house. It was plain that the competent man and his wife were out.

"Now what?" I said.

Mrs. Ukridge looked at her husband with calm confidence.

"This," said Ukridge, leaning against the door and endeavouring to
button his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in the
Argentine. Two other cheery sportsmen and myself tried for three-
quarters of an hour to get into an empty house where there looked as
if there might be something to drink, and we'd just got the door open
when the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shot-gun. It was a
little difficult to explain. As a matter of fact, we never did what
you might call really thresh the matter out thoroughly in all its
aspects, and you'd be surprised what a devil of a time it takes to
pick buck-shot out of a fellow. There was a dog, too."

He broke off, musing dreamily on the happy past, and at this moment
history partially repeated itself. From the other side of the door
came a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark.

"Hullo," said Ukridge, "Beale has a dog." He frowned, annoyed. "What
right," he added in an aggrieved tone, "has a beastly mongrel,
belonging to a man I employ, to keep me out of my own house? It's a
little hard. Here am I, slaving day and night to support Beale, and
when I try to get into my own house his infernal dog barks at me. Upon
my Sam it's hard!" He brooded for a moment on the injustice of things.
"Here, let me get to the keyhole. I'll reason with the brute."

He put his mouth to the keyhole and roared "Goo' dog!" through it.