THE LONG ARM OF LOONEY COOTE
Given private means large to them against the of Life, it is how little men in after years from the boys they once were. There was a in my house at named Coote. J. G. Coote. And he was as Looney on account of the and which to his every action. Boys are hard-headed, practical persons, and they have small for the view-point of one who to join in a the not through any scruples—which, to do him justice, he would have scorned—but purely on the ground that he had a that morning. This was what J. G. Coote did, and it was the occasion on which I him being as Looney.
But, once given, the stuck; and this in of the fact—seeing that we were half-way through the cigarette and with by a master—that that of his would appear to have a thing or two. For five happy years, till we to go to our universities, I called Coote anything but Looney; and it was as Looney that I him when we upon each other one at Sandown, after the of the three o’clock race.
“Did you do anything on that one?” I asked, after we had salutations.
“I down,” Looney, in the but not heart-broken manner of the who can to do these things. “I had a on My Valet.”
“On My Valet!” I cried, at this of an animal which, in the the paddock, had of and fatigue, not to mention a to over his feet. “Whatever you do that?”
“Yes, I he had a chance,” Coote, “but a week ago my man Spencer his leg, and I it might be an omen.”
And then I that, for all his and added weight, he was still the old Looney of my boyhood.
“Is that the on which you always bet?” I enquired.
“Well, you’d be how often it works. The day my aunt was up in the private I five hundred by Crazy Jane for the Jubilee Cup. Have a cigarette?”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, my Lord!”
“Now what?”
“My pocket has been picked,” Looney Coote, a hand. “I had a note-case with nearly a hundred quid, and it’s gone!”
The next moment I was to a faint, on the man’s face.
“Well, that makes two,” he murmured, as if to himself.
“Two what?”
“Two misfortunes. These always go in threes, you know. Whenever anything happens, I myself up for the other two things. Well, there’s only one more to come this time, thank goodness.”
“What was the one?”
“I told you my man Spencer his leg.”
“I should have that would have as one of Spencer’s three misfortunes. How do you come in?”
“Why, my dear fellow, I’ve been having the of a time since he out. The they sent me from the agency as a is no good at all. Look at that!” He a leg. “Do you call that a crease?”
From the of my own bagginess, I should have called it an excellent crease, but he with it, so there was nothing to do but tell him to set his teeth and it like a man, and presently, the having for the three-thirty race, we parted.
“Oh, by the way,” said Looney, as he left me, “are you going to be at the old Wrykinian dinner next week?”
“Yes, I’m coming. So is Ukridge.”
“Ukridge? Good Lord, I haven’t old Ukridge for years.”
“Well, he will be there. And I he’ll touch you for a temporary loan. That will make your third misfortune.”
Ukridge’s to the dinner of the Old Boys of the at which he and I had been—in a manner of speaking—educated had come as a to me; for, though the was likely to be well-cooked and sustaining, the cost a apiece, and it was of the that they wear evening-dress. And, while Ukridge sometimes ten which he had by a dress-suit, or a dress-suit which he had for ten shillings, it was for him to have the two together. Still, he was as good as his word, and on the night of the up at my for a and for the feast.
Tactlessly, perhaps, I asked him what bank he had been robbing.
“I you told me a week ago that money was tight,” I said.
“It was tighter,” said Ukridge, “than these trousers. Never ready-made dress-clothes, Corky, my boy. They’re always unsatisfactory. But all that’s over now. I have the corner, old man. Last Saturday we up to an at Sandown.”
“We?”
“The firm. I told you I had a sleeping-partner in a bookie’s business.”
“For Heaven’s sake! You don’t to say that it is making money?”
“Making money? My dear old lad, how it help making money? I told you from the the thing was a gold-mine. Affluence me in the eyeball. The day yesterday I half-a-dozen shirts. That’ll you!”
“How much have you made?”
