UKRIDGE’S ACCIDENT SYNDICATE
“Half a minute, laddie,” said Ukridge. And, my arm, he me to a on the of the little which had about the church door.
It was a such as may be any the London mating-season any of the churches which in the Hyde Park and the King’s Road, Chelsea.
It of five of aspect, four nurse-maids, a dozen men of the non-producing class who had themselves away for the moment from their normal of up the of the Bunch of Grapes public-house on the corner, a with a of vegetables, small boys, eleven dogs, and two or three purposeful-looking with over their shoulders. It was plain that a wedding was in progress—and, from the presence of the camera-men and the line of motor-cars along the kerb, a wedding. What was not plain—to me—was why Ukridge, of bachelors, had to add himself to the spectators.
“What,” I enquired, “is the this? Why are we our walk to the of some perfect stranger?”
Ukridge did not reply for a moment. He in thought. Then he a hollow, laugh—a like the last of a moose.
“Perfect stranger, my number eleven foot!” he responded, in his way. “Do you know who it is who’s up in there?”
“Who?”
“Teddy Weeks.”
“Teddy Weeks? Teddy Weeks? Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Not really?”
And five years rolled away.
It was at Barolini’s Italian restaurant in Beak Street that Ukridge his great scheme. Barolini’s was a of our little group of in the days when the of Soho used to supply four and coffee for a and sixpence; and there were present that night, Ukridge and myself, the men-about-town: Teddy Weeks, the actor, fresh from a six-weeks’ with the Number Three “Only a Shop-Girl” Company; Victor Beamish, the artist, the man who that picture of the O-So-Eesi Piano-Player in the pages of the Piccadilly Magazine; Bertram Fox, author of Ashes of Remorse, and other motion-picture scenarios; and Robert Dunhill, who, being at a salary of eighty by the New Asiatic Bank, the sober, hard-headed element. As usual, Teddy Weeks had the conversation, and was telling us once again how good he was and how by a fate.
There is no need to Teddy Weeks. Under another and a more name he has long since his personal familiar to all who read the papers. He was then, as now, a man, the same melting eyes, mouth, and so by the theatre-going public to-day. And yet, at this period of his career he was himself on minor of the which open at Barrow-in-Furness and jump to Bootle for the second of the week. He this, as Ukridge was so to his own difficulties, to of capital.
“I have everything,” he said, querulously, his with a coffee-spoon. “Looks, talent, personality, a speaking-voice—everything. All I need is a chance. And I can’t that I have no fit to wear. These are all the same, they look the surface, they to out if a man has genius. All they go by are his clothes. If I to a of from a Cork Street tailor, if I have my to order by Moykoff of them ready-made and second-hand at Moses Brothers’, if I once to own a hat, a good pair of spats, and a gold cigarette-case, all at the same time, I walk into any manager’s office in London and up for a West-end production to-morrow.”
It was at this point that Freddie Lunt came in. Freddie, like Robert Dunhill, was a financial magnate in the making and an of Barolini’s; and it to us that a time had passed since we had last him in the place. We the for this aloofness.
“I’ve been in bed,” said Freddie, “for over a fortnight.”
The Ukridge’s disapproval. That great man a of noon, and on one occasion, when a carelessly-thrown match had a in his only pair of trousers, had gone so as to the for forty-eight hours; but on so a as this him.
“Lazy devil,” he severely. “Letting the hours of by like that when you ought to have been about and making a name for yourself.”
Freddie himself by the imputation.
“I had an accident,” he explained. “Fell off my and an ankle.”
“Tough luck,” was our verdict.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Freddie. “It wasn’t fun a rest. And of there was the fiver.”
“What fiver?”
“I got a from the Weekly Cyclist for my sprained.”
“You—what?” Ukridge, stirred—as ever—by a of easy money. “Do you to there and tell me that some paper paid you five you your ankle? Pull together, old horse. Things like that don’t happen.”
“It’s true.”
“Can you me the fiver?”
“No; if I did you would try to borrow it.”
Ukridge this in silence.
“Would they pay a to anyone who his ankle?” he asked, to the main point.
“Yes. If he was a subscriber.”
“I there was a catch in it,” said Ukridge, moodily.
“Lots of papers are starting this wheeze,” Freddie. “You pay a year’s and that you to accident insurance.”
