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Ukridge; certainly. They are in the at the of the garden. I will them for you at once.”
He through the door, ingratiatingly.
“Amazing how these are of money,” Ukridge. “It’s a thing I don’t like to see. Sordid, I call it. That blighter’s were gleaming, positively gleaming, laddie, as he up the stuff. Good these,” he added, pocketing three more.
There was a outside, and Mr. Nickerson re-entered the room. The man appeared to have something on his mind. A look was in his whisker-bordered eyes, and his mouth, though it was not easy to see it through the jungle, to me to be mournfully. He a minor who has been the ear with a eel-skin.
“The—the little dogs!”
“The little dogs!”
“What about them?”
“They have gone!”
“Run away? How the they away?”
“There to have been a at the of the shed. The little dogs must have through. There is no of them to be found.”
Ukridge up his arms despairingly. He like a balloon. His pince-nez on his nose, his menacingly, and his off its stud. He his with a crash on the table.
“Upon my Sam!”
“I am sorry——”
“Upon my Sam!” Ukridge. “It’s hard. It’s hard. I come here to a great business, which would have and to the whole neighbourhood, and I have had time to turn and to the of the enterprise when this man comes and my dogs. And now he tells me with a light laugh——”
“Mr. Ukridge, I you——”
“Tells me with a light laugh that they’ve gone. Gone! Gone where? Why, it, they may be all over the county. A I’ve got of them again. Six valuable Pekingese, already to the stage where they have been at an profit——”
Mr. Nickerson was guiltily, and now he produced from his pocket a of notes, which he upon Ukridge, who them away with loathing.
“This gentleman,” Ukridge, me with a gesture, “happens to be a lawyer. It is lucky that he to come to-day to pay me a visit. Have you the closely?”
I said I had them very closely.
“Is it your opinion that an action will lie?”
I said it probable, and this expert appeared to put the final touch on Mr. Nickerson’s collapse. Almost he the notes on Ukridge.
“What’s this?” said Ukridge, loftily.
“I—I thought, Mr. Ukridge, that, if it were to you, you might to take your money back, and—and the closed.”
Ukridge to me with eyebrows.
“Ha!” he cried. “Ha, ha!”
“Ha, ha!” I chorused, dutifully.
“He thinks that he can close the by me my money back. Isn’t that rich?”
“Fruity,” I agreed.
“Those dogs were hundreds of pounds, and he thinks he can square me with a twenty. Would you have it if you hadn’t it with your own ears, old horse?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Ukridge, after thought. “I’ll take this money.” Mr. Nickerson thanked him. “And there are one or two which want settling with some of the local tradesmen. You will square those——”
“Certainly, Mr. Ukridge, certainly.”
“And after that—well, I’ll have to think it over. If I decide to my lawyer will with you in course.”
And we left the man, his whiskers.
It to me, as we passed the tree-shaded and out into the white of the road, that Ukridge was himself in his hour of with a fortitude. His stock-in-trade, the life-blood of his enterprise, was all over Kent, to return, and all that he had to on the other of the balance-sheet was the of a weeks’ rent and the paying-off of Gooch, the grocer, and his friends. It was a which might well have the of an ordinary man, but Ukridge by no means dejected. Jaunty, rather. His their pince-nez and he a air. When presently he to sing, I that it was time to create a diversion.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Who, me?” said Ukridge, buoyantly. “Oh, I’m to town on the next train. You don’t mind it to the next station, do you? It’s only five miles. It might be a to start from Sheep’s Cray.”
“Because of the dogs, of course.”
Ukridge a strain.
“Oh, yes. I to tell you about that. I’ve got ’em.”
“Yes. I out late last night and them out of the shed.” He amusedly. “Perfectly simple. Only needed a clear, level head. I a cat and a to it, it to old Nickerson’s garden after dark, a out of the of the shed, and my and chirruped. The dogs came out, and I off, old Colonel Cat on his string. Great while it lasted, laddie. Hounds up the right away and started off in a at fifty miles an hour. Cat and I doing a fifty-five. Thought every minute old Nickerson would and start away with a gun, but nothing happened. I the pack across country for a of twenty minutes without a check, the dogs in my sitting-room, and so to bed. Took it out of me, by gosh! Not so as I was.”
