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Updated: June 13, 2025
"If we'd wanted an advertisement for the farm," said Ukridge on one of these occasions, "we couldn't have had a better one than you, Garny, my boy. You have brought us three distinct orders for eggs during the last week. And I'll tell you what it is, we need all the orders we can get that'll bring us in ready money. The farm is in a critical condition. The coffers are low, deuced low.
He paused. "Or would you be sarcastic, Garny, old horse? No, better put it so that they'll understand. Say that I consider that the manufacturer of the thing ought to be in Colney Hatch if he isn't there already and that they are scoundrels for palming off a groggy machine of that sort on me."
Ukridge was sorting the letters. "Morning, Garny," he said. "One for you, Millie." "It's from Aunt Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ukridge, looking at the envelope.
"Settled his hash," said Ukridge complacently. "Nothing like resource, Garny my boy. Some men would have gone on letting a good door be ruined." "And spoiled the dog for a ha'porth of water," I said. At this moment Mrs. Ukridge announced that the kettle was boiling. Over a cup of tea Ukridge became the man of business. "I wonder when those fowls are going to arrive.
"She does," agreed Ukridge, gloomily. He spoke as one who had had experience. "Two for you, Garny. All the rest for me. Ten of them, and all bills." He spread the envelopes out on the table, and drew one at a venture. "Whiteley's," he said. "Getting jumpy. Are in receipt of my favour of the 7th inst. and are at a loss to understand.
Damn, I've broken a plate. How's the fire getting on, Millie? I'll chop Beale into little bits. What's that you've got there, Garny old horse? Tea? Good. Where's the bread? There goes another plate. Where's Mrs. Beale, too? By Jove, that woman wants killing as much as her blackguard of a husband.
Chicken for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is a shade monotonous, perhaps, but look at the business we're doing. We sold a whole heap of eggs last week." "But not enough, Garny old man. We aren't making our presence felt. England isn't ringing with our name.
"Well, 'pon my Sam," moaned Ukridge, as, her sardonic calm laid aside, that sinister hen which we called Aunt Elizabeth flashed past us pursued by the whiskered criminal, "it's a little hard! I can't go away for a day " "You certainly can't! You're right there. You can't go away without a word " "Without a word? What do you mean? Garny, old boy, pull yourself together. You're over-excited.
Another uninterrupted half hour, and I have no doubt that I should have completed the framework of a novel which would have placed me in that select band of authors who have no christian names. Another half hour, and posterity would have known me as "Garnet." But it was not to be. "Stop her! Catch her, Garny, old horse!" I had wandered into the paddock at the moment. I looked up.
"I have bought a shilling book called 'Fowls and All About Them, and this week's copy of C.A.C." "Chiefly About Chickens. It's a paper, you know. But it's all rather hard to understand. You see, we ... but here is Stanley. He will explain the whole thing." "Well, Garny, old horse," said Ukridge, re-entering the room after another energetic passage of the stairs. "Years since I saw you.
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