page, because the scurvy knave at the bookstall said he wasn't running
a free library, and in one way and another there was a certain amount
of unpleasantness. Still, it seemed bright and interesting up to page
three. But let's settle down and talk business. I've got a scheme for
you, Garny old man. Yessir, the idea of a thousand years. Now listen
to me for a moment. Let me get a word in edgeways."

He sat down on the table, and dragged up a chair as a leg-rest. Then
he took off his pince-nez, wiped them, re-adjusted the ginger-beer
wire behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of his
grey flannel trousers several times, in the apparent hope of removing
it, resumed:

"About fowls."

The subject was beginning to interest me. It showed a curious tendency
to creep into the conversation of the Ukridge family.

"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