NO WEDDING BELLS FOR HIM
To Ukridge, as might be from one of his sunny optimism, the whole has long since come to present itself in the light of yet another proof of the way in which all in this world of ours work together for good. In it, from start to finish, he sees the of Providence; and, when to support his that a means of from the most will always be to the and deserving, this is the which he as Exhibit A.
The thing may be said to have had its in the Haymarket one the middle of the summer. We had been at my at the Pall Mall Restaurant, and as we came out a large and car up the kerb, and the chauffeur, alighting, opened the and to about in its with a pair of pliers. Had I been alone, a in would have me, but for Ukridge the of somebody else always had an fascination, and, my arm, he me up to him in the support. About two minutes after he had started to breathe on the man’s neck, the latter, to aware that what was his was not some June zephyr, looked up with a petulance.
“’Ere!” he said, protestingly. Then his gave place to something which—for a chauffeur—approached cordiality. “’Ullo!” he observed.
“Why, hallo, Frederick,” said Ukridge. “Didn’t you. Is this the new car?”
“Ah,” the chauffeur.
“Pal of mine,” Ukridge to me in a aside. “Met him in a pub.” London was with Ukridge had met in pubs. “What’s the trouble?”
“Missing,” said Frederick the chauffeur. “Soon ’ave her right.”
His in his skill was not misplaced. After a he himself, closed the bonnet, and his hands.
“Nice day,” he said.
“Terrific,” Ukridge. “Where are you off to?”
“Got to go to Addington. Pick up the guv’nor, playin’ there.” He to for a moment, then the of the itself. “Like a as as East Croydon? Get a train from there.”
It was a offer, and one which neither Ukridge myself to decline. We in, Frederick on the self-starter, and off we bowled, two of fashion taking their airing. Speaking for myself, I and debonair, and I have no to that Ukridge was otherwise. The which now was thus distressing. We had stopped at the of the to allow the north-bound traffic to pass, when our after-luncheon was by a and shout.
“Hi!”
That the was us there was no room for doubt. He was on the not four away, into our tonneau—a stout, man of middle age, clad, the weather and the of Society, in a frock-coat and a hat. “Hi! You!” he bellowed, to the of all good passers-by.
Frederick the chauffeur, after one of god-like out of the of his left eye, had to himself in this on the part of one of the orders, but I was to that Ukridge was all the of some wild thing taken in a trap. His had and a expression, and he was ahead of him with a to what would not be ignored.
“I’d like a word with you,” the one.
And then with a good of rapidity. The traffic had to move on now, and as we moved with it, with speed, the man appeared to that if ’twere done ’twere well ’twere done quickly. He a and on our running-board; and Ukridge, to life, put out a large hand and pushed. The off, and the last I saw of him he was in the middle of the road, his fist, in of being over by a number three omnibus.
“Gosh!” Ukridge, with some feverishness.
“What was it all about?” I enquired.
“Bloke I a of money to,” Ukridge, tersely.
“Ah!” I said, that all had been clear. I had actually one of Ukridge’s in action, but he had me to that they all over London like in the jungle, waiting to on him. There were which he would walk for of what might befall.
“Been me like a for two years,” said Ukridge. “Keeps up when I don’t him and my white to the roots.”
I was to more, and as much, but he into a silence. We were moving at a into Clapham Common when the second of the which were to make this drive in the memory. Just as we came in of the Common, a of a girl up right our wheels. She had been the road, and now, after the manner of her species, she her head. She was a large, silly-looking girl, and she to and like a hen; and as Ukridge and I rose from our seats, each other in agony, she over her and fell. But Frederick, master of his craft, had the well in hand. He an swerve, and when we stopped a moment later, the girl was herself up, dusty, but still in one piece.
These affect different men in different ways. In Frederick’s cold as he looked over his and the car there was only the of a for the never-ending of a woollen-headed proletariat. I, on the other hand, had in a of profanity. And Ukridge, I as I calmer, the had touched on his side. All the time we were he was to himself, and he was out of the car, apologies, almost we had stopped.
“Awfully sorry. Might have killed you. Can’t myself.”
The girl the in still another way. She giggled. And somehow that laugh me more than anything that had gone before. It was not her fault, I suppose. This was to nerves. But I had taken a against her at sight.
