into a pot of tar, and came out an unspeakable object.
Chickens kept straying into the wrong coops, and, in accordance with
fowl etiquette, were promptly pecked to death by the resident. Edwin
murdered a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved from execution by
the tears of Mrs. Ukridge.

In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism never
deserted Ukridge. They were incidents, annoying, but in no way
affecting the prosperity of the farm.

"After all," he said, "what's one bird more or less? Yes, I know I was
angry when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but that was
more for the principle of the thing. I'm not going to pay large sums
for chickens so that a beastly cat can lunch well. Still, we've plenty
left, and the eggs are coming in better now, though we've a deal of
leeway to make up yet in that line. I got a letter from Whiteley's
this morning asking when my first consignment was to arrive. You know,
these people make a mistake in hurrying a man. It annoys him. It
irritates him. When we really get going, Garny, my boy, I shall drop
Whiteley's. I shall cut them out of my list, and send my eggs to their
trade rivals. They shall have a sharp lesson. It's a little hard. Here
am I, worked to death looking after things down here, and these men
have the impertinence to bother me about their wretched business!"

[Illustration: Things were not going very well on our model chicken
farm.]

It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in a
voice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about the
paddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis and
my wretched novel. I had just framed a more than usually murky scene
for use in the earlier part of the book, when Ukridge shouted to me
from the fowl run.

"Garnet, come here," he cried, "I want you to see the most astounding
thing."

I joined him.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Blest if I know. Look at those chickens. They've been doing that for
the last half hour."

I inspected the chickens. There was certainly something the matter
with them. They were yawning broadly, as if we bored them. They stood
about singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. It was
an uncanny spectacle.

"What's the matter with them?"

"It looks to me," I said, "as if they were tired of life. They seem
hipped."

"Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said Mrs.
Ukridge sympathetically, "I'm sure