“I’m sorry, old man, but it had to be. I could never tell that the old lady might not take it into her head to come round to my rooms about something. I’d thrown out—mistakenly, I realise now—an occasional suggestion about tea there some afternoon. So I had to park the bird with you. I’ll take it away to-morrow.” “You’ll take it away to-night!” “Not to-night, old man,” pleaded Ukridge. “First thing to-morrow. You won’t find it any trouble. Just throw it a word or two every now and then and give it a bit of bread dipped in tea or something, and you won’t have to worry about it at all. And I’ll be round by noon at the latest to take it away. May Heaven reward you, laddie, for the way you have stood by me this day!” For a man like myself, who finds at least eight hours of sleep essential if that schoolgirl complexion is to be preserved, it was unfortunate that Leonard the parrot should have proved to be a bird of high-strung temperament, easily upset. The experiences which he had undergone since leaving home had, I was to discover, jarred his nervous system. He was reasonably tranquil during the hours preceding bedtime, and had started his beauty-sleep before I myself turned in; but at two in the morning something in the nature of a nightmare must have attacked him, for I was wrenched from slumber by the sound of a hoarse soliloquy in what I took to be some native dialect. This lasted without a break till two-fifteen, when he made a noise like a steam-riveter for some moments; after which, apparently soothed, he fell asleep again. I dropped off at about three, and at three-thirty was awakened by the strains of a deep-sea chanty. From then on our periods of sleep never seemed to coincide. It was a wearing night, and before I went out after breakfast I left imperative instructions with Bowles for Ukridge, on arrival, to be informed that, if anything went wrong with his plans for removing my guest that day, the mortality statistics among parrots would take an up-curve. Returning to my rooms in the evening, I was pleased to see that this manifesto had been taken to heart. The hat-box was gone, and about six o’clock Ukridge appeared, so beaming and effervescent that I understood what had happened before he spoke. “Corky, my boy,” he said, vehemently, “this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year, and you can quote me as saying so!” “Lady Lakenheath has given her consent?” “Not merely given it, but bestowed it blithely, jubilantly.” “It beats me,” I said. “What beats you?” demanded Ukridge, sensitive to the jarring note. “Well, I don’t want to cast any aspersions, but I should have thought the first thing she would have done would be to make searching enquiries about your financial position.” “My financial position? What’s wrong with my financial position? I’ve got considerably over fifty quid in the bank, and I’m on the eve of making an enormous fortune out of this Peppo stuff.”