Love Among the Chickens, P. G. Wodehouse [top non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

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.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure I wish you luck. Mind you let me know how you get on.”

“Let you know!” roared Ukridge. “Why, my dear old horse, you’re coming with us.”

“Am I?” I said blankly.

“Certainly you are. We shall take no refusal. Will we, Millie?”

“No, dear.”

“Of course not. No refusal of any sort. Pack up tonight and meet us at Waterloo tomorrow.”

“It’s awfully good of you⁠ ⁠…”

“Not a bit of it⁠—not a bit of it. This is pure business. I was saying to Millie as we came along that you were the very man for us. A man with your flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm. Absolutely invaluable. You see,” proceeded Ukridge, “I’m one of those practical fellows. The hardheaded type. I go straight ahead, following my nose. What you want in a business of this sort is a touch of the dreamer to help out the practical mind. We look to you for suggestions, laddie. Flashes of inspiration and all that sort of thing. Of course, you take your share of the profits. That’s understood. Yes, yes, I must insist. Strict business between friends. Now, taking it that, at a conservative estimate, the net profits for the first fiscal year amount to⁠—five thousand⁠—no, better be on the safe side⁠—say, four thousand five hundred pounds⁠ ⁠… But we’ll 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 tomorrow, 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 hotbed of golf. Full of the finest players. Can’t throw a brick without hitting an amateur champion. Grand links at the top of the hill not half a mile from the farm. Bring your clubs. You’ll be able to play in the afternoons. Get through serious work by lunch time.”

“You know,” I said, “I am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls. I just know enough to help myself to bread sauce when I see one, but no more.”

“Excellent! You’re just the man. You will bring to the work a mind unclouded by theories. You will act solely by the light of your intelligence. And you’ve got lots of that. That novel of yours showed the most extraordinary intelligence⁠—at least as far as that blighter at the bookstall would let me read. I wouldn’t have a professional chicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. If he applied to me, I should simply send him away. Natural intelligence is what we want. Then we can rely on you?”

“Very well,” I said slowly. “It’s very kind of you to ask me.”

“Business, laddie, pure business. Very well, then. We shall catch the eleven-twenty at Waterloo. Don’t miss it. Look out for me on the platform. If I see you first, I’ll shout.”

III Waterloo Station, Some Fellow-Travellers, and a Girl with Brown Hair

The austerity of Waterloo Station was lightened on the following morning at ten minutes to eleven, when I arrived to catch the train to Combe Regis, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustle and activity on the various platforms. A porter took my suitcase and golf-clubs, and arranged an assignation on Number 6 platform. I bought my ticket, and made my way to the bookstall, where, in the interests of trade, I inquired in a loud and penetrating voice if they had got Jeremy Garnet’s Manœuvres of Arthur. Being informed that they had not, I clicked my tongue reproachfully, advised them to order in a supply, as the demand was likely to be large, and spent a couple of shillings on a magazine and some weekly