on them to bring off the big drive. For about thirty seconds
it looked as if we might do it. Then Bob, the Hired Man's dog, an
animal who likes to be in whatever's going on, rushed out of the house
into the middle of them, barking. There was a perfect stampede, and
Heaven only knows where some of those fowls are now. There was one in
particular, a large yellow bird, which, I should imagine, is nearing
London by this time. The last I saw of it, it was navigating at the
rate of knots in that direction, with Bob after it, barking his
hardest. The fowl was showing a rare turn of speed and gaining rapidly.
Presently Bob came back, panting, having evidently given the thing up.
We, in the meantime, were chasing the rest of the birds all over the
garden. The affair had now resolved itself into the course of action I
had suggested originally, except that instead of collecting them
quietly and at our leisure, we had to run miles for each one we
captured. After a time we introduced some sort of system into it. Mrs.
Ukridge stood at the door. We chased the hens and brought them in.
Then, as we put each through into the basement, she shut the door on
it. We also arranged Ukridge's sugar-box coops in a row, and when we
caught a fowl we put it in the coop and stuck a board in front of it.
By these strenuous means we gathered in about two-thirds of the lot.
The rest are all over England. A few may be still in Dorsetshire, but I
should not like to bet on it.

"So you see things are being managed on the up-to-date chicken farm on
good, sound Ukridge principles. It is only the beginning. I look with
confidence for further interesting events. I believe if Ukridge kept
white mice he would manage to get feverish excitement out of it. He is
at present lying on the sofa, smoking one of his infernal brand of
cigars, drinking whisky and soda, and complaining with some bitterness
because the whisky isn't as good as some he once tasted in Belfast.
From the basement I can hear faintly the murmur of innumerable fowls."

CHAPTER VI

MR. GARNET'S NARRATIVE--HAS TO DO WITH A REUNION

The day was Thursday, the date July the twenty-second. We had been
chicken-farmers for a whole week, and things were beginning to settle
down to a certain extent. The coops were finished. They were not
masterpieces, and I have seen chickens pause before them in deep
thought, as who should say, "Now what?" but they were coops within the
meaning of the Act, and we in