Once, I remembered, in our schoolmaster days, when guineas, though regular, were few, he had had occasion to increase his wardrobe.  If I recollect rightly, he thought he had a chance of a good position in the tutoring line, and only needed good clothes to make it his.  He took four pounds of his salary in advance,—­he was in the habit of doing this:  he never had any salary left by the end of term, it having vanished in advance loans beforehand.  With this he was to buy two suits, a hat, new boots, and collars.  When it came to making the purchases, he found, what he had overlooked previously in his optimistic way, that four pounds did not go very far.  At the time, I remember, I thought his method of grappling with the situation humorous.  He bought a hat for three-and-sixpence, and got the suits and the boots on the instalment system, paying a small sum in advance, as earnest of more to come.  He then pawned one suit to pay for the first few instalments, and finally departed, to be known no more.  His address he had given—­with a false name—­at an empty house, and when the tailor arrived with his minions of the law, all he found was an annoyed caretaker, and a pile of letters written by himself, containing his bill in its various stages of evolution.

Or again.  There was a bicycle and photograph shop near the school.  He went into this one day, and his roving eye fell on a tandem bicycle.  He did not want a tandem bicycle, but that influenced him not at all.  He ordered it provisionally.  He also ordered an enlarging camera, a kodak, and a magic lantern.  The order was booked, and the goods were to be delivered when he had made up his mind concerning them.  After a week the shopman sent round to ask if there were any further particulars which Mr. Ukridge would like to learn before definitely ordering them.  Mr. Ukridge sent back word that he was considering the matter, and that in the meantime would he be so good as to let him have that little clockwork man in his window, which walked when wound up?  Having got this, and not paid for it, Ukridge thought that he had done handsomely by the bicycle and photograph man, and that things were square between them.  The latter met him a few days afterwards, and expostulated plaintively.  Ukridge explained.  “My good man,” he said, “you know, I really think we need say no more about the matter.  Really, you’re come out of it very well.  Now, look here, which would you rather be owed for?  A clockwork man—­which is broken, and you can have it back—­or a tandem bicycle, an enlarging camera, a kodak, and a magic-lantern?  What?” His reasoning was too subtle for the uneducated mind.  The man retired, puzzled, and unpaid, and Ukridge kept the clockwork toy.

CHAPTER XXII

THE STORM BREAKS

Rather to my surprise, the next morning passed off uneventfully.  Our knocker advertised no dun.  Our lawn remained untrodden by hob-nailed boots.  By lunch-time I had come to the conclusion that the expected Trouble would not occur that day, and I felt that I might well leave my post for the afternoon, while I went to the professor’s to pay my respects.  The professor was out when I arrived.  Phyllis was in, and it was not till the evening that I started for the farm again.