Sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke menext day as distant clocks were striking eight. It was a lovelymorning, cool and fresh. The grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkledin the sun. A thrush, who knew all about early birds and theirperquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the wormwith a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. In the ivy a colony ofsparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. On the gravel infront of the house lay the mongrel, Bob, blinking lazily.
The gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing.
I dressed quickly and went out. Bob rose to meet me, waving anabsurdly long tail. The hatchet was definitely buried now. That littlematter of the jug of water was forgotten.
A walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by Bob,to the sleepy little town. I passed through the narrow street, andturned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination ofpier and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist.
The tide was high, and, leaving my clothes to the care of Bob, whotreated them as a handy bed, I dived into twelve feet of clear, coldwater. As I swam, I compared it with the morning tub of London, andfelt that I had done well to come with Ukridge to this pleasant spot.
Not that I could rely on unbroken calm during the whole of my visit. Iknew nothing of chicken-farming, but I was certain that Ukridge knewless. There would be some strenuous moments before that farm became aprofitable commercial speculation. At the thought of Ukridge toilingon a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, I laughed,and swallowed a generous mouthful of salt water; and, turning, swamback to Bob and my clothes.
On my return, I found Ukridge, in his shirt sleeves and minus acollar, assailing a large ham. Mrs. Ukridge, looking younger and morechild-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 tothis morning.""The fowls have arrived, Mr. Garnet," said Mrs. Ukridge, opening hereyes 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 acackling which for volume and variety beat anything I had ever heard.
Judging from the noise, it seemed as if England had been drained offowls and the entire tribe of them dumped into the yard of Ukridge'sfarm.
"There seems to have been no stint," I said.
"Quite a goodish few, aren't there?" said Ukridge complacently. "Butthat's what we want. No good starting on a small scale. The more youhave, the bigger the profits.""What sorts have you got mostly?" I asked, showing a professionalinterest.
"Oh, all sorts. My theory, laddie, is this. It doesn't matter a bitwhat kind we get, because they'll all lay; and if we sell settings ofeggs, which we will, we'll merely say it's an unfortunate accident ifthey turn out mixed when hatched. Bless you, people don't mind whatbreed a fowl is, so long as it's got two legs and a beak. These dealerchaps were so infernally particular. 'Any Dorkings?' they said. 'Allright,' I said, 'bring on your Dorkings.' 'Or perhaps you will requirea few Minorcas?' 'Very well,' I said, 'unleash the Minorcas.' Theywere going on--they'd have gone on for hours--but I stopped 'em. 'Lookhere, my dear old college chum,' I said kindly but firmly to themanager johnny--decent old buck, with the manners of a marquess,--'look here,' I said, 'life is short, and we're neither of us as youngas we used to be. Don't let us waste the golden hours playing guessinggames. 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 gointo the yard and look at 'em. Beale has turned them out of theircrates. 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 mudfor them to scratch about in, and they can go into the field when theyfeel like it, and pick up worms, or whatever they feed on. We must rigthem up some sort of shanty, I suppose, this morning. We'll go andtell 'em to send up some wire-netting and stuff from the town.""Then we shall want hen-coops. We shall have to make those.""Of course. So we shall. Millie, didn't I tell you that old Garnet wasthe man to think of things. I forgot the coops. We can't buy some, Isuppose? On tick, of course.""Cheaper to make them. Suppose we get a lot of boxes. Sugar boxes areas good as any. It won't take long to knock up a few coops."Ukridge thumped the table with enthusiasm, upsetting his cup.
"Garny, old horse, you're a marvel. You think of everything. We'llbuckle to right away, and get the whole pace fixed up the same asmother makes it. What an infernal noise those birds are making. Isuppose they don't feel at home in the yard. Wait till they see the A1compact residential mansions we're going to put up for them. Finishedbreakfast? Then let's go out. Come along, Millie."The red-headed Beale, discovered leaning in an attitude of thought onthe yard gate and observing the feathered mob below with muchinterest, was roused from his reflections and despatched to the townfor the wire and sugar boxes. Ukridge, taking his place at the gate,gazed at the fowls with the affectionate air of a proprietor.