“I do hope,” Ukridge, “you aren’t hurt? Do tell me you aren’t hurt.”
The girl again. And she was at least twelve too to be a giggler. I wanted to pass on and her.
“No, reely, thanks.”
“But shaken, what?”
“I did come a old bang,” this female.
“I so. I was so. Shaken. Ganglions vibrating. You must let me drive you home.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“I insist. Positively I insist!”
“’Ere!” said Frederick the chauffeur, in a low, voice.
“Eh?”
“Got to on to Addington.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Ukridge, with impatience, the from an underling. “But there’s of time to drive this lady home. Can’t you see she’s shaken? Where can I take you?”
“It’s only just the in the next street. Balbriggan the name of the house is.”
“Balbriggan, Frederick, in the next street,” said Ukridge, in a that no argument.
I the of the of the house up to the door in a Daimler is in Peabody Road, Clapham Common. At any rate, we had up when Balbriggan to its in platoons. Father, mother, three small sisters, and a of were on the steps in the ten seconds. They the garden path in a solid mass.
Ukridge was at his most spacious. Quickly himself on the of a friend of the family, he took of the whole affair. Introductions to and fro, and in a moving he the situation, while I mute and in my and Frederick the at his oil-gauge with a eye.
“Couldn’t have myself, Mr. Price, if anything had to Miss Price. Fortunately my is an excellent driver and just in time. You great presence of mind, Frederick,” said Ukridge, handsomely, “great presence of mind.”
Frederick to at his oil-gauge.
“What a car, Mr. Ukridge!” said the mother of the family.
“Yes?” said Ukridge, airily. “Yes, a good old machine.”
“Can you drive yourself?” asked the smaller of the two small brothers, reverently.
“Oh, yes. Yes. But I use Frederick for town work.”
“Would you and your friend to come in for a cup of tea?” said Mrs. Price.
I see Ukridge hesitate. He had only an excellent lunch, but there was that about the offer of a free which failed to touch a in him. At this point, however, Frederick spoke.
“’Ere!” said Frederick.
“Eh?”
“Got to on to Addington,” said Frederick, firmly.
Ukridge started as one from a dream. I he had succeeded in himself that the car to him.
“Of course, yes. I was forgetting. I have to be at Addington almost immediately. Promised to up some friends. Some other time, eh?”
“Any time you’re in the neighbourhood, Mr. Ukridge,” said Mr. Price, upon the popular pet.
“Thanks, thanks.”
“Tell me, Mr. Ukridge,” said Mrs. Price. “I’ve been since you told me your name. It’s such an one. Are you any relation to the Miss Ukridge who books?”
“My aunt,” Ukridge.
“No, really? I do love her so. Tell me——”
Frederick, I not admire, here off what promised to be a by on the self-starter, and we off in a of good and invitations. I I Ukridge, as he over the of the car, promising to his aunt to Sunday supper some time. He his seat as we the and at once to moralise.
“Always the good seed, laddie. Absolutely nothing to the good seed. Never the of yourself. It is the of a successful life. Just a words, you see, and here I am with a place I can always into for a bite when are low.”
I was at his outlook, and said so. He me out of his larger wisdom.
“It’s all very well to take that attitude, Corky my boy, but do you that a family like that has cold beef, potatoes, pickles, salad, blanc-mange, and some of every Sunday night after Divine service? There are moments in a man’s life, laddie, when a spot of cold with blanc-mange to means more than can tell.”
It was about a week later that I to go to the British Museum to material for one of those articles of mine which appeared from time to time in the papers. I was through the place, data, when I came upon Ukridge with a small boy to each hand. He a weary, and he me with something of the of the who a sail.
“Run along and your minds, you kids,” he said to the children. “You’ll me here when you’ve finished.”
“All right, Uncle Stanley,” the children.
“Uncle Stanley?” I said, accusingly.
He a little. I had to give him for that.
“Those are the Price kids. From Clapham.”
“I them.”
“I’m taking them out for the day. Must hospitality, Corky my boy.”
“Then you have been on those people?”
“I have looked in from time to time,” said Ukridge, with dignity.
“It’s just over a week since you met them. How often have you looked in?”
“Couple of times, perhaps. Maybe three.”
“To meals?”
