at the envelope which he had produced from his
breast-pocket. A soft smile played over Mr. Beale's wooden face. He
coughed.

"Beale," said Ukridge, "you--er--there seems to have been a mistake."

"Yes, sir."

"You are not so much to blame as I thought."

"No, sir."

There was a silence.

"Anyhow," said Ukridge in inspired tones, "I'll go and slay that
infernal dog. I'll teach him to tear my door to pieces. Where's your
gun, Beale?"

But better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a cold
but pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came out
unexpectedly strong with ingenious and diverting tricks.

CHAPTER V

BUCKLING TO

Sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke me
next day as distant clocks were striking eight. It was a lovely
morning, cool and fresh. The grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkled
in the sun. A thrush, who knew all about early birds and their
perquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the worm
with a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. In the ivy a colony of
sparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. On the gravel in
front of the house lay the mongrel, Bob, blinking lazily.

The gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing. I
dressed quickly and went out. Bob rose to meet me, waving an absurdly
long tail. The hatchet was definitely buried now. That little matter of
the jug of water was forgotten.

A walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by Bob, to
the sleepy little town. I passed through the narrow street, and turned
on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination of pier
and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist.

The tide was high, and, leaving my clothes to the care of Bob, who
treated them as a handy bed, I dived into twelve feet of clear, cold
water. As I swam, I compared it with the morning tub of London, and
felt that I had done well to come with Ukridge to this pleasant spot.
Not that I could rely on unbroken calm during the whole of my visit. I
knew nothing of chicken-farming, but I was certain that Ukridge knew
less. There would be some strenuous moments before that farm became a
profitable commercial speculation. At the thought of Ukridge toiling on
a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, I laughed, and
swallowed a generous mouthful of salt water; and, turning, swam back to
Bob and my clothes.

On my return, I f