“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.”
“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?”