"The fact is," said Ukridge, "if things go on as they are now, my lad,we shall be in the cart. This business wants bucking up. We don't seemto be making headway. Why it is, I don't know, but we are /not/ makingheadway. Of course, what we want is time. If only these scoundrels oftradesmen would leave us alone for a spell we could get things goingproperly. But we're hampered and rattled and worried all the time.

　　Aren't we, Millie?""Yes, dear.""You don't let me see the financial side of the thing enough," Icomplained. "Why don't you keep me thoroughly posted? I didn't know wewere in such a bad way. The fowls look fit enough, and Edwin hasn'thad one for a week.""Edwin knows as well as possible when he's done wrong, Mr. Garnet,"said Mrs. Ukridge. "He was so sorry after he had killed those othertwo.""Yes," said Ukridge, "I saw to that.""As far as I can see," I continued, "we're going strong. Chicken forbreakfast, lunch, and dinner is a shade monotonous, perhaps, but lookat 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. We sell a dozen eggs where we oughtto be selling them by the hundred, carting them off in trucks for theLondon market and congesting the traffic. Harrod's and Whiteley's andthe rest of them are beginning to get on their hind legs and talk.

　　That's what they're doing. Devilish unpleasant they're makingthemselves. You see, laddie, there's no denying it--we /did/ touchthem for the deuce of a lot of things on account, and they agreed totake it out in eggs. All they've done so far is to take it out inapologetic letters from Millie. Now, I don't suppose there's a womanalive who can write a better apologetic letter than her nibs, but, ifyou're broad-minded and can face facts, you can't help seeing that thejuiciest apologetic letter is not an egg. I meant to say, look at itfrom their point of view. Harrod--or Whiteley--comes into his store inthe morning, rubbing his hands expectantly. 'Well,' he says, 'how manyeggs from Combe Regis to-day?' And instead of leading him off to acorner piled up with bursting crates, they show him a four-page lettertelling him it'll all come right in the future. I've never run a storemyself, but I should think that would jar a chap. Anyhow, theblighters seem to be getting tired of waiting.""The last letter from Harrod's was quite pathetic," said Mrs. Ukridgesadly.

　　I had a vision of an eggless London. I seemed to see homes rendereddesolate and lives embittered by the slump, and millionaires biddingagainst one another for the few rare specimens which Ukridge hadactually managed to despatch to Brompton and Bayswater.

　　Ukridge, having induced himself to be broad-minded for five minutes,now began to slip back to his own personal point of view and becameonce more the man with a grievance. His fleeting sympathy with thewrongs of Mr. Harrod and Mr. Whiteley disappeared.