Love Among the Chickens Read online

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  It would be interesting to know to what extent the work of authors isinfluenced by their private affairs. If life is flowing smoothly forthem, are the novels they write in that period of content colored withoptimism? And if things are running crosswise, do they work off theresultant gloom on their faithful public? If, for instance, Mr. W. W.Jacobs had toothache, would he write like Mr. Hall Caine? If MaximGorky were invited to lunch by the Czar, would he sit down and dashoff a trifle in the vein of Mr. Dooley? Probably great authors havethe power of detaching their writing self from their living, workadayself. For my own part, the frame of mind in which I now found myselfcompletely altered the scheme of my novel. I had designed it as alight-comedy effort. Here and there a page or two to steady thereader, and show him what I could do in the way of pathos if I caredto try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter. But nowgreat slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the scheme of it.Characters whom I had hitherto looked upon as altogether robustdeveloped fatal illnesses. A magnificent despondency became thekeynote of the book. Instead of marrying, my hero and heroine had abig scene in the last chapter, at the end of which she informed himthat she was already secretly wedded to another, a man with whom shehad not even a sporting chance of being happy. I could see myselfcorrecting proofs made pulpy by the tears of emotional printers.

  It would not do. I felt that I must make a determined effort to shakeoff my depression. More than ever the need for conciliating theprofessor was borne in upon me. Day and night I spurred my brain tothink of some suitable means of engineering a reconciliation.

  In the meantime I worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on thelinks, and swam about the harbor when the affairs of the farm did notrequire my attention.

  Things were not going very well on our model chicken farm. Littleaccidents marred the harmony of life in the fowl run. On one occasiona hen fell into a pot of tar, and came out an unspeakable object.Chickens kept straying into the wrong coops, and, in accordance withfowl etiquette, were promptly pecked to death by the resident. Edwinmurdered a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved from execution bythe tears of Mrs. Ukridge.

  In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism neverdeserted Ukridge. They were incidents, annoying, but in no wayaffecting the prosperity of the farm.

  "After all," he said, "what's one bird more or less? Yes, I know I wasangry when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but that wasmore for the principle of the thing. I'm not going to pay large sumsfor chickens so that a beastly cat can lunch well. Still, we've plentyleft, and the eggs are coming in better now, though we've a deal ofleeway to make up yet in that line. I got a letter from Whiteley'sthis morning asking when my first consignment was to arrive. You know,these people make a mistake in hurrying a man. It annoys him. Itirritates him. When we really get going, Garny, my boy, I shall dropWhiteley's. I shall cut them out of my list, and send my eggs to theirtrade rivals. They shall have a sharp lesson. It's a little hard. Heream I, worked to death looking after things down here, and these menhave the impertinence to bother me about their wretched business!"

  Things were not going very well on our model chickenfarm.]

  It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in avoice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about thepaddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis andmy wretched novel. I had just framed a more than usually murky scenefor use in the earlier part of the book, when Ukridge shouted to mefrom the fowl run.

  "Garnet, come here," he cried, "I want you to see the most astoundingthing."

  I joined him.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "Blest if I know. Look at those chickens. They've been doing that forthe last half hour."

  I inspected the chickens. There was certainly something the matterwith them. They were yawning broadly, as if we bored them. They stoodabout singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. It wasan uncanny spectacle.

  "What's the matter with them?"

  "It looks to me," I said, "as if they were tired of life. They seemhipped."

  "Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said Mrs.Ukridge sympathetically, "I'm sure it's not well. See, it's lyingdown. What _can_ be the matter with it?"

  "Can a chicken get a fit of the blues?" I asked. "Because, if so,that's what they've got. I never saw a more bored-looking lot ofbirds."

  "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Ukridge. "We'll ask Beale. He oncelived with an aunt who kept fowls. He'll know all about it. Beale!"

  No answer.

  "_Beale_!!"

  A sturdy form in shirt sleeves appeared through the bushes, carryinga boot. We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it.

  "Beale, you know about fowls. What's the matter with these chickens?"

  The hired retainer examined the _blase_ birds with a wooden expressionon his face.

  "Well?" said Ukridge.

  "The 'ole thing 'ere," said the hired retainer, "is these 'ere fowlshave bin and got the roop."

  I had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded quitehorrifying.

  "Is that what makes them yawn like that?" said Mrs. Ukridge.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Poor things!"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And have they all got it?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "What ought we to do?" asked Ukridge.

  The hired retainer perpended.

  "Well, my aunt, sir, when 'er fowls 'ad the roop, she give them snuff.Give them snuff, she did," he repeated with relish, "every morning."

  "Snuff!" said Mrs. Ukridge.

  "Yes, ma'am. She give them snuff till their eyes bubbled."

  Mrs. Ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of wordpainting.

  "And did it cure them?" asked Ukridge.

  "No, sir," responded the expert soothingly. "They died."

  "Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots," said Ukridge."You're no use. Wait a minute. Who would know about this infernal roopthing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off tofarmer Leigh at Up Lyme, and give him my compliments, and ask him whathe does when his fowls get the roop."

  "Yes, sir."

  "No, I'll go, Ukridge," I said, "I want some exercise."

  I whistled to Bob, who was investigating a mole heap in the paddock,and set off to consult farmer Leigh. He had sold us some fowls shortlyafter our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest intheir ailing families.

  The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. At intervals itpasses over a stream by means of foot bridges. The stream curlsthrough the meadows like a snake.

  And at the first of these bridges I met Phyllis.

  I came upon her quite suddenly. The other end of the bridge was hiddenfrom my view. I could hear somebody coming through the grass, but nottill I was on the bridge did I see who it was. We reached the bridgesimultaneously. She was alone. She carried a sketching block. Allnice girls sketch a little.