“There was a of going on,” Ukridge.
“And now you’re Uncle Stanley!”
“Fine, warm-hearted people,” said Ukridge, and it to me that he spoke with a touch of defiance. “Made me one of the family right from the beginning. Of course, it ways. This afternoon, for instance, I got with those kids. But, all in all, taking the with the smooth, it has out on the right of the ledger. I own I’m not over on the after Sunday supper, but the supper, laddie, is undeniable. As good a of cold beef,” said Ukridge, dreamily, “as I chewed.”
“Greedy brute,” I said, censoriously.
“Must keep and together, old man. Of course, there are one or two about the that are a embarrassing. For instance, somehow or other they to have got the idea that that car we up in that day to me, and the are always me to take them for a ride. Fortunately I’ve managed to square Frederick, and he thinks he can for a or two the next days. And then Mrs. Price me to my aunt for a cup of tea and a chat, and I haven’t the to tell her that my aunt and me the day after that of the dance.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Didn’t I? Oh, yes. I got a from her saying that as as she was I had to exist. I it a nasty, narrow spirit, but I can’t say I was surprised. Still, it makes it when Mrs. Price wants to with her. I’ve had to tell her that my aunt is a and goes out, being bedridden. I all this a wearing, laddie.”
“I so.”
“You see,” said Ukridge, “I subterfuge.”
There no possibility of his this, so I left the man and my researches.
After this I was out of town for a weeks, taking my vacation. When I got to Ebury Street, Bowles, my landlord, after me in a way on my appearance, me that George Tupper had called times while I was away.
“Appeared to see you, sir.”
I was at this. George Tupper was always glad—or to be glad—to see an old friend when I called upon him, but he me out in my home.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, sir. He left no message. He as to the date of your return and a that you would visit him as soon as convenient.”
“I’d go and see him now.”
“It might be advisable, sir.”
I George Tupper at the Foreign Office, by important-looking papers.
“Here you are at last!” George, resentfully, it to me. “I you were back.”
“I had a time, thanks very much for asking,” I replied. “Got the roses to my cheeks.”
George, who from his self, my and their roses.
“Look here,” he said, urgently, “something’s got to be done. Have you Ukridge yet?”
“Not yet. I I would look him up this evening.”
“You’d better. Do you know what has happened? That has gone and got himself to be married to a girl at Clapham!”
“What?”
“Engaged! Girl at Clapham! Clapham Common,” added George Tupper, as if in his opinion that the worse.
“You’re joking!”
“I’m not joking,” said George peevishly. “Do I look as if I were joking? I met him in Battersea Park with her, and he me. She me,” said George Tupper, slightly, for that had his deeply, “of that female in pink he with him the night I gave you two dinner at the Regent Grill—the one who talked at the top of her voice all the time about her aunt’s stomach-trouble.”
Here I think he did Miss Price an injustice. She had me our as something of a blister, but I had her with Battling Billson’s Flossie.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked, not, I think, unreasonably.
“You’ve got to think of some way of him out of it. I can’t do anything. I’m all day.”
“So am I busy.”
“Busy my left foot!” said George Tupper, who in moments of was to into the of days and himself in a very un-Foreign Official manner. “About once a week you work up energy to a article for some of a paper on ‘Should Curates Kiss?’ or some subject, and the of the time you about with Ukridge. It’s your job to the idiot.”
“But how do you know he wants to be disentangled? It to me you’re jumping to conclusions. It’s all very well for you officials to at the passion, but it’s love, as I sometimes say, that makes the world go round. Ukridge that until now he what true mean.”
“Does he?” George Tupper. “Well, he didn’t look it when I met him. He looked like—well, do you when he in for the at and that in Seymour’s house him in the wind in the round? That’s how he looked when he was the girl to me.”
I am to say the me. It is odd how these little of one’s in the memory. Across the years I see Ukridge now, up, one hand his diaphragm, a and in his eyes. If his as an man had George Tupper of that occasion, it did as if the time had come for his friends to him.
“You to have taken on the job of acting as a of to the man,” said George. “You’ll have to help him now.”
“Well, I’ll go and see him.”
“The whole thing is too absurd,” said George Tupper. “How can Ukridge married to anyone! He hasn’t a in the world.”
“I’ll point that out to him. He’s it.”
