“You heard that?” said Ukridge, tensely. “He climbed on to the top of the wardrobe!”

“Yes.”

“And you saw the way he dodged that excellent truck?”

“Yes.”

“Something’s got to be done,” said Ukridge, firmly. “The man has got to be awakened to a sense of his responsibilities.”

Next day a deputation waited on Teddy Weeks.

Ukridge was our spokesman, and he came to the point with admirable directness.

“How about it?” asked Ukridge.

“How about what?” replied Teddy Weeks, nervously, avoiding his accusing eye.

“When do we get action?”

“Oh, you mean that accident business?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Teddy Weeks.

Ukridge drew the mackintosh which he wore indoors and out of doors and in all weathers more closely around him. There was in the action something suggestive of a member of the Roman Senate about to denounce an enemy of the State. In just such a manner must Cicero have swished his toga as he took a deep breath preparatory to assailing Clodius. He toyed for a moment with the ginger-beer wire which held his pince-nez in place, and endeavoured without success to button his collar at the back. In moments of emotion Ukridge’s collar always took on a sort of temperamental jumpiness which no stud could restrain.

“And about time you were thinking about it,” he boomed, sternly.

We shifted appreciatively in our seats, all except Victor Beamish, who had declined a chair and was standing by the mantelpiece. “Upon my Sam, it’s about time you were thinking about it. Do you realise that we’ve invested an enormous sum of money in you on the distinct understanding that we could rely on you to do your duty and get immediate results? Are we to be forced to the 

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