which to break walking records unnecessarily. He halted, relieved, and mopped his spacious brow with a handkerchief which I recognised as having once been my property. “Thank goodness we’ve shaken him off,” he said. “Not a bad chap in his way, I believe—a good husband and father, I’m told, and sings in the church choir. But no vision. That’s what he lacks, old horse—vision. He can’t understand that all vast industrial enterprises have been built up on a system of liberal and cheerful credit. Won’t realise that credit is the life-blood of commerce. Without credit commerce has no elasticity. And if commerce has no elasticity what dam’ good is it?” “I don’t know.” “Nor does anybody else. Well, now that he’s gone, you can give me that money. Did old Tuppy cough up cheerfully?” “Blithely.” “I knew it,” said Ukridge, deeply moved, “I knew it. A good fellow. One of the best. I’ve always liked Tuppy. A man you can rely on. Some day, when I get going on a big scale, he shall have this back a thousandfold. I’m glad you brought small notes.” “Why?” “I want to scatter ’em about on the table in front of this Nickerson blighter.” “Is this where he lives?” We had come to a red-roofed house, set back from the road amidst trees. Ukridge wielded the knocker forcefully. “Tell Mr. Nickerson,” he said to the maid, “that Mr. Ukridge has called and would like a word.” About the demeanour of the man who presently entered the room into which we had been shown there was that subtle but well-marked something which stamps your creditor all the world over. Mr. Nickerson was a man of medium height, almost completely surrounded by whiskers, and through the shrubbery he gazed at Ukridge with frozen eyes, shooting out waves of deleterious animal magnetism. You could see at a glance that he was not fond of Ukridge. Take him for all in all, Mr. Nickerson looked like one of the less amiable prophets of the Old Testament about to interview the captive monarch of the Amalekites. “Well?” he said, and I have never heard the
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