We were interested. This was in the days every daily paper in London was against its in the of and to the citizens to make a by their necks. Nowadays papers are paying as high as two thousand for a and five a week for a spine; but at that time the idea was new and it had an appeal.
“How many of these are doing this?” asked Ukridge. You tell from the in his that that great brain was like a dynamo. “As many as ten?”
“Yes, I should think so. Quite ten.”
“Then a who to them all and then his would fifty quid?” said Ukridge, acutely.
“More if the was more serious,” said Freddie, the expert. “They have a regular tariff. So much for a arm, so much for a leg, and so forth.”
Ukridge’s off its and his pince-nez as he to us.
“How much money can you raise?” he demanded.
“What do you want it for?” asked Robert Dunhill, with a banker’s caution.
“My dear old horse, can’t you see? Why, my gosh, I’ve got the idea of the century. Upon my Sam, this is the giltest-edged that was hatched. We’ll together money and take out a year’s for every one of these papers.”
“What’s the good of that?” said Dunhill, unenthusiastic.
They train bank to emotion, so that they will be able to when they managers. “The are we should none of us have an accident of any kind, and then the money would be away.”
“Good heavens, ass,” Ukridge, “you don’t I’m that we should it to chance, do you? Listen! Here’s the scheme. We take out for all these papers, then we lots, and the who the card or it is goes out and his leg and the loot, and we it up us and live on it in luxury. It ought to into hundreds of pounds.”
A long followed. Then Dunhill spoke again. His was a solid than a mind.
“Suppose he couldn’t his leg?”
“My gosh!” Ukridge, exasperated. “Here we are in the century, with every of modern at our disposal, with opportunities for our opening about us on every side—and you ask a question like that! Of he his leg. Any can a leg. It’s a little hard! We’re all broke—personally, unless Freddie can me a of that till Saturday, I’m going to have a difficult job through. We all need money like the dickens, and yet, when I point out this for a bit, of on me for my you and make objections. It isn’t the right spirit. It isn’t the that wins.”
“If you’re as hard up as that,” Dunhill, “how are you going to put in your of the pool?”
A pained, almost a stunned, look came into Ukridge’s eyes. He at Dunhill through his lop-sided pince-nez as one who as to his has him.
“Me?” he cried. “Me? I like that! Upon my Sam, that’s rich! Why, damme, if there’s any in the world, if there’s a of and good in your bosoms, I should think you would let me in free for the idea. It’s a little hard! I supply the and you want me to up cash as well. My gosh, I didn’t this. This me, by George! If had told me that an old would——”
“Oh, all right,” said Robert Dunhill. “All right, all right, all right. But I’ll tell you one thing. If you the it’ll be the day of my life.”
“I sha’n’t,” said Ukridge. “Something tells me that I shan’t.”
Nor did he. When, in a only by the of a waiter with the cook a speaking-tube, we had the drawing, the man of was Teddy Weeks.
I that in the of Youth, when a than they later in life, it can be an thing to have to go out into the public and try to make an accident to one. In such the that you are your friends but balm. To Teddy Weeks it appeared to no at all. That he was a to himself for the public good more and more as the days by and him still intact. Ukridge, when he called upon me to discuss the matter, was visibly perturbed. He into a chair the table at which I was my meal, and, having my coffee, deeply.
“Upon my Sam,” he moaned, “it’s a little disheartening. I my brain to think up for us all a of money just at the moment when we are all needing it most, and when I on what is the and yet of our time, this Weeks goes and lets me by his plain duty. It’s just my luck that a like that should have the lot. And the of it is, laddie, that, now we’ve started with him, we’ve got to keep on. We can’t possibly money to pay yearly for else. It’s Weeks or nobody.”
“I we must give him time.”
“That’s what he says,” Ukridge, morosely, helping himself to toast. “He says he doesn’t know how to start about it. To to him, you’d think that going and having a accident was the of and job that years of study and special preparation. Why, a child of six do it on his at five minutes’ notice. The man’s so particular. You make helpful suggestions, and of them in a broad, of co-operation he comes at you every time with some objection. He’s so fastidious. When we were out last night, we came on a of scrapping. Good fellows, either of them of him in hospital for a month. I told him to jump in and start them, and he said no; it was a private which was none of his business, and he didn’t in interfering. Finicky, I call it. I tell you, laddie, this is a reed. He has got cold feet. We did to let him into the at all. We might have that a like that would give results. No conscience. No of de corps. No of himself out to the most for the of the community. Haven’t you any more marmalade, laddie?”