“In some ways,” said Ukridge, sentimentally, “I this prosperity. I to say, those old careless days were not so bad. Not so bad, Corky, old boy, eh? Life had a then. It was swift, vivid, interesting. And there’s always the that one may allow to and with wealth. Still, it has its compensations. Yes, on the whole I am not sorry to have my pile.”
“How much have you made?” I asked again, by this time. The of Ukridge for himself of mine an almost Monte Cristo-like opulence.
“Fifteen quid,” said Ukridge. “Fifteen sovereigns, my boy! And out of one week’s racing! And you must that the thing is going on all the year round. Month by month, week by week, we shall expand, we shall unfold, we shall develop. It wouldn’t be a scheme, old man, to a word here and there among the at this dinner to-night, them to their with us. Isaac O’Brien is the name of the firm, 3 Blue Street, St. James’s. Telegraphic address, ‘Ikobee, London.’ and our all the meetings. But don’t mention my with the firm. I don’t want it known, as it might my social standing. And now, laddie, if we don’t want to be late for this binge, we had be starting.”
Ukridge, as I have recorded elsewhere, had left under something of a cloud. Not to put too a point on it, he had been for out at night to the local fair, and it was only after many years of cold that he had been to the pure-minded membership of the Old Boys’ Society.
Nevertheless, in the of he to no one.
During our drive to the restaurant where the dinner was to be he more and more about the dear old school, and by the time the was over and the speeches he was in the mood when men and people, to avoid in moments they would side-streets, to go on long walking with them. He from table to table with a large cigar in his mouth, now reminiscences, who had high positions in the Church to place their with Isaac O’Brien, of 3 Blue Street, St. James’s—a and firm, address “Ikobee, London.”
The speeches at these dinners always opened with a long and from the President, who, his paper of notes, the by Old Boys the past year. On this occasion, accordingly, he by that A. B. Bodger (“Good old Bodger!”—from Ukridge) had been the Mutt-Spivis Gold Medal for Geological Research at Oxford University—that C. D. Codger had been to the sub-junior of Westchester Cathedral—(“That’s the stuff, Codger, old horse!”)—that as a for his services in with the of the new at Strelsau J. J. Swodger had from the Government of Ruritania the Order of the Silver Trowel, third class (with pickaxes).
“By the way,” said the President, concluding, “before I there is one more thing I would like to say. An old boy, B. V. Lawlor, is for Parliament next week at Redbridge. If any of you would to go and him a hand, I know he would be of your help.”
He his seat, and the leather-lunged him a “My Lord, Mr. President, and gentlemen, pray for Mr. H. K. Hodger, who will the health of ‘The Visitors.’” H. K. Hodger rose with the only to be on the of one who has been by the of the last of the of the two Irishmen; and the company, replete, settled to give him an attention.
Not so Ukridge. He was across the table at his old friend Lawlor. The seating at these dinners were designed to together at the same table, and the for Redbridge was one of our platoon.
“Boko, old horse,” Ukridge, “is this true?”
A but nose had his little to this upon the M.P. It was one of those which are down, but I would not have of B. V. Lawlor in this fashion myself, for, though he was a man of my own age, the years had him dignified. Ukridge, however, was above any such weakness. He gave out the word in a of such a as to H. K. Hodger to over a “begorra” and the of his story.
“’Sh!” said the President, a at our table.
“’Sh!” said B. V. Lawlor, his face.
“Yes, but is it?” Ukridge.
“Of it is,” Lawlor. “Be quiet!”
“Then, damme,” Ukridge, “rely on me, Boko. I shall be at your side. I shall no to you through. You can count on me to——”
“Really! Please! At that table there,” said the President, rising, while H. K. Hodger, who had got as as “Then, and begob, it’s me that’ll be afther——” paused in a manner and at the table-cloth.
Ukridge subsided. But his offer of was no whim, to be in the of the night. I was still in a later when he in, for travel to the last and a suit-case.
“Just off, laddie, just off!”
“Fine!” I said. “Good-bye.”