  There was room for one alone on the foot bridge, and I drew back tolet her pass.

  As it is the privilege of woman to make the first sign of recognition,I said nothing. I merely lifted my hat in a noncommitting fashion.

  "Are you going to cut me, I wonder?" I said to myself.

  She answered the unspoken question as I hoped it would be answered.

  "Mr. Garnet," she said, stopping at the end of the bridge.

  "Miss Derrick?"

  "I couldn't tell you so before, but I am so sorry this has happened."

  "You are very kind," I said, realizing as I said it the miserableinadequacy of the English language. At a crisis when I would havegiven a month's income to have said something neat, epigrammatic,suggestive, yet withal courteous and respectful, I could only find ahackneyed, unenthusiastic phrase which I should have used in acceptingan invitation from a bore to lunch with him at his club.
r />   "Of course you understand my friends must be my father's friends."

  "Yes," I said gloomily, "I suppose so."

  "So you must not think me rude if I--I--"

  "Cut me," said I with masculine coarseness.

  "Don't seem to see you," said she, with feminine delicacy, "when I amwith my father. You will understand?"

  "I shall understand."

  "You see"--she smiled--"you are under arrest, as Tom says."

  Tom!

  "I see," I said.

  "Good-by."

  "Good-by."

  I watched her out of sight, and went on to interview Mr. Leigh.

  We had a long and intensely uninteresting conversation about themaladies to which chickens are subject. He was verbose andreminiscent. He took me over his farm, pointing out as he wentDorkings and Cochin Chinas which he had cured of diseases generallyfatal, with, as far as I could gather, Christian Science principles.

  I left at last with instructions to paint the throats of the strickenbirds with turpentine--a task imagination boggled at, and one which Iproposed to leave exclusively to Ukridge and the hired retainer. As Ihad a slight headache, a visit to the Cob would, I thought, do megood. I had missed my bath that morning, and was in need of a breathof sea air.

  It was high tide, and there was deep water on three sides of the Cob.

  In a small boat in the offing Professor Derrick appeared, fishing. Ihad seen him engaged in this pursuit once or twice before. His onlycompanion was a gigantic boatman, by name Harry Hawk.

  I sat on the seat at the end of the Cob, and watched the professor. Itwas an instructive sight, an object lesson to those who hold thatoptimism has died out of the race. I had never seen him catch a fish.He did not look to me as if he were at all likely to catch a fish. Yethe persevered.

  There are few things more restful than to watch some one else busyunder a warm sun. As I sat there, my mind ranged idly over largesubjects and small. I thought of love and chicken farming. I mused onthe immortality of the soul. In the end I always returned to theprofessor. Sitting, as I did, with my back to the beach, I could seenothing but his boat. It had the ocean to itself.

  I began to ponder over the professor. I wondered dreamily if he werevery hot. I tried to picture his boyhood. I speculated on his future,and the pleasure he extracted from life.

  It was only when I heard him call out to Hawk to be careful, when amovement on the part of that oarsman set the boat rocking, that Ibegan to weave romances round him in which I myself figured.

  But, once started, I progressed rapidly. I imagined a sudden upset.Professor struggling in water. Myself (heroically): "Courage! I'mcoming!" A few rapid strokes. Saved! Sequel: A subdued professor,dripping salt water and tears of gratitude, urging me to become hisson-in-law. That sort of thing happened in fiction. It was a shamethat it should not happen in real life. In my hot youth I once hadseven stories in seven weekly penny papers in the same month alldealing with a situation of the kind. Only the details differed. In"Not Really a Coward," Vincent Devereux had rescued the earl'sdaughter from a fire, whereas in "Hilda's Hero" it was the peppery oldfather whom Tom Slingsby saved. Singularly enough, from drowning. Inother words, I, a very mediocre scribbler, had effected seven times ina single month what the powers of the universe could not manage once,even on the smallest scale.

  I was a little annoyed with the powers of the universe.

  * * * * *

  It was at precisely three minutes to twelve--for I had just consultedmy watch--that the great idea surged into my brain. At four minutes totwelve I had been grumbling impotently at Providence. By two minutesto twelve I had determined upon a manly and independent course ofaction.

  Briefly, it was this. Since dramatic accident and rescue would nothappen of its own accord, I would arrange one for myself. Hawk lookedto me the sort of man who would do anything in a friendly way for afew shillings.

  * * * * *

  That afternoon I interviewed Mr. Hawk at the Net and Mackerel.

  "Hawk," I said to him darkly, over a mystic and conspirator-like pot,"I want you, the next time you take Professor Derrick outfishing"--here I glanced round, to make sure that we were notoverheard--"to upset him."

  His astonished face rose slowly from the rim of the pot, like a fullmoon.

  "What 'ud I do that for?" he gasped.

  "Five shillings, I hope," said I; "but I am prepared to go to ten."

  He gurgled.

  I argued with the man. I was eloquent, but at the same time concise.My choice of words was superb. I crystallized my ideas into pithysentences which a child could have understood.

  At the end of half an hour he had grasped all the salient points ofthe scheme. Also he imagined that I wished the professor upset by wayof a practical joke. He gave me to understand that this was the typeof humor which was to be expected from a gentleman from London. I amafraid he must at one period of his career have lived at one of thosewatering places to which trippers congregate. He did not seem to thinkhighly of the Londoner.

  I let it rest at that. I could not give my true reason, and thisserved as well as any.

  At the last moment he recollected that he, too, would get wet when theaccident took place, and raised his price to a sovereign.

  A mercenary man. It is painful to see how rapidly the old simplespirit is dying out in rural districts. Twenty years ago a fishermanwould have been charmed to do a little job like that for a shilling.