"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."