It was my when I visited Ukridge at his to his window and his name—upon which, if at home and receiving, he would out and me his latchkey, thus his to come up from the to open the door. A very proceeding, for his relations with that were in a condition. I now, and his out.
“Hallo, laddie!”
It to me, at this long range, that there was something about his face, but it was not till I had the stairs to his room that I was able to be certain. I then that he had somehow managed to a black eye, which, though past its bloom, was still of an richness.
“Great Scott!” I cried, at this decoration. “How and when?”
Ukridge at his pipe moodily.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Do you some people named Price at Clapham——”
“You aren’t going to tell me your fiancée has you in the already?”
“Have you heard?” said Ukridge, surprised. “Who told you I was engaged?”
“George Tupper. I’ve just been him.”
“Oh, well, that saves a of explanation. Laddie,” said Ukridge, solemnly, “let this be a to you. Never——”
I wanted facts, not moralisings.
“How did you the eye?” I interrupted.
Ukridge out a cloud of and his other sombrely.
“That was Ernie Finch,” he said, in a cold voice.
“Who is Ernie Finch? I’ve of him.”
“He’s a of friend of the family, and as as I can make out was going as Mabel till I came along. When we got he was away, and no one it while to tell him about it, and he came along one night and me her good-bye in the garden. Observe how these work out, Corky. The of him along gave Mabel a start, and she screamed; the that she gave this man Finch a totally on the situation; and this him, blast him, to up, off my with one hand, and me with the other right in the eye. And I at him the family were by Mabel’s and came out and us and that I was to Mabel. Of course, when he that, the man apologised. And I wish you have the he gave when he was doing it. Then there was a of a and old Price him the house. A of good that was? I’ve had to since waiting for the colour-scheme to a bit.”
“Of course,” I urged, “one can’t help being sorry for the in a way.”
“I can,” said Ukridge, emphatically. “I’ve the that there is not room in this world for Ernie Finch and myself, and I’m in the of meeting him one of these nights in a dark alley.”
“You his girl,” I pointed out.
“I don’t want his girl,” said Ukridge, with heat.
“Then you do want to out of this thing?”
“Of I want to out of it.”
“But, if you like that, how on earth did you let it happen?”
“I couldn’t tell you, old horse,” said Ukridge, frankly. “It’s all a blur. The whole was the most to me. It came out of a sky. I had so much as the possibility of such a thing. All I know is that we ourselves alone in the drawing-room after Sunday supper, and all of a the room full of Prices of every blessings. And there I was!”
“But you must have them something to go on.”
“I was her hand. I admit that.”
“Ah!”
“Well, my gosh, I don’t see why there should have been such a about that. What a of hand-holding amount to? The whole thing, Corky, my boy, to the question, Is any man safe? It’s got so nowadays,” said Ukridge, with a of injury, “that you’ve only to a girl a word, and the next thing you know you’re in the Lord Warden Hotel at Dover, the rice out of your hair.”
“Well, you must own that you were for it. You rolled up in a new Daimler and put on dog for a dozen millionaires. And you took the family for rides, didn’t you?”
“Perhaps a of times.”
“And talked about your aunt, I expect, and how rich she was?”
“I may have touched on my aunt occasionally.”
“Well, naturally these people you were sent from heaven. The son-in-law.” Ukridge himself from the to up the of a of at the description. Then his him again. “All you’ve got to do, if you want to out of it, is to to them that you haven’t a bob.”
“But, laddie, that’s the difficulty. It’s a most thing, but, as it happens, I am on the of making an fortune, and I’m I as much to them from time to time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Since I saw you last I’ve put all my money in a bookmaker’s business.”
“How do you mean—all your money? Where did you any money?”
“You haven’t the fifty I selling for my aunt’s dance? And then I a more here and there out of some bets. So there it is. The is in a small way at present, but with the world full of and one another to losers, the thing is a goldmine, and I’m a sleeping partner. It’s no good my trying to make these people I’m hard up. They would laugh in my and off and start breach-of-promise actions. Upon my Sam, it’s a little hard! Just when I have my planted on the of success, this has to happen.” He in for awhile. “There’s just one that to me,” he said at length. “Would you have any to an letter?”
“What’s the idea?”
