‘I don’t think Aunt Jemima would have been so cross with poor Jane,’ says Susan, in a low tone and with a glance round her to make sure of no one’s being within hearing, ‘but for those eggs this morning.’
‘The eggs under the speckled hen?’ asks Jacky; ‘I heard her speaking about them. Won’t they come out?’
Susan shakes her head, and Carew and Dominick edge a little out of sight. The latter, under a pretence of feeling too warm, hides his face under the big straw hat that Betty has thrown upon the grass beside her.
‘They should have come out ten days ago,’ says Susan; ‘but they’—she casts an uncertain glance at Carew, who has turned over and is now lying with his face upon his arms, and is evidently developing ague-fever—‘but they didn’t.’
‘Were they all addled?’ asks Jacky, with amazement.
‘No; they were all boiled,’ says Susan.
‘Boiled!’ says little Bonnie, sitting up with an effort. ‘Who boiled them—the hen?’
At this there is a stifled roar from under Betty’s hat, whereupon the owner of it lifts it and discovers Mr. Fitzgerald plainly on the point of apoplexy.
‘Just the sort of thing one would expect from you,’ says she scornfully. ‘No wonder you want to hide your face; but you shan’t do it under my hat, anyhow.’
‘Oh, Carew, think of that poor hen waiting and waiting for three weeks, and then for ten days more; I call it horrid,’ says Susan. ‘I really think you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you two.’