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."