hat. She's the secretary of the
concern. She's been writing letters to people asking for hens. So you
see it's a thoroughly organised business. How many hen-letters did you
write last week, old girl?"

"Ten, dear."

Ukridge turned triumphantly to me.

"You hear? Ten. Ten letters asking for hens. That's the way to succeed.
Push and enterprise."

"Six of them haven't answered, Stanley, dear, and the rest refused."

"Immaterial," said Ukridge with a grand gesture. "That doesn't matter.
The point is that the letters were written. It shows we are solid and
practical. Well now, can you get your things ready by to-morrow, Garny
old horse?"

Strange how one reaches an epoch-making moment in one's life without
recognising it. If I had refused that invitation, I would not have--at
any rate, I would have missed a remarkable experience. It is not given
to everyone to see Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge manage a chicken
farm.

"I was thinking of going somewhere where I could get some golf," I said
undecidedly.

"Combe Regis is just the place for you, then. Perfect hot-bed of golf.
Full of the finest players. Can't throw a brick without hitting an
amateur champion. Grand links at the top of the hill not half a mile
from the farm. Bring your clubs. You'll be able to play in the
afternoons. Get through serious work by lunch time."

"You know," I said, "I am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls. I
just know enough to help myself to bread sauce when I see one, but no
more."

"Excellent! You're just the man. You will bring to the work a mind
unclouded by theories. You will act solely by the light of your
intelligence. And you've got lots of that. That novel of yours showed
the most extraordinary intelligence--at least as far as that blighter
at the bookstall would let me read. I wouldn't have a professional
chicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. If he applied to me,
I should simply send him away. Natural intelligence is what we want.
Then we can rely on you?"

"Very well," I said slowly. "It's very kind of you to ask me."

"Business, laddie, pure business. Very well, then. We shall catch the
eleven-twenty at Waterloo. Don't miss it. Look out for me on the
platform. If I see you first, I'll shout."

CHAPTER III

WATERLOO STATION, SOME FELLOW-TRAVELLERS, AND A GIRL WITH BROWN HAIR

The austerity of Waterloo Station was lightened on the following
morning at ten minutes to eleven, when I arrived to