Evening star., 1926-10-10

n EVER having been shown any
nj evidence to the contrary,
VI had always looked on Stan
L lev Featherstonehaugh Uk
ridge, my boyhood chum, as
man ruggedly Indifferent to the ap'
peal of the opposite sex. 1t was
surprise. therefore. when passing
down Shaftesbury avenue one W ed
nesday afternoon in June. came
upon him assisting Il girl in Il Whlle
dress to mount an omnibus.
His manner was a blend of courtli
ness and devotion: and if his mackln-
tosh had been Il shade less yellow ana
his hat a trifie less disreputable, ne
would have looked just like Sir wal
ter Raleigh.
The bus moved on. Ukridge waved.
and I proceeded to make inquiries. !
felt that I was AN Interested party
There bad been a distinctly object
matrimony'' look about the back of
his neck and the prospect OF havlns 10
support a Mrs. Ck1dse and keep a
flock Of little Ckridges in SOCKS and
shirts perturbed me.
"Nho was that" | asked.
"Oh. halo, laddie" said Ukridge.
turning "Nhere did you spring from?
II you had come earlier. Id have in
troduced you to Dora" The bus WAS
numbering out of sight, and the white
figure on top gave Il final wave. THAT
was Dora Mason" said Ckridge, hav-
ing tapped large hand III reply.
She's my aunt's secretary-compan-
ion. I used to see her when | was
living at Wimbledon. Old Tuppy
gave me n couple of seats for that
show at the Apollo. so I thought IL
would be a kindly act to ask her
along. I'm sorry for that girl.
Whats the matter with herr"
Hers is a gay life. It's an act OF
charity to give her little treat now
and then. Nothing TO do all day but
brush the Pekingese and type out my
aunt's rotten novels"
Does your aunt write novels?
The worlds worst, laddie. She
been STEPPED to the gills In literature
ever since / can remember. They've
lust made her president Of the Pen
and Ink Club. 1t was her novels that
did me in when lived with her. She
used TO send me to bed with the
beastly things and ask me questions
about them at breakfast. 1t was a
dogs life, and I'm glad It's over. Wei,
knowing my aunt, don't mind telling
you that my heart bleeds for poor,
little Dora. / know what a foul time
she has, and I feel better, finer man
for having given her this passing
gleam Of sunshine. l wish l could
have done more for her"
We'll. you might have stood her
tea after the theater."
Not within the sphere OF practical
politics, laddie. I'm down to the
scrapings. But I'll tell you what. J
don't mind joining you in cup. If
you were thinking of 1t.
II wasn't"
Come, come. \ little more Of the
spirit OF hospitality, old horse"
Doctors say that tea IS bad for the
nerves"
Yes. possibly there's something In
that. Then III tell you what" said
Tkridge. never too proud to yield a
point, well make 1t whisky-and-
soda instead
1T was a few days after that the
Il Derby was run, and Gunga l)ln
finished third. This did not interest
the great bulk of the intelligentsia.
but it meant much to me, for I had
drawn his name In the sweepstakes at
my club. / celebrated my triumph by
an informal dinner to "A few friends.
It was some small consolation to me
later to remember that l had wanted
to include Ukridge In the party, but
failed to get hold of him. Dark hours
were to follow, but at least Ukridge
did no, go through them bursting
with my meat.
When II o'clock arrived, the eve
ming of the party 1t seemed silly to Sit
talking in a club and still sillier to go
TO bed. I suggested that we should
all 20 and dress and resume the reyels
at my expense half an hour later a
Marios. We scattered to our various
homes. / entered the house in Ebury
street where l lodged. and not even
the usually quelling sight OF Bowles.
my landlord, in the hall as I came in
could quench my bonhomie.
"Ah, Bowles." l cried. IT say,
Bowles, l drew Gunga Din in the club
sweep"
Indeed, SIR"
Yes. He came in third. you
know"
so see by the paper. sir. con,
sratulate you"
Thank you. Bowles. thank you"
Mr.. Ukridge called earlier in the
evening. sir" said Rowles.
did he? Sorry I was out. Did he
want anything in Particular"
"Your dress clothes, SIR