“Corky, my boy,” Ukridge, on the and the air with his tobacco, “I happy this morning. Stimulated. And why? Because I am doing an action. We men of affairs, Corky, are too to from our lives. We are too to say ‘What is there in it for me?’ and, if there proves on to be nothing in it for us, to give it the miss-in-balk. That is why this makes me so happy. At and I am going to Redbridge to-day, and what is there in it for me? Nothing. Nothing, my boy, the pure of helping an old over a spot. If I can do anything, little, to Boko in at the right end of the poll, that will be for me. I am going to do my bit, Corky, and it may be that my will turn out to be just the that home the bacon. I shall go there and talk——”
“I you will.”
“I don’t know much about politics, it’s true, but I can up to by. Invective ought to meet the case, and I’m good at invective. I know the of thing. You the candidate of every low act under the sun, without him to start a action on. Now, what I want you to do, Corky, old horse——”
“Oh heavens!” I at these familiar words.
“——is just to up this election song of mine. I sat up the night it, but I can see it in spots. You can put it right in an hour. Polish it up, laddie, and without fail to the Bull Hotel, Redbridge, this afternoon. It may just be the means of Boko past the post by a nose.”
He out hurriedly; and, sleep being now impossible, I up the of paper he had left and read the verses.
They were well meant, but that let them out. Ukridge was no or he would have to “Lawlor” with “before us.”
A phrase to to me at the table, with the that possibly Ukridge was right and it did his old to the candidate, I the out a new ballad. Having this by noon, I it to the Bull Hotel, and off to with something of that of which, as Ukridge had pointed out, come to altruists. I was Piccadilly, an after-luncheon smoke, when I ran into Looney Coote.
On Looney’s there was a of and satisfaction.
“It’s happened,” he said.
“What?”
“The third misfortune. I told you it would.”
“What’s the trouble now? Has Spencer his other leg?”
“My car has been stolen.”
A would no have me, but from years I had always it difficult to the to be and when with Looney Coote. The man was so rich that he had no right to have troubles.
“Oh, well,” I said, “you can easily another. Fords cost nothing nowadays.”
“It wasn’t a Ford,” Looney, outraged. “It was a brand-new Winchester-Murphy. I paid fifteen hundred for it only a month ago, and now it’s gone.”
“Where did you see it last?”
“I didn’t see it last. My it to my rooms this morning, and, of with it as he should have done till I was ready, off the for a cup of coffee, so he says! And when he came it had vanished.”
“The coffee?”
“The car, you ass. The car had disappeared. It had been stolen.”
“I you have the police?”
“I’m on my way to Scotland Yard now. It just to me. Have you any idea what the is? It’s the time I’ve been mixed up with this of thing.”
“You give them the number of the car, and they send out word to police-stations all over the country to look out for it.”
“I see,” said Looney Coote, brightening. “That promising, what? I mean, it looks as if someone would be to spot it sooner or later.”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course, the thing a would do would be to take off the number-plate and a false one.”
“Oh, Great Scott! Not really?”
“And after that he would paint the car a different colour.”
“Oh, I say!”
“Still, the police manage to them in the end. Years hence they will come on it in an old with the in and the taken out. Then they will hand it to you and the reward. But, as a of fact, what you ought to be praying is that you may it back. Then the thing would be a misfortune. If you it as good as new in the next of days, it won’t be a at all, and you will have number three over your again, just as before. And who what that third may be? In a way, you’re Providence by to Scotland Yard.”
“Yes,” said Looney Coote, doubtfully. “All the same, I think I will, don’t you know. I to say, after all, a fifteen-hundred-quid Winchester-Murphy is a fifteen-hundred-quid Winchester-Murphy, if you come right to it, what?”
Showing that in the most there may be of hard, practical common somewhere.
It had not been my originally to take any part in the by-election in the Redbridge three of a in of Boko Lawlor and sending him a wire if he won. But two to make me my mind. The was the that it to me—always the journalist—that there might be a of of Interesting Bits money in it (“How a Modern Election is Fought: Humours of the Poll”); the second, that, since his Ukridge had been sending me a of so that they the spark.
