Ukridge Stories - P. G. Wodehouse (e book free reading TXT) 📗

“Balbriggan, Frederick, in the next street,” said Ukridge, in a tone that brooked no argument.

I suppose the spectacle of the daughter of the house rolling up to the front door in a Daimler is unusual in Peabody Road, Clapham Common. At any rate, we had hardly drawn up when Balbriggan began to exude its occupants in platoons. Father, mother, three small sisters, and a brace of brothers were on the steps in the first ten seconds. They surged down the garden path in a solid mass.

Ukridge was at his most spacious. Quickly establishing himself on the footing of a friend of the family, he took charge of the whole affair. Introductions sped to and fro, and in a few moving words he explained the situation, while I remained mute and insignificant in my corner and Frederick the chauffeur stared at his oil-gauge with a fathomless eye.

“Couldn’t have forgiven myself, Mr. Price, if anything had happened to Miss Price. Fortunately my chauffeur is an excellent driver and swerved just in time. You showed great presence of mind, Frederick,” said Ukridge, handsomely, “great presence of mind.”

Frederick continued to gaze aloofly at his oil-gauge.

“What a lovely car, Mr. Ukridge!” said the mother of the family.

“Yes?” said Ukridge, airily. “Yes, quite a good old machine.”

“Can you drive yourself?” asked the smaller of the two small brothers, reverently.

“Oh, yes. Yes. But I generally use Frederick for town work.”

“Would you and your friend care to come in for a cup of tea?” said Mrs. Price.

I could see Ukridge hesitate. He had only recently finished an excellent lunch, but there was that about the offer of a free meal which never failed to touch a chord in him. At this point, however, Frederick spoke.

“ ’Ere!” said Frederick.

“Eh?”

“Got to get on to Addington,” said Frederick, firmly.

Ukridge started as one waked from a dream. I really believe he had succeeded in persuading himself that the car belonged to him.

“Of course, yes. I was forgetting. I have to be at Addington almost immediately. Promised to pick up some golfing friends. Some other time, eh?”

“Any time you’re in the neighbourhood, Mr. Ukridge,” said Mr. Price, beaming upon the popular pet.

“Thanks, thanks.”

“Tell me, Mr. Ukridge,” said Mrs. Price. “I’ve been wondering ever since you told me your name. It’s such an unusual one. Are you any relation to the Miss Ukridge who writes books?”

“My aunt,” beamed Ukridge.

“No, really? I do love her stories so. Tell me⁠—”

Frederick, whom I could not sufficiently admire, here broke off what promised to be a lengthy literary discussion by treading on the self-starter, and we drove off in a flurry of good wishes and invitations. I rather fancy I heard Ukridge, as he leaned over the back of the car, promising to bring his aunt round to Sunday supper some time. He resumed his seat as we turned the corner and at once began to moralise.

“Always sow the good seed, laddie. Absolutely nothing to beat the good seed. Never lose the chance of establishing yourself. It is the secret of a successful life. Just a few genial words, you see, and here I am with a place I can always pop into for a bite when funds are low.”

I was shocked at his sordid outlook, and said so. He rebuked me out of his larger wisdom.

“It’s all very well to take that attitude, Corky my boy, but do you realise that a family like that has cold beef, baked potatoes, pickles, salad, blancmange, and some sort of cheese every Sunday night after Divine service? There are moments in a man’s life, laddie, when a spot of cold beef with blancmange to follow means more than words can tell.”

It was about a week later that I happened to go to the British Museum to gather material for one of those brightly informative articles of mine which appeared from time to time in the weekly papers. I was wandering through the place, accumulating data, when I came upon Ukridge with a small boy attached to each hand. He seemed a trifle weary, and he welcomed me with something of the gratification of the shipwrecked mariner who sights a sail.

“Run along and improve your bally minds, you kids,” he said to the children. “You’ll find me here when you’ve finished.”

“All right, Uncle Stanley,” chorused the children.

“Uncle Stanley?” I said, accusingly.

He winced a little. I had to give him credit for that.

“Those are the Price kids. From Clapham.”

“I remember them.”

“I’m taking them out for the day. Must repay hospitality, Corky my boy.”

“Then you have really been inflicting yourself on those unfortunate people?”

“I have looked in from time to time,” said Ukridge, with dignity.

“It’s just over a week since you met them. How often have you looked in?”

“Couple of times, perhaps. Maybe three.”

“To meals?”

“There was a bit of browsing going on,” admitted Ukridge.

“And now you’re Uncle Stanley!”

“Fine, warmhearted people,” said Ukridge, and it seemed to me that he spoke with a touch of defiance. “Made me one of the family right from the beginning. Of course, it cuts both ways. This afternoon, for instance, I got landed with those kids. But, all in all, taking the rough with the smooth, it has worked out distinctly on the right side of the ledger. I own I’m not over keen on the hymns after Sunday supper, but the supper, laddie, is undeniable. As good a bit of cold beef,” said Ukridge, dreamily, “as I ever chewed.”

“Greedy brute,” I said, censoriously.

“Must keep body and soul together, old man. Of course, there are one or two things about the business that are a bit embarrassing. For instance, somehow or other they seem to have got the idea that that car we turned up in that day belongs to me, and the kids are always pestering me to take them for a ride. Fortunately I’ve managed to square Frederick, and he thinks he can arrange for a spin or two during the next few days. And then Mrs. Price keeps asking me to bring my aunt round for a cup of tea and a