“George Tupper!”—Ukridge’s eyes dimmed with a not unmanly emotion—“George Tupper! By Gad, that fellow is the salt of the earth. Good, loyal fellow! A true friend. A man you can rely on. Upon my Sam, if there were more fellows about like old Tuppy, there wouldn’t be all this modern pessimism and unrest. Did he seem to have any idea where he could raise a bit of capital for me?” “Yes. He went round to tell your aunt about your coming down here to train those Pekes, and——What’s the matter?” A fearful change had come over Ukridge’s jubilant front. His eyes bulged, his jaw sagged. With the addition of a few feet of grey whiskers he would have looked exactly like the recent Mr. Nickerson. “My aunt?” he mumbled, swaying on the door-handle. “Yes. What’s the matter? He thought, if he told her all about it, she might relent and rally round.” The sigh of a gallant fighter at the end of his strength forced its way up from Ukridge’s mackintosh-covered bosom. “Of all the dashed, infernal, officious, meddling, muddling, fat-headed, interfering asses,” he said, wanly, “George Tupper is the worst.” “What do you mean?” “The man oughtn’t to be at large. He’s a public menace.” “But——” “Those dogs _belong_ to my aunt. I pinched them when she chucked me out!” Inside the cottage the Pekingese were still yapping industriously. “Upon my Sam,” said Ukridge, “it’s a little hard.” I think he would have said more, but at this point a voice spoke with a sudden and awful abruptness from the interior of the cottage. It was a woman’s voice, a quiet, steely voice, a voice, it seemed to me, that suggested cold eyes, a beaky nose, and hair like gun-metal. “Stanley!” That was all it said, but it was enough. Ukridge’s eye met mine in a wild surmise. He seemed to shrink into his mackintosh like a snail surprised while eating lettuce. “Stanley!” “Yes, Aunt Julia?” quavered Ukridge. “Come here. I wish to speak to you.” “Yes, Aunt Julia.” I sidled out into the road. Inside the cottage the yapping of the Pekingese had become quite hysterical. I found myself trotting, and then—though it was a warm day—running quite rapidly. I could have stayed if I had wanted to, but somehow I did not want to. Something seemed to tell me that on this holy domestic scene I should be an intruder. What it was that gave me that impression I do not know—probably vision or the big, broad, flexible outlook. CHAPTER II UKRIDGE’S ACCIDENT SYNDICATE “Half a minute, laddie,” said Ukridge. And, gripping my arm, he brought me to a halt on the outskirts of the little crowd which had collected about the church door. It was a crowd such as may be seen any morning during the London mating-season outside any of the churches which nestle in the quiet squares between Hyde Park and the King’s Road, Chelsea.