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 of things. Would like something on account."

"Grasping of them," I said.

"They seem to think I'm doing it for fun. How can I let them have their money when there isn't any?"

"Sounds difficult."

"Here's one from Dorchester—Smith, the man I got the gramophone from. Wants to know when I'm going to settle up for sixteen records."

"Sordid man!"

I wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but Ukridge was one of those men who compel one's attention when they are talking.

"The chicken men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay up for the first lot of hens. Considering that they all died of roop, and that I was going to send them back, anyhow, after I'd got them to hatch out a few chickens, I call that cool. I can't