"I want you to give me your undivided[24] attention for a moment," said Ukridge. "I was saying to my wife only the other day: 'Garnet's the man. Clever man, Garnet. Full of ideas.' Didn't I, Millie?"

[24]

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Ukridge, smiling.

"Well?" said Garnet.

"The fact is," said Ukridge, with a Micawber-like burst of candor, "we are going to keep fowls."

He stopped and looked at Garnet in order to see the effect of the information. Garnet bore it with fortitude.

"Yes?" he said.

Ukridge shifted himself farther on to the table and upset the inkpot.

"Never mind," he said, "it'll soak in. Don't you worry about that, you keep listening to me. When I said we meant to keep fowls, I didn't mean in a small sort of way—two cocks and a couple of hens and a ping-pong ball for a nest egg. We are going to do it on a large scale. We are[25] going to keep," he concluded impressively, "a chicken farm!"

[25]

"A chicken farm," echoed Mrs. Ukridge with an affectionate and admiring glance at her husband.

"Ah," said Garnet, who felt his responsibilities as chorus.

"I've thought it all out," continued Ukridge, "and it's as clear as mud. No expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and no work. By Jove, old man, it's the idea of a lifetime. Just listen to me for a moment. You buy your hen—"

"One hen?" inquired Garnet.

"Call it one for the sake of argument. It makes my calculations clearer. Very well, then. You buy your hen. It lays an egg every day of the week. You sell the eggs—say—six for fivepence. Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit at least fourpence, three farthings on every half-dozen eggs. What do you think of that, Bartholomew?"[26]

[26]

Garnet admitted that it sounded like an attractive scheme, but expressed a wish to overhaul the figures in case of error.

"Error!" shouted Ukridge, pounding the table with such energy that it groaned beneath him. "Error? 

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