I could have worked a wheeze I've been
reading about in the magazine advertisements. It seems that you can
make a dashed amount of money if you can only collect a few dollars
and start a chicken-farm. Jolly sound scheme, Bertie! Say you buy a
hen--call it one hen for the sake of argument. It lays an egg every
day of the week. You sell the eggs seven for twenty-five cents. Keep
of hen costs nothing. Profit practically twenty-five cents on every
seven eggs. Or look at it another way: Suppose you have a dozen eggs.
Each of the hens has a dozen chickens. The chickens grow up and have
more chickens. Why, in no time you'd have the place covered knee-deep
in hens, all laying eggs, at twenty-five cents for every seven. You'd
make a fortune. Jolly life, too, keeping hens!" He had begun to get
quite worked up at the thought of it, but he slopped back in his chair
at this juncture with a good deal of gloom. "But, of course, it's no
good," he said, "because I haven't the cash."
"You've only to say the word, you know, Bicky, old top."
"Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I'm not going to sponge on you."
That's always the way in this world. The chappies you'd like to lend
money to won't let you, whereas the chappies you don't want to lend it
to will do everything except actually stand you on your head and lift
the specie out of your pockets. As a lad who has always rolled
tolerably free in the right stuff, I've had lots of experience of the
second class.
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