“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Blast if I know.  Look at those chickens.  They’ve been doing that for the last half-hour.”

I inspected the chickens.  There was certainly something the matter with them.  They were yawning—­broadly, as if we bored them.  They stood about singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks.  It was an uncanny spectacle.

“What’s the matter with them?”

“Can a chicken get a fit of the blues?” I asked.  “Because if so, that’s what they’ve got.  I never saw a more bored-looking lot of birds.”

“Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop,” said Mrs. Ukridge sympathetically; “I’m sure it’s not well.  See, it’s lying down.  What can be the matter with it?”

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said Ukridge.  “We’ll ask Beale.  He once lived with an aunt who kept fowls.  He’ll know all about it.  Beale!”

No answer.

“Beale!!”

A sturdy form in shirt-sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying a boot.  We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it.

“Beale, you know all about fowls.  What’s the matter with these chickens?”

The Hired Retainer examined the blase birds with a wooden expression on his face.

“Well?” said Ukridge.

“The ’ole thing ’ere,” said the Hired Retainer, “is these ’ere fowls have been and got the roop.”

I had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded bad.

“Is that what makes them yawn like that?” said Mrs. Ukridge.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Poor things!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And have they all got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What ought we to do?” asked Ukridge.

“Well, my aunt, sir, when ’er fowls ’ad the roop, she gave them snuff.”

“Give them snuff, she did,” he repeated, with relish, “every morning.”

“Snuff!” said Mrs. Ukridge.

“Yes, ma’am.  She give ’em snuff till their eyes bubbled.”

Mrs. Ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word-painting.

“And did it cure them?” asked Ukridge.

“No, sir,” responded the expert soothingly.

“Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots,” said Ukridge.  “You’re no use.  Wait a minute.  Who would know about this infernal roop thing?  One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose.  Beale, go off to the nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what he does when his fowls get the roop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I’ll go, Ukridge,” I said.  “I want some exercise.”

I whistled to Bob, who was investigating a mole-heap in the paddock, and set off in the direction of the village of Up Lyme to consult Farmer Leigh on the matter.  He had sold us some fowls shortly after our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in their ailing families.

The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows.  At intervals it passes over a stream by means of a footbridge.  The stream curls through the meadows like a snake.