Tom, Katie and Robbie all tried to get at him, but without avail. Katie coaxed with loving words. Robbie murmured, “Poor Gussie!” Tom said “Never mind, old fellow, if your ’speriment has failed. Come and play ball.”
August’s reply was not very polite.
“My experiment hasn’t failed, and that is all you know about it, Tom!”
But the word “fail” seemed to rouse him, to restore his courage; for presently unlocking the door and coming out, he said quietly to himself, “I shall just go down to Grandma’s for some more eggs—that’s what I shall do!”
Grandma was curious to know what he did with so many eggs; but she asked no questions. She had great respect for August and his ’speriments.
She only said, “This makes one hundred and eight eggs, child. Now, if I had set all these, and if they had all hatched, what a lot of little chickens I would have had!”
“Ah!” thought August. “If!—” And he drew a long sigh.
Mamma, meanwhile, had been up to the attic to look at the incubator, knowing nothing of what had happened. Great was her amazement to find the lamp out, a basin full of broken eggs and little dead chicks, and the incubator itself deserted and empty.
“Why, August!” she cried, as she met him in the door with a basket of fresh eggs. “What has happened, dear child?”
“Only failure number two;” he answered, trying to speak cheerfully, though even yet the tears lay high. “They got too hot in the night, mamma.”