“Brave young feller,” said somebody.
I blushed. This was Fame.
“Jumped in, he did, sure enough, an’ saved the gentleman!”
“Be the old soul drownded?”
“That girt fule, ‘Arry ‘Awk!”
I was sorry for Mr. Hawk. Popular opinion was against him. What the professor said of him, when he recovered his breath, I cannot repeat,—not because I do not remember it, but because there is a line, and one must draw it. Let it be sufficient to say that on the subject of Mr. Hawk he saw eye to eye with the citizen who had described him as a “girt fule.” I could not help thinking that my fellow conspirator did well to keep out of it all. He was now sitting in the boat, which he had restored to its normal position, baling pensively with an old tin can. To satire from the shore he paid no attention.
The professor stood up, and stretched out his hand. I grasped it.
“Mr. Garnet,” he said, for all the world as if he had been the father of the heroine of “Hilda’s Hero,” “we parted recently in anger. Let me thank you for your gallant conduct and hope that bygones will be bygones.”
I came out strong. I continued to hold his hand. The crowd raised a sympathetic cheer.
I said, “Professor, the fault was mine. Show that you have forgiven me by coming up to the farm and putting on something dry.”
“An excellent idea, me boy; I /am/ a little wet.”
“A little,” I agreed.
We walked briskly up the hill to the farm.
Ukridge met us at the gate.
He diagnosed the situation rapidly.
“You’re all wet,” he said. I admitted it.
“Professor Derrick has had an unfortunate boating accident,” I explained.
“And Mr. Garnet heroically dived in, in all his clothes, and saved me life,” broke in the professor. “A hero, sir. A—/choo/!”
“You’re catching cold, old horse,” said Ukridge, all friendliness and concern, his little differences with the professor having vanished like thawed snow. “This’ll never do. Come upstairs and get into something of Garnet’s. My own toggery wouldn’t fit. What? Come along, come along, I’ll get you some hot water. Mrs. Beale—Mrs. /Beale/! We want a large can of hot water. At once. What? Yes, immediately. What? Very well then, as soon as you can. Now then, Garny, my boy, out with the duds. What do you think of this, now, professor? A sweetly pretty thing in grey flannel. Here’s a shirt. Get out of that wet toggery, and Mrs. Beale shall dry it. Don’t attempt to tell me about it till you’re changed. Socks! Socks forward. Show socks. Here you are. Coat? Try this blazer. That’s right—that’s right.”
He bustled about till the professor was clothed, then marched him downstairs, and gave him a cigar.
“Now, what’s all this? What happened?”
The professor explained. He was severe in his narration upon the unlucky Mr. Hawk.
“I was fishing, Mr. Ukridge, with me back turned, when I felt the boat rock violently from one side to the other to such an extent that I nearly lost me equilibrium, and then the boat upset. The man’s a fool, sir. I could not see what had happened, my back being turned, as I say.”
“Garnet must have seen. What happened, old horse?”
“It was very sudden,” I said. “It seemed to me as if the man had got an attack of cramp. That would account for it. He has the reputation of being a most sober and trustworthy fellow.”
“Never trust that sort of man,” said Ukridge. “They are always the worst. It’s plain to me that this man was beastly drunk, and upset the boat while trying to do a dance.”
“A great curse, drink,” said the professor. “Why, yes, Mr. Ukridge, I think I will. Thank you. Thank you. That will be enough. Not all the soda, if you please. Ah! this tastes pleasanter than salt water, Mr. Garnet. Eh? Eh? Ha—Ha!”
He was in the best of tempers, and I worked strenuously to keep him so. My scheme had been so successful that its iniquity did not worry me. I have noticed that this is usually the case in matters of this kind. It is the bungled crime that brings remorse.
“We must go round the links together one of these days, Mr. Garnet,” said the professor. “I have noticed you there on several occasions, playing a strong game. I have lately taken to using a wooden putter. It is wonderful what a difference it makes.”
Golf is a great bond of union. We wandered about the grounds discussing the game, the /entente cordiale/ growing more firmly established every moment.
“We must certainly arrange a meeting,” concluded the professor. “I shall be interested to see how we stand with regard to one another. I have improved my game considerably since I have been down here. Considerably.”
“My only feat worthy of mention since I started the game,” I said, “has been to halve a round with Angus M’Lurkin at St. Andrews.”
“/The/ M’Lurkin?” asked the professor, impressed.
“Yes. But it was one of his very off days, I fancy. He must have had gout or something. And I have certainly never played so well since.”
“Still—,” said the professor. “Yes, we must really arrange to meet.”
With Ukridge, who was in one of his less tactless moods, he became very friendly.
Ukridge’s ready agreement with his strictures on the erring Hawk had a great deal to do with this. When a man has a grievance, he feels drawn to those who will hear him patiently and sympathise. Ukridge was all sympathy.
“The man is an unprincipled scoundrel,” he said, “and should be torn limb from limb. Take my advice, and don’t go out with him again. Show him that you are not a man to be trifled with. The spilt child dreads the water, what? Human life isn’t safe with such men as Hawk roaming about.”
“You are perfectly right, sir. The man can have no defence. I shall not employ him again.”
I felt more than a little guilty while listening to this duet on the subject of the man whom I had lured from the straight and narrow path. But the professor would listen to no defence. My attempts at excusing him were ill received. Indeed, the professor shewed such signs of becoming heated that I abandoned my fellow-conspirator to his fate with extreme promptness. After all, an addition to the stipulated reward—one of these days—would compensate him for any loss which he might sustain from the withdrawal of the professor’s custom. Mr. Harry Hawk was in good enough case. I would see that he did not suffer.
Filled with these philanthropic feelings, I turned once more to talk with the professor of niblicks and approach shots and holes done in three without a brassy. We were a merry party at lunch—a lunch fortunately in Mrs. Beale’s best vein, consisting of a roast chicken and sweets. Chicken had figured somewhat frequently of late on our daily bill of fare.
We saw the professor off the premises in his dried clothes, and I turned back to put the fowls to bed in a happier frame of mind than I had known for a long time. I whistled rag-time airs as I worked.
“Rum old buffer,” said Ukridge meditatively, pouring himself out another whisky and soda. “My goodness, I should have liked to have seen him in the water. Why do I miss these good things?”
Chapter 12.
Some Emotions and Yellow Lupin
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. The coffers are low, deuced 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.”