“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 say that you get—­and here is the nub of the thing—­you get your first hen on tick.  Anybody will be glad to let you have the hen on tick.  Well, then, you let this hen—­this first, original hen, this on-tick-hen—­you let it set and hatch chickens.  Now follow me closely.  Suppose you have a dozen hens.  Very well, then.  When each of the dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the old hens back to the chappies you borrowed them from, with thanks for 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 endorse the big cheques.  Isn’t that so, Millie?”

“Yes, dear.”