type of dedication. It sounds so weak-minded. But in the case of Love
Among the Chickens it is unavoidable. It was not so much that you
sympathised and encouraged--where you really came out strong was that
you gave me the stuff. I like people who sympathise with me. I am
grateful to those who encourage me. But the man to whom I raise the
Wodehouse hat--owing to the increased cost of living, the same old
brown one I had last year--it is being complained of on all sides, but
the public must bear it like men till the straw hat season comes
round--I say, the man to whom I raise this venerable relic is the man
who gives me the material.

Sixteen years ago, my William, when we were young and spritely lads;
when you were a tricky centre-forward and I a fast bowler; when your
head was covered with hair and my list of "Hobbies" in Who's Who
included Boxing; I received from you one morning about thirty closely-
written foolscap pages, giving me the details of your friend -----'s
adventures on his Devonshire chicken farm. Round these I wove as funny
a plot as I could, but the book stands or falls by the stuff you gave
me about "Ukridge"--the things that actually happened.

You will notice that I have practically re-written the book. There was
some pretty bad work in it, and it had "dated." As an instance of the
way in which the march of modern civilisation has left the 1906
edition behind, I may mention that on page twenty-one I was able to
make Ukridge speak of selling eggs at six for fivepence!

Yours ever,
P. G. WODEHOUSE