leg-rest. Then he
took off his pince-nez, wiped them, re-adjusted the ginger-beer wire
behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of his grey
flannel trousers several times, in the apparent hope of removing it,
resumed:

"About fowls."

The subject was beginning to interest me. It showed a curious tendency
to creep into the conversation of the Ukridge family.

"I want you to give me your undivided attention for a moment. I was
saying to my wife, as we came here, 'Garnet's the man! Clever devil,
Garnet. Full of ideas.' Didn't I, Millie?"

"Yes, dear."

"Laddie," said Ukridge impressively, "we are going to keep fowls."

He shifted himself farther on to the table and upset the ink-pot.

"Never mind," he said, "it'll soak in. It's good for the texture. Or am
I thinking of tobacco-ash on the carpet? Well, never mind. Listen to
me! When I said that we were going to keep fowls, I didn't mean in a
small, piffling sort of way--two cocks and a couple of hens and a
golf-ball for a nest-egg. We are going to do it on a large scale. We
are going to run a chicken farm!"

"A chicken farm," echoed Mrs. Ukridge with an affectionate and admiring
glance at her husband.

"Ah," I said, feeling my responsibilities as chorus. "A chicken farm."

"I've thought it all over, laddie, and it's as clear as mud. No
expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and the money
streaming in faster than you can bank it. Winter and summer
underclothing, my bonny boy, lined with crackling Bradbury's. It's the
idea of a lifetime. Now listen to me for a moment. You get your hen--"

"One hen?"

"Call it one for the sake of argument. It makes my calculations
clearer. Very well, then. Harriet the hen--you get her. Do you follow
me so far?"

"Yes. You get a hen."

"I told you Garnet was a dashed bright fellow," said Ukridge
approvingly to his attentive wife. "Notice the way he keeps right after
one's ideas? Like a bloodhound. Well, where was I?"

"You'd just got a hen."

"Exactly. The hen. Pricilla the pullet. Well, it lays an egg every day
of the week. You sell the eggs, six for half a crown. Keep of hen costs
nothing. Profit--at least a couple of bob on every dozen eggs. What do
you think of that?"

"I think I'd like to overhaul the figures in case of error."

"Error!" shouted Ukridge, pounding the table till it groaned. "Error?
Not a bit of it. Can't you follow a simple calculation like that? Oh, I
forgot to s