
“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 to-morrow, 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.
“Combes Regis is just the place for you, then. Perfect hot-bed 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.”
