Apparently they are nothing new. In Wodehouse’s 1917 story Jeeves and the Hard-Boiled Egg, Bertie Wooster’s friend Francis “Bicky” Bickersteth has (after a bit of blackmail) persuaded his uncle the Duke of Chiswick, visiting him in New York, not to cut off his allowance:
“I–I think that, on the whole, it would be best if you returned with me to England. I–I might–in fact, I think I see my way to doing–to–I might be able to utilize your services in some secretarial position.”
“I shouldn’t mind that.”
“I should not be able to offer you a salary, but, as you know, in English political life the unpaid secretary is a recognized figure—-”
“The only figure I’ll recognize,” said Bicky firmly, “is five hundred quid a year, paid quarterly.”
“My dear boy!”
“Absolutely!”
“But your recompense, my dear Francis, would consist in the unrivalled opportunities you would have, as my secretary, to gain experience, to accustom yourself to the intricacies of political life, to–in fact, you would be in an exceedingly advantageous position.”
“Five hundred a year!” said Bicky, rolling it round his tongue. “Why, that would be nothing to what I could make if I started a chicken farm. It stands to reason. Suppose you have a dozen hens. Each of the hens has a dozen chickens. After a bit the chickens grow up and have a dozen chickens each themselves, and then they all start laying eggs! There’s a fortune in it. You can get anything you like for eggs in America. Chappies keep them on ice for years and years, and don’t sell them till they fetch about a dollar a whirl. You don’t think I’m going to chuck a future like this for anything under five hundred o’ goblins a year–what?”
A look of anguish passed over old Chiswick’s face, then he seemed to be resigned to it. “Very well, my boy,” he said.
“What-o!” said Bicky. “All right, then.”