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

“Of course. By all means. My idea,” said Ukridge, “was this. These people will send us fifty fowls of sorts. That means—call it forty– five eggs a day. Let ‘em … Well, I’m hanged! There’s that dog again. Where’s the jug?”

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

“Stand still!” said the voice, “or I’ll corpse you!”

I dropped the handle. Ukridge dropped the jug. Mrs. Ukridge dropped her tea-cup. At the window, with a double-barrelled gun in his hands, stood a short, square, red-headed man. The muzzle of his gun, which rested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the third button of my waistcoat.

Ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion.

“Beale! You scoundrelly, unprincipled, demon! What the devil 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. The very old pair of tennis shoes which he wore were by this time generously soaked with the spilled water.

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

A short 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. And mind what you’re doing with that gun. After you’ve finished with the dog, I should like a brief chat with you, laddie, if you can spare the time and have no other engagements.”