Pelham Wodehouse: Love Among the Chickens

“How were you dressed?” I could not help asking.

“Oh, it was one of my frock-coat days. I’d been to see a man about tutoring his son, and by a merciful dispensation of Providence there was a fellow living in the same boarding-house with me who was about my build and had a frock-coat, and he had lent it to me. At least, he hadn’t exactly lent it to me, but I knew where he kept it and he was out at the time. There was nothing the matter with my appearance. Quite the young duke, I assure you, laddie, down to the last button. ‘Is Lady Lichenhall at home?’ I asked. ‘No,’ said the maid, ‘nobody of that name here. This is Lady Lakenheath’s house.’ So, you see, I had a bit of luck at the start, because the names were a bit alike. Well, I got the maid to show me in somehow, and, once in you can bet I talked for all I was worth. Kept up a flow of conversation about being misdirected and coming to the wrong house. Went away, and called a few days later. Gradually wormed my way in. Called regularly. Spied on their movements, met ‘em at every theatre they went to, and bowed, and finally got away with Millie before her aunt knew what was happening or who I was or what I was doing or anything.”

“And what’s the moral?”

“Why, go in like a mighty, rushing wind! Bustle ‘em! Don’t give ‘em a moment’s rest or time to think or anything. Why, if I’d given Millie’s Aunt Elizabeth time to think, where should we have been? Not at Combe Regis together, I’ll bet. You heard that letter, and know what she thinks of me now, on reflection. If I’d gone slow and played a timid waiting-game, she’d have thought that before I married Millie, instead of afterwards. I give you my honest word, laddie, that there was a time, towards the middle of our acquaintance—after she had stopped mixing me up with the man who came to wind the clocks—when that woman ate out of my hand! Twice—on two separate occasions—she actually asked my advice about feeding her toy Pomeranian! Well, that shows you! Bustle ‘em, laddie! Bustle ‘em!”

“Ukridge,” I said, “you inspire me. You would inspire a caterpillar. I will go to the professor—I was going anyhow, but now I shall go aggressively. I will prise a father’s blessing out of him, if I have to do it with a crowbar.”

“That’s the way to talk, old horse. Don’t beat about the bush. Tell him exactly what you want and stand no nonsense. If you don’t see what you want in the window, ask for it. Where did you think of tackling him?”

“Phyllis tells me that he always goes for a swim before breakfast. I thought of going down to-morrow and waylaying him.”

“You couldn’t do better. By Jove!” said Ukridge suddenly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, laddie. I wouldn’t do it for everybody, but I look on you as a favourite son. I’ll come with you, and help break the ice.”

“What!”

“Don’t you be under any delusion, old horse,” said Ukridge paternally. “You haven’t got an easy job in front of you and what you’ll need more than anything else, when you really get down to brass-tacks, is a wise, kindly man of the world at your elbow, to whoop you on when your nerve fails you and generally stand in your corner and see that you get a fair show.”

“But it’s rather an intimate business….”

“Never mind! Take my tip and have me at your side. I can say things about you that you would be too modest to say for yourself. I can plead your case, laddie. I can point out in detail all that the old boy will be missing if he gives you the miss-in-baulk. Well, that’s settled, then. About eight to-morrow morning, what? I’ll be there, my boy. A swim will do me good.”

Reviewing the matter later, I could see that I made one or two blunders in my conduct of the campaign to win over Professor Derrick. In the first place, I made a bad choice of time and place. At the moment this did not strike me. It is a simple matter, I reflected, for a man to pass another by haughtily and without recognition, when they meet on dry land; but, when the said man, being it should be remembered, an indifferent swimmer, is accosted in the water and out of his depth, the feat becomes a hard one. It seemed to me that I should have a better chance with the professor in the water than out of it.

My second mistake—and this was brought home to me almost immediately—was in bringing Ukridge along. Not that I really brought him along; it was rather a case of being unable to shake him off. When he met me on the gravel outside the house at a quarter to eight on the following morning, clad in a dingy mackintosh which, swinging open, revealed a purple bathing-suit, I confess that my heart sank. Unfortunately, all my efforts to dissuade him from accompanying me were attributed by him to a pardonable nervousness—or, as he put it, to the needle.

“Buck up, laddie!” he roared encouragingly. “I had anticipated this. Something seemed to tell me that your nerve would go when it came to the point. You’re deuced lucky, old horse, to have a man like me at your side. Why, if you were alone, you wouldn’t have a word to say for yourself. You’d just gape at the man and yammer. But I’m with you laddie, I’m with you. If your flow of conversation dries up, count on me to keep the thing going.”

And so it came about that, having reached the Cob and spying in the distance the grey head of the professor bobbing about on the face of the waters, we dived in and swam rapidly towards him.

His face was turned in the opposite direction when we came up with him. He was floating peacefully on his back, and it was plain that he had not observed our approach. For when, treading water easily in his rear, I wished him good morning in my most conciliatory tone, he stood not upon the order of his sinking, but went under like so much pig– iron.

I waited courteously until he rose to the surface again, when I repeated my remark.

He expelled the last remnant of water from his mouth with a wrathful splutter, and cleared his eyes with the back of his hand. I confess to a slight feeling of apprehension as I met his gaze. Nor was my uneasiness diminished by the spectacle of Ukridge splashing tactfully in the background like a large seal. Ukridge so far had made no remarks. He had dived in very flat, and I imagine that his breath had not yet returned to him. He had the air of one who intends to get used to his surroundings before trusting himself to speech.

“The water is delightfully warm,” I said.

“Oh, it’s you!” said the professor; and I could not cheat myself into the belief that he spoke cordially. Ukridge snorted loudly in the offing. The professor turned sharply, as if anxious to observe this marine phenomenon; and the annoyed gurgle which he gave showed that he was not approving of Ukridge either. I did not approve of Ukridge myself. I wished he had not come. Ukridge, in the water, lacks dignity. I felt that he prejudiced my case.

“You are swimming splendidly this morning,” I went on perseveringly, feeling that an ounce of flattery is worth a pound of rhetoric. “If,” I added, “you will allow me to say so.”

“I will not!” he snapped. “I—” here a small wave, noticing that his mouth was open, stepped in. “I wish,” he resumed warmly, “as I said in me letter, to have nothing to do with you. I consider that ye’ve behaved in a manner that can only be described as abominable, and I will thank you to leave me alone.”

“But allow me—”

“I will not allow ye, sir. I will allow ye nothing. Is it not enough to make me the laughing-stock, the butt, sir, of this town, without pursuing me in this way when I wish to enjoy a quiet swim?”

“Now, laddie, laddie,” said Ukridge, placing a large hand on his shoulder, “these are harsh words! Be reasonable! Think before you speak. You little know …”