it's not well. See, it's lying
down. 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 of
birds."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Ukridge. "We'll ask Beale. He once
lived 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, carrying
a 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 expression
on his face.

"Well?" said Ukridge.

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

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

"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 word
painting.

"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 roop
thing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off to
farmer Leigh at Up Lyme, and give him my compliments, and ask him what
he 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 shortly
after our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in
their ailing families.

The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. At intervals it
passes over a stream by means of foot bridges. The stream curls
through 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 hidden
from my view. I