"and it's as clear as
mud. No expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and no
work. By Jove, old man, it's the idea of a lifetime. Just listen to me
for a moment. You buy your hen--"

"One hen?" inquired Garnet.

"Call it one for the sake of argument. It makes my calculations
clearer. Very well, then. You buy your hen. It lays an egg every day
of the week. You sell the eggs--say--six for fivepence. Keep of hen
costs nothing. Profit at least fourpence, three farthings on every
half-dozen eggs. What do you think of that, Bartholomew?"

Garnet admitted that it sounded like an attractive scheme, but
expressed a wish to overhaul the figures in case of error.

"Error!" shouted Ukridge, pounding the table with such energy that it
groaned beneath him. "Error? Not a bit of it. Can't you follow a
simple calculation like that? The thing is, you see, you get your
original hen for next to nothing. That's to say, on tick. Anybody will
let you have a hen on tick. Now listen to me for a moment. You let
your hen set, and hatch chickens. Suppose you have a dozen hens. Very
well, then. When each of the dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the
old hens back with thanks for the kind loan, and there you are,
starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickens to your
name. And after a bit, when the chickens grow up and begin to lay, all
you have to do is to sit back in your chair and gather in the big
checks. Isn't that so, Millie?"

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Ukridge with shining eyes.

"We've fixed it all up. Do you know Lyme Regis, in Dorsetshire? On the
borders of Devon. Quiet little fishing village. Bathing. Sea air.
Splendid scenery. Just the place for a chicken farm. I've been looking
after that. A friend of my wife's has lent us a jolly old house with
large grounds. All we've got to do is to get in the fowls. That's all
right. I've ordered the first lot. We shall find them waiting for us
when we arrive."

"Well," said Garnet, "I'm sure I wish you luck. Mind you let me know
how you get on."

"Let you know!" roared Ukridge. "Why, old horse, you've got to come,
too. We shall take no refusal. Shall we, Millie?"

"No, dear," murmured Mrs. Ukridge.

"Of course not," said Ukridge. "No refusal of any sort. Pack up
to-night, and meet us at Waterloo to-morrow."

"It's awfully good of you--" began Garnet a little blankly.

"Not a bit of it, not a bit of it. This is pure business. I was saying
to my wife whe