I specimens:—
“Going strong. Made three speeches yesterday. Election song a sensation. Come on down.—Ukridge.”
“Boko as walk-over. Made four speeches yesterday. Election song a breeze. Come on down.—Ukridge.”
“Victory in sight. Spoke all yesterday. Election song a riot. Children it in cots. Come on down.—Ukridge.”
I it to any author to say a man with one political to his have this. With the of a single music-hall song (“Mother, She’s Pinching My Leg,” out by Tim Sims, the Koy Komic, at the Peebles Hippodrome, and discarded, in response to a popular appeal, after one performance), no of mine had passed lips. Naturally, it gave me a to the of Redbridge—at any rate, the right-thinking of it—bellowing in its thousands those lines:—
“No foe’s hate
Our country shall o’erwhelm
So long as England’s ship of state
Has LAWLOR at the helm.”
Whether I was in as the ship of a man who would his entire Parliamentary career in total silence, as the Whip directed, I had not stopped to enquire. All I was that it well, and I wanted to it. In to which, there was the opportunity, likely to again, of Ukridge make an of himself a large audience.
I to Redbridge.
The thing I saw on the station was a very large Boko Lawlor’s features, the legend:—
Lawlor
for
Redbridge.
This was all right, but it, there by the hand of an enemy, was a still larger of this which my old friend’s nose in a manner that to me to go the limits of a debate. To this was the words:—
Do You
Want
THIS
For a Member?
To which, if I had been a of the constituency, I would have “No!” for there was something about that nose that the man of of every quality a Member of Parliament can possess. You see at a that here was one who, if elected, would do his best to cut the Navy, tax the man’s food, and a series of at the very of the home. And, as if this were not enough, a yards on was a almost the entire of a house, which said in simple, black a high:—
Down With
Boko,
The Human Gargoyle.
How my old contemporary, after a week in the of these on his personal appearance, to look himself in the in his shaving-mirror of a was more than I see. I on this to Ukridge, who had met me at the station in a car.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Ukridge, huskily. The thing I had noticed about him was that his had been in since our last meeting. “Just the give-and-take of an election. When we this next you’ll see the we’ve got out to up the other bloke. It’s a pippin.”
I did, and it was a pippin. After one at it as we rolled by, I not but that the of Redbridge were in an position, having to choose Boko, as in the we had just passed, and this now me. Mr. Herbert Huxtable, the opposition candidate, to as to ears as his did to nose, and the artist had not this feature. Indeed, for a mean, narrow with close-set and a murderer’s mouth, Mr. Huxtable appeared to be all ears. They and about him like carpet-bags, and I my gaze, appalled.
“Do you to say you’re allowed to do this of thing?” I asked, incredulously.
“My dear old horse, it’s of you. It’s a formality. The other would and if you didn’t.”
“And how did they out about Lawlor being called Boko?” I enquired, for the point had puzzled me. In a way, you might say that it was the only thing you possibly call him, but the satisfied me.
“That,” Ukridge, “was my fault. I was a away the time I the multitude, and I to to the old by his nickname. Of course, the opposition took it up at once. Boko was a little about it for a while.”
“I can see how he might be.”
“But that’s all over now,” said Ukridge, buoyantly. “We’re the pals. He on me at every turn. Yesterday he to me in so many that if he in it’ll be to my help as much as anything. The is, laddie, I’ve a with the manyheaded. They to like to me speak.”
“Fond of a laugh, eh?”
“Now, laddie,” said Ukridge, reprovingly, “this is not the right tone. You must that of while you’re here. This is a business, Corky, old man, and the sooner you it the better. If you have come here to and to mock——”
“I came to my election song sung. When do they sing it?”
“Oh, all the time. Incessantly, you might say.”
“In their baths?”
“Most of the here don’t take baths. You’ll that when we Biscuit Row.”
“What’s Biscuit Row?”
