dilapidated version of the /Discobolus/, stood beside me with his jug
poised, when a voice spoke from the window.

"Stand still!" said the voice, "or I'll corpse you!"

I dropped the handle. Ukridge dropped the jug. Mrs. Ukridge dropped
her tea-cup. At the window, with a double-barrelled gun in his hands,
stood a short, square, red-headed man. The muzzle of his gun, which
rested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the third
button of my waistcoat.

Ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion.

"Beale! You scoundrelly, unprincipled, demon! What the devil are you
doing with that gun? Why were you out? What have you been doing? Why
did you shout like that? Look what you've made me do."

He pointed to the floor. The very old pair of tennis shoes which he
wore were by this time generously soaked with the spilled water.

"Lor, Mr. Ukridge, sir, is that you?" said the red-headed man calmly.
"I thought you was burglars."

A short bark from the other side of the kitchen door, followed by a
renewal of the scratching, drew Mr. Beale's attention to his faithful
hound.

"That's Bob," he said.

"I don't know what you call the brute," said Ukridge. "Come in and tie