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 XII

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."

"So am I," I said, "and I don't feel like imitating your wife's proud
reserve. I never want to see a chicken again. As for eggs, they are far
too much for us."

For the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat. We
had had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken and eggs
for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. Meals became a
nuisance, and Mrs. Beale complained bitterly that we did not give her a
chance. She was a cook who would have graced an alderman's house and
served up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this remote
corner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and roast
chicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. Mr. Whistler, set to paint
sign-boards for public-houses, might have felt