“No, sir.”
“My letter saying that I should arrive to-day. You didn’t get it?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, look here, Beale, this is absurd. 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 which he had produced from his breast-pocket. A soft smile played over Mr. Beale’s wooden face. He 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.”
There was a silence.
“Anyhow,” said Ukridge in inspired tones, “I’ll go and slay that infernal dog. I’ll teach him to tear my door to pieces. 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 ingenious and diverting tricks.
Chapter 5.
Buckling to
Sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke me next day as distant clocks were striking eight. It was a lovely morning, cool and fresh. The grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkled in the sun. A thrush, who knew all about early birds and their perquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the worm with a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. In the ivy a colony of sparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. On the gravel in front of the house lay the mongrel, Bob, blinking lazily.
The gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing. I dressed quickly and went out. Bob rose to meet me, waving an absurdly long tail. The hatchet was definitely buried now. That little matter of the jug of water was forgotten.
A walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by Bob, to the sleepy little town. I passed through the narrow street, and turned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination of pier and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist.