“We’ve fixed it all up.  Do you know Combe Regis, in Dorsetshire?  On the borders of Devon.  Bathing.  Sea-air.  Splendid scenery.  Just the place for a chicken farm.  A friend of Millie’s—­girl she knew at school—­has lent us a topping old house, with large grounds.  All we’ve got to do is to get in the fowls.  I’ve ordered the first lot.  We shall find them waiting for us when we arrive.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure I wish you luck.  Mind you let me know how you get on.”

“Let you know!” roared Ukridge.  “Why, my dear old horse, you’re coming with us.”

“Am I?” I said blankly.

“Certainly you are.  We shall take no refusal.  Will we, Millie?”

“No, dear.”

“Of course not.  No refusal of any sort.  Pack up to-night and meet us at Waterloo to-morrow.”

“It’s awfully good of you . . .”

“Not a bit of it—­not a bit of it.  This is pure business.  I was saying to Millie as we came along that you were the very man for us.  A man with your flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm.  Absolutely invaluable.  You see,” proceeded Ukridge, “I’m one of those practical fellows.  The hard-headed type.  I go straight ahead, following my nose.  What you want in a business of this sort is a touch of the dreamer to help out the practical mind.  We look to you for suggestions, laddie.  Flashes of inspiration and all that sort of thing.  Of course, you take your share of the profits.  That’s understood.  Yes, yes, I must insist.  Strict business between friends.  Now, taking it that, at a conservative estimate, the net profits for the first fiscal year amount to—­five thousand, no, better be on the safe side—­say, four thousand five hundred pounds . . .  But we’ll arrange all that end of it when we get down there.  Millie will look after that.  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.”