Love Among the Chickens by P.G. Wodehouse

Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, “A stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of the words, […] It had always been my experience that, when Ukridge was around, things began to happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible. Ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows the money from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroiling you in a fight with a cabman. I have gone to Covent Garden balls with Ukridge, and found myself legging it down Henrietta Street in the grey dawn, pursued by infuriated costermongers.”
Poor in money but rich in plans, Ukridge’s latest get-rich-quick scheme is certain to succeed:
“When I said that we were going to keep fowls, I didn’t mean in a small, piffling sort of way—two cocks and a couple of hens and a golf-ball for a nest-egg. We are going to do it on a large scale. We are going to run a chicken farm!”
“A chicken farm,” echoed Mrs. Ukridge with an affectionate and admiring glance at her husband.
“Ah,” I said, feeling my responsibilities as chorus. “A chicken farm.”
“I’ve thought it all over, laddie, and it’s as clear as mud. No expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and the money streaming in faster than you can bank it. Winter and summer underclothing, my bonny boy, lined with crackling Bradbury’s. It’s the idea of a lifetime.”
Prior experience, not necessary! Any knowledge about chickens or farming in general, only guaranteed to get in the way! After all what could be simpler than raising chickens?