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