"Well, they have certainly taken you at your word," I said, "as far asvariety is concerned."The man with the manners of a marquess seemed to have been at greatpains to send a really representative selection of fowls. There wereblue ones, black ones, white, grey, yellow, brown, big, little,Dorkings, Minorcas, Cochin Chinas, Bantams, Wyandottes. It was animposing spectacle.
The Hired Man returned towards the end of the morning, preceded by acart containing the necessary wire and boxes; and Ukridge, whoseenthusiasm brooked no delay, started immediately the task offashioning the coops, while I, assisted by Beale, draped the wire-netting about the chosen spot next to the paddock. There were littleunpleasantnesses--once a roar of anguish told that Ukridge's hammerhad found the wrong billet, and on another occasion my flanneltrousers suffered on the wire--but the work proceeded steadily. By themiddle of the afternoon, things were in a sufficiently advanced stateto suggest to Ukridge the advisability of a halt for refreshments.
"That's the way to do it," he said, beaming through misty pince-nezover a long glass. "That is the stuff to administer to 'em! At thisrate we shall have the place in corking condition before bedtime.
Quiet efficiency--that's the wheeze! What do you think of those forcoops, Beale?"The Hired Man examined them woodenly.
"I've seen worse, sir."He continued his examination.
"But not many," he added. Beale's passion for the truth had made himunpopular in three regiments.
"They aren't so bad," I said, "but I'm glad I'm not a fowl.""So you ought to be," said Ukridge, "considering the way you've put upthat wire. You'll have them strangling themselves."In spite of earnest labour the housing arrangements of the fowls werestill in an incomplete state at the end of the day. The details of theevening's work are preserved in a letter which I wrote that night tomy friend Lickford.
" . . . Have you ever played a game called Pigs in Clover? We havejust finished a merry bout of it, with hens instead of marbles, whichhas lasted for an hour and a half. We are all dead tired, except theHired Man, who seems to be made of india-rubber. He has just gone fora stroll on the beach. Wants some exercise, I suppose. Personally, Ifeel as if I should never move again. You have no conception of thedifficulty of rounding up fowls and getting them safely to bed. Havingno proper place to put them, we were obliged to stow some of them inthe cube sugar-boxes and the rest in the basement. It has only justoccurred to me that they ought to have had perches to roost on. Itdidn't strike me before. I shan't mention it to Ukridge, or thatindomitable man will start making some, and drag me into it, too.
After all, a hen can rough it for one night, and if I did a strokemore work I should collapse.
"My idea was to do the thing on the slow but sure principle. That isto say, take each bird singly and carry it to bed. It would have takensome time, but there would have been no confusion. But you can imaginethat that sort of thing would not appeal to Stanley Featherstonehaugh!
He likes his manoeuvres to be on a large, dashing, Napoleonic scale.
He said, 'Open the yard gate and let the blighters come out into theopen; then sail in and drive them in mass formation through the backdoor into the basement.' It was a great idea, but there was one fatalflaw in it. It didn't allow for the hens scattering. We opened thegate, and out they all came like an audience coming out of a theatre.
Then we closed in on them to bring off the big drive. For about thirtyseconds 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 thehouse into the middle of them, barking. There was a perfect stampede,and Heaven only knows where some of those fowls are now. There was onein particular, a large yellow bird, which, I should imagine, isnearing London by this time. The last I saw of it, it was navigatingat the rate of knots in that direction, with Bob after it, barking hishardest. The fowl was showing a rare turn of speed and gainingrapidly. Presently Bob came back, panting, having evidently given thething up. We, in the meantime, were chasing the rest of the birds allover the garden. The affair had now resolved itself into the course ofaction I had suggested originally, except that instead of collectingthem quietly and at our leisure, we had to run miles for each one wecaptured. 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 onit. We also arranged Ukridge's sugar-box coops in a row, and when wecaught 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, butI should not like to bet on it.
"So you see things are being managed on the up-to-date chicken farm ongood, sound Ukridge principles. It is only the beginning. I look withconfidence for further interesting events. I believe if Ukridge keptwhite mice he would manage to get feverish excitement out of it. He isat present lying on the sofa, smoking one of his infernal brand ofcigars, drinking whisky and soda, and complaining with some bitternessbecause 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."