"That's Fluffy, and she's a lady friend of mine. Poor old Fluff, poor old girl! Don't scare her, Sheila. Can't you see she's busy?"
"Casey Dunne, do you mean to tell me that you allow a hen to lay in your sitting room, on your table?"
"Of course—when she's a nice little chicken like Fluffy. Why not? She doesn't do any harm."
"I never heard of such a thing. The place for hens is in the chicken run. Casey, you're simply awful! Your wife—oh, heavens, what a life she'll have!"
"Nobody could help liking Fluff," he replied. "She's really good company. I wish I could talk her talk. She has a fine line of conversation if I could only savvy it."
Sheila sat down with a hopeless gesture. Fond of all living things as she was, she could not understand the tolerance that allowed a hen the run of the house. To her a hen was a hen, nothing more. She could name and pet a horse or a dog or any quadruped. But a hen! She could not understand.
But Feng entered with the two "ice drink"—a tray containing long glasses, tinkling ice, claret, lemons, cake, and biscuits. He set the tray upon the table. As he did so his hand came in contact with Fluffy. With a rasping cry of indignation she pecked him.
"Hyah!" cried Feng, startled, and reached for her impulsively.
Fluffy bounded from her nest, and fled shrieking for the door. Her fluttering wings brushed the contents of the tray. The long glasses and bottle capsized, rolled to the floor, and smashed, the crash of glass mingling with her clamour.
"What foh?" yelled Feng, in a fury. "Jim Kli, dam chickum spoiley icey dlink. Hiyu no good—all same son of a gun! S'pose me catch him, ling him neck!" And he darted after the hen, on vengeance bent.