I was for a moment, of a almost of reverence. This man was spacious. There had always been something about Ukridge that the sense.
“Well,” I said at length, “you’ve got vision.”
“Yes?” said Ukridge, gratified.
“And the big, broad, outlook.”
“Got to, laddie, nowadays. The of a successful career.”
“And what’s the next move?”
We were near to the White Cottage. It and in the sunlight, and I that there might be something to drink it. The window of the sitting-room was open, and through it came the of Pekingese.
“Oh, I shall another else,” said Ukridge, his little home with a sentimentality. “That won’t be hard. Lots of all over the place. And then I shall to work. You’ll be at the progress I’ve already. In a minute I’ll you what those dogs can do.”
“They can all right.”
“Yes. They about something. You know, laddie, I’ve had a great idea. When I saw you at your rooms my was to in dogs for the music-halls—what you might call professional dogs. But I’ve been it over, and now I don’t see why I shouldn’t go in for as well. Say you have a dog—Fido, the pet—and you think it would the home if he do a from time to time. Well, you’re a man, you haven’t the time to give up to teaching him. So you just tie a label to his and ship him off for a month to the Ukridge Dog College, and he comes, educated. No trouble, no worry, easy terms. Upon my Sam, I’m not sure there isn’t more money in the branch than in the professional. I don’t see why dog owners shouldn’t send their dogs to me as a regular thing, just as they send their sons to Eton and Winchester. My golly! this idea’s to develop. I’ll tell you what—how would it be to issue special to all dogs which have from my college? Something which would recognise. See what I mean? Sort of of honour. Fellow with a dog to wear the Ukridge would be in a position to look on the dog hadn’t got one. Gradually it would so that in a social position would be to be out with a non-Ukridge dog. The thing would a landslide. Dogs would in from all of the country. More work than I handle. Have to start branches. The scheme’s colossal. Millions in it, my boy! Millions!” He paused with his on the of the door. “Of course,” he on, “just at present it’s no good the that I’m and by of and can only approach the thing on a small scale. What it to, laddie, is that somehow or other I’ve got to capital.”
It the moment to the news.
“I promised him I wouldn’t mention it,” I said, “for it might lead to disappointment, but as a of George Tupper is trying to some for you. I left him last night starting out to it.”
“George Tupper!”—Ukridge’s with a not emotion—“George Tupper! By Gad, that is the salt of the earth. Good, fellow! A true friend. A man you can on. Upon my Sam, if there were more about like old Tuppy, there wouldn’t be all this modern and unrest. Did he to have any idea where he a of for me?”
“Yes. He to tell your aunt about your here to train those Pekes, and——What’s the matter?”
A had come over Ukridge’s front. His bulged, his sagged. With the of a of he would have looked like the Mr. Nickerson.
“My aunt?” he mumbled, on the door-handle.
“Yes. What’s the matter? He thought, if he told her all about it, she might and round.”
The of a at the end of his its way up from Ukridge’s mackintosh-covered bosom.
“Of all the dashed, infernal, officious, meddling, muddling, fat-headed, asses,” he said, wanly, “George Tupper is the worst.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man oughtn’t to be at large. He’s a public menace.”
“Those dogs to my aunt. I them when she me out!”
Inside the the Pekingese were still industriously.
“Upon my Sam,” said Ukridge, “it’s a little hard.”
I think he would have said more, but at this point a voice spoke with a and from the of the cottage. It was a woman’s voice, a quiet, voice, a voice, it to me, that cold eyes, a nose, and like gun-metal.
That was all it said, but it was enough. Ukridge’s met mine in a wild surmise. He to into his like a while lettuce.
“Yes, Aunt Julia?” Ukridge.
“Come here. I wish to speak to you.”
“Yes, Aunt Julia.”
I out into the road. Inside the the of the Pekingese had hysterical. I myself trotting, and then—though it was a warm day—running rapidly. I have if I had wanted to, but somehow I did not want to. Something to tell me that on this I should be an intruder.
What it was that gave me that I do not know—probably or the big, broad, outlook.