ound Ukridge, in his shirt sleeves and minus a collar,
assailing a large ham. Mrs. Ukridge, looking younger and more
child-like than ever in brown holland, smiled at me over the tea-pot.

"Hullo, old horse," bellowed Ukridge, "where have you been? Bathing?
Hope it's made you feel fit for work, because we've got to buckle to
this morning."

"The fowls have arrived, Mr. Garnet," said Mrs. Ukridge, opening her
eyes till she looked like an astonished kitten. "_Such_ a lot of them.
They're making such a noise."

To support her statement there floated in through the window a cackling
which for volume and variety beat anything I had ever heard. Judging
from the noise, it seemed as if England had been drained of fowls and
the entire tribe of them dumped into the yard of Ukridge's farm.

"There seems to have been no stint," I said.

"Quite a goodish few, aren't there?" said Ukridge complacently. "But
that's what we want. No good starting on a small scale. The more you
have, the bigger the profits."

"What sorts have you got mostly?" I asked, showing a professional
interest.

"Oh, all sorts. My theory, laddie, is this. It doesn't matter a bit
what kind we get, because they'll all lay; and if we sell settings of
eggs, which we will, we'll merely say it's an unfortunate accident if
they turn out mixed when hatched. Bless you, people don't mind what
breed a fowl is, so long as it's got two legs and a beak. These dealer
chaps were so infernally particular. 'Any Dorkings?' they said. 'All
right,' I said, 'bring on your Dorkings.' 'Or perhaps you will require
a few Minorcas?' 'Very well,' I said, 'unleash the Minorcas.' They were
going on--they'd have gone on for hours--but I stopped 'em. 'Look here,
my dear old college chum,' I said kindly but firmly to the manager
johnny--decent old buck, with the manners of a marquess,--'look here,'
I said, 'life is short, and we're neither of us as young as we used to
be. Don't let us waste the golden hours playing guessing games. I want
fowls. You sell fowls. So give me some of all sorts. Mix 'em up,
laddie,' I said, 'mix 'em up.' And he has, by jove. You go into the
yard and look at 'em. Beale has turned them out of their crates. There
must be one of every breed ever invented."

"Where are you going to put them?"

"That spot we chose by the paddock. That's the place. Plenty of mud for
them to scratch about in, and they can go into the field when they feel
like it, and pick up worms, or