“I was just that, if you were to them an letter, me of all of things——Might say I was married already.”
“Not a of good.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Ukridge, gloomily, and after a minutes more of I left him. I was on the steps when I him the stairs.
“Corky, old man!”
“Hallo?”
“I think I’ve got it,” said Ukridge, joining me on the steps. “Came to me in a a second ago. How would it be if someone were to go to Clapham and to be a making about me? Dashed and mysterious, you know. A good of meaning and of the head. Give the that I was wanted for something or other. You the idea? You would ask a of questions and take notes in a book——”
“How do you mean—I would?”
Ukridge looked at me in surprise.
“Surely, old horse, you wouldn’t object to doing a service like this for an old friend?”
“I would, strongly. And in any case, what would be the use of my going? They’ve me.”
“Yes, but they wouldn’t you. Yours,” said Ukridge, ingratiatingly, “is an ordinary, meaningless of face. Or one of those people would fit you out with a disguise——”
“No!” I said, firmly. “I’m to do anything in to help you out of this mess, but I to wear false for you or anyone.”
“All right then,” said Ukridge, despondently; “in that case, there’s nothing to be——”
At this moment he disappeared. It was so done that he to have been up to heaven. Only the of his powerful tobacco to me that he had once been at my side, and only the of the door told me where he had gone. I looked about, puzzled to account for this departure, and as I did so and a stout, of middle age, in a frock-coat and a hat. He was one of those men who, once seen, are not forgotten; and I him at once. It was the creditor, the Ukridge a of money to, the man who had to our car in the Haymarket. Halting on the me, he the and at his with a large handkerchief.
“Was that Mr. Smallweed you were talking to?” he demanded, gustily. He was touched in the wind.
“No,” I replied, civilly. “No. Not Mr. Smallweed.”
“You’re to me, man!” the creditor, his voice in a too-familiar shout. And at the words, as if they had been some magic spell, the to wake from slumber. It with life. Maids out of windows, landladies, the very to spectators. I myself the centre of attraction—and, for some which was me, for the rôle of the of the drama. What I had actually done to the old man, nobody appeared to know; but the of which that I had his pocket and him had the largest number of adherents, and there was a good of talk of me. Fortunately a man in a suit, who had been one of the on the scene, himself a peacemaker.
“Come along, o’ man,” he said, soothingly, his arm itself into that of the creditor. “You don’t want to make conspicuous, do you?”
“In there!” the creditor, pointing at the door.
The to that there had been an error in its diagnosis. The opinion now was that I had the man’s and was her that door. The movement in of me almost universal.
“Now, now!” said the man, I was to like more every minute.
“I’ll the door in!”
“Now, now! You don’t want to go doing anything or foolish,” the peacemaker. “There’ll be a along you know where you are, and you’ll look if he you kicking up a row.”
I must say that, if I had been in the one’s place and had had right so on my side, this would not have me greatly, but I citizens with a to have different views on the of with the police, right they may be. The creditor’s to ebb. He hesitated. He was trying to approach the in the light of pure reason.
“You know where the lives,” the man. “See what I mean? Meantersay, you can come and him you like.”
This, too, thin to me. But it appeared to the man. He allowed himself to be away, and presently, the star having left the stage, the to attract. The audience melted away. Windows closed, themselves, and presently the was over once more to the cat in the and the his Brussels sprouts.
A voice spoke through the letter-box.
“Has he gone, laddie?”
I put my mouth to the slit, and we talked together like Pyramus and Thisbe.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certain.”
“He isn’t the somewhere, waiting to out?”
“No. He’s gone.”
The door opened and an Ukridge emerged.
“It’s a little hard!” he said, querulously. “You would it, Corky, but all that was about a one two and for a little man that the time I it up. Absolutely the time, old man! It’s not as if it had been a bicycle, an camera, a Kodak, and a magic lantern.”
I not him.
“Why should a man be a and the of it?”
“It’s like this,” said Ukridge. “There was a and photograph shop near where I a of years ago, and I to see a there which I liked the look of. So I ordered it from this cove. Absolutely provisionally, you understand. Also an camera, a Kodak, and a magic lantern. The were to be delivered when I had up my mind about them. Well, after about a week the if there are any particulars I want to learn definitely the muck. I say I am the matter, and in the meantime will he be good to let me have that little man in his window which walks when up?”
