Chapter 2
CHAPTER II. MR. AND MRS. S. F. Eukridge. I have often thought that Who's Who, though a bulky and well-meaning volume, omits too many of England's greatest men. It is not comprehensive enough. I am in it, nestling among the G's.
Garnet, Jeremy. O.S. of late Henry Garnet, vicar of much middlefold, cellop. Author. Publications, The Outsider.
The Maneuvers of Arthur. Hobbies. Cricket, football, swimming, golf. Clubs. Arts.
But if you search among the ewes for Eucridge, Stanley, Fanshawe, details of whose tempestuous career would make really interesting reading, you find no mention of him. It seems unfair, though I imagine Eucridge bears it with fortitude. That much-enduring man has had a lifetime's training in bearing things with fortitude. He seemed in his customary jovial spirits now, as he dashed into the room, clinging on to the pince-nez, which even ginger-beer wire rarely
kept stable for two minutes together. My dear old man, he shouted, springing at me and seizing my hand in the grip like the bite of a horse. How are you, old buck? This is good. By Jove, this is fine, what? He dashed to the door and looked out. Come on, Millie, pick up the walk, Kiesis. Here's old Garnet, looking just the same as ever. Devilish handsome fellow.
You'll be glad you came in when you see him. Beats the zoo hollow. There appeared round the corner of Eucridge a young woman. She paused in the doorway and smiled pleasantly. Garney, old horse, said Eucridge with some pride.
This is her. The pride of the home. Companion of joys and sorrows and all the rest of it. In fact, in a burst of confidence, my wife. I bowed awkwardly.
The idea of Eucridge married was something too overpowering to be readily assimilated. Buck up, old horse, said Eucridge encouragingly. He had a painful habit of addressing all and sundry by that title. In his schoolmaster days, at one period of his vivid career, he and I had been colleagues on the staff of a private school,
He had made use of it interviewing the parents of new pupils, and the latter had gone away, as a rule, with a feeling that this must either be the easy manner of genius, or due to alcohol, and hoping for the best. He also used it to perfect strangers in the streets, and on one occasion had been heard to address a bishop by that title, rendering that dignitary, as Mr. Babu Jabberjee would put it, sotto voce, with gratification. "'Surprised to find me married, what? Garney, old boy!' Sinking his voice to a whisper almost inaudible on the other side of the street, "'Take my tip. Go and jump off the dock yourself. You'll feel another man.
Give up this bachelor business. It's a mugs game. I look on you bachelors as excrescences on the social system. I regard you, old man, purely and simply as a wart. Go and get married, laddie, go and get married. By gad, I've forgotten to pay the cabbie. Lend me a couple of Bob Garney, old chap. He was out of the door and on his way downstairs, before the echoes of his last remark had ceased to shake the window. I was left to entertain
Mrs. Eucridge. So far, her share in the conversation had been confined to the pleasant smile which was apparently her chief form of expression. Nobody talked very much when Eucridge was present. She sat on the edge of the armchair, looking very small and quiet. I was conscious of feeling a benevolent pity for her. If I had been a girl, I would have preferred to marry a volcano. A little of Eucridge, as his former headmaster had once said in
a moody, reflective voice, went a very long way. "'You and Stanley have known each other a long time, haven't you?' said the object of my commiseration, breaking the silence. "'Yes. Oh, yes, several years. We were masters at the same school.' Mrs. Eucridge leaned forward with round, shining eyes.
Really? Oh, how nice! she said ecstatically. Not yet, to judge from her expression and the tone of her voice, had she found any disadvantages attached to the arduous position of being Mrs. Stanley Eucridge. He's a wonderfully versatile man, I said. I believe he could do anything.
He'd have a jolly good try. Have you ever kept fowls? asked Mrs. Eucridge, with apparent irrelevance. I had not. She looked disappointed. I was hoping you might have had some experience. Stanley, of course, can turn his hand to anything. But I think experience is rather a good thing, don't you? Yes, but... I have bought a shilling book called Fowls and All About Them,
and this week's copy of C.A.C. C.A.C.? Chiefly about chickens. It's a paper, you know. But it's all rather hard to understand. You see, we—but here is Stanley. He will explain the whole thing. "'Well, garney old horse,' said Eucridge, re-entering the room after another energetic passage of the stairs. "'Years since I saw you. Still buzzing along?'
"'Still, so to speak, buzzing,' I assented. "'I was reading your last book the other day.' Yes, I said, gratified. How did you like it? Well, as a matter of fact, laddie, I didn't get beyond the third page, because the scurvy knave at the bookstall said he wasn't running a free library, and in one way and another there was a certain amount of unpleasantness. Still,
it seemed bright and interesting up to page three. But let's settle down and talk business. I've got a scheme for you, Garney old man. Yes, sir, the idea of a thousand years. Now listen to me for a moment. Let me get a word in edgeways.
He sat down on the table and dragged up a chair as a leg rest. Then he took off his pince-nez, wiped them, readjusted the ginger-beer wire behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of his grey flannel trousers several times, in the apparent hope of removing it, resumed. About Fowls. The subject was beginning to interest me. It showed a curious tendency to creep into the conversation of the Eucridge
family. I want you to give me your undivided attention for a moment. I was saying to my wife, as we came here, Garnet's the man. Clever devil, Garnet. Full of ideas, didn't I, Millie? "'Yes, dear.' "'Laddy,' said Eucridge impressively, "'we are going to keep fowls.'
