“All right, pa,” said Miss Price, speaking for the first and last time. She seemed to be of a docile and equable disposition. I fancied I caught a not-displeased glance on its way to Ernie Finch. “And now, sir,” cried Mr. Price, “go!” “Right-o!” said Ukridge. But here the Creditor struck a business note. “And what,” he enquired, “about my one pound two and threepence?” It seemed for a moment that matters were about to become difficult. But Ukridge, ever ready-witted, found the solution. “Have you got one pound two and threepence on you, old man?” he said to me. And with my usual bad luck I had. We walked together down Peabody Road. Already Ukridge’s momentary discomfiture had passed. “It just shows, laddie,” he said, exuberantly, “that one should never despair. However black the outlook, old horse, never, never despair. That scheme of mine might or might not have worked—one cannot tell. But, instead of having to go to all the bother of subterfuge, to which I always object, here we have a nice, clean-cut solution of the thing without any trouble at all.” He mused happily for a moment. “I never thought,” he said, “that the time would come when I would feel a gush of kindly feeling towards Ernie Finch; but, upon my Sam, laddie, if he were here now, I would embrace the fellow. Clasp him to my bosom, dash it!” He fell once more into a reverie. “Amazing, old horse,” he proceeded, “how things work out. Many a time I’ve been on the very point of paying that blighter Grindlay his money, merely to be rid of the annoyance of having him always popping up, but every time something seemed to stop me. I can’t tell you what it was—a sort of feeling. Almost as if one had a guardian angel at one’s elbow guiding one. My gosh, just think where I would have been if I had yielded to the impulse. It was Grindlay blowing in that turned the scale. By gad, Corky my boy, this is the happiest moment of my life.” “It might be the happiest of mine,” I said, churlishly, “if I thought I should ever see that one pound two and threepence again.” “Now, laddie, laddie,” protested Ukridge, “these are not the words of a friend. Don’t mar a moment of unalloyed gladness. Don’t you worry, you’ll get your money back. A thousandfold!” “When?” “One of these days,” said Ukridge, buoyantly. “One of these days.” CHAPTER VIII THE LONG ARM OF LOONEY COOTE