“Well?”
“Well, damme,” said Ukridge, aggrieved, “it didn’t walk. It the time I to wind it. Then a by and this started to make himself unpleasant. Wanted me to pay him money! I with the blighter. I said: ‘Now look here, my man, need we say any more about this? Really, I think you’ve come out of the thing well. Which,’ I said, ‘would you be for? A man, or a bicycle, an camera, a Kodak, and a magic lantern?’ You’d think that would have been for the intellect, but no, he to make a fuss, until I had to move out of the neighbourhood. Fortunately, I had him a false name——”
“Why?”
“Just an ordinary precaution,” Ukridge.
“I see.”
“I looked on the as closed. But since then he has been out at me when I least him. Once, by gad, he nearly me in the middle of the Strand, and I had to leg it like a up Burleigh Street and through Covent Garden. I’d have been to a certainty, only he over a of potatoes. It’s persecution, damme, that’s what it is—persecution!”
“Why don’t you pay the man?” I suggested.
“Corky, old horse,” said Ukridge, with of these methods, “talk sense. How can I pay the man? Apart from the that at this stage of my career it would be to start money right and left, there’s the of the thing!”
The result of this was that Ukridge, packing his in a small suit-case and a week’s rent in of notice, and away from his own and came to in mine, to the of Bowles, who his with a and over him at dinner the night like a father over a long-lost son. I had often him in his hour of need, and he settled with the easy of an old campaigner. He was good to my little place as a home from home, and said that he had a mind to on and end his years there.
I cannot say that this gave me the it to give Bowles, who nearly the potato dish in his emotion; but still I must say that on the whole the man was not an guest. His of lunch-time me those of which are so necessary to the if he is to give Interesting Bits of his best; and if I had work to do in the he was always to and a pipe with Bowles, he to as a as Bowles him. His only defect, indeed, was the he had of looking in on me in my at all hours of the night to discuss some new designed to him of his to Miss Mabel Price, of Balbriggan, Peabody Road, Clapham Common. My on this him for forty-eight hours, but at three o’clock on the Sunday that ended the week of his visit light out above my told me that he was in again.
“I think, laddie,” I a satisfied voice remark, as a weight on my toes, “I think, laddie, that at last I have the bull’s-eye and the bell. Hats off to Bowles, without I would have got the idea. It was only when he told me the plot of that he is reading that I to see daylight. Listen, old man,” said Ukridge, settling himself more on my feet, “and tell me if you don’t think I am on to a good thing. About a of days Lord Claude Tremaine was to Angela Bracebridge, the most girl in London——”
“What the are you talking about? And do you know what the time is?”
“Never mind the time, Corky my boy. To-morrow is the day of and you can sleep on till an hour. I was telling you the plot of this Primrose Novelette thing that Bowles is reading.”
“You haven’t me up at three in the to tell me the plot of a novelette!”
“You haven’t been listening, old man,” said Ukridge, with reproach. “I was saying that it was this plot that gave me my big idea. To cut it short, as you in a mood, this Lord Claude bloke, having had a pain in his left side, to see a doctor a of days the wedding, and the doc. gave him the start of his life by telling him that he had only six months to live. There’s a more of it, of course, and in the end it out that the of a doctor was all wrong; but what I’m at is that this put the on the wedding. Everybody with Claude and said it was out of the question that he of married. So it to me, laddie, that here was the of a lifetime. I’m going to supper at Balbriggan to-morrow, and what I want you to do is to——”
“You can stop right there,” I said, with emotion. “I know what you want me to do. You want me to come along with you, in a top-hat and a stethoscope, and to these people that I am a Harley Street specialist, and have been you and have that you are in the last of heart-disease.”
“Nothing of the kind, old man, nothing of the kind. I wouldn’t of you to do anything like that.”
“Yes, you would, if you had to think of it.”
“Well, as a of fact, since you mention it,” said Ukridge, thoughtfully, “it wouldn’t be a scheme. But if you don’t like taking it on——”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then, all I want you to do is to come to Balbriggan at about nine. Supper will be over by then. No sense,” said Ukridge, thoughtfully, “in missing supper. Come to Balbriggan at about nine, ask for me, and tell me in of the that my aunt is ill.”
