“Yes, and the first bachelor he met would draw him into a corner and tell him his aunt was down with whooping-cough, and the chump would heave a sigh and stick his chin out to be walloped. A fellow’s got no business to have red hair if he isn’t going to live up to it. And yet,” said Ukridge, wistfully, “I’ve seen that man—it was in a dance-hall at Naples—I’ve seen him take on at least eleven Italians simultaneously. But then, one of them had stuck a knife about three inches into his leg. He seems to need something like that to give him ambition.” “I don’t see how you are going to arrange to have him knifed just before each fight.” “No,” said Ukridge, mournfully. “What are you going to do about his future? Have you any plans?” “Nothing definite. My aunt was looking for a companion to attend to her correspondence and take care of the canary last time I saw her. I might try to get the job for him.” And with a horrid, mirthless laugh Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge borrowed five shillings and passed out into the night. I did not see Ukridge for the next few days, but I had news of him from our mutual friend George Tupper, whom I met prancing in uplifted mood down Whitehall. “I say,” said George Tupper without preamble, and with a sort of dazed fervour, “they’ve given me an under-secretaryship.” I pressed his hand. I would have slapped him on the back, but one does not slap the backs of eminent Foreign Office officials in Whitehall in broad daylight, even if one has been at school with them. “Congratulations,” I said. “There is no one whom I would more gladly see under-secretarying. I heard rumours of this from Ukridge.” “Oh, yes, I remember I told him it might be coming off. Good old Ukridge! I met him just now and told him the news, and he was delighted.” “How much did he touch you for?” “Eh? Oh, only five pounds. Till Saturday. He expects to have a lot of money by then.” “Did you ever know the time when Ukridge didn’t expect to have a lot of money?” “I want you and Ukridge to come and have a bit of dinner with me to celebrate. How would Wednesday suit you?” “Splendidly.” “Seven-thirty at the Regent Grill, then. Will you tell Ukridge?” “I don’t know where he’s got to. I haven’t seen him for nearly a week. Did he tell you where he was?” “Out at some place at Barnes. What was the name of it?” “The White Hart?” “That’s it.” “Tell me,” I said, “how did he seem? Cheerful?” “Very. Why?” “The last time I saw him he was thinking of giving up the struggle. He had had reverses.”