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.