“What’s the in that?”
“You aren’t that clear, of which I have often spoken so highly, Corky. Don’t you see? The news is a terrible to me. It me over. I at my heart——”
“They’ll see through it in a second.”
“I ask for water——”
“Ah, that’s a touch. That’ll make them you aren’t yourself.”
“And after we leave. In fact, we as as we well can. You see what happens? I have the that my is weak, and in a days I and say I’ve been looked over and the wedding must be off because——”
“Damned idea!”
“Corky my boy,” said Ukridge gravely, “to a man as up against it as I am no idea is that looks as if it might work. Don’t you think this will work?”
“Well, it might, of course,” I admitted.
“Then I shall have a at it. I can on you to do your part?”
“How am I to know that your aunt is ill?”
“Perfectly simple. They ’phoned from her house, and you are the only person who where I’m the evening.”
“And will you that this is all you want me to do?”
“Absolutely all.”
“No me there and me in for something foul?”
“My dear old man!”
“All right,” I said. “I in my that something’s going to go wrong, but I I’ve got to do it.”
“Spoken like a true friend,” said Ukridge.
At nine o’clock on the I on the steps of Balbriggan waiting for my ring at the to be answered. Cats in the dusk, and from a window on the ground of the house came the of a piano and the of voices in one of the more of hymn. I Ukridge’s above the rest. He was with a which nearly the a to be as a little child clean of sin, and it somehow to my already gloom. Long of Ukridge’s had me a with to them. With I started out to co-operate with him on these occasions, I almost myself sooner or later in some imbroglio.
The door opened. A appeared.
“Is Mr. Ukridge here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could I see him for a moment?”
I her into the drawing-room.
“Gentleman to see Mr. Ukridge, please,” said the maid, and left me to do my stuff.
I was aware of a feeling. It was a of dry-mouthed panic, and I it as the same stage-fright which I had years on the occasion when, the old place being of talent, I had been on to sing a at the at school. I upon the of Prices, and failed me. Near the against the was a of aspect, with by a piece of string. It had a and its was and sardonic. I myself at it in a manner. It to see through me at a glance.
It was Ukridge who came to the rescue. Incredibly at his in this room, he to welcome me, in a morning-coat, patent-leather shoes, and tie, all of which I as my property. As always when he my wardrobe, he and respectability.
“Want to see me, laddie?”
His met mine meaningly, and I speech. We had this little with a good of over the luncheon-table, and the to come to me. I was able to the and proceed.
“I’m I have news, old man,” I said, in a voice.
“Serious news?” said Ukridge, trying to turn pale.
“Serious news!”
I had him that this was going to like a cross-talk act of the Argumentative College Chums type, but he had out the as far-fetched. Nevertheless, that is just what it did like, and I myself warmly.
“What is it?” Ukridge, emotionally, me by the arm in a like the bite of a horse.
“Ouch!” I cried. “Your aunt!”
“My aunt?”
“They from the house just now,” I proceeded, to my work, “to say that she had had a relapse. Her condition is very serious. They want you there at once. Even now it may be too late.”
“Water!” said Ukridge, and at his waistcoat—or at my waistcoat, which I had to lock up. “Water!”
It was well done. Even I, much as I that he would stop one of my best all out of shape, was to admit that. I it was his in under the of Fate that him so convincing. The Price family to be to its foundations. There was no water in the room, but a of Prices off in of some, and meanwhile the of the family about the man, and sympathetic.
“My aunt! Ill!” Ukridge.
“I shouldn’t worry, o’ man,” said a voice at the door.
So and was this voice that for a moment I almost that it must have been the sea-gull that had spoken. Then, turning, I a man in a suit. A man I had before. It was the Peacemaker, the who had and away the to Ukridge a of money.
“I shouldn’t worry,” he said again, and looked upon Ukridge. His a sensation. Mr. Price, who had been Ukridge’s with a man’s sympathy, as as his five six would permit him.
“Mr. Finch,” he said, “may I what you are doing in my house?”
“All right, all right——”
“I I told you——”
“All right, all right,” Ernie Finch, who appeared to be a man of character. “I’ve only come to an impostor.”
“Impostor!”
“Him!” said Mr. Finch, pointing a at Ukridge.
