"Never, sir," said the professor.

"Because I knew just such another fat little buffer there a few years
ago. Gay old bird, he was. He--"

"This is the fowl-run, professor," I broke in, with a moist, tingling
feeling across my forehead and up my spine. I saw the professor
stiffen as he walked, while his face deepened in colour. Ukridge's
breezy way of expressing himself is apt to electrify the stranger.

"You will notice the able way--ha! ha!--in which the wire-netting is
arranged," I continued feverishly. "Took some doing, that. By Jove,
yes. It was hot work. Nice lot of fowls, aren't they? Rather a mixed
lot, of course. Ha! ha! That's the dealer's fault though. We are
getting quite a number of eggs now. Hens wouldn't lay at first.
Couldn't make them."

I babbled on, till from the corner of my eye I saw the flush fade from
the professor's face and his back gradually relax its poker-like
attitude. The situation was saved for the moment but there was no
knowing what further excesses Ukridge might indulge in. I managed to
draw him aside as we went through the fowl-run, and expostulated.

"For goodness sake, be careful," I whispered. "You've no notion how
touchy he is."

"But /I/ said nothing," he replied, amazed.

"Hang it, you know, nobody likes to be called a fat little buffer to
his face."