“I have not.”
“Then I’ll be going,” said Ukridge, moodily. “I suppose,” he added, at the door, “you couldn’t me five bob?”
“How did you guess?”
“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Ukridge, and reasonable; “you can me dinner to-night.” He up for the moment by this happy compromise, but on him again. His clouded. “When I think,” he said, “of all the money that’s locked up in that faint-hearted fish, just waiting to be released, I sob. Sob, laddie, like a little child. I liked that man—he has a and his hair. Never trust a man who his hair, old horse.”
Ukridge’s was not to himself. By the end of a fortnight, nothing having to Teddy Weeks than a cold which he off in a of days, the of opinion among his in the Syndicate was that the had desperate. There were no of any return on the which we had out, and meanwhile had to be bought, paid, and a supply of tobacco acquired. It was a in these to read one’s paper of a morning.
All over the globe, so the well-informed gave one to understand, every of accident was every day to in Teddy Weeks. Farmers in Minnesota were mixed up with reaping-machines, in India were being by crocodiles; iron from were hourly on the of citizens in every town from Philadelphia to San Francisco; and the only people who were not with were those who had walked over cliffs, into walls, over manholes, or on too that the gun was not loaded. In a world, it seemed, Teddy Weeks walked alone, whole and with health. It was one of those grim, ironical, hopeless, grey, which the Russian love to about, and I not it in me to Ukridge for taking direct action in this crisis. My only was that luck so excellent a plan to miscarry.
My that he had been trying to on came when he and I were walking along the King’s Road one evening, and he me into Markham Square, a where he had once had rooms.
“What’s the idea?” I asked, for I the place.
“Teddy Weeks here,” said Ukridge. “In my old rooms.” I not see that this any to the place. Every day and in every way I was and that I had been to put money which I into a which had all the of a wash-out, and my Teddy Weeks were cold and hostile.
“I want to after him.”
“Enquire after him? Why?”
“Well, the is, laddie, I have an idea that he has been by a dog.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ukridge, dreamily. “I’ve just got the idea. You know how one ideas.”
The of this event was so that for it me silent. In each of the ten in which we had dog-bites were as which every ought to have. They came about half-way up the list of accidents, to a or a fibula, but value than an toe-nail. I was over the picture up by Ukridge’s when an me with a start to the of life. A met my eyes. Down the came the familiar of Teddy Weeks, and one at his person was to tell us that our had been on sand. Not a toy Pomeranian had this man.
“Hallo, you fellows!” said Teddy Weeks.
“Hallo!” we responded, dully.
“Can’t stop,” said Teddy Weeks. “I’ve got to a doctor.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes. Poor Victor Beamish. He’s been by a dog.”
Ukridge and I glances. It as if Fate was going out of its way to have sport with us. What was the good of a dog Victor Beamish? What was the good of a hundred dogs Victor Beamish? A dog-bitten Victor Beamish had no market value whatever.
“You know that that to my landlady,” said Teddy Weeks. “The one that always out into the area and at people who come to the door.” I remembered. A large with wild and fangs, in need of a haircut. I had it once in the street, when visiting Ukridge, and only the presence of the latter, who it well and to all dogs were as brothers, had saved me from the of Victor Beamish. “Somehow or other he got into my this evening. He was waiting there when I came home. I had Beamish with me, and the animal him by the leg the moment I opened the door.”
“Why didn’t he pin you?” asked Ukridge, aggrieved.
“What I can’t make out,” said Teddy Weeks, “is how on earth the came to be in my room. Somebody must have put him there. The whole thing is very mysterious.”
“Why didn’t he pin you?” Ukridge again.
“Oh, I managed to climb on to the top of the while he was Beamish,” said Teddy Weeks. “And then the came and took him away. But I can’t stop here talking. I must go and that doctor.”
We after him in as he the street. We noted the manner in which he paused at the to the traffic the road, the way in which he to allow a to past.
“You that?” said Ukridge, tensely. “He on to the top of the wardrobe!”
