“I don't know. It's a mixed figure, Kid.”
“Does he feel like he wanted to hatch 'em?”
“What'd he do with 'em hatched? That's so, Kid.”
“Is he a wildcat?”
“Yep.”
“He is. Can a wildcat hatch eggs? No, he can't.”
“A wildcat”—the Kid would have enjoyed following this figure—“ain't an incubator. There ain't enough peacefulness in him. He'd make a yaller mess of 'em an' take to the woods with the mess on his whiskers. It stands to reason, don't it? He ain't in his own hole on a chickadee's nest.”
Sandy stood looking over the gate into the village street, which was shaded to dimness by its maples, a still, warm, brooding street.
“Like an incubator,” he thought, and heard Gracia calling from up the path:
“Saint George!”