ehind, 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

London, 1920.

CONTENTS

I A LETTER WITH A POSTSCRIPT
II MR. AND MRS. S. F. UKRIDGE
III WATERLOO STATION, SOME FELLOW-TRAVELLERS, AND A GIRL
WITH BROWN HAIR
IV THE ARRIVAL
V BUCKLING TO
VI MR. GARNET'S NARRATIVE--HAS TO DO WITH A REUNION
VII THE ENTENTE CORDIALE IS SEALED
VIII A LITTLE DINNER AT UKRIDGE'S
IX DIES IRAE
X I ENLIST THE SERVICES OF A MINION
XI THE BRAVE PRESERVER
XII SOME EMOTIONS AND YELLOW LUPIN
XIII TEA AND TENNIS
XIV A COUNCIL OF WAR
XV THE ARRIVAL OF NEMESIS
XVI A CHANCE MEETING
XVII OF A SENTIMENTAL NATURE
XVIII UKRIDGE GIVES ME ADVICE
XIX ASKING PAPA
XX SCIENTIFIC GOLF
XXI THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
XXII THE STORM BREAKS
XXIII AFTER THE STORM

LOVE AMONG THE CHICKENS

CHAPTER I

A LETTER WITH A POSTSCRIPT

"A gentleman called to see you when you were out last night, sir," said
Mrs. Medley, my landlady, removing the last of the breakfast things.

"Yes?" I said, in my affable way.

"A gentleman," said Mrs. Medley meditatively, "with a very powerful
voice."

"Caruso?"

"Sir?"

"I said, did he leave a name?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Ukridge."

"Oh, my sainted aunt!"

"Sir!"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Medley, withdrawing from the presence.

Ukridge! Oh, hang it! I had not met him for years, and, glad as I am,
as a general thing, to see the friends of my youth when they drop in
for a chat, I doubted whether I was quite equal to Ukridge at the
moment. A stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of the
words, he was a trifle too jumpy for a man of my cloistered and
intellectual life, especially as just now I was trying to plan out a
new novel, a tricky job demanding complete quiet and seclusion. It had
always been my experience that, when Ukridge was around, things began
to happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible.
Ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows the
money from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroiling
you in a fight with a cabman. I have gone to Covent Garden balls w