“Yes.”
“And you saw the way he that excellent truck?”
“Yes.”
“Something’s got to be done,” said Ukridge, firmly. “The man has got to be to a of his responsibilities.”
Next day a waited on Teddy Weeks.
Ukridge was our spokesman, and he came to the point with directness.
“How about it?” asked Ukridge.
“How about what?” Teddy Weeks, nervously, his eye.
“When do we action?”
“Oh, you that accident business?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been about that,” said Teddy Weeks.
Ukridge the which he and out of doors and in all more closely around him. There was in the action something of a of the Roman Senate about to an enemy of the State. In just such a manner must Cicero have his as he took a to Clodius. He for a moment with the ginger-beer wire which his pince-nez in place, and without success to his at the back. In moments of Ukridge’s always took on a of which no restrain.
“And about time you were about it,” he boomed, sternly.
We in our seats, all Victor Beamish, who had a chair and was by the mantelpiece. “Upon my Sam, it’s about time you were about it. Do you that we’ve an of money in you on the that we on you to do your and results? Are we to be to the that you are so yellow and in the as to want to your obligations? We of you, Weeks. Upon my Sam, we of you. We took you for a two-fisted, enterprising, big-souled, one hundred-per-cent. he-man who would by his friends to the finish.”
“Yes, but——”
“Any with a of and an of what it meant to the of us would have out and some means of his long ago. You don’t at the opportunities that come your way. Only yesterday I saw you when a single step into the road would have had a into you.”
“Well, it’s not so easy to let a into you.”
“Nonsense. It only a little ordinary resolution. Use your imagination, man. Try to think that a child has in the street—a little golden-haired child,” said Ukridge, affected. “And a great or something comes up. The kid’s mother is on the pavement, helpless, her hands in agony. ‘Dammit,’ she cries, ‘will no one save my darling?’ ‘Yes, by George,’ you shout, ‘I will.’ And out you jump and the thing’s over in a second. I don’t know what you’re making such a about.”
“Yes, but——” said Teddy Weeks.
“I’m told, what’s more, it isn’t a painful. A of shock, that’s all.”
“Who told you that?”
“I forget. Someone.”
“Well, you can tell him from me that he’s an ass,” said Teddy Weeks, with asperity.
“All right. If you object to being over by a there are of other ways. But, upon my Sam, it’s them. You to have no enterprise at all. Yesterday, after I to all the trouble to put a dog in your room, a dog which would have done all the work for you—all that you had to do was still and let him use his own judgment—what happened? You on to——”
Victor Beamish interrupted, speaking in a voice with emotion.
“Was it you who put that dog in the room?”
“Eh?” said Ukridge. “Why, yes. But we can have a good talk about all that later on,” he proceeded, hastily. “The point at the moment is how the we’re going to this to our money for us. Why, damme, I should have you would have——”
“All I can say——” Victor Beamish, heatedly.
“Yes, yes,” said Ukridge; “some other time. Must to now, laddie. I was saying,” he resumed, “that I should have you would have been as as to put the job through for your own sake. You’re always that you haven’t any to with. Think of all you can with your of the once you have up a little ordinary and the thing through. Think of the suits, the boots, the hats, the spats. You’re always talking about your career, and how all you need to land you in a West-end production is good clothes. Well, here’s your to them.”
His was not wasted. A look came into Teddy Weeks’s eye, such a look as must have come into the of Moses on the of Pisgah. He heavily. You see that the man was walking along Cork Street, the of one famous tailor against another.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, suddenly. “It’s no use me to put this thing through in cold blood. I can’t do it. I haven’t the nerve. But if you will give me a dinner to-night with of I think it will key me up to it.”
A upon the room. Champagne! The word was like a knell.
“How on earth are we going to champagne?” said Victor Beamish.
“Well, there it is,” said Teddy Weeks. “Take it or it.”
“Gentlemen,” said Ukridge, “it would that the company more capital. How about it, old horses? Let’s together in a frank, business-like cards-on-the-table spirit, and see what can be done. I can ten bob.”
“What!” the entire assembled company, amazed. “How?”
“I’ll a banjo.”
“You haven’t got a banjo.”
“No, but George Tupper has, and I know where he it.”