He shifted himself farther onto the table and upset the inkpot. "'Never mind,' he said. "'It'll soak in. It's good for the texture. Or am I thinking of tobacco ash on the carpet?
Well, never mind. Listen to me. When I said that we were going to keep fowls, I didn't mean in a small, piffling sort of way. two cocks and a couple of hens and a golf ball for a nest egg.
We are going to do it on a large scale. We are going to run a chicken farm. A chicken farm, echoed Mrs. Eucridge, with an affectionate and admiring glance at her husband. Ah, I said, feeling my responsibilities as chorus, a chicken farm.
I've thought it all over, laddie, and it's clear as mud. No expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and the money streaming in faster than you can bank it. Winter and summer underclothing, my bonnie boy, lined with crackling Bradberries. It's the idea of a lifetime.
Now listen to me for a moment. You get your hen. One hen? Call it one for the sake of argument. It makes my calculations clearer.
Very well, then. Harriet the hen. You get her. Do you follow me so far? Yes, you get a hen. I told you Garnet was a dashed, bright fellow, said Eucridge, approvingly to his attentive wife. Notice the way he keeps right after one's ideas, like a bloodhound. Well, where was I? You'd just got a hen. Exactly. The hen. Priscilla the pullet. Well,
it lays an egg every day of the week. You sell the eggs, six for half a crown. Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit, at least a couple of bob on every dozen eggs. What do you think of that?' "'I think I'd like to overhaul the figures in case of error.' "'Error!' shouted Eugridge, pounding the table till it groaned. "'Error! Not a bit of it! Can't you follow a simple calculation like that?'
Oh, I forgot to say that you get, and here is the nub of the thing, you get your first hen on tick. Anybody will be glad to let you have the hen on tick. Well, then you get this hen, this first original hen, this on tick hen, you let it set and hatch chickens. Now, follow me closely. Suppose you have a dozen hens.
Very well, then. When each of the dozen has a dozen chickens. you send the old hens back to the chappies you borrowed them from, with thanks for the kind loan, and there you are, starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickens to your name. And after that, when the chickens grow up and begin to lay, all you have to do is sit back in
your chair and endorse the big checks. Isn't that so, Millie? Yes, dear. We've fixed it all up. Do you know Combe Regis in Dorsetshire? On the borders of Devon. Bathing, sea air, splendid scenery. Just the place for a chicken farm. A friend of Millie's, girl she knew at school, has lent us a topping old house, with large grounds. All we've got to do is get in the fowls. I've ordered the first lot. We shall find them waiting for us when we arrive.
Well, I said, I'm sure I wish you luck. Mind you, let me know how you get on. Let you know, roared Eucridge. Why, my dear old horse, you're coming with us. Am I? I said blankly.
Certainly you are. We shall take no refusal. Will we, Millie? No, dear. Of course not.
No refusal of any sort. Back up tonight and meet us at Waterloo tomorrow. It's awfully good of you. Not a bit of it. Not a bit of it.
This is pure business. I was saying to Millie as we came along that you were the very man for this. A man with your flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm. Absolutely invaluable. You see, proceeded Eucridge, I'm one of those practical fellows.
The hard-headed type. I go straight ahead, following my nose. What you want in a business of this sort is a touch of the dreamer to help out the practical mind. We look to you for suggestions, laddie. Flashes of inspiration and all that sort of thing. Of course, you take your share of the profits. That's understood. Yes, yes, I must insist. Strict business between friends. Now, taking at that, at a conservative
of estimate, the net profits for the first fiscal year amount to five thousand. No, better be on the safe side. Say, four thousand five hundred pounds. But we'll arrange all that end of it when we get down there. Millie will look after that. She's the secretary of the concern. She's been writing letters to people asking for hens. So you see it's a thoroughly organized business. How many hen letters did you write last week, old girl?
Ten, dear. Eucridge turned triumphantly to me. You hear? Ten! Ten letters asking for hens. That's the way to succeed. Push and enterprise. Six of them haven't answered, Stanley, dear, and the rest refused. Immaterial, said Eucridge with a grand gesture. That doesn't matter. The point is that the letters were written. It shows we are solid and practical. Well, now, "'Can you get your things ready by to-morrow, garney old horse?'
Strange how one reaches an epic-making moment in one's life without recognizing it. If I had refused that invitation, I would not have, at any rate, I would have missed a remarkable experience. It is not given to everyone to see Stanley Fansaw Eucridge manage a chicken farm. I was thinking of going somewhere where I could get some golf, I said undecidedly.
"'Comb Regis is just the place for you, then. Perfect hotbed of golf, full of the finest players. Can't throw a brick without hitting an amateur champion. Grand links at the top of the hill not half a mile from the farm. Bring your clubs. You'll be able to play in the afternoons. Get through serious work by lunchtime.' "'You know,' I said, "'I am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls. I just know
enough to help myself to bread sauce when I see one, but no more. Excellent! You're just the man. You will bring to the work a mind unclouded by theories. You will act solely by the light of your intelligence, and you've got lots of that. That novel of yours showed the most extraordinary intelligence, at least as far as the blighter at the bookstall would let me read. I wouldn't have a professional chicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. If he applied to me, I should
simply send him away. Natural intelligence is what we want. Then we can rely on you.' "'Very well,' I said slowly. "'It's very kind of you to ask me.' "'Business, laddie. Pure business. Very well, then. We shall catch the eleven-twenty at Waterloo. Don't miss it. Look out for me on the platform. If I see you first, I'll shout.
