A fearful change had come over Ukridge’s jubilant front. His eyes bulged, his jaw sagged. With the addition of a few feet of grey whiskers he would have looked exactly like the recent Mr. Nickerson.
“My aunt?” he mumbled, swaying on the door-handle.
“Yes. What’s the matter? He thought, if he told her all about it, she might relent and rally round.”
The sigh of a gallant fighter at the end of his strength forced its way up from Ukridge’s mackintosh-covered bosom.
“Of all the dashed, infernal, officious, meddling, muddling, fat-headed, interfering asses,” he said, wanly, “George Tupper is the worst.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man oughtn’t to be at large. He’s a public menace.”
“But——”
“Those dogs belong to my aunt. I pinched them when she chucked me out!”
Inside the cottage the Pekingese were still yapping industriously.