“It’s the of the town where the live who work in Fitch and Weyman’s biscuit factory, laddie. It’s what you might call,” said Ukridge, importantly, “the of the place. All the of the town is and clean-cut, they’re either solid for Boko or nuts on Huxtable—but these biscuit are wobbly. That’s why we have to them so carefully.”
“Oh, you’re going canvassing, are you?”
“We are,” Ukridge.
“Not me!”
“Corky,” said Ukridge, firmly, “pull together. It was to me in these biscuit that I got you here. Where’s your patriotism, laddie? Don’t you want old Boko to into Parliament, or what is it? We must every nerve. We must set our hands to the plough. The job you’ve got to is the baby-kissing——”
“I won’t their babies!”
“You will, old horse, unless you to the of your life when it is too late that old Boko got on the tape purely on account of your poltroonery. Consider, old man! Have some vision! Be an altruist! It may be that your will prove the in this close-run race.”
“What do you mean, close-run race? You said in your wire that it was a walk-over for Boko.”
“That was just to the telegraph-bloke, I of being in the enemy camp. As a of fact, ourselves, it’s touch and go. A either way will do the now.”
“Why don’t you these babies?”
“There’s something about me that ’em, laddie. I’ve it once or twice, but only valuable by their into a collapse. I think it’s my they don’t like. But you—now, you,” said Ukridge, with fulsomeness, “are an baby-kisser. The time I saw you, I said: ‘There goes one of Nature’s baby-kissers.’ Directly I started to these people and what I was up against, I of you. ‘Corky’s the man,’ I said to myself; ‘the we want is old Corky. Good-looking. And not good-looking but kind-looking.’ They’ll take to you, laddie. Yours is a a can trust——”
“Now, listen!”
“And it won’t last long. Just a of and we’re through. So your backbone, laddie, and go at it like a man. Boko is going to you with a at his hotel to-night. I to know there will be champagne. Keep your mind on that and the thing will easy.”
The whole question of is one which I would like some time to go into at length. I it to be an practice. An Englishman’s home is his castle, and it to me that, just as you have got into shirt-sleeves and settled to a pipe, total should be permitted to their way in and you with their and their as to which way you to vote. And, while I not to speak at length of my in Biscuit Row, I must say this much, that every of that appeared to see to with me in this matter. I have a of men who were less chummy. They looked at me with brows, they answered my with monosyllables, they their away from me and them, yelling, in parts of the house. Altogether a most experience, I should have said, and one which to that, as as Biscuit Row was concerned, Boko Lawlor would score a blank at the poll.
Ukridge at this theory.
“My dear old horse,” he cried, exuberantly, as the door of the last house us and I to him the I had drawn, “you mustn’t mind that. It’s just their way. They the same. Why, one of Huxtable’s got his in at that very house we’ve just left. I the promising, laddie.”
And so, to my surprise, did the candidate himself. When we had dinner that night and were talking over our cigars, while Ukridge in an easy chair, Boko Lawlor spoke with a of his prospects.
“And, enough,” said Boko, what until then I had looked on as on Ukridge’s part, “the who will have helped me more than else, if I in, is old Ukridge. He borders, perhaps, a too closely on the in his speeches, but he has the of talking to an audience. In the past week he has himself a in Redbridge. In fact, I’m to say it has me a little at times, this of his. I know what an he is, and if he were to the centre of some it would for a certainty.”
“How do you mean, scandal?”
“I sometimes up a vision,” said Boko Lawlor, with a shudder, “of one of his in the audience and him for not having paid for a pair of or something.”
He an at the sleeping figure.
“You’re all right if he on that suit,” I said, soothingly, “because it to be one he from me. I have been why it was so familiar.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Boko, with optimism, “I suppose, if anything like that was going to happen, it would have before. He has been all the week, and nothing has occurred. I’m going to let him open the at our last to-morrow night. He has a way of up the audience. You’ll come to that, of course?”
“If I am to see Ukridge up an audience, nothing shall keep me away.”
“I’ll see that you a seat on the platform. It will be the biggest we have had. The takes place on the next day, and this will be our last of the doubters.”
