Love Among the Chickens. Пелам Гренвилл Вудхаус

      They had a momentary vision of an excited dog, framed in the doorway.

      ​"I wonder when those fowls are going to arrive. They should have been here today. If they don't come to-morrow, I shall lodge a complaint. There must be no slackness. They must bustle about. After tea I'll show you the garden, and we will choose a place for a fowl run. To-morrow we must buckle to. Serious work will begin immediately after breakfast."

      "Suppose," said Garnet, "the fowls arrive before we are ready for them?"

      "Why, then, they must wait."

      "But you can't keep fowls cooped up indefinitely in a crate. I suppose they will come in a crate. I don't know much about these things."

      "Oh, that'll be all right. There's a basement to this house. We'll let 'em run about there till we're ready for them. .There's always a way of doing things if you look for it."

      "I hope you are going to let the hens ​hatch some of the eggs, Stanley, dear," said Mrs. Ukridge. "I should so love to have some dear little chickens."

      "Of course," said Ukridge. "My idea was this: These people will send us fifty fowls of sorts. That means—call it forty eggs a day. Let 'em hatch out thirty a day, and we will use the other ten for the table. We shall want at least ten. Well, I'm hanged, that dog again! Where's that jug?"

      But this time an unforeseen interruption prevented the maneuver from being the success it had been before. Garnet had turned the handle, and was just about to pull the door open, while Ukridge, looking like some modern and dilapidated version of Discobolus, stood beside him with his jug poised, when a hoarse voice spoke from the window.

      "Stand still!" said the voice, "or I'll corpse you."

      ​Garnet dropped the handle, Ukridge dropped the jug, Mrs. Ukridge screamed.

      At the window, with a double-barreled gun in his hands, stood a short, square, redheaded man. The muzzle of his gun, which rested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the third button of Garnet's waistcoat. With a distant recollection of the Deadwood Dick literature of his childhood, Garnet flung both hands above his head.

      Ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion.

      "Beale!" he shouted. "You scoundrelly, unprincipled blackguard! What are you doing with that gun? Why were you out? What have you been doing? Why did you shout like that? Look what you've made me do."

      He pointed to the floor. Broken crockery, spreading water, his own shoes—exceedingly old tennis shoes—well soaked, ​attested the fact that damage had been done.

      "Lor'! Mr. Ukridge, sir, is that you? " said the red-headed man calmly. "I thought you was burglars."

      A sharp bark from the other side of the kitchen door, followed by a renewal of the scratching, drew Mr. Beale's attention to his faithful hound.

      "That's Bob," he said.

      "I don't know what you call the brute," said Ukridge. "Come in and tie him up."

      "'Ow am I to get in, Mr. Ukridge, sir?"

      "Come in through the window, and mind what you're doing with that gun. After you've finished with the dog, I should like a brief chat with you, if you can spare the time and have no other engagements."

      Mr. Beale, having carefully deposited his gun against the wall of the kitchen, ​and dropped a pair of very limp rabbits with a thud to the floor, proceeded to climb through the window. This operation performed, he stood on one side while the besieged garrison passed out by the same road.

      "You will find me in the garden, Beale," said Ukridge. "I have one or two little things to say to you."

      Mr. Beale grinned affably.

      The cool air of the garden was grateful after the warmth of the kitchen. It was a pretty garden, or would have been, if it had not been so neglected. Garnet seemed to see himself sitting in a deck chair on the lawn, looking through the leaves of the trees at the harbor below. It was a spot, he felt, in which it would be an easy and pleasant task to shape the plot of his novel. He was glad he had come. About now, outside his lodgings in town, a particularly lethal barrel organ would be striking up the latest ​revolting air with which the halls had inflicted London.

      "Here you are, Beale," said Ukridge, as the red-headed man approached. "Now, then, what have you to say?"

      The hired man looked thoughtful for a while, then observed that it was a fine evening. Garnet felt that he was begging the question. He was a strong, healthy man, and should have scorned to beg.

      "Fine evening?" shouted Ukridge. "What—on—earth has that got to do with it? I want to know why you and Mrs. Beale were both out when we arrived?"

      "The missus went to Axminster, Mr. Ukridge, sir."

      "She had no right to go to Axminster. I don't pay her large sums to go to Axminster. You knew I was coming this evening."

      "No, Mr. Ukridge, sir."

      "You didn't!"

      ​"No, Mr. Ukridge, sir."

      "Beale," said Ukridge with studied calm, " one of us two is a fool."

      "I noticed that, sir."

      "Let us sift this matter to the bottom. You got my letter?"

      "No, Mr. Ukridge, sir."

      "My letter saying that I should arrive to-night. You did not get it?"

      "No, sir."

      "Now look here, Beale," said Ukridge, " I am certain that that letter was posted. I remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. It is not there now. See. These are all the contents of my—well, I'm hanged!"

      He stood looking at the envelope he had produced from his breast pocket. Mr. Beale coughed.

      "Beale," said Ukridge, " you—er—there seems to have been a mistake."

      "Yes, sir."

      ​"You are not so much to blame as I thought."

      "No, sir."

      "Anyhow," said Ukridge, in inspired tones, "I'll go and slay that infernal dog. Where's your gun, Beale?"

      But better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a cold but pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came out unexpectedly strong with brainy and diverting tricks.