Why is it, I wonder, that stories of Retribution calling at the wrongaddress strike us as funny instead of pathetic? I myself had beenamused by them many a time. In a book which I had read only a few daysbefore our cold-dinner party a shop-woman, annoyed with an omnibusconductor, had thrown a superannuated orange at him. It had found itsbillet not on him but on a perfectly inoffensive spectator. Themissile, said the writer, " 'it a young copper full in the hyeball." Ihad enjoyed this when I read it, but now that Fate had arranged aprecisely similar situation, with myself in the role of the youngcopper, the fun of the thing appealed to me not at all.

　　It was Ukridge who was to blame for the professor's regrettableexplosion and departure, and he ought by all laws of justice to havesuffered for it. As it was, I was the only person materially affected.

　　It did not matter to Ukridge. He did not care twopence one way or theother. If the professor were friendly, he was willing to talk to himby the hour on any subject, pleasant or unpleasant. If, on the otherhand, he wished to have nothing more to do with us, it did not worryhim. He was content to let him go. Ukridge was a self-sufficingperson.

　　But to me it was a serious matter. More than serious. If I have donemy work as historian with an adequate degree of skill, the readershould have gathered by this time the state of my feelings.

　　"I did not love as others do:

　　None ever did that I've heard tell of.

　　My passion was a by-word throughThe town she was, of course, the belle of."At least it was--fortunately--not quite that; but it was certainlygenuine and most disturbing, and it grew with the days. Somebody witha taste for juggling with figures might write a very readable page orso of statistics in connection with the growth of love. In some casesit is, I believe, slow. In my own I can only say that Jack's beanstalkwas a backward plant in comparison. It is true that we had not seen agreat deal of one another, and that, when we had met, our interviewhad been brief and our conversation conventional; but it is theintervals between the meeting that do the real damage. Absence--I donot claim the thought as my own--makes the heart grow fonder. And now,thanks to Ukridge's amazing idiocy, a barrier had been thrust betweenus. Lord knows, the business of fishing for a girl's heart issufficiently difficult and delicate without the addition of needlessobstacles. To cut out the naval miscreant under equal conditions wouldhave been a task ample enough for my modest needs. It was terrible tohave to re-establish myself in the good graces of the professor beforeI could so much as begin to dream of Phyllis. Ukridge gave me no balm.

　　"Well, after all," he said, when I pointed out to him quietly butplainly my opinion of his tactlessness, "what does it matter? OldDerrick isn't the only person in the world. If he doesn't want to knowus, laddie, we just jolly well pull ourselves together and staggeralong without him. It's quite possible to be happy without knowing oldDerrick. Millions of people are going about the world at this moment,singing like larks out of pure light-heartedness, who don't even knowof his existence. And, as a matter of fact, old horse, we haven't timeto waste making friends and being the social pets. Too much to do onthe farm. Strict business is the watchword, my boy. We must be thekeen, tense men of affairs, or, before we know where we are, we shallfind ourselves right in the gumbo.

　　"I've noticed, Garny, old horse, that you haven't been the whale forwork lately that you might be. You must buckle to, laddie. There mustbe no slackness. We are at a critical stage. On our work now dependsthe success of the speculation. Look at those damned cocks. They'realways fighting. Heave a stone at them, laddie, while you're up.

　　What's the matter with you? You seem pipped. Can't get the novel offyour chest, or what? You take my tip and give your brain a rest.

　　Nothing like manual labour for clearing the brain. All the doctors sayso. Those coops ought to be painted to-day or to-morrow. Mind you, Ithink old Derrick would be all right if one persevered--""--and didn't call him a fat little buffer and contradict everythinghe said and spoil all his stories by breaking in with chestnuts ofyour own in the middle," I interrupted with bitterness.

　　"My dear old son, he didn't mind being called a fat little buffer. Youkeep harping on that. It's no discredit to a man to be a fat littlebuffer. Some of the noblest men I have met have been fat littlebuffers. What was the matter with old Derrick was a touch of liver. Isaid to myself, when I saw ............