“I didn’t know came to these meetings. I the audience was always solid for the speakers.”
“It may be so in some constituencies,” said Boko, moodily, “but it isn’t at Redbridge.”
The meeting in support of Boko Lawlor’s was at that popular eyesore, the Associated Mechanics’ Hall. As I sat among the elect on the platform, waiting for the to commence, there came up to me a mixed of dust, clothes, orange-peel, chalk, wood, plaster, pomade, and Associated Mechanics—the whole a mixture which, I to see, was likely to prove too rich for me. I my seat in order to myself next to a small but promising-looking door, through which it would be possible, if necessary, to without being noticed.
The on which at these are is too familiar to here at length, but in case some of my readers are not with the of political machines, I may say that no one under the age of eighty-five is and the is to those with adenoids. For Boko Lawlor the had themselves and a of his class. In to adenoids, the Right Hon. the Marquess of Cricklewood had—or to have—a potato of the maximum size and in his mouth, and he had learned his in one of those which teach it by mail. I his sentence—that he would only us a moment—but for fifteen minutes after that he me completely. That he was still speaking I tell by the way his Adam’s apple wiggled, but what he was saying I not guess. And presently, the door at my its invitation, I through and closed it me.
Except for the that I was now out of of the chairman, I did not to have my position greatly. The of the had not been alluring, but there was nothing much more to look at here. I myself in a stone-flagged with of an green, in a of stairs. I was just about to these in a of exploration, when themselves heard, and in another moment a into view, by a red face, a uniform, and large, boots—making in all one constable, who along the me with a step as if a beat. I his looked and disapproving, and it to the that I had just a cigarette—presumably in a place where was not encouraged. I the cigarette and a on it—an action which I the next moment, when the himself produced one from the of his and asked me for a match.
“Not allowed to on duty,” he said, affably, “but there’s no in a puff.”
I saw now that what I had taken for a and look was the official mask. I that no possible come of a puff.
“Meeting started?” the officer, his the door.
“Yes. The was making a when I came out.”
“Ah! Better give it time to warm up,” he said, cryptically. And there was a for some minutes, while the of a cigarette of small price with the other of the corridor.
Presently, however, the was interrupted. From the came the of hands, and then a of melody. I started. It was to the words, but surely there was no that rhythm:—
“Tum tumty tum,
Tum tumty tum,
Tum tumty tum,
Tum TUMTY tum.”
It was! It must be! I all over with pride.
“That’s mine,” I said, with nonchalance.
“Ur?” the constable, who had into a reverie.
“That thing they’re singing. Mine. My election song.”
It to me that the officer me strangely. It may have been admiration, but it looked more like and disfavour.
“You on this Lawlor’s side?” he demanded, heavily.
“Yes. I his election song. They’re it now.”
“I’m to ’im in and and branch,” said the constable, emphatically, “I don’t like ’is views—subversive, that’s what I call ’em. Subversive.”
There nothing to say to this. This of opinion was unfortunate, but there it was. After all, there was no why political should have to with what had all the of being the of a friendship. Pass over it lightly, that was the course. I to the to less grounds.
“This is my visit to Redbridge,” I said, chattily.
“Ur?” said the constable, but I see that he was not interested. He his cigarette with three and it out. And as he did so a strange, to come over him. His boiled-fish to say that the time of was now ended and was to be done. “Is that the way to the platform, mister?” he asked, my door with a of the helmet.
I cannot say why it was, but at this moment a over me.
“Why do you want to go on the platform?” I asked, apprehensively.
There was no about the with which he me now. So was his that I against the door in some alarm.
“Never you mind,” he said, severely, “why I want to go on that platform. If you want to know,” he continued, with that which marks great minds, “I’m goin’ there to a feller.”
It was a little to Ukridge that I should so have to the that, if on a on which he sat was in of arrest, he must be the man. There were at least twenty other supporters of Boko the that door, but it to me as a possibility that it be one of these on the hand of the law to descend. And a moment later my was proved to be unerring. The had ceased, and now a voice had to all space. It spoke, was by a of laughter, and to speak again.
