Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1926-07-18

fkT ADDIE," said Stanley
FTatherstonehaNgh Ukridge,
that mu s,n,a.ss in -, man n.
bacco and slipping the
pouch absently into his pocket, "lis.
ten to me, you son Of Belial."
'What?" / said, retrieving the
pouch
DO you want to make an enormous
fortune?''
''I do"
"Then write my biography. Well
split the proceeds. I've been making
pretty close study of your stuff
lately, old horse, and it's all wrong.
The trouble with you is that you don't
plumb the well springs of human ma
ture and all that. You just think up
some yarn and shove 1t down. Now,
if you tackled my life. you'd have
something worth writing about. Pots
of money in 1t, my boy. We should
clean up at least $4,000 pounds
apiece"
''As much as that?"
Fully that. I'll tell you what.
You're a good chap. and we've been
pals for years. so I'll let you have my
share of the English serial rights for
hundred pounds down"
hundred pounds2'
"Well, then, I'll make it my share
of the English and American serial
rights for so.
Your collars come Off its stud"
Then I'll tell you what, old horse
said Ukridge, inspired. Just lend me
half a crown to be going on with"
If the leading incidents Of S. F.
Ukridge's disreputable career are to
be given to the public-and> not, as
some might suggest, decently hushed
up-I suppose am the man to write
them. Ukridge and / had been init
mate since the days of school. When
he was expelled no one missed him
more than /. An unfortunate bust
ness, this expulsion. Ukridge's gener-
GUS spirit, ever ill-attuned to school
rules, caused him eventually to break
the solemnest of them all by sneak
ing out at night to try his skill at the
coco-nut-shieS of the local village fair;
and his foresight in putting on scar
let whiskers and a false nose for the
expedition was completely neutral
lied by the fact that he absent.mind-
eddy wore his school cap throughout
the entire proceedings. He left the
next morning, regretted by ALL
After this there was a hiatus of
some years in our friendship. I was
at Cambridge, and Ukridge, as far as
I could gather from his rare letters
and the reports of mutual acquaint-
ances, fitting about the world like a
snipe. 1t was not until settled down
in London that he came back into my
life. We met in Piccadilly, one day.
Old associations are strong, and the
fact that he was about my build and
so could wear my socks and shirts
drew us very close together.
Then he disappeared again, and it
was month or more before I got
news of him.
TT was George Upper who brought
= the news. George was head of
the school in my last year, and he
promise of those early days. He is
In the foreign office, doing well.
Have you heard about Ukridge?"
said George Upper. HE has settled
down at last. Gone to live with an
aunt of his who owns one of those
big houses on Wimbledon Common.
A very rich woman. It will be the
making of the old chap"
l suppose he was right in a way,
but to me this tame subsistence in
Wimbledon seemed somehow an in
decent, almost tragic. end to a col
orful career. And when / met Uk-
ridge a week later my heart grew
heavier still.
1t was in Oxford street at the hour
when women come up from the sub.
urbs to shop; and he was standing
among the dogs and commissionaires
outside Selfridge'S. His arms were
full of parcels, his face was set in a
mask of wan discomfort and he was
so beautifully dressed that for an in
slant / did not recognize him. Every
thing which the correct man wears
was assembled on his person, from
the silk hat to the patent leather
boots. The boots pinched him, the
hat hurt his forehead and the collar
was worse than the hat and boots
combined.
"She makes me wear Them" he
said, jerking his head toward the in
terror of the store and uttering a
sharp howl as the movement caused
the collar to gouge his neck.
STILL, said, you must be having
a great time. George Upper tells
me that your aunt is rich. / suppose
you're living off the fat of the land"
'The browsing and sluicing are
good" admitted Ukridge. But it's a
wearing life, laddie. A wearing life,
old horse"
'"why don't you come and see me
eometimes?"
I'm not allowed out at night"
well, shall I come and see your
Don't dream of it. laddie," said
Ukridge, earnest. Don't dream Of it.
You're good chap-my best pal and
all that sort of thing-but the fact is,
my standing in the homes none too
solid even now, and one sight of you
would knock my prestige into hash.
Aunt Julia would think you worldly"
"Im not worldly"
"Well. you look worldly You wear
a squash hat and soft collar. If
you don't mind my suggesting it, old
horse, / think, if were you, I'D pop
off now before she comes out. Good
by, laddie."
"Ichabod!' I murmured sadly to
myself as l passed on down Oxford
street. "Ichabod!''
should have had more faith. /
should have known my Ukridge bet
ter. l should have realized that a
London suburb could no more inn
prison that great man permanently
than Elba did Napoleon.
One afternoon, as let myself into
the house in Edbury street of which
I rented at that time the bedroom
ana sitting room on the first floor, i
came upon Bowles, my landlord, at
the foot of the stairs.
Good afternoon, sir" said Bowles.
"a gentleman is waiting to see you.
I fancy l heard him calling me a
moment ago."
who is hep
"A Mr.. Ukridge, sir. He
A vast voice doomed out from
above.
"Bowles, old horse
4 *% X
RoWLES was an ex-butler, and