ked.

"Rum old buffer," said Ukridge meditatively. "My goodness, I should
have liked to see him in the water. Why do I miss these good things?"

SOME EMOTIONS

XII

The fame which came to me through that gallant rescue was a little
embarrassing. I was a marked man. Did I walk through the village,
heads emerged from windows, and eyes followed me out of sight. Did I
sit on the beach, groups formed behind me and watched in silent
admiration. I was the man of the moment.

"If we'd wanted an advertisement for the farm," said Ukridge on one of
these occasions, "we couldn't have had a better one than you, Garny,
my boy. You have brought us three distinct orders for eggs during the
last week. And I'll tell you what it is, we need all the orders we
can get that'll bring us in ready money. The farm is in a critical
condition, Marmaduke. The coffers are low, decidedly low. And I'll
tell you another thing. I'm getting precious tired of living on
nothing but chicken and eggs. So's Millie, though she doesn't say so."

"So am I," I said, "and I don't feel like imitating your wife's proud
reserve. I never want to see a chicken again except alive."

For the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat.
We had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken and eggs
for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. Meals became a
nuisance, and Mrs. Beale complained bitterly that we did not give her
a chance. She was a cook who would have graced an alderman's house,
and served up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this
remote corner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and
roast chicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. Mr. Whistler, set to
paint signboards for public houses, might have felt the same restless
discontent. As for her husband, the hired retainer, he took life as
tranquilly as ever, and seemed to regard the whole thing as the most
exhilarating farce he had ever been in. I think he looked on Ukridge
as an amiable lunatic, and was content to rough it a little in order
to enjoy the privilege of observing his movements. He made no
complaints of the food. When a man has supported life for a number of
years on incessant army beef, the monotony of daily chicken and eggs
scarcely strikes him.

"The fact is," said Ukridge, "these tradesmen round here seem to be a
sordid, suspicious lot. They clamor for money."

He mentioned a few examples. Vickers, the butcher, had been