"A gentleman called to see you when you were out last night, sir,"said Mrs. Medley, my landlady, removing the last of the breakfastthings.

"Yes?" I said, in my affable way.

"A gentleman," said Mrs. Medley meditatively, "with a very powerfulvoice.""Caruso?""Sir?""I said, did he leave a name?""Yes, sir. Mr. Ukridge.""Oh, my sainted aunt!""Sir!""Nothing, nothing.""Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley, withdrawing from the presence.

Ukridge! Oh, hang it! I had not met him for years, and, glad as I am,as a general thing, to see the friends of my youth when they drop infor a chat, I doubted whether I was quite equal to Ukridge at themoment. A stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of thewords, he was a trifle too jumpy for a man of my cloistered andintellectual life, especially as just now I was trying to plan out anew novel, a tricky job demanding complete quiet and seclusion. It hadalways been my experience that, when Ukridge was around, things beganto happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible.

Ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows themoney from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroilingyou in a fight with a cabman. I have gone to Covent Garden balls withUkridge, and found myself legging it down Henrietta Street in the greydawn, pursued by infuriated costermongers.

I wondered how he had got my address, and on that problem light wasimmediately cast by Mrs. Medley, who returned, bearing an envelope.

"It came by the morning post, sir, but it was left at Number Twenty bymistake.""Oh, thank you.""Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley.

I recognised the handwriting. The letter, which bore a Devonshirepostmark, was from an artist friend of mine, one Lickford, who was atpresent on a sketching tour in the west. I had seen him off atWaterloo a week before, and I remember that I had walked away from thestation wishing that I could summon up the energy to pack and get offto the country somewhere. I hate London in July.

The letter was a long one, but it was the postscript which interestedme most.

" . . . By the way, at Yeovil I ran into an old friend of ours,Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, of all people. As large as life--quite six foot two, and tremendously filled out. I thought he wasabroad. The last I heard of him was that he had started for BuenosAyres in a cattle ship, with a borrowed pipe by way of luggage. Itseems he has been in England for some time. I met him in therefreshment-room at Yeovil Station. I was waiting for a down train; hehad changed on his way to town. As I opened the door, I heard a hugevoice entreating the lady behind the bar to 'put it in a pewter'; andthere was S. F. U. in a villainous old suit of grey flannels (I'llswear it was the one he had on last time I saw him) with pince-neztacked on to his ears with ginger-beer wire as usual, and a couple ofinches of bare neck showing between the bottom of his collar and thetop of his coat--you remember how he could never get a stud to do itswork. He also wore a mackintosh, though it was a blazing day.

　　"He greeted me with effusive shouts. Wouldn't hear of my standing theracket. Insisted on being host. When we had finished, he fumbled inhis pockets, looked pained and surprised, and drew me aside. 'Lookhere, Licky, old horse,' he said, 'you know I never borrow money. It'sagainst my principles. But I /must/ have a couple of bob. Can you, mydear good fellow, oblige me with a couple of bob till next Tuesday?

　　I'll tell you what I'll do. (In a voice full of emotion). I'll let youhave this (producing a beastly little threepenny bit with a hole in itwhich he had probably picked up in the street) until I can pay youback. This is of more value to me than I can well express, Licky, myboy. A very, very dear friend gave it to me when we parted, years ago. . . It's a wrench . . . Still,--no, no . . . You must take it, youmust take it. Licky, old man, shake hands, old horse. Shake hands, myboy.' He then tottered to the bar, deeply moved, and paid up out ofthe five shillings which he had made it as an after-thought. He askedafter you, and said you were one of the noblest men on earth. I gavehim your address, not being able to get out of it, but if I were you Ishould fly while there is yet time."It seemed to me that the advice was good and should be followed. Ineeded a change of air. London may have suited Doctor Johnson, but inthe summer time it is not for the ordinary man. What I wanted, toenable me to give the public of my best (as the reviewer of a weeklypaper, dealing with my last work, had expressed a polite hope that Iwould continue to do) was a little haven in the country somewhere.

　　I rang the bell.

　　"Sir?" said Mrs. Medley.

　　"I'm going away for a bit," I said.

　　"Yes, sir.""I don't know where. I'll send you the address, so that you canforward letters.""Yes, sir.""And, if Mr. Ukridge calls again . . ."At this point a thunderous knocking on the front door interrupted me.

　　Something seemed to tell me who was at the end of that knocker. Iheard Mrs. Medley's footsteps pass along the hall. There was the clickof the latch. A volume of sound rushed up the stairs.

　　"Is Mr. Garnet in? Where is he? Show me the old horse. Where is theman of wrath? Exhibit the son of Belial."There followed a violent crashing on the stairs, shaking the house.

　　"Garnet! Where are you, laddie? Garnet!! GARNET!!!!!"Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge was in my midst.