“That’s ’im,” said the constable, briefly.
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “That is my friend, Mr. Ukridge.”
“I don’t know ’is name and I don’t about ’is name,” said the constable, sternly. “But if ’e’s the big with that’s stayin’ at the Bull, that’s the man I’m after. He may be a ’ighly ’umorous and orator,” said the constable, bitterly, as another happy of what was a at the of the which his support, “but, be that as it may, ’e’s got to come along with me to the station and how ’e ’appens to be in of a car that there’s been an sent out from ’eadquarters about.”
My to water. A light had upon me.
“Car?” I quavered.
“Car,” said the constable.
“Was it a named Coote who the about his car being stolen? Because——”
“I don’t——”
“Because, if so, there has been a mistake. Mr. Ukridge is a personal friend of Mr. Coote, and——”
“I don’t know name it is’s car’s been stolen,” said the constable, elliptically. “All I know is, there’s been an sent out, and this feller’s got it.”
At this point something hard into the small of my as I pressed against the door. I a hand me, and my closed upon a key. The was to a notebook. I the key and it.
“If you would not object to a and a a to at that door,” said the policeman, himself. He with the handle. “’Ere, it’s locked!”
“Is it?” I said. “Is it?”
“’Ow did you out through this door if it’s locked?”
“It wasn’t locked when I came through.”
He me with for a moment, then with a large red knuckle.
“Shush! Shush!” came a through the keyhole.
“Never you mind about ‘Shush! Shush!’” said the constable, with asperity. “You open this door, that’s what you do.” And he for the a leg-of-mutton-like fist. The of his through the like thunder.
“Really, you know,” I protested, “you’re the meeting.”
“I want to the meeting,” this but not man, a cold look over his shoulder. And the next instant, to prove that he was as with as with words, he a or two, a and foot, and kicked.
For all ordinary purposes the of the Associated Mechanics’ Hall had done his work adequately, but he had that an might which would his doors into with a policeman’s foot. Any the lock might have withstood, but against this it was powerless. With a like the of one a the door gave way. It back, a of beyond. Whether or not the noise had the audience in the of the I did not know, but it had the little group on the platform. I had a of to the centre of the disturbance, of the like a sheep, of Ukridge glowering; and then the out my view as he over the debris.
A moment later there was no as to the audience was interested. A out in every of the hall, and, on to the platform, I that the hand of the Law had fallen. It was Ukridge’s in a in the of all men.
There was just one the its in which it was possible for the to speak with a of making himself heard. He his opportunity adroitly. He his and as if he were a magistrate.
“’E’s—stolen—a—mo—tor—car! I’m a-r-resting—’im—for—’avin’—sto—len—a—norter-mobile! ” he in to all. And then, with the of one in the art of away from the of their friends, he was gone, and Ukridge with him.
There a long moment of amazement. Nothing like this had at political at Redbridge, and the audience how to act. The person to returned was a grim-looking little man in the third row, who had himself into the chairman’s speech with some heckling. He out of his chair and on it.
“Men of Redbridge!” he shouted.
“Siddown!” the audience automatically.
“Men of Redbridge,” the little man, in a voice out of all to his inches, “are you going to trust—do you to support—-is it your to place your in the hands of one who criminals——”
“Siddown!” many voices, but there were many others that “’Ear, ’Ear!”
“——who to speak on his platform? Men of Redbridge, I——”
Here someone the little man’s and him to the floor. Somebody else the collar-grasper over the with an umbrella. A third party the and its owner on the nose. And after that the action may be said to have general. Everybody to be else, and at the of the a group of thinkers, in I to the of Biscuit Row, had to the chairs and them at random. It was when the was for the that the meeting definitely up. The the for my little door, moving well for a man of his years, and he was closely by the of the elect. I came in the procession, by the leaders, but well up in the field. The last I saw of the meeting in of Boko Lawlor’s was Boko’s and as he his on an table in his to the in three strides.
