, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered some
fresh crow to pluck with me. Perhaps Ukridge had been irritating him
again. I wished he would not identify me so completely with Ukridge. I
could not be expected to control the man. Then I reflected that they
could hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from the
professor at the clubhouse and my meeting with him on the beach.
Ukridge rarely left the farm. When he was not working among the fowls,
he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind.

I came to the conclusion that, after all, the professor had not seen
me.

"I'm an idiot, Bob," I said, as we turned in at the farm gate, "and I
let my imagination run away with me."

Bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment.

Breakfast was ready when I got in. There was a cold chicken on the
sideboard, deviled chicken on the table, and a trio of boiled eggs,
and a dish of scrambled eggs. I helped myself to the latter and sat
down.

Ukridge was sorting the letters.

"Morning, Garny," he said. "One for you, Millie."

"It's from Aunt Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ukridge, looking at the
envelope.

"Wish she'd inclose a check. She could spare it."

"I think she would, dear, if she knew how much it was needed. But I
don't like to ask her. She's so curious and says such horrid things."

"She does," said Ukridge gloomily. He probably spoke from experience.
"Two for you, Sebastian. All the rest for me. Eighteen of them, and
all bills."

He spread them out on the table like a pack of cards, and drew one at
a venture.

"Whiteley's," he said. "Getting jumpy. Are in receipt of my favor of
the 7th inst, and are at a loss to understand--all sorts of things.
Would like something on account."

"Grasping of them," I said.

"They seem to think I'm doing it for fun. How can I let them have
their money when there isn't any?"

"Sounds difficult."

"Here's one from Dorchester--Smith, the man I got the gramophone from.
Wants to know when I'm going to settle up for sixteen records."

"Sordid man!"

I wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but Ukridge was one of
those men who compel one's attention when they are talking.

"The chicken men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay up for
the first lot of hens. Considering that they all died of roop, and
that I was going to send them back, anyhow, after I'd got them to
hatch out a few chickens, I call that cool. I can't afford to