Started in this way, the came in. I a cigarette-case, Bertram Fox his would let him for another week, Robert Dunhill had an uncle in Kensington who, he fancied, if approached, would be good for a quid, and Victor Beamish said that if the advertisement-manager of the O-So-Eesi Piano-Player was to an of five against work he him sadly. Within a minutes, in short, the Lightning Drive had produced the total of two six shillings, and we asked Teddy Weeks if he that he up the limits of that sum.
“I’ll try,” said Teddy Weeks.
So, not of the that that excellent at eight the bottle, we the meeting for seven o’clock at Barolini’s.
Considered as a social affair, Teddy Weeks’s keying-up dinner was not a success. Almost from the start I think we all it trying. It was not so much the that he was of Barolini’s eight-shilling while we, from of funds, were to ourselves to beverages; what the of the was the the had on Teddy. What was actually in the to Barolini and by him to the public, such as were to drink it, at eight the bottle a its maker and his Maker; but three of it were to Teddy Weeks from a mild and man into a swashbuckler.
He with us all. With the he was at Victor Beamish’s of Art; the fish him Bertram Fox’s views on the of the motion-picture; and by the time the leg of chicken with arrived—or, as some held, salad—opinions on this point—the hell-brew had so on him that he had to lecture Ukridge on his mis-spent life and was him in across the to go out and a job and thus self-respect to him to look himself in the in a without wincing. Not, added Teddy Weeks with what we all uncalled-for offensiveness, that any amount of self-respect was likely to do that. Having said which, he called for another eight bobs’-worth.
We at one another wanly. However excellent the end which all this was tending, there was no that it was hard to bear. But policy us silent. We that this was Teddy Weeks’s and that he must be humoured. Victor Beamish said that Teddy had up a of points which had been him for a long time. Bertram Fox that there was much in what Teddy had said about the of the close-up. And Ukridge, though his was to its by the latter’s personal remarks, promised to take his to and act upon it at the possible moment.
“You’d better!” said Teddy Weeks, belligerently, off the end of one of Barolini’s best cigars. “And there’s another thing—don’t let me of your and people’s again.”
“Very well, laddie,” said Ukridge, humbly.
“If there is one person in the world that I despise,” said Teddy, a red-eyed on the offender, “it’s a snock-seeker—a seek-snocker—a—well, you know what I mean.”
We to him that we what he meant and he into a stupor, from which he three-quarters of an hour later to that he didn’t know what we to do, but that he was going. We said that we were going too, and we paid the bill and did so.
Teddy Weeks’s on us about him upon the the restaurant was intense, and he it freely. Among other things, he said—which was not true—that he had a to keep up in Soho.
“It’s all right, Teddy, old horse,” said Ukridge, soothingly. “We just you would like to have all your old you when you did it.”
“Did it? Did what?”
“Why, had the accident.”
Teddy Weeks at him truculently. Then his mood to abruptly, and he into a loud and laugh.
“Well, of all the ideas!” he cried, amusedly. “I’m not going to have an accident. You don’t I to have an accident, do you? It was just my fun.” Then, with another of mood, he to a to an unhappiness. He Ukridge’s arm affectionately, and a tear rolled his cheek. “Just my fun,” he repeated. “You don’t mind my fun, do you?” he asked, pleadingly. “You like my fun, don’t you? All my fun. Never meant to have an accident at all. Just wanted dinner.” The of it all his once more. “Funniest thing heard,” he said cordially. “Didn’t want accident, wanted dinner. Dinner daxident, dixident,” he added, home his point. “Well, good night all,” he said, cheerily. And, off the on to a banana-skin, was ten by a lorry.
“Two and an arm,” said the doctor five minutes later, the proceedings. “Gently with that stretcher.”
It was two we were by the of Charing Cross Hospital that the patient was in a condition to visitors. A whip-round the price of a of fruit, and Ukridge and I were by the to deliver it with their and enquiries.
“Hallo!” we said in a hushed, manner when to his presence.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” the invalid.
I must in that moment to having a of surprise. It was not like Teddy Weeks to call us gentlemen. Ukridge, however, to notice nothing amiss.
“Well, well, well,” he said, buoyantly. “And how are you, laddie? We’ve you a of fruit.”
