“They did!  It seemed to me that it would smooth things down a little if I served it out.  The mob had begun to get a trifle out of hand.”

“I thought those horrid men were making a lot of noise,” said Mrs. Ukridge.

Ukridge preserved a gloomy silence.  Of all the disasters of that stricken field, I think the one that came home most poignantly to him was the loss of the whisky.  It seemed to strike him like a blow.

“Isn’t it about time to collect these men and explain things?” I suggested.  “I don’t believe any of them know you’ve come back.”

“They will!” said Ukridge grimly, coming out of his trance.  “They soon will!  Where’s Beale!  Beale!”

The Hired Retainer came running out at the sound of the well-remembered voice.

“Lumme, Mr. Ukridge, sir!” he gasped.

It was the first time Beale had ever betrayed any real emotion in my presence.  To him, I suppose, the return of Ukridge was as sensational and astonishing an event as a re-appearance from the tomb.  He was not accustomed to find those who had shot the moon revisiting their ancient haunts.

“Beale, go round the place and tell those scoundrels that I’ve come back, and would like a word with them on the lawn.  And, if you find any of them stealing the fowls, knock them down!”

“I ’ave knocked down one or two,” said Beale, with approval.  “That Charlie—­”

“Beale,” said Ukridge, much moved, “you’re an excellent fellow!  One of the very best.  I will pay you your back wages before I go to bed.”

“These fellars, sir,” said Beale, having expressed his gratification, “they’ve bin and scattered most of them birds already, sir.  They’ve bin chasin’ of them this half-hour back.”

Ukridge groaned.

“Scoundrels!  Demons!”

Beale went off.

“Millie, old girl,” said Ukridge, adjusting the ginger-beer wire behind his ears and hoisting up his grey flannel-trousers, which showed an inclination to sag, “you’d better go indoors.  I propose to speak pretty chattily to these blighters, and in the heat of the moment one or two expressions might occur to me which you would not like.  It would hamper me, your being here.”

Mrs. Ukridge went into the house, and the vanguard of the audience began to come on to the lawn.  Several of them looked flushed and dishevelled.  I have a suspicion that Beale had shaken sobriety into them.  Charlie, I noticed, had a black eye.

They assembled on the lawn in the moonlight, and Ukridge, with his cap well over his eyes and his mackintosh hanging round him like a Roman toga, surveyed them sternly, and began his speech.

“You—­you—­you—­you scoundrels!  You blighters!  You worms!  You weeds!”