I think Ukridge was about to speak, but he to his mind. As for me, I had out of the centre of things, and was looking on as as I from a red sofa. I to myself from the proceedings.
“Ernie Finch,” said Mrs. Price, swelling, “what do you mean?”
The man in no way by the of hostility. He his small and a smile.
“I mean,” he said, in his pocket and producing an envelope, “that this here hasn’t got an aunt. Or, if he has, she isn’t Miss Julia Ukridge, the well-known and novelist. I had my about this right from the first, I may as well tell you, and since he came to this house I’ve been going making a about him. The thing I did was to his aunt—the lady he says is his aunt—making out I wanted her nephew’s address, me being an old of his. Here’s what she back—you can see it for yourselves if you want to: ‘Miss Ukridge receipt of Mr. Finch’s letter, and in reply to that she has no nephew.’ No nephew! That’s plain enough, isn’t it?” He a hand to check comment. “And here’s another thing,” he proceeded. “That motor-car he’s been about in. It doesn’t to him at all. It to a man named Fillimore. I noted the number and investigations. This fellow’s name isn’t Ukridge at all. It’s Smallweed. He’s a who’s been all your from the moment he came into the house; and if you let Mabel him you’ll be making the biggest of your lives!”
There was an silence. Price looked upon Price in consternation.
“I don’t you,” said the master of the house at length, but he spoke without conviction.
“Then, perhaps,” Ernie Finch, “you’ll this gentleman. Come in, Mr. Grindlay.”
Bearded, frock-coated, and words, the Creditor into the room.
“You tell ’em,” said Ernie Finch.
The Creditor appeared more than willing. He Ukridge with a eye, and his with pent-up emotion.
“Sorry to on a family on Sunday evening,” he said, “but this man told me I should Mr. Smallweed here, so I came along. I’ve been for him high and low for two years and more about a of one two and for supplied.”
“He you money?” Mr. Price.
“He me,” said the Creditor, precisely.
“Is this true?” said Mr. Price, to Ukridge.
Ukridge had and to be it was possible to from the room. At this question he halted, and a weak played about his lips.
“Well——” said Ukridge.
The of the family his no further. His mind appeared to be up. He had the and a decision. His flashed. He a hand and pointed to the door.
“Leave my house!” he thundered.
“Right-o!” said Ukridge, mildly.
“And enter it again!”
“Right-o!” said Ukridge.
Mr. Price to his daughter.
“Mabel,” he said, “this of yours is broken. Broken, do you understand? I you to see this again. You me?”
“All right, pa,” said Miss Price, speaking for the and last time. She to be of a and disposition. I I a not-displeased on its way to Ernie Finch.
“And now, sir,” Mr. Price, “go!”
“Right-o!” said Ukridge.
But here the Creditor a note.
“And what,” he enquired, “about my one two and threepence?”
It for a moment that were about to difficult. But Ukridge, ready-witted, the solution.
“Have you got one two and on you, old man?” he said to me.
And with my luck I had.
We walked together Peabody Road. Already Ukridge’s had passed.
“It just shows, laddie,” he said, exuberantly, “that one should despair. However black the outlook, old horse, never, despair. That of mine might or might not have worked—one cannot tell. But, of having to go to all the of subterfuge, to which I always object, here we have a nice, clean-cut of the thing without any trouble at all.” He for a moment. “I thought,” he said, “that the time would come when I would a of Ernie Finch; but, upon my Sam, laddie, if he were here now, I would the fellow. Clasp him to my bosom, it!” He once more into a reverie. “Amazing, old horse,” he proceeded, “how work out. Many a time I’ve been on the very point of paying that Grindlay his money, to be of the of having him always up, but every time something to stop me. I can’t tell you what it was—a of feeling. Almost as if one had a at one’s one. My gosh, just think where I would have been if I had to the impulse. It was Grindlay in that the scale. By gad, Corky my boy, this is the moment of my life.”
“It might be the of mine,” I said, churlishly, “if I I should see that one two and again.”
“Now, laddie, laddie,” Ukridge, “these are not the of a friend. Don’t a moment of gladness. Don’t you worry, you’ll your money back. A thousandfold!”
“When?”
“One of these days,” said Ukridge, buoyantly. “One of these days.”
