BUCKLING TO

Sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke me
next day as distant clocks were striking eight. It was a lovely
morning, cool and fresh. The grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkled
in the sun. A thrush, who knew all about early birds and their
perquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the worm
with a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. In the ivy a colony of
sparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. On the gravel in
front of the house lay the mongrel, Bob, blinking lazily.

The gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing.
I dressed quickly and went out. Bob rose to meet me, waving an
absurdly long tail. The hatchet was definitely buried now. That little
matter of the jug of water was forgotten.

A walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by Bob,
to the sleepy little town. I passed through the narrow street, and
turned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination of
pier and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist.

The tide was high, and, leaving my clothes to the care of Bob, who
treated them as a handy bed, I dived into twelve feet of clear, cold
water. As I swam, I compared it with the morning tub of London, and
felt that I had done well to come with Ukridge to this pleasant spot.
Not that I could rely on unbroken calm during the whole of my visit. I
knew nothing of chicken-farming, but I was certain that Ukridge knew
less. There would be some strenuous moments before that farm became a
profitable commercial speculation. At the thought of Ukridge toiling
on a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, I laughed,