“So am I,” I said with feeling.

“Do you expect him to return shortly?”

“No,” I said, “I do not.”

He was looking curiously at the expectant band of duns.  I forestalled his question.

“Those are some of Mr. Ukridge’s creditors,” I said.  “I am just about to address them.  Perhaps you will take a seat.  The grass is quite dry.  My remarks will embrace you as well as them.”

Comprehension came into his eyes, and the natural man in him peeped through the polish.

“Great Scott, has he done a bunk?” he cried.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” I said.

He whistled.

I turned again to the local talent.

“Gentlemen,” I shouted.

“Hear, hear,” said some idiot.

“Gentlemen, I intend to be quite frank with you.  We must decide just how matters stand between us. (A voice:  Where’s Ukridge?) Mr. Ukridge left for London suddenly (bitter laughter) yesterday afternoon.  Personally I think he will come back very shortly.”

Hoots of derision greeted this prophecy.  I resumed.

“I fail to see your object in coming here.  I have nothing for you.  I couldn’t pay your bills if I wanted to.”

It began to be borne upon me that I was becoming unpopular.

“I am here simply as Mr. Ukridge’s guest,” I proceeded.  After all, why should I spare the man?  “I have nothing whatever to do with his business affairs.  I refuse absolutely to be regarded as in any way indebted to you.  I am sorry for you.  You have my sympathy.  That is all I can give you, sympathy—­and good advice.”

Dissatisfaction.  I was getting myself disliked.  And I had meant to be so conciliatory, to speak to these unfortunates words of cheer which should be as olive oil poured into a wound.  For I really did sympathise with them.  I considered that Ukridge had used them disgracefully.  But I was irritated.  My head ached abominably.

“Then am I to tell our Mr. Blenkinsop,” asked the frock-coated one, “that the money is not and will not be forthcoming?”

“When next you smoke a quiet cigar with your Mr. Blenkinsop,” I replied courteously, “and find conversation flagging, I rather think I should say something of the sort.”

“We shall, of course, instruct our solicitors at once to institute legal proceedings against your Mr. Ukridge.”

“Don’t call him my Mr. Ukridge.  You can do whatever you please.”

“That is your last word on the subject?”

“I hope so.  But I fear not.”

“Where’s our money?” demanded a discontented voice from the crowd.

An idea struck me.

“Beale!” I shouted.

Out came the Hired Retainer at the double.  I fancy he thought that his help was needed to save me from my friends.

He slowed down, seeing me as yet unassaulted.

“Sir?” he said.

“Isn’t there a case of that whisky left somewhere, Beale?”