“The last letter from Harrod’s was quite pathetic,” said Mrs. Ukridge sadly.
I had a vision of an eggless London. I seemed to see homes rendered desolate and lives embittered by the slump, and millionaires bidding against one another for the few rare specimens which Ukridge had actually managed to despatch to Brompton and Bayswater.
Ukridge, having induced himself to be broad-minded for five minutes, now began to slip back to his own personal point of view and became once more the man with a grievance. His fleeting sympathy with the wrongs of Mr. Harrod and Mr. Whiteley disappeared.
“What it all amounts to,” he said complainingly, “is that they’re infernally unreasonable. I’ve done everything possible to meet them. Nothing could have been more manly and straightforward than my attitude. I told them in my last letter but three that I proposed to let them have the eggs on the /Times/ instalment system, and they said I was frivolous. They said that to send thirteen eggs as payment for goods supplied to the value of 25 pounds 1s. 8 1/2 d. was mere trifling. Trifling, I’ll trouble you! That’s the spirit in which they meet my suggestions. It was Harrod who did that. I’ve never met Harrod personally, but I’d like to, just to ask him if that’s his idea of cementing amiable business relations. He knows just as well as anyone else that without credit commerce has no elasticity. It’s an elementary rule. I’ll bet he’d have been sick if chappies had refused to let him have tick when he was starting his store. Do you suppose Harrod, when he started in business, paid cash down on the nail for everything? Not a bit of it. He went about taking people by the coat– button and asking them to be good chaps and wait till Wednesday week. Trifling! Why, those thirteen eggs were absolutely all we had over after Mrs. Beale had taken what she wanted for the kitchen. As a matter of fact, if it’s anybody’s fault, it’s Mrs. Beale’s. That woman literally eats eggs.”
“The habit is not confined to her,” I said.
“Well, what I mean to say is, she seems to bathe in them.”
“She says she needs so many for puddings, dear,” said Mrs. Ukridge. “I spoke to her about it yesterday. And of course, we often have omelettes.”
“She can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,” I urged.
“She can’t make them without breaking us, dammit,” said Ukridge. “One or two more omelettes, and we’re done for. No fortune on earth could stand it. We mustn’t have any more omelettes, Millie. We must economise. Millions of people get on all right without omelettes. I suppose there are families where, if you suddenly produced an omelette, the whole strength of the company would get up and cheer, led by father. Cancel the omelettes, old girl, from now onward.”
“Yes, dear. But—”
“Well?”
“I don’t /think/ Mrs. Beale would like that very much, dear. She has been complaining a good deal about chicken at every meal. She says that the omelettes are the only things that give her a chance. She says there are always possibilities in an omelette.”
“In short,” I said, “what you propose to do is deliberately to remove from this excellent lady’s life the one remaining element of poetry. You mustn’t do it. Give Mrs. Beale her omelettes, and let’s hope for a larger supply of eggs.”
“Another thing,” said Ukridge. “It isn’t only that there’s a shortage of eggs. That wouldn’t matter so much if only we kept hatching out fresh squads of chickens. I’m not saying the hens aren’t doing their best. I take off my hat to the hens. As nice a hard-working lot as I ever want to meet, full of vigour and earnestness. It’s that damned incubator that’s letting us down all the time. The rotten thing won’t work. /I/ don’t know what’s the matter with it. The long and the short of it is that it simply declines to incubate.”
“Perhaps it’s your dodge of letting down the temperature. You remember, you were telling me? I forget the details.”
“My dear old boy,” he said earnestly, “there’s nothing wrong with my figures. It’s a mathematical certainty. What’s the good of mathematics if not to help you work out that sort of thing? No, there’s something deuced wrong with the machine itself, and I shall probably make a complaint to the people I got it from. Where did we get the incubator, old girl?”
“Harrod’s, I think, dear,—yes, it was Harrod’s. It came down with the first lot of things.”
“Then,” said Ukridge, banging the table with his fist, while his glasses flashed triumph, “we’ve got ‘em. The Lord has delivered Harrod’s into our hand. Write and answer that letter of theirs to– night, Millie. Sit on them.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Tell ‘em that we’d have sent them their confounded eggs long ago, if only their rotten, twopenny-ha’penny incubator had worked with any approach to decency.” He paused. “Or would you be sarcastic, Garny, old horse? No, better put it so that they’ll understand. Say that I consider that the manufacturer of the thing ought to be in Colney Hatch—if he isn’t there already—and that they are scoundrels for palming off a groggy machine of that sort on me.”
“The ceremony of opening the morning’s letters at Harrod’s ought to be full of interest and excitement to-morrow,” I said.
This dashing counter-stroke seemed to relieve Ukridge. His pessimism vanished. He seldom looked on the dark side of things for long at a time. He began now to speak hopefully of the future. He planned out ingenious improvements. Our fowls were to multiply so rapidly and consistently that within a short space of time Dorsetshire would be paved with them. Our eggs were to increase in size till they broke records and got three-line notices in the “Items of Interest” column in the /Daily Mail/. Briefly, each hen was to become a happy combination of rabbit and ostrich.
“There is certainly a good time coming,” I said. “May it be soon. Meanwhile, what of the local tradesmen?”
Ukridge relapsed once more into gloom.
“They are the worst of the lot. I don’t mind the London people so much. They only write, and a letter or two hurts nobody. But when it comes to butchers and bakers and grocers and fishmongers and fruiterers and what not coming up to one’s house and dunning one in one’s own garden,—well it’s a little hard, what?”
“Oh, then those fellows I found you talking to yesterday were duns? I thought they were farmers, come to hear your views on the rearing of poultry.”
“Which were they? Little chap with black whiskers and long, thin man with beard? That was Dawlish, the grocer, and Curtis, the fishmonger. The others had gone before you came.”
It may be wondered why, before things came to such a crisis, I had not placed my balance at the bank at the disposal of the senior partner for use on behalf of the farm. The fact was that my balance was at the moment small. I have not yet in the course of this narrative gone into my pecuniary position, but I may state here that it was an inconvenient one. It was big with possibilities, but of ready cash there was but a meagre supply. My parents had been poor. But I had a wealthy uncle. Uncles are notoriously careless of the comfort of their nephews. Mine was no exception. He had views. He was a great believer in matrimony, as, having married three wives—not simultaneously—he had every right to be. He was also of opinion that the less money the young bachelor possessed, the better. The consequence was that he announced his intention of giving me a handsome allowance from the day that I married, but not an instant before. Till that glad day I would have to shift for myself. And I am bound to admit that—for an uncle—it was a remarkably sensible idea. I am also of the opinion that it is greatly to my credit, and a proof of my pure and unmercenary nature, that I did not instantly put myself up to be raffled for, or rush out into the streets and propose marriage to the first lady I met. But I was making quite enough with my pen to support myself, and, be it never so humble, there is something pleasant in a bachelor existence, or so I had thought until very recently.