“I am along capitally,” Teddy Weeks, still in that odd way which had his opening me as curious. “And I should like to say that in my opinion England has to be proud of the and enterprise of her great journals. The of their reading-matter, the of their competitions, and, above all, the go-ahead which has resulted in this accident are praise. Have you got that down?” he enquired.
Ukridge and I looked at each other. We had been told that Teddy was normal again, but this like delirium.
“Have we got that down, old horse?” asked Ukridge, gently.
Teddy Weeks surprised.
“Aren’t you reporters?”
“How do you mean, reporters?”
“I you had come from one of these papers that have been paying me money, to me,” said Teddy Weeks.
Ukridge and I another glance. An this time. I think that already a had to its over us.
“Surely you me, Teddy, old horse?” said Ukridge, anxiously.
Teddy Weeks his brow, painfully.
“Why, of course,” he said at last. “You’re Ukridge, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Ukridge.”
“Of course. Ukridge.”
“Yes. Ukridge. Funny your me!”
“Yes,” said Teddy Weeks. “It’s the of the I got when that thing me over. I must have been on the head, I suppose. It has had the of my memory uncertain. The doctors here are very interested. They say it is a most case. I can some perfectly, but in some my memory is a complete blank.”
“Oh, but I say, old horse,” Ukridge. “I you haven’t about that insurance, have you?”
“Oh, no, I that.”
Ukridge a sigh.
“I was a to a number of papers,” on Teddy Weeks. “They are paying me money now.”
“Yes, yes, old horse,” Ukridge. “But what I is you the Syndicate, don’t you?”
Teddy Weeks his eyebrows.
“Syndicate? What Syndicate?”
“Why, when we all got together and put up the money to pay for the to these papers and lots, to choose which of us should go out and have an accident and the money. And you it, don’t you remember?”
Utter astonishment, and a at that, spread itself over Teddy Weeks’s countenance. The man outraged.
“I nothing of the kind,” he said, severely. “I cannot myself for a moment to a party to what from your own account would appear to have been a to obtain money under false from a number of papers.”
“But, laddie——”
“However,” said Teddy Weeks, “if there is any truth in this story, no you have to support it.”
Ukridge looked at me. I looked at Ukridge. There was a long silence.
“Shift-ho, old horse?” said Ukridge, sadly. “No use on here.”
“No,” I replied, with equal gloom. “May as well go.”
“Glad to have you,” said Teddy Weeks, “and thanks for the fruit.”
The next time I saw the man he was out of a manager’s office in the Haymarket. He had on a new Homburg of a pearl grey, to match, and a new suit, cut, with an red twill. He was looking jubilant, and; as I passed him, he from his pocket a gold cigarette-case.
It was after that, if you remember, that he a big as the lead in that piece at the Apollo and started on his career as a idol.
Inside the church the organ had into the familiar music of the Wedding March. A came out and opened the doors. The five cooks their of other and at which they had participated. The camera-men their cameras. The moved his of vegetables a forward. A and man at my a growl.
“Idle rich!” said the man.
Out of the church came a being, leading to his arm another being, less beauteous.
There was no the of Teddy Weeks. He was than ever. His hair, waved, in the sun, his were large and bright; his frame, in morning-coat and trousers, was that of an Apollo. But his gave the that Teddy had married money. They paused in the doorway, and the camera-men active and fussy.
“Have you got a shilling, laddie?” said Ukridge in a low, level voice.
“Why do you want a shilling?”
“Old horse,” said Ukridge, tensely, “it is of the that I have a here and now.”
I passed it over. Ukridge to the man, and I that he in his hand a large rich of juicy and over-ripe appearance.
“Would you like to earn a bob?” Ukridge said.
“Would I!” the man.
Ukridge his voice to a whisper.
The camera-men had their preparations. Teddy Weeks, his in that way which has him to so many female hearts, was his teeth. The cooks, in undertones, were making on the of the bride.
“Now, please,” said one of the camera-men.
Over the of the crowd, well and aimed, a large juicy tomato. It like a full Teddy Weeks’s eyes, them in ruin. It Teddy Weeks’s collar, it on Teddy Weeks’s morning-coat. And the man and off the street.
Ukridge my arm. There was a look of in his eyes.
“Shift-ho?” said Ukridge.
Arm-in-arm, we off in the June sunshine.