The next and fair, and the sun, as we to London, in through the of our third-class compartment. But it no on Ukridge’s face. He sat in his out at the green countryside. He in no way that his prison-life was over, and he gave me no thanks for the and with which I had his release.
A five-shilling to Looney Coote had been the means of this. Shortly after Ukridge had come to my hotel, a free man, with the that Looney had the police of Redbridge to the prison cell. But he appeared to a small thing with his wrongs, and now he sat in the train, thinking, thinking, thinking.
I was not when his act on Paddington was to climb into a and the driver to him to Looney Coote’s address.
Personally, though I was not to say so, I was pro-Coote. If Ukridge to go about his friends’ without a word of explanation, it to me that he did so at his own risk. I not see how Looney Coote be to know by some of that his Winchester-Murphy had into the hands of an old schoolfellow. But Ukridge, to judge by his and lips, not to mention the that his had jumped off its and he had no attempt to it, differently. He sat in the cab, silently, and when we our and were into Looney’s sitting-room, he gave one long, sigh, like that of a who the go for one.
Looney out of the room in and a dressing-gown. He was a late riser.
“Oh, here you are!” he said, pleased. “I say, old man, I’m it’s all right.”
“All right!” An Ukridge. His his mackintosh. “All right!”
“I’m sorry there was any trouble.”
Ukridge for utterance.
“Do you know I the night on a bed,” he said, huskily.
“No, really? I say!”
“Do you know that this I was by the authorities?”
“I say, no!”
“And you say it’s all right!”
He had the point where he to deliver a address of a nature calculated to and in Looney Coote, for he a fist, it passionately, and once or twice. But he on what would have been an to, his him.
“I don’t see that it was my fault,” Looney Coote, my own sentiments.
“You don’t see that it was your fault!” Ukridge.
“Listen, old man,” I urged, pacifically. “I didn’t like to say so before, you didn’t in the mood for it, but what else the have done? You took his car without a word of explanation——”
“What?”
“——and naturally he it had been and had word sent out to the police-stations to look out for had got it. As a of fact, it was I who him to.”
Ukridge was at Looney.
“Without a word of explanation!” he echoed. “What about my letter, the long and carefully-written I sent you the whole thing?”
“Letter?”
“Yes!”
“I got no letter,” said Looney Coote.
Ukridge laughed malevolently.
“You’re going to it in the post, eh? Thin, very thin. I am that was posted. I it in my pocket for that purpose. It is not there now, and I have been this since I left London. See. These are all the of my——”
His voice off as he at the in his hand. There was a long silence. Ukridge’s slowly.
“Now, how the did that happen?” he murmured.
I am to say that Looney Coote in this difficult moment a which I have shown. He sympathetically.
“I’m always doing that of thing myself,” he said. “Never can to post letters. Well, now that that’s all explained, have a drink, old man, and let’s about it.”
The in Ukridge’s that the was a welcome one, but the of his him from the under as his had urged.
“But upon my Sam, Looney, old horse,” he stammered, “I—well, it, I don’t know what to say. I mean——”
Looney Coote was in the for the materials for a carouse.
“Don’t say another word, old man, not another word,” he pleaded. “It’s the of thing that might have to anyone. And, as a of fact, the whole has done me a of good. Dashed lucky it has out for me. You see, it came as a of omen. There was an in the third at Kempton Park the day after the car called Stolen Goods, and somehow it to me that the thing had been sent for a purpose. I on thirty at twenty-five to one. The people about laughed when they saw me this poor, broken-down-looking moke, and, it, the animal home! I a parcel!”
We our on this happy ending. Ukridge was exuberant.
“Yes,” said Looney Coote, “I seven hundred and fifty quid. Just like that! I put it on with that new you were telling me about at the O. W. dinner, old man—that Isaac O’Brien. It sent him and he’s had to go out of business. He’s only paid me six hundred so far, but says he has some of a sleeping partner or something who may be able to the balance.”
