Love Among the Chickens P. G. Wodehouse (ink ebook reader .txt) 📖

My objections were never more absolute. You detain me in the water, sir, till I am blue, sir, blue with cold, in order to listen to the most preposterous and impudent nonsense I ever heard.”

This was unjust. If he had listened attentively from the first and avoided interruptions and had not behaved like a submarine we should have got through the business in half the time.

I said so.

“Don’t talk to me, sir,” he replied, hobbling off to his dressing-tent. “I will not listen to you. I will have nothing to do with you. I consider you impudent, sir.”

“I assure you it was unintentional.”

“Isch!” he said⁠—being the first occasion and the last on which I have ever heard that remarkable monosyllable proceed from the mouth of man. And he vanished into his tent.

“Laddie,” said Ukridge solemnly, “do you know what I think?”

“Well?”

“You haven’t clicked, old horse!” said Ukridge.

XX Scientific Golf

People are continually writing to the papers⁠—or it may be one solitary enthusiast who writes under a number of pseudonyms⁠—on the subject of sport, and the overdoing of the same by the modern young man. I recall one letter in which “Efficiency” gave it as his opinion that if the Young Man played less golf and did more drill, he would be all the better for it. I propose to report my doings with the professor on the links at some length, in order to refute this absurd view. Everybody ought to play golf, and nobody can begin it too soon. There ought not to be a single able-bodied infant in the British Isles who has not foozled a drive. To take my case. Suppose I had employed in drilling the hours I had spent in learning to handle my clubs. I might have drilled before the professor by the week without softening his heart. I might have ported arms and grounded arms and presented arms, and generally behaved in the manner advocated by “Efficiency,” and what would have been the result? Indifference on his part, or⁠—and if I overdid the thing⁠—irritation. Whereas, by devoting a reasonable portion of my youth to learning the intricacies of golf I was enabled⁠ ⁠…

It happened in this way.

To me, as I stood with Ukridge in the fowl-run in the morning following my maritime conversation with the professor, regarding a hen that had posed before us, obviously with a view to inspection, there appeared a man carrying an envelope. Ukridge, who by this time saw, as Calverley almost said, “under every hat a dun,” and imagined that no envelope could contain anything but a small account, softly and silently vanished away, leaving me to interview the enemy.

“Mr. Garnet, sir?” said the foe.

I recognised him. He was Professor Derrick’s gardener.

I opened the envelope. No. Father’s blessings were absent. The letter was in the third person. Professor Derrick begged to inform Mr. Garnet that, by defeating Mr. Saul Potter, he had qualified for the final round of the Combe Regis Golf Tournament, in which, he understood, Mr. Garnet was to be his opponent. If it would be convenient for Mr. Garnet to play off the match on the present afternoon, Professor Derrick would be obliged if he would be at the Club House at half-past two. If this hour and day were unsuitable, would he kindly arrange others. The bearer would wait.

The bearer did wait. He waited for half-an-hour, as I found it impossible to shift him, not caring to use violence on a man well stricken in years, without first plying him with drink. He absorbed more of our diminishing cask of beer than we could conveniently spare, and then trudged off with a note, beautifully written in the third person, in which Mr. Garnet, after numerous compliments and thanks, begged to inform Professor Derrick that he would be at the Club House at the hour mentioned.

“And,” I added⁠—to myself, not in the note⁠—“I will give him such a licking that he’ll brain himself with a cleek.”

For I was not pleased with the professor. I was conscious of a malicious joy at the prospect of snatching the prize from him. I knew he had set his heart on winning the tournament this year. To be runner-up two years in succession stimulates the desire for first place. It would be doubly bitter to him to be beaten by a newcomer, after the absence of his rival, the colonel, had awakened hope in him. And I knew I could do it. Even allowing for bad luck⁠—and I am never a very unlucky golfer⁠—I could rely almost with certainty on crushing the man.

“And I’ll do it,” I said to Bob, who had trotted up. I often make Bob the recipient of my confidences. He listens appreciatively, and never interrupts. And he never has grievances of his own. If there is one person I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I wish to air mine.

“Bob,” I said, running his tail through my fingers, “listen to me, my old University chum, for I have matured a dark scheme. Don’t run away. You know you don’t really want to go and look at that chicken. Listen to me. If I am in form this afternoon, and I feel in my bones that I shall be, I shall nurse the professor. I shall play with him. Do you understand the principles of match play at golf, Robert? You score by holes, not strokes. There are eighteen holes. All right, how was I to know that you knew that without my telling you? Well, if you understand so much about the game, you will appreciate my dark scheme. I shall toy with the professor, Bob. I shall let him get ahead, and then catch him up. I shall go ahead myself, and let him catch me up. I shall race him neck and neck till the very end. Then, when his hair has turned white with the strain, and he’s lost a couple of stone in weight, and his eyes