The porch door opened and a wavering light appeared–another candle. There was Harris Colesworth, in his robe and slippers, coming from the direction of the washhouse.
’Phemie shrank back and hid by the foot of the stairs. But she was not quick enough in putting her light out–or else he heard her giggle.
“Halt! who goes there?” demanded Colesworth, in a sepulchral voice.
“A–a fr-r-riend,” chattered ’Phemie.
“Advance, friend, and give the countersign,” commanded the young man.
“Chickens!” gasped ’Phemie, convulsed with laughter.
“You’d have had fried eggs, maybe, for all your interest in the incubator,” said Harris, with a chuckle. “So ‘Chickens’ is no longer the password.”
“Oh, they didn’t get too hot?” pleaded the girl, in despair.
“Nope. This is the second time I’ve been out. To tell you the truth,” said Harris, laughing, “I think the incubator is all right and will work like a charm; but I understand they’re a good deal like ships–likely to develop some crotchet at almost any time.”
“But it’s